Brittany Scheib

“answer, just strode into the parking lot with rigid shoulders. I couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but there were a lot of fuck yous and kiss my asses. I added “phone etiquette” to the growing list of things Knox Morgan was bad at. He returned looking even angrier. Ignoring me, he produced a wallet and fished out a few bills, then fed them into the soda machine. “What do you want?” he muttered. “Uh. Water, please.” He punched the buttons harder than I thought necessary. And a bottle of water and two Yellow Lightnings fell out onto the ground. “Here.” He shoved the water at me and headed back to the room. “Uh. Thanks?” I called after him. I debated for about thirty seconds whether or not I should just start walking until I found a new reality that was less terrible. But it was just a mental exercise. There was no way I could walk away. I had a new responsibility. And with that responsibility would come some sense of purpose. Probably. I returned to my room and found Knox examining the lock on the door. “No finesse,” he complained. “Told her she should’ve picked it,” Waylay said, cracking open her soda. “It’s barely eight”
― Lucy Score, Things We Never Got Over