Elevator ➵ J.M.

36. Hurtful, Thompson

t h i r t y - s i x

SOMETIMES, I DREAM ABOUT ALTERNATE universes. You know, like what if this happened instead of this? What if I was a boy? What if I was born thirty years ago? Just normal stuff like that. I usually question everything that goes on in my life, but not once in the past few weeks have I dreamt about what would've happened if I didn't come to New York.

You see, dreaming about it makes me create a perfect world, but I think I already have my perfect world.

It is far too early to be thinking like this.

I waddle over to the kitchen, trying to expose as little of my feet to the chilling floor. Starting some coffee, I jump up on the counter and swing my legs around.

"Hey," a voice says from the hallway.

"Yo," I say, not looking up from my swinging feet.

"Wow, not even gonna spare me a glance? Hurtful, Thompson. I really felt that," he says with a teasing tone.

Rolling my eyes, I look up at him and immediately remember why I thought I have the perfect world. His eyes twinkle with a laugh I know will come, and his lips are curved in a smile that lights the room. It's only been a few weeks, but I've fallen further than I ever have before.

"Yeesh, I said a glance not a creepy stalker stare," he says, pretending to be creeped out.

"Shut up, you fool," I say with a giggle.

He walks around the kitchen, grabbing bowls and setting them on the counter.

"Remember we have that date thing with Jack, Dani, and Corbyn, and Christina, Quinn, and Gabbie," he says.

"It's literally like we're hanging out without Zach," I reply before the coffee finishes.

"He's a Single Pringle, and there's no one there with whom he can mingle," he says solemnly, shaking his head as if heartbroken.

"Well, guess who's not?" I say, snaking an arm around his waist and lightly pecking his lips.