「 stray curls 」

fifteen.

「 I 」 FIFTEEN.

the two of them asked the kind boy—Ryan, she'd found out he was called—if they could return to the house later that day. he'd said of course they could.

they didn't speak much at the inauthentic diner. honestly, she was more soft-spoken than usual as a result of the day before. the night before. soft lips and softer murmurs. gossamer breaths. all him. him.

then, she waited outside an odd-looking, deteriorating gas station until he came out with one of those large bottles of vodka she'd only seen before in those overly saturated commercials shot at the beach promising happiness.

once he'd shut the car door, she spoke up. "people really believe that fake id of yours?"

he smirked at her, and it had its usual m e l t i n g effect. "that, and sometimes they just want me to live a little." he thought for a moment. "but usually they believe me."

he must've been a good liar, then, far too easy to trust and not trustworthy enough. deceptive.

when they got back to Ryan's house, he had left, so Morrison handed her the bottle, grabbed shot glasses from the cabinet—quickly enough to suggest he'd been drunk here plenty of times—and sat down on the couch like he was in his own home.

she followed him into the living room and stood, unsure of where she was supposed to go. he watched her, expression unreadable. she looked back at him.

finally, he laughed, just a little, to himself, and it sent warmth through her. "you really need to learn how to sit, Marguerite."

so she walked, slowly, towards him, and in perhaps her boldest move to date, sat right next to him, leaving plenty of space on the other side of the couch. but she still left space between them so as not to scare him away.

she didn't know what she'd do if she were to scare him away.

going back to before all this simply wasn't an option anymore. never really had been.

even if, as usual, she got no response out of the damn boy.

she had only been drunk a couple times before, and it had always been with Archer. parties she wouldn't be able to get through without the burn of alcohol all through her, so even then it had been the lesser of two evils. it was dealing with tito's or Archer, her parents, her fake ass friends who said she was more fun drunk anyway. more laidback.

gosh, she hated them.

and this was all she could recall as Morrison expertly transferred the contents of the large bottle into small shot glasses. she could only imagine how many times he had done this exact thing in this exact place before.

"got it?" he said as he handed her one of the shot glasses.

she nodded. she couldn't tell if she was feeling false confidence or unwarranted reassurance, but either way,

she was growing more and more confused the more time she spent with the vision with deep dark eyes.

but she didn't want to think that way anymore.

so she downed the shot in one go, instantly reeling at the burn of vodka as it raced down her throat through her abdomen.

it had been so long. she shouldn't have gone so fast.

and the taste—it was beyond tart into some disgustingly bitter realm with no trace of sweet, or citrusy, or any relief. it was awful. worse than any medicine.

when she could glance up at him long enough, she could see that his eyes had widened just a little—whether he was bemused or impressed, she'd never know—before he took a shot himself.

he did it e f f o r t l e s s l y.

her lack of experience was catching up to her.

"it tastes terrible," she said, wincing, and his laugh was soft but she heard it, and now two warmths burned within her.

"it is vodka, Marguerite. haven't you had any before?"

and she had, but it was for the wrong reasons, and she didn't want to mention it. "not exactly. not often. nothing." was it hitting her already?

no. the one shot she'd taken hadn't even nearly hit her yet. must've been him intoxicating her.