Page 38 of Saving Pookie

"You're cute." He snorts with an amused chuckle. "Do you really think I'm ever in control?"

I'm aware I'm clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose, but I err on the side of being cautious. My life up until this point has shaped this necessity to consider the consequences of actions. I too often find myself in a tireless loop of wondering what my life would have been like if I had rejected Cameron's advances the first time he approached me. There's this theory about sliding doors. Every choice we make opens another pathway, and the choices we don't make are a life we'll never have the chance to live.

I look him straight in the eyes. "Are you ever afraid you won't be able to stop?"

"I think maybe we see the world differently." He shrugs. "We're young. This is the time we're supposed to be reckless. We're not supposed to have everything figured out. It's okay to lose control sometimes." He finishes the cigarette and scrubs it out on the concrete. "I don't buy into the puritan nonsense. We only get to live once, and I'd rather feel like I've lived."

"Yeah..." I trail off with a yawn, and it's like I can feel the wheels in my head slowing down, can feel the sweet release of rest coming on. "I think I'm going to crash."

He waves at me. "See you on the other side."

I climb to my feet and grab my glass of water. "Did you have a good birthday?"

"My birthday is in December," he says, deadpan.

I very specifically remember him coaxing me into going out tonight by claiming it was his birthday. "But you said⁠—"

"I know what I said," he says, just as flatly as before.

"So you lied," I respond, and it's not a question; it's an accusation.

His gaze peels upwards, an uncharacteristically serious look in his eyes that are more tired now than dilated. "You're welcome for the best damn night of your life."

I slide the door open, but instead of going back inside, I hesitate for a brief moment, contemplating what I want to say. On one hand, I hate liars. On the other, I know there's no way in hell I would have gone out tonight if he hadn't lied. I regretfully settle on being grateful. "Thank you," I say quietly.

He peers upwards with that shit-eating grin that is as infectious as it is disarming. "For?"

I return the smile. "The best damn night of my life."

He responds with a breathy laugh. "Goodnight, Pookie."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BRAXTON

The belt that's supposed to be holding up my jeans is unbuckled, and the fly is pulled down, exposing the white Calvin briefs underneath. To say this is bad timing would be an understatement. I have about five minutes until I'm supposed to be prancing around the rooftop pool in my tighty-whities. Instead of swinging and slinging, I'm caught up in an argument with my ex-girlfriend on the back patio of the bar while a camera crew catches every moment.

"You pretended like I didn't exist!" she whines in a high-pitched tone that isn't like her at all. She pushes sleek blonde strands of hair behind her ear and wallows in her feigned sadness.

She's talking about the other night, of course, when she somehow showed up to the tracks when Pookie and I were there. If I didn't know better, I'd say she followed me there, but I don't have the required evidence to level such an accusation at her. She's also right that I ignored the ever-loving shit out of her. I was trying to have a good time, and lately, every time she comes within my peripheral vision, I decidedly do not have a good time.

"Do you go around huffing gas or something?" I let out an exasperated huff and straighten the pink cowboy hat on my head. "Because I swear there's an oxygen leak in that head of yours." I grit my teeth and laugh at the comedy of it all. She's still trying to play the victim card when she's the one who cheated on me. "I stopped owing you my time and attention when we broke up."

"You're saying I mean nothing to you?" She scoffs incredulously. "After everything we've been through?"

"Your words, not mine. But yeah, I think that's a pretty solid way of putting it."

She looks me dead in the eyes, and her eyes might as well actually be dead because I see nothing in them. Nothing that excites me. Nothing that reminds me of why I stuck around so long.

"Even Gunnar thinks you're acting childish," she says, folding her arms.

I pass her an amused nod. "Gunnar's a momma's boy who was kicked out of the military because he couldn't make his own bed. He's never had a successful relationship because he's a short-haired Goldilocks who can't figure out what asshole shape and size is just the right fit. So if you want to throw the words of my friends in my face, I'd simply ask you to consider the source." I take a moment to catch my breath, and it feels easier than before, a weight lifted from my chest. The rant felt good, but a panic quickly takes root in the pit of my stomach. I point squarely at my ex-girlfriend. "Don't you fucking repeat that." And then I spin my aim to Jules, who stands behind the camera, filming. "And don't you dare air that."

Jules raises her hands in protest, and it brings me no comfort. My words are definitely making the final cut, and there's a non-zero chance I'll need to go into the witness protection program when he sees the episode.

"You're so angry," Tamra whines, stepping into the shoes of the victim again. "You've changed so much in the last few months, and I'm starting to get worried."

I swallow the heavy burden of rage, balling my right hand into a fist. It's all I can do to stop myself from screaming. She wants to paint me as the villain so fucking bad that she'll burn our lives to the ground, exposing everything we've mutually agreed to keep off camera.