"I can't believe I did that." Ian sits on the floor, back against the end of my bed with his face in his hands, while I sit at the headboard of it, reading a book. I feel a little bad for him. Thinking about last night gives me secondhand embarrassment. If I acted like that drunk, I'd probably have trouble showing my face around anyone for a while.
"It wasn't that bad, you were just a little drunk." I say to make him feel better about it. But I know the fact that it was around May makes it worse for him—though it isn't the first time she's seen it—and definitely not the last.
Ian sighs deeply and takes his face out his hands, leaning his head back on the bed to look back at me sitting against the headboard. "I fear that your heart is no longer two sizes too small," Ian's nose scrunches in distaste. "It scares me." I chuckle softly at that. I can't deny that I have—without realizing—become much nicer to Ian. No, I have realized it.
"I need to be a better friend"
I don't know why it took me so long to admit that, or why I spent so long being such a piece of shit to Ian. It's not as if the way I've grown to view the world is his fault at all. There was never a reason for me to take it out on him to begin with, and I realize that now.
"I was just in a shit mood. That's all." He scoffs at my excuse, taking his eyes off me as he leans his head forward again.
"Well, glad that your two year shitstorm of a mood has gotten better. I was starting to think you hated me." The way he says it isn't playful at all or... not as I expected it to be. I'd say it sounded more annoyed, or even resentful— not like him.
I lift my eyes from my book, attention on the back of his head. I expect him to say something else, but he doesn't.
To people who don't know him personally, they might just think that Ian was only hysterical because of how drunk he was. But when I think about it, I still can't shake the feeling that it wasn't just because of May's feelings for Beau—but because of something else entirely.
Instead of asking about it—or his unusual attitude—I just turn my attention back to my book, finally breaking the silence to respond to him. "I could never hate you."
Ian looks back at me, looking as if a thousand different thoughts are running through his head, which makes me even more tempted to ask him the question that's been nagging at me, but I refrain yet again. I shouldn't poke my nose in his business.
After a while, he says, "You're a good liar." He smiles at me before standing up, and sitting on the edge of the bed so his body faces me. "Don't you have work today?" I search his face for a moment, before responding with a long sigh, placing my book on my face.
"Don't remind me," I mumble through the pages. "Should I just call out?" His first response is hurling a pillow at my arm. I lift the book from my face, giving him a look.
He ignores it, giving me his second response. "Don't be an idiot. You know you need the money." It'll always be odd to me when Ian says something sensible. Then again, I guess he's always been sensible. I just never paid any attention to it. It's only occurred to me now that I've made up this foolish version of Ian that never existed, the soul purpose being to protect myself, or so I like to think.
"I know you're right. But it's just..." I pause, remembering how work went last night. "I'm not in the mood." Ian seems to sense something in my hesitation, searching my face. After moments of searching, he looks away.
"Could it be about that new guy you work with by any chance?" My eyes lift to his and when I don't speak right away, he raises an eyebrow.
I sigh before speaking. "No, not entirely. But since we're on the topic of Oliver, I don't think I'll get along with him." It's the truth. He's way too uppity, completely opposite of me, not to mention selfish.
"I don't think I will either. I don't know. Something about him made me want to beat his ass." I chuckle softly.
"You wanna beat everyone's ass." He sends me a smile, not saying another word as he lays back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I look down at him near the edge of the bed, smiling and shaking my head.
Maybe the sound of resentment and annoyance in his tone was just a part of my imagination.
-
I hate the cold. I hate being cold. My least favorite season is finally approaching. Everything looks dead. The trees, the gray sky, even the buildings as I walk the streets seem void of the color they once had, lifeless—much like how I feel.
And I'm only going to feel worse the closer winter comes.
I catch a yawn in my hand as I walk, before fastening the last two buttons on my black button up. I have zero energy today, and am in no mood to converse with drunk customers, but I have to pay the bills somehow. I refuse to spend a cent of that bastard's money, no matter how much I need it.
I stop walking when I reach the outside of the bar, leaning against the wall as I check the time on my watch.
2:30pm
A half hour until my shift starts.
I have time.
I take out my cigarettes and pull one out, beginning to light it. I take the first pull and lean my head back on the wall, my exhale shakier than I expected. I can already feel that this winter is going to be the worst, as if the last month of fall wasn't bad enough.
My mind goes through scenarios of what work might be like today and it causes me to let out a long, deep sigh. As I do, my eyes lift and I see an abnormally expensive looking black car across the street, rather, an SUV. The reason it catches my attention is because in this town, it's rare to see something so flashy.
I nearly drop my cigarette when my eyes catch the sight of familiar, dirty blonde hair, walking out from a side street and approaching the vehicle with such an unfamiliar stride of grace and elegance that I think I might be wrong.
There's no way.
When the man gets to the car, he leans his head down slightly, talking to someone through the front passenger window. I find myself leaning forward a bit too, squinting to get a better look. That's when my cigarette actually falls from my fingertips.
It's Beau, but at the same time it's not. He's dressed in a black suit, a small blue lapel pin secured to his chest. His shaggy hair, usually untamed, is now neat with product. I've never seen this man in my life.
Beau flashes a smile through the window, before walking to the back door and getting inside. It's only when the door slams behind him that I snap out of it, walking toward the street.
"Beau!" I yell, my strides becoming longer and faster.
Three weeks.
This motherfucker has been avoiding me and ignoring me for three weeks, and this is how I see him again—getting into a luxury car—dressed down to the nines?
Something as short as a jog across the street feels like years. I finally make it to the back passenger window, which is slightly tinted, but I see him. He's laughing at something someone in the front must have said. Without even a second thought, I start banging my hand on the window.
"Beau!" His head snaps in the direction of the sound and his full attention is now on me. The moment our eyes meet, his entire face drops, brown eyes wide, not even a hint of a smile left on his lips.
"Roll down the window." I say. He stares at me for a moment, seeming to hesitate. I raise an eyebrow at that. What reason is there to hesitate? My thoughts are so chaotic and jumbled at the sight of this new version of him that I can't keep up with them. There's no thought in my mind that can bring closure to the only question I need answers to—where have you been?
Going back and forth in my mind isn't helping, and the situation is annoying me. My expression hardens as I speak again. "Beau." I say more firmly. "Roll down the window." I repeat, and Beau stares at me for a moment longer before saying something to the driver. And I swear to god the words I read on his lips leave me frozen.
Forget him. Drive.
After saying that, he doesn't even look at me again. The only response I get is the feeling of the car moving forward, causing me to stumble backward—and the feeling of a dull ache in my chest.
