“And?” he questions in a deep breath.

“And I will remove all of your organs slowly and painfully.”

“Painfully,” he muses. “You exaggerate.”

Lily is grinning from ear-to-ear. She’s obsessed with everyone being happy in love. I should know. She’s asked me how Willow and I are doing about a hundred-and-one times. To the point where I think she’ll be as devastated as me if we end up not working out.

Rose glowers. “Fear. Me. Richard. I will annihilate you in a murderous, bloody…” Her breath hitches as he steps nearer, their legs thread. She reaches back, palms hitting the iron table. He almost has her pinned.

“Fear what, Rose?” he breathes against her lips.

She says one word in French, and he says two more in the same language.

Honestly, they look like they’re about to kiss.

And this is where I’m definitely glancing back at my cell. Avoiding Instagram has been my mantra since I saw Salvatore Amadio. I don’t need to look him up and have visuals of his entire life. So I’m not about to torture myself tonight with pics of his six pack abs or Porsche (not that I know he has either but with my luck, it’s probable). Shit, stop thinking about Salvatore.

Tumblr, it is.

Willow hasn’t reblogged anything in weeks. Her account is practically dead. Mine is almost the same, but I’ve got a couple gif sets from the latest season of American Horror Story on my feed. I haven’t had time to make anything in a while.

No edits. No gifs. No videos spliced together. I want to blame it all on time, but deep down I know it’s something else.

Something more.

Fuck it, I’m doing a questionnaire. I find the tag and click into the first one.

Current Location

I pop my head up just to see Daisy hoisting two cinnamon rolls in either hand. “My right bun is smaller than my left bun.” She speaks to her husband.

Ryke is sitting beside her. Teetering back on the legs of his chair, he glances right at her boobs.

Her graphic tee says boo-fucking-tastic, and photographs of Daisy wearing that shirt have already spread over social media. To the point where the thing sold out on H&M in minutes.

Ryke focuses on Daisy’s eyes. “Your buns look fucking perfect to me, Calloway.”

The intense flirting is something I’m used to seeing from them, and it used to make me super happy. I think because Willow loves Daisy and Ryke, and seeing them together is a good thing—but now I just see two people in love. Who get to spend time together.

And I don’t have that. My stomach twists in horrible knots, my soda not settling well.

I’m bitter, I realize.

I hate being this bitter.

Daisy licks the icing off the right cinnamon roll and breaks into a huge laugh. “You’ll like this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s really wet.”

Ryke casually uses two fingers to swipe some icing off the dough. Then he sucks them while staring too deeply into his wife. When he drops his hand, he says, “Not wet enough, sweetheart.”