In fact, their team was stacked this year, but it was Reese. Reese Forster was the Seattle Thunder’s star point guard. I put it there, one time in frustration when I watched Forster get the ball stolen from him during the West Conference Finals. And there was no way he could claim it wasn’t because the collar was ripped. Newt was the one in front of me, so I was dealing with him first. “If an owl could talk, what accent would it have?” “You stole my shirt!” And because I was getting flooded with everything happening, the question blurted out of me. While both those events were hitting me at once, the third was what shirt Newt was wearing-my Reese Forster shirt. So, hence the gulp, because none of them had called for at least six years. It was more the group of people he represented, a group that I left in my dust years ago.

That far back, and while the person calling me was a guy, he wasn’t a romantic guy. I gulped because the person calling was a blast from my past, like my way early past before Lucas, before the guy I was using Lucas to get over, before even him. I glanced at it, half hoping it was Luc- ass, but it wasn’t. The message was being delivered from Newt, my boyfriend’s-no, my very, very recent ex-boyfriend’s-grandfather, while I was standing on his doorstep. Those were the words I heard as three things were happening at once.

“Lucas is busy forking his new girlfriend, but if you’re feeling vengeful, I can pop in my dentures.”

Teardrop shot by tijan