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Bree is almost sure she’s seen this exact bathroom stall with its floor coated in a layer of piss.
Normally, she’d do everything in her power to avoid a school bathroom, but now, on her knees and with her fingers white-knuckling the toilet seat, she finds herself not giving a shit about whatever STDs she’s picking up with her skirt.
Her body tries to force more out of her, but there’s nothing left.
Pain seizes her stomach as she retches once more, yellow bile running down her chin and into the toilet.
It hurts so bad that she doesn’t get a chance to simmer on how disgusting it is.
A choir of voices comes from the entrance of the bathroom.
“It’s a shame Avery didn’t show up.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like she would’ve won anyway…”
“You never kno-”
“Were you going to vote for her?”
“Well, no. But-”
Bree dry-heaves once more.
The voices go silent, awkward almost. Bree prays that no one asks any questions, no one bothers her.
She doesn’t hear from them again as she spits forcefully. She doesn’t hear anything as she regains her composure, or what remains after she flushes most of it down into the sewerage.
She thinks they might have left, as she stands up and exits the stall.
They haven’t.
And there’s no chance of pretending it wasn’t her. There is bile and vomit around her mouth and stuck between the creases of her fingers.
She feels exposed.
She tries to ignore their staring and staggering lack of words as she runs the faucet over her hands.
They leave, and she can hear them whispering to each other the moment they think they’re out of earshot.
“...holy shit, should we…”
“Do we…”
“...no, she’d fucking kill us…”
She tries to avoid thinking about what rumours they’ll spread about her, or how far those rumours would already have spread once she’s finished her work here.
Bulimic Bree.
She tries to pretend her name hasn’t fucked her over.
Allergy Avery.
That one lasted a while. Elliot came up with it… What, freshman year? Given that they’re seniors, Bulimic Bree is probably how she’ll be referred to once they all graduate.
‘Whatever happened to the student council president?’
‘Who?’
‘Bulimic Bree?’
‘Oh! I heard she went to jail or something…’
She tries not to think of Avery, who is standing behind her, watching over Bree’s shoulder at her hands.
Bree does not look into the mirror; she can feel Avery’s warm breath against her neck. Bree knows just how close she is, and she does not need to see it to believe it. She doesn't want to believe it.
She keeps scrubbing at her hands. The vomit has turned red, and she doesn’t want to think about what it is.
She just scrubs harder.
The water is coming away pink, but the stain of it on her hands isn’t going away.
So she scrubs harder.
Her fingers start to sting, and she hopes she is getting somewhere.
She scrubs harder.
Avery is looking at her, and Bree can practically feel the concern radiating off her.
She scrubs harder.
Don’t acknowledge Avery. She is not real.
She scrubs harder.
She is not real. Bree knows where the real Avery is.
She scrubs harder.
And who put her there.
She scrubs harder.
Bree digs her nails into her palms. Her knuckles ache. The water has gone from pink to red.
“Bree.”
Avery catches one of her wrists and pulls it away from the water.
Bree struggles against her grip, but Avery overpowers her.
Avery could have overpowered her if she hadn’t been having an allergic reaction, Bree thinks.
“Bree, stop.”
Avery is not real, but she is quite strong now that the playing field is even.
“You’re hurting yourself.
“No, I’m not,” Bree talks to Avery, but Avery is not here.
“Yes, you are. Stop.”
“I need to-”
“There’s nothing there.”
“There is!”
Bree had turned to look at Avery against her best judgment.
She’s so pretty.
How can something not real be that pretty?
Avery’s hold on her tightens, “Well, now you’re bleeding.”
Bree looks down, and sure enough, tiny crescents of red have collected beneath her fingernails. A thin line runs down the side of her palm and into the water.
Out, damned spot! Out I say!
“It’s okay, we can fix this,” Avery says, letting go of Bree’s wrist.
Bree looks at her own reflection; her face is blotchy, and her eyes are red. There is still bile on her chin.
And Avery is gone.
Bree turns around and is met with nothing.
Avery is not real, but there is now very real blood on her hands that she needs to get rid of.
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
That is more fitting. Bree is not Lady Macbeth.
She had done it with her own two hands.
She committed it.
She is Macbeth, she decides.
On the way back home, Avery appears again.
It happened when she started crying.
She tried to ignore the tears running down her neck and soaking into the front of her shirt, but ended up having to pull over on a desolate side street when the crying turned into full-body sobs, and her tears blurred her vision so much she couldn’t read the road signs.
“Hey, Bree,” a hand on her back, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe, okay?”
Bree lets herself get pulled into someone’s chest, her face nuzzled into a neck.
Avery rubs gentle circles in between Bree’s shoulder blades. She’s warm, Bree notes. Ironic… considering…
Avery holds her tight, murmuring, ‘you’re okay’ into Bree’s hairline. Avery’s hands are soft and careful.
Avery is so patient. Impossibly so.
The sobs eventually fade into hiccups and little shuddering breaths. Bree is painfully aware of how she looks as she tries to discreetly wipe the snot off her face. She doesn’t have a tissue on her, so she resorts to her sleeve. It’s not the most disgusting thing she’s done all day.
She’s sure Avery saw it, but Avery doesn’t comment. She just continues to hold her. Unwavering.
“There you go,” she whispers, “do you feel a bit better-”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Bree feels like crying again, but succeeds in holding it back.
“For what?”
Bree doesn’t respond. She’s too busy holding her breath so the crying doesn’t start up again.
“You don’t have to apologise for…” Avery trails off, a new thought taking precedence over the old one.
Avery presses a kiss to Bree’s forehead.
One hand still on Bree’s back, the other migrated up to cup her cheek.
Finally, Bree lifts her head and registers how close they are.
Avery is leaning so far over the car’s centre console that it must be uncomfortable, but as Bree scans Avery’s face, she finds no indication that Avery is feeling anything of the sort.
Neither of them moves.
Bree looks down at Avery’s mouth.
Avery nods so delicately it might have been a trick of the light.
The kiss is barely there. So tentative and tender, as if Bree is afraid Avery might disappear if she presses too hard.
Avery kisses her back, and suddenly there’s nothing tentative about it. Avery is passionate and certain.
Pulling away, Bree admires the quiet giggle that escapes Avery’s lips. Avery’s smiling, and Bree notices that she is too.
“What?” Avery asks, laughter in her voice.
“Nothing.
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m happy.”
Avery’s eyes widen at that, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Once they come down from their post-kiss high, there is silence.
“So…” Bree starts.
“So.”
Bree looks down at her hands, “What do we do now?”
Avery thinks about it.
“Take me on a date.” She says, smug.
“A date?”
“Yeah… unless you-”
“No, I’d like that. Where to?”
Avery shrugs, “Anywhere, you pick.”
Bree sighs playfully, “fuck… that’s a lot of responsibility. I’m thinking...”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
Bree feigns a hurt gasp.
“Literally anywhere,” Avery reiterates, “as long as you’re with me.”
“Like right now?”
“Yeah, if you’re free.”
“Oh, I can be free.”
Bree runs through every place she can think of in her mind.
She wants it to be nice, quiet - somewhere where they can actually talk… memorable.
Avery watches for a moment before reaching over and taking Bree’s phone. She points it at Bree’s face to unlock it.
“What are you doing…”
“Helping.”
Music spills quietly through the car speakers. Bree doesn’t recognise this song. It’s calm, and the chords pull this weird feeling from her stomach and into her chest, where her heart is pounding. It’s nice. And undeniably Avery.
“Mood music,” Avery smiles, singing along under her breath.
Bree listens.
Her voice is rough around the edges, but so warm and gooey on the inside. She’s not trained, but she’s almost perfectly on pitch.
Bree thinks about this deep fried icecream she had as a kid. One of the best things she’s ever had, to be honest. The memory is kind of fleeting, but it only enhances the imaginary taste when Bree fights to recall it.
“You have a nice voice.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Avery smiles bashfully.
And then she is gone.
Bree had let herself forget for a moment; she wants it to be real so badly.
She wants her to be real.
Bree wants to take it all back. She wants to apologise, rewind time, shoot herself in the head, and kiss Avery again. She wants to kiss Avery again, but properly this time. She wants another chance not to mess things up, and she wants to argue with Avery again. She wants to cut off her hands, cut off her tongue, sew her lips together and hear Avery laugh again. She wants to do something right for once in her goddamn life, she wants to be happy again, she wants to disappear, and feel seen, and to kiss Avery again, and for it not to be so goddamn cold.
She wants frostbite to claim her fingers, or if death really can’t wait, she can take Bree whole.
She wants so much, but if she had to boil it down to three wishes like a genie, she wants to get into Harvard, her parents to be proud, and a chance to go on a date with Avery.
Actually, fuck Harvard, she can achieve that one on her own. Maybe she should replace it with the power to bend space and time.
In another life, maybe they could’ve gone on that date.
They still can if that new wish she thought of comes true. She makes a note to wish for it every eleven eleven, or when she sees a shooting star. Or every time she blows on a dandelion or blows out her birthday candles. Her breath will weave it into the fabric of the universe, and she can still make that date.
Avery would still be here, and Bree could hear the end of the song in that beautiful voice of hers.
Bree starts her car and drives in the company of light guitar and clarinet.
At night, Bree doesn’t sleep.
But that’s nothing new.
What is new, however, is the thoughts circling her head like sharks.
What if they had met in college?
Avery would have sat next to Bree in a lecture, probably late and probably without a pen. She would have tapped Bree on the shoulder, and Bree would have rolled her eyes and handed her one without even glancing in her direction.
Avery would have talked to her after class.
They would exchange phone numbers and grab coffee together.
They would become friends… and then something more?
What if they had started speaking to each other next month?
After all the speeches and campaigning and exams. Bree would be less tired and erratic. Things would have been less tense with her parents, and she’d have been nicer.
What if they had started speaking to each other today?
Just after the election.
If they had gotten close today, just hours after the election, when there was nothing to compete over, none of this would have happened.
Avery would still be here.
Bree knows it is irrefutably her fault.
In another universe, Bree likes to think that she would have made a better choice. Thought things through for another day longer. Gave in to the hesitation seconds before she did it.
Anything.
In another universe, Bree likes to think that Avery is next to her.
Running fingers through Bree’s hair after sneaking in through the window.
Bree would turn around to see Avery’s face. Her eyes would sparkle and stand out against the darkness of the night.
Personal stars. A night light. Bree used to be deathly scared of the dark as a kid.
Avery would laugh and make fun of her, and Bree would scold her for being so loud that her parents might hear them.
Or Avery would be texting her at least, congratulating her on student council president.
Sending her stupid fucking memes and Bree threatening to block her.
In another universe, they’d be discussing long-distance and post-grad plans. They’d be talking about prom, homecoming and the science test on Thursday that Bree is sure Avery didn’t study for.
She’d be helping Avery study, or just berating her for not listening in class.
Avery will not fail that test. In another universe, that’s because Bree's tutoring will be enough to get Avery to pass with flying colours.
In another universe, Bree would still be lying awake, tossing and turning, typing out and deleting ‘what are we?’ over and over.
In another universe, Avery would be helping Bree plan their first date.
They’d spend an hour arguing over where to go, pushing the decision onto each other. Avery would insist she didn’t care, and Bree would pretend to be annoyed but spend three days researching, planning and overpreparing anyway.
Avery would show up at Bree’s door five minutes before the time they agreed on; she would have been standing outside for the past ten. She’d make sure Bree’s parents weren’t able to see them, then she’d pull out a bouquet from behind her back. They'd be lilies, Bree's favourite.
At the end of the night, Bree would kiss Avery goodbye in the car, yet Avery would insist on walking Bree the four yards to her front door. Avery would ask for another kiss goodbye and pout when Bree pointed out she had already done that.
Bree would give her one anyway.
Bree would lie awake afterwards, smiling into her pillow like an idiot. Kicking her feet and twirling her hair.
Then there would be another date.
And another.
Bree is no stranger to wanting.
It always hurts. But this is different.
She dreams of Avery when she finally falls asleep.
She dreams about that other universe. Enters it even.
And for a few brief hours, Bree gets to live in that elusive other universe.
Where she is happy, nothing bad has happened and nothing bad will happen.
In this other life, she has more time.