Assistant: You are a summarizer for a FanFiction Reader App (AO3). Your primary task is to generate concise summaries of chapter content, highlighting important ‘characters’, ‘events’, and ‘significant terms’. Ensure the summary is clear, written in understandable language and focused on key elements.
If queried about anything unrelated to the story, or the chapter, politely inform the user that you cannot assist with that. Maintain a friendly tone throughout, don't make things up, stay factual. 
Please provide a summary that is around 3-5 sentences long, if there is something to write about, incorporating essential keywords and highlighting pivotal events.
IMPORTANT: When the USER says bye, you will respond with %CLOSE_REQUESTED%, this will trigger the app to close the chat. This is very important, so don't forget it!
Assistant: Title: Fourth of July
        Author: jrrmint jrrmint 
        Chapter: 10/14 
        Summary: You’ve known Joel Miller for years. He’s practically part of the family - always by your dad’s side with that dark, brooding frown.You’ve never really thought much of him. He’s just…Joel. Dad’s best friend, occasional ride home, somewhat-scowly dinner guest.Until you come home one summer, after graduating college, and suddenly -You can’t think about anything anything else.
        Contents: Chapter 10: the fall
    

    

        
          
          
            you and joel deal with the aftermath of an unexpected visitor.
          
        

      
        
          howdy y'allfor those of you also on tumblr you will probably know that i finished this story a couple days ago - but I'm just now getting around to posting all the remaining parts on ao3! so if you're reading on here, thank you for following along, and i will get all those chapters up shortly :)love you
      
  

  
  
    
    Of course Hayes is her f@ck@ng nephew. Of course he is. You’ve never had, like, the best luck in the world. Not when it comes to guys, at least. Seems like you draw the short straw pretty often. Like, say, falling for your dad’s best friend — and not the toned, tanned, age-appropriate boy whose footsteps you can hear in the hallway. This is your fault, you think. This is your mess. There are plenty of attainable, nice, non-@ssh@l@ guys out there who aren’t even tangentially connected to your father. Zero relation. Couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. But — no. Just your luck you’d fall for Joel. Just your luck you’d sleep with Hayes. And just your luck they’re about to be in the same room, at the same time, after you’ve ghosted one and fallen head over heels for the other. Laurie can sense the change in tone. She puts her mojito down on the desk, next to Joel’s drafting papers, and you have to kick the urge to run over and grab it. Just — down that sh@t, before Hayes can even make it to the office. Whatever gets you drunk fast. You settle for standing stiffly in place. You swallow your spit and she frowns. “You okay, honey?” she asks. “You look pale.” A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Not the humorous kind, but the — I‘m f@ck@d, can you believe this sh@t? — kind. She stares at you. Joel, too. He looks completely useless, standing there beside the desk. He’s got his drafting pencil clutched in his hand. The lead point digs into his thumb. The door creaks open. All three of you turn to watch Hayes walk in. There’s a plastic Walgreens bag in his hand, hooked around his little finger, swinging aimlessly when he steps into the room. He’s wearing the same shoes he’d worn when you’d dragged him to your room. White vans. Slip-ons. Your head swims. “Hey, Laurie,” he says. He doesn’t see you right away. You’re in the corner, a ways from the desk, standing stock-still in his peripheral. You’ve got this hindbrain, idiotic notion that if you stay completely, totally still, maybe he won’t see you. “I got the stuff you wanted,” he says. You’d forgotten how smooth his voice is. How polished and pitched, compared to Joel’s. “They didn’t have those Vitamin C tabs, but—”You’re not looking at him. But you can tell — from the sudden, stifling silence — that he’s clocked you. You and Joel. The AC kicks on, full-blast. His Walgreens bag starts to wave. The plastic crinkles and the sound makes you flinch. “What the f@ck?” “Hayes!” Laurie laughs, awkwardly. “Good lord. That how you greet people?” He’s staring at you. Full-on. You can feel his eyes, burning a brand where yours drop. You drag your gaze from the floor and your cheeks blaze. “I’m sorry,” Hayes says. He sounds like he’s short-circuiting. He sputters a little — turns from you, to Joel, to Laurie, then back to you again. “Sorry. What — sorry. What the f@ck?” “Hayes.” Laurie tuts. Her brows pull. “Knock it off.” He ignores her. His gaze narrows. The shock is wearing off, you think. You can see something angrier making its way in. “What are you doing here?” he asks you. He points at Joel. “What is he doing here?“ Laurie answers for you. Which is good, since you’ve got nothing. “He’s a contractor,” she says. She sounds miffed. “He’s helping me with the Austin house. What — what is this? You know each other, or something?” “Yeah,” Hayes bites. “Or something.” His gaze shifts. He looks at Joel and Joel holds his stare. More silence. The tip of Joel’s pencil shoves deeper into his thumb. You hear the lead snap, bouncing off onto the carpet, and you swallow. Your throat runs dry. Hayes sniffs. “Can I talk to you?” he blurts. He turns away from Joel. Looks you dead in the eyes. “In private,” he adds. Laurie frowns. “Hayes—”“It’s fine,” you say, quickly. You don’t look at Joel. “It’s fine.” Hayes nods. He shoves the door back open and holds it for you — ever the gentleman, even still. Even when you sidle past him and feel him bristle. You catch a glimpse of Joel right before the door shuts. You can’t quite read the look on his face. “It’s through here,” Hayes clips. He leads you back down the hallway, to the kitchen you’d passed on your way in. You stare at his back and try to train down your blush. You think up ten thousand excuses, in the thirty-second walk to the kitchen — I wasn’t ghosting you, really, I’ve just…had my phone off? Been busy with work? Didn’t want to seem desperate? — but you’re a terrible liar. And the truth is you have been ghosting him. You’ve been ghosting the hell out of him. So you’re silent. You make it to the kitchen and he sits at the island, digging his elbows down into the marble. He gestures toward a free stool and you follow his hand. “You wanna sit?” “Uh—” you blink, “—no. Thanks. This is fine.” This being the awkward, statuesque pose you’ve taken up by Laurie’s sink. About as far from Hayes as you can get without turning tail and sprinting back down the hall. You’re expecting him to say something. He dragged you in here, after all. Out of the office. Away from Joel. But he’s quiet. He just…looks at you. Meadow-green eyes and an angled frown. So you talk. Because the silence is f@ck@ng unbearable. “So,” you say. “She’s your, um…” “Aunt.” “Yeah. Right.” You nod. Gnaw at your lip. “Kind of a f@ck@d up coincidence.” You hope, maybe, that he’ll take it in stride. Light up the kitchen with that megawatt smile. But he doesn’t smile. If anything his frown gets deeper. “Yeah,” he agrees, finally. “Kind of f@ck@d up.” “So when you said you were going out of town for the weekend…” you gesture weakly to the kitchen. “You meant, like…here.” He looks at you. C@cks his head. His hair’s grown out, in the week or so since you’ve seen him. You think it looks better like this. Makes him look more like a man. “So you did get my texts,” he says. F@ck. “I just read them, like, today,” you say, which is not technically a lie. Sure, you’ve been watching the notifications flood in all week with a lingering, existential sense of doom — but you hadn’t actually opened them until today. Until five minutes ago, when he was already crunching up the drive. He shakes his head. His jaw goes tight, like he’s chewing on a word. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “With him? Like, what — what is this?” “It’s — f@ck. It’s Joel’s thing. He’s — he’s building a house for your aunt, or something. I’m just along for the weekend. It’s a — it’s like a favor, for my dad. He was supposed to be here instead of me. F@ck, I obviously — I didn’t know she was your aunt, otherwise I never would have tagged along. Obviously.” “Obviously,” Hayes repeats. He sounds hollow. He looks bitter. His eyes scrunch up when you mention Joel’s name. “Makes it kinda hard to ghost me when you’re standing in my kitchen.” You don’t love the tone. You’ve been waiting since your first date — which had been, like, just a little too perfect — for something uglier to rear its head. A scrap of Southern-money, Stanford-bred entitlement, maybe. And there it is. Right there. My kitchen. Your aunt’s kitchen, you want to bite. But this is still a job, and you’re still here for Joel, and you’re on thin ice as is. So you keep your mouth shut. “Sorry,” you say, awkwardly. “I should’ve…said something.” Which is not entirely untrue. You should have cut him loose the second you’d landed back in Joel’s bed. But you just…hadn’t. You’d watched his texts come in, and let them fester unopened on your phone. You let the notifications pile up. Maybe because, in some ironic twist of fate, you didn’t want the confrontation. Or maybe some part of you liked the safety net. Liked the fact he’d still be there, on the hook, if Joel ran away again. So you mean it, when you tell him sorry. At least some part of you does. His shoulders relax. His tone softens. That ugly look goes out of his eyes — that one that surfaced when you first mentioned Joel — and you start to think maybe it was never even there. “Look,” he says, “if you didn’t wanna see me again, that’s fine, I just —” he huffs, “I would’ve appreciated, like, a heads up, maybe? Or just — a sign of life? So I know you didn’t fall off the face of the earth?” “Yeah,” you say, blankly. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t — I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.” He’s quiet. You both are. He taps his fingers on the marble and works his tongue over his teeth. “It’s okay,” he says, after a beat. “I just — I thought we had a good time. And I don’t usually, uh…” He looks at the counter. His cheeks turn pink. God, they’re so different. He and Joel. You have no idea how you landed somewhere between the two of them. One can’t make eye contact when he talks about s@x. The other won’t f@ck you without it. Hayes looks back up. He’s struggling. “I’m just trying to say — it was good. For me, at least. All of it. Not just the…you know. Not that that wasn’t good. It was f@ck@ng — it was amazing. But the rest of it, too. The dates. You. All of it.” He shrugs. His eyes are wide. “I don’t know,” he says. “It was nice, that’s all. I thought we clicked.” “We did,” you say. “We had fun.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. You leave out the part where you click a whole lot better with the contractor in his aunt’s office. “I’m sorry,” you say, again. You mean it a little less this time. “I just — things changed.” “Okay, but — in a day?” “Sorry?” “You changed your mind in a day?” He laughs now — like, chuckles, and it makes your skin prickle. “I mean, it just seems — we have these great dates, and then we have great — sorry — great s@x, and then, like, you ghost me? You change your mind that fast?” 
  F@ck. Off. 
You flip up your hands.“It’s not — it wasn’t that serious, Hayes! We went on two dates. Two. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —  I should have said something. But it happens. It f@ck@ng — it happens all the time.” You get the sense, from the look on his face, that it doesn’t happen all the time to him. Handsome, whip-smart, rich as sin. White sneakers and a pearl-white smile. He doesn’t get ghosted. “It happens?” His voice is strained. He wants to snap at you, you can tell. You almost wish he would. “So you — what? You sleep with a lot of guys, never call them back?” “What?” You push yourself off the sink. Your skin flushes pink, then red. “Is that what I just said? Jesus. What the f@ck?” “Sorry.” He rakes his hands through his hair. Shakes his head. “F@ck. Sorry. I’m not trying to — I just — I liked you. I still like you. I thought maybe I did something, or…”“You didn’t do anything,” you clip. There’s still some heat to your voice. Some edge. You’re not sure it sounds convincing. But he nods. Swallows. He looks a little kicked-puppy like this, sitting on a stool with his sneakers dangling. His eyes meet yours and you wish they were brown. “Guess this looks pretty dumb now, then,” he says. He lifts his wrist off the counter and your heart sinks. He’s still got that tacky five-dollar bracelet wrapped up on his wrist. The one you’d found together, at a thrift store in downtown Austin, when neither of you wanted your date to end. He’d gotten you a matching necklace. And you’d taken it off, the very next day, on your way back from Joel’s house. It was the last piece of Hayes that had lingered on you after Joel had f@ck@d out the rest. “You took yours off,” he says. “Oh.” You blink. “I…” “No, don’t,” he says. He waves you off. “I’m sorry. That’s — it was just a stupid thing.” He unclasps the bracelet. It sloughs off his wrist and clatters to the marble. The little turquoise pendant glares up at you. “No,” you say. “It wasn’t stupid. It’s…” You trail off. You touch your hand to your neck where the necklace had been, almost like an afterthought. His eyes follow your hand. He tracks your fingers where they land and splay at your collar. And then he frowns again. Deeper. Darker. “What is that?” he asks. His voice is soft. You stare at him. Your hand stills under your throat. “On your neck,” he says, when you’re too quiet. “What is that on your neck?” It doesn’t click right away. What he’s talking about. Your fingers drift up your throat, rising with his stare, and that’s when you feel them. The red, raised marks on the side of your neck, hallway hidden by your hair. A handprint much bigger than Hayes’s. “What the f@ck.” He stands up. Pushes the stool back. “Who — what the f@ck?” You bring your whole hand up to the side of your neck. You press your palm into the shape of Joel’s and try to hide the mark when Hayes steps closer. His eyes are on fire. He’s got a weird look to him, like he doesn’t quite know whether to be angry or confused or concerned or something all in between. He gets uncomfortably close and you shrink against the sink. “Move your hand,” he says. “Let me see.”“Stop it. Step back.” “Move your hand,” he says. He’s trying to peer under, over, around your palm. Trying to see where Joel’s fingertips stretch out across your throat. He’s really close now, close enough to touch you, and he lifts a hand to try and pry yours away. You yelp. Your hand jumps from your throat and you bat him away. “Hayes, stop,” you bite. “Don’t — f@ck@ng touch me.” He drops his hand immediately. Takes half a step back. You’re both panting. The mark on your neck is on full display. “It’s nothing,” you say. You swallow thickly. Stare him down, while you both catch your breath. “It’s f@ck@ng nothing.” But it’s not nothing. You can both see that it’s not nothing. “It’s probably — it’s probably from you,” you say. “From the other night.” “I didn’t do that to you,” Hayes says. His voice is cold. Distant. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” He’s breathing hard. His eyes are dark. “Who?” he asks. “No one,” you say. And then — “it’s none of your business.” He huffs. “Fine,” he says. “When, then? Cause — f@ck. You were with me, like, just a few days ago. And you say you’ve been here, with your dad’s f@ck@ng — friend all weekend, so —”Stop, you think. F@ck@ng stop. But it’s too late. He gets it. That Stanford education at work. You watch his brow furrow, and you can physically see him connect the dots. The weekend trip. The fresh marks on your throat. The clinging cologne that sticks to your skin. “Holy sh@t,” he says. Your heart seizes. There are two options here, really — deny, deny, deny, — or scorched-earth it. You try for the first. “Hayes,” you say, “it’s not—”“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t even say it.” There’s a pause. You swallow. “I didn’t say anything,” you say, quietly. Hayes shakes his head and then shakes it again. His hair tousles, like a waterlogged dog. “You f@ck@d him,” he says, and it’s not a question. He says it like he’s convincing himself. “You — him?” You’re quiet. There’s not much to say. “F@ck me,” Hayes mutters. “Jesus.” He shoves his hands to his hair. Holds them there. “What the f@ck,” he mumbles, half to himself. “Hayes—”“No, I mean — what the f@ck? Seriously! There’s — he’s — he’s, like, a thousand years old! What the hell are you doing?” “What the hell am doing?” Anger roils at the pit of your stomach, hot and thick. “Why is that your f@ck@ng business? What are you, my dad?” “You’d probably like that, right?” “Oh, f@ck off. What the f@ck? Are you — are you serious?” “He’s — isn’t he your dad’s friend? Your fuc—your neighbor?” He stares at you, wide-eyed. “Jesus Christ. Is that why you haven’t texted me?” “Oh my god,” he says, when you don’t respond. “Is that why you were wearing his f@ck@ng shirt? The morning after we—?”So he does remember that. You were hoping it might have slipped his mind. The same way you’d slipped into bed with him, beside him, wrapped up in another man’s shirt. You’d let him touch you, in the middle of the night. Put his hands under a shirt with Miller Contracting splashed in print across the back. It was f@ck@ng filthy then, and it’s filthier now. Now that he puts it together. “Is that why he threatened to hurt me?” Hayes asks. “Told me he’d break my jaw?” You’re silent. He takes that as a yes, because it is one. “Jesus,” he breathes. “F@ck. So I was — what? Like a — a game, for the two of you? Or—” “It wasn’t a game,” you bite. “It’s — f@ck. It wasn’t a game. Just leave it alone.” “Leave it alone? He’s as old as my dad. You’re — look at your f@ck@ng neck. He’s —”“He’s what?” Your pulse hammers. “He’s — what?” Hayes is quiet. You should be relieved, really, but the silence is worse. The way his eyes squint, like he’s working through a jigsaw. He takes a few steps back and you welcome the space. Your legs feel weak. Your head is swimming. You fold your hands on the lip of the counter and the marble stings your skin. He’s pacing. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. You wonder how long you’ve been out here. You wonder if Joel will start to worry. If he’ll burst out of the office, and thud down that hallway in his heavy work boots, and find you in the kitchen with your fists on the counter. You think about those guys at the bar last night. How they’d spoken to you. How Joel had…taken care of it. And then you think about Hayes — what Joel would do to him, if he could hear him right now — and the thought is weirdly comforting. It probably shouldn’t be. Hayes’s voice rises. You lift your head. “Are you okay?” he’s saying. You get the sense from his tone that he’s already asked. You blink. “Am I okay?” “Yeah,” he says. He’s breathless. His fists bunch at his sides. All tense, corded muscle. “Like — are you — is he making you do this? Is this, like — is he —?” You stare at him. You’re not actually convinced you’ve heard him correctly. It’s that insane of a question. But you clock the look on his face — totally, completely sincere — and then you’re f@ck@ng furious. “What?” “I can help you,” Hayes says, and you almost punch him in the face. “Seriously. Like, if this is — if he’s —” “What the f@ck,” you breathe. Silence. Your fist b@lls on the marble. And then he opens his f@ck@ng mouth again, and you snap. “I just—”“Jesus, Hayes!” Your palm comes down flat on the counter. The slap makes him flinch. “What the f@ck is wrong with you? No. No. He’s — no. Of course he’s not.” “Of course? What do you mean, of course? You’ve got a—” his voice lowers. Wavers. “You’ve got a f@ck@ng handprint on your throat,” he says. “It’s sick.” “It’s not sick.” “No, ‘cause you don’t see it,” Hayes says, and he sounds so f@ck@ng condescending you want to scream. “Cause you’re — you can’t see it. You’re too — I’m sorry, but he’s clearly taking advant—” “I asked him to,” you bite. That…shuts him up. He stops pacing. You put a hand to your throat and trace the shadow of Joel’s fingers. “I wanted it,” you say. “I f@ck@ng asked him to.” He’s quiet. He looks at your hand. At the ghost of Joel’s. “You didn’t ask me to do that,” he says, softly. “No,” you say. “I didn’t.” He doesn’t say anything. Not to that. You push yourself off the counter. “Are we done here?” you ask, at the exact same time he decides to open his mouth again, and ask — “—are you in love with him?” You freeze. Full stop. “Excuse me?” “Is this, like…” he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to figure out what the f@ck is going on here. Like, you think you’re in love with him, ‘cause he tells you what you wanna hear? Makes you feel special? Cause this is — this is textbook. This is Psych 101. This is —”“F@ck off,” you snarl. You shove past him. Like — shove. Your shoulder clips his and he grunts. He reaches for you before you can pass and snakes a hand around your wrist. “Hey,” he says. “I care about you. I’m just trying to help—”“Get your hand off me,” you say. His grip slackens. You rip your hand out of his. He tries to say something else — calls your name, when you stumble past him — but you’re already halfway down the hallway. You’re making a beeline for the office — for Joel — and when you get to the door your fingers tremble. You wrench the handle with your heart stuck in your throat. The door shoves open and spits you inside. You stand there panting, feet planted on carpet, and the look on your face must be downright desperate because Joel’s already on his way to you. He stops abruptly a few feet from where you stand. Like he’s just remembered Laurie’s there, behind him, watching you both with a frown. You wish she would f@ck@ng go. You wish everyone would just — go. You wish Joel would touch you. “Hey,” he says, softly, “are you…?” Hayes is on your heels. You can hear his slip-on sneakers squeaking down the hall. You look up at Joel and shake your head. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Joel, I’m sorry.” He frowns. His brows knit. His fingers flex at his sides, inches from yours, and you know it’s taking everything in him not to reach out and touch you. “Hey,” he repeats. Low. Slow. “Hey. What —?” The door rocks back open. Hayes’s squeaky footsteps hover at the threshold. You can hear his breath at your back, short and shallow. It pulls when he sees Joel. Joel’s gaze lifts. He looks past you, at Hayes, and the muscle in his jaw flinches. He doesn’t know what happened — he wasn’t in that kitchen — but the look on your face is enough. He looks about ready to strangle someone, client be d@mned. The silence stretches. Laurie clears her throat. “Okay,” she says, in that two-mojitos-deep twang, “look, I’m not sure what’s happening—”Hayes interrupts her. He shoves his index finger at Joel. “This is who you want to hire?” he asks, and it’s so petulant, so boyish that it makes your head spin. Laurie laughs awkwardly. “He’s supposed to be the best,” she says. “Is he? Is he the best?” There’s a monumental silence. Hayes’s accusatory finger shifts: from Joel — to you. “Let’s ask her,” he says. “She’d know.” Your head snaps up. You open your mouth to fire back — are you f@ck@ng serious right now? — but Joel beats you to the punch. “That’s enough,” he snarls. “That’s f@ck@n’ enough.” You wince. So much for polite, yes ma’am Joel, who’d turned down Laurie’s offer of a drink at the door. This is the Joel from the bar last night. The Joel with a knife in his hand and a spark in his eyes. “Hayes.” Laurie again. Sterner, now. “You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on here? How do you know each other?” “Oh, well. That’s a funny story,” Hayes bites. His voice says it’s not very funny at all. He’s glaring at Joel. You thought they were the same height, that first night you met Hayes. But three feet apart, staring each other down — Joel looks a hell of a lot bigger. And a hell of a lot meaner. “He wants to break my jaw,” Hayes says, with a crooked, angry smile. “Right?” Joel huffs. “I’m sorry?” Laurie says. “What?” Poor Laurie. You almost feel bad for her. Just wanted to build her damn house. “Joel?” she says. “Is that — is that true?” Joel is silent. He takes a breath, and the exhale is ragged. He’s p@ss@d. “Or maybe he’d rather choke me out,” Hayes says. His nose is all scrunched up, again. “That’s your thing, isn’t it?” The blood goes out of your face. You feel sick. “We’re done here,” Joel says. And then he is touching you. He’s got his hand on the small of your back, big and warm and safe, and you’re vaguely aware of him herding you toward the door. Laurie says something. She sounds confused. Maybe a little angry. Joel ignores her. He leaves everything on the desk — his pencils, his blueprints, his papers. He leaves everything except for you. Hayes scurries to stand in the doorframe. His stupid sneakers squeal on hardwood. “You don’t have to go with him,” he says. Your face burns. Hayes reaches out; tries to graze your wrist again. You flinch. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss. Joel’s hand tightens on your back. “It’s not right,” Hayes says. “He’s — guys like him, they’re not —”“You don’t know a f@ck@ng thing about guys like him,” you say. You can’t be in this house for one more second. You rip yourself away — from Hayes and from Joel — and hightail it down the hallway. Back through the kitchen, back through the foyer, past Hayes’s spare white sneakers tucked in the entryway. Out the front door. Down the steps. Onto the gravel drive and up into Joel’s truck. It’s unlocked. You climb into the passenger seat and slam the door shut. And then — finally — you let yourself cry. You put your feet up on his seat. You rest your heels on the edge and bury your face in your knees. Your hands curl on the leather cushion. You take heaving, panicked breaths and stare at the floor between your legs. You don’t look up when Joel storms out the front door, a few minutes after you, and jogs to the truck with his keys in his hand. He doesn’t get in the driver’s seat. He comes around the truck instead, to the passenger side, and tugs open your door. He doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, boots planted in gravel, until you lift your head from your knees and look at him. “Hey,” he breathes. He looks shattered. You wonder if it’s because of you or the job. The job you just f@ck@d. “I’m sorry,” you whimper. His face slackens. He looks heartbroken, now. “Oh, baby girl,” he murmurs. He leans in. He puts a broad hand on the back of your head and pulls you into his chest, into the soft, worn cotton of his flannel, and you breathe in his scent. His heart beats under your cheek. Slow and safe and steady. “‘M sorry,” you mumble. Your voice is muffled in his shirt. He holds you closer. Tighter. “It ain’t your fault,” he murmurs. But it feels like it is. It feels like it is. And you could swear he feels stiff, when he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. When he tucks you back into your seat, and walks around the driver’s side, and pulls out of the driveway with a tight look on his face. You watch the house blur in the rearview. The wheels stop crunching, and the gravel runs to road, and the added silence makes your chest hurt. You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. You lean your temple on the window and stare at the street. He turns onto a highway and you watch the double-yellow lines streak by in silence. You don’t know what he’s thinking. If he’s giving you space, or if he’s seething at the wheel. He’s impossible to read and you can’t think straight. You feel like sh@t. So — naturally — you assume the worst. That it’s your fault, even though he says it’s not. That he hates you, even though he held you hard enough to steal breath. That he’ll run away again. He flicks his blinker on and the sound startles you. He pulls off the freeway and stops at a red. “I didn’t tell him,” you say. It just — comes out. It seems important that he know. “Hayes. I didn’t say anything. He — he saw my —”You gesture weakly to your neck. Joel tracks your hand in your peripheral. The light turns green. He doesn’t go. “I didn’t tell him,” you repeat. You need him to know. You tried to keep it a secret. He’s quiet. The car behind you honks. “Go,” you say, dully.  He goes. He makes a right, back in the general direction of the hotel, and you take his silence for anger. You take his white knuckles on the wheel for p@ss@d, not protective. “Can you say something?” you beg. “Please?” He swallows thickly. You look up at him, briefly, and he’s got the same expression scrawled across his face that he’d had that night, at your dad’s house, after he’d f@ck@d you senseless in the kitchen. When he’d told you that he couldn’t do this. When he’d left you in the dark. You can handle Hayes. You can handle the embarrassment of — whatever the hell that last hour was. But Joel running away, for the second time in as many weeks — that you can’t take. That is too much. So you run first. Or you try to. He turns onto a busy street, lined with shops and signs and moms pushing strollers — and you yank at the car door. It doesn’t give. The stupid f@ck@ng auto-lock. Joel glances over at you. His brows knit. “Let me out,” you say. He blinks. You tug the handle again. “F@ck,” you swear. Your cheeks are hot. Your breath hitches, and you don’t want to cry again — not when you’ve just f@ck@ng stopped — but you can feel it coming. Rising up in your throat. “Can you just — let me out?” He says something. He sounds a little surprised, a little concerned — but you’re not listening. You’re pulling on the car door and your breaths are coming fast and thin. The truck is still moving, and Joel’s voice is slightly raised, and you think he’s telling you to stop but you can’t hear him right. “Let me out,” you repeat. There are tears on your face. You’re a little surprised that he listens to you. He slows down. Pulls over on the curb, alongside a packed sidewalk — and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt before he can speak. “Just—” He reaches halfway over the center console and then stops. Freezes, like he can’t quite tell if he should touch you. You push at the door and this time it gives. It’s too much, it’s too f@ck@ng much — Hayes’s words in the kitchen, and his hand on your wrist, and this feeling you can’t shake, now, that Joel is gonna run. It’s too much. You need — you need some f@ck@ng air. You jump out of his truck and your feet hit pavement. You make it ten feet down the sidewalk, sucking in dry, Texas air — before you hear his car door slam. Before you hear his heavy footfalls as he runs to catch up. And then his hands are on you — big, rough, familiar — grabbing you, turning you, wrapping you up in his arms. “Woah — hey.” He clutches you to his heart and you ball your fist in his flannel, push at his chest, but there’s no strength to it. You want him to hold you. And he does. Right there in the middle of the side, in broad daylight, with his truck parked haphazard on the curb. His keys dangle from a finger, locked somewhere behind your head. It takes you a minute to register what he’s saying. Over and over and mumbled in your hair. “It’s okay,” he’s breathing. “I gotcha. S’okay.” “It’s not okay,” you say. You sound f@ck@ng miserable, with your voice in his shirt. You don’t even recognize the sound. “You’re gonna run.” There’s a pause. His hands loosen and he pushes you back, just far enough to search your face. “Run?” he says. “Who’s runnin’?” “You,” you whine. “It’s a f@ck@ng — it’s a mess, with Hayes, and the job, and I —” His brow furrows. The corner of his lip crinkles up. “I ain’t runnin’ nowhere,” he says, softly. “You’re the one runnin’. D@mn near jumped out the truck.” “Yeah, cause you — you looked so angry, I thought —”“Angry?” His whole face softens. He shakes his head. “I ain’t angry, angel. Not at you.” Your lip trembles. You’re not sure what to say. “C’mere,” he murmurs. He pulls you in again and you go willingly, burying your face in his sleeve. It’s a far cry from the way he’d held you this morning, with a hand around your throat and his c@ck nestled inside you. This almost feels closer. “‘M right here,” he’s saying, again and again in the crown of your head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” You rest your chin on his chest and look up at him. Your breathing evens and then stills. He’s not running. He’s not going anywhere. He’s right here, holding you, with his hands on your body and his mouth in your hair. He’s right here. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, for the millionth time today. “I don’t — Hayes, he f@ck@ng — the stuff he said. He got in my head.” You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask you to. Instead he just says — c’mon, — in that intoxicating drawl, and slips an arm around your shoulder. He starts to walk and drags you close, into his side, unwilling to let you stray even when he’s on the move. You stumble to keep up. It’s an awkward angle and you’re too close to walk comfortably, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to. He leaves the truck half-c@cked on the curb and ducks into the nearest store he finds. A little coffee shop, with all-white seating and a lavender sign. String lights strung out across the ceiling. Decorated cookies in the glass display. Your vibe. Not quite Joel’s. But he leads you in all the same. He parks you at an empty table and orders for you. Coffee in a to-go cup and one of those stupid cookies, with black and white frosted wings and an orange-frosted beak. A penguin. It’s such a dumb, sweet gesture that it almost makes you smile. You almost feel better. He doesn’t say much — never been too good at saying much — but he seems determined to make you smile. To convince you that this — inane of this — was your fault. He digs a spare, stubby drafting pencil from the pocket of his jeans. He leans over the table and grabs your coffee, still half-full, and you protest weakly when he drags it to his side. He tips the cup and scribbles something with the pencil. You nibble on the edge of your stupid penguin cookie while you wait for him to pass it back. He slides the cup back across the table. You squint at his addition, and it makes you smile. An actual smile. Then it makes you laugh. You swipe dried tears from your cheeks and hold the cup up to the light. “What the hell is that?” you say.He looks mock-wounded. He tucks the pencil away and nods to the cup. “S’you,” he says. “Y’know. Tried to capture the — the snarky look, ’n everythin’.” You stare down at his drawing. It’s like the world’s worst stick figure, with your name scrawled in pencil underneath. “It’s terrible,” you tell him. “Nah, it’s — it’s abstract,” he says. “Y’ain’t lookin’ at it right. Here—” he takes the cup back, hoists it up, and you laugh harder, “—see?” “Oh, yeah. No. Much better.” He smiles. His eyes sparkle. He’s trying so f@ck@ng hard to make you happy — the way he knows how, with anything but his words — that it makes your heart hurt. You were sprinting down the sidewalk fifteen minutes ago. Now you have to bite your tongue to keep from letting slip you love him. He hands your cup back. You reach out to take it and your fingers brush his. “I’m sorry,” you say, again. For this mess. For almost running. For assuming you would. “Stop apologizin’,” he says. “I was supposed to help you this weekend,” you say. “You were supposed to get that job. And I feel like — I feel like I ruined it.” “You didn’t—” he lowers his voice, “—you didn’t ruin anythin’.” “Yeah, but — I kinda did? I mean — I only slept with Hayes cause I was p@ss@d at you, and then I never called him back, and now he f@ck@ng hates you, and he thinks you’re — he thinks you’re crazy, and his stupid rich aunt is gonna —”You’re breathing hard, again. He stops you. “Stop,” he says. He reaches across the table. Closes your hands up in his. “Stop.” “Don’t care ‘bout the job,” he says. “Yes you do,” you mumble. “We drove all the way out here.” “Care ‘bout you,” he says. He leans back in his seat. Rakes his hands through his hair. “F@ck. I don’t — I care ‘bout you.” You’re quiet. You swallow a sip of coffee. “And if I…if I did cost you the job?” “You didn’t,” he says. A beat passes. He looks at you and sighs. “But you’re worth a whole lot more ’n a job.” There’s a long, delicate silence. You take another sip and set the cup down on the table. You sniff. Nod. “That’s really corny,” you say, finally. He pauses. Blinks. And then he laughs, and you do too, and the tension clinging to your shoulders diffuses. He told you it was okay — that everything was okay — and maybe it is. Maybe it will be. “F@ck you,” he says, with that crooked half smile. “Was tryin’ t’be nice.” “Don’t,” you say. “It’s weird.” He shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. “Someone’s feelin’ better,” he says. But you can tell he’s relieved. You hum. “C’mon, then,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.” He motions toward the fairy lights. The happy, purple paintings on the wall. “Place kinda creeps me out.” “I’m not finished,” you say, and he shoots you a look. He gives you hell, but he likes when you talk back. He likes the attitude. Likes it a whole lot more than muffled tears in his flannel.“’S a to-go cup,” he drawls. He stands up. Swipes your coffee, so you’re forced to follow him. He hands it over when you’re back on the sidewalk and you wrap your palm around his scribbled, sh@tty drawing. You trace his pencil strokes with your finger and swallow back I love you for the second time today. You climb back into his truck and shove your coffee to the cupholder. He pulls off of the curb with a groan and you watch him while he drives. “Where are we going?” you ask. “Back to the hotel?” He shrugs. “Up t’you,” he says. “Finished earlier ’n I expected.” You swallow back a pang of guilt. “No real reason to stick around,” he says. “Could just drive on back to Austin. Make it back by dinner.” He looks quickly at you, and you try to read his face. Is that what he wants? Cut the trip short? “Or,” he drawls, and your pulse spikes, “we could—”“Yeah,” you say. You don’t need to hear the rest. “That one.” He grins. Laughs. “Y’didn’t even hear the pitch,” he says. “Don’t care,” you say. “Long as we stay here.” He’s smiling at you, but you think there’s something in his stare. A twinge. You’d stay here forever, if it meant more time alone with him. You wonder if he feels the same. “Alright,” he says, softly. “That’s that, then.” You lean back against his leather seat. You ride in comfortable silence for a few minutes, down quiet, sleepy roads and residential streets — and his scribbled stick figure gazes up at you from the cupholder. Your heart swells. You twist the lid aimlessly and shift in his seat, squirming against the all-too-sudden tug between your legs. Maybe it’s just your pulse on a comedown, now that Hayes seems more like a memory and less like a threat. Maybe it’s the way Joel wrapped you up in his arms on the sidewalk and refused to let you go. Maybe it’s the sh@tty little sketch that winks up at you now, where his hands said what he couldn’t. It’s something. Something makes you desperate for his touch, right now, now that the shock of the world’s worst morning has diluted. He turns down an empty street. The sun blazes across the dashboard. “What d’you wanna do?” he asks. His drawl is sweet, syrupy. It melts on your skin like sunlight. “Could go back t’the hotel. Could go to the riverwalk. Used t’go there with Sarah, in the summers. They got a boat tour, s’posed to be —”“Pull over,” you say. He looks over at you. Frowns. “What?” “Pull. Over.” “Why?” he asks, and you could swear he sounds distressed. “We just went over this. I ain’t chasin’ you again—”“Joel,” you say, and something about the way you say his name makes him pause, “pull over.” He gets it. It clicks. He pulls the f@ck over. Your seatbelt is off before he’s in park. You’re scrabbling at your pants and he’s doing the same, whipping off his belt, untucking his flannel, shoving down his zipper with rough, heavy hands. He leans down and tugs his seat back as far as it’ll go. Makes space for you between his chest and the wheel, when you climb over the console and straddle his lap. You need him so badly you can’t see straight. You can’t even wait to get back to the room, with the bed and the shower and the couch that he’s paid for. You’re like teenagers. Except you never did this as a teenager, because you were never this f@ck@ng desperate.  He lifts his hips. Shoves his jeans and his boxers down in a rushed, messy motion. He’s got his c@ck out already, by the time you climb across to straddle him. Not wasting any time. He looks as desperate as you feel. Your knees punch the seat on either side of his lap. Your panties drag along the head of his c@ck and you wonder when you got this wet — at the coffee shop? Before that? When he stopped you on the sidewalk and held you in his hands? He has the same thought. The tip of his c@ck slides over soaked cotton and he groans. “F@ck, baby,” he murmurs. “Shoulda said somethin’. So f@ck@n’ wet f’me.” “Please,” you tell him. Your breath skates along his neck. Trickles down to his collar. “Joel. Please. I need—”His thumb grazes your cl@t. He bears down gently and you gasp. “Tell me,” he says. He sounds urgent. Rough. He strokes you over soaked, scrappy fabric and something white-hot swirls at the pit of your stomach. “Need to feel you,” you say. It tumbles out broken, like you’re begging, and you think maybe you are. You just want him close. You just want him here. “F@ck,” he groans. He tips his head back. His hair is plastered on his forehead, where it’s been pressed against your collar. His eyes are glassy, wild. He looks like a mess already, and he hasn’t even f@ck@d you yet. You think he needs it worse than you do. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything, cause he’s reaching to yank your panties aside and you can’t f@ck@ng think straight. You rut uselessly in his lap and he holds you still, one hand on your waist and the other fumbling at cotton. His finger catches the edge of your panties and you whine something close to his name. You’re making a mess in his lap. Leaking onto his thighs, his seat. Your nails scrape his scalp and he mumbles something by your throat. “Hold—ngh. Hold still,” he says. He’d usually demand it. But this time he just sounds desperate: desperate for you to listen, so he can f@ck you faster. Maybe it’s your urgency he’s feeding off of. Or maybe the morning was just as bad for him as it was for you — or worse, if that’s even possible — and he’s not in the mood to issue any orders. He drags you down against his lap and his c@ck slides through your slick. He gives a shallow thrust up and nudges your swollen cl@t. “N-need it this bad?” he pants. His voice is strained. There’s sweat on his brow. The setting, your urgency — it’s f@ck@ng with his head. It’s making his c@ck twitch, and his stomach pull, and you watch through hooded eyes as he swallows back a moan. “In the fu—f@ck@n’ car, baby girl? Right on the f—f@ck@n’ street?” He shoves your panties further aside. His knuckle strokes up your seam and heat curls your skin. “F-f@ck@n’ filthy,” he breathes. “F—ah.” You can’t wait any longer. You’re impatient. He told you he was right here, when he held you on that sidewalk, and you want to believe him. You want him to prove it. You want him right here, right now, closer than close. You sink onto his c@ck before he can guide you, grinding your hips down into his lap. His head flies back against the seat. His thighs tense. Whatever mumbled, half-formed thought was on his tongue gets swallowed up in a moan. He lets you take the reins. For a little while, at least. You ride him as best you can in the limited space his truck allows. Your head brushes the ceiling and your knees leave divots in his seat. The glass fogs, and the air goes thick, and the little evergreen car freshener that dangles off his mirror can’t do much to mask the smell of s@x. You can tell he’s not gonna last long. You could tell before you buried yourself on his c@ck, and you can certainly tell now. His nails dig into your waist, lighting up your skin, and your breath punches somewhere by his head. “F@ck, baby, slow,” he growls. “I ain’t—ain’t gonna last.” “It’s — f@ck, it’s fine,” you mumble, and it is, it’s fine, you want him to mark you up and spill inside you and you don’t f@ck@ng care about anything else. “Joel, I don’t care, just—” Your head rolls back. His c@ck throbs inside you and your hips stutter on his lap. “It’s fine,” you repeat, “please, just f@ck@ng—please.” He hisses through his teeth. His hands slide to the top of your ass and he squeezes. You mumble his name and your body goes slack, folding into his, content to let him take over if it means you can stay nestled in the crook of his shoulder. He gets a good grip on your ass and thrusts up into you. It’s a deeper, sharper angle than the one you’d managed, bouncing on his lap — and it makes you yelp. You bite down on his shoulder and get a mouthful of flannel. He likes that. You can tell. He rumbles deep at the back of his throat and his c@ck stumbles into you. “F@ck,” he mumbles. He thrusts up into you and drags you down at the same time, hitting something deep inside you. It’s cramped in here, and your knees ache, and his thrusts are frantic, like he’s clawing at the edge — but it’s f@ck@ng — good. It’s right. Heat pulls across your skin. Dances low at the base of your stomach. Your hand shoots from his hair and slams against his window, grasping at glass. You’re this f@ck@ng close, and then — Joel c@ms. Hard. No warning, no break in the frantic way he’s f@ck@ng you. His c@ck pulses inside you, mid-thrust, and his breath snags in his throat. His grip on you goes tight, so tight it’s almost painful — and then he slackens. All of him. Slumps back against the seat with his c@ck still speared inside you. “Sh@t,” he’s mumbling. He blinks, hard. He looks as surprised as you. “I don’t—” You kiss him. It’s messy. Tongue and teeth and shallow breaths that you swallow with your own. But it shuts him up. His hands rake up your ribcage and you clench around him, squeezing his half-hard c@ck. He groans. He breaks the kiss and pants. “F@ck,” he says. “F@ck, angel, s’too — too — f@ck. Too much.” You smile softly. Nip at his jaw. You slide off of his c@ck and his groan sends a pang between your legs. A not-so-subtle reminder that you didn’t quite c@m. Joel can read your mind. He looks up at you, while you straddle his lap. Pushes a strand of damp hair back from your forehead. “M’sorry,” he says, a little sheepish. “For…” “For c@mmin’ like a teenager,” he says. “I don’t — you f@ck@n’ — you do somethin’ to me.”He swallows. You smile softly.  “Mm. A good something?” He huffs. You drop your head to kiss his neck and he strokes his hands up your back. “Yeah,” he mutters. “A good somethin’.” You hum into his neck. His hands still. “F@ck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — did you…?” You pull back. Search his face. “Yeah,” you lie, after half a second. You’re not sure why you’d lie. He’d take care of the ache between your legs in two seconds flat, if you told him to. But you just — you want him to feel good. He’s had enough disappointment for one day, you figure. “Yes.” He looks at you funny. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. But he doesn’t push it. You lean to kiss him again and he cups your face in his hands. He leans down to pull the seat forward with you still straddling his lap. Your back hits the steering wheel and the horn blares. You jump at the sound. “F@ck,” you mumble.He laughs. “Go on,” he says, helping you clamber back to your seat. “‘Fore the neighbors come out.” He drags his jeans back up while you settle in your seat. Re-does his zipper and his buttons. He leaves his belt on the floor, coiled somewhere by the brake pedal, and he doesn’t bother tucking his flannel back in. He rakes a hand through his hair and it still comes out tousled. “Jesus,” he mutters, with a glance in the mirror. “You made a f@ck@n’ mess.” You shake your head. Roll your eyes. But he does look wrecked, thanks to you, and you’re smiling when he puts the truck in drive. You pull your pants back on and push the ache between your legs out of your head and tell yourself it’s fine — you don’t have to c@m every time. You can let him be the mess, once in a while. He looks over at you, nestled in his seat. He leaves one hand on the wheel and drapes the other on your thigh. Squeezes, gently. “Good?” he murmurs. Kind of a loaded question. You don’t know if he’s asking about the frantic, heady car s@x, or the hot f@ck@ng mess that came before it, or just — all of it, in general. “Yeah,” you say, quietly. You put your hand over his. Trace the fading bruises on his knuckles. “Good.” The second half of the day is significantly better than the first. You almost forget about Laurie and her stupid white-sneaker, white-knight nephew. Joel takes you back to the hotel to change, because it’s muggy as hell and all your clothes smell like s@x — and you pick out a sundress that makes him swear. He puts on the same t-shirt you’d stolen from him this morning, and you’re willing to bet it’s cause it still smells like you. And then he rakes a comb through his hair, and when he looks a little less wrecked and a lot more presentable he takes you back out. He suggests the riverwalk and you couldn’t care less, so you ditch the truck and walk the three blocks there. It’s hot out, and humid, but he holds your hand the whole way there. So it’s worth it, you think. You’d walk six more blocks and be a whole lot hotter if it meant you could keep him this close. And — when you get there — you have to admit he was kind of right. It is cool. There’s live music playing everywhere you look. People with guitars, and mariachis, and keyboards on colorful carpets. Open-air restaurants sprawled on the water’s edge. Packed boats drifting by on black water. He’s two for two on date locations. You tell him as much while you walk. He smiles. You think he looks proud of himself. “You really never been here?” he asks. He lets your hand go. Drapes his arm around your shoulder, instead. You shrug. “Maybe on a school trip or something,” you say. “But, like, way back. Nothing I remember.” He grunts. He leans into you; kisses the crown of your head, and your heart sparks. “Show ya around, then,” he drawls. “Make sure you remember this time.” You don’t think that’ll be a problem. Every second of the last two days is burned like a brand on the inside of your brain. The way he tastes, the way he smells, the sound of his voice when you kiss him awake. You press closer into his chest. “Don’t think I’ll forget,” you say, softly. You walk until the sun sets. He even convinces you to get on one of those stupid tourist boats that drags a lazy route up the river. “I look like a tourist,” you whine, when he drags you onboard. “You are a tourist.” He takes his phone from his pocket and points the camera at you. You scowl. Mostly to hide the smile that’s creeping up your throat. “Smile,” he says. You try to scowl deeper and you crack. He snaps a picture when you laugh — a couple, you think, of you against the river in that flowy little dress — and smiles half to himself when he swipes back through them. The boat starts down the river, slow. It’s kind of nice, actually. It’s cooler on the water, and the lights from nearby restaurants make the surface shimmer. You push yourself off the railing and hold your hand out for his phone. “Lemme see,” you say. “The pictures.” He swipes his phone open and shows you. You cup a hand to the screen and squint. “You need to work on your skills,” you say. “My eyes are closed in half of these.” He grunts. You go to hit delete on the worst ones and he practically rips his phone away. Tucks it back in his pocket. “What?” you say. “I’m just — lemme get rid of the bad ones.” He looks at you. Frowns. “Ain’t any bad ones,” he says, and he sounds so sincere it makes your heart hurt. “Not ‘a you.” Your cheeks heat. You shake your head. “F@ck off,” you mumble.He gives you a crooked smile. He puts his chest to your back and loops his arms up around you. You wrap your hands around the steel rail, watching the water, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. His stubble grazes the curve of your jaw. “I mean it,” he says, after a minute. You can see his reflection when you stare down at the water. Interspersed with twinkling lights. “Y’look — you’re beautiful.” You thought it was enough he called you pretty, way back on the Fourth of July. This is something else entirely. This is soft and warm and almost shy, whispered gently over water. You turn halfway in his arms. When you catch him in a kiss he murmurs low against your lips. “Joel,” you say. “Yeah, angel.” You look at him. Swallow. If you did work up a nerve, you’ve already lost it. “I don’t know,” you mumble. He’s quiet. His fingers stroke back your hair. “S’okay, baby,” he says. “I know.” He takes you to dinner, too. After the boat. When the sun is gone, and the air is cool, and your skin is flushed pink from his touch. You pick a random place — the first one you see, with a chalkboard menu set out by the river — and take a table outside. He gets a whiskey and you get a c@cktail. One of those fun fruity ones, with the little pink umbrella floating on top. He teases you, mercilessly, until you shove the straw into his mouth and tell him to try. And then he shuts up. “See?” you say. More than a little smug. “It’s good, huh? Better than your stupid whiskey.” He frowns. Takes an unhappy sip of his own drink. “Shut up,” he says. You laugh. The rest of dinner is comfortable. Easy. He talks about Sarah and he asks about school. He asks a lot of questions — like, a lot, as far as Joel goes — and you think he just likes to hear you talk. He’s got a quiet, happy smile scrawled across his face when he listens to you. Like a cat in the sun. And then — of course — his phone rings, just as you’re finishing up. He sets his fork down on his plate and stares at the screen. “Your dad,” he says, flatly. He shows you the phone and you frown. Shrug. He picks up. Pulls the phone back to his ear. “Yeah,” he says. You put your own fork down. Watch his face, while he talks to your dad. He doesn’t give much away — the occasional sniff; a short nod of his head, a tap of two fingers on the white tablecloth. You’re not sure why your pulse is pounding. “Yeah,” he says, again. “Sure. It was fine.” There’s a long silence. Joel scratches at his stubble.“Dunno,” he says. “’S a big job. Said she’d get back t’me.” You look at the ground. Your face heats. Joel says something else — a few more things, noncommittal and stereotypically short — and hangs up. He stares at you across the table. “What’d he want?” you ask, dully. “Checkin’ in,” he says. “Wants t’know ‘bout the job.” “Mm.” You push some food around. “What are you gonna tell him? When we get home?” “Dunno.” He blinks. “I’ll think ‘a somethin’.” You nod. “Hey,” he says, softly. “S’okay.” “Yeah,” you say. You nod again. Lift your gaze, to look at him. “Yeah.” Your own phone buzzes. You glance down at your lap and Hayes’s name lights up the screen. “F@ck,” you mutter. “That kid again?” “Yeah,” you say. “F@ck. I’m just — I’m just gonna block him.” Joel nods. You swipe your phone open and navigate to Hayes’s contact. You block his number and then delete his whole text thread — just like that, without even reading whatever sh@t he’s just sent. “There,” you say. You put your phone down on the table, face-down. Lean back in your seat, and swirl your pink umbrella. “Should’ve done that a week ago.” Joel hums. He takes a sip of whiskey and watches you across the table. “What’d he say?” he asks, quietly. “Today. At the house. When you — ‘fore you came back in the office.” “Hayes?” Joel nods. “Oh,” you say. You swallow. “I mean — nothing. It was just — he was being a d@ck.” “But it bothered you,” he says. “Not — I mean, yeah, but not —” you fumble, “—it doesn’t matter.” “Matters ‘f it bothered you.” You’re quiet. Joel is, too. Hayes’s voice rings in your ears. It’s sick. “He…” you poke the pink umbrella in your drink with your pinky.  “I don’t know. He said you were…” Your waitress crops up at your table like a gopher. She re-fills your water, then Joel’s, and there’s a pregnant, suffocating silence. You smile politely and wait til she goes. You reach for the water. Your fingers tremble on the glass.“He said a bunch of sh@t,” you say, quietly. “That it was — sick, what we’re doing. That you’re — that you don’t actually lo—I mean, that you’re not—that it’s not real. That this isn’t real.” Joel is silent. You shake your head. “It’s just b@llsh@t,” you say. “He’s — it’s just b@llsh@t.” He blinks. Settles back against his seat. Your eyes drag up to his, and there’s something pleading in your stare. “It is b@llsh@t, right?” you ask. “I mean, this is — it’s real, right?” He swallows. You watch his breath catch in his throat. “It’s real,” he says, softly. “You’re—”His jaw flickers. You watch him wrestle with the words. “It’s real,” he repeats. “It’s a f@ck@n’ — it’s a mess,” he huffs, and he almost smiles, “but, yeah. F@ck. It’s real. Ain’t nothin’ as real ’s this.” You take a breath. Laugh, lightly. His fingers touch yours, splayed out across the table, and your skin sparks at the contact. “F@ck,” you mutter. “Kind of a day, huh?” He shrugs. “Rough start.” He smiles. “Think we saved it, though.” You grin. Bury your nose back in your drink. The check comes and he pays, with the same worn, weathered wallet he’s had since the dawn of time — and then he stands and takes your hand. He leaves a crumpled tip on the tablecloth and you take the long way back to the hotel — up the bank and along the river, so he can watch your face under the moon and your reflection in black water. And so he can drag you close, and kiss you, and tell you you’re beautiful again and again and again when the stars paint you both silver. You do eventually make it back to the hotel. Eventually. You don’t want the night to end, so you pretend you’re not tired, but the truth is you’re exhausted. It’s been a f@ck@ng day. You kick your shoes off, and your dress, and you tug another one of Joel’s shirts over your head. And then you take one look at the fluffed-up duvet, and the thousand pillows stacked like ski hills — and you curl up on the sheets like a kitten. Joel’s right behind you. He climbs up beside you in just a pair of black boxers and the mattress dips under his weight. You stretch out and move closer, wriggling into his chest. He strokes thick fingers through your hair and you feel him hum. He reaches for the remote with his free hand and clicks the TV on. That stupid hotel information channel blares quietly. Color swims across the duvet. “Mm,” he mumbles. “What d’you wanna watch?” “Don’t care,” you yawn. You turn your face out of his chest, a little, to squint at the TV. “Haven’t watched cable TV since I was, like, five.” You can feel his eyes roll. You smile into his skin. He draws you closer to his side and flips aimlessly through channels. He pauses on one. American Pickers. You can’t even see the screen, the way you’re buried in his side, but you’ve spent enough time with your dad to know this sh@t when you hear it. “No,” you say, sharply, when you feel Joel perk up. “No. Absolutely not.” “Thought you didn’t care,” he says. “Yeah, well.” “You ain’t even watchin’,” he complains. “No.” He grumbles. Keeps surfing. “Storage Wars,” he says. “No.” “Ooh,” he says — like an actual, genuine ooh — “P@wn Stars.” “Oh my god,” you groan. You turn further into his chest. “I’m going to sleep.” “Alright,” he says. “Jesus. Fine. Here.” He clicks at the remote. “Here’s f@ck@n’ — don’t know what the hell this is.” You lift your head. Sigh in relief. You sn@tch the remote from his hand and crank the volume. “F@ck yeah,” you say. “Say Yes to the Dress.” “Oh, Christ,” he mumbles. But he doesn’t put up a fight. If you weren’t pressed so tightly against him right now you’re pretty sure you’d see him smile. You watch for a while, too tired to talk but too stubborn to sleep. You draw lazy circles on Joel’s stomach with the tip of your finger, dipping occasionally to skim the waistband of his boxers. He tenses up when you do that. Every time, like a reflex. His skin prickles and his breath pulls, and then you drag your hand back and he relaxes. He strokes aimlessly at your hair. His heart beats hard and strong under your cheek. He makes an inane comment every few minutes, directed at the screen, and you stifle your laugh in his chest. The bride on-screen tries something on — some cream, fishtailed monstrosity — and you feel Joel shake his head. She tries on another and he grumbles. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Poor lady. Got no g@dd@mn taste.” You giggle. Your nose scrunches in his skin. His arm tightens, clutching you closer, and he buries a kiss at the crown of your head. “Mm,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ funny?” “You,” you say. “You’re cute.” “I’m cute?” “Yeah.” You drag a finger down his chest. You pause at the hem of his boxers and he stiffens almost instantly. “You’re cute.” He twitches, almost imperceptibly. Your hand drifts lower, just a little bit lower, and he sucks in a breath. His c@ck swells against fabric. He stops your hand when you reach for his lap. Wraps your wrist up in that soft-steel grip. “’N you’re a liar,” he says, softly. Your brows furrow. “I’m a—” “Liar,” he echoes. He c@cks his head. Rolls his tongue across his teeth. “’N not a very good one, either.” You blink. You’re about to ask him what he means when he pins your trapped hand to the mattress and rolls on top of you. The TV drones somewhere behind him. He gathers up your other hand and pins them both above your head. He’s so f@ck@ng big, all of him. Just one of his palms folds easily over both of your wrists. You squirm a little, yelping his name, and he ignores you. His shirt rides up your hips when you wriggle in the sheets. “Joel,” you mumble. You’re not so sleepy anymore. He spreads your legs with his knee. His free hand slips between your thighs. You’re not wearing any underwear — just his shirt, and nothing else — and the realization makes him swear. He swipes his thumb up your slit, gathering slick, and his eyes go dark when he feels how f@ck@ng wet you are. How wet you’ve been all day, since you almost — almost — came in his car. “Asked you ‘f you came, in the car today, ’n you said yes.” He rolls his thumb over your cl@t and your hips buck into his hand. “But that ain’t true, is it?” You say something incoherent. He presses down with his thumb, lighting up a thousand nerves, and you bite so hard on your lip you taste blood. “No,” you squeak. “No,” he echoes. “Poor baby. You’re f@ck@n’ soaked.” The pressure on your cl@t lets up, and he cups your c@nt with his warm hand. Your hips roll. You grind into the heel of his palm, desperate for friction, and he gives you f@ck@ng nothing. “Why didn’t you let me take care ‘a you?” he whispers. “It’s—” you squirm. He holds his hand stubbornly still, buried between your thighs, letting your slick soak his fingers. “Just wanted — wanted you to feel good,” you say. And it’s true. You just wanted to be close. You just wanted him. He’s not having that, though. Of course he’s not having that. “Don’t feel good ‘less you c@m,” he says, softly. You’re quiet. His black eyes search yours. “S’okay, angel,” he murmurs. He drags two fingers through your folds and crooks them at your entrance. “Let’s fix it, yeah?” Your hips jerk. You wriggle uselessly, rutting into his palm. Your trapped wrists whine under his hand. He f@cks you slow with his fingers. Excruciatingly slow. You can feel his pulse, when his wrist flexes between your thighs. He splits you open on his knuckles and you welcome the stretch. Your nails dig into your palms. You’d scratch him, if you could touch him. But you have to use your words — beg him over and over to go faster, deeper — and he doesn’t f@ck@ng listen. He likes watching you squirm. Maybe this is what you get for lying. “C’mon,” you whimper, “Joel, please—”He goes even slower, if that’s possible. His fingers curl deep inside you and he pumps a lazy, languid rhythm.  “Fuuuck,” you groan. You push up against his hand; try to f@ck yourself on his fingers, but you’re pretty much pinned. The hand on your wrists makes sure of that. “Please,” you repeat. “No more lying. Won’t do it again, I swear to g—god, Joel, f@ck, — please—” He drags his fingers out of you. You throw your head back and try not to curse him out. But then he’s letting your wrists go, and rolling off of you, and shuffling down the sheets to sprawl out on his back. You blink. Rub at your wrists. He pats his chest — come here — and you climb into his lap a little uncertainly. His c@ck strains against his boxers. It nudges your ass when you straddle him, prodding you through cotton, and he bites back a groan. Butterflies swarm your core. “C’mere,” he says. Pats his chest again. You hesitate. You’re not really sure what he wants. You shuffle forward a little, off of his lap and away from his c@ck, and hover over his stomach. He huffs. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.” He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth. You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants. “Sit down,” he growls. “I don’t —” You hesitate. The ache between your legs burns, and his mouth is inches from your c@nt, and you want to sink down onto his tongue so f@ck@ng badly but you’ve never actually done this before. Not — not like this. “I’ve never...”“Sit down,” he repeats. His drawl goes straight to your core. “’N make yourself c@m.” Your breath sharpens. Stills. He parts his mouth — licks his lips, like he’s starving — and the gesture is so obscene it almost makes you moan. You can’t think straight. The throb between your legs is borderline painful. So — f@ck it. You sink down, onto his mouth, and — “Holy f@ck,” you yelp, “Joel—” He’s busy. His tongue is buried in your folds, licking up your sea, and his nose bumps your cl@t. The contact makes your hips roll, almost involuntarily. You grind against his face and he rewards you with a low, hungry sound at the back of his throat. He drags his mouth away for a split second. “Do that again,” he says. You hesitate. He doesn’t. He puts his hands on the backs of your thighs and rocks your hips forward, against his lips and his tongue and his nose, setting a rhythm that makes you tremble. When you’re sure he’s not gonna suffocate, or — when you kind of stop caring whether he does — he takes his hands away and you do it yourself. You put your palms out on the headboard and roll your hips into his mouth. And when you start to stumble a little, and the heat in your core pulls so tight you almost snap, he helps you. He dips the tip of his tongue into your c@nt. Lets you ride him like that, with his soaked tongue licking deeper. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “F—feels so f-f@ck@ng good, Joel, f@ck, I’m gonna—” He hums his approval, with his tongue still buried in your c@nt. You c@m across his face and he f@cks you through it, lapping you up with soaked lips and dark eyes. It’s filthy — it’s filthy — and when you open your eyes long enough to look at him he’s completely f@ck@d. His c@ck is straining at his boxers, somewhere underneath you, and you’re sure it must be downright painful at this point but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or he just doesn’t care. You start to lift your hips off his face and he tugs you back down. You yelp. “One more,” he says. He wraps his teeth around your swollen cl@t. Applies gentle, gentle pressure. Enough to rip his name from your throat. “I—f@ck,” you pant. “I can’t.” “Yes you can,” he murmurs. “Y’owe me, angel. One for this afternoon—” he licks a stripe up your seam, and you writhe, “—’n one for tonight.” Your head tips. You brace shaky hands back on the headboard. This time he does the heavy lifting. He pays exclusive attention to your cl@t until you’re squirming, and chanting his name, and it’s this close to being too f@ck@ng much. He pulls you right to the edge and holds you in place with his hands on your hips. When his tongue slides inside you again, dipping warm and wet and wicked into your c@nt — your second @rg@sm hits you so hard you see white. He doesn’t wait for you to come down. He flips you over right as you fall apart and drags his boxers down. His c@ck slides inside you and you’re so f@ck@ng soaked he bottoms out in a single thrust. You whine his name, somewhere between your own shaking, shallow breaths. He manages a few frantic thrusts, but he’s already dripping pre-cum, and he’s impossibly hard, and your muscles are choking his cock. The end of your @rg@sm drags out his own and he spills inside you with a moan. He kisses you, hard, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “F@ck,” he mumbles. His cock throbs inside you. You squeeze around him and he groans into your neck.You’re vaguely aware that the TV is still on, blaring somewhere in the background. Say Yes to the Dress is long over. Chip and Joanna Gaines are demolishing a lake house on screen. He kisses you again. Slips out of you with a shallow breath. He rolls over onto his back, panting softly, and you nuzzle into his side. A few quiet moments pass. You put a palm to his chest and watch his breathing even out. He strokes a pattern up your back and you melt into his touch. “Um,” you say. “That was…” His fingers still over your spine. “Next time,” he murmurs, “tell me the f@ck@n’ truth.” You shift. You lay your chin on his chest and stare up at him. “Or what?” you say. “You’re gonna do that again? Cause if that’s the punishment…” He shakes his head. You tip forward to kiss him and his stubble rakes your jaw. “Impossible,” he mutters. “Shut up.” You smile into his mouth. You sink back against his chest, and you’re so f@ck@ng tired, all of a sudden. Your bones are heavy. You drape your leg over his and try to shuffle even closer. “You love it,” you slur. There’s a pause. Your brain jolts awake, and you think maybe you might have said too much. The wrong thing. You love it. You love me. But then his hand is on your back, again. Stroking lazy, aimless patterns. And his voice is honey in your hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”  You drive back to Austin in the morning. Joel buys you a coffee on the way back, and lets you listen to your music, and this time he sings along. Reluctantly, at first. But you wear him down, the way you usually do. You crank the volume on some sh@tty pop song until the windows on his truck start to tremble. You watch his scowl twitch to something like a smile. You make record time getting home. You kind of wish there was traffic. Like, the bumper-to-bumper kind that drags a ninety-minute drive into an all-day affair. The kind that would normally make you want to rip your hair out. But you f@ck@ng wish for it, now, because then you wouldn’t have to leave him so soon. You wonder if he feels the same. He’s almost impossible to read, and it’s not like he’s keen on sharing. Getting him to express an emotion is like pulling out a tooth. But he’d been quiet, this morning. Quieter than usual. He’d held you tighter than ever, when you’d woken up in his arms. Kissed your lips, and your neck, and your shoulder. You’d pretty much had to shove him off you, when you’d finally decided it was time to shower. And even then he’d followed you, into the bathroom and into the water, watching you with puppy-dog eyes and a sad little scowl. You’d let him shampoo your hair with silent fingers and wrap you up afterwards, in a towel and then in his arms. So, yeah. He might not say it, and you don’t press it, but — you think he’s bummed. You think he’ll miss you. You’re almost done with your coffee when he gets off the freeway. He pulls onto your street and you shove it in the cupholder, next to his scribbled cup from yesterday. You’d never thrown it out. His stupid drawing still stares up at you. Your heart tightens. He pulls into your driveway, behind your dad’s car, and puts the truck in park. He squints at his watch. Frowns. “He’s home early,” he says, with a nod to your dad’s car. You shrug. “Maybe he called in?” “Your dad?” Joel scoffs. “That’d be a first.” You shrug again. You’re kind of preoccupied, trying to say goodbye to Joel. You don’t really give a sh@t if your dad called in or not. But for whatever reason Joel seems intrigued. “I’ll check on him,” you say. “I’m sure he’s fine.” “Yeah,” Joel says. He sounds weird, you think. Strained. “Sure.” He tears his gaze back to you. His eyes soften. “I had fun,” you say, softly. “This weekend.” “Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too, angel.” You swallow. Your hand folds on the handle, but you don’t open the door. It’s like you can’t quite bring yourself to leave. To get out of his car. “Go on,” Joel says. He smiles. Nods again to your dad’s car. “Sure he missed ya.” “I’ll call,” he says, when you still don’t move. “Promise. Just — gimme a few hours t’get settled.” “Yeah,” you mumble. “Okay.” He watches you. He takes half a breath, like he wants to say something else, but he just — doesn’t. “I’m sorry again,” you say, quietly. “About the job.” He shakes his head. “Stop,” he says. “I’m just—” “Stop.” His eyes dart to the windshield, like he’s checking for the all-clear — and then he leans over the console. Kisses you, with his broad hand on your cheek. You mumble into his mouth and sink into his touch. He pulls back. Blinks. The taste of him settles on your tongue. “F@ck the job,” he says. You chew at your lip. Your pulse pounds at your throat. “Yeah,” you say, after a beat. “F@ck the job.” Your hand wraps around the handle and this time you do get out. You hop to the ground and squint at the sun, slinging your bag across your shoulder, shoving your phone to your back pocket. You weave between Joel’s truck and your dad’s car and make your way up the drive. Up your front porch steps. You turn around on your threshold and Joel’s already pulling out, reversing down your driveway, lifting two lazy fingers off the wheel in a subtle wave goodbye. And then he’s just — gone. He’s back across the street, pulling into his own drive, and you seal yourself inside before you can chase him. Your dad isn’t in the living room. Which is weird, since that’s, like, the only room he lives in. Almost as weird as his car in the driveway at 11 am on a Monday. You drop your duffel in the entryway. Peer into the living room and back down the hall. “Dad?” you call. Nothing. You frown. He usually greets you at the door like a Spaniel. “Hello? Dad?” You duck into the kitchen. No dad, but there is a stack of plates in the sink. An empty Hamburger Helper package left out on the counter. So a sign of life, at least. “Hellooooo,” you singsong. You grab a glass from a cabinet and fill it up at the sink. You push the kitchen door back open. Wander out into the dining room. “I’m ho—” There he is. Sitting at the dining table. Elbows on the wood. “Jesus,” you say, a little startled. “You scared me. Did you not hear me calling you? I just got home, like, two seconds ago.” He doesn’t respond. Your brows furrow. You take in the whole scene — the slumped shoulders, the bags under his eyes. The four glass bottles of beer beside his hand, all empty, and the rest of the case on the floor by his feet. At least two more empties, from what you can see. You can smell it on his breath. On his clothes. In the stale, heavy air. He’s hammered. “Dad,” you say, a little uncertain. “What—”“Where’s Joel?” “Um.” You set your glass down. Your breath crawls up your throat. “He went home.” He nods. He picks up the bottle closest to him and swirls the dregs. When he looks up his eyes are dark. “How was the trip?” he asks, quietly. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, it was — good. Are you—”“How was the hotel?” he interrupts. “Room good?” He already asked you that. Yesterday. When he insisted on speaking on the phone. But you chalk it up to a full case of beer. “Um, yeah,” you say. “It was good.” “Good view, right?” he slurs. “The one I booked? S’posed to be a garden view.” You nod, slowly. “Yeah,” you say, again. “Good view.” He slams his bottle down. A crack snakes up the neck. “Why the f@ck,” he asks, and you flinch at his voice, “—are you lyin’ t’me?” Your heart stutters in your chest. The blood runs from your skin. “What?” “Sit down,” he slurs. He points to an empty chair. You swallow. Feel it stick. “You’re drunk,” you say, cooly. Or at least — you hope it’s cool. You try to keep your voice even. “And I’m tired, actually, so—”“Sit your ass down,” he snarls. You sit down. “Dad,” you say. He shakes his head. Takes a deep, unsteady breath. “You wanna go first?” he asks. “Or should I?”'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
Assistant: