Chapter Text
The afternoon sun is filtering into the almost peaceful room, bouncing off of the white tiles and blinding me whenever I glance down, a soft smile playing at the corners of my mouth. You’re telling the tale again – the one about how we met as kids, only to meet again almost ten years later.
“I remember it like yesterday. This kid,” you begin, palm meeting my chest with an almost inaudible smack, “walks into homeroom like he’s the shit, right, bandana on and everything.” I cringe at the ‘bandana craze’ period of my life. It’s been a few years since we left high school – we’re twenty one going on nineteen.
Your slightly inebriated boyfriend is splayed next to you, playing with your dark hair absentmindedly. You’ve kept it its natural colour this time around. It suits you, not that I would dare say anything more opinionated than “it looks good” if you asked me. I wouldn’t say that I like the way that when the sun hits it on the right angle it sets off your eyes that appear to sparkle – it’s the light reflecting off them. I wouldn’t say that I like how it’s not one solid colour, unlike when you colour it and you aren’t able to get the low and highlights to show through. I wouldn’t say anything more, because that would mean you’re more than just a friend. “He turns to me, tryin’ to look all cool and tough and says in this high voice ‘do you know where room 21 is?’ We were in room 21.” Your boyfriend lets out a short laugh, nudging my outstretched legs.
“Nice one.” I shrug in response, not particularly interested in your story any more – I’ve heard it a dozen times. The room always changes. Sometimes it’s the science block. Most times it’s whatever age we are at the moment. It’s much easier that way. You continue talking, your voice filling the empty space, lapsing into silence every now and then to take a sip from the bottle in your hands. Your boyfriend continues to laugh, even at not particularly humorous parts of the story. He doesn’t want to listen to your voice. It’s not a stock standard “girl” voice – it has an abundance of inflections and sounds scratchy due to the alcohol drying out your throat.
You’ve passed the stage of our homeroom meeting – it’s back to when we were kids. Ihadn’t fallen for you wasn’t crushing on you back then; you were just another girl, a school yard friend. “We lived next door to each other. I used to hear the most atrocious sounds of a guitar being played after school – he nearly burst my eardrums.” Another white lie – you lived a few streets away. We had met at the park; I had thrown the ball to my dad, only for it to miss him and almost hit you in the head. I had run up to you, apologies spilling from my mouth, and you had tossed the ball back, just as hard. It hit me in the chest. Watch where you throw that, dork. You’d said, no malice in your voice. Our parents had begun talking, leaving us to wage a throwing war.
“We used to walk home together, and he’d lug his guitar over to my place and perform covers of songs.” You meet my eyes this time, secretive smile wrapped on your lips. I stop picking at the sticker around the neck of my beer, it’s my turn to join in.
“First cover,” I say, clearing my throat, “was an old Blink song. She thought I was terrible.” This was another lie, but more elaborate. We had only met once, at the park. Your boyfriend isn’t paying attention any more. He’s nuzzling your neck, not bothering to hide his disinterest. He’s murmuring words into your tan skin, leaving small kisses on your shoulder.
My heart sinks as I watch. I would never disregard a story of yours, never. I clear my throat again, louder this time, and your boyfriend looks over unabashedly. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he was saying. “Sorry, mate.” He says, voice flat. I simply duck my head. You don’t deserve him.
A few minutes later and he stands, saying that he has work tomorrow and needs to finish off some essay. I bite back a smile. He knows he isn’t going to get any reaction out of you. You walk him to the door as I get up and stretch, my back muscles aching as I straighten them – sitting slumped over for an hour or so isn’t a smart idea. I finish my beer in a few mouthfuls, placing the empty bottle on the counter before following you to the entry way. Your voice raises a few notches and you yell, “I said you could leave – goodbye!”
You storm into the lounge, your sock covered feet barely making any noise. I turn the corner and there’s a fire in your eyes; you let out a frustrated yell and throw playing cards across the room. You watch them flutter down, the cards seeming to wink as they contrasted with the dark wall which was cloaked in shadows.
“Playing fifty–two pick up?” My attempt at a joke is shut down by a glare. I detest that guy, I really do. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. “He’s a jerk.” I say, wrapping you in a hug. Your arms instinctively return the gesture, and I can feel you playing with a hole in the back of my shirt. You agree with a small nod before asking,
“Why does your shirt have a hole in it?”
“It’s old. What are you going to do about him?” You pull away and shrug, a weak smile on your face.
“I can’t say I love him or anything that could possibly defend my position.” You chew your bottom lip and spin your nose ring, wincing. You mustn’t have moved it in a few days. “Alex, what should I do?”
Break up is my immediate thought. I mull over it for a few seconds, watching you move over to the couch and sprawl over it. I sit on the floor just in front of your stomach, leaning my head back. “I’m not sure.” I reply finally, but you’re not listening. You’ve pulled out your phone and have dialled. I can only imagine who it would be.
“Anthony.” You say, voice steely. I hear a quiet crackle as he replies. “No, shut up.” Your eyebrows jump together, and you seem disgusted by whatever he’s saying, “I’m breaking up with you – stay the heck away, okay?” More static, but higher in pitch. He seems more alert now, more desperate to keep you. “Goodbye.” You cut him off, relaxing into the furniture.
“Smart decision.” I mumble. A hum meets my ears, and I close my eyes.