ain't personal eh Britt? You shiesty bihh
Coach Ford as in Idaho coach Tom Ford? Going to send this boy the country country
Damaged Petals.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3799
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
Coach Ford as in Idaho coach Tom Ford? Going to send this boy the country country
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13711
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
who? me? nahCaptain Canada wrote: ↑21 Oct 2025, 09:23I already know the exact character type you're building for Britney. You ain't slick.
boy said idaho. show some respect for the colton brothers smh
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13711
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 2, Episode 5
The controller remained in Brice’s hands although the game had been paused for nearly an hour. His attention was instead on the laptop propped up on the arm of the couch, where three guys on their YouTube channel were reacting to Notre Dame’s top-ranked recruiting class. It wasn’t that long ago that Brice would watch those same types of videos as a fan — excited about which new jersey he might be buying in the fall, or debating with his father about the best recruit they’d landed. It was an even shorter time ago that he dreamed his own highlights might one day play in the background of a video just like this.
“In the NIL and transfer portal era, you try not to get excited about freshman quarterbacks — especially ones that aren’t going to play — but there’s just a lot to like about Pettigrew, the way he’s able to really push the ball downfield. He really does have all the traits.”
Brice kept watching, his face emotionless, his mind numb. It felt like one of those dreams where the world keeps moving while you’re frozen in place. Somewhere in the recess of his mind he was screaming — angry, disappointed, sad — but the prevailing feeling was emptiness.
“You finish with your schoolwork for the morning?”
Tom’s voice pulled Brice out of the haze. Brice blinked, looking up at his dad before setting the controller aside.
“Not yet,” he said honestly. He hadn’t even started.
Tom moved into the kitchen, grabbing a cup of overnight oats. He couldn’t see the screen, but he could hear the video — voices dissecting the kind of future his son was supposed to have.
“Get dressed,” Tom told him, tossing the cup in the sink.
“For what?”
...
“Where can I find Detective Brunson?”
“His office is down the hall, to your right,” the clerk said without looking up. The station buzzed around her, phones ringing, printers humming — life moving on.
Connie nodded, relieved the woman didn’t recognize her face. She walked down the hall slowly, her breath tight in her chest. Every step brought back flashes of that night — the cold floor, the questions, the shame she could never quite name. Now, as the details sharpened with time, she both welcomed and resented the clarity. If only things had been clearer then, before she’d spoken to the police a second time. Maybe things would’ve gone differently. Maybe she’d feel less… complicit. A part of her almost wished the fog would return.
She reached the end of the hall and peeked into both corner offices. Empty. The urge to turn back surged inside her — to tell herself that she’d tried, that it was enough. The same hollow rationalization that had carried her through so many disappointments. That’s it? That’s all you can do?
“Detective Brunson,” she called out as she saw him cutting across the station, a stack of folders tucked under his arm.
He turned, recognizing her instantly, and gave a curt nod.
“Do you have a moment?”
“I’ve got court in about thirty minutes,” he sighed. “Can we do this later?”
She couldn’t face the thought of coming back. Couldn’t summon the strength again.
“I’ll be quick,” she said softly.
He gestured for her to follow.
Connie sat across from him, hands clasped tight in her lap. The words she’d rehearsed all morning dissolved somewhere between her chest and her throat. Just say the truth, she thought. Just get it out.
“I want to drop the charges against Brice,” she blurted, as if the words might lift something from her.
“Well, first, there were never charges,” Brunson said, brows furrowing. “It was just an inquiry. And DA Campbell already concluded the investigation. I thought you two spoke already?”
“No—who is DA Campbell?”
“The district attorney for the county,” he clarified. “Her office would’ve been prosecuting the case, but she called this morning. Said she reviewed everything and won’t be moving forward.”
Connie blinked, unsure how to feel. Relief didn’t come. Neither did peace.
“So,” she said quietly, “this is over?”
Brunson nodded once before checking his watch. The silence between them stretched. Connie stood to leave, her legs heavy, her chest hollow. She had imagined this moment would bring something — closure, redemption, something. But instead it felt like that delivery room all those years ago, when the nurse carried her baby away and she lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for a feeling that never came.
That’s it? she thought again. That’s really it?
...
“It accentuates the steak!”
“No, it doesn’t,” Brice shook his head. “If it’s a good steak, you don’t need any of that.”
“I need to bring you on my next trip to Chicago,” Tom said between bites. “You haven’t had it done right.”
“I don’t need a bunch of char in my mouth,” Brice laughed. “I don’t care where I’m at.”
The sound of his son’s laughter made Tom pause mid-bite. He hadn’t heard that sound in weeks. The day had been good for Brice — slow, steady, like the thawing of something long frozen. They’d spent the morning at the gun range, checked out a rig Tom was considering for his fleet, then went suit shopping for a friend’s wedding. Brice had been quiet at first, but now he was laughing again. It was a sound Tom didn’t realize how much he missed.
The phone buzzed on the table. Brice’s eyes caught the caller ID.
“Hey, Malc,” Tom said, picking up. “Yeah… alright, thanks for the update. No, I appreciate it. Okay.”
He hung up and exhaled, setting his phone down beside his plate. He chewed another bite to buy time.
“Everything’s good?” Brice asked, careful, almost afraid to hope.
“They closed the investigation,” Tom said, knocking his knuckles lightly against the table. “No charges.”
“Wait, really?” Brice’s face lit up.
“Yeah. Malcolm just got the call from one of his guys at the DA’s office.” Tom rubbed his temples.
“Isn’t that… good?” Brice asked, noticing his father’s frustration.
“It’s a fucking day late,” Tom muttered, catching himself. “But yeah, it’s good news.”
Brice nodded slowly. The meaning sank in. Early Signing Day had already come and gone.
“Look, this is good,” Tom said, shifting gears. “We can move on now. Guys transfer all the time. Without this hanging over you, coaches are going to come calling.”
“Not Notre Dame though.”
“Things could change,” Tom said. “And even if not, so what? You can build your own legacy somewhere else. They’re not the only good program in the country. This is exciting, okay, you can really go through your recruitment, check out other schools and find out where you want to go.
“I know where I want to go,” Brice said quietly. “But I can’t because of all this bullshit.”
Tom shot him a look.
“Sorry,” Brice said quickly. “It’s just… frustrating.”
“I know,” Tom softened. “But this is life, son. Things happen. You look back, you ask yourself how you could’ve handled it better.”
“But Dad, I didn’t—”
“I know,” Tom said, raising his hands. “But look at what led to it. Guys like us, people want to be around us. They’ll take a lot just to stay close. Don’t take that for granted. Don’t take advantage of people. Because when you do, or even when people think you do, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not — it sticks.”
He paused, watching his son. The guilt crept into his voice even as he tried to sound firm.
“You get one mulligan,” Tom said finally. “The next one might not come.”
Brice nodded, eyes down on his plate. Tom reached for his glass, wishing the lesson didn’t have to come this way — that his past hadn’t delayed things, that the price his son paid hadn’t been so steep. But all he could do now was teach, guide, and hope Brice understood what he hadn’t yet found the courage to admit: some of this was on him, too.
The controller remained in Brice’s hands although the game had been paused for nearly an hour. His attention was instead on the laptop propped up on the arm of the couch, where three guys on their YouTube channel were reacting to Notre Dame’s top-ranked recruiting class. It wasn’t that long ago that Brice would watch those same types of videos as a fan — excited about which new jersey he might be buying in the fall, or debating with his father about the best recruit they’d landed. It was an even shorter time ago that he dreamed his own highlights might one day play in the background of a video just like this.
“In the NIL and transfer portal era, you try not to get excited about freshman quarterbacks — especially ones that aren’t going to play — but there’s just a lot to like about Pettigrew, the way he’s able to really push the ball downfield. He really does have all the traits.”
Brice kept watching, his face emotionless, his mind numb. It felt like one of those dreams where the world keeps moving while you’re frozen in place. Somewhere in the recess of his mind he was screaming — angry, disappointed, sad — but the prevailing feeling was emptiness.
“You finish with your schoolwork for the morning?”
Tom’s voice pulled Brice out of the haze. Brice blinked, looking up at his dad before setting the controller aside.
“Not yet,” he said honestly. He hadn’t even started.
Tom moved into the kitchen, grabbing a cup of overnight oats. He couldn’t see the screen, but he could hear the video — voices dissecting the kind of future his son was supposed to have.
“Get dressed,” Tom told him, tossing the cup in the sink.
“For what?”
...
“Where can I find Detective Brunson?”
“His office is down the hall, to your right,” the clerk said without looking up. The station buzzed around her, phones ringing, printers humming — life moving on.
Connie nodded, relieved the woman didn’t recognize her face. She walked down the hall slowly, her breath tight in her chest. Every step brought back flashes of that night — the cold floor, the questions, the shame she could never quite name. Now, as the details sharpened with time, she both welcomed and resented the clarity. If only things had been clearer then, before she’d spoken to the police a second time. Maybe things would’ve gone differently. Maybe she’d feel less… complicit. A part of her almost wished the fog would return.
She reached the end of the hall and peeked into both corner offices. Empty. The urge to turn back surged inside her — to tell herself that she’d tried, that it was enough. The same hollow rationalization that had carried her through so many disappointments. That’s it? That’s all you can do?
“Detective Brunson,” she called out as she saw him cutting across the station, a stack of folders tucked under his arm.
He turned, recognizing her instantly, and gave a curt nod.
“Do you have a moment?”
“I’ve got court in about thirty minutes,” he sighed. “Can we do this later?”
She couldn’t face the thought of coming back. Couldn’t summon the strength again.
“I’ll be quick,” she said softly.
He gestured for her to follow.
Connie sat across from him, hands clasped tight in her lap. The words she’d rehearsed all morning dissolved somewhere between her chest and her throat. Just say the truth, she thought. Just get it out.
“I want to drop the charges against Brice,” she blurted, as if the words might lift something from her.
“Well, first, there were never charges,” Brunson said, brows furrowing. “It was just an inquiry. And DA Campbell already concluded the investigation. I thought you two spoke already?”
“No—who is DA Campbell?”
“The district attorney for the county,” he clarified. “Her office would’ve been prosecuting the case, but she called this morning. Said she reviewed everything and won’t be moving forward.”
Connie blinked, unsure how to feel. Relief didn’t come. Neither did peace.
“So,” she said quietly, “this is over?”
Brunson nodded once before checking his watch. The silence between them stretched. Connie stood to leave, her legs heavy, her chest hollow. She had imagined this moment would bring something — closure, redemption, something. But instead it felt like that delivery room all those years ago, when the nurse carried her baby away and she lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for a feeling that never came.
That’s it? she thought again. That’s really it?
...
“It accentuates the steak!”
“No, it doesn’t,” Brice shook his head. “If it’s a good steak, you don’t need any of that.”
“I need to bring you on my next trip to Chicago,” Tom said between bites. “You haven’t had it done right.”
“I don’t need a bunch of char in my mouth,” Brice laughed. “I don’t care where I’m at.”
The sound of his son’s laughter made Tom pause mid-bite. He hadn’t heard that sound in weeks. The day had been good for Brice — slow, steady, like the thawing of something long frozen. They’d spent the morning at the gun range, checked out a rig Tom was considering for his fleet, then went suit shopping for a friend’s wedding. Brice had been quiet at first, but now he was laughing again. It was a sound Tom didn’t realize how much he missed.
The phone buzzed on the table. Brice’s eyes caught the caller ID.
“Hey, Malc,” Tom said, picking up. “Yeah… alright, thanks for the update. No, I appreciate it. Okay.”
He hung up and exhaled, setting his phone down beside his plate. He chewed another bite to buy time.
“Everything’s good?” Brice asked, careful, almost afraid to hope.
“They closed the investigation,” Tom said, knocking his knuckles lightly against the table. “No charges.”
“Wait, really?” Brice’s face lit up.
“Yeah. Malcolm just got the call from one of his guys at the DA’s office.” Tom rubbed his temples.
“Isn’t that… good?” Brice asked, noticing his father’s frustration.
“It’s a fucking day late,” Tom muttered, catching himself. “But yeah, it’s good news.”
Brice nodded slowly. The meaning sank in. Early Signing Day had already come and gone.
“Look, this is good,” Tom said, shifting gears. “We can move on now. Guys transfer all the time. Without this hanging over you, coaches are going to come calling.”
“Not Notre Dame though.”
“Things could change,” Tom said. “And even if not, so what? You can build your own legacy somewhere else. They’re not the only good program in the country. This is exciting, okay, you can really go through your recruitment, check out other schools and find out where you want to go.
“I know where I want to go,” Brice said quietly. “But I can’t because of all this bullshit.”
Tom shot him a look.
“Sorry,” Brice said quickly. “It’s just… frustrating.”
“I know,” Tom softened. “But this is life, son. Things happen. You look back, you ask yourself how you could’ve handled it better.”
“But Dad, I didn’t—”
“I know,” Tom said, raising his hands. “But look at what led to it. Guys like us, people want to be around us. They’ll take a lot just to stay close. Don’t take that for granted. Don’t take advantage of people. Because when you do, or even when people think you do, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not — it sticks.”
He paused, watching his son. The guilt crept into his voice even as he tried to sound firm.
“You get one mulligan,” Tom said finally. “The next one might not come.”
Brice nodded, eyes down on his plate. Tom reached for his glass, wishing the lesson didn’t have to come this way — that his past hadn’t delayed things, that the price his son paid hadn’t been so steep. But all he could do now was teach, guide, and hope Brice understood what he hadn’t yet found the courage to admit: some of this was on him, too.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6138
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
Beat the breaks off his shordy and all he lost was playing for the fucking Fighting Irish 
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13832
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Investigation closed? No punishment for him beating his girlfriend? White privilege. #NotMyQB #CaineGuerraWouldNever
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djp73
- Posts: 11494
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Damaged Petals.
interesting twist, wonder where he will end up now 
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redsox907
- Posts: 3799
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
Hmm.
Got a feeling the Skylar / Connie narrative isn't done yet..
Got a feeling the Skylar / Connie narrative isn't done yet..
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13711
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
allegedlyCaptain Canada wrote: ↑22 Oct 2025, 10:06Beat the breaks off his shordy and all he lost was playing for the fucking Fighting Irish
Yeah, he's not a known criminal and gang member
#FactsOverFeelings
i wonder as well
that would make you a very smart man
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13711
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 2, Episode 6
The wind off the Wabash felt sharper than Brice expected. Even under the gray December sky, the brick buildings on Purdue’s campus looked almost golden, their corners catching bits of dying sunlight between clouds. The morning had started early — hotel breakfast before eight, then a slow drive through campus with the recruiting staff pointing out landmarks like tour guides who’d done the route too many times to sound excited anymore.
Jimmy walked just ahead of him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his puffer jacket, earbuds dangling around his neck. He’d heard on some podcast that wireless headphones were harmful. Every few steps, someone from the Purdue staff would nudge a question his way — “How’s the season been?” “You running track again in the spring?” “What’s your favorite class?” — all easy, surface-level things that made it clear they weren’t really listening for answers.
Brice knew the tone. It was the same one people used on him after everything happened — polite, eager to move on to the next question. Everyone in the building looked at him longer than they should’ve.
Inside the football complex, the air was warm and smelled faintly of turf and cleaning solution. The walls were lined with framed photos: bowl wins, NFL draft picks, weight room records. Brice slowed near one of them — Drew Brees, clenching a rose in between his teeth. For a moment, he let himself picture the blue and gold of Notre Dame in the same frame, the flash of cameras, the sound of his name echoing in the stadium. Then he blinked it away.
“Brice!” Coach Ford called out from down the hall, his voice booming and friendly. “Good to see you, man! Glad you made the trip.”
Brice shook his hand, firm and polite.
“Jimmy, you ready to see the facility?” Ford asked, his eyes flicking briefly to Brice again before landing back on the younger brother. “We’ve got a lot we want to show you.”
They walked through the weight room, the training facility, the locker room that had been stripped of gear since the season ended. The overhead lights hummed, echoing in the empty space.
Jimmy nodded along as Ford spoke, but the words blurred together — “development program,” “family atmosphere,” “next step in our culture.”
Brice hung back with their parents. Liz asked questions — about academics, tutoring, how far the freshman dorms were from the stadium. Tom trailed quietly, nodding, occasionally smiling when someone looked his way.
When the tour wrapped up, Ford clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s grab some lunch before we head over to the film room. Sound good?”
…
Dinner was at a private room inside a downtown restaurant, one of those places with soft lighting and thick silverware that clinked like it mattered. A few recruiting staffers and assistants joined them — young guys in polos, all easy smiles and practiced warmth. They talked about the future of the program, the “vision” for the next few years.
Liz played her role — smiling, asking about education, internship support, player safety. Tom kept quiet, focused on his steak and his wine glass. The meal wound down and the staffers shifted their tone. One of them — Brice thought he was the recruiting coordinator — leaned forward.
“Listen,” he said, folding his hands. “We know you’ve got other visits lined up. Indiana, Michigan State, Illinois, Syracuse. We get it. You’ve earned that. But let me ask you something — what would it take for you guys not to make those trips?”
The table went still.
Jimmy blinked. Brice looked down at his plate. Tom’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t say a word.
Liz reached for her napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth, and looked at her sons. “Boys, why don’t you give me and your dad a moment?"
…
Target was half-empty, the hum of Christmas music playing from the ceiling speakers. The aisles were lined with half-stocked shelves — wrapping paper, gift sets, plastic trees that all looked the same. Brice pushed his cart slowly, trying to decide if his mom would actually want a candle again.
He saw her near the home section before she saw him — Connie, standing by the seasonal display, holding two blankets in her hands like she was comparing them. For a moment, he thought about walking away. It would’ve been easier.
But she turned and their eyes met.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.”
There was an awkward pause. Neither of them moved closer right away.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said finally.
“Yeah, me neither. I usually just… you know, go online.” He nodded toward the shelves. “But I figured I’d try doing it the old-fashioned way this year.”
She smiled faintly. “Same. Something about it feels better, right? Like… I don’t know, more real.”
They walked slowly toward the end of the aisle, side by side.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the wheels of his cart squeaking against the tile.
“I wanted to say—” Connie began.
“It’s okay,” Brice interrupted gently. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I do,” she insisted, eyes welling up a little. “Everything that happened… I just wish—”
“Connie.” His voice was calm. “I know. You don’t have to explain. I hurt you. Not in the way you said but I get it. The way I treated you. The way I made you feel. I totally get it."
She looked down, her thumb brushing the edge of the blanket in her hand. “You didn’t deserve this, though."
Brice shook his head. “Maybe not. But I could’ve been better. To you. To everyone.”
They stood there in silence, the hum of the industrial lights above them, a Christmas song bleeding faintly from another aisle.
Then she stepped forward and hugged him. It wasn’t long or dramatic — just a quiet, steady embrace between two people finally allowed to breathe again.
When they pulled away, she smiled. “You should get the teakwood one."
Brice laughed softly. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
And as she walked away, disappearing around the corner of the aisle, he realized for the first time in months that he didn’t feel numb. Not entirely.
He just felt human again.
The wind off the Wabash felt sharper than Brice expected. Even under the gray December sky, the brick buildings on Purdue’s campus looked almost golden, their corners catching bits of dying sunlight between clouds. The morning had started early — hotel breakfast before eight, then a slow drive through campus with the recruiting staff pointing out landmarks like tour guides who’d done the route too many times to sound excited anymore.
Jimmy walked just ahead of him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his puffer jacket, earbuds dangling around his neck. He’d heard on some podcast that wireless headphones were harmful. Every few steps, someone from the Purdue staff would nudge a question his way — “How’s the season been?” “You running track again in the spring?” “What’s your favorite class?” — all easy, surface-level things that made it clear they weren’t really listening for answers.
Brice knew the tone. It was the same one people used on him after everything happened — polite, eager to move on to the next question. Everyone in the building looked at him longer than they should’ve.
Inside the football complex, the air was warm and smelled faintly of turf and cleaning solution. The walls were lined with framed photos: bowl wins, NFL draft picks, weight room records. Brice slowed near one of them — Drew Brees, clenching a rose in between his teeth. For a moment, he let himself picture the blue and gold of Notre Dame in the same frame, the flash of cameras, the sound of his name echoing in the stadium. Then he blinked it away.
“Brice!” Coach Ford called out from down the hall, his voice booming and friendly. “Good to see you, man! Glad you made the trip.”
Brice shook his hand, firm and polite.
“Jimmy, you ready to see the facility?” Ford asked, his eyes flicking briefly to Brice again before landing back on the younger brother. “We’ve got a lot we want to show you.”
They walked through the weight room, the training facility, the locker room that had been stripped of gear since the season ended. The overhead lights hummed, echoing in the empty space.
Jimmy nodded along as Ford spoke, but the words blurred together — “development program,” “family atmosphere,” “next step in our culture.”
Brice hung back with their parents. Liz asked questions — about academics, tutoring, how far the freshman dorms were from the stadium. Tom trailed quietly, nodding, occasionally smiling when someone looked his way.
When the tour wrapped up, Ford clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s grab some lunch before we head over to the film room. Sound good?”
…
Dinner was at a private room inside a downtown restaurant, one of those places with soft lighting and thick silverware that clinked like it mattered. A few recruiting staffers and assistants joined them — young guys in polos, all easy smiles and practiced warmth. They talked about the future of the program, the “vision” for the next few years.
Liz played her role — smiling, asking about education, internship support, player safety. Tom kept quiet, focused on his steak and his wine glass. The meal wound down and the staffers shifted their tone. One of them — Brice thought he was the recruiting coordinator — leaned forward.
“Listen,” he said, folding his hands. “We know you’ve got other visits lined up. Indiana, Michigan State, Illinois, Syracuse. We get it. You’ve earned that. But let me ask you something — what would it take for you guys not to make those trips?”
The table went still.
Jimmy blinked. Brice looked down at his plate. Tom’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t say a word.
Liz reached for her napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth, and looked at her sons. “Boys, why don’t you give me and your dad a moment?"
…
Target was half-empty, the hum of Christmas music playing from the ceiling speakers. The aisles were lined with half-stocked shelves — wrapping paper, gift sets, plastic trees that all looked the same. Brice pushed his cart slowly, trying to decide if his mom would actually want a candle again.
He saw her near the home section before she saw him — Connie, standing by the seasonal display, holding two blankets in her hands like she was comparing them. For a moment, he thought about walking away. It would’ve been easier.
But she turned and their eyes met.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.”
There was an awkward pause. Neither of them moved closer right away.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said finally.
“Yeah, me neither. I usually just… you know, go online.” He nodded toward the shelves. “But I figured I’d try doing it the old-fashioned way this year.”
She smiled faintly. “Same. Something about it feels better, right? Like… I don’t know, more real.”
They walked slowly toward the end of the aisle, side by side.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the wheels of his cart squeaking against the tile.
“I wanted to say—” Connie began.
“It’s okay,” Brice interrupted gently. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I do,” she insisted, eyes welling up a little. “Everything that happened… I just wish—”
“Connie.” His voice was calm. “I know. You don’t have to explain. I hurt you. Not in the way you said but I get it. The way I treated you. The way I made you feel. I totally get it."
She looked down, her thumb brushing the edge of the blanket in her hand. “You didn’t deserve this, though."
Brice shook his head. “Maybe not. But I could’ve been better. To you. To everyone.”
They stood there in silence, the hum of the industrial lights above them, a Christmas song bleeding faintly from another aisle.
Then she stepped forward and hugged him. It wasn’t long or dramatic — just a quiet, steady embrace between two people finally allowed to breathe again.
When they pulled away, she smiled. “You should get the teakwood one."
Brice laughed softly. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
And as she walked away, disappearing around the corner of the aisle, he realized for the first time in months that he didn’t feel numb. Not entirely.
He just felt human again.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13832
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Connie bet not let that bum back into her life. Once an abuser, always an abuser.
I’d be ready to cuss they asses out if I was Jimmy. Wasting my damn time on some Luke Cafferty shit because you want my brother.
I’d be ready to cuss they asses out if I was Jimmy. Wasting my damn time on some Luke Cafferty shit because you want my brother.