WHO: Lyra, Rosario and Saint Patrick WHEN: Wednesday evening WHERE: Turtles All The Way Down, a bar in Bedford-Stuyvesant WHAT: The other end of the dad spectrum WARNINGS: Doubt it!
"What if we're walking into a disaster?"
Lyra stopped without warning a few feet from the corner, blurting her question. As she and Rosario walked the block from the bus stop she'd been growing quieter and quieter, till the question just burst out in front of a French restaurant, the last buffer between them and the bar.
Once it was out, a whole cumulation of others followed, spilling out like the dam had burst. "What if every impression I've got 'bout him so far is wrong?" She asked, turning a worried face to Rosario. "What if he turns out to be a dick? He's a saint, what if that means he's actually judgey AF? What if he tries to convert me? What if there's some—" she waved her hand in a distressed cloud about her face, "—entirely unexpected problem I ain't even able to guess at cuz the world is just that fucking random??"
After all, she'd been wrong to trust Avery, hadn't she? Just cuz she'd gotten way too invested in the thrill of someone she could talk to, someone who was up for hairbrained schemes and kissed her like their life depended on it, a trifecta that meant her stupid heart had apparently been willing to overlook any warning signs directing her straight to jerk city.
And right now she couldn't help feel like history was about to repeat itself. Her stupid heart was so invested in the idea of a dad, and maybe she needed to put the brakes on, to protect herself but...
But, fuck, she wasn't good at brakes. Lyra looked up at her friend, imploringly; brakes was, and had always been, Rosario's department.