Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Still living at the Hale House. Still waiting to move back in.
Also! Wtf is happening to The Independent? Heard the building management is jacking up the rent on the whole block. Trying to run out all the Philly staples to put in a Chipotle prob.
Meals: Eat an Eggo at the Hale House. Tom’s b-day dinner at a NYC French joint.
Water: GF’s Pussy: Satisfied and gratified. Already fucked her good. Gonna eat her out tonight *pray hands*
Question of the Day: How hard is it to forge adoption papers? (Brb gonna ask Beckett to adopt me for a Wednesday Night Dinner.)
EMAIL FROM SAM STOKES
FROM: samstokes@fizzle.com
TO: dontemailme1882@yahoo.com, eliotalice@gmail.com, benpirripcobalt@upenn.edu, aragorn1225@gmail.com, queenofthebula@gmail.com
After the MLB x Fizzle Collab, the rankings are as follows:
Charlie Keating Cobalt
Eliot Alice Cobalt
Ben Pirrip Cobalt
Luna Hale
Xander Hale
Your feedback:
Xander: Again, please put yourself out there. Spending most of the time in the dugout reading a book will not earn you any points. (-2 spots in the ranking)
Ben: Way to bounce back. The board loved your involvement with the camera crew and your athleticism. You showed you were willing to do whatever was asked. (+2 spots in the ranking)
Luna: The board thought you were a little awkward trying to hit the ball for the shoot. If there are any situations that you feel unsuited for, remember you can say no. However, I appreciate the initiative, and your demographic from our test group had strong reactions to the photos of you and Donnelly on home plate. We’ll talk later about possibly using them for marketing. (- neutral, no shift)
Eliot: Overall, a favorite. You have the tenacity, engagement, charm, and fervor to serve as a successor. Keep it up. (- neutral, no shift)
Charlie: The board would like to see a little more tenacity like Eliot. How much do you want this? Show them. (- neutral, no shift)
70
LUNA HALE
Date nights with Donnelly are hallmarks to my life now. I love them, I love them, I love him. We were eating out of the same Wendy’s french fry container in the Volvo, driving to New York for the ballet, and I looked over at him while he was passionately describing a new panel for our comic book—and I thought, this is the best part of our date.
And then we sat side by side as the lights dimmed at the ballet. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and romantic music to Swan Lake filled the theatre. Beckett leapt with such effortlessness and grace. While our eyes were on the stage, Donnelly’s fingers brushed along my neck and down the length of my shoulder in absentminded, affectionate strokes. Like he was painting a picture in the dark. And I thought, this is the best part.
Then at a French-inspired bistro for dinner, we celebrated Tom’s birthday and shared mussels. He made sure I got enough to eat, and I thought, this is it. This is the best part for me.
It’s now one a.m., and we’ve been club-hopping for the past hour. And as the cool night air kisses my skin, and Donnelly warms my body by folding his arms over mine, I know the best part is everything. It’s all of him. Every moment, every second. Our date nights could be us doing nothing, and I will never stop loving them.
I will never stop loving him.
These declarations swell inside me, but they teeter uneasily at invasive thoughts of the future. Where are we going from here? What’s next for us?
Can’t this moment just last forever?
I’m clinging to the present. Maybe because I still see how fleeting a moment can be. Sulli is gone. Not gone gone, but I thought…I thought I had so much more time being her roommate. She was going to eat Cheerios with me and laugh about the penthouse rules. It wasn’t supposed to end yet. Then the rug got ripped out from under my feet.
She left. She…moved on. Everyone is going to move on, eventually. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I want to preserve where we all are.
Bottle the essence and never cast it out to sea.
So that’s what I’m doing. Inhaling the electric essence of tonight. Bottling it deep. In case this is the last one I’ll ever have like this.
At Pink Noir, a favorite club among Beckett’s ballet friends (they’ve joined us on this endless celebratory birthday night), I’m sweaty and sticky from dancing with Donnelly, and we take a breather at the bar. He whispers in my ear, “I need to talk to you later.”
“Okay.” Not sure what about, but he’s relaxed and carefree, so I’m guessing it’s not such a critical talk.
After ordering waters, our fingers stay hooked, but we’re turned away from one another and speaking to different groups of people.
My ears catch his convo with Oscar. “It’s going to close down, bro. It’s been around since the eighties. The owner is like a hundred,” Oscar says to Donnelly. “Even if he could afford to keep the bar open, he’d probably cash out and retire. Legitimately, it’s sad, but security will find a new hangout bar. It’s time to move on.”