It was the kind of stupid, boyish hope I’d admire in a fictional, hopeless character, but hate in myself. Then again, what were the odds of her not deciphering the unmistakable words?

“…summer rain on Drury Street. Stupid me, I thought you were mine to keep.”

“…underneath the stars, you ask, do you believe in God? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but after we’re through, I think I won’t.”

“Across the ocean, there’s a girl, made out of marshmallow and cyanide and shiny dew.”

Then I thought, I don’t know, maybe she simply hadn’t had the chance to listen to some of the BIGGEST FUCKING BILLBOARD HITS IN THIS DECADE because she had something against the radio and YouTube and TV and Western culture.

But I promised myself not to be bitter—especially after finding out Rory hadn’t, in fact, sent me the pictures and letter. She might’ve written those nasty-ass things on the backs of the photos—okay, fine, it was her handwriting, she did—but she didn’t intend for me to see them. To read them.

As for the abortion—that’s still a mystery. I want to ask her about it—if it’s even true—but that means dragging her into World War III with her mother. As much as I think Debbie Jenkins is a cunt—and trust me, no part of me doesn’t think that—I don’t want Rory to hate her mam more than she already does.

I hear a knock on my door and ignore it, still staring at the ceiling. If it’s Richards coming to get fucked, he’s in for a disappointment. I may have pretended to be more into snogging a man than I actually am. Not that there’s anything wrong with kissing men, but it doesn’t get my dick hard.

I just knew Rory would get a kick out of it, and I wanted to feck her mind before I bedded the rest of her.

Speaking of the F-word, she’s probably giving Shiny Boyfriend backdoor access right about now to make up for letting me own her mouth for long minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got her pregnant (possibly again) from kissing alone.

Bang, bang, bang. It’s progressed from knocking.

I groan, unplastering myself from the mattress and making my way to the door. Why are there no peepholes in these hotel doors? What kind of feckery is that? I swing it open with a frown.