Page 57 of Tips and Trysts

“You don’t know me, Everett. You don’t know shit about me, clearly. But you’re going to know this: I willnevertolerate lies.”

Finally, he closes the gap between us, eyes wild and desperate. “Please.Pleaselet me apologize. I’ll beg. I’ll get on my knees.” He puts his hands on my face and kisses me. “Please.” He kisses me again. “Please.”

“Everett—” I shake my head, trying to evade his lips.

“Please,” he murmurs, putting another kiss on my forehead. My cheeks. My chin. His lips find my mouth, and it’s all-consuming. There’s an urgency and a heat behind every kiss we’ve shared, like he’s constantly aware that I could deprive him of my touch at any moment. It’s frenetic. It’s electric. It’s a collision of want and need. I kiss him back, indulging in the slide of his tongue against mine, and I wish it could be simple. I wish Everett and I could fuck without the history that led to this moment. No strings. No baggage. No repercussions.

We can’t though. It’s ruined.

It doesn’t matter that Everett is handsome, and intelligent, and the first person to take my causticity in stride and return it. It doesn’t matter that his hands feel good, and his kiss feels even better. It doesn’t matter that he’s game for my kinks like no man I’ve known—and we haven’t even fucked. I can’t trust what he says.

Not after last time.

I push him away, and he stumbles back, watching me press my fingertips to my lips. His taste lingers, so I fold my lips over myteeth and bite down. When I release them, the faint metallic lick of blood touches my tongue.

Cora. He mouths my name, but he doesn’t say it.

I reach past him and open the door. “Some hearts are capable of surviving a break. Two, if you’re lucky.” I swallow hard and look into the hallway when I say, “I’m not lucky, Everett, and I have nothing left to give you. Go.”

Nineteen

CORA

I hate how muchI miss him.

By the time the world’s largest hibiscus arrangement arrives at the Halcyon on Tuesday afternoon, I know I’m fighting a losing battle.

Rich boys usually buy roses. Hydrangeas. Peonies and stereotypical old money shit. Everett Logan? He chooses a flower native to the Philippines—a flower that straight up dies the minute it enters a climate like the Mid-Atlantic—and somehow sends a pristine arrangement to my door every single day.

The flowers arrive alongside countless messages I’ve left unanswered.

Politics Boy

Just took a long walk. I saw this old couple, and frankly, they looked annoyed with each other. The wife was done with his shit. You would have loved it.

Politics Boy

I’m sorry and I miss you. I just watched a recording of one of your streams where you handcuffed yourself behind your back while blindfolded. Houdini shit. Fucking hell, woman, you’re talented. Wish I could tell you to your face.

Politics Boy

I know if you ever respond, the first thing you’ll probably say is you don’t accept my apology and I should go fuck my own face. Joke’s on you: In high school, I tried to fuck my own face and couldn’t reach, so that’s off the table.

I’m re-reading this and I can’t tell if it’s obvious I’m joking.

Okay, I’m lying: I did once try to fuck my own face.

That’s also a lie, and I would never lie to you again. I’m so sorry.

…fuck, I’m caught in a lie loop, aren’t I? Maybe I am a liar.

Politics Boy

I’m sorry.

Politics Boy

Come to the debate. You don’t have to forgive me yet. I don’t deserve it yet. But I want to know you’re there.

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