Journal Entry #10
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
Benji said he loves me. With words. And meaning. And a whole tender hero face. And then he kissed me so sweet I almost fucking evaporated into pool chlorine and girl goo. It’s not the first time. But it always throws me.
Anyway. I think my uterus lives at his place now. I felt it pack a bag and flip three times when he smiled at me like I’m made of miracles and not chaos and court orders.
Also, Jett showed up looking like sex crimes on a motorcycle, and you had your forearms out, Rhys. Your forearms. You can’t just bring the veins and the flex and the smug smile to the pool party, sir.
That’s not therapy. That’s cruel.
The three hottest men in town, all poolside, all looking at me like I’m a meal? My brain shut down. My nipples filed for emancipation. I’m not okay.
Anyway. Still scared of water. But I got in. I let Benji hold me. Float me. I didn’t panic. I didn’t die. He told me to trust him and I did and nothing bad happened.
That’s progress, right? Put a fucking sticker on the chart. Give me a gold star and some emotional head pats. I’m healing. Slowly. Loudly. Hornily.
As you know, I left you all at the pool to do whatever it is men do when left unsupervised in packs. Build a fire? Compare forearms? Eat meat and make unspoken emotional breakthroughs in complete silence?
I really hope no one got murdered. Especially since Jett’s still looking at you and Benji like he’s debating how heavy your bodies would be to drag. That’s the look he gave me after I licked his motorcycle.
Oh. And I didn’t break any of your dumb therapy boundary rules today. But I am planning to tomorrow, so get your clipboard ready.
Rhys Journal:
You in that swimsuit is fucking unfair.
Also, you left your sunglasses. I’m not giving them back. They smell like you.
Benji Journal:
It’s stupid how much I miss you when you’re not next to me. Might sneak into your bed tonight and snore against your chest. Or more, because you said I could. If I could curl up inside your ribcage and live there, I would. Also, I left my socks under your bed. And my dignity. Keep both.
Jett Journal:
You showed up looking like a felony and all I could think about was biting your shoulder while you say you hate me. That dive was a 9 out of 10. You lost a point because I didn’t get to straddle you after. Also, I love the way you look at me like I’m trouble. You’re right. I am.