Page 33 of Go Back to December

When?

There’s no point in hiding. Baz will find out I’m headed home with his parents. I might as well tell him while he’s restrained and the drugs take the edge off his wrath.

A few minutes ago, when he picked me up.

Your family invited me to Christmas Eve.

The typing dots take an eternity to reply. Maybe the drugs are already kicking in and he’ll drift off and we’ll avoid this twenty-first century epistolary drama by text.

Fuck.

This is awkward.

No shit, Sherlock. This was not part of the deal.

You don’t have to go.

I’m in the car right NOW.

You can tell them no.

That’s rude. I can’t.

Yes you can, you’ve learned how.

Learned how? Thank God Peter’s the quiet type and won’t ask why my fist clenches around the phone with enough force to crush aluminum alloy. Baz doesn’t deserve him. He doesn’t deserve any of us.

I get things are complicated with your family, but this is happening.

So you can either tell me what I need to know to keep your dumb-ass cover.

Or I can freelance. I’m very creative.

As the typing dots type, pause, and then type once more, I can practically see the vein throbbing from his neck.

Then you’d better start practicing your hustle.

Please, you are not Yoda-shitting me about this tonight.

You got yourself in this mess.

Turn it into an opportunity, or crash and burn. Your choice.

I can’t pretend to be something I’m not. I’m no player.

It’s not a game. It’s a skill set.

You should only ever be you.

Do you mean that? I long to type back. Or are you playing me?

Tell me something useful to get me through this thing tonight.

If I crash, you’re burning with me.

Really…

You know what I mean!