Mature. Viewer Discretion is advised.
*The people inside of this work are FACE-CLAIMS. This has no correlation to any IRL individual.*
*This is messy plot. Made when I was a teen. Beware.*
The story of a young woman who finds her style, self worth...
"It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you." ♫ 9 Crimes by Damian Rice.
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A call to my phone at 6AM woke me and only me.
I was tempted to ignore it. I was way too tired to open my eyes, way too wasted to concoct a full sentence, and way too comfortable being the little spoon in the bed with Cherry to interrupt the moment of bliss. It was pure heaven, and I hadn't been able to get a full nights sleep this whole trip, until tonight. So, I wanted to savor it and sleep every last second I could before I had to be up and ready to drive back to Chicago.
But, whoever was on the other side of the phone was not going to let me dream.
I let the phone go to voicemail--and it only rang again. Somehow, louder and more urgently than the first time.
Groaning, I peeled my eyes open to gaze at the glowing hotel nightstand and saw an unknown number.
Fucking spam calls. They never stopped. I was tempted to answer; give them my social security number or my bank information or whatever the hell they wanted, just so that they'd go away. So tempted.
But I didn't. I let it play out, and when they didn't immediately call again, I felt relief.
I began to let myself slip back into my tequila coma.
And just on the verge of sleep, I got a string of texts.
"Babe..." Cherry woke then, mumbling something else under her breath that I could only imagine was, "get the goddamn phone already before I murder you."
I grunted in frustration and tore her dead hand from off of my waist to pick up the phone as I sat up. It was so bright I nearly had a fucking heart attack, but I quickly adjusted the brightness to see properly.
However, I wish I hadn't.
Unknown: It's Cosette. Unknown: Please, pick up. Unknown: We need to talk.
The phone rang again before I could take a moment to process the fact that Cosette had somehow, someway got my cell number. Or decide what to do.
What could she possibly want after our run in with one another not even forty-eight hours before?
Cherry whimpered into her pillow, reaching back to clutch my bicep. A warning for me to turn the noise off. So I clicked the silent switch on my phone with a whisper of apology.
I debated waking her; telling her it was Cosette calling. I thought just for a second, she might be able to help me decide what to do. But after the other day. After the meltdown I had, I felt as if I needed to take care of the situation myself and keep her out of it. If I told Cherry, she'd just get up and comfort me and we'd have a long, stupid heartfelt conversation about how I felt about answering the phone and--that would just be too much feelings for one week.
