#we’re on some real bullsh*t tonight

[bearotonin-international]

Tsuki is over the moon about being our first ever Moon Bear Monday Moon Bear Ambassador

[agustdakasuga]

Between the Bloodshed | Chapter 13

Genre: Mafia!AU, Angst, Romance, Fluff

Pairing: OT7 x Reader

Characters: Doctor!Reader, Gangster!Namjoon, Gangster!Seokjin, Gangster!Yoongi, Gangster!Hoseok, Gangster!Jimin, Gangster!Taehyung, Gangster!Jungkook

Summary: Being a freelance doctor, this was just supposed to be any other job, helping a private client and taking care of him through his recovery. But you were not expecting to get caught in something so much darker that would change your life entirely.

It’s finally time to head to Florida. Your aim is to relax by the beach, forget whatever happened in Korea and reset your brain. The boys also have some important things to tell you. 

Warning: This story is fictional and has nothing to do with real life events or the actual members of BTS. It may contain depictions of violence, blood shed/ gore and mentions of abuse. Please read at your own discretion.

“Yes, omma. I’ll be home in time for oppa’s arrival.” You sighed, standing by your window as you spoke to your mother. You were leaving for Florida tonight but she seemed more worried that you wouldn’t be around when your brother and heavily pregnant sister in law arrived. 

“I’m not a gynaecologist. The only thing I’ll do is look after Jisung.” Your nephew was the only one you could tolerate.

“Bye, omma.” You cut her off, hanging up. You planned to turn off your phone while you travelled as well. Someone cleared their throat from behind you and you jumped slightly, turning around. 

“Busy?” Namjoon asked. 

“Yes- Wait, I mean, no. What’s up?” You forced a smile, tucking your phone into the pocket of your lab coat. 

“You said you have a list of medical supplies that you wanted to order?” He reminded. You facepalmed, forgetting to print the list out to pass to Namjoon last night. 

“Hang on a sec, I’ll print it out.” You sat at your desk, going on your computer. Namjoon just patiently sat opposite you. You retrieved your document that you typed out a few days ago and clicked on the print button. The button whirled to life, starting to feed the document out. You sighed, rubbing your temples as you waited for it. 

“Family stress?” Namjoon chuckled. 

“You already know... Her star child is coming home and her second grandchild is about to be born soon. She’s ecstatic.” You scoff. 

“I hope you enjoy this break then. Before you have to deal with all the bullsh*t when we get back.” Namjoon smiled, his dimple popping through. He was so genuine, you felt yourself melt. 

“Thanks, Joon. I think we all need a break.” You handed him the paper. 

“Right. When do you need these?” He waved the paper in the air. You shrugged, a sign that it wasn’t important. 

“Alright. Make sure you packed everything.” Namjoon ruffled your hair before leaving. You turned around in your chair, putting your feet on top of the desk, something your mother always scolded you for. 

“(y/n)!” Your door burst open, hitting the adjacent door with a loud sound. You jumped to your feet immediately. 

“What-” You yelped when Jimin grabbed your waist, clearly using you as his human shield. You blinked in confusion, until Taehyung and Hoseok ran in with water guns in your hands, cackling. Your eyes widened as the nozzles were somehow pointing at you now. 

“YAH! I DARE YOU!” You threatened. 

“Save me!” Jimin said between giggles. You slapped his hands away from your hips, making him whimper. 

“What are you guys doing?” Jungkook stopped by the door, blinking. At the maknae’s presence, Hoseok and Taehyung turned to face their guns at him. Jungkook jumped with a yelp, ducking behind the wall. 

“Let’s go.” Jimin whispered, sliding open the glass door that led to the garden from your office. 

“What about Jung-”

“Forget him. We need to save ourselves.” Jimin grabbed your hand, seeing the two still aiming at Jungkook. With a tug, he pulled you out with him, escaping Taehyung and Hoseok. From behind you, you heard a loud scream that most probably came from Hoseok. All you could say was, that’s what you get for going against Jungkook. 

“Park Jimin!” You heard Taehyung screech. 

“Run!” Jimin abandoned you, running away in a different direction. Your eyes widened, obviously you threatening Taehyung wasn’t going to work. 

“YOONGLES!” Your eyes caught sight of the pale man, walking back into the house, a book tucked under his arm. Yoongi turned around just to see you running towards him. 

“HELP!” You ducked behind him. 

“What?!” He hissed, dropping the book and taking his gun out from his holster, aiming at whoever was after you. When Taehyung ran over, he froze. 

“H-Hey hyung, we’re just playing. No need to get all serious.” Taehyung stepped back when he saw the pistol in Yoongi’s hand. Yoongi sighed, lowering his gun to put it back into the holster. He turned around, looking at you. 

“In my opinion, I was doing my work when they came and threatened me. I was in real danger.” You shrugged. 

“Yah, leave her alone. She’s working.” Yoongi scolded Taehyung. Taehyung pouted, lowering his water gun. No way would any of them dare to shoot Yoongi, unless they had a death sentence. He ran off to chase Jimin instead. Yoongi shook his head, picking his book up from the ground. 

“Thanks, Yoonie!” You saluted with a grin. 

“As thank you, I’m going to eat your last slice of cheesecake in the fridge.” He said, walking back into the house. Your jaw dropped slightly. 

“B-But... That’s mine! You can’t take it! Min Yoongi! Don’t you dare touch my cheesecake!” You chased after him. Yoongi just smiled to himself, shaking his head slightly. 

The rest of the day was quiet until it was time to leave. You were waiting in the living room, playing with Kookie. 

“I wish you could come with us, Kookie.” You rubbed his ears. Behind you, the boys were all scrambling for last minute items that they forgot to pack. 

“What are we going to do with them, huh?” You held Kookie up, adjusting him in your lap. You yawned, waiting for the chaos to be over. There was Namjoon tripping over Jungkook’s luggage, Yoongi and Jungkook squabbling over underwear, Jin just packing everything but the kitchen sink with Taehyung stopping him and Hoseok scolding Jimin for making a mess. 

“Uh, young masters... The cars are ready when you’re ready to leave.” The butler spoke. 

“I’m ready to leave.” You stood up. The maids brought your bags out to the awaiting cars. You kissed Kookie goodbye before handing him to the butler who would be caring for him in your absence. 

“Take care of him.” You smiled. 

“I will, agashi. Don’t worry.” He bowed his head. You nodded and headed out to the vans. The driver opened the door for you to enter. 

“Think you could leave without us?” Hoseok opened the door with a grin, entering to seat behind you. 

“You guys take way too long.” You scoffed, looking out the window. Namjoon climbs into the other back seat while Yoongi takes the seat beside you in the second row. From your tinted window, you see Taehyung and Jimin climbing into one van while Jungkook and Jin climb into the other. 

“I can’t wait to get on the plane to sleep.” Hoseok stretched his arms with a loud yawn. You nodded in agreement, pulling your hoodie up. The vans pulled up to the VIP entrance of Incheon airport. 

“Right this way, young masters.” The doors opened for you and suited males grabbed your suitcases for you. 

“Stay close.” Jin said, making you grab his arm to avoid straying away from him. 

“Let’s check in.” Namjoon rounded everyone up, giving their passports to the lady, along with yours. You all verified your names and the tickets were issued. From the looks of it, you would all be flying first class. 

“I can’t afford first class. I’ll sit in coach.” You crossed your arms. 

“As if we would let you sit in coach. You may be stubborn doc but you haven’t seen all 7 of us at once.” Jimin challenged. You rolled your eyes, receiving your passport back with your ticket tucked in. When all the luggages were checked in, one of the managers escorted the 8 of you to the private lounge to wait. There were only 5 other people in there, minding their own business. 

“I’m hungry!” Jungkook declared, pulling you up with him to head to the buffet table. You sighed but let yourself be dragged away. 

“Koo, don’t get indigestion.” You told him as you held a plate for him to pile food on. On his dessert plate, you grabbed one of his mini cream puffs, placing it into your mouth. 

“Hey! Get your own!” Jungkook pouted. 

“Then hold your own plate, Jeon Jungkook.” You glared. After he was done, you placed his plates on his table. 

“You didn’t get any for yourself?” Taehyung asked. 

“I was merely a plate holder.” You scoffed. Taehyung laughed, following you back out to get some snacks for yourself. You only took some fruits and water, planes making you feel bloated if you ate too much. 

“Thanks, Tae.” You said, sitting back down. You ate some from the plate in your lap until Jimin leaned over with his mouth open, wanting a piece. 

“Here.” You fed him a halved strawberry. Yoongi was comfortably settled in his seat, enjoying a short nap. Jungkook went for a second round of food, this time bringing Hoseok along with him. Namjoon had his iPad perched on his lap, typing away with a small frown on his face. 

“Frowning is going to get you wrinkles, Joon.” You chuckled, reaching across to give him a piece of watermelon. He shot you a grateful smile before closing his iPad to eat what you offered.

“We should head to the gate.” Jin rounded everyone up. Jungkook stuffed whatever food he could into his mouth before walking with you. 

“Don’t choke. Chew slowly, you big baby.” You patted his back, urging him to chew slowly. 

“Welcome aboard.” The crew greeted you at the door, the flight manager escorted you to the first class cabin. You settled in your comfy seat, realising that Namjoon sat on the other side of the partition. 

“Seat buddy.” You grinned, shooting finger guns at him. He chuckled, shaking his head as the flight attendant placed a champagne flute before him. 

“Mr Kim, we have made sure that you have the entire first class cabin, as per your request. So please be assured that there is optimum privacy for you and your family to roam when the seat belt sign is off.” The manager told Jin, who nodded his head in approval. The flight attendants handed out pre-flight drinks and the menu. 

“You guys can’t be serious. Booking the whole first class cabin?” You rolled your eyes. 

“It’s for privacy, doc.” Namjoon said, flipping through his newspaper. Once the safety demo was done by the flight attendants, the plane took off. You had your headphones on, playing music as you read your book. 

“Are you just going to read?” Jimin asked. You nodded your head and he pouted, sighing in annoyance. 

“I’m gonna sleep too.” You added. 

PING!

The seatbelt sign turned off. Yoongi had the flight attendant turn his seat into a bed, his figure curled under the blanket, ready to sleep. Hoseok was watching a show on his iPad while Jin was snacking. 

“Yah, don’t disturb him.” You chided Taehyung and Jimin, who were trying to disturb a sleeping Jungkook. He hadn’t even lowered his seat, still in an upright position with his neck  tilted down. That was gonna cause some pain when he woke up. 

“Let me lower his seat.” You unbuckled your seatbelt, heading over and pressing the button so he would be in a more comfortable position. 

“You’re starting to baby him.” Taehyung clicked his tongue. 

“I baby Yoongles too, he just pretends to hate it.” You shrugged, adjusting Jungkook’s blanket and fluffing the pillow under his head. Jungkook remained asleep, even when you moved his head. 

“Boring.” Jimin took his switch out, challenging Taehyung in a game. You just turned back to your book. 

“Never thought I’d see the day. You, the fierce doctor, admitting that you care and baby the boys.” Namjoon chuckled from beside you, neatly folding his newspapers and setting it aside. 

“Jungkook’s the youngest and Yoongi can only use one arm. I’m not that heartless, Joon.” You scoffed. Namjoon held his hands up in defence and you rolled your eyes. Taking out your laptop, you began to type out notes that you made from reading your book. You were learning more efficient ways to stabilise fatal injuries such as stabbings or gunshot wounds. 

“Take a break, doc. Stop learning how to kill us.” Hoseok joked. 

“I don’t need to learn what I already know.” You spoke, not looking up from your screen as you typed. 

“Oh doc, you’re just so comical.” Jin chuckled. 

“I try my best.” You raised your eyebrows. Soon, the flight attendants came around to give out menus for the inflight meals. You hummed as you flipped through the selection. 

“What do you fancy?” Namjoon asked. 

“Salad and soup.” You shrugged. Meanwhile, the boys were ordering their steaks and pasta, filling up until they were full and satisfied. 

“The appetite you guys have never fail to amuse me.” You snorted. Yoongi, who was picking and tearing his butter roll, nodded in agreement. You didn’t need to eat much, watching the boys eat their hefty portions was enough to make you feel full.

“Did I miss lunch?!” Jungkook exclaimed. 

“Right on time. We just finished up.” Taehyung chuckled, wiping his mouth with the napkin. While the flight attendants served desserts, Jungkook ordered his huge main course. 

“Can I have some sparkling water?” You ordered after finishing your fruit plate. The flight attendant gave you a weird look but Namjoon cleared his throat, making her jump and scurry off to fulfil your water. 

“You know, ordering something without intimidation would be nice to try for once.” You scoffed. 

“You deserve to be waited on, doc. Not be given attitude from the likes of people like her.” Namjoon sipped his wine. Yoongi, who had a glass of whiskey, nodded in agreement. You sighed as the flight attendant placed the glass of sparkling water down on your side table. She bowed her head to you, keeping her head down before leaving. 

-

“Young masters, agashi. Welcome.” The entire staff lined up before the huge beach house, bowing as you all stepped out of the vans. 

“Get the bags. I hope doc’s room has been prepared like we instructed.” Namjoon ordered and they bowed, rushing to unload all the bags and bring them in. You followed the boys in, carrying your airplane bag with you. 

“Agashi, allow me to show you your room.” A maid bowed and you gave a backwards wave to the boys, following her up. Your room had a balcony facing the sea. 

“It’s beautiful.” You noted. 

“If there is anything, please do not hesitate to let me know. The other members of staff will be up with your belongings shortly.” She bowed. 

“Thank you.” You smiled. She looked a little shocked. 

“I-It’s no problem, agashi. Have a nice rest.” She bowed again before leaving. Once the door closed, you threw your bag aside, falling back onto the comfy bed. You let out a sigh of bliss, staring at the ceiling. Standing up, you headed to the small balcony attached to your room. 

“(y/n)!” Jimin poked his head out from his room window to wave at you. You chuckled, sending a small wave back. 

*KNOCK KNOCK*

“Come in.” You turned around to see two butlers with your bags. 

“Thank you. You can set them over here.” You directed them. After stacking your bags neatly, they bowed and left you alone. You took your time to unpack your things into the cupboards and closet provided. 

“(y/n)! Let’s go swimming!” The youngest 3 burst into your room, the door slamming into the adjacent wall loudly. 

“Yah, you guys need to learn how to knock.” You scolded. 

“Come on!” 

“Guys, we just got here. Let me unpack and RELAX!” You shoved all 3 of them out of your room, slamming the door shut and locking it. You sighed, shaking your head at their protests. Humming, you continued to unpack your things at your own pace. After you were done, you looked out the window and saw the boys playing in the water, splashing around. 

‘I’m outside your door. - Yoongi’

Your phone buzzed. You frowned in confusion at the sudden text, going to open your room door. Yoongi stood there, in black board shorts and a black linen shirt. The first two buttons were undone, revealing his pale skin. 

“Not a fan of the sun, Mr Cullen?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m just here to bring you to the beach.” He sighed. You nodded, going into the bathroom to change into some lighter clothes. 

“Let’s go!” You hooked arms with him. As usual, Yoongi didn’t pull away from you. You walked out the doors and down the back porch, revealing the big beach area.

“Woah.” 

“Don’t worry about the public, this is our private beach.” Jin walked over with a plate of sandwiches. 

“I was never worried about the public but thanks.” You picked up a sandwich, going to sit on one of the lawn chairs. Yoongi took the seat beside you, leaning back with a glass of wine in his hand. With a wave of his hand, the butler offered you a glass as well, placing it on the tiny table. 

“Aren’t you going to swim?” You asked Yoongi. 

“Don’t like the water.” He scoffed. Those that were playing in the water ran up towards you and Yoongi, who didn’t even notice. Suddenly, you yelped as you were being hoisted in the air. 

“Taehyung!” You squealed, wrapping your arms around his neck. He chuckled, running towards the ocean. 

“And I can’t believe you let them rope you into this, Namjoon!” You hissed. The leader just shrugged, crossing his arms as he watched in amusement.

“Kim Taehyung, if you drop me into this water, I’ll make sure you regret it.” You threatened. Jungkook and Jimin waved their hands, encouraging their brother to just dunk you. 

“You know I stay true to my words!” You screamed as a final resort. 

“I’ll save you!” Hoseok ran over with a super soaker water gun. Taehyung jumped in shock, letting go of you. 

“Tae-” You fell into the water. You stood up, entire being wet. Even with the water to your hips, your glare was scary enough to send the boys running to shore. You ran after them while they scattered away. But of course, them being mafiosos, they were able to escape quickly. You couldn’t chase after them so you went for the next best thing.

“Yoongles!” You laid over Yoongi. 

“Yah!” Yoongi cringed as you wet his clothes with your own damp ones. You grinned at him. 

“This is gonna be a fun vacation, isn’t it Yoonie?” You said sweetly, making Yoongi groaned and roll his eyes. 

~~

Ko-fi link

Series Masterlist

Tag list 1

@veronawrites @diamonddia-mond @georgie-me-myself-i @saveme-imfine @openup-yourmind @purelyecstacy @nlost21 @yiyi4657 @kimmieloveswho @i-like-puppy-mg @cait-with-luv @s-tae-rrynight @supertweetycherry @carolinexkpop @unatempesta-dipensieri @telepathylftv @taradevonne @top-crop @ifellinluvwithdorks @btslvts @bt21chim @kpopiskpopyunho @egm09 @designjet @lasagnaisjustspaghetticake @3musez @bangtansleftnut @deeepvibes @barbikatherine @xxminilah @missmxqn @kimahnjung98 @jbunnys-world @itspwi @gold--gucciempress @rainbow-zebra-unicorns @sinceritythatcouldntbedelivered @holaaaf @aconfusedidentity @samararose21 @shondlenoodle @singhsahara @scuzmunkie @foulstarfishprincess @fenderbenderr @uraveragefangirlsposts @jikook-enthusiasts @wendyiiwl @amyniu @bipolargal 

Tag list 2

@vivpurple7 @mintvender @xcharlottemikaelsonx @enchantingbrowneyedgirl @imyourapocalypse @yeotlny @thatonepotatogurl @queenofthe-bitches @rosesolitaire @nello-rie @beach-bitch-bitch-beach @blauuu-adl @chickencrimpyy @purplelady85 @blglmgk01 @nochujeonjk @kevinssecretplace4546 @growlingyu @gimmythatjib00ty @missseoulite @ngcxjnny @silscintilla @miyochan @skyys-universe @aqueenieme @ryuyalana @galaxyflab @vishakhas-world @simrxnsingh @infernal-alpaca @the-hoe-ly-one @badbyetoyou @cstobitk @jeonginsvocals @ah2002 @lindsayjoy444 @sluthug @zhangyixingxing1​ 

[haltandcatchfiretothemax]

Headcanon that Cameron and Donna celebrate the 4th of July, and make a point of seeing a fireworks show every year

[CW: temporary sickness, food/eating]

Naturally, Cameron and Donna feel very differently about the holiday itself. When Donna initiates the annual, “So, the 4th, what are we doing?” conversation in June, Cameron mutters, “What a bullsh!t holiday,” and Donna rolls her eyes, and says, “Yeah I know, Apocalypse Now, your conscientious objection is noted….” Cameron will argue, “I (still) don’t understand how you don’t object!” and Donna will literally throw up her hands, much the way she used to when they would argue in the Mutiny conference room and say, “I don’t know, probably because I’m (still) not actually in the service? And I won’t be drafted? And we’re not at war?” (She ignores Cameron’s incredulous, “You really think this country isn’t at war? I mean maybe not that we know of….”) “It’s a federal holiday celebrated by many of this nation’s citizens,” Donna sighs, “and it’s a great excuse for a party.” “Well of course you think so, Party Girl,” Cameron smirks at her. “You love that I’m a Party Girl,” Donna scoffs, “especially after everyone else goes home for the night.” 

This of course is entirely true, and so after their annual bickering, objection voiced, Cameron goes with whatever it is that Donna wants to plan. Every few years, they spend the day together, just the two of them, and they go up to San Francisco to see the fireworks, and to recreate one of their first dates. More typically though, Donna hosts a barbecue for their loved ones.

Unfortunately, that second July after Cameron finally, completely moves in, Donna gets sick

On the 2nd of July, after they get home from work, Donna realizes that she feels exhausted and overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. Cameron takes care of dinner, but when she offers to make a plate for Donna, Donna says, “I think I’m too tired to eat? I must be coming down with something.” She describes a mild headache, mild nausea, and feeling a little warm. When Cameron anxiously asks if they should go to a clinic or even the emergency room, Donna says, “No, It’s not that bad,” and then when Cameron protests (“but what if it is that bad, what if it’s worse than it feels?”) says, “I’ve given birth to two actual human beings, Cameron, I know when something feels serious.” (“I’ve given birth to two human beings” will become Donna’s standard reply when Cameron starts to fret about Donna’s health.) She doesn’t have chest pains, blurred vision, or neck stiffness, so Donna spends the rest of the evening sipping ginger tea, and manages to eat some saltines before turning in

When Donna wakes up feeling even more exhausted the next day, Cameron asks if they should cancel the barbecue. “No, no, it’s too late,” Donna groans, “and besides, most of the prep work is already done, we bought all the food and supplies.” With a heavy sigh, she says, “You guys can deal with the food. I’ll just have to stay inside, and also out of the kitchen.” “Okay,” Cameron nods. And then she says, “Wait, what do you mean we can handle the food, are you saying you want me to work the grill?” Donna chuckles, “No, I meant that Bos, Haley, and Vanessa can do the grilling.” 

Donna spends most of that day in bed, not so much resting as passed out, as if she hasn’t slept in a month. After clearing it with the girls, Cameron makes a hasty trip to the market for some chicken, and then spends that afternoon channeling her anxiety and disappointment into making a large batch of chicken noodle soup

When Cameron brings her a bowl of soup and sleeve of crackers, Donna is grateful for it, and able to sit up comfortably to eat it. “This is perfect,” Donna sighs, “it’s a little bland, but, that’s what I need right now.” “Seems like you’re feeling better,” Cameron says hopefully. “A bit,” Donna nods, between spoonfuls. “I don’t feel possessed by the need to sleep, I don’t feel so warm or headachey…stomach still feels weird, that’s the only thing.” She downs the rest of the soup, though.

Later that evening Cameron goes up to the bedroom to see if Donna wants a snack. Donna responds with an exaggerated grimace, and says, “I don’t think you should sleep in here tonight, I would offer to move but, I’ve already got the bathroom in here, and you can use the other bathroom, and then it will be clear for any guests who need it tomorrow.” Cameron frowns at the idea of sleeping separately, “Okay. Well, I’ll grab my toothbrush now so I don’t have to bother you again —“ “Cameron, do not go into that bathroom,” Donna entreats her. “You probably need a new toothbrush anyway, just grab one of the spares in the linen closet.” Cameron looks at her and asks, “Are you alright?” Donna says, “I’m gonna be fine, I just, I have a stomach bug, and it is gonna get uglier before it clears is all so just trust me and spare yourself!” Cameron snorts and then somberly says, “Okay, okay, I get it.” When she leaves the room, Donna cries after her, “Wash your hands, please!”

Despite Donna’s absence, the barbecue goes smoothly, and is enjoyed by all. With Haley, Vanessa, and Bos tending most of the food, Cameron is free after helping them set up to ferry soup, toast, fluids, and party chatter up to Donna at regular intervals. “This works out well for you, having an excuse to leave the party over and over again,” Donna says. Cameron says, “Yeah I thought it would be super cool but, nope, plot twist, I’d like it way better if you were out there with us and I had to be out there with you, stuffing my face while I stand next to you, like the trophy wife I am.” Donna grins up at her and says, “You are most definitely a prize, thank you for all of the soup. Now go back to our guests, and go have some fun! Or try, at least.”

She does try, when she goes back outside Bos throws a fatherly arm around her shoulders and says, “I know, it’s hard to feel festive when the missus is under the weather, but we all got to soldier on somehow....” Cameron makes the rounds, trying to chat with everyone the way Donna usually does, it’s harder than Donna makes it look, but she does her best. After that, she lets herself sit down with Risa and Tanya and has some short ribs, some grilled peppers, and another generous helping of German potato salad. She plays hackeysack with Haley and Lev, cackles at one of Diane’s kooky Bos stories, and then toasts marshmallows for everyone’s s’mores. 

As always, Cameron is relieved at the end of the evening, Tanya and Bos help her put everything away, and then she sees them and the other guests off before they go to the park to see the local fireworks display, and then she goes up to the bedroom to see Donna, ginger ale and a pair of Donna’s favorite crystal glasses in hand. 

When she gets up there, Donna already has their television on and set to the local network that’s broadcasting the San Francisco fireworks show. Cameron pours two glasses of soda for them, hands one to Donna, gets into bed next to her, and harrumphs, “I think I had one s’more too many. I also probably had more of that potato salad than I really needed to.” “That’s my girl,” Donna smiles. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and if you can’t join ‘em, out-eat ‘em.” 

After the fireworks show begins, Donna says, “It is a bullsh!t holiday. You’re right.” Swallowing a mouthful of her soda, Cameron says, “And it is an excuse for a party, so you’re right, too. Like always.” Then Donna says, “Yeah. But you know that I get why you don’t like this holiday. Or, any holiday, really, right?” “I know,” Cameron says. “When we met you,” Donna continues, “Gordon and I were drowning. Our lives weren’t bad, we both had college degrees, we had a house and cars, and I was also putting the girls’ dentists appointments on three different credit cards to be able to pay for them.” Cameron remembers hearing Donna and Joanie in the Cardiff ladies’ room and grins reflexively. “And we were lucky! We were better off than most people,” Donna says. Still staring ahead at the tv and the fireworks, Donna says, “this country is full of people living with all kinds of deprivation and misery, as in real deprivation, and every year, we’re supposed to just celebrate all of that.”

“Not celebrating won’t change that, though, I guess,” Cameron shrugs sadly. “Moping by ourselves won’t make things better for anyone. Thank you for not letting me mope, even when you’re too sick to actually be at the party.” Clinking her glass gently against Cameron’s Donna says, “My pleasure.”

[assenavlp]

V’s Hot Takes - 3

And so it's Monday. The beginning of another so-called "week" in this neverending existential nightmare, where one day blends into the next, differentiated only by what's on TV, tonight.

I was planning on toning things down today. Apparently scones touched a nerve and scared some people off, yesterday, but then I filled up on my weekly Sunday Marathon of House episodes, and I decided "f*ck that noise"! So without further ado, my fellow a$$holes....

Welcome back to V's Hot Takes™!

#3: Metric....

Oh, no, she isn't gonna...oh, yes, she is...

Metric in the home kitchen is highly f*cking overrated. And by overrated I mean, a pain in the f*cking a$$!

I grew up in the '70s, in Canada, where Metric was introduced into the school curriculum alongside the Imperial system, so I, like most Gen-X Canadians, am able to function with both. There's even a meme for that. (Plus I learned real math, not this "new math" bullsh*t that turns what should be quick and intuitive shortcuts that one learns once one actually understands math, into ridiculously convoluted formulas.)Some things work better with Metric. Others are better with Imperial.

Yes, yes, Metric is all lovely in its simple logic and uniformity, blah, blah, blah, and for science, it's perfect. One might think that I, as someone with OCD, would appreciate that sort of thing. However, I am also a creative thinker. Imperial works on an intuitive level. That's how it was designed....based on the measurements of body parts and such, however messy and imperfect that is. Yeah, I can never remember how many feet are in a mile either. Who cares? We're not talking engineering or city planning, here.

Besides, there's beauty and logic in fractions. I hated taking math in school, but since I did, and since I spent a hell of a lot of time learning those fractions, I'll be damned if I'm going to put that skill to waste!

"But it's so precise!"

Unless you're working in mass production, you really do not need that kind of precision. Seriously. Even for sourdough. You heard me, b*tch. Zip it! Cooking shouldn't be like a bloody episode of The Anal-Retentive Chef!

Everyone's moaning about the overly-long cooking blogs, these days, like everyone's suddenly forgotten how to scroll. A recipe that's all in Metric...or even worse, all in Mass...with no conversions to Imperial, though? That's what triggers MY back-button finger. Buh-bye.

There's an article from The Atlantic going around at the moment that mentions the old notion that hyper attention to measuring, in cooking, is a female trait. I grew up hearing that and it's crossed my mind in recent months as I've seen many, male and female, who have latched onto weighing everything to the last nanogram on a digital scale. Barf. Whether it's a female trait or not, I think there are different factors at play...experience in the kitchen, confidence in one's own skills and palate, and whether the crowd one is cooking for is finicky or hyper-critical, etc., and whether they (or oneself, for that matter) 'allow' one to be creative and accept the failures that can be part of the process. (ie. You don't have to cook for a controlling d*ck.)

"But cooking is an art and baking is a science!"

Yeah, that's an old one, too. Of course there's truth to it. You can't just wing your baking soda into something willy-nilly and pray that it turns out. I think the two styles can and do co-exist, though. The Yin and Yang of the kitchen...or the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup conundrum: you got your science in my art... you got your art in my science...I am an improvisational cook (and baker) and add a swoosh of this and a handful of that, but I also follow a specific recipe when I am looking for a specific result. When I am creating a recipe, I measure to set a benchmark for further experimentation and improvisation...

I digress.

Maybe you disagree but 2/3rds of a cup, 3/4ths of a cup...half of that is 3/8ths...which is also 6Tbs....it's just easier to remember than 150ml or 175ml or 350ml of this and that. The divisions are too small and TOO uniform. It's boring...it lacks distinctive markers to trigger easy recall. It's harder to differentiate items in a list of ingredients. Supposedly the theory of different learning styles has been discredited, but that's my learning style.

"Weighing solves everything."

Oh, my f*cking God, it's so tedious. There are only a few things I regularly use a scale for in my kitchen; like chocolate pistoles, when I make ganache or mousse; or carrots and bananas, when I make cake. The notion that you can't achieve consistency without using Mass is ludicrous. Yes, there are things like humidity and room temperature that affect many ingredients, but no amount of weighing is going to save you during extreme weather changes if you don't have a controlled indoor climate. In addition to the science of it all, there's a certain familiarity and finesse one learns through experience. There's a deeper understanding that comes from the mistakes.

And there's this strange sort of arrogance...that those of us who have been cooking and baking all of these years have been doing it wrong; that we couldn't have possibly successfully made anything without having used the Metric System!

Maybe part of the problem is that we have a generation who has grown up without home-ec classes (they should bring them back, for girls and boys, both, this time...and anyone differently-gendered), and a culture that has looked down on home-cooking, striving for convenience - so that we can work, work, work ourselves to death - and now suddenly everyone's trying to make up for all those lost years, all at once, and being hyper critical in this regard makes up for the lack of experience? "A poor craftsman blames his tools"? Who knows? That's just a theory off the top of my head.

Whatever the case, you'll pry my vintage Imperial measuring cups and spoons out of my cold, dead, f*cking hands! 

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2021/04/when-did-following-recipes-become-a-personal-failure/618085/ 

March 22, 2021

[atlaswriting]

An uneasy chill sets into my bones when I hear a knock on the door. Neither fully asleep nor awake, I roll over, stare at the empty space in the bed and feel an on-rush of concern. The fist pounds on the door for a second time and I’m running. Fingers reach for the knob; I pull and stare up at Brantley, slumped against the door frame blinking away the bright lights above us.

“What are you—where’s Abram?”

“He—,” Brantley starts, tongue too big for his mouth, choking on the words he wished he didn’t have to say. “Abram’s been—,”

Fingers curl aching tight at my side, if I have to strangle the words out of his mouth I will. “Spit it out.” The demand isn’t gentle and the boy steps away from me. A surge of anger shoots white hot up my spine. “I swear to God if you don’t—,”

“He was arrested.” He blurts out. “Abram was arrested—I didn’t know who else to go to. I don’t have enough money to bail him out and I have no idea what his grandmother’s phone number is.” His cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson, eyes cast down to the exposed concrete floors. “He asked me not to tell you—before he was put into the car, he told me not to call you.”

I’m slipping on a pair of Ellie’s shoes while Brantley explains to me what happened: their drinking, Abram allowing his past to come out of the closet like piled up skeletons, the man.

“Was he older?” I ask, stopping to look at him with my keys gripped so tightly that the grooves cut into my palm. “Did he look like a villain in a James Bond movie?” He nods, “Oh God. Why didn’t you stop him?” Brantley parts his lips to argue but I’m halfway down the hall when I hear his apology.

I couldn’t be sure of what else he said or if he tried following me or how I started driving but I’m halfway to the police station when my ears finally stop ringing. When I reach the desk I notice chunks of tonight’s dinner stick to my flats, having thrown up twice on the way in.

“I’m here for my boyfriend,” I tell the cop behind the desk, a squat sort of man whose cheeks are too brightly red to be considered healthy, “Abram Kempe. I’ll post his bail. Can you please just let him know I’m here.” I beg.

♡ ♡ ♡

I can’t be mad at him. The black and blue bruising his face like a mask wasn’t Abram—instead, I convince myself it’s a monster that has taken his place, swallowed him whole and pretends.

He’s showered six times since he came home yesterday and has said even less to me.

If ask: are you hungry? / can I get you some ice? / do you want to go to my appointment with me—we’re getting a 3d scan today.

I don’t ask: are you still in there? / did you beat yourself into an early grave? / do you love anything except the warm black that your chest has become?

On the fifth day, when his bruising is more yellow than blue I stare while he changes into a fitted suit, “Are you going to talk to me?” I ask. Instead, he looks back from the reflection in the mirror.

Frustration builds a foundation in my stomach, deep and hot it boils away.

“If you’re not going to talk to me then you should just leave!” I yell, hand curling around my phone.

He laughs, tightens the tie around his neck and dares it to be a noose, “This is my apartment. I pay the rent here—do you even do anything? Go to class anymore? Or do you just stand around staring at me all day?”

“You’re such an ass, Abram.”

He shrugs and when he leaves I don’t see him for two days.

♡ ♡ ♡

2 am comes before Abram walks back through the door—reeking of stale cigarettes and bud light he slips out of his close and between the covers.

“Are you sleeping with someone?”

He doesn’t bother turning, doesn’t laugh, instead he lets out a shaky breath and stands back up, “What?”

“I said: are you sleeping with someone?” I prepare myself for the worst, steel my spine and dig my nails into my palm, hoping to cause more pain to myself than he’s about to. “You’re out all the time—I don’t even see you anymore. It’s Kings this and Kings that. If you don’t want this anymore, fine, tell me.”

Abram paces our room, fingers curling and uncurling as the words build up in his chest until their pressure becomes too great and he turns around. Loads the gun and fires at me. “I nearly killed my dad, Elise.” He says, “do you know that? I could have killed him. Wanted to kill him. Had his life in the palm of my hands. I could have beaten it out him.” He looks down into his upturned hands shaking fiercely. “And you want to talk about how I’m feeling? You want to carry on and forget it. I can’t. Do you get that? I can’t get his face out of my head, I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would have been—so if you think I’m sleeping with someone, keep on thinking that. I don’t give a shit. I’m not going to pretend I’m fine to make you feel better. That’s bullshit.”

I stand now, clutching a pillow against my chest. A scream bubbles up my throat while tears threaten to fall. “I’m not asking you to pretend you’re better. I’m not asking you to do anything except not shut me out. I’m asking you not to forget about me now that the Kings are finally noticing you—and for what? To be their goon?” A strangled laugh makes his fists curl again, “You aren’t a goon. You aren’t this person—you don’t beat people just for the sake of beating people. Malachi—,”

“Don’t.”

The warning should’ve been enough to stop me, but my throat is wide and the words slip past liked vomit, “You aren’t Malachi, Abram. You—,”

“Elise, I said shut up—,” he steps forward. Suddenly more his father’s son than his mothers. He stops only when I step back. Strength leaves his body as his shoulders slump forward, “I’m spending the night at Brantley’s. If you want to be out, fine. Get your stuff and go. But stop trying to act like my mother—the one I want’s already dead.”

♡ ♡ ♡

I should have known something was wrong. Should have had that instinct to run the moment I stopped feeling him move. I read that happened toward the end. That eventually he’ll have no room to grow and he’ll settle. But as the Doctor’s face falls he presses the wand harder against my stomach.

“When is the last time you felt him kick?” He asks.

I try to think, put a number to the day but my mouth falls open without an answer.

He moves, straps my stomach up and tries to listen for something, anything.

“Miss Allaire, I’m sorry to have to tell you this—,” he speaks, wordless, as time starts to slow before the panic sets in—when I hear his voice again he’s begging me to calm down but the rising beep of my heart proves I haven’t, “Elise,” he says my name over and over but none of it sounds real.

“We won’t know when he—,”

“The baby will need to—,”

“Is there anyone you want to call? The father? Your parents?”

Sweat pools at the base of my neck, in the dip of my collarbone and in the palm of my hands.

“Abram,” I manage to force his name through clenched teeth before the panic rushes over me and everything fades.

♡ ♡ ♡

It felt wrong. Dirty. I press my hand to the hard of my stomach, trying to will Theo to push back. I begged, bartered, dealt with the devil long enough to sell my soul.

I knew something was wrong—that I’ve killed away parts of me that weren’t mine to kill.

♡ ♡ ♡

Relief isn’t something I feel when I see Abram. All I can taste is the acrid guilt rising up my throat. He rushes into the room, by my side and my nurse begins to fill him in. I try to speak, will my mouth to move but my jaw is honey stuck. I want to explain to him before she does—explain that my sickness came back, that this wasn’t how I wanted him to find out, that the demon that latched onto my shoulders wasn’t full exorcised.

I want to apologize.

Instead I listen as the nurse tells him I weigh even less than I did before the pregnancy, that the baby—Theo, I keep telling her, he has a name, Theo—expired two weeks ago ( they suspect ).

Expired. Like old milk.

I reach for the plastic cup in front of me, throw it at the wall beside her, I scream until dizziness sets in, until his hands hold my shoulders against the bed and I feel his warm tears fall onto my face. I scream until black borders my vision and don’t stop until they fore a mild sedative through the I.V.

♡ ♡ ♡

“Elise we’re going to need you to push.”

“I need you to do this for him,” he tells me, “I know this is hard—,” bullshit, I want to shout; instead I swallow it down, press my knees together, refuse. “You need to be strong for him.”

Another sob shakes my body and Abram turns my head, cups my cheek and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You can do it, baby,” he says, “We should meet our little boy.”

“Cut him out of me,” I beg, “cut me him out—I don’t want to do this, I can’t.”

Cut him out of me and my heart along with it. It died with him, anyway.

“Elise,” Abram says, “my mom’s got him. It’s okay—I just need you to push. I can’t lose you too. Not again. For me, please?”

♡ ♡ ♡

If there’s a God, I decide I’m not going to pray.

There’s an empty space in my chest in the shape of him, carved out and scarred over.

♡ ♡ ♡

“Do you want to hold him?” A nurse asks, cradling a small white and blue blanket. Instead of answering her I turn my head away.

Counselor after counselor come into the room—with and without Abram, they tell me that what I’m feeling is normal, that grief is a sinking ship but that there are life boats. I don’t say anything, I stoke the embers of rage and tune out their voices.

It’s when a priest comes by, offers his prayers and tells me that Theo is with Him now when I finally react. I scream until his face pales and throw anything within arms reach at him—a remote control, a tray of food and his bible.

“She’s not going to hold him—if she doesn’t…” the nurse looks from Abram to me, “She’s going to miss her chance.”

“I’ll talk to her.” He says, “alone.” He waits until she leaves the room before carrying the bundle over to my bed, sitting beside me and leaning in.

“He has your nose,” Abram tries to laugh, “and my chin, like you said.” He licks his lips, “Elise—you should hold him. They’re going to have to…”

I swallow the lump in my throat, a match to light the gasoline in my stomach, “I don’t want to.”

“He’s our baby—you need to say goodbye.”

“That isn’t our baby, Abram. Our baby is dead, that’s just his body.” I seethe, “You can’t say goodbye to something you’ve never said hello to.”

His shoulders shake and he turns to face me, “God damn it Elise.” He forces my arms apart, and places him gently in the nooks of my arms. He holds me there as sorrow knocks me down, my mouth drops in a strangled moan.

My mother always said I was made for ruin.

I didn’t think that included you.

[mysteriouslyzealouspandalov-blog]

Reality Steve Has Proof Jenna And Jordan's Relationship Is Fake Betches

New Post has been published on https://relationshipguideto.com/must-see/reality-steve-has-proof-jenna-and-jordans-relationship-is-fake-betches/

Reality Steve Has Proof Jenna And Jordan's Relationship Is Fake Betches

A new post from Reality Steve has rocked Bachelor Nation. Apparently, Jenna and Jordan’s relationship is fake, and Steve has the receipts. *Pretends to be shocked* You mean the two most fake, self-interested people in Bachelor Nation aren’t in it for the right reasons? Honestly, anybody who thought Jordan was capable of feeling any human emotion akin to love needs to come talk to me so I can sell you a bridge. And Jenna? F*cking Jenna? I’m convinced the only love affair she’s ever had has been with her eyelash extensions. Please.

In any case, Reality Steve admits in the post that he’s become a sort of personal crusader against people in Bachelor Nation with something to hide. Usually, he says, it’s the men who are being shady (this should shock no one who has ever interacted with men). But this time, he says someone came forward with information about Jenna Cooper. That information came in the form of screenshots of texts from a disgruntled ex-lover of Jenna’s.

The guy in question tells Reality Steve, “Jenna is a manipulator. She manipulated me. She manipulates the other guys she ‘networks’ with and is apparently manipulating this Jordan guy. She uses men for money and business help and loves the attention along the way. And she just loves to rub in your face that she’s pretty and everyone wants her and how she can easily move onto the next. I’m tired of the bullsh*t and am calling her out.”

Say manipulated again.

I mean, okay. This is not exactly a glowing endorsement of Jenna as a romantic partner, but like, I fail to be shocked by this news. Of COURSE she’s using Bachelor in Paradise for networking—she is a “personal trainer” who went on a reality TV show to “find love”. Have you SEEN Jenna? Jenna could find a guy to love her simply by stepping outside. It’s fine, I’m not bitter, I’m fine.

But sure, by this account, Jenna sounds like a pretty sh*tty person who uses men for attention and free stuff (*looks in a mirror*). This unnamed guy also provided some pretty insane text message receipts. But before we get into that, let me just say this: I’m not buying the angle of Jordan as the poor unwitting dupe. This is the professional gentleman we’re talking about. If you think for one second this dude is really in love with Jenna and not putting up an equally white-toothed facade and milking the publicity for all its worth, you’re crazy. I’d bet money I don’t have that Jordan is just as willing a participant in this fake relationship as Jenna is.

So onto these texts. Reality Steve said he was able to verify they did, in fact, come from Jenna. When this mystery guy writes, “Good morning beautiful. How’s my girl doing this morning?” (vom, her behavior is justified based on that “good morning beautiful” text alone), she replies, “Amazing! My heart is melting thinking about hanging out with my girls again. I’m so excited!!!! [heart eyes emoji] but I’ll admit I am even more excited to see you later tonight [heart emoji].”

To verify that Jenna is, in fact, intimate with this man and he’s not just a guy so deep in the friend zone he can’t see straight, Reality Steve also shared some intimate conversations between the two that I will not repeat here, to save my eyeballs as well as yours. Reality Steve say the couple got in a fight on Sunday because the guy wants his relationship with Jenna to be more public. In response to that, Jenna writes:

“I know you’re upset about this week’s episodes but I told you yesterday and I keep telling you that this is all for my business. You know how much I need the money. Me and Jordan aren’t even together for real. I don’t even like him let alone love him. I’m better than him and once I’m able to I’ll break it off for good and make up some story to make him look bad if it’ll make you feel better.” She also writes, “He means nothing to me and never has.” At this time, neither Jenna Cooper nor Jordan Kimball has responded to our requests for comment.

I feel like I’m supposed to be outraged at this news, but I just can’t muster up the emotion. I’m sure there are people out there who are coming for Jenna, but I don’t think it’s warranted. Grow up; everybody in the Bachelor franchise at this point is out for fame, money, and/or networking—Jenna just happened to get caught. I don’t think she is any better or worse than anyone else who’s appeared on this show in the last three or so years. (Except for Diggy and Grocery Joe, who are perfect.)

Really, if there’s anything to be learned from this fiasco, it’s that you never have any sensitive conversations over text, email, or any other written format that can leave a trace. That’s it.

Image: ABC

Read more: https://www.betches.com

[atlaswriting]

I’ve found god in a lot of things: in the bathroom tile marks left on my knees, the cool of the porcelain pressed soft to my cheek, at the bottom of a bottle of wine I had no business finishing.

I’ve found god, I’ve prayed and I’ve been ignored.

But Abram’s never been a place for holy. He isn’t consecrated ground and I’m not a believer.

I am thankful for every moment his lips are pressed against mine; a silent rebellion, an act of sinning so great that I could bathe in holy water and still burst into flames stepping into church.

Any smart reply is bitten back and choked as his hand tangles in my hair and kisses me. I bite, deliberately at his lip until he inhales sharply and pulls away feeling for the blood that starts to bead. With a quick turn, I’m facing up, hips still pinned to the cushion by his, eyes drinking in his entirety: loose shorts, no shirt—tan skin punctuated with black ink, I think : where has my boy gone? Dead and buried by this man on top of me.

I don’t hate it.

I can’t reach up, grab the shirt he isn’t wearing so I decide on the next best thing : the waistline of his shorts, until he’s close enough and I can dig my long nails into his shoulders and pull him back. He tastes like fire and everything I shouldn’t like—the air before a tornado, thick and lingering—I breathe in him, kiss him deep and find comfort in the familiar copper of blood.

Abram is no less gentle—fingertips digging into my hips, releasing only to slide beneath my shirt. This isn’t love, I think, this is familiarity. It is the heroin and the syringe. But I don’t stop, legs clench tighter around his waist and I push my hips up.

“Wait.” The word comes out as a whine and immediately he stops, blue eyes staring down at me: all man, but animal too. Something vicious and appealing lingers there and he pulls back.

I slide out from under him and Abram sits up on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. I take a breath, trying to calm the swarming bees in my chest that beg to be let out.

This is fucked, I want to say. We’re better people now—better people don’t do this.

Logic and reason get into the ring with need and only one comes out.

A heartbeat passes, a fork in the road where instead of deciding which way to go, I hurdle through like a comet. And like one, I throw my body on top of his, settling into his lap like a puzzle piece.

Like coming home.

I run my hands through his hair, a crown of gold that sits at the top of his head and I tell myself—he’s a king now, but he’s been by prince for over a decade.

Desperation pushes me closer against him, presses my mouth to his and kiss him with a careless desire. My teeth bite at his bottom lip, more feral than girl—but I’ve always been wild.

One of Abram’s hands dips into the hem of my shorts and his other slides up my body, circles around my throat and unlatches my mouth from his. My mouth falls open in silence, and despite the raw wrongness of it all: he doesn’t tear his eyes away from mine. Brows set in a straight line, he controls me like a puppet—bringing my neck to his mouth he bites and sucks at the skin.

Tomorrow is a day that doesn’t exist right now and consequence sits laughing from the sidelines.

The only thing that jars me from the moment is the soft jangling of Alfred’s collar. I toss a glance over my shoulders and then do I notice him on top of Belle.

I all but fall off of Abram, scrambling to my feet and rushing toward the dogs.

“Oh my god!” I shout, pulling him away by his collar, “Alfred! Abram! Oh my god!”

With the more space between us, it gives guilt a chance to wrap herself around me, warm and sharp and I rush to the bathroom, tonight’s dinner and the bottles of wine fight for first in the toilet. After I wash my mouth out I come back into the living room.

“I think you should go.” I say, reaching for Alfred’s collar once again. Tears burn my eyes, “this was a mistake. None of this should have happened. I’m sorry Ellie worried you enough to come over. Thank you for making sure I didn’t get murdered—but we’re,” I gesture to Alfred and I, “going to bed now.”

“Elise…”

“Please—just go.” I beg.

/ / / / /

( texts : abram )

Can we talk about this?

Elise?

Please.

I see you sitting in your backyard with your phone.

That’s not creepy at all.

Don’t do that.

Don’t put up the bitch guard again.

Oh okay, I’m a bitch.

Wtf.

Not what I said.

Don’t worry. Stassi won’t ever know.

You can go back to being Ken and Barbie.

That’s not what I… Can we talk.

There’s nothing to talk about.

/ / / / /

“So what’s his name?”

A wide smile splits Ellie’s face in half. She pulls out her phone and clicks on his instagram. @stefvasilev.

“He’s a King?” I grab the phone and go through the pictures. Most are selfies with over-saturated filters, some are of his alcohol collection and others are various pictures with other teammates. “Are you insane? Are you trying to drive Brody insane? ‘Cause beep beep.”

Ellie reaches and snatches her phone back, “I didn’t show you so that you could judge me,” she says bitterly. “It wasn’t like I planned it—okay, I did. I just wanted to make Brody jealous. At first. But then I actually started to like him.” She looks down at her phone and smiles then lays it face down. “Which he was fine with.”

I can feel my brow arch higher than usual, “I don’t know—how well do you know him?” I ask, “this could get really messy with Bri, Brody and Abram.”

She rolls her eyes and stands up, walking into my kitchen and looking through my refrigerator. “I’m sorry, do I need to go through my baby daddy and best friend when it comes to getting laid?” She asks, “Brody didn’t ask me before he started dating she-who-must-not-be-named and hasn’t stopped dating her despite the fact that she’s the embodiment of evil.” Ellie pouts when everything she finds is either organic, vegan or expired. “You need real food.”

“I just don’t want it to cause any fights. The last thing they need next season is to start an all out brawl in the middle of the ice for your hand.”

Ellie plops back down beside me, phone out and ordering a pizza. “Brody is never going to fight over me, he doesn’t love me anymore. Not with that leech brainwashing him.” Sitting up slowly, Ellie opens her mouth to say something but then shuts it. Suddenly her eyes go wide and she jumps nearly on top of me. “What is that and how did I not notice it before?”

My hand goes up to my neck and rubs, “It was… a parting gift from Laney.”

“Bullshit that girl couldn’t bruise an apple. You expect me to believe she ate half your neck?”

“It was Delaney, Ellie!”

“You’re such a bold face liar. I can’t believe it. You may wanna get down off your high horse there, Elise. You’re gonna fall off.” She grins at me and I push her away from me. “It’s fine, I don’t judge you.”

/ / / / /

“Simon, you don’t have to invite Abram to family dinner—he isn’t family.” I whisper harshly, I keep my voice low, peak into the living room where Abram is playing with Auguste on the floor and Stassi is showing   Anais’ pictures of Nashville. “You should just kick him out. Right now—tell him—,”

“Elise calm down,” he says, still focused on the pans and not burning anything. “Abram is family and you’re going to have to deal with that.”

I roll my eyes, a sharp knock at the door doesn’t pull my glare from my dad, “He stopped being family the day he left me.” My voice breaks unwillingly and a moment of regret crosses over Simon’s face. It quickly turns into horror as Cerise is let in by Anais.

“Maman?” I bring my glass of water to my lips, suddenly wishing it had been something a little stronger. “What are you doing here?”

She ignores the other’s in the living room, moves her eyes over Abram like he doesn’t exist and kisses both of my cheeks. “I can’t drop in and see my daughter and my nephew?”

“Not in my house.” Simon’s jaws tenses.

“Simon.” Says Anais softly.

When the shock settles and we’re all sitting at dinner, I almost feel bad for Stassi who is sitting closest to Cerise. I watch her, like a cat toying with a helpless mouse, as she controls the conversation with Stassi whose cheeks are bright red.

“I’ve been trying to get Abram to come to Nashville with me while he has his little break,” she says, “But he’s so difficult sometimes.” She laughs, nudges her elbow into his arm.

“Abram used to fly with me all the time.” I say, deciding then that alcohol was the only way I was going to get through the night and over-pouring myself a glass, “A lot of things about Abram are harder now.” I add, not able to control the bitterness that sneaks out.