𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

• 17 •

"That's it? That's all you did? You just kissed?" Ralph put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight between his feet. This man is the only man I know who'll nag me for not getting laid, "What are you, ninth-graders?"

I fell back on my bed, D8BFD8 hugged to my chest, "Don't do the freshmen dirty like that," I muttered. I closed my lids, hating the way that the lights blind my eyes, "Especially when you had your first kiss at seventeen," I stuck my tongue out. There's nothing bad about having a first kiss at seventeen, but I use it against Ralph because you would think that a fuckboy like him's been making out with girls since middle school.

"Don't drag me into your pathetic sex life," he said, landing on my couch so hard that it had me worrying for the springs.

"It's not pathetic," I groaned, "I'm fine with it. I don't take dick like vitamins."

"Because you're not getting it like vitamins," he told me, hand randomly in the air, "Go out and get some vitamin D."

Witty little bitch. I grabbed a pillow and threw it at Ralph. I felt satisfied when it hit his face with just enough strength to make him fall. The thud was music to my ears. Keenan was right, maybe I am turning violent.

In an act of retaliation, Ralph threw the pillow back, but like the dumbfuck he is, hit the wall instead. That was the start of a pillow fight that then became the reason why I have to earn money to replace my microwave. Pillow fights with Ralph are as brutal as they can get. If he's not able to reproduce, the fault would be mine.

As I lay on my back with my eyes closed and Thistle's purple fur tickling my chin, I recalled what happened the night before. I've been recalling it ever since it happened. I don't know how I'll face Keenan again when I've been thinking about him each minute. He tasted great. Fuck, he tasted fantastic and I can't help but to anticipate it again. I wanna kiss him again and again and we only have a week left. My pride, the little left of it, and the guilt of knowing that Adil is innocent are what's stopping me.

The memory is fresh. After the kiss that left me dumb as the day I was born, we weren't able to do anything else—not when there were others still in the house. Keenan, that insensitive jerk Keenan, didn't seem to mind, but I did. Before any clothes could be discarded, we stopped.

Adil walked me to my car and once again reminded me that he's waiting for me, pouring a cold bucket of condemnation to snap me the fuck out of my Keenan high only to reach the clouds again when I made it home. It's pressuring as much as it is guilting, twice as much in my moments of fantasizing about Keenan ramming the fuck into me. To relieve, I tried to imagine Adil instead, but Mr. Travino just won't leave my damn mind. In the end, the three of us ended up in one imaginary room and things rolled down the gutter from there. Shit.

I fell asleep and woke up to my phone ringing. The first voice I heard in the morning was my mother's telling me that she wants to start a reselling business. Her dreams are getting out of hand. She already works hard in the shop she works in.

At the idea of a job, I worked on my resume—editing, updating, and changing the crappy layout which I copied from a friend. I'd be lying if I say that I do not need money. As I live more, I'm starting to need more of it and I'm sure that if one inconvenience comes my way, it'll be the end of my relatively balanced mode of spending.

As I worked in my balcony, laptop on my lap, I was talking with Adil through the phone.

"Are you sure about getting a job?" he wondered, sounding like he's walking down the street. I can imagine it: Adil in grays and blacks, trusty shades on his face, an earphone in one ear—the side with a mic.