Page 60 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

My phone buzzes and it’s Lillith again. This time it’s a selfie with Gloam held in her hooked arm. Gloam’s tongue is sticking out and her eyes are focused in different directions, but Lillith is smiling with closed eyes and blushed cheeks and mauve lips. She’s fucking beautiful.

I save the photo and make it my lockscreen so I can see it every time I open my phone. After feeling my heart swell about three times its normal size, I text her.

Be my girlfriend.

Careful with texts like that. I’m going to think you mean it.

I do mean it. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t think I’ll ever look at another woman again after meeting you. Be my girlfriend.

The dots bounce on my phone. Then vanish. Then start bouncing again. My heart sinks and I want to throw myself out of the moving car.

God, Damien, you fucking imbecile. Way to be stupid and impulsive and put all your cards on the table. Who asks someone to be their girlfriend via text? Stupid teenagers, that’s who.

I’m about to fully descend into dark self-loathing when a text finally comes through.

I’m not saying no. But there are some circumstances that make it really hard to say yes right now.

What are the circumstances?

I can’t tell you.

Is this what Wren said I’d find out about?

Yes.

Lillith. Just tell me. Please. I can promise you whatever it is I’m not going anywhere.

The dots appear on the screen again and then they vanish.

I watch the screen for the rest of the half hour we drive into San Diego.

They don’t come back.

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“Another?”

The Gaslamp District is great, and it kind of reminds me of the vibes near Lillith’s shop. Only there’s more alcohol and existential dread here.

Then again, I guess I brought the existential dread with me.

“Yup,” I say, really leaning into the ‘P’. He sets yet another whiskey and coke in front of me, and I drink about half of it in the time it takes him to clear the empty glass away.

I’ve lost track of how many of these I’ve had. Enough to lose the guys, for sure. I don’t know where the fuck they went, but they probably sensed I’m in Devastation mode. Frankly? I don’t blame them for bailing on me. I’d bail on me too.

Lillith hasn’t texted back. I keep checking my phone every ten minutes to see if that’s changed. I’m looking at the screen when someone sits down next to me. I ignore the interloper who clearly has no situational awareness if they don’t see that I’m giving off a don’t-fuck-with-me aura with a radius of about three miles.

I pointedly stare at the screen, almost obnoxiously ignoring him.

But the guy clearly doesn’t get it because he fucking speaks to me.

“My, my. Did you get left on read?”

He’s got a fucked-up accent, like the guy can’t figure out where he wants to pretend to be from. It’s not quite posh enough to be British, but lacks the bitten-off consonants of Fletch’s Irish accent.

“Do you make a habit of talking to people who clearly don’t want to talk?” I ask, hating that the slight slur in my words shaves the edge off them.

“Afraid so,” he says.