The Daughter of the Gangleader •UNDER EDITION•

all's fair in love & war

Sam's planning a party in Duke's honor. Almost five months pregnant and still determined to put emphasis on the teen in teenmom. She said it's to celebrate his real birthday, and when I asked her what the fuck that was about, Duke cleared his throat and told me it's a story for another day. I assured him it can be a story for never if he wanted to. I already know all three of them have untold tales about their pasts, and since privacy has been a luxury none of us have afforded in a long time, I decided to help him buy it. My curiosity'a still itching though. I can't believe there ever was a time when Duke wasn't Duke. A lot of times when people introduce themselves to you, you look at them and you go, That name would've been my last guess, you look more like an Esther. Duke? He's never looked like anyone else. A world without its one and only Duke is an ugly one. The world when its one and only Duke hadn't yet been born must've been a nightmare.

So I didn't ask. He gave me a soft, faded smile, and dropped an insincere comment not to make Sam suspicious of the still ever-so-present tensions. When she called us over to her house, the three of us - Avery, Duke and I - agreed not to give anything away in front of her. One unborn baby's already a handful. She doesn't need three more on her hands. But she's not stupid. Avery's been oddly insecure, Duke oddly silent, and I've been more awkward than usual. Luckily, she didn't ask. She went on to further explain the details. Now, four hours and one errand later, three hours before the party, I'm standing outside Duke's bedroom door, and when my patience with myself has ran out, I knock, entering when his unwelcoming welcome, one I've unfortunately grown familiar with, is heard from the other side.

"Busy?" I ask, taking a few steps into his room, dirty and clean laundry in two different piles, a third one to the right I don't know how to categorize. He has a weird interest in mugs, to tell from the dozen ones in his room, or an understandable disinterest in dishwashing.

"In thirty seconds, no," he replies, eyes still fixated on the screen of his phone as his thumbs slowly scroll it, eyebrows scrunched. I wanna ask.

I don't.

Right on the thirtieth second, I open my mouth again.

"Can I sit down?"

"If you find a free spot, yeah."

An uncomfortable sensation is triggered in my skin because of his tone. He sounds so much like himself, like his usual self, like normal. I hate how much he's pushed me away and I hate his way of handling this. I hate how we're suddenly floating in the luke warm water of what used to be a burning hot ocean.

I sit down on the floor by his feet, his phone in level with my chin and his eyes forced to find mine, relieving me something beyond words' ability to explain.

You're not as tough as you want yourself to be, Duke Williams.

And I'm not as folding as you want me to be.

I grab his phone and put it down on the floor beside me, folding my knees between his ninety degree open ones.

"You haven't left the room in almost a week," I state the obvious. "I haven't seen you eat, I know you haven't slept, and your girlfriend's worried about you."