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@92hamptons Whatever that means

The same scent of paint / The same cluttered shelves / The same Dad’s studio

My forever midnight anthem music.apple.com/id/album/too-d…

@lacydolI Who dat

@wonyoungive Kids aren’t allowed here

@Remarquese 💆🏻‍♀️

@92hamptons Marshall pulled out the chair beside Summer and lowered his voice. “Why are you here? And don’t tell me it’s just for dinner because you flew all the way from Beverly Hills” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Also, how much do you know that I don’t?” < @92hamptons >

@92hamptons The warmth of the moment lasted until burst of laughter came from the living room. Marshall looked over. The woman was helping their father carry plates to the table. Growing up, Marshall couldn’t remember many people making it past the front door, let alone helping with dinner.

Marshall returned home later than he’d planned, his weekend cut short by a last-minute meeting his supervisor insisted couldn’t wait until Monday. By the time he finally pulled into the driveway, the evening sky had already turned dark.

The confusion only grew when Marshall unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Before he could even call out a greeting, a burst of laughter drifted from the kitchen. His dad and a woman’s laughter. "Dad?" he called out. < @92hamptons >

His father was almost never home on Sundays. If anything, the man treated Sundays as an excuse to disappear somewhere for the entire day. Yet here he was, apparently home before sunset.

@RPWORLDFESS Hands up

Aye \ missing the charm of collaborative writing these days, the excitement of building stories together: from simple coffee dates to plots that slowly unfold into something more. If you're up for writing together, leave a trace and I'll be the one reaching out (F, 01)

Sunday funday

Maybe if I asked to move back to Beverly Hills, he’d finally call for longer than five minutes. Maybe he’d tell me to stay. Maybe he’d tell me to come home. Either way, it would probably be the longest conversation we’ve had in months.

Every time Summer says, “...just like what Mom said,” I catch myself wondering how often Mom talks to her. Maybe it’s because Toronto feels so quiet lately. Dad only calls every now and then, and most days, Mom’s presence reaches me through Summer’s borrowed words.

@92hamptons My salary barely covers a new vinyl record and you expect me to pay for your food?

@Remarquese How could I not when I was also paying for YOUUU da big back

I’m genuinely happy to finally meet Summer (not the season) again after so long, but can someone explain why every outing somehow revolves around her cravings? And why is Dad always so quick to approve them?