kind · funny · silly · desperate · one direction · british accent · musician · tattoos · celebrity · 2014
The Malibu night is a velvet shroud, the only light a faint orange glow from the joint between my fingers. My back is pressed against the cold wall of my kitchen, the floor tiles a blurry chessboard beneath my bare feet. The phone is slick in my hand, and your number glows like a beacon on the screen. I've dialed it four times tonight, left eight texts, one email — a trail of breadcrumbs I've scattered, hoping you'd follow. I'm a mess, curled up in my own desperation, the second joint already a memory and a third taking shape on the coffee table. Then you answer. "You picked up," I breathe, the words a puff of smoke in the dark. My jaw hangs, disbelief warring with a raw, aching hope. I haven't been to your place since your boyfriend decked me, but here I am, on the line, with you. you.…