Killer Queen | Ben Hardy

11. death on two legs

"Roger?" The words fall from my lips before I can even process the scene before me.
There he is. After six months, I have to ask myself if I'm dreaming. I'm pulled to my feet in surprise, and momentarily forget my task of scrubbing tables.
He's standing there, at the entrance of the diner, with that same white, half-buttoned shirt, that same mop of blond waves, and those same ridiculous, dark sunglasses. Yes, he almost looks the same. It almost seems as if half a year hadn't been stolen from us—a wedge hadn't been driven through our hope of a relationship.
But I search his face and recognize a subtle change. With his sunglasses off, I see the dark circles under his eyes, and notice an expression in his face that I have never known before. It takes me a moment to realize what it is. Remorse. And suddenly whirls of emotions tear through my soul, subduing my mind into incomprehensible gibberish. But one thought rings true at the front of my mind: he left you.
"Danielle—" He takes a step toward me with an outreached arm, as if he wants to pull me into an embrace.
However, I shrink away from his hand, taking two steps back and away from him. His eyes are screaming out that he has a million things to tell me, and I have the sudden urge to let my knees buckle and sink into the floor. But I will my face expressionless, despite the tears threatening to spill from my blinking eyes. "Why are you here?" I interrupt him, with a voice like stone. My tone surprises even me; I lightly flinch at at my harsh words.
"Danielle, I need to talk to you—to explain."
The pain in his voice is almost enough to break me; oh, how good it would feel to give up and melt into his embrace. Instead, I feign a cold shoulder and turn my back to his pleading eyes. "No, get out of here. I'm busy right now."
It's a lie, all of it's a lie. The restaurant is dead: we're the only two in the dining room. But I'm not in the right state-of-mind to have any sort of discussion with him, let alone listen to what he has to say. I pick up a cloth from the table and continue scrubbing, ignoring the eyes that he's drilling into the back of my head. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he'll go away—or better yet, maybe I'll wake up from this awful dream.
But I'm not going to be that lucky.
"Danielle, please." His voice is in my ear and he places two tentative hands on my shoulders. But I only shake my head and refuse to face him. Can't he take a hint?
After a moment of silence, his voice becomes more urgent. "Danielle, I don't have much time."
I blink and something inside me snaps. I spin around and slap his hand away. "You don't have time?" The words fall from my mouth before I realize that I'm practically shouting. "Well I've had all the time in the world. Half a year, actually." I choke out the words as the anger courses through my veins. "Half a year to think about how you abandoned me!"
His hands fall to his sides and his eyes drop to the floor, giving me a chance to push past him. Maybe I should go back into the kitchen, just to get away from this conversation. But, he'd probably follow me, even there.
I get a few steps in toward the door when Roger's hand grips my wrist. "I'm so sorry, Danielle." His grasp isn't harsh, only strong enough to get my attention.
I pull my wrist from his grip, but turn once more to face his entreating eyes. "No. You don't get to be sorry." My tone is still harsh, yet it softens as the pain of those six months comes rushing back to me. "You promised you wouldn't leave, Roger. That was the one thing you knew I was afraid of."
"I know, and that's why—"
"And you don't get to come in here after half a year and act like everything's okay." I cut him off, the anger flooding back to me.
"I know, and I'm not trying to." He pauses for a moment and sighs, before meeting my eyes with a look that could shatter me where I stand. "When the band left, I had my reasons for not keeping in touch—as stupid as they were. I swear to God I will explain everything, but for now, I need you to just listen to my plea." He utters all this as he gently takes my hands in his, a gesture similar to the one I made at the bar one of the first nights we talked.
The memory jabs at my heart as his warm hands wrap around my cool fingers. It hurts to remember those memories: nothing was as it is. Nothing was complicated. I was just along for the ride, enjoying the music and the company of friends. And I was in love.
I keep my hand in his for a moment as I look at our now interlocked fingers. I want so badly to give in, to poison myself with his words and his promises. And follow him—follow him to the end of the earth if I have to. But I can't do that to myself. I can't just throw away six months and disregard the endless pain he put me through.
I sigh, pulling my hands from his. "I told you, Rog, I'm busy." My words are faint, but he acknowledges their finality. He doesn't try to stop me as I turn from his direction.
These wounds are still fresh, but with time—with time, they'll heal.

~•~

author's note:
thanks for reading!
this chapter was cut in half to make it more manageable,
so the good news is the next chapter has already been drafted.
it should be out within the next couple of days!
let me know what you think in the comments! :-)