Astrid Parker Doesn't Fail

You’ve convinced yourself you don’t want it, because you think you don’t deserve it.

Officially having each other’s numbers—and in a much nicer context than demanding dry cleaning—felt somehow romantic.

I didn’t let myself understand. My whole life, I’ve waited to feel like this.”

Jordan’s mouth parted. “Like what, Parker?”

Another step. “Like this. The way I feel when I’m with you. Like I’m twelve years old and going through my first crush. Like I might explode if I don’t see you, talk to you. Like I don’t care about anything else in this whole messed-up world but what you think about me. Feel about me.

Are we talking about the same woman? Tattoos? New York City attitude for days? A general disdain for clothes in any shade lighter than the ninth circle of hell?

She was going to act instead of all this constant, exhausting thinking.

But love doesn’t always think through the details. Sometimes, love just does.

Those bombs Meredith had dropped, they left scars. Deep ones, carved into Jordan’s heart, lungs, brain, blood, and she’d spent nearly a year in therapy trying to heal them to no avail.

Never before doesn’t mean never ever.

“Because,” Astrid had mumbled. “She left you like you didn’t mean anything. And you do. You mean something.”

Jordan tilted her head at Astrid. “You don’t strike me as the swearing type.”

Astrid lifted a hand and let it fall back down, slapping against her leg. “Why does everyone always say that? I swear just like anyone else.”