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Gwen is not uncomfortable in silence. That much is true. In fact, she’s adept at sitting in it, and is the type to relish it when it becomes far and few between.
Furthermore, she should be comfortable. But she’s not.
She wants to blame Trent for it, but she can’t deny the fact she’s guilty, too. She’s just as responsible for the tense atmosphere as he is. It sucks to think about, but somewhere between the number nine, Duncan, Total Drama, and immeasurable factors, they fell apart.
They’ve given time to the wound. It’s supposed to have scabbed over and scarred by now, but it feels more like digging your fingers into the throbbing aftermath—some time after it happened, but not enough to have let it soothe.
“I’m sorry” is the first thing that falls from Trent’s mouth, picking anxiously at his cuticles. He lost the facade of a relaxed guitarist a long time ago, and now he only looks like he’s playing up a desperate imitation of what he once had nailed.
She doesn’t know what to say to that. Not even after so many years. Total Drama has been done. She’s an artist. He’s a well-known musician. And yet she feels sixteen all over again, watching it all crumble in front of an impartial camera lens, a hungry audience breathing down her shoulder.
“You don’t have to be. We were both wrong.”
Trent shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. If she pretends, she doesn’t see the unsteady bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the lack of evenness in his breaths. It’s a bitter kind of irony that a musician can’t hold rhythm.
“Gwen, don’t. Just don’t.”
“Don’t say you were the only one in the wrong, Trent. We both know that’s a load of shit.”
He opens his mouth, closes it. He wonders if he’d rather sing about it. She’d much rather draw out what she wants to say because she’s never been well-spoken, so to say. Then again, it would probably turn out as muddy as her thoughts and feelings over this.
Finally, his mouth settles into a frown. It doesn’t seem to hold anything malicious behind it; it feels more like an admission of defeat—visible in the slump of his shoulders.
He taps his fingers on the table seven times. She waits for the next two, but they never come. “I’m not going to say that, even though the actual Duncan fiasco was technically in World Tour. I just didn’t… Gwen, I don’t want to hear that.”
He licks his lips, pointedly staring at the painting on her wall—a piece she thrifted, depicting a woman dancing in a studio. She’d bought it on a whim, even though it was poorly made. It felt like it fit when she’d first hung it up.
She goes to respond, but he holds his hand up. “I fucked up in Action. There’s no good— there’s no nice way to put that. And you were right it dumping me. I’m not going to say it was right how we went about it, but we were sixteen and had people all over the world supervising us.
“I don’t think there was a way we could’ve gone about it. Not one that Chris wouldn’t exploit, anyway.” He sighs. It sounds more bitter than a laugh would somehow. “I was an asshole for leading you on about who I was, truthfully. And—“
“No, Trent.” She can’t believe he’s even saying half the stuff he is. No, she can believe it. She just knows that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “If anything, I led you on.”
She takes a deep breath, clutching the throw pillow behind her back to alleviate everything. “I was obviously into Duncan at that point, yet I continued to delay actually talking to you about it.”
“Because I was unmedicated and acting like a nut case, Gwen. And don’t say I wasn’t. I used to live my life knocking on shit and repeating numbers under my breath and having my whole day ruined by an untuned guitar string when someone would turn the pegs. I know what I was.
“And, no, you’re right. It doesn’t excuse everything that you did, either, but I just.” He stares more intensely at her painting. He lets out a shallow laugh. “God, I can’t even phrase what the hell I’m talking about. I’m a lyricist, and I can’t fucking speak.”
“It’s all right,” she assures. It doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t even mean it.
“No, it’s not! If it was all right, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation years after we made fucking fools of ourselves on television!”
And she can’t argue against that.
“Maybe we just move past that. It doesn’t have to be forgotten or any dumb shit like that, but we just don’t let anything you did in Action affect us now?”
“We both know that’s not true, Gwen. You’ll still remember me like that, intentionally or not. But I suppose I’ve managed to skirt what I meant to do when we reconnected: I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
It’s still eerily quiet. Even the soft puffs of her own breath—necessary to survive—feel too loud.
The pause is too long. Too uncertain.
“Are we going to try to be friends again?”
She winces after it leaves her mouth. It’s too blunt, too to-the-point. She doesn’t want to beat around the bush, but it feels wrong to go about it this way, either.
“If you want to.”
He stands up, joints faintly popping, and smiles. “Speaking of, I’m going to be meeting up with Cody, Harold, and Justin. At 7:00.”
It’s an olive branch. One that she can’t ignore.
“Are you sure you want me there? I don’t want to intrude.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not even just us. Leshawna, Sierra, and Courtney are also going to be there. Odd group, am I right?”
He notices how she flinches at the mention of Courtney. She’s the one that broaches it anyway. “Everyone from Total Drama is odd.” Then “I guess I have a few more amends to make, yeah?”
Trent’s smile grows. He takes an unsure step forward, arms out, and lets her hug him. “Yeah, I bet you do. I think she may be a bit more receptive after all these years, though.”
Gwen snickers into his shoulder. It comes out more watery than intended. “That’s Courtney you’re talking about!”
“That, I am. But I think she’s always been a little bit more inclined to you.”
He untangles them gently, still smiling. She laughs at the notion. “Right, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“And so am I!”
“Mhm.” He glances at the time on his phone, almost half-past six. “I’ve gotta go; it’s going to take me a minute to go home and wind down.”
“Hey, now, we’re just getting friendly!”
“Yeah, yeah, but they don’t want me showing up looking like this.” He shuffles toward the door reluctantly and throws on his coat. He pauses at her door, hand frozen on the knob.
“Gwen?”
“Yeah?” She can’t make the smile fall from her face.
“Don’t be late; we’ll all be looking forward to seeing you there.”
The door opens, letting a gust of cold wind inside.
“I won’t!” She yells to her already-closed door and empty hall.
Maybe things would go okay.
She doesn’t have much to lose, after all.