May [H.S]

18

Tw: drinking & driving.

Harry
•••

Sur un coup de tête.

The moonlight fell in misty beams over the ever-present glow of the sign, towering and enhancing the foreboding ambiance absorbed in the cool summer air. Nippy to the exposed bits of my neck, up to the creeping flush amongst the tired apples of my cheeks– reeking in evidence of a long day. Those deep, pigmented bags under my eyes spoke more than my voice, warding off the attention from bodies around me. Somehow knowing by just my appearance I wasn't the person to be staring at let alone acknowledged.

Leather-clad and propped on some bench that had paint chipping from it, I didn't exactly look inviting. Sticking out like a sore thumb in the heavily populated area, strangers passed in front of me frequently, back and forth as they greeted the front of the ice cream shop, sticking their heads in the open serving window.

It was lost on me why Meg decided this was the place she wanted to meet. Why she desired seeing me after that altercation earlier I also didn't understand. I seemed to have pissed her off enough– so much so she spent the whole ride back to Rubies in silence, where she then dropped me off, speeding down the road maniacally– so why would she go out and give me the chance to do it all over again? Bestow my two cents onto an already bad situation.

Largely out of character for Meg. I can't say I'm not used to her inflicted cold shoulders, those moments, days, weeks of taciturnity that almost always followed up my reckless remarks. Hell, maybe when I threw her in that water, she hit her head on a rock. That was more plausible than quick-lived forgiveness.

Lazily glancing down at the watch on my wrist, I blow out smoke, feathering my lips open just slightly. The intertwining scent of sugary dairy and cigarette smoke pinches at my nostrils, and though it smells divine even I can feel a sleep-deprived induced headache coming on. Wondering how believable Meg flaking on me would be– let's say I don't exactly have a good chance of seeing her face again tonight. Leaving me waiting for nearly an hour, close to two, and not showing up is certainly something that honey-eyed girl would pull.

Do I deserve to be stood up? Oh, most definitely. I deserve an ice cream cone to the face.

I realize how insensitive my words were, partially. I still don't understand why she got so upset over them. For a normal person, yeah, making jokes about their freshly confirmed deceased father after being presumed dead for months– would be out of line. Except this is the same girl who resented said father and has for a decade. I assumed she hadn't even talked to him in over a year before his disappearance. It wasn't deranged thinking that, I'd seen firsthand how he treated her and how his actions had a lasting effect on her mental health. 

So, fuck me for being anything but distraught? I'm not sorry for how relieved I am that he's out of her hair.

Another crowd of individuals glided past me, huddling around the serving window. I sigh, wandering my eyes from the sugar-crazed strangers to the shadow the large sign casts behind me. Still and tall amidst the whooshing winds from off the ocean, adding to my accumulated chill.

Eyeing the shiny, cherry exterior of my motorcycle, I debate leaving. Coming to the conclusion that I'll feel like actual shit if she does end up showing and determining that I'm an even bigger asshole than she originally thought.

The removed sound of boots on the concrete sidewalk grasps my floaty attention and I draw my eyes over the leather-attired figure, noting how her ponytail feathers out in the scarce wind. She swipes her tongue just slightly, wetting her bottom lip,  "I didn't think you'd show up— after earlier." I could say the same for you.