Page 132 of Unconditionally Yours

Jett Journal

We got arrested together. That’s like soulmate-tier chaos. Relationship boss level. Bonnie & Clyde with better hair and worse impulse control.

I’m saving the real meat of Friday for tonight’s entry (spoiler: I still feel you everywhere), but I needed to say hi. Andalso, I have a gift idea for you. It’s either romantic or insane. Possibly both.

See you soon. Real soon, I hope.

Don’t ghost me. Or do. I’ll chase you. You know I will.

Chapter Forty-Three

Delilah

I’m naked, slathered in glitter lotion like a disco rotisserie chicken. Who knew I’d finally land a date where that was the appropriate uniform? My legs curled under me at my dressing table like a pin-up gremlin. Rhys is gonna take one look at me and forget that sparkle-free goose girl ever clucked into his hobby space.

But first I have a mission. I need the perfect offering for my rage-fucked, bare-fridged, beautiful bastard.

The chair creaks as I hunch over my laptop, a horny gremlin hacker, nipples smushed to the vanity, scrolling the county inmate search. “C’mon. Show me my mug.”

It doesn’t take long to find me.

My booking photo hits like a shot of espresso to the frontal lobe. I look deranged. Wide-eyed, hair everywhere, smirking like I came just before the flash. Perfect. A few rows down, his photo loads.

Jett.

He looks pissed. Like the kind of pissed that fucks you into the shower wall and doesn’t leave a note. Which, yeah. He did.

“Hi baby,” I say to the screen.

I save both. Screenshot, crop, enhance. Pop the contrast. Slide them side by side like high school yearbook photos, except we’re both most likely to reoffend and look hot doing it. I add a pink glitter filter to the border. Consider a caption. Bailed out by love. Or maybe: crime is hot.

A soft snort escapes me.

I print two sets. One for me, one for Jett. Because my fridge is a museum of my descent and his is so sad and empty.

I’ll make room. I want to make room. For him. For whatever the fuck this is turning into.

Because we both need to remember this. The low, the locked-up, the way we both looked a little too alive behind that county seal.

I need to remember he said “mine” with fists and bail slips and bruised knuckles. And I want him to remember I smiled for the camera.

Photos in hand, I lunge for my craft box with the grace of a horny raccoon with a glue stick addiction. Sticky-back magnets. Glitter. And now we have jailhouse romance fridge flair. Pinterest could never.

The magnets are ready. Jett’s rage-face and my own deranged smirk.

There are three bags on my craft table. Three altars. Three acts of devotion. Three dangerously targeted love spells.

Benji’s looks like a unicorn threw up a rainbow rave. It’s edible. It’s criminally cute. It might summon a Care Bear. I tuck in snacks he loves, gummy sharks, cookies with icing thicker than the cookie, and a cupcake-scented candle that smells like kissing him. Sweet and soft and made to ruin you. There’s a note too: You make me want to be soft. It’s disgusting. Never stop. I spritz the tissue paper with glitter spray and seal it with a unicorn sticker. He will cry. I hope he cries.

Rhys’s bag is brown. But not boring. Earthy. Intellectual. Sexy in that slow-wreckage way that makes me want to masturbate on his couch and call it growth. I line it with blush lace and tuck in white chocolate almonds, dried rose petals, a lavender candle that promises calm the fuck down energy. There’s also a note in my lipstick: See you Tuesday. I’m notwearing panties. I want him to open it and have a professional crisis.

And then there’s Jett.

His bag looks like anarchy. Black matte paper, hot pink skull decals, duct tape reinforcement. I fill it with rage snacks, beef jerky, Red Vines, sour gummies that’ll punch his tongue. His squishmallow is a neon green mushroom bat. I have no idea what it means. That’s why it’s perfect. Chaos to match chaos. The magnet goes in an envelope labeled: Fridge Enhancement. Mandatory. Noncompliance will result in glitter-related consequences. He’ll act like it’s stupid. Then he’ll put it up and never take it down.

They’re love notes written in edible glitter and the kind of mania you can’t medicate away. They are excessive. Deranged. Perfect.

Because love should feel like too much. Like getting tackled by joy and then strangled with a velvet ribbon.