These revelations have my head spinning. Did I not realize this whole time that she’d had these feelings for me? I mean when she was younger, I knew she had an innocent crush but that didn’t have her touching herself to thoughts of me. No, this is different.

“Whitney… I…” I begin pacing wondering what the hell I’m going to do with this information.

Fuck her. A thought floats through my brain. One time. Or maybe hundreds of times. She’s eighteen. Ride her sexy little virgin cunt until she comes all over your dick.

I take a step back trying to rid myself of these lustful thoughts coursing through my brain. I pass by her and grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “No,” I say, slamming the door shut.

“No?” She looks up at me before biting down on her lip as it trembles. “You never tell me no.”

“You never ask for shit that’s impossible to give you.”

“Not true. You once got me a pony before Mom made you take it back.” God, I remember that. Whitney cried for three months when I took it back but Miche and Kev were pissed as fuck that I’d even gotten her one in the first place.

“And even that was easier to get and I got it from Goddamn Europe.”

“I loved Cheerio.” She pouts and I roll my eyes remembering that she ran around the house screaming ‘Pip Pip Cheerio’, in an awful fake accent when she found out the pony was from London.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors by reminding me that I bought you a pony when you were seven years old, Whitney.” I march out of the room, prepared to put all of this out of my mind when I hear her running behind me. I’m back on the couch, sitting, not laying because I did not trust her not to crawl on top of me with how she’s acting.

“So, you’re telling me you don’t want to?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips.

“I’m telling you I can’t want to.”

“Are you attracted to me? Because I saw how you looked at me when you got home a month ago.”

Fuck. “I was confused at who you were at first. Your hair was different, your braces were gone, and you had different… curves. I thought you were a friend of yours.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious, Whitney.” Sort of true.