Do I do it anyway?
Of course I f*****g do. I’m attuned to her. She’s my magnetic north, and no matter how hard I try to resist the temptation, I can’t help but seek her out.
There she is. A flash of red coat through the birches, two flagged positions down the line. A bobble hat. Mittens. A shotgun she has no business holding.
I wrench my gaze away and slap myself across the face for good measure. One hard crack in each direction.
Get your s**t together, son, I hear my uncle’s voice bark in my head. Now is no time to lose yourself in fantasy.
Because that’s what thoughts of Cassandra are: pure f*****g delusion. No matter how bad I want her, I cannot have her. She is a scapegoat, nothing more. It’s kind of fitting that the knocker on her hotel door is a ram. Or is that a sheep? f**k it,
