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tippedbykreider · 3 years

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your love is my turning page | c. kreider

Word count: 17,700 Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, sex, mention of breakdown of previous relationship, mentions of infidelity. Author’s note: This was the first long-fic I ever wrote and to say that I was proud of it is an understatement. I’ve made some minor additions to this and hope you all enjoy it second time around as much as you did the first time. Fic title is from ‘Turning Page’ by Sleeping at Last Summary: Chris Kreider doesn’t believe in fate but a chance meeting in a Manhattan bookstore opens his mind, and his heart, to things he has only ever read about in the books he loves so much.

‘We are asleep until we fall in love’ – Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

Sometimes in life there are moments where everything changes, suddenly and unexpectedly and in ways that make it impossible to be the same person that you were before. It’s a bit like a storm, sweeping in and rearranging your life completely to a point beyond recognition, where everything changes and you’re left with a choice: mourn what was lost or use it as an opportunity to rebuild and come back stronger than before.

That was the dilemma Roseanna Williams faced after the man she thought she’d grow old with turned out to be nothing more than a huge disappointment. She should have seen it coming if she was to be completely honest with herself, years of waiting for him to outgrow what she presumed to be a teenage phase yielded nothing but frustration and a growing sense of impatience. If you asked any of her close friends and family they would tell you that she should have done it years ago but it never was as easy as just walking away, not when it came to the man whom she had been with since the tender age of fifteen. After she’d graduated university and completed her teaching degree, she was itching and ready for them both to take the next step in their relationship, to make more of a commitment, hell, even get married, but every attempt at an adult discussion about their future was met with resistance and a string of excuses. The realisation suddenly began to dawn on her that maybe he was a lost cause and that she was wasting the best years of her life by waiting on him to get his shit together. The final straw came when she’d come home early from a teaching conference and found him in bed with someone she had considered to be a friend. That was when the flood defences failed and all the water she’d been ignoring for so long came rushing in, destroying everything she thought she knew and leaving her shaken to the core and gasping for breath.

It started as a spark of an idea, moving away and getting a fresh start, London perhaps, or maybe somewhere further North. Exeter held too many memories now, the hurt and betrayal burying all of the wonderful times she’d had in the city that had always been her home. She’d discussed it at length with her parents who, while saddened at the prospect of their youngest daughter moving away, encouraged her to pursue whatever would make her the happiest. The spark caught, much like it always did whenever Rosie set her mind to something and before she knew it she was applying for a United States work visa and looking for places to live in New York City. All that was left to do was to pack up her life and trust in the magic of new beginnings.

That was how she ended up in Brooklyn, New York, teaching English Literature at a local high school. It was a different kind of life, one that took her a couple of years to get used to and while Rosie wasn’t quite confident enough yet to call herself a New Yorker, she definitely felt like she had found somewhere that she could call home. That feeling started as a seed, growing roots and leaves every time she would get off the subway at the right stop or find a new coffee shop to try until eventually she could rattle off her favourite places to get an Americano or the best places to get pizza. Her family and friends loved it, naturally, having the perfect reason to come and visit the Big Apple and Rosie loving nothing more than having the opportunity to show off the city she’d grown to adore.

Of course, there were parts of her old life that she missed. How could she not? She missed her family and her university friends. She missed afternoon teas with Devonshire clotted cream and summer days spent at the beach in Torquay. ‘You can always come home, love,’ her mother would say and that was completely true and while a part of her would always yearn for the smell of the sea or the cry of a gull on a soft summer breeze and while her roots were very much planted in Devonshire soil, her heart belonged to New York City.

She’d developed somewhat of a routine during the first couple of years that she’d lived in Brooklyn and it was one that hadn’t changed much, loving nothing more than taking the subway to Manhattan on weekends to spend the day checking out all the small independently run bookstores (when she wasn’t drowning in unmarked papers, of course). This particular late-October Saturday had started much like the others; she allowed herself a well-deserved lie-in after a hectic week of teaching and a bottle of Sangiovese the previous night, savouring her first cup of coffee like it was the first she’d had in months while she set about watering her house plants. A shower that lasted entirely too long, which doubled as a Fleetwood Mac tribute concert that she was sure her neighbours appreciated, was next on the agenda before she finally bundled herself up to face a chilly Autumn day in the city.

She’d stopped off at her favourite coffee shop on the way to the station and chatted with the young barista, Laura, behind the counter, whom she’d grown to know over the months since Laura had started working there. She’d learned that Laura was planning a trip to Europe next Summer and offered some suggestions of places in England to visit, making sure to get her to promise to not just visit London. With her take-out coffee cradled in her hands, the cup serving her well as a much needed hand-warmer, the late-morning had Rosie heading towards Westsider Books, a favourite haunt of hers that she couldn’t help but keep coming back to. She had no reason at all to think that going to that store was going to prove to be another one of those moments that she could look back on as being a defining moment in her story, but with a push of the door, every star and planet aligned that set her on a course that would change her life forever.

Christopher James Kreider was a self-confessed simple man, despite his career choice and the lifestyle that came with it seeming to be anything but. He was incredibly thankful for the certain level of anonymity that came with living in a place like New York; certainly, there were times where he would be recognised and would be stopped for a picture or autograph, but in the sea of a-list celebrities that called the city home, he was just a small fish and was happiest when he was flying under the radar. The kind of life afforded by being a professional athlete playing in the National Hockey League was one that he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to. Sure, he had a sweeping Tribeca apartment that he called home, he had a nice car, he went to work wearing expensive suits and could afford to eat out in the city anywhere he wanted, but the reality of it all was that he was most at ease sprawled out on his couch with a good book and a bottle of wine.

His teammates affectionately called him the hockey Renaissance man, a nod to his impressive pursuits off the ice, but it was never a name that sat comfortably with him. As far as he was concerned, he was just Chris, there was nothing special about him and his ability to deflect praise or compliments was nothing short of reflexive. His days off during the season were few and far between and he was always keen to make the most of the time afforded to him. An early start and cup of coffee usually preceded a quick workout, followed by a shower, a second coffee and a crossword puzzle while he decided how he was going to spend his day. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to stay within the sanctuary of his apartment and read Hemingway until the sun began to dip below the skyline, other times he would venture out into the city and check out the new exhibit down at the art gallery in Soho before finding somewhere quiet to enjoy a good cup of coffee.

The season had gotten off to a decent enough start, the chemistry between the team seeming to grow with each game and Chris hitting his stride early on. He’d just returned from a three game trip in Canada and despite the slight fatigue he was feeling, he was eager to get out into the city. He wasn’t in the market for anything in particular but there was a lot of joy to be found in rummaging through old record shops or second hand book stores, at least in Chris’s opinion anyway. There was something so special about a pre-loved record or book, he thought, each had their own tale to tell and each held a special place in someone’s heart at one point or another. There were barely any new editions of books on his bookshelves, some so tatty and worn that their bindings were stringy and the pages threatened to abscond if held the wrong way.

Chris was a creature of habit and it was something that he would freely admit. He often visited the stores closest to home, not often venturing further than Midtown, but with nothing but time he found himself on the 1 train and headed towards Upper West Side, Westsider Books his destination of choice. The first thing he noticed upon entering wasn’t the towering shelves that stacked books upon books but the unmistakable scent of vellichor, that grassy, almost vanilla aroma that felt a lot like coming home. The owner offered a friendly smile before nodding towards the vast collection of books.

“There’s fiction all down here, poetry’s at the back and non-fiction’s upstairs. Let me know if there’s something in particular you’re lookin’ for, I know there’s a lotta books in here.”

“Thank you,” Chris replied. “Do you have any Russian literature in at all?”

“We sure do, whatever we’ve got is on the third shelf from the back there, on your left.”

“Perfect, thanks a lot for your help.”

Chris offered the man behind the counter a smile and headed deeper into the shop, stopping in front of an impressive looking collection of Russian classics. It was easy to get lost in the volumes on the shelves, flicking through pages of different editions, some of them older than he’d ever seen before. There was one book in particular though that caught his eye, unassuming and inconspicuous enough, nestled between War and Peace and the Death of Ivan Ilyich. He reached out to touch the navy blue leather but was suddenly caught off-guard by the sensation of cold fingers knocking against his own.

“God, I’m so sorry, I was completely in my own world there.”

His eyes flicked to his right towards the source of the voice, soft and feminine with an accent that he knew not to be local. Rosie hadn’t even noticed him, which now that she was taking in his appearance properly didn’t exactly understand how she’d missed him standing beside her. He was well over six foot, she noted, and impossibly broad, but the thing that stood out to her the most about him was the unmistakable kindness in his hazel eyes, a tranquil grove of moss covered trees with their different shades of bark.

“No, no, you’re good. It’s me, big clumsy oaf over here,” he trailed off with a soft laugh, a slight heat rising in his cheeks now that he was really seeing her, with her eyes that were as blue as a summer sky and hair that reflected the colour of the autumn leaves outside.

“Did you want Anna Karenina?” Rosie asked, nodding towards the shelves.

“Oh, um, it’s okay, you go for it,” he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that gave him a kind of softness, a familiarity almost.

“Please, I insist,” Rosie reached for the book and took it from its resting place amongst the other Tolstoy works, handing it to Chris. “I already have three different editions of this, if I took home a fourth I think an intervention would need to be staged.”

Rosie grinned as Chris laughed, the sound full and rich to her ears, while he took the book from her hands and tucked it under his arm.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” He started, his eyes flitting across her features before they settled to meet her gaze. Her grin had faded into a warm smile that reached all the way up to her eyes and she was surveying him with an almost curiosity, one that he found himself matching. “I’m sorry, I know you probably get asked this all the time,” he continued, with an endearing kind of sheepishness that kept the corners of Rosie’s mouth lifted upwards, “but I gotta ask about the accent. I wanna say British but I don’t want to come across like a stereotypically ignorant American if I’m wrong.”

“Oh it’s okay,” Rosie chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “you’re only the third person to ask me today.”

Chris could tell from the sparkle in her eye and the smirk on her lips that she meant no malice in her reply and made an exaggerated cringing grimace in return.

“God, I know. I’m sorry. You must get sick of it.”

“I mean, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked I’d be a very rich lady, but yeah, your ears don’t deceive you, I’m British. Actually from Exeter in Devon specifically, which is like South West England and now I realise that that probably means nothing to you,” she laughed as she caught the slightly vacant expression that had graced his features while she had been explaining her place of birth.

“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I really am a stereotypical ignorant American.”

Rosie responded with a gentle shake of her head as she spoke, “Nah, I wouldn’t say so. I couldn’t tell you the first thing about the rest of the States, it took me longer than I care to admit to just not get lost going two or three blocks down.”

Chris smiled, both at her kindness and the gentle lilt of her accent. “So are you here visiting, or?”

Rosie shook her head again, the auburn waves shaking and falling about her face in a way that had Chris’s smile doubling.

“Well, I’m visiting Manhattan, but I live in the city, been here coming up five years now.”

“Yeah? And you like it?”

Rosie’s smile sparked at the corner of her mouth until it spread like wildfire and lit up the whole of her face. Chris couldn’t help but notice how beautiful it made her look, that kind of smile that was so undeniably authentic and genuine and yet so incredibly rare in a city as big as New York; but there it was, right in front of him and warm like sunshine.

“I love it here,” the affection in her voice clear as day. “It’s so different from anything back home and in the best possible way.”

Chris got the impression from her seemingly deliberate choice of words that there was a story there, but the classic literature aisle didn’t really seem like the time and place to get into it with someone he’d just met, nor did he want to assume that she would even offer that tale to him freely. Instead, he took the book out from under his arm and held it out to her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take this home with you?”

“I’m positive. ‘Live in the needs of the day’ as Tolstoy would say and I don’t really need that book. I’m sure you’ll give it a wonderful home.”

She met his eyes briefly, her stomach flip-flopping at the softness she found there, and gave him a warm smile that matched the one he was wearing. Chris wasn’t sure what had made him feel so bold. Perhaps it was the feeling of being so completely at ease with her, despite not even knowing her name and despite having known her for a mere five minutes, or perhaps it was the gentleness in her eyes. He didn’t spend too much of his time thinking about it as the words were out of his mouth before he could second guess them.

“At least let me buy you a coffee as a thank you.”

“Do you buy all the women you meet in bookshops coffee?” Rosie quipped without missing a beat.

“Damn, you caught me.”

Rosie laughed, easy and free with her head tipped back and Chris knew in that moment that he needed this woman in his life in some way, the sound bright and rich like the first sip of coffee in the morning or the first rays of summer sunshine filtering through curtains. He was still surveying her with an easy grin as she shuffled on her feet slightly, deciding whether she was going to let her head or her heart reign supreme today.

“I don’t usually make a habit of getting coffee with strangers,” the small smile still playing on her lips despite the tentative nature of her words.

Chris instinctively offered his hand out for her to shake.

“Well, I’m Christopher and you are?”

Rosie placed her hand in his, the smile on her face doubling in size at his kindness as she shook his hand, and tried to ignore the way her heart started to race at how warm and easy his touch felt.

“Rosie, or Roseanna if we’re using our Sunday names.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosie,” Chris said, his tone gentler than was probably necessary in the moment but it had Rosie feeling more relaxed in his presence by the second. “See, we’re not strangers anymore.”

“No, I don’t suppose we are. Alright then, Christopher, I accept your proposal of coffee and if you turn out to be an axe murderer then I hope you enjoy the book.”

It wasn’t very often that Rosie let curiosity get the better of her but there was something telling her to surrender to this moment in front of her, to let her heart win for once and throw caution to the wind. There was something about Chris and his aura that made it incredibly easy to ignore that prudent and wary voice in the back of her head that would usually call for rational and cautious thinking in situations such as this one, the voice that is often nurtured during childhood by parents and adults alike to help keep you safe from harm, the voice that would warn you about the dangers of strangers. Chris was a stranger, this was, of course, an undisputed fact, but Rosie didn’t feel like she was in any danger with this man. She guessed that it had an awful lot to do with the genuine warmth that seemed to radiate from him that made her feel less like she was with a someone she’d just met in a book shop and more like she was catching up with an old friend. It was incredibly rare that she felt so at ease with someone, let alone a man she knew nothing about except for his name, but she’d grow to learn that that was just the magic of Chris, his sincerity and kindness always radiating from him like the glow of an open fire on a cold winter’s night.

“I can say with absolute certainty that I’m not an axe murderer,” he grinned. “But if it would make you feel better I was planning on taking you to Irving Farm, y’know, so you can check in with someone if you wanted.”

That simple gesture alone told Rosie all she needed to know about Chris, the fact he was so cognizant of how a woman might be feeling going to get coffee with a man she’d just met. It was that thoughtfulness and that tingle of curiosity and wonder that had her following him to the counter and waiting as he paid for his book before they both ventured back out into the chilly air and towards the café. Making small talk on the short walk there was incredibly easy, the effortless nature of their conversation not lost on either of them and as they sat down opposite each other in a quiet corner of the shop, shedding their coats and scarves, Chris took the opportunity to really appreciate the beauty of the woman in front of him.

She was classically pretty, he thought, with her auburn locks freed from the confines of the scarf she had been wearing and the slight ruddiness to her cheeks from the way the cold air had kissed them during their short walk. But more than that, it was the way her presence seemed to uplift him in a way he hadn’t ever experienced before. Chris was an incredibly practical and logical man and the idea of kindred spirits wasn’t something that he subscribed to, but there was just something about Rosie. It was a sense of familiarity and a feeling often only felt between two people who had known each other for years. It was a feeling that, unbeknownst to him, Rosie shared too, not quite being able to remember a time where she was able to enthusiastically discuss literature at such great lengths with someone.

“So come on,” Chris said over his cup of coffee after they’d settled at a table in a quiet corner of the café. “You were able to quote Anna Karenina from memory, is there a particular reason for that or have I managed to find an even bigger book nerd than I am?”

Rosie smirked as she took a sip from her cup, eyes sparkling as she surveyed Chris. “I am a pretty big book nerd, but no, I actually teach literature.”

Chris’s eyebrows raised as an impressed little smirk pulled the corner of his lips upwards. He set his cup down and clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

“Forgive me for being bold here and by all means tell me to mind my own damn business, but what exactly makes a British literature teacher cross an ocean and put roots down in New York City?”

Rosie paused for a moment, chewing over her words in her mind.

“A vague sense of wanderlust, I guess,” she began carefully. “I don’t know, there was just… a lot of stuff that happened in my life and it felt like a good time for a fresh start while I was still young enough and brave enough to do it.”

“I’m sorry if that was too personal,” Chris looked at her apologetically, the slight flicker of sadness that had appeared in her eyes too prominent to ignore. “I didn’t mean to bring any painful memories back for you by prying.”

“It’s absolutely fine. All the diversity, all the charm and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade, right?”

“You really love that book, don’t you?” Chris asked her softly, recognising the quote from the book currently sitting in the brown paper bag by his feet immediately, and with a gleam in his eye.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Rosie replied. “It’s probably up there with Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Pride and Prejudice and For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“You like Hemingway?” Chris’s eyes crinkled with his grin and shone with excitement as she nodded in agreement. “I love Hemingway,” he added. “He’s easily my favourite author.”

Rosie leaned forward in her seat and rested her arms on the table with her cup still cradled in her hands, Chris mirroring her action, like two school children about to share a secret.

“I love the beautiful simplicity of his writing. It’s direct but without losing any of the emotion or feeling. Like, don’t get me wrong, Russian literature and authors like Tolkien are wonderful and they certainly have their part to play, but sometimes there’s just no need for pages and pages just to get a point across. That’s the beauty of Hemingway, the straightforwardness of it.”

“Yes!” Chris exclaimed, his face lighting up. “That’s exactly it. Take The Old Man and the Sea as an example, that book is what? Twenty-seven thousand words? But the feeling and the message that he’s able to get across, it’s amazing. God, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve read that book.”

“A favourite of yours, then?”

Chris nodded as he picked up his mug. “Without a doubt, followed closely by For Whom the Bell Tolls and An Immovable Feast.”

He punctuated his statement with a wink and a smile, savouring the way Rosie’s face would ignite with pure joy as she laughed.

“Perhaps we should compare notes,” she mused behind her coffee.

“Is that you saying you wanna meet up again?” Chris asked, a cocky grin on his face.

“What if it is?” She countered quickly, a twinkle in her eye that had Chris’s heart thundering in his chest.

“Then I think you’d better take my number.”

The weeks passed and autumn collapsed into winter, the first frosts clinging to everything and covering the city in opaline glitter. Rosie’s schedule had begun to slow following the initial insanity of the beginning of the academic year as things started to wind down for the holidays. She’d spent a lot of her free time preparing for her annual trip home to England to spend Christmas with her family, something that she looked forward to all year. Whatever time was left was spent reading or catching up with Chris, who had been equally busy with his work as a professional hockey player. He’d mentioned this to her briefly and in passing during their phone calls, which certainly explained why his schedule was often so all over the place, but the concept was so alien to Rosie that she didn’t feel the need to pry further. Growing up in Devon meant that her exposure to a sport like ice hockey was next to nothing, her knowledge extending as far as movies such as The Mighty Ducks would afford. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t know anybody who played sports professionally in any capacity and so while she was intrigued by Chris and the story behind how he came to be in such a career in a city like New York (knowing him to be from Massachusetts originally), she also knew that he was so much more than all of the stereotypes she’d heard associated with professional athletes.

He wasn’t a big, dumb jock, far from it actually. Chris was incredibly intelligent, philosophical in ways she admired so much but with an endearing and quick sense of humour. His thirst for knowledge and appreciation for the world around him was unlike any she’d ever seen and it somehow made him more handsome than any of his classically good-looking physical features. There was an intrigue, of course, surrounding him and his job, but Rosie also knew that he would offer that part of himself to her in time and when he felt most comfortable doing so. She imagined that he didn’t always get to have the luxury of authentic meetings with people who didn’t already know about him and his job, and for all the lovely moments he’d already given her in their growing friendship, she wanted to pay him back in kind by not forcing anything on him that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about.

It was incredible really, how easy it was for her to fall into friendship with Chris, made only easier with each discovery of a new shared interest. Their texts would often consist of them sending things the other might find interesting such as a new book or a new song to listen to. Hearing from him was something that she found herself looking forward to, especially appreciating when he would take time out of his day while he was away from home to check in with her and catch up.

As the end of the semester creeped closer, Rosie found herself surrounded by gifts she had already wrapped ahead of her trip home and a small pile of clothes, the open suitcase on the bed still empty despite her best intentions. She always found packing incredibly dull (although admittedly not as bad as unpacking once she returned to New York) and would often preoccupy herself with anything and everything to avoid doing it, which always resulted in a stressful last-minute packing situation that she was keen to avoid this year. She stood with her hands on her hips as she surveyed the situation in front of her, deciding the best way in which to go about organising her suitcase, when her phone vibrated against her dressing table. Unable to contain the flicker of a smile that tugged at her mouth as she saw the Caller ID flash with Chris’s name, she answered.

“Hey, you.”

She could hear what sounded like a group of very rowdy men in the background in what she could only assume was a bar.

“I need you to help settle a debate.”

Rosie smiled as she cradled her phone between her cheek and her shoulder, using her free hands to pick up a pair of jeans and place them into the suitcase.

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh it is and we’re at a deadlock over here so your opinion decides it, I hope you can handle that kind of pressure,” Chris teased.

“Oh, Christopher, I was born ready.”

“Alright, but this is like legit serious stuff.”

“Out with it, Chris,” Rosie laughed.

“Crunchy or smooth?”

“Excuse me?” Rosie asked with an incredulous look on her face that she knew Chris would’ve laughed at had he been able to see her.

“Peanut butter,” he clarified. “Crunchy or smooth?”

“Wow,” Rosie deadpanned. “And here I was thinking you were about to ask me something incredibly philosophical.”

“Oh come on, Ro, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“I suppose if I had to choose, I’d probably go with smooth.”

“Ha!” Chris exclaimed, causing Rosie to jump. “She said smooth, looks like you’re the one with the weird peanut butter preferences, Foxy.”

Rosie furrowed her brow at the incoherent shouting and cheering in the background as she put more clothes into her suitcase.

“I’m so confused right now.”

She listened as the sound of raucous chatter faded into a faint buzz and Chris’s voice came back through the speaker clearer yet softer than it had been before.

“Sorry about that, the guys can get a little excitable sometimes.”

“Rookies had too many beers?”

“Yeah,” Chris breathed. “Something like that. How’re you doin’ anyway? Things settled for you at work?”

“Yeah,” she replied softly, perching herself on the edge of her bed, careful not to knock any of the small wrapped packages onto the floor. “I got all of those papers turned round and the results were actually kind of encouraging, which was nice.”

“That’s probably because they’ve got a good teacher.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Rosie blushed, thankful that he couldn’t see the interesting shade of pink her face had turned.

Chris’s reply was unexpected, somehow managing to knock her back a bit with the sincerity and softness in his tone that seemed more intimate than perhaps their current level of friendship afforded.

“I mean it, Ro. I know you know your stuff. They’re lucky to have someone like you teaching them.”

His words hung in the air around Rosie for a few seconds while she processed them, or rather, while she started to analyse the tenderness in his tone that she was sure she hadn’t imagined. He didn’t give her too long to get lost in it though as he was speaking again before she had a chance to truly unpack her thoughts.

“So things have settled down for you, yeah?”

“Um, yeah.. Yeah. I’ve just been packing for my trip back home,” Rosie replied, picking up one of the small gift-wrapped boxes and examining it for no particular reason.

“Right, of course. When is it you fly?”

“December twenty-first, fly back into JFK on the fourth of January.”

“I’ll be in California when you get back,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “But it’d be great to see you before you go to England. Maybe dinner or coffee?”

“That would be really nice, Chris,” the smile evident in her voice to Chris even through the phone.

“Great, we’ll arrange something once I’m back in the city at the end of the week.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Chris hesitated, not quite ready to say goodbye but knowing that he should probably get back to the others and leave Rosie to the rest of her evening. He knew he had to though, even if it did make his chest ache for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

“I’ll let you get on with your packing,” he half-sighed.

“Please don’t feel like you need to,” Rosie replied with the faintest hint of a plea.

“I do because if I don’t you’ll never finish packing your suitcase.”

There it was, that easy teasing that had become a defining feature of their friendship in just the few weeks they’d known each other and had managed to shift the atmosphere between them from something that neither could quite put their finger on to one that was much more playful and familiar.

Rosie groaned exaggeratedly, earning her a hearty chuckle from Chris.

“But I hate packing,” she whined.

“Welcome to being an adult, suck it up, Buttercup.”

“You’re mean.”

Despite her words, Chris knew that there was no truth in them and he also knew that she herself didn’t believe them, which made the playful back-and-forth banter between the two of them come easily.

“No, I’m Chris.”

“Oh my god!” Rosie laughed, exasperated. “I’m hanging up now, goodbye!”

Chris’s rich chuckle was the last thing she heard before she ended the call and tossed her phone onto her pillows, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of his humour before turning her attention back to the pile of clothes by her suitcase.

Christmas went as quickly as it came, passing in such a blur that it had Rosie questioning if she’d had any time off at all. It didn’t take her long to settle back into the groove of things though, it never did, and by the time the frosts of winter began to thaw, the warm glow of the festive season was nothing more than a cheerful memory. Much like the first beautiful petals of spring, Chris and Rosie’s friendship continued to blossom.

Rosie would have been lying if she said that she didn’t wish their schedules would match up more. A particularly busy January for Chris meant that they hadn’t had chance to meet since just before Christmas and it had Rosie wondering just what exactly Chris’s job entailed. It wasn’t really something that had come up during their phone calls and it was something that she felt deserved to be done face-to-face rather than over a text message, because truth be told, she didn’t have the first idea when it came to ice hockey. Keen to know more about the man that was fast becoming somebody she considered to be a close friend, she resolved to ask him the next time they met for coffee.

“So are you ever going to tell me about this big, shiny career of yours or am I supposed to just keep thinking you’re some James Bond of professional hockey,” she mused as she broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and popped it into her mouth.

Chris blushed slightly as he took a drawn out sip of coffee.

“I mean, yeah, sure. What do you wanna know?”

He set his cup down and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, the flicker of nervousness extinguished quickly by the kindness that rested within her eyes.

“Well,” she started. “I believe I’ve mentioned before that the only hockey I knew of before meeting you was the field hockey they made us play at secondary school. So, everything I guess? Oh, and I’m going to need you to explain like I’m five.”

Chris couldn’t help but chuckle at the good-natured smirk on her face and ran a hand along the stubble at his jaw.

“Alright, well. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to start from the top. I played hockey in high school, then went to Boston College, they have a really good collegiate hockey programme there and it’s a good school to boot. I got drafted in 2009 by the New York Rangers then I signed my first contract with them in 2012, been here ever since.”

“So you must be bloody good at hockey then,” Rosie said after swallowing her coffee which made the pink tinge to Chris’s cheeks even more prominent.

“I mean, I’m not terrible.”

Rosie grinned at him and at his humility which she had come to know as being one of Chris’s prominent traits. “And your schedule? I know it’s a bit mental but what does an average day look like for you?”

“That depends,” Chris replied. “Are we talking an off-day? Game day? Away trip?”

“All of the above?” Rosie laughed.

“My days off I still like to get a work-out in, even if it’s just a small one. But other than that? I don’t know, maybe meet incredible women from Devon in bookshops?”

It was Rosie’s turn to have her cheeks flush, especially with the way Chris was looking at her with an unreadable look in his eyes. Chris continued though, despite the thundering in his chest at how beautiful she looked in that moment.

“Game days I’ll usually get up, go to practice. I try and take a nap in the afternoon before I have to go down to the Garden to get ready for the game and it’s much the same if I’m away on the road. We usually practice before we travel to wherever it is we’re headed.”

“That sounds incredibly full-on.”

“It is,” Chris agreed. “But it really makes you appreciate the time at home and the moments of stillness. Why’d you think I love getting lost in a good book so much?”

“Because, in the words of Dr Seuss, ‘the more you read, the more things you’ll know. The more you learn, the more places you’ll go.’”

Chris looked at her softly, a warm smile on his face. “Spoken like a true teacher.”

“So come on then,” she blushed, steering the conversation away from herself and back to him. “You went to Boston College, right? What did you end up studying?”

“Communications,” Chris said as he finished taking a sip of coffee. “I uh, it was really important to my mom for me to finish my degree so I kept plugging away at it even after I went pro.”

“Wow,” Rosie looked at him, clearly impressed. “That’s incredible, Chris. I mean, getting a degree is a hard enough slog when you’re doing it full time, but to do it while you’re travelling here there and everywhere? That’s no easy feat.”

It was Chris’s turn to blush now, too humble and too modest to be able to accept the praise Rosie was giving him.

“I knew how much it meant to my mom and I just wanted to make her happy, that and I was too stubborn to not finish something I’d started.”

“Your birthday is the end of April, right?” She said rather suddenly but as if something had clicked in the back of her mind.

“Yeah, April 30th. Why? You been googling me?”

“Oh it’s nothing really,” she said quickly, face flushing and suddenly aware of how stupid it would sound to him if she actually said it out loud. “And for the record, I haven’t googled you, I just remembered you mentioning your birthday last time we met up.”

“Nah, you can’t just do that,” he chuckled softly. “Come on, what were you gonna say?”

“Well,” she started, her fingers and eyes finding the coffee cup in front of her, anything to avoid the part where he looked at her like she was mad. “I was just gonna say that you really are a typical Taurus.”

Chris leaned forward in his seat, hands settling just shy of hers but the almost contact enough to make her skin spark.

“That so?” he mused. “You big into your astrology?”

“No, well yes, sort of,” she rushed and Chris could tell that she was almost ashamed of the admission. “I don’t read magazine horoscopes or anything like that because they really are a load of bollocks. But natal charts and stuff like that? I find them totally fascinating. I um, I’m kind of into crystal healing, I sage my apartment, I know it’s nuts.”

“No it’s not,” Chris took her hand then, the need to reassure her and ground her in a moment where she felt vulnerable and exposed. “Is it something that I believe in personally? No, not really. But truthfully I don’t know anything about it either. If it makes you happy then it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Maybe you could tell me more about it over dinner or something?”

Rosie looked at him thoughtfully, so appreciative of him in that moment and that ineffable gift of his to make her feel valued and listened to. It was that and all the other wonderful little facets of himself that he was showing her that had her agreeing to his proposal of dinner. She thought about the level of bravery that it must have taken for him to talk about that other side of his life, the side that she knew nothing about, no matter how small or trifling it might have seemed to anyone else. While she might not have had the first clue when it came to the sport or could even truly comprehend what Chris’s life was like, she understood that it must be incredibly difficult for somebody in his situation to forge true and meaningful relationships with people, friendly or otherwise, because when it feels like someone you have just met thinks they already know everything about you, it’s incredibly hard to let the guard come down and let people get close. That is what Chris appreciated the most about Rosie, though, the fact that she hadn’t the faintest idea who number 20 of the New York Rangers was. Every conversation they’d ever shared and every question she’d ever asked came from a genuine and altruistic desire to get to know him better. Even now, as she encouraged him to share that other part of him, that so many others defined him by, it came only from a place of pure and innocent curiosity. She asked about his job much in the same way she would ask an accountant or doctor about theirs.

Being able to have that conversation with her about his life and his job only served to strengthen the bond that they shared and he was incredibly thankful for Rosie’s understanding and willingness to fit her schedule and life around his. As the months passed and summer fast approached, Chris found himself for the first time reluctant to escape the stifling heat of the city after the season had ended. He was enjoying being able to spend more time with Rosie now that the school year had come to a close and he was shocked to learn that even after living in the city for close to six years at that point, she still hadn’t explored all of Manhattan. Their days were filled with walks around the West Village, Midtown or Tribeca and having lunches at tiny hole-in-the wall cafés where they would show each other the books they had picked up in whatever shop they’d found themselves in that morning.

It was that time shared together that made it incredibly easy for Rosie to become a stable fixture in Chris’s life with evenings spent at each other’s apartments having dinner and sharing wine. Rosie had learned quickly that Chris was a capable cook and Chris loved nothing more than when Rosie would cook pasta for him, even if it wasn’t exactly his nutritionist’s dream. It was easy to relax in that kind of way around her, forgetting the strict food regime every once in a while to really savour the beef ragu she made that he loved so much, always washed down with a couple of bottles of Sangiovese shared between them and finished with a homemade tiramisu. It was wholesome, much like she was with the softness of her curves and her insouciant attitude when it came to her looks. That was not to say that she didn’t make an effort, that wasn’t the case at all, for she would always look so put together and incredibly beautiful whenever Chris would see her, but she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t think twice about letting herself indulge in a slice of cake with her coffee or get too hung up on the calorie content of a pasta carbonara, which was a quality that Chris found to be both incredibly refreshing and endearing.

The natural quality of their relationship should have made it incredibly easy for Rosie to give in to those feelings she found beginning to settle in her chest. Chris was a wonderful man, that much was undeniably true and it should have been simple to confront the ache she felt whenever he went away. But if there was one thing Rosie had learned in her life, it was that if you expect too much, if you put people on pedestals that were too high, you would find yourself being disappointed. That was a simple fact of life. People were just that, people, capable of making mistakes. They were not divine beings, no matter how much we saw them as such through our own eyes. It was that idea alone that startled her; that a man such as Chris could be capable of disappointing her by the pure reasoning of the human condition and that was a thought that she couldn’t bear. So she pushed it down, down and down until it was quieter than a whisper. But even whispers can’t be ignored forever, and so with each comment from Chris’s friends about how happy he was since meeting her or each time her skin would spark at the feeling of his hand on the small of her back, the whisper grew, growing and growing with every team event she attended on his arm or every party he asked her along to, until it was a shout.

Relationships had never been something to come easy to Chris, he was too careful and too private; the gnawing feeling in his stomach that told him there was always some ulterior motive was often too arresting to ignore. It should have frightened him, the way Rosie came into his life and smashed through every wall he’d ever built without even doing much at all, but it didn’t. Rather than look at all the bricks and the rubble and be unnerved by the ease in which she was able to coax his vulnerability out of him, he found himself inspired, determined even, to build something truly beautiful with her. Chris knew that he would have to find a way to navigate these feelings with her, cognizant of the need to not throw her into the deep end and shock her system. Rosie deserved better than that because this wasn’t just about him and his feelings, it was about them and their relationship, what it was now and what it could be.

She was brilliant, in every way a person could be, beautiful and with a passion that glowed like the fiery tresses of her hair under a New York sunset. She was bold and sharp as a tack, keeping him on his toes in a way that no one else had ever been able to and he was sure that no one else would ever again. It was late night conversations where they were three bottles of wine deep talking about philosophy and ethics or her reading silently while he played guitar, it was listening to Pearl Jam with her whenever she cooked or Billy Joel when they were curled up together on the sofa, debating whether Radiohead or Nirvana was more influential in the grunge music scene. Hell, it was even looking up his birth chart, even though he didn’t believe in astrology, because there was just something about the way she said ‘You’re such a typical Sagittarius moon.’ Her warmth and her kindness always managed to ground him in moments where he would feel himself slipping, as sure as the moon rises and sets each night, especially once the season had restarted and those niggling insecurities would rear up and settle heavily in his chest, and yet he could tell that she never really knew the exact power that she held. She had his heart completely, whether she was aware of it or not and that was something that Chris hoped would never change. She’d slotted into his life like she had always belonged there, like she had always been there and that feeling only seemed to grow inside of Chris with every dinner they shared with his friends and every time he would see her face in the stands of MSG.

The week before Christmas brought an uncharacteristically early winter storm to New York unlike any Chris had ever seen throughout his whole time living there, forcing the city to a standstill and grounding flights, which meant that for the first time since moving to the States, Rosie wasn’t going to be home for Christmas. The idea of her spending the holiday alone in her apartment made Chris’s heart ache and so that was how Rosie ended up in his Tribeca apartment on Christmas Eve, bundled up with him on the sofa under a blanket, each with a mug of homemade mulled wine. The Muppet’s A Christmas Carol played quietly through the tv, one of Rosie’s Christmas Eve traditions that he would never dream of denying her, although, no matter what he would later admit to, he spent more time observing the gentle expression on her face as she got lost in the nostalgia of it all than he did actually paying attention to the screen. She felt him though, not even needing to take her eyes off the movie to know that he was watching her.

“You’re missing all the good bits,” she smirked.

“It’s okay, I’ve read the book. I know what happens.”

There was a slight grit to his tone that Rosie couldn’t quite place but crawled under her skin and kindled a small flame in her stomach all the same.

“But there were no Muppets in the book.” She turned to face him then and took in the expression within his eyes, darker than she’d ever seen them before. “Kermit really brings Dickens’ story to life.”

“I mean, Beaker steals it for me but we’ll agree to disagree.”

The air thickened around them and Rosie took a long sip of her wine, longer than perhaps she should have, but she needed to swallow away the tightness in her throat from the way Chris was looking at her. Like planets to a sun, Rosie found herself drawn to him, suddenly feeling him everywhere despite the fact they were at opposite ends of his couch. It was that gravity that had her shuffling towards him, crawling into his space in the same way she had crawled into his heart. He was warm, she thought, comfortingly so and the worn hoody on his body felt soft and had the familiar, soothing scent that was so uniquely Chris. Perhaps that is what had her curling into his side and resting her head on his shoulder and perhaps that new-found closeness was what had him pressing his lips into her hair.

There was no way either of them could deny what this was between them, the spark too bright to ignore. Rosie knew that they weren’t just friends, she knew that and she knew that Chris felt it too, that was why his face was turned towards hers, his lips impossibly close so that all she needed to do was tilt her head and give in to what her heart was crying out for. But her head was a cruel mistress indeed and it was that irrational but crippling fear of eventual disappointment that made her clear her throat and scoot back a shade, giving herself some much needed breathing room.

Chris exhaled quietly, the deflation leaving him on the breath. It was almost frustrating how close they were, the finish line within touching distance and yet they always seemed to stop short of it. Chris was there, he was there waiting and willing her to take those last few steps and cross it with him but he knew that he couldn’t force this, nor did he want to either. She had to want it for herself and Chris knew, as he looked at her sitting there chewing on her bottom lip with her brows knitted together in pensive thought, that she was worth the wait, even if it took a lifetime.

The post-holiday back to work rush was one that was felt universally. Those first few weeks always seemed to feel as though there was never enough hours in the day to get everything done and it was no different for Chris and Rosie, both caught up in their jobs to really sit and digest the moment between them at Christmas. Christmas Day had been incredibly busy with Chris hosting a couple of the younger players for dinner and no sooner had the festivities ended he was packing a bag ready to depart for Washington the following morning. They both knew that they had a lot of things to discuss, because that’s what adults did, they talked about their feelings in a healthy and open way, but as the busy-ness of their schedules ramped up, the hours slipped away and turned into days. Days spanned into weeks and weeks turned into months and before either of them knew it, the moment seemed so distant in the rear-view mirror, that it almost felt weird to bring it back up.

The hockey season ended for Chris some time during May, the Rangers making it as far as the second round of the playoffs but unable to close it out after seven hard fought games. The disappointment sat heavy in his chest, much like it always did after losses like these, but he would have been a fool not to notice the way that it didn’t hang all about him in the way it had previous years. Of course, the wound still cut deep but without the festering ache of poison and he knew the antidote was the woman who had swept into his life nearly two years prior.

It was remarkable really, how she came into his world like that. It was an event that Chris had always described as being purely serendipitous but the longer he spent with Rosie, the more he began to wonder if there was something else at play, hell, even fate perhaps. He had prided himself on being a shrewd man, his practicality something that had always defined him and guided his thoughts and actions, but whenever he thought about them and their relationship, he had to believe that it was more than just some happy accident. Rosie was pure magic, in every sense of the word, always having an uncanny ability to know what he needed before he even did and making him relax in ways he had never previously allowed himself to. It was cliché to say, but Chris genuinely believed that he had never lived until he met her and slowly, over the course of the last year, maybe even longer, the love songs on the radio made a little bit more sense and every love story he’d ever read sat a little bit differently in his heart. He knew that he was going to have to find a way to truly make her his, because despite all of the times where he felt like he could’ve just grabbed her face and kissed her, despite all of the unspoken feelings that had surfaced at Christmas, and despite the fact that they hadn’t yet managed to talk about them, the dynamic between them both after their almost kiss hadn’t changed at all except in the small way that he found himself having to stop himself from holding her in the way that he wanted to more often than not.

He thought about the one night she’d almost burst with excitement over their dinner at her apartment when he told her he had finally sat down and read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, remembering the wind-scattered waves in her eyes and so sure that if anyone was brave enough to enter their depths, all else would blur and they would fall so deeply in love that they’d choose to stay there, no matter what, because he knew for certain that he had befallen that very fate. He recalled thinking that if that was the last thing he was to ever see, he would surely die a happy man. She had recited her favourite quote to him that he thought to be beautiful at the time but now hitting him like a freight train and knocking all of the wind out of his sails. It crawled through his skin and into his veins until he felt it coursing through his body until it had made a home within his very soul:

‘Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body… for that is just being in love, which any of us can convince ourselves that we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away.’

It was those words that had his feet carrying him to his car and those words that had him driving from his apartment to her home in Brooklyn and it was those words that had him standing outside of her front door ready to offer his heart to her. He knocked, more out of habit than anything, the key she had given him a few months ago being turned over between his fingers as he waited and the anxiety beginning to rise with each second that passed without her appearing at the door. He exhaled before finally putting the key into the lock, certain that she was home despite the fact that his visit was unplanned and unannounced.

“Rosie?” he called out into the hallway. “Are you there?”

The silence was unsettling and completely uncharacteristic, made worse by the fact that her car was parked outside in its usual spot and the fact that he could’ve sworn she’d mentioned during their phone call the night before that she was planning on having a day at home to do laundry and catch up on all of those less-important chores she didn’t have the time to do during the school year.

‘Maybe she’s not home after all’, he thought after a couple of minutes without a reply, more to soothe his own anxiety more than anything else. ‘She’s obviously decided to go out for a walk somewhere. That must be it.’ He was just about to turn away and leave, suddenly aware of how intrusive his presence in her home was when she clearly wasn’t there, when he was certain he heard her voice call his name.

“Rosie?”

A sob drifted down the hallway, muted but no less full of raw pain and anguish that had his legs carrying him towards the sound in big, long strides until it brought him to her bedroom where the door stood slightly ajar. He slowly pushed it open with an exhale of a breath he hadn’t felt being held within his lungs and his heart lurched at the sight of her curled up on her bed sobbing into her pillow. To go to her was instinctive, his soul called out to hers in a desperate attempt to soothe whatever pain she was in and he found himself kneeling at the side of her bed with his long fingers smoothing back the titian strands that had fallen into her face and clung to her tears.

“Ro, what happened?”

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him, in fact, and so he moved onto the bed, gathering her up into his arms and held her close to his chest while he rubbed circles on her back, murmuring softly into her hair to try and still her sobs. He felt the way she clung on to him like she was drowning and he was the life-preserver and pressed gentle kisses against her forehead until her crying was no more than quiet sniffles.

“Rosie, sweetheart, talk to me. What happened? Are you okay?”

“My grandma,” she choked out against the fabric of his t-shirt. “My grandma died.”

Chris closed his eyes and exhaled as the second wave of tears took her, holding her steadfast against him and saying nothing other than reassuring her that he was there for her. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that for, with her still impossibly close to him long after she’d finished crying herself hollow, until after the tears had dried and all that was left was the crippling deadweight of grief. It was Chris that spoke out into the new but deafening silence, his voice barely audible and a little rough from his own emotion that sat threateningly high in his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Rosie…”

The tiny exhale that passed Rosie’s lips had Chris’s heart breaking in two for her. Her reply small and full of defeat. “She’d had dementia for a while… Didn’t really know who any of us were,” she sniffled, dangerously close to losing it again. “Every time I went back home it was like she had to learn who I was all over again. I know that this was the kindest thing to happen but-”

Chris kissed her forehead as she choked back a sob, a wordless assurance that she didn’t need to say another word and a quiet understanding of the pain and emptiness that she was drowning in.

“When are you flying home?” He murmured softly.

“I’m going to try and get a flight home for tomorrow, Thursday at the latest.”

“It’s gonna be expensive to try and get something that short notice, Ro.”

“That’s why I have savings,” Rosie gave a small, almost robotic shrug as she wiped her face, the emotion quickly being forced back down into her stomach as she turned her focus towards the things that she could control to keep herself from spiralling into hysterics again. “In case of an emergency.”

“Let me pay for your flight home,” Chris offered. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”

“You know I can’t accept that, honey.”

Chris had been friends with Rosie long enough to be familiar with the fact she often used terms of endearment whenever she was talking to him, but even now, especially now, with all those feelings of complete clarity about her and about them and their relationship that sat in his chest, it still managed to knock him back a bit and make his heart swell even in a moment as awful as this one.

“Why not?”

He knew that this was a situation where he shouldn’t push too hard, that she would either pull away from him or direct all of that grief and emotion his way, like a cornered animal seconds away from deciding whether to fight or bolt. He knew he shouldn’t push this but he needed to do something, the overwhelming demand coming from his heart to make this right and fix this for her too much to ignore.

“Because I’m not your problem, Chris,” Rosie said, completely deflated. “Because this doesn’t need to be your problem.”

“I want to help, Ro, please. Please let me help. Please let me help fix this.” He was pleading with her and while a part of Rosie understood his desire to make this better for her, the swirling hurricane of emotions inside of her was reaching a fever pitch and, unable to make sense of it all, she found herself directing her howling gales towards the one thing she should have been holding on to.

“This isn’t something you can fix, Chris! You can’t fix this, you can’t make this right and you can’t bring her back!”

She stood with her fists balled tightly, the pain on her face as she sobbed and the realisation that she was right cutting through Chris like a knife. He had never been one to lose his nerve in a crisis, always the dependable one, always the stoic one. He was the guy people could rely on when things were shitty and it was something he prided himself on, but seeing her in front of him, shattered and in agony, knowing that he would have to sit this one out until she’d had a chance to process everything, left him feeling weak and powerless.

He watched her in stunned silence, unable to articulate feelings that he couldn’t make sense of. She was standing no more than three meters away from him but the distance between them felt like it stretched light-years. He couldn’t let her go to England with that hanging between the two of them, that ocean that would separate them felt like she would slip into another universe entirely and leave him with too much uncertainty about how things would be once she got back to New York. She didn’t give him a choice, though, her voice sounding abstract and unlike her own as she spoke into the void between them.

“I’m sorry, I just… I think I need to be alone right now. I need to wrap my head around this and it,” she paused for a moment, a shaky sigh filling the space. “It’s not fair on you for me to throw my emotions at you like this.”

“Rosie,” he spoke her name like a prayer, an oblique supplication that she heard but couldn’t accept.

“Please, Christopher. I know that you just want to help and, Christ, I appreciate you so much but I can’t accept your money, that’s just not my way, and I need to process this in my own way. I promise you though, I’ll let you know when I’m leaving for the UK and I swear that I’ll keep in touch.”

He hated it, all of it, but he loved her and he knew that she needed this, no matter how much it killed him to have to let her do things her own way. So that’s how he found himself nodding and respecting her request before folding her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her temple that he hoped would convey all of the affection and love that he held for her. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to cry as he drove back to his apartment and prayed to whoever was listening that she would be okay and that they would be okay, because if he lost that magic, if he lost her, he would have nothing.

It was two days later when Rosie reached out to say that she was at the airport waiting for her flight back to England, those forty-eight hours without talking to her the longest he’d ever endured. She assured him that while she was still not in a great place herself, that they were okay and that she appreciated everything he had offered to do for her. The messages were shorter than Chris was used to but it did help to make that feeling of distance between them feel a little less insurmountable than before.

June would usually have him heading to his coastal home in Connecticut or making the trip back to Massachusetts to be with his family, but he instead found himself lingering in New York, although with Rosie in England indefinitely he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t committed to definite summer plans. If he really thought about it, though, really gave it more than a second’s thought and was completely honest with himself, he knew that he was waiting for her. He didn’t want to go home to Boxford and for her to come back to a city without him there. He wanted to be the one to welcome her back, pick her up from the airport and wrap her up in a hug that would have her never doubting how he truly felt about her. But really, when he spent time dissecting that desire to be there for her when she got back to New York, it actually stemmed from a desire to be with her, period. That was what had him picking up the phone and scrolling through his contacts, not even giving it a second thought when he hit that ‘call’ button but the guilt instantaneous when a sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the time difference,” Chris exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You never call without texting first. What’s on your mind?”

Chris sighed into the receiver, using the pause to gather his thoughts into some kind of semblance of coherence rather than dumping them all out in one go.

“I don’t even fucking know anymore, Mika.”

Mika’s tone shifted as the last remnants of sleep fell away, taking on the familiar quality that seemed to be reserved only for Chris. “Did something happen between you and Rosie?”

“Not really?” Chris offered, unsure of the answer to Mika’s question himself. “It’s just… It feels wrong, all of this.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What feels wrong? I thought you loved her.”

“That’s just it, Mika,” Chris exhaled. “I do, fuck, I love her so much and the fact that she’s there and I’m here-”

Chris’s deep sigh through the receiver had Mika sitting up in bed, his next words spoken with such a surety as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So go to her.”

“What?”

Mika laughed so softly that it was barely audible, shaking his head despite Chris not being able to see him.

“Y’know, for someone so smart you really are dumb sometimes.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch,” Chris grumbled. “Second of all, rude. Thirdly, what’re you getting at exactly?”

“What I’m getting at,” groused Mika, too tired from being woken up in the wee hours of the morning to have any great level of patience. “Is that you should book a flight and get your ass to the UK.”

“Just like that? Just go?”

“Yes, Jesus, Chris. I don’t know what else you want me to say, man, it’s three in the morning here and Irma will kick my ass if I wake her up.”

“Right, yeah,” Chris mumbled, the guilt at waking up his friend rearing its head again. “Sorry, I know I shoulda thought about the time difference.”

“The only reason you have to be sorry is if you don’t pack a bag as soon as we’re done talking and go get on the next fucking plane to England.”

Chris paused, long enough to gather his thoughts but not long enough for Mika to be concerned.

“I guess I’ll let you know when I land then.”

“Give her a hug from me, Chris,” Mika said with complete sincerity.

“‘Course I will, and Mika?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, man.”

Mika smiled into the darkness of his bedroom before answering softly, “anytime.”

Chris had never been to England before and he wasn’t afraid to admit that his geography knowledge of the country was somewhat lacking, so to say that this trip was going to be a baptism of fire would have been entirely accurate. He was a confident enough driver, if he were to say so himself, but he’d have been a big fat liar (to put it in Rosie’s words) if he didn’t admit that the prospect of driving the 160 miles from London Heathrow to Exeter, on the wrong side of the road he might add, filled him with a little bit of dread. But if there was a woman worth braving the complete absurdity of a roundabout for, it was Rosie.

He couldn’t help but feel like he was going behind her back a little bit, using the excuse of wanting to send flowers to her as a means to get her parents’ address when he’d spoken to her on the phone the previous morning. He hoped that she would be able to forgive his little deception and see the purity of his intentions behind it, although he did pick up some flowers on the way to her parents’ house from the small hotel he was staying at, wanting to fulfil that part of the bargain at least. His heart thundered in his chest as he turned into a quiet residential street that the GPS was signalling as being his destination. He pulled up outside the house, checking, double checking and triple checking that he had the right address before he shut off the car engine and got out, grabbing the large bouquet of flowers off the back seat. He can’t ever remember a time that his palms were this clammy or where his legs felt like they were about to give way from under him quite like they did at that moment as he walked up the short driveway to the front door.

He rubbed his free hand on the front of his jeans, taking a settling breath before he knocked on the door, unsure of what to expect when it opened. His eyebrows raised in surprise when an older looking gentleman answered, who looked equally surprised to see a slightly dishevelled looking, six foot three stranger on his doorstep.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Chris spoke, thankful that he was at least able to find his strong voice despite the distraction of his heart hammering in his chest.

“Alright there, mate?” the man greeted, with an accent that Chris noted to be far stronger than Rosie’s. “You lost or summat?”

“I hope not,” Chris laughed more out of nerves than anything else. “I’m actually here to see Roseanna.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so unsure of himself, his statement coming out as more of a question and nothing at all like his normal confident self. The older man didn’t seem to pay too much notice to it though, instead breaking into a smile that Chris recognised as being near enough identical to Rosie’s and gestured for him to come inside the house.

“She’s just got back from walkin’ the dog, I’ll get ‘er for you.”

Chris watched as the man disappeared the short way down the hallway and called Rosie’s name into the kitchen, unable to stop the grin from forming on his face as he heard her voice reply to the man he had assumed to be her father.

“Someone’s ‘ere to see you, love, what? No, I don’t know who he is… maybe one of your university mates,” he turned back to give Chris a friendly nod before adding, “she’ll be right with you.”

Sure enough, no sooner were the words out of his mouth did Rosie appear in the doorway at the end of the hall, all red cheeks and light freckles from the sunshine. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face switching from total surprise at the sight in front of her to overwhelming joy before finally settling on complete disbelief at the realisation that Chris was standing right in front of her in the home she grew up in. Her legs instinctively carried her into his waiting arms, tears starting to fall before she could even register what was happening. Chris was certain that he would never forget the way she held onto him in that moment, with her face buried into his chest and her arms tight around his back.

“What are you doing here?” She finally managed, bringing her teary eyes up to meet Chris’s. “How? When?”

His only response was to kiss her forehead sweetly, holding her against his body like she was about to float away.

“I wanted to be here for you. I know you have your family but, God, it just didn’t feel right to be back in New York.” He stepped back from her a fraction so that he could offer the blooms he was still holding to her. “And I believe I promised you some flowers.”

“I thought you were sorting them with a local florist not travelling across the Atlantic to hand deliver them,” she laughed through her tears, a hand coming up to whack his chest lightly. “You are completely ridiculous, Christopher James Kreider.”

“Anything to see you smile, Ro.”

He kissed her hair before taking her outstretched hand and followed her as she led him into the kitchen to meet her family for the first time.

The next few days had Chris feeling a little bit like a spare part. Rosie and her family were busy with the last minute preparations for the funeral and Chris wished that he could do more to help out but, just like always, Rosie managed to allay his worries and settle his heart by assuring him that his presence alone was enough. They’d spent their free time taking in the sights of South Devon, Rosie relishing the opportunity to show him around the place she grew up and all of her favourite spots. He particularly enjoyed the day they spent down in a place called Torquay, the beauty of the ocean and the way the sun kissed her hair had him feeling bold enough to reach for her hand as they walked along the sea-front while enjoying an ice cream each.

On the day of the funeral, Chris made himself completely indispensable to Rosie and her family, nothing being too much trouble. He held Rosie tightly throughout the ceremony, never once letting her go and whispered words of comfort to her as she said her final goodbyes to the grandmother she loved so much before they exited the church. He stayed by her side throughout the wake at her request. The emotional rawness of the day had her feeling more vulnerable than she would have liked but there was something about the way Chris’s hand rested above her knee as they sat around the table that had her feeling more grounded and centred than she knew she would’ve been had he not been there. It was easy for her to go back to Chris’s hotel with him, the emotions of the day still weighed heavy on her and she couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone.

The gravity of those feelings wasn’t lost on Rosie and she knew that sooner or later she’d have to really take a step back and take a good look at her relationship with Chris and what it all meant. It was easier to be dishonest with herself and keep up the pretence that they were just friends because if she let herself think about them being anything else for too long she would feel her chest tighten and hear her heart start to whoosh in her ears. Was it childish? Absolutely, but she’d be damned if she let herself get hurt by a man again. Her self-preservation mechanism had been working like a charm so far and if it wasn’t broken then why fix it? It wasn’t completely infallible though and after two bottles of Chianti and the way the lamplight accentuated the softness in his eyes, Rosie found herself slipping.

“What’s on your mind?” He whispered, fingers finding her chin to bring her thousand yard stare away from the wall and back to his searching gaze.

“Everything,” she sighed softly. “It’s loud in my head tonight.”

“Is there one thing in particular that you can pick out?”

He took the wine glass that she was cradling and set it down on the table, taking her hands in his and rubbing his thumbs gently across her knuckles.

“Not really, today has just been a lot.”

Chris nodded in understanding, not wanting to pry further and cognizant of the emotional strenuity of the day. Instead he pulled her closer, nestling her into his side and pressing a gentle kiss to her hair.

“I still can’t believe you came all this way for me,” she murmured.

“Why darling,” Chris started, Rosie immediately recognising the quote as being Hemingway. “I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”

She tilted her head up towards him, her lips impossibly close to his as her fingers danced along the stubble at his jaw and swallowed down the nerves that had lodged in her throat. She closed her eyes, so close to giving in to her heart and letting it win, for better or worse. Chris had been dreaming of this moment though, longing for it with every close call and missed opportunity. This is how it should’ve been at Christmas and all of the team events he’d the delight of having her on his arm, but instead he let himself chicken out, the fear of spooking her and losing her too much to allow himself to take the risk. But now, he had Rosie right there. She was impossibly close and all around him and he knew that if he didn’t take that leap and place his lips on hers, he might never get that chance again and that is what had him brushing his lips lightly across hers, his fingers finding a home amongst the loose copper curls that were glowing like hot coals in the low light of the room.

Instinct took over and had Rosie arching her body into him, her hands reaching up into his hair to muss the short curls. Even with her body pressed against his, Chris needed her closer, his big arms looping around her and pulling her into his lap. He kissed her desperately, a kiss to make up for all the kisses they should have already shared and all the words that should have been spoken. It should have terrified him, how easy it was to be with her like this and how easy the push and pull of it was, neither taking more than they were giving in the moment. This was what Boris Pasternak meant when he said ‘you and I, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent to Earth together to see if we know what we were taught., Chris was sure of it because nothing could compare to how Rosie’s lips felt against his and the feeling of her hands on his skin. Her kiss was heaven and her eyes felt like home and Chris knew in that moment that he needed all of her.

As he carried her to bed, Rosie thought about how right being in his arms felt. It was a strong sense of belonging that she couldn’t ever remember having with anyone else - ‘whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’, she thought. He spoke her name against her ear like a prayer, all the love and want for her conveyed in one simple word while he removed her dress with tender hands. Her body was laid on display for him like a canvas, his mouth was the paintbrush and Chris knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life painting a masterpiece onto her skin with his lips.

They moved together between the sheets as sure as the gentle waves that lap against the shore, her hands never feeling more at home than they did running up his back and over his shoulders before settling against the broad plains of his chest. Her every breath and every moan sounded like an aria to his ears and his name tumbling from her lips with every thrust of his hips was met with a moan of hers. He thought she could never look as good as she did underneath him, blooming like a rose, until he found himself on his back with her above him, her hair falling around them both like a curtain and her mouth panting against his as she rolled her hips. His hands made a home at the dip of her waist, guiding her in her movements but never taking the reins from her, giving her the control they both knew she needed in the moment.

It was intuitive, really, the way she was rocking her hips into his and the steady build of pressure in her stomach had her chanting Chris’s name like an incantation. He saw on her face the exact moment that the coil snapped, moaning as she fluttered and tightened around him and brought his hips up to meet hers as she rode the wave of her orgasm.

“I’m with you,” he murmured against her neck.

“Please, Chris. I need you.”

“I’ve got you, Ro. I’ve got you.”

She turned her face to meet his lips in a deep kiss, Chris moaning into her mouth as he spilled inside of her with stuttering hips. Rosie let out a contented sigh as she kissed him through his release, her chest pressed against his and her fingers playing with whatever ends of his hair she could reach. They stayed that way long after he’d gone soft inside of her, content to just bask in the afterglow of the moment as Chris’s fingers traced up and down her back. Rosie knew that she needed to have a frank discussion with Chris about her feelings but now didn’t seem like the right time for that. The sudden realisation that things would never be the same and that there was no going back to the way things were after this embedded itself like a seed, but Rosie let herself surrender to the feeling of safety and security Chris’s arms offered her before it could take root. She nestled herself against his side, her head resting on his chest with her eyes closed, and let his heartbeat be the gentle lullaby to lead her into the beautiful twilight.

Chris awoke to the feeling of Rosie snug and secure within his arms, a peaceful look resting on her features that gave her an angelic quality. He let his mind wander to the night before and allowed the love he felt for her run wild through his veins and fill every corner of his mind, body and soul. For so long it had just been him and hockey, never subscribing to the idea that a person needed a relationship to be complete. But as he looked down and saw his entire world resting within his arms, he realised that he had been right all along. It wasn’t a relationship that made a person complete. It was love. That all-consuming wildfire that burns everything else away until there is nothing left but a new-beginning. He remembered the quote from Corelli that Rosie loved so much and felt everything fall into place. He felt like he’d waited a million years for this feeling and now that he felt it consume him like wildfire, he knew that he would have waited a million more, just as long as he had the privilege of being hers. It was surrendering all that he had ever been for everything that she was, for every kiss and every touch. Her love was his turning page and loving her was the greatest and best thing that he would ever do in his life, he was sure of it.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, eyes crinkling with his smile as she stirred.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he whispered against her hair. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, voice still thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

Chris looked over her shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. “Just gone eight-thirty.”

“Oh, okay.”

She furrowed her brows again, suddenly feeling Chris everywhere as pieces of the night before flooded her consciousness as she fully emerged from sleep and into the waking world. She was naked, she registered, and so was he and she was blindsided by an abrupt awareness that a definite line had been crossed that they could never go back from. It was that recognition of their friendship never being the same again that had her rolling away from Chris without warning. She was out of bed before he could even register what was happening, gathering up her clothes and dressing quickly without as much as a word.

“Rosie?” Chris was sitting up now, a slight waver to his voice as he spoke her name. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go,” she mumbled, an almost robotic edge to her tone that had Chris jumping out of bed and throwing on a pair of sweatpants, already catching up to her racing thoughts without her needing to say another word. He rushed to the door that she was making a beeline for, stepping in front of it and reaching desperately for her hands.

“Don’t do this, Ro… Please, don’t run from this.”

“Chris,” she warned, the emotion sitting dangerously high in her throat and her eyes glossing over with tears.

“What’re you so afraid of? I know you feel it too, Rosie. I know you do.”

“Chris, please,” she tried to brush past him but Chris wouldn’t let this moment slip through his fingers, not this time.

“No, we’re not doin’ this anymore. We’re not gonna spend the rest of our lives pretending that we’re just friends because we’re not, Rosie. I don’t think we have been for a long time- look at me, Ro, please.”

Chris saw the flicker of hesitation cross her face but the desperation in his voice was too much for her to ignore. She brought her eyes up to meet his and saw a fire burning within them that she had never seen before.

“I love you, Rosie. You have to know that by now.”

She shook her head vehemently, the tears she had managed so far to keep at bay finally slipping out and onto her cheeks.

“Don’t,” she whimpered. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

“Who says I don’t mean it?” He brought his hands to cup her face to keep her eyes on him. “You? Do you think I’d travel across an ocean to be here with you now if I didn’t love you?”

Rosie answered only with a sniffle, the feeling of his touch along her skin anchoring her in a moment where she felt like she was drowning in a sea of every repressed emotion and feeling from the last eighteen months.

“But what if this doesn’t work? What if we’re better as friends?”

“I know you don’t believe that,” he wiped away the tears on her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I know that you’ve been hurt before and I know that you’re scared. But you can’t keep holding on to the past, Ro, because if you do you’ll miss out on what’s right in front of you.”

“It’s not the loving you part that’s hard Chris,” she whispered. “It’s admitting to myself that it happened at all that is. I’ve had all these defences that have worked to keep me from getting hurt for so long but it was like you didn’t even see them at all, like they were meant for others while you had your very own door. I’ve spent so long asking myself why that is and come up with nothing. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

He kissed her forehead softly in response before pulling back to look into her eyes, making sure that she saw him, felt him, heard him. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The corners of Rosie’s mouth quirked up into a smile despite her tears and her doubts, her favourite passage from Pride and Prejudice never sounding as good as it did coming from Chris’s mouth and extinguishing every fear she was holding within her heart. She closed her eyes and nodded, her lips connecting with his in a kiss that could’ve stopped the world from turning. She gave herself to him completely and surrendered to the overwhelming love that burned within her for him. There were no words that could convey to Chris just how much he meant to her but she hoped that ones from Rupi Kaur would do it justice:

“You might not have been my first love, but you were the love that made all the other loves irrelevant.”

Chris smiled against her mouth and kissed away every fear and worry until there was nothing left but him and her and the love they had for each other.

Life continued much as it had before, a testament really to the relationship that Chris and Rosie already shared and the official label did nothing more than earn them a chorus of “it’s about time” from their friends and had Mika looking incredibly smug for the next few months. The passage of time only served to make their relationship stronger, both able to give themselves completely without the uncertainty of their feelings looming over them or holding them back. Rosie often found herself being struck by the easiness of their relationship and she never once found herself questioning Chris’s commitment to her and what they had. When he asked her how she would feel about ending the lease on her Brooklyn apartment and moving into his place in Manhattan she didn’t have to give it a second thought. Everything about it felt natural and they were both ready to take that next defining step in their relationship. Once Rosie’s belongings and houseplants were moved in, Chris couldn’t help but feel as if they had always been there, like his apartment was finally complete and that it was the home he had always imagined it would eventually be.

Of course, there were bumps in the road, both of them had been on their own for so long that they were set in their ways at first, but their disagreements never lasted long, their shared knack for communication often diffusing the situation before it had chance to grow arms and legs. The adjustment was harder for Chris in some ways, especially when things on the ice weren’t going so well and he would retreat into himself or misdirect his frustrations towards Rosie with a sharper tone than was necessary, but she stood firm, never one to suffer fools and for that Chris was eternally grateful. They complimented each other in ways they couldn’t even have imagined, Chris able to pull Rosie out of her own head when the world weighed heavy on her shoulders and Rosie never afraid to put Chris in his place when he needed it. As the months rolled into years and their love went from strength to strength, Chris knew for certain that she was it for him and there was nothing he wanted more than to start and end the day with Rosie for all of the days to come.

Rosie looked at Chris with confusion as their Uber pulled up outside Westsider Books one early September evening. There was a faint glow of lights inside but it didn’t look as if the shop was open and Rosie couldn’t understand why Chris had brought her here when she was sure they closed at five.

“I didn’t realise this place opened late,” she said as Chris opened her car door and offered his hand to help her out of the car.

“I think it’s just a one-time thing,” he replied as he thanked the driver and closed the door. He placed a hand on the small of Rosie’s back and guided her towards the shop entrance, pushing the door open and gesturing for Rosie to go in ahead of him. Rosie wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting to find inside, but hundreds of glittering fairy lights, candles and more flowers than she could count wasn’t even on the list.

“Chris?” she breathed, turning to look at him.

“If you were to list your top three favourite books of all time off the top of your head,” he started, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What would they be?”

“Christopher…”

“Come on, Ro,” he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way she loved so much. “Just... play along… Please, for me?”

“Alright, well…” she conceded with a gentle sigh. “Off the top of my head I would probably say Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, For Whom the Bell Tolls and Pride and Prejudice.”

Chris’s smile somehow managed to double in size, the soft glow of the string lights and candles had his eyes sparkling like smoky quartz, the lush green flecks that usually lived among the dark bark of his irises hidden by the low light. He knew she would say that, of course, knowing her with an intimacy that even after all their years of friendship and the years of loving her still managed to knock him back a bit. He took her hand then, leading her along the aisle before stopping in front of a shelf with a dozen hand-tied sunflowers. He reached out and took a book from the shelf.

“Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernières,” he murmured, passing the book to Rosie with an easy grin. “Go on, open it.”

He watched as she opened the cover of the book, her face softening at the sight of a delicate pendant necklace nestled between the pages. A small silver fern leaf hung at the end of the thin chain, a nod to the many houseplants she had brought into his home when she moved in that he had playfully grumbled about but in all actuality loved.

“Chris, it’s beautiful.”

He gently took the necklace from her hands and spun Rosie around, draping the chain across her chest and fastening it behind her neck with sure fingers before turning her back to face him, his eyes falling to the pendant that glimmered in the low light of the room.

“It looks gorgeous on you,” he smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Right, what was the next book? For Whom the Bell Tolls, right?”

“Chris, what is all this?” Rosie asked softly, taking Chris’s outstretched hand and following him down the next aisle to another shelf. He ignored her question, simply picking up the book and handing it to her.

“I love that you love Hemingway almost as much as I do,” he whispered softly. “Almost. You have no idea how much it means to me that I get to share that enjoyment with you and I want us to keep making memories together and sharing enjoyment of the things we love.” He watched her expectantly, waiting for her to open the book to reveal the piece of paper he’d folded in there. He took the book from her hands so that she could open it.

Rosie’s eyes widened as she read what she realised to be an itinerary for a trip to Europe next summer.

“I’ve only been to a couple of places in Europe,” Chris started. “And I figured who better to show me around than the girl who’s visited near enough every country on that continent?”

Rosie was unable to contain her sniffles by this point, overwhelmed at the thought and preparation that Chris had put in, not only in the trip to Europe, but this whole evening as well. She shook her head gently as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest.

“This is too much, Chris, you shouldn’t have.”

He pulled back from her just far enough to get her eyes on his, his face set with an expression that held all the love in the world.

“Ah, ah, there’s still one more book, which if I’m not mistaken is your all-time favourite and you, Roseanna Williams, are worth all the good things in this world.”

Her slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her into his side as they walked back towards the front of the shop, Rosie gently wiping the tears away from her eyes. Pride and Prejudice sat pride of place in the middle of a small table, the book surrounded by petals. Chris gave her an encouraging look and stepped back as she picked it up, taking a small envelope from out of the book before setting it back down again. Her eyes found her name on the front of the envelope in Chris’s unmistakable handwriting before turning it over in her hands and opening it, pulling out what appeared to be a letter. She took a steadying breath as she began to read.

My dearest Rosie,

There will never be the words to adequately express just how much you mean to me or how grateful I am to have found you. You are everything that I didn’t even know I was searching for, that I didn’t even know I needed.

I never believed in fate, every happy accident is just that. A happy accident. Coincidence. Right place, right time. But you, you have opened my eyes to the idea of pure magic because how can a love like ours be founded on pure coincidence alone? How can a soul yearn for someone they had never met? I know now that the reason I found myself in this very book store on that day you came into my life was because your soul was calling me here.

In you I have everything I’ll ever need. No matter where my career takes me, no matter what lies ahead, as long as I have you I have everything. I love you more than anything else in this world, you have given me a higher purpose and I will spend the rest of my life making you happy if you’ll let me.

All my love, Always

Chris

We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright - E. Hemingway.

Rosie closed her eyes and let her tears fall onto her cheeks as she clutched the letter to her chest.

“Chris…”

“I’m gonna need you to open your eyes, babe,” Chris chuckled softly.

Rosie smiled as she allowed her eyes to drift open, her hand immediately coming up to her mouth as she stifled an unexpected sob at the sight of Chris down on one knee in front of her, a ring box open in his hand that looked as if it contained an entire galaxy of glittering stars.

“Ro, I can’t even remember what my life was like without you in it, I didn’t even know that I was in the dark. Until I saw your smile. It was only then that I realised and now I never want to live a single day without the warmth and light of your love. It’s us, babe. It’s always been us and it’s always been you, since the day we met. I didn’t even realise I was waiting for you and now that I have you, everything is as it should be. I love you, Rosie. I’ve always loved you and I would be the happiest and luckiest man on Earth with you as my wife. Marry me, babe?”

Rosie sank slowly to her knees in front of Chris, her hands reaching up and cupping his face as her tears fell. In front of her was a man who had given her everything, who had helped her to let go of the past and right now, he was offering her a future brighter and more wonderful than anything she could’ve ever imagined and never dared to dream she would have.

“Oh god, please tell me those are happy tears.”

She cut him off with a kiss, a kiss that gave Chris his answer without her even needing to say it. She kissed him with everything she had, kissed him with all of the love that coursed through her veins, kissed him until her lungs were gasping for air and she finally had to pull away, resting her forehead against his with her hands stroking along his jaw.

“Yes,” Rosie whispered. “A million times, yes.”

As Chris slid the ring onto Rosie’s finger, he took the opportunity to look into those eyes of hers that he’d grown to love so much. It was there that he saw their future, all of their hopes and dreams and the promise of all the joy in their lives that was to come and as her arms wrapped tightly around him, Chris felt their souls sigh as they folded into one another. Chris couldn’t tell what the future had in store for them both, but no matter where their path together would lead them, it was in her embrace that he found solace and it was in her heart that he found a home.

#chris kreider #chris kreider fic #nhl fic #nhl fiction #nhl fanfiction #chris kreider x ofc #nhl writing #hockey fic #hockey fanfiction #hockey fiction #chris & rosie #turning page universe #my writing

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

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when your love reaches me (ii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 8.5k+ (once again, i got carried away)

warnings: screwed up historical timeline, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), language, innuendo, slight angst; truly, this chapter is mostly fluff which is surprising coming from me and probably explains why it was so hard to write :)

a/n: thank! you! for such a lovely response to the first part of this mini-series! truly means a lot. :) also: mega shoutout to @deacyblues who really helped me with this one; she’s the mvp of this chapter! this one is formatted a little differently than the first and the last part (which for some reason i’m ~nervous~ about), so let me know what you think. xoxo!

part i

in this chapter: snapshots of what life is like on the road alongside the one you love.

october, 1978—new orleans

as much as it can be, life is bliss.

you’ve been on the road for days, slept on a bus more than in a proper bed, survived the flagrant display of hedonism in new orleans, argued with brian about how long he hogs the bathroom in the morning, and barely eaten anything of substance, but still you’re happy.

he makes you happy. you make him happy. that’s all that matters.

you’re on the bus, headed for the airport. the next leg of the tour is florida—two nights there—then two nights on the east coast—maryland and connecticut. it’s late, nearing midnight, and the bus hums down the highway at a consistent and comfortable speed. for the most part, it’s quiet. there’s a soft conversation somewhere at the front of the bus; you think it’s gerry, yet again going over the schedule, but you could be wrong. flashes of light stream through the windows as you pass under street lamps, and you curl a little closer into brian’s side. he shifts in his sleep, mumbling under his breath.

he’s tired. they all are. it’s only been a few days, but after the party in new orleans and with the waning energy after the initial concerts, the boys are settling—settling into tour life and the long nights and early mornings. life on the road isn’t easy, and you don’t blame them for catching whatever sleep they can when they can.

you’re settling too. it’s been nearly two months since you left home. you’d thought you’d be more desperate than you are. sometimes, you see a trinket in a shop window or hear anna say something that reminds you of your baby sister. other times, crystal will make a joke that reminds you of your brother. in those moments, you miss home more than anything in the world. but then brian will walk by, headed for the stage, and trail his fingers across your shoulders in a silent moment of affection, and you’re happy where you are.

so long as you’re with him, you’re happy.

brian’s eyelids flutter open when the driver skips over a pothole. he groans, rubbing at his temples. “fuck,” he breathes.

you push yourself off his chest, enough to meet his gaze. “feeling okay?”

he peeks through his fingers. “i think i got run over by a train.”

“well, that’s what freddie’s parties will do to you.” you poke his ribs, grinning. “you’re lucky you lot have a few days off to recover.”

“trust me,” he says plainly. “it was built into the schedule.” for a moment, his eyes scan your face. one long finger comes up to brush your cheek. “how’d you manage to get out unscathed?”

you shrug and resist the urge to lean into his touch. you can’t tell him the truth. he wouldn’t understand if you explain that your grandmother once read you an article about “saturday night in sodom” and the night freddie mercury almost broke louisiana. instead you twirl a lock of his hair around your index finger and say, “i’m good at moderation.”

leaning back against the headrest, his arm circles your waist, squeezing at the flesh below your hip. “remind me to get a few tips next time.” he closes his eyes, his lips parting as he falls back asleep. you smile, snuggle against him, and pinch yourself.

nope—still not dreaming. thank heaven.

november, 1978—detroit

by the time you reach michigan, the rhythm of the tour is set. everyone has their role to play, and each part is played to perfection. your part is slightly more fluid than most, but, alongside anna and john’s wife veronica, you manage to find your way most of the time.

it can be awkward, though. you have no musical talent, no ability to haul or set up lighting rigs. really, your role is very clear: you’re around to keep brian entertained and as relaxed as possible. whatever he needs, you do it—even if that means letting him muss your hair or mark your skin too much during a lengthy drum solo.

at first, you can’t stand knowing everyone else knows when you’ve had a quick shag in the stairwell or showed up late to sound check because brian got too handsy in the lift on the way out of the hotel. you’ve never been so open about a relationship before, least of all the physical aspect of it. you like to keep private things private, but that doesn’t work so well when you live hotel to hotel with the same thirty people. any bit of juicy gossip can fuel the band and the roadies for days on end. they’re worse than a group of church-going busy-bodies.

but that was a week ago, and you know better than most that much can change in the span of a week. brian’s lingering kisses or the quickes in a broom closet don’t make you nervous anymore. you don’t care if you get caught because lord knows roger and anna or veronica and deaky or any number of the crew are doing the same a hallway over. it’s all a part of the thrill of being with him, loving him (you refuse acknowledge it—the love—even to yourself; it’s too soon to love him, though you know you do).

on the first night of the two gigs in detroit, you catch brian in the hallway before he goes out on stage. you’d stepped out to grab a bottle of water and nearly missed him in the process, but when he sees you, he lights up with a smile. he pauses. roger quips for brian to make it quick as he rushes after john, drumsticks in hand.

“go get ‘em, tiger,” you say, slugging his shoulder with your fist lightly.

he catches your arm and lifts your hand to kiss the bone of your wrist. god, he makes you melt. “you gonna come watch from the side?” he mumbles against your skin. he’s looking at you through his dark lashes, thoroughly enjoying the way you squirm from side to side.

you nod and untangle your hand from his grasp. “eventually, yeah. crystal said he wants to show me the view from up top.”

brian rolls his eyes with a good-natured huff. “watch out for that crystal. he’s trouble.”

“sorry—what was that, mate?” crystal, rushing down the ramp toward one of the dressing rooms, pauses behind brian. “did you say i’m trouble?”

brian glances over his shoulder. “would you deny it?”

crystal hesitates, runs a hand over his beard. “no, but i don’t think my contract includes taking slag from my boss.”

shaking his head, brian laughs and heads up the ramp toward the stage. you call after him, and he turns as he continues walking, red special over his back, eyes wide and expectant. lifting the camera that’s perpetually around your neck with one hand, you blow him a kiss with the other. the camera captures his reaction: a wide grin, flushed cheeks, legs mid-stride. he disappears around the corner, and the hallway fills with the sound of cheers and applause when queen finally takes the stage.

you meet crystal’s eyes and wait for him to say something. you don’t have to wait long.

“you two are disgusting.”

“you know, if you had actually brought me my drink at the disco, we might not be here.”

“to think i could have been saved the horror of having to go to bed each night scrubbing my brain of all your disgusting happiness.”

reaching out, you touch crystal’s elbow and pout your lower lip. “oh, crystal, are you lonely? do i need to find you a friend?”

he scoffs and twists to shake the hand on his elbow. “please,” he drawls. “i’ve got no issue there.”

you stick out your tongue, and he moves down the hallway, but you follow close at his heels. “so, will you really show me the view from the scaffolding?”

“aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“absolutely, but i want to see it anyway. ratty said it was the best seat in the house.”

it takes a modicum of more effort to convince him—you have to promise to buy him a bowl of ice-cream next time the group goes out—but eventually he gives in. after leading you through a maze of wires and boxes, he climbs the lighting rig suspended over roger’s drumset. you hesitate at the ladder. you are afraid of heights, but you based on the way ratty went on and on about how “fuckin’ amazing” the show is from above, you’d like to think you can put your fears aside for the experience. palms sweaty, you wipe them across your jeans then scramble up the ladder. crystal sits on the narrow walkway, laughing, legs dangling over roger’s head. he pats the spot beside him, and you shuffle closer.

“what do you think?” he asks, spreading his arms toward the view.

once you’re settled and able to calm your racing heart, you look out over the stage. your breath catches in your throat. “ratty was right—for once,” you whisper.

you can see everything from here. most of the time, when you’re confined to the wings, you can barely see brian or barely see deaky. you never see roger, and you can rarely see the audience. from the scaffolding, you can see it all: freddie strutting across the stage, roger pounding the drums, deaky bopping in a tight circle, brian tearing into the guitar. from this angle you catch the way they work as a well-oiled machine, perfectly in-tune with one another. you can see the audience, too, and the way their faces shine with joy. the crowd looks like the sea, the way it moves up and down and side to side with the time of the music. it gives you a whole new appreciation for the roadies, too, and the way they work tirelessly to make this happen, often without proper thanks.

crystal nudges you with his shoulder. “take a picture,” he says. “to remember.”

you don’t have to be told twice. you raise the camera, peer through the viewfinder, careful to get your feet and crystal’s in the frame, and snap a shot. when you pull back, you see brian looking up at you from below, and you hope you got him in the frame, too.

november, 1978—philadelphia

“[y/n]! get over here!”

at the sound of ratty’s frantic voice, you pause in the stairwell and look over your shoulder. he’s hunched over a smoking amp, waving toward crystal and another roadie—phil, you think. when he catches your eye, he points to the spot beside him. you’ve never seen him so alarmed and, as much as you want to get away from backstage and find a couch to nap on, you hurry to his side.

“what is it?”

“the fucking amp broke! deaky’s muted and so’s brian.”

you cringe. “his amp’s gone bad, too?”

“no! something else. i don’t fucking know. he just needs this wire.” ratty shoves a wire in your hand. it hangs loosely in your palm, and you get the feeling you know what he’s going to ask next. “you gotta go give it to him.”

you shake your head, mouth gone suddenly dry. “ratty, you have to be joking.”

he straightens. “do i look like i’m joking, [y/n]?”

he looks, truthfully, like he’s on the verge of tears. but you don’t say that. you just grimace and mutter, “please don’t make me do it.”

“sorry, gotta be done. just make it quick!” he takes a hold of your shoulders and pushes you out of the safety of the wings before wheeling around on his heel at the sound of crystal calling his name.

legs frozen, you stand just to the right of deaky, still partially obscured by the walls of the wings. deaky continues to play, despite the fact that no one can hear him. you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. he looks to the left and the right, searching for someone—anyone—to come and solve the issue. when he looks to his right, he sees you and his face relaxes for the briefest of seconds. he shuffles closer.

“is that for me?” he asks, nodding to the wire in your hand.

“no, sorry! it’s for brian. he’s got issues, too.”

“fuck! this is a fucking shitshow!” he cocks his head toward the other side of the stage. “go give it to him then!”

you realize belatedly as you run across the stage that you’re not wearing shoes. your socks slide against the slick floor, but you manage to stay upright, your vision tunneled on brian. you try not to think of the hundreds of thousands of eyes watching your every move, wondering who on earth you are and why you’ve taken to the stage like an invader.

roger and freddie are still going, riffing off one another to keep the energy high. they’ve started some sort of call-and-response game with the audience, so when you make it to brian’s side, you have to shout to be heard.

“ratty told me to give you this!”

brian’s angry, in rare form. his jaw is clenched tight, his temples throbbing. he looks ready to burst, and you wince when he grabs the wire from your hand. “for fuck’s sake, [y/n]! what is going on tonight?” he rips a wire from his guitar and replaces it with the new one.

you can only offer him a paltry shrug. “couldn’t tell you.”

fiddling with an amp behind his back, he gives his guitar a few experimental strums. sound blasts through the amps, and you resist the urge to lift your hands and cover your ears. relief surges through your veins; you give him a thumbs up. at the same moment, deaky plucks at his bass, which fills the stadium with its deep tones.

oh thank heaven. you did not want to be in the greenroom after the show if everything hadn’t gotten fixed.

before you can turn to leave, brian grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard. your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, well-aware of the way the audience cheers as the touch lingers. you pull away first.

“thank you,” he whispers. he gives your rump a solid tap as you turn to make a beeline for the wings.

you think you’ll curl up and die when you rush past freddie and he says into the microphone, “ay, that’s brian’s girl!” he grabs your wrist and crushes you against his side, and you have the wherewithal to laugh even though you really want to stamp on his foot and run away. “she’s our little savior tonight, huh? a good luck charm!”

you finesse your way back to the wings, your skin hot with embarrassment, and flip ratty the bird as you make your way to the greenroom.

november, 1978—st. louis

there’s a show on thanksgiving day—sold out, much to everyone’s surprise—but after the concert, you gather around a long table in the hotel conference room. the carpet beneath your shoes is a pale purple, the table flimsy, the chairs uncomfortable plastic. someone’s laid a brilliant white tablecloth with a traditional thanksgiving meal, and the smell of roasted turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing warms any of the cold still lingering on your body. you sit, squeezed between brian and crystal, across from anna, who winks at you as she lifts her cup to receive a helping of red wine.

“i’m fuckin’ famished.” crystal doesn’t wait for everyone to be seated or gerry to say a few words of toast. he grabs the basket of rolls and hands you one.

rolling your eyes, you take it and place it on the side of your plate. it’s the hotel’s china, a cream with mint trim. “you could wait and try to pretend like you have good table manners.”

beside you, brian snickers into his cup—a mug, really—of wine. his arm is slung over the back of your chair, his fingers circling lazily on your shoulder. you shift in your seat to lean into his touch.

crystal pulls a face. for a moment, you think you’re staring into the face of your elder brother. that’s exactly something marcus would have done. your gut clenches, and you have to look away, reach for brian’s knee, before you begin to cry. how long’s it been? three months? you miss the sound of your mother’s voice, the way your father worries after you in your flat. you miss it all; you always will.

“excuse me, excuse me. i’d like to say a few words.” gerry stands at the head of the table, tapping his fork against his cup. lingering conversations fade as everyone turns to face gerry. “not one for speeches,” he starts.

“then sit down!” it’s john, from the end of the table, who interrupts. veronica elbows him hard, and he doubles over in a combination of a laugh and a wheeze.

gerry smiles through tight lips. “thank you, veronica. as i was saying, i’m not one for speeches, but i think tonight’s as good as any to tell you how happy i am to be a part of this. we’ve got a hell of a lot more to do, but i’m thankful for what we’ve accomplished so far. anyway, that was shite, but it’s how i feel. eat up. happy thanksgiving.”

there’s a chorus of happy thanksgiving and glass clinking against class. you sip at your wine and smile to yourself. you’d thought of what it would be like to celebrate thanksgiving before, but never imagined it would be like this. you wouldn’t have it any other way. not with roger slingshotting a green bean across the table or freddie grilling dennis about what type of butter he used for the mashed potatoes.

you fill your plate, thankful, among other things, for the chance to eat a full meal alongside your new family. there’s a deep satisfaction in your chest. though there’s some part of you that still feels ridiculous wearing checkered trousers and dark turtlenecks, you think you feel more at home here than anywhere else.

“[y/n]?”

lifting a bite of cranberry sauce to your mouth, you turn your head to meet brian’s eyes. he’s leaned forward, his chin dipped. beneath the table, his fingers settle on your thigh, and he squeezes gently. you quirk an eyebrow as you chew, waiting for him to speak.

“i’m glad you’re here.”

you swallow, put your fork down, press the hand that’s on your thigh, smile. “i’m glad i’m here too.”

something stiff and slimy hits your forehead. you jostle in your seat with a gasp. a green bean lands in your lap, and you look up, eyes wide. across the table, anna’s laughing behind her hand, roger grinning widely.

“roger!”

he shrugs. “sorry, love, couldn’t help it. perfect target!”

“if i didn’t respect all the hard work poor dennis put into this meal, i’d shove your face in that bowl of potatoes,” you warn, pointing to the bowl of starch in question.

roger frowns, though his eyes sparkle with mischief. “brian, control your woman! she just threatened me!”

brian, wisely, lifts his hands in surrender, leaning back in his chair. “oy, she can handle herself, mate. don’t drag me into this.”

from his place beside roger, freddie slaps a hand on the table. “no fighting at my thanksgiving or i’ll kick you all out and eat by myself!”

“would you all please shut up and pass me the turkey?” crystal leans into your arm space, reaching in vain for the plate of meat just out of his grasp.

rising, you hand him the plate and cross to the front of the table. you clap your hands together to grab everyone’s attention then place your hands on gerry’s shoulders.

“i think you all know what time it is,” you say, grinning as a few of the roadies groan and duck their heads. you lift your camera. “squeeze in and look pretty.”

heart clenching as you look through the viewfinder at the collection of people you hold so dear, you snap your picture and sit down. without hesitation, brian takes your hand in his, and you sit together, hand in hand, for the rest of the meal.

december, 1978—london

you would be lying if you say you aren’t surprised when brian invites you to his parent’s home for the holidays. the tour has a month long break now that the american leg is over. once it starts up again in january, they’ll be off, gallivanting over continental europe. truthfully, you’d assumed you wouldn’t go back on the tour. you’d assumed you’d continue to crash on anna’s couch, make a few extra dollars at the diner, maybe look into enrolling in a few classes come spring.

you’d assumed the fairytale would be over.

there’s nothing official between you and brian. sure, you love him to bits. when you wake up in the morning, roll over, and see his sleepy eyes already looking at you, you know that for the rest of your life you will never feel for someone the way you feel for him. if he asked you to stay with him forever, you would. if he asked you to marry him, you would. you’ve known him for only a handful of months, but, fuck, he owns you. time doesn’t seem to matter when love’s involved. still, he’s never really put a label on what you are. not that he needs to; you’re just as fine without one. but with the break and then the touring starting up again, you’d just thought that would be it. he’d find another tagalong because lord know he’s could have his pick of the litter.

but he seems genuinely offended when he asks you to come home for christmas and you confess, “oh! i thought that you wouldn’t want me now.” the words sort of fall out of your mouth in a tumble, before you can really consider what you’re saying, and your hastiness shows because his forehead creases in a deep frown.

“why would you ever think that?” he asks it in the middle of the airport baggage claim, with the crew and band milling about, waiting for their luggage. it’s quiet, some ungodly hour in the morning, so you wince when he speaks a tad too loud for your liking.

“i just thought that...” you shrug and look away when his frown deepens. “don’t look at me like that, brian.”

“like what? pissed?” he scoffs. “i’m pissed ‘cause you know how i feel about you, [y/n]. at least i thought you did.”

you’re saved having to make a response by freddie dropping the last of your bags at your feet. he kisses your cheek, wishes you a happy christmas, and asks you take a dramatic photo of him leaving the airport, headed out for a night on the town all by his lonesome because his friends won’t join him in the fun. you oblige, though your heart isn’t in it because brian radiates frustration at your side and you’re jetlagged. you just want to go to sleep, really. it’ll be better in the morning.

after wishing well to the rest of the group, you follow brian out into the cold. it’s frigid, and a gentle snow has begun to fall, glittering in the harsh lamplight. you stamp your feet to try and generate some warmth in your legs as you wait on the curb for the cab. the tension between you grows thicker with each passing moment, but you can’t find the words to say.

in all honesty, you figured he looks at you as nothing more than a good time. and that’s okay with you because it makes things less complicated. you aren’t sure what you will do if he actually wants you, wants you for good. because it’s always in the back of your mind—how you don’t belong here, how you don’t belong with him—and if he feels something more than a general liking for your kisses or your ass or your tits, you don’t know what that will mean for your future. it scares you. so you say nothing, and he says nothing.

the cab pulls up the side of the road, and the trunk pops open with a soft whoosh. the driver hops out, rambles something about how big of a fan he is and how brian is such an inspiration, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you lug your bag to the trunk and dump it in unceremoniously. you slide into the backseat of the car, cross your arms over your chest, and sulk. brian follows suit, sulk and all, seconds behind you.

the driver either ignores the tension in the backseat or is oblivious because when he takes the driver’s seat and turns to ask you both where you’re headed, he’s all smiles and flushed cheeks.

brian doesn’t answer. neither do you.

the driver’s smile begins to fade as the moments pass by.

“you really didn’t realize that i love you?”

you suck in a sharp breath at brian’s confession, eyes darting to his, which bore so deep into your soul you wonder if he can see into the very depths of your heart. you wonder if he can see the way you’re at war with yourself. there’s part of you that wants to jump his skinny bones and forget everything you left behind; that part is dangerously close to breaking through the surface. but you care for him enough to shake your head in an honest answer. he sighs.

“well, i do.”

“oh,” you whisper, turning your face to your lap. “sorry.”

there’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again, and it makes you squirm. “that’s it? just sorry?”

you force yourself to meet his eyes. it’s hard to make out exactly what he looks like in the dim lighting of the cab, but you know he’s not happy. “i didn’t want to assume anything,” you admit. “this is all terribly out of character for me.”

“what is?”

you know he won’t give the driver an address until you speak the truth, so you close your eyes and grit your teeth. “all of it—you, queen, the tour. i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing or how i’m supposed to act.”

“you’re supposed to act like yourself, [y/n]. that’s what i love: you, not what you think you’re supposed to be.”

swallowing hard, your eyes slide back to him. his shoulders have dropped from their tense hunch, and the lines in his forehead have smoothed. he looks more tired now than anything else.

“if i’m being honest,” he continues. “i think i’ve loved you since you called crystal out on the tour bus that first night.”

you smirk, remembering the way you thought he’d turned to glance back at your after your outburst. lip caught between your teeth, you shift in your place to face him better.

“if i’m being honest,” you say. “i think i’ve loved you since i stepped on your stupid clog in that disco.”

he doesn’t laugh like you thought he would. his eyes just dart back and forth between yours for a moment before his hand slides across the bench to skim your splayed fingers.

“so, christmas at mine?”

you nod, chest soaring when he scoots closer, his warmth invading your cold bubble. “christmas at yours.”

december, 1978—london

freddie throws a new year’s eve party, and you all but have to drag brian to it. all he wants to do is stay home and fiddle with the telescope his father got him for christmas, but all you want to do is go to freddie’s party with the man you love and kiss him as the clock strikes midnight. you end up cutting a deal: you’ll both go to the party but leave right after midnight so he can catch what’s left of the night sky.

as you dress in a decidedly not-winter-appropriate outfit, you tease and tell him he’s such a grandpa. he just pushes his hips against your backside, pushing you into the bathroom counter, and you gasp at the feeling of his desire pressed against your leg. you have to brace your hands on the countertop when he leans over your shoulder and nips at your ear, muttering, “don’t think grandpas get riled up like this, love.”

now at the party, leaning against the wall with a flute of champagne in your hand, half-listening to veronica’s story about john attempting to cut his own hair, you can’t stop ogling brian from across the room.

he stands beside roger and some business executive from the record label. he’s wearing the suit jacket you like: it’s black with white pinstripes. it’s buttoned halfway up his chest, but, as is customary, the crisp white dress shirt beneath his jacket is barely buttoned at all. you can make out the outline of his sternum, a silver necklace dangling against his skin. his trousers are dark and tapered along his narrow waist and legs. he looks good enough to eat, and you still hum with the electricity he’d shot through you back in the cramped bathroom at his parent’s home.

mumbling an half-hearted apology to veronica, you set your empty champagne flute on the marble mantlepiece and cross the floor with purposeful steps. it’s rare you get like this—so worked up you might explode—but with the recent revelation of his feelings for you and the way he stands there, so nonchalantly beautiful, you think you might burst if you don’t do something.

sidling up beside brian, you curl your arm around his elbow and smile at the men with whom he’s in conversation. roger grins right back, like he can read your mind and knows what you’re up to; the business executive’s eyes falter a moment too long on your chest, but that’s fine because at least it means you look good. you can work that to your advantage.

“mind if i steal him for a moment?” you ask, already tugging at brian’s wrist, question dripping with sugar and honey.

the business man’s eyes flick up from your cleavage to your face. “well, we weren’t exactly—”

“go ahead, love.” roger waves you off with a wink. “i can finish up with mack.”

mouthing a thank you to roger, you curl your hand around brian’s and pull him down the crowded hallway to a small coat closet. there’s heavy jackets and fur-lined coats strewn about the room, bags and purses and briefcases too. it smells slightly musty despite it being the largest coat closet you’ve ever occupied. you don’t waste a moment. with one hand, you shove the door closed and with the other you grab the lapel of his jacket and pull his mouth down for a bruising kiss.

brian laughs against your teeth, his hands skimming around your waist to settle in the small of your back. “what on earth’s gotten into you?”

you shake your head. the strap of your dress, thin as it is, falls down your shoulder as you trip over your own feet in an effort to perch yourself on the single bench in the room. “nothing,” you huff. “just want you ‘s all.”

he helps you with the stubborn zipper that runs along your spine, his mouth working on your throat, still chuckling. “i can work with that.”

january, 1979—berlin

anna studies you from across the room, one leg dangling over the other. she picks at her nails while she stares, her eyes narrowed in thought. you let her inspect you for a few moments, but her stare soon becomes too much to handle. her eyes are heavy and intense, so you slam your book shut.

“what?” there’s an edge on your voice, but she doesn’t take notice, just shrugs.

“do you think you’ll get married? you and brian?”

with a sigh, you toss your book to the coffee table and swing your legs to the carpet. “that’s a ridiculous question.”

“no it’s not!” anna’s eyes follow you as you pad across the floor to grab an apple from the buffet along the wall. “it’s obvious you love each other.”

leaning against the table, you bite into your apple. music from the stage filters through the air vents, attempting to drown out the thoughts swirling through your head. you might let it, too, but anna’s question pricks at the girlish ideas of marriage you’d buried so long ago.

“me and roger,” she continues. “i know we won’t get married. he’s an epic shag and almost too much fun, but i don’t love him. i mean, i do, but not the way you love brian. and he definitely doesn’t love me the way brian loves you.”

you arch a brow. “i didn’t realize everyone had so many opinions about my relationship.”

“sure we do. crystal’s started a pool on when brian will actually pop the question. my money’s in the spring. i think i picked april fifteenth. we’ll be in tokyo then and they’ve got gorgeous cherry blossoms. can you imagine how romantic that’d be?”

you do imagine it for a moment—him bending down to one knee, cherry blossom trees swaying with a gentle breeze, your hand clasped in his, finger weighed down by an engagement ring. you fiddle with your ring finger, feel the emptiness there, and wonder what it would be like to actually, truly marry him. you’d say yes, if he asked, but that would also mean giving up any lingering hope of returning to your natural life, wouldn’t it? you still aren’t sure if you can do that.

besides, you know he isn’t going to ask. there’s no reason for him to. he loves you; you love him. that’s it; that’s all it needs to be.

february, 1979—zurich

you’re walking hand in hand along a quaint street in zurich’s city center. the air is cold, but brian’s hand is warm, and you feel impossibly safe by his side. not for the first time, you have to pinch yourself. before leaving home you’d rarely traveled and never extensively, but in the six months you’ve been away, you’ve seen more of the world than you ever dared dream you would—and it’s all because of him.

you slide your hand from his palm to the crease of his elbow and lean against his side. he glances down at you and moves his arm around your shoulders. he smells like laundry detergent and roger’s cigarette smoke. the scent makes your head dizzy with affection, so you have to ask him to repeat himself when he speaks.

“how much film have you used up? for your camera?” he asks again, drawing you out of the path of a jogger.

you tally the sacred tubes tucked neatly in your suitcase. “four canisters so far.”

he smiles, clearly proud of himself. “i guess i did pretty well with that gift, then.”

rolling your eyes, you poke his side, but the grin on your face is secure. “don’t flatter yourself. i don’t want your ego getting too big.” looking away from his pretty face, flushed with chill and sparkling with amusement, your steps falter. “oh, that’s nice!”

you say it before you can stop yourself, but the jewelry displayed in the window of a small accessories shop truly is nice. there’s a wide array of necklaces, bracelets, and rings sparkling in the overhead light. just the sight of a diamond ring makes your heart flutter, and you think back to your conversation with anna in berlin. you pull your eyes away from the wedding bands and focus on the necklaces.

brian steps behind you, circles his arms around your stomach, and settles his head on your chin. “do you want something?” his breath tickles your ear, and you immediately shake your head.

“no, just looking.”

he squeezes you against his body in protest. “come on. let me get you something.”

“brian, it’s too much.”

“it is not! you haven’t let me get you anything this whole time!”

you turn around in his arms and plant your hands on his lean chest. “i don’t need anything. you’re present enough as it is.”

he huffs. “that’s shite. we’re going in there and we’re not leaving till you pick out something you want.”

in the end, you choose a necklace with a pearl set against a fanned-out silver flower. it’s dainty, light against your collarbones, but it reminds you of brian. pearls are formed out of grit and determination, just like he is. it’s a silly metaphor, but when you see the necklace for the first time, that’s what springs to mind. you don’t tell him as much. you just let him pay the shop woman and hook the necklace around your neck.

later, when you’re lounged around the hotel lobby, waiting for the boys to finish changing from the show so you can go to dinner, crystal points to the necklace.

“new bling?”

you touch the pearl with your fingers and nod. “he insisted.” you level him a pointed stare. “i heard you’ve got a bet going on as to when brian will ask me to marry him.”

crystal has the decency to blush, and he swings his legs over the arm of his chair so he can sit straight. “yeah, well, we gotta do something to keep entertained.”

“i want in.”

he laughs, loud and echoey in the sparse lobby. “what?”

“you heard me: i want in.”

“you think he’s gonna ask?”

you shrug. “maybe. a girl can dream.”

shifting, crystal unearths a square notebook from his back pocket. he reaches for a discarded pen on the glass coffee table at his feet and puts the cap in his mouth while he flips through the pages of his notebook. “what day you want?”

“what day’s not taken?”

“uh... march first. we’re in paris then.”

“fine. put me down for march first.”

crystal pencils your name in and opens his palm. “it’s forty pounds to enter.”

you startle forward, sputtering, “forty pounds?!”

“you’re getting in pretty late, sweetheart! take it while you can.”

“how much do i stand to win?”

he calculates slowly, mumbling, “forty times twenty-eight... about five thousand.”

you scoff, shaking your head. “i don’t know whether i should be offended or impressed.” withdrawing your pocketbook, you slap the forty pounds in his palm.

he curls his fist around the money and shoves it in his pocket. “thank you and good luck.” he winks as the boys round the corner from the elevators, talking quietly amongst themselves.

brian comes to stand behind your chair, his hands on your shoulders. he glances between you and crystal. “what’s going on? you look like you’re up to no good.”

rising from your seat, you grasp his wrist and kiss the back of his hand. “oh nothing. crystal was just brushing me up on my maths skills.”

buzzing with giddiness, shocked at yourself but not unpleased, you grin wider when you hear crystal whisper to freddie, “she took march first” on your way to the car and freddie says, “dammit it! i got february twenty-eighth. he likes the first of the month.”

february, 1979—madrid

you stare at the calendar tacked to the dressing room wall. it’s your birthday.

you didn’t expect to feel so sad. freddie’s planned a party for this evening, something outrageous and ostentatious, and you’ve been anticipating it all week, but now that the day is here, you don’t feel excited or thankful or even the slightest bit happy. you just feel empty.

if you were home, where nature intended you to be, you’d likely have woken up to a flurry of happy birthday text messages. your roommate rachel might’ve made you breakfast in bed, and you’d have gone to dinner with your family before returning home to open presents. it would have been simple, easy and uninspired, but just the way you like it.

this morning you’d woken to brian pressing a kiss to your temple as he rushed out of the room, already late for a day set aside for brainstorming the new album. he couldn’t help the schedule; that’s just the way it fell. so you’d gotten ready by yourself, eaten by yourself at the hotel’s cafe, read by yourself on your room’s terrace. crystal had shouted his well-wishes on his way out of the hotel by the time soundcheck rolled around; anna had brought you a muffin as you slid into the car beside her. you knew you would celebrate later as freddie had promised, but that didn’t stop the ache, the yearning, in your chest for something more familiar. now standing in brian’s dressing room, alone and in silence, it takes everything you have in you to not break down and sob.

you miss home. you miss your parents. you miss your brother and sister. you miss your phone and your keurig that takes too long to pour and your subscription to netflix. as much as you love brian, you miss where you belong, the time in which you belong.

you don’t realize you’re crying until the door opens with a click, and brian steps in. he’s halfway through a sentence about wanting to find something to eat before the show starts when he sees your tears and stops talking. rushing to your side, he takes your shoulders in his large hands and bends to catch your eyes.

“[y/n]? what is it? what’s wrong?” he sounds worried, painfully so. this must be the first time he’s seen you cry in such earnest. sure, he’s seen you shed a few tears on occasion—when you’re irritable and he’s being stubborn; when roger and crystal’s antics make you double-over in laughter; when he does something particularly endearing—but he’s never seen you like this.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and shake your head, tears flowing all the more. you wish you could unburden yourself and tell him the truth. he deserves that. but you can’t answer his questions. you don’t know what’s brought you here or why, and he’ll probably only think you’re crazy. you think you’re crazy.

he stops asking you what’s wrong and leads you to the couch. the faux-leather squeaks as he sits, drawing you to his lap, your head cradled beneath his chin. he rubs soothing circles up and down your back, humming, until you’ve settled enough to blow your nose and wipe what little makeup remains from your eyes.

you exhale, sitting upright in his lap. he has one arm draped over your hips, the other still working along your spine. you can feel his eyes searching your profile, as if he’s trying to discern the cause of your turmoil from the patterns on your skin.

you don’t say anything. you just twist and press your mouth to his.

god, you love him. it’s not the fact that he’s brian may and that’s he opened up a world previously unknown to you. it’s him: his height which makes you feel safe, his hands which love you so well, his intelligence which dazzles you day after day, his kindness, his vulnerability with others, his wit. you love everything about him and more.

but you don’t belong here. the thought has been plaguing you since you arrived, and you suspect it will haunt you until nature returns you home—if nature returns you home. you are meant for the days of roaming wifi and overpriced coffees on every street corner. you are meant for skinny jeans and simple eye makeup, youtube and internet shopping.

you miss it all, but you love him so dearly—would marry him, and have his children, and die by his side if he asked—but you don’t belong here.

your mouth moves rough across his as you straddle his hips, hands clawing at the hair around his shoulders. you’re crying again. you can taste your tears, salty and warm, and you wonder if he tastes them too. he kisses you despite the tears or maybe because of them. whatever; it doesn’t matter. you just want to forget, to feel good, to feel him.

pulling back, you breathe heavy, chest brushing against his. his eyelids are heavy with lust, his throat flushed. he lifts a hands, brushes his palm down the side of your face, his thumb swiping out to wipe away a tear.

“what do you want?” he asks.

you take the moment to memorize his face, every line, freckle, and marking. you run a finger long his lower lip and whisper, “you.”

he frowns. “you have me.”

a lump rises in your throat, and you push it back before meeting his gaze. “always?” you aren’t sure what you mean by always. your head is so muddled, so torn, it likely doesn’t matter what you really mean. just as long as he answers the way you want him to.

he does.

“always,” he says, and you sigh in relief before kissing him again.

march, 1979—paris

march first, the day you picked in crystal’s proposal bet.

it’s drizzling, but you insist brian accompany you to the louvre on your last afternoon in france. together, you race to the museum, hair damp and frizzy, laughing as you check your coats and grab maps of the exhibits. you wind your way from room to room, commenting on the masterpieces hanging along the walls. brian listens as you spout the wealth of useless knowledge you’ve stored in your head for a later date. he asks questions; he nods and hums in approval; his hand rests in the curve of your back.

by the time you reach liberty leading the people, you’re sure he’s as bored of hearing your voice you are. you pause, study the painting, and sigh in contentment. the room is quiet, only an older couple in the far corner, standing side by side. the man is much taller than his wife, like brian’s taller than you. the woman leans into her husband’s touch when he presses her shoulder, and you wonder absentmindedly if you will experience old age alongside brian.

“i want to give you something.” brian breaks the silence with a voice that is on the edge of trembling.

you look up at him, brow furrowed. “you know i don’t like when you give me things.”

“i think you’ll like this.” he gasps his right hand and twists at the ring on his pinky. as you watch his movements, shaky and unpracticed, your heart stops in your chest.

oh my god.

the words thrum through your veins like a mantra. the air in your throat goes cold, your eyes glued to his hands. you think you might faint when he grasps your left wrist and places the ring in your palm. mouth open, you stare at it: it’s silver with a flat face, small and plain. there’s something engraved on the smooth circle and, after you blink your tears away, you see it’s a flower with three drooping bell-shaped buds.

he notices your inspection and nods to the ring. “it’s lily of the valley, supposedly may’s flower of the month, or so my mother has always believed. you saw our house. she’s obsessed.”

you swallow past the moisture gathering in your throat and look up, unable to form a sentence. he shoves his hands deep in his pockets and shrugs.

“it’s not so much of a proposal as it is a promise.”

“a promise?” is all you can manage to squeak.

“i want to marry you one day,” he says matter-of-factly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it’s what he was born to do. “but you know how things are right now. we’re busy and money’s tight and—”

“okay,” you breathe.

his brow puckers. “what?”

“i said okay. i’ll marry you—one day.”

his lips spread in the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile, and you know for a fact that you are doomed: doomed to love him forever and always, until you’re both dead and buried and the world continues to turn even though you’re gone.

“well, mr. may, are you gonna make me put it on myself?” you wiggle your hand and pass him the ring which he dutifully slides on your middle finger.

still holding your hand in his, he leans down to kiss your forehead. “i’ll put a proper ring on your finger one day,” he mumbles against your skin, clasping the back of your head to his lips. “promise.”

as you stand in the middle of the louvre, held in the arms of the man you love, you remember: you’re five thousand pounds richer now. you won the bet. the thought makes you laugh and hug him all the tighter.

april, 1979—toyko

if you had known nature would choose that day make her mistake right, you likely wouldn’t have gone back to your hotel room for your sunglasses.

but you didn’t know, and it was painfully sunny outside.

freddie suggests the group takes a walk around toyko to enjoy the sights and the last of the cherry blossoms before the evening’s soundcheck. though you’re tired from a late flight, you aren’t going to turn down an afternoon of simplicity, not when the tour is so close to finishing and you might never experience this feeling of family again. you’re walking with crystal out of the hotel, bag slung over your shoulder, camera around your neck, arguing with him about whether or not the clouds in the distance mean rain. he says yes; you say no.

“it’ll just pass over us,” you say, shielding your eyes from the sun. “it’s too bright to storm.”

“clearly you’ve never been to japan before.” he pauses when you stop walking, turning to look over his shoulder while you backtrack toward the entrance.

“i’m gonna pop back inside for my sunglasses anyway. i’d rather have them.” you wave your hand. “don’t wait for me. i’ll catch up. tell brian i’ll be there in a minute.”

he shrugs and pops a toothpick in his mouth. “you know freddie’s a fast walker so be quick.”

nodding, you turn fully on your heel and rush back into the building. the lift is too slow, so you take the stairs two at a time. by the time you reach the door to your room and finesse the key into the stubborn lock, it’s raining. you groan, thumbing your nose at the rain-stained window, but grab the sunglasses anyway before racing down the stairs.

your camera bangs against your chest, your bag slapping against your hip. the stairwell is cool concrete, and the sound of your shoes echoes on the stairs as you wind down the floors.

thunder booms overheard, and you gasp, stalling on the steps. it sounds close. maybe you should have grabbed your umbrella...

reaching the bottom of the stairs, you pull the door to the lobby open and stumble into an empty concert hall, all too familiar and entirely unwelcome.

your heart plummets to your stomach.

“oh fuck.”

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan @just-my-sickly-pride @perriwiinkle @ubernoxa @anunknownnebula @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @captvinswaan @ineloqueent

#brian may #brian may fic #queen #queen fic #j writes #brian may x reader

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joysmercer · 4 years

Text

Brooklyn Nine-Nine Season 7: A Timeline

Season 6 Finale: Wednesday, 5/8 to Wednesday, 5/15/2019

E1 (“MANHUNTER”): Thursday, 6/6/2019

E2 (“CAPTAIN KIM”): Friday, 6/7 to Monday, 6/10/2019

E3 (“PIMENTO”): Tuesday, 6/18 to Thursday, 6/20/2019 + Thursday, 6/27/2019

E4 (“THE JIMMY JAB GAMES II”): Friday, 6/21/2019

E5 (“DEBBIE”): Saturday, 6/22 to Sunday, 6/23/2019

E6 (“TRYING”): Monday, 6/24/19 to late January 2020

E7 (“DING DONG”): Day 1 to Day 3, mid-March 2020

E8 (“THE TAKEBACK”): Friday, 3/27 to Monday, 3/30/2020

E9 (“DILLMAN”): around 4/10/2020

E11 (“VALLOWEASTER”): Thursday, 10/31/2019 + Friday, 2/14/2020 + Sunday, 4/12/2020 to Monday, 4/13/2020

E10 (“ADMIRAL PERALTA”): mid-May 2020 + around 6/17/2020 + Friday, 6/26 to Saturday, 6/27/2020

E12 (“RANSOM”): Day 1 to Day 3, mid-August 2020

E13 (“LIGHTS OUT”): Day 1, around 10/20/2020

explanations for the dates are under the cut!

Things to keep in mind:

The B/C-plots, for the most part, are not included in the calculation of the times here, because they rarely have the same number of days as the A-plot.

I didn’t take weekends into consideration unless otherwise noted. There is a weekend squad, but we know that the regular detectives also sometimes work weekends (enough so that on more than one occasion, Holt has rewarded them with “weekends off”).

Time-stamps within the episode are used as guidelines, but not always as the rule, unless there is a specific number of days given.

7x01-early 7x06 all have to happen in June so that they can start The Amy Way in July. Please refer to 7x06 for the explanation for the dates on these episodes.

Season 6 Finale: 5/8-5/15/2019

Has to start and end on a Wednesday; two or more weeks must pass until 7x02.

7x01: 6/6/2019

As per Amy's period in Trying, it has to be at the beginning of the month.

Continuity: Since patrol cops spend “6 months on the same beat,” which Holt is still doing in December, assume that when Debbie says it’s his “first week on the job,” she means his current beat.

Continuity: her period technically is supposed to start somewhere between 6/2 and 6/7. Assume when she says it’s “late,” she means by just a few days. After all, for the July calendar to be accurate, it can’t be late by more than a week.

7x02: 6/7-6/10/2019

Day 1 – cold open // Day 2 – they meet Cpt. Kim // Day 3 – Party // Day 4 – last scene

Kim got an “email from two weeks ago” from Wunch. Cold-open is on 6/7, a Friday (because Rosa has the weekend off and, therefore, wouldn’t be there to meet Wunch on Day 2 of the episode). The timestamp on the last scene—Day 4—says that it's a Monday.

7x03: 6/18-6/27/2019

Day 1, 6/18 - cold open

Day 2, 6/19 - visit Pimento’s doctor; Pimento spends the night at Charles’s

Day 3, 6/20 - HR seminar + Pimento in hospital

Day 10: “One Week Later” from Day 3.

Per the cold-open, Amy is ovulating during this episode. Also, Jimmy Jabs are on 6/21.

Continuity: The Masked Singer finale/premiere dates don’t make sense. But the contestant they mentioned didn’t even exist in season 1 of TMS, so it’s excusable.

Continuity: The last scene takes place during “Trying.” Roll with it.

7x04: 6/21/2019

14 days since Rosa last took a vacation—7x02—and a Friday because Amy skips a seminar that was probably wasn’t scheduled for a weekend.

Continuity: Rosa and Jocelyn had apparently been dating “a year” at this point. It was probably shorter than that.

Continuity: This episode most likely takes place before Trying: Jake mentions Amy being more, erm, adventurous now that they’re trying to conceive, and that doesn’t really fit in with the overly-scheduled sex UD-ing that was happening from July 2019 and onwards. Plus, the stress/potential injury that such a competition would bring definitely doesn’t fit in with The Amy Way.

7x05: 6/22-6/23/2019

Debbie steals the cocaine at end of 7x04; assume 7x05 is the day after. The final scene is the day after the rest of the episode.

Continuity: They mention Debbie’s journals from “this year,” and specify that they were written on “August 21.” Assume this means August 2018.

7x06: 6/24/19 - late January 2020

On the calendars in the war room, “Menstruation” lasts about five days and starts around the 4th of every month; “Ovulation” starts around the 15th of every month and lasts about a week. Amy presumably took a pregnancy test at the very end of every month—not only were these scenes always followed by calendar flips, but she would have to take the tests at least two weeks after ovulation but before she got her period.

The calendar invites/The Jake Way happen in June—so Amy still has to be ovulating at the start of the episode—because they start The Amy Way in July.

The Amy Way fails for the last time in December. The pregnancy test she takes before Hitchcock announces that his girlfriend is pregnant was late December (around 12/30). The next test she would take—the last scene in the episode—would be late January (around 1/30).

Assuming it isn’t a false positive (which is unlikely, considering her doctor would have double-checked this before putting her on fertility medication), the earliest she can get pregnant would be mid-February.

7x07: lasts about a week and ends mid-March 2020.

Has to be after 2/14 but before 4/12, based on Holt’s uniform changes in Valloweaster.

It’s very likely that Amy’s just a few weeks pregnant here since she wasn’t suspicious at all until her doctor brought it up; if the hormones messed up her cycle a bit and she got pregnant mid to late-February, she was 3-4 weeks pregnant in this episode and wouldn’t have noticed until taking the test.

Continuity: I’m assuming that the “Ebola Doctor” was Craig Spencer. He contracted the virus in 2014, so “six years ago” makes sense.

7x08: 3/27-3/30/2020.

Since it’s Holt’s first day back, this episode is relatively soon after 7x07, but with a week or two in between to account for paperwork and official promotion procedures.

Day 1: Friday (The bachelor’s party is over the weekend)

Day 2: Saturday (heist)

Judy’s friends were clearly arrested at nighttime, and that + the change of clothing indicates that Jake and the Judy’s had to have come home the next day.

Day 3: Sunday (Jake comes home)

Day 4: Monday (last scene)

Continuity: The screen on the computer that one of Judy’s men hacks into says “Last Login: March 27 2015.″ Since this episode obviously takes place in 2020, just ignore that.

7x09: ~4/10/2020

Earlier than June—Terry’s kids are still in school (Spring Semester). Also probably(?) a Friday, since Terry’s kids have a concert and it’s unlikely they’ll have one in the middle of the week.

The Friday before Easter (7x11) is April 10.

7x10: Mid-May 2020 (cold open), ~6/17/2020, 6/26/2020-6/27/2020

Cold-Open: pregnancy reveal and end of 1st trimester.

Day 2: Jake tells his father that they’re having a sex-reveal party “Next Friday,” indicating two Fridays after this day. Therefore, this conversation happened around June 17, 2020 (The Wednesday that is approximately 18 weeks from mid-February).

Day 3: Friday, Day of the party (June 26)

Day 4: Amy finds out; day after Day 3 (June 27)

Continuity: The entirety of 7x11 takes place before this one.

7x11: 10/31/19, 2/14/20, and 4/12-4/13/2020

7x12: Day 1-Day 3, Mid-8/2020

Day 1: Cold Open

Day 2: find cheddar

Day 3: B- and C-plots end

Shakespeare in the Park is usually held in Prospect Park over the summer. Halfway between 7x10 and 7x13 is the end of August; I made it mid-August so it’s still technically “Summer.”

Continuity: Amy’s only 6 months pregnant in this episode and her baby shower is the weekend after. However, in season 5, Gina also had her baby shower at around 5/6 months, so this isn’t unusual for these characters. Plus, this is Amy we’re talking about—she probably had a registry ready to go within days of finding out about the pregnancy.

7x13: Day 1, late-10/2020.

The elevator expiry is listed as 12/20/2020 and it was inspected “4 months ago.” elevators in New York are inspected every 6 months, which means that the last inspection was 6/20/2020 and it is now (mid to late-)October.

Later in the month (10/20/2020* or later) matches up with Amy getting pregnant in mid-February: her due-date would be mid-November, and it makes sense for her to start maternity leave about 3 weeks beforehand.

Continuity: Amy going on leave so early explains why she didn’t have a maternity bag stashed somewhere in the precinct—we all know that she would have had one had she been working right up to her due date. Also, although Amy’s FOMOW would make her want to stay at the precinct right up until she gave birth, if her doctor recommended her to take rest earlier (which is likely, given how stressful/strenuous her job is…), she would have followed those orders properly.

Thank you to @feeisamarshmallow for talking through this with me!

* baby Mac could definitely be either a Libra or a Scorpio :)

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missnxthingg · 5 years

Note

Tom Holland and Reader both get famous around the same time. Like her band just released their First album and are touring. They’ve got a tour date in Atlanta and Tom Holland is there shooting the captain America civil war.

FAMOUS

A/N: Okay, I took sooooooo long to get to this. I wanted to turn it into a mini series, but it didn’t work at all. But it’s a big one to compensate the long time I put this request on hold. I hope I got your request right and I hope you like it.

Summary: Tom drops everything just to go meet his dream girl, brand new celebrity, once she announces a tour date in Atlanta, where he’s shooting Civil War.

Pairing: Tom Holland x Singer!Reader

Words: 3.9K

Warnings: Swearing

masterlist | main blog | gif source

“Tom, have you seen this?”

It was the first thing Harrison asked once his best mate made it back to his trailer after long hours of shooting his first Marvel movie as Spider Man. Tom had left him there to wait for him to be done so they could go out and explore Atlanta together, and it seemed like Harrison had a good time doing absolutely nothing but going through his Instagram all day.

“No, what is it?” Tom sat next to him in the small couch they had, if it could be called couch.

“You know (Y/N), from that one band Harry is always listening to and you’re all obsessed with her.”

“Not obsessed, I just find her really pretty and talented.” Haz rolled his eyes and threw his phone on Tom’s lap.

“Well it seems like she’s going to be in town this weekend for a gig.”

And there it was, a simple Instagram post from that one account Tom have visited so much and liked so many pictures. The girl standing on a stage, a single light standing over her, who was holding her guitar and singing something, just like many other posts. But this one was different, and what was written below the picture was what made Tom open a big smile.

“@yourusername: Thanks for singing with me tonight DC, it was magical! Next stop: Atlanta. See ya’ Saturday.”

“Mate! We need to get tickets for this.”

“Hey, slow down Mr. Parker, you have work Saturday. You can’t simply drop it to go to a gig.”

Tom shrugged and his smiled faded away. Haz was right, he couldn’t drop work to go see a band play, even if it was his favourite band. So he dropped it for a moment, realizing he was too tired to mourn about it in that moment and that he had to get some rest for a long week of shooting. But he couldn't get it out of his head. So that night he had insomnia, and rolled in bed for a very long time until he gave up and got out of bed to look for some tea, and ended up scrolling through Instagram leaned against the kitchen sink. And she had posted another picture, one quite different from those she normally posts, where she’s on stage or rehearsing. This one she was laying on one of her bandmates lap wearing anything less than a Spider Man shirt.

“Shit!” He spilled some tea on his hand and had to drop his phone to clean it up. “I can’t believe this girl just got more perfect.”

The thing is that it happened with Tom what happens to a lot of people. They see a celebrity, and they find them super nice, funny and pretty and suddenly, they have a platonic crush on them. It happens to a lot of people, and it happened with Tom. It only took his brother listening to her songs on repeat and him enjoying some of them. He remembers asking whose song it was to Harry and him showing a video of her on stage. He’d been following her ever since, and he simply couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to be able to see her live, after admiring her for months through social media. But today he felt different about that one picture she posted, the one with the Spider Man shirt. The urge to comment on it.

“Okay, fuck it.” He held his phone again and commented on the picture.

“@tomholland2013: Loved the shirt, great superhero preference.”

Meanwhile, (Y/N) was chilling with some of her friend in her tour bus. They had finished a great gig that night and stopped at McDonald’s for some after show food before they could hit the road onto the next city. They had a lot of fun together, sang, took pictures and laughed together while having some burgers and some more food. But the end of the night, they were simply very tired. (Y/N) lied next to her best friend Amy and started interacting with some fans on social media, just because she couldn’t get any sleep. So going through some comments, she saw his. The guy who was announced as the new Spider Man just commented on her picture. Well, she noticed he had been liking her things for a while now, but it was the first time he commented on something. She had stalked him once or twice, and she already thought he was cute. So this time, (Y/N) replied.

“@yourusername: @tomholland2013 well thank you, and great spidey casting!”

Tom almost choked when he saw a reply to his comment, and soon a message on his DM. He needed to stop to breath and process what had just happened. But once he got it all together, he opened the DM and saw what she had to say.

“Hi Mr Parker, is Atlanta fun?” She asked, and he smiled at her message.

“Very very fun.” He said out loud while typing on his phone.

“So, I hope to see some webs around my gig this Saturday.”

“Sorry, I have work :c” He sighed while typing this one.

“Oh fuck! Not even a little bit for the encore?”

“Well, maybe just for the encore.”

“And some backstage meeting.”

“Okay :)”

“See ya’ Saturday!”

Harrison’s first action of the day was roll his eyes when Tom woke him up holding his phone in front of his face and rambling about running right after finishing work just to see her play. Haz thought his friend was insane, but on Saturday, there they were, rushing to some gig to finally meet the girl of his dreams. When they got there, it had already started and it was right in the middle of the set.

“I can’t believe you did this for a girl you’ve only known through photos. You’ve never properly talked to her.”

“I know, it’s just, I felt like I had to be here tonight.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her during the whole concert. The way she held her guitar, or the way her body swayed while she sang. She looked just like how he had seen on Instagram a lot of times before. Those colorful clothes, a tie dye and light jeans, and a lot of glitter on her eyes. The ultimate alternative girl, just giving her all on stage. He couldn’t stop smiling, because she was just like he always imagined she would be. Funny, extroverted and really pretty, with such a stage presence. No wonder she and her band got famous quickly. They had a lot of talent, and everyone there could feel it. Once the gig was over, Tom went completely crazy over finding a way to go backstage.

“Maybe they won’t even know who you are. You’re not that famous yet mate.”

“Come on Haz, we have to try!” Tom approached the big guy standing between him and the backstage door. “Hey, I’m Tom Holland, could you please get (Y/N), cause I really need to talk to her.”

“Oh, I thought I’d heard an angels voice, but it was just you.” A girl said from behind them. “I was giving some autographs and saw you from far away. I’m glad Peter Parker got some time just to see me playing live.”

“I couldn’t miss it.” He smiled shyly and she stood her hand in the air.

“I’m (Y/N), by the way.”

“Tom, and it’s really nice to finally meet you.” They both stared at each other for a long time until Harrison cleared his throat. “Hm, and this is my mate Harrison.”

“Nice to meet you. Really great concert, amazing voice.”

“Thank you. Come on, let’s get inside and grab something to eat.”

They had a lot of fun around the band, getting to know each of them personally, and finding out that all of them were personally obsessed with one Marvel superhero, and that all of them loved Spider Man. That suddenly became a huge deal to Tom, to not let them be disappointed with him once the movie was out. That was also the night he got a picture he always dreamed of having. (Y/N) smiling at him while he was rambling about something, captured by the band’s photographer.

“Hey, can I have this one?” Tom asked while they were going through the pictures.

“I’m gonna post it on Instagram.” (Y/N) said. “I mean, I look so cute!”

“You always do sis.” Her brother said from afar, looking for some beer.

“Well, I think we need to go.” Harrison said. “We had a long day of shooting, right Tom?”

“Yeah, uhm… But I’m not tired though.” Tom said without taking his eyes off her.

“But you should go, Harrison looks tired and you do too.” She caressed his cheek and he smiled. “I’m gonna take them out and call a driver.”

(Y/N) followed them outside with one of her security guys and Harrison went ahead to find a taxi, and to leave some time for them to talk alone to each other, because he knew his mate needed to get more connected to her. He could see it while they were all together, the way they instantly connected. Tom walked alongside her while she finished a joke, making him laugh a lot.

“So you’re gonna be in Atlanta for how long?”

“One more day only, and we’re off to Texas.” She explained. “But hey, at least it was nice to see you around, even for so little time.”

“See, I have to admit something to you.” He glanced down to his feet and she kept staring at him in hope to get something out of him.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been following you for a while now, since my brother showed me your band. And I really think you’re amazing, and I have for a while.” She smiled to him and blushed hardly. He was being so nice. “And I really want to do something crazy right now.”

“How much crazy?” She furrowed her brows and he stopped, making her stop too.

“This crazy.” This way he stole a small peck from her lips, leaving her paralyzed.

“Wow.”

“Sorry.” He blushed immediately, rubbing the back of his head. Her hands went to cup his cheek and she pulled him to another brief kiss, but much more longer than the previous one.

“If you want to, I’m gonna be around for the whole day tomorrow, and I really don’t know many great places to have lunch here in Atlanta.”

“I know the perfect place.” He said with a smile on his face.

“It’s a date.” She caressed his arm and left one final peck before going back inside, leaving Tom with a dorky smile on his face.

“Come on mate, being paralyzed over there won’t make the moment last longer.” Harrison shouted from the taxi door.

“At least I had to try.”

(...)

“So, you got a date with (Y/N)? The (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?” Harrison asked in breakfast when Tom was trying out different shirts for his date.

“Yeah, is it so hard to believe?”

“Hmm, kind of. I mean, she’s super famous and you’re not that much yet.” Haz sipped his tea and Tom rolled his eyes.

“I got to meet her anyway, and we’re going out for lunch, and now you should be the good friend and help me pick something to wear.”

“Just go with the black one, and maybe a jacket over.” Tom nodded and smiled, going back to his bedroom.

“Thanks mate! See you later.” Tom waved and Haz rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. Get that girl!”

“I will.”

While Tom finished getting ready, (Y/N) was getting her makeup done by her best friend, Willow, master of makeups, drums and dating advices. She always knew what to say to people, and she had so many great advices and some helps for those going on first dates. Willow did a light makeup on (Y/N)’s face, much opposite of those she does for when she is on stage, and chose a black denim skirt and a yellow shirt that just matched with sneakers, and were the perfect casual look.

“Aaaaand… Ready for your date with the cute Spider Man.” Willow said once she was done with (Y/N)’s makeup.

“All of them are cute.” (Y/N) glanced up with a smirk on her face.

“Well, he’s the cutest.” Willow helped her stand up and lightly tapped her butt to make her go in direction of a mirror. “You look gorgeous, as always.”

“Shut up Will.” She took a look at herself in the mirror, sometimes slightly turning around to check if everything was good. “I have to admit, I love when you go shopping with me.”

“I know I’m that good of personal stylist.”

“And thank God for those makeup classes you took when we were in High School. I look completely amazing!”

“You always do.”

And so there were knocks on the door, and Willow opened it up, showing (Y/N)’s brother on the door, with a big smile on his face, as if he was about to laugh at his sister’s face.

“Tom’s here.” He announced and (Y/N) nodded, finishing gathering her things like lip gloss and phone to keep it on her purse.

“Okay, bye Will, and I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun babe.” She said, sitting back down, but smiling for her bestie’s happiness.

“(Y/N/N), come here.” Her brother called and she stopped midway to turn back to him.

“What?” She approached him and he hugged her.

“Just be careful, you just met him. But also, have fun.” He kissed the top of her head and she smiled.

“I will, I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Tom was waiting for her in the sidewalk, walking side by side, the most nervous he has ever been in his life. He always dreamed of taking this girl out, but never really thought it was going to be for real one day. Once he saw her walking towards him, he could swear his heart stopped and he forgot how to breath. She looked different from every picture or video of her on stage. (Y/N) for once looked like a real life person, and it made Tom breathless.

“Hi.” She said shyly.

“Hey.” He smiled brightly, making her feel so much more comfortable. “Did you have a good night after I was gone?”

“Sooo good. Like, we cleaned everything up and I watched a movie with Willow drinking hot coco and honestly, it was last night’s peak.” She provoked, just to see his reaction.

“Really?” Tom furrowed his eyebrows and (Y/N) laughed. “No other good thing happened last night?”

“Nope.” She shook her head laughing and he nodded. “Come on, I’m kidding. I had a very good kiss last night too.”

“Humm… Good to know.”

“Let’s go, I’m starving. And, dying to know where you’re taking me.” She pulled him by the hand, making him smile.

“It’s nothing too great, really. I just hope you like burgers.”

“It’s my favorite food.” She smiled and he reached for her hand, guiding her to the car he rented with Harrison on the second day in America.

It wasn’t so far away from where (Y/N) was staying with her band. They had a calm car ride, listening to good songs and having a nice and casual conversation. It was like they’d known each other forever, it was so easy to talk to the other, and it made their day so light.

Tom pulled over in front of a small cafeteria, not crowded, but with a really nice and calm environment. Perfect for a famous person who doesn’t want to be bother on her day off. The place smelled like good food, and there was some known rock n’ roll songs like Led Zeppelin or David Bowie playing on the background. The few people that were there were focused on their work, or the people that were with them, so no one even noticed two famous people coming in. Tom guided (Y/N) to a booth in the back, close to the kitchen door, a little far away from the windom.

“This place is so nice.”

“Yeah, it was recommended by someone on the studio. They said it had good food and never was crowded. So I tried one day with Harrison, and it’s actually pretty great.”

“I really loved it. And it smells sooo nice.”

“I can’t wait to see your face when you try out their cheesy fries. It’s heaven sent.” She smiled and kept staring at him. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, no…” She shook her head and laughed. “It’s just… It’s weird, I feel like we’re old friends and we’ve known each other for like one day.

“I feel it too. Like, when I listen to your music, I feel so close to you. And I had the same feeling the first time I talked to you.”

“Maybe we know each other from other lives.”

“Maybe we used to work together.”

“Maybe we were married.” She lowered her sight to her lap and he smiled.

“Yeah, that’s more likely.”

“Tom, nice to see you around again.” The middle age waitress approached with a sympathetic smile on her face.

“Penelope, you know I’d be coming back for more of your cheesy fries.”

“So I’ll take notes to bring it to you right now.” She wrote something down on her notepad.

“Thank you.”

“So, who’s the pretty lady?”

“This is (Y/N), she’s passing through town this weekend and didn’t know where to eat. And you know, since here is so quiet and private, also really good.”

“It’s nice to meet you (Y/N).” She smiled to the girl next to Tom.

“It’s nice to meet you too.”

“So, what can I order for you two?”

“Bring the cheesy fries, I want my regular burger and a chocolate milkshake.”

“Which one is your regular?” (Y/N) whispered to Tom, looking at the menu.

“This one.” He pointed the burger on the menu and she smiled.

“Okay, I’ll have the cheddar bacon burger. And, can we share a milkshake?” She asked and he nodded with a grin on his face.

“Okay.” Penelope smiled with their interaction and wrote down their order.

“I’ll be right back with your food.”

“Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you wanna order your own milkshake?”

“I don’t know. I always thought it was cute to share milkshakes on a date. But I never really tried it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t go on many dates though. Like, me and my brother started chasing our dream around our band very soon, and since we started, I haven’t had time to date.”

“I know what it’s like. The same with me, for real. Once I got in my head that I wanted to be Spider Man, I had to let go of so many things, that including girlfriends.”

“The price we have to pay to be successful.”

Their conversation went on about their careers, and they had so much in common when it came to that part of their lives. So that’s where they connected the most, and they went on about it for long minutes, until their order came, and they stopped talking and focused on the food.

“God, this is amazing!” She said, rolling her eyes in excitement. “I was so starving, and this is like medicine for the soul.”

“You’re so cute.”

“I know.” She did a cute face to him, and kept eating. “And the fries are so good.”

“The best, right? Oh, and try the milkshake.” She leaned to take a sip of the milkshake and moaned once she could finally taste it.

“I never wanna leave this place.”

They sat silent, just eating and feeling each other’s presence, but it was so comfortable, that it just felt so right. They finished the food and left the milkshake for last, so they finished it locking their gazes on each other. Tom was mesmerized by her and couldn’t take his eyes off her, because in that moment, she was all he could see.

“Okay, I’m so full that I don’t even know if I can take another glass of water.”

“Good, that’s where I wanted to get.” Tom smiled once again, he couldn’t stop smiling, and his face was hurting.

“Tommy.” She asked, leaning back on the booth.

“Yeah.”

“Can we kiss again? Cause you know, I can’t stop thinking about the one we did last night.”

He leaned forward and used one of his hands to bring her closer. It was a soft kiss, but it got much deeper once she licked his bottom lip, asking permission to explore his mouth. It was much different from the first one they had in the parking lot, but their first real kiss was just… perfect. After a nice lunch together, light conversation, ending with something they both craved the whole day. And so they stayed there, for a really long time, just kissing and talking, without being bothered, until it was almost dark.

“I think we need to go. Phineas is going to be worried.”

“And you need to rest, because you’ll have a big concert tomorrow.”

“I can sleep on the road, I just wanna be with you right now.”

“When will the tour be over?”

“In a month. We’ll end it up in London.” Tom nodded, heart already aching, knowing he would have to bear a long time without her.

“So why don’t you take some vacations once it is over? A little time in London. You can stay with me.”

“Okay, I like the idea.” She smiled and he kissed her again.

“Come on, let’s get you back.”

He paid for the food after that long discussion on she wanting to pay and he refusing to let her pay. He ended up paying for the food and she left a very good tip for Penelope, leaving her really happy. Tom drove (Y/N) home, trying to take forever to get to the destiny, just to stick around her a little more.

“You know Tom, once I’m gone tonight, we won’t be able to see each other for a long time.”

“I know, but I’m done with Spidey in two weeks. Maybe I can go meet you, wherever you are.”

“Would you do that for me?” Her eyes sparkled and he nodded.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything before in my life, (Y/N/N).”

“In two weeks I’ll be in San Francisco, and maybe if we squeeze really tight, we can share my bus bed.” He laughed with her and nodded.

“I wouldn’t mind at all.” She kissed him once again, one to last until the next time they see each other again.

“Call me. Don’t leave me on ghost Spidey.” She pointed to him. “We can FaceTime, and everything. So please, don’t be a stranger.”

“Never again.” He kissed her one last time before she opened the cars door.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Good night darling, and have a safe trip.”

“Good night Tommy.”

And as Tom watched (Y/N) walk away, he simply knew that it was the start of something special. Something that would last through eternity. And he was so excited to see what was coming next from this brand new relationship, once like he never had before.

…………………

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maybankiara · 4 years

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PHONE SWAP (DREW STARKEY)

10: BAD DAY, HUH?

summary: Addie Mallory is just your average economics student when she meets Drew Starkey at her local Target in Atlanta. This is where the story is supposed to end – a short meeting and a picture to go – except Drew accidentally leaves with the wrong phone, and the story begins, instead.

w/c: 3k

a/n: ah. the bittersweet taste of our own flaws. -- probably addie in this chapter tbh. basically marianne being very british and making addie Question Everything, as best friends do

read on wattpad

previous part | series masterlist

Virgin Mary | 3:47pm so the gang is planning a night out this week, you free saturday?

Me | 5:07pm why this saturday? Me | 5:07pm is it someone’s birthday?? Me | 5:07pm pls say no

Virgin Mary | 5:08pm Tom’s is in two weeks and you better not forget that

Me | 5:08pm ffs marianne i won’t

Virgin Mary | 5:09pm you better not bitch I need your help with the present Virgin Mary | 5:09pm can’t give my boy anything less than perfection

Me | 5:10pm wow what a way to not put pressure in your about-to-burst-from-stress friend

Virgin Mary | 5:11pm you mean my overdramatic friend? Virgin Mary | 5:11pm get your hole and you’ll be fine

Me | 5:11pm MARIANNE

Virgin Mary | 5:12pm BITCH WHAT Virgin Mary | 5:12pm you need to shag Virgin Mary | 5:12pm when’s the last time you got your hole

Me | 5:13pm I’m busy okay i don’t want a boyfriend rn

Virgin Mary | 5:14pm so that’s totally why I’ve been hearing about Holden for the past three months 👀

Me | 5:15pm you do realise we work at the same place right Me | 5:15pm i can’t just hook up with a guy i have to see every day for at least 8 hours

Virgin Mary | 5:16pm fucking hell you’re a tuff nut

Me | 5:17pm go make me some tea pls Me | 5:17pm I’m home in 20 and I’ve got some late emails

Virgin Mary | 5:17pm whatever bitch Virgin Mary | 5:18pm you’re a freaking workaholic Virgin Mary | 5:18pm shag Holden

Me | 5:19pm shut up Me | 5:19pm ur blocked ❤

Virgin Mary | 5:20pm so are you free on saturday or not? Virgin Mary | 5:33pm ur cancelled❤

◇

The music coming from their apartment is loud enough that Addie hears it as she walks up the staircase. She can’t distinguish the song, but the beat’s there, and she’s either imagining Marianne singing along, or it’s actually happening. One is just as likely as the other.

It gets louder when Addie walks through the door, and she figures it’s safe to assume it’s her friend rather than her imagination. The door closes behind her, sound swallowed by whatever rock song Marianne is blasting through the speaker – this is what Addie is used to.

She leaves her purse on the drawer at the side of the hallway, one that’s filled with trinkets they’ve got nowhere else to put, and she hangs the raincoat right next to it. Her shoes are the next to come off – the loss of the three inches that the burgundy platforms come with comes as soon as she steps out of them. Her feet are grounding her on the floor, now, and a moment’s break is all she gives herself. It’s peace after a tedious day of relentless work; it’s the calm from the scent of cinnamon candles, Earl Grey tea, and the dish Marianne is making that smells very Italian – this feels like home.

Addie makes her way to the kitchen. Her roommate is singing her heart out to music coming from the speaker on the round table, stirring whatever’s in the pot in front of her. Marianne doesn’t notice her come in, so Addie walks over to the speaker and tunes it down, low enough for them to talk.

‘Honey, I’m home!’

Marianne turns around with a big smile on her face. Her ginger hair is pulled into a high ponytail, loose from what Addie assumes must’ve been a kitchen concert. This is paired with sweats and a loose crop top, and Marianne’s demeanour is enough to tell her she’s ready to tackle the weekend ahead of them.

‘Honey, welcome home’’ She points behind Addie. ‘There’s your tea. I’m making lasagna and it’ll be ready in about half an hour.’

‘Shit, I've actually been craving that today.'

The girl goes back to stirring the pot, swaying her hips to the tune of the music. ‘Sixth sense, Addie. Bruce Willis had it right.’

‘I told you that movie creeps me out!’

‘It’s a masterpiece and you’re a pussy.’

Instead of a reply, Addie huffs with an eye roll, taking a sip from the cup. It’s midnight blue with a quote from one of the books Marianne likes, imported straight from the British Isles. The colour is faded on the holding part of the mug, but it remains the girl’s favourite mug despite a variety of prettier, newer mugs she’s acquired over the time.

Marianne is simple. She’s got things she loves and doesn’t stray from that.

They chat for a bit, Marianne preparing the lasagna to go into the oven and Addie drinking her tea. Addie learns that the firm Marianne is interning for has gotten a new project for a family home on the outskirts of Atlanta and the interns are being allowed to try out their hand at designing it, and the firm will end up critiquing their work and possibly giving one of them the chance to have their design turned into reality.

It’s an exciting thing – the most Marianne has gotten in the past three months of working there.

The lasagna is put into the oven and Addie announces her shower time, and promises Marianne she better tell her about her day after she scrubbed off all that reminds her of the office. Taking her contact lenses out and getting into the shower after a long day is the one feeling Addie cherishes more than just the arrival home in itself. Her showers are long, with steam rising and fogging up the blurred glass sides of the shower and the mirror in the bathroom.

When she gets out of the bathroom, she’s wearing an outfit that mirrors her roommate’s. Her hair’s wet and wrapped into an old T-shirt, basking in a curl-defining product she got the other day. She’s got a facemask on, too, and Marianne sighs at the sight of it.

‘Bad day, huh?’

Addie walks up to the counter beside the oven, taking out some cutlery and begins to set the table. ‘I envy you. All your bosses are so self-absorbed that they don’t even notice you guys. Mine are self-absorbed and narcissistic, so we get all the work nobody can be fucked with.’

Marianne taps on the table with the fork she’s just been given. ‘No swearing, missy.’

The brunette raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out if her roommate is joking. Then she remembers her resolution from a few days ago -- “I will swear less because I’m not a fucking sailor.” “That’s a quarter in the jar, Miss.”

‘Whatever,’ mutters Addie. She places the last of the dishes on the table and plops into the chair across from her roommate, resting her head in her hands. ‘I’m so tired of Harrington. The divorce isn’t going well because his ex has actually got a brain, which he hadn’t anticipated, and now he’s literally just throwing the worst shit at us. And to complete it, Patty is just being her regular cruel self.’

‘That’s horrible.’ Marianne scrunches her nose. ‘That’s also three quarters now.’

‘I’m allowed to say shit!’

‘Well, you’re the one who decided to swear less.’

‘Saying shit isn’t swearing. It’s basically a normal word.’

The look Marianne gives her is full of friendly scorn. Addie sighs and fishes three quarters out of her wallet that’s on the table—she can’t believe saying “shit” alone cost her two quarters—and throws them into the jar that's on the part of the table closest to the wall. There’s hardly anything in it, but Addie reckons that’s more because of the fact that she’s hardly both home and awake anymore, as opposed to her not swearing a lot.

Marianne walks over to the oven, checking the lasagna. She pulls the door open and hot air fills the small space, alongside the smell of a beautifully done Italian dish – or Addie is just really hungry.

‘Patty made Holden and I work on a budget plan for some Grubson’s subdivision upstate. We did budgeting. He majored in finance and I majored in economics and we’re doing damn accounting.’

‘You’re interning for a law firm,’ notes Marianne, putting oven mittens on. ‘You shouldn’t expect to do exactly what you want to do.’

Addie’s lip curls into a bitter grin. Her friend is right, and she knows it and she hates that this is what her career has come to -- wasting her actual talents because the industry is shitty as it is. She’s got to put in triple the effort her white male colleagues do, and even then, her brilliance is hardly registered.

The lasagna is on the table. Marianne gives each of them a piece and Addie fills their glasses with some Coca Cola-ripoff they got at Tesco. The music from the speaker changes to something more dinner-appropriate.

‘This looks delicious, Marianne.’

‘It better be. Took me nearly three damn hours.’

Both girls blow on their slice before taking it, and both of them still end up having to half-blow through the food while it’s in their mouths, bursting into laughter as they watch one another struggle.

‘I don’t know what’s your excuse,’ says Addie, having finally swallowed the piece, ‘but mine is that I’m absolutely starving.’

Marianne pretends to chuck some food at her. ‘My excuse is that I invested a lot of time in this.’

‘Fair. It’s amazing.’

At this, the girl beams with happiness, and Addie can’t hold back a smile even as she struggles through the heat of another piece, her stomach grumbling.

‘Anyway, it’s shit. It got so bad today that I ended up spending nearly all of my time with Holden— No, hush, I’m not having it— Seriously, Marianne, we’re literally work colleagues!’ Addie sighs in exasperation, one finger raised in the last effort at getting her friend to stop nagging her about her colleague.

Marianne pouts, then gives away an innocent shrug. ‘All I’m saying is that there’s something there.’

All Addie can do is roll her eyes and focus on the plate in front of her. Her fork pierces through the lasagna with a little too much force than warranted, and the brunette concludes that’s enough to show how irritated Marianne got her.

Despite her hardest attempts at denying it, Marianne’s kind of got a point. Addie’s been at the internship for over three months now and it’s not like she has gotten close with anyone – at least, not enough to call them friends. Her career and education have always taken the priority over friends and temporary relationships, and it’s never hurt her in any way. Sure, she might’ve been lonely from time to time, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t end up with great friends, regardless.

With the internship and a Master’s degree to work on, Addie doesn’t really have time for personal connections that won’t last.

Addie shakes the thought out of her head. The lasagna bit is steaming in her mouth and Marianne rolls her eyes, but it eases the tension between the two.

‘There’s nothing between us, Marianne,’ says Addie, once her mouth isn’t burning anymore. ‘We’re a good team. Patty and Harrington noticed that we get more done than any other teams.’

‘So there’s work chemistry. You don’t have that with just about every other person, Addie. Especially not you.’

Especially not Addie, who likes to have her work done at specific times of the day, filing it in a specific way, handling her responsibility like a drop of water. Again, Marianne’s got a point.

‘Plus, he’s pretty good looking.’

The memory of showing Marianne pictures of Holden makes her chuckle. ‘You flipped out. I was scared for Tom.’

‘Please,’ scoffs Marianne, waving her hand. ‘There’s no one better than Tom. But after I spent a whole month listening to how well you’re getting on with this Holden guy, how much better it’s to work with him than other people, how much he’s helped you join the group… How else was I supposed to react when I found out that he’s a hot piece of blonde-hair blue-eyes?’

‘I just…’ Addie’s fork moves some of the lasagna around the plate. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t want you to think he’s hot.’

Marianne huffs. ‘All I’m saying is, don’t write him off.’

‘I’m not writing him off. I just don’t have the time to focus on anything romantic right now.’

‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’ Marianne finishes the last of her slice and puts her fork down, leaning back in the chair. ‘Addie, you’re the most organised person I know. You never have a problem making it to any of the things our group organises, so why do you always say you don’t have time to hang out with people from work?’

For a few moments, the only sounds in the kitchen/dining area are whatever’s coming out of the speaker, Addie’s work scratching the bottom of the plate, and her chewing.

She knows Marianne’s got a point, again. It’s starting to annoy her.

‘Things are good the way they are,’ she finally says, the admission heavy across her lips. ‘I get closer to any of them, it’ll become more difficult to point out what they’ve done wrong, or do my own work if I want to know about their day. It’s already difficult enough with Holden, and we’re just friends.’

‘That’s different. You want to shag him.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Are you seriously trying to deny the fact that you’re attracted to someone who looks like a damn nineties movie star?’

Addie grunts, burying her face in her hands. ‘Fine. He’s hot.’

There’s a pregnant pause and when she finally dares look at Marianne, the girl has a tired smile on her face. She knows this look -- a combination of I told you so and I could be your therapist, you don’t need to pay for one.

‘What.’

Marianne taps her hand, her smile widening. ‘I know your career means a lot to you, but you’ve got to loosen up. You’re going to burn out.’

‘Everybody burns out.’

‘Yeah, but you’re gonna do it at, like, thirty.’

Not dignifying this with a response, Addie rises to her feet, taking her plate and Marianne’s, then stacks the cutlery on top. She’s acutely aware of Marianne waiting for a reaction, even if she doesn’t want to give her one. Instead, she gets to washing the dishes. Running water drowns out the tension easily enough for it to slip into the back of her mind.

She hears Marianne’s chair let out a squeak a moment later. Her ginger hair appears in the corner of Addie’s eye, and she sees her put the uneaten half of the lasagna into the fridge, wrapped up in aluminium foil. When finished, Marianne rests against the counter with the small of her back.

Neither of the girls says anything. Addie is trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that’s trying to convince her Marianne is right.

She sets the washes dishes aside, letting them air dry on the dish rack.

‘All I meant was that you could go out with them, for a change, not turn your life upside down,’ says Marianne. ‘Just think about it.’

Addie presses her lips together. ‘Okay. I’ll think about it.’

‘Great! Anyway, you need to come out with us on Saturday. Leanne spent fifteen minutes of our coffee date today just freaking out over the fact that you met Drew Starkey.’ A beat. ‘She binged Outer Banks yesterday.’

‘I can’t believe my life is finally interesting to you guys.’ Addie puts away the last of the dishes and wipes her hands with a kitchen towel, smiling. ‘All it took was meeting an actor.’

Marianne pushes herself up on the counter, grinning like a fox. ‘It’s not just that you met him, Addie. It’s been three months and you still talk.’

‘Not really. We haven’t talked in’—she counts the days in her head—‘about two weeks.’

‘Oh, so you haven’t talked since he read your essay and shared it to his hundreds of thousands of followers and said how much he liked it?’

‘Nope.’

The sigh Marianne lets out is pure exasperation. Addie walks out of the kitchen and the girl follows suit, bringing the speaker along. Both of them plop on the couch as they usually do for half an hour after dinner, before going each to their own studying sessions. Deciding to room with Marianne, who’s currently also doing an internship and a Master’s degree (in architecture), was one of the best decisions Addie has ever made.

Except for the times when Marianne is awfully nosy for a Brit – must be the French part of her.

With her legs criss-crossed and an arm draped over the back of the couch, Marianne is in her element. ‘That is not your average celebrity interaction.’

‘I know.’

‘So you’re telling me you’re not trying to get on that?’

‘On what?’ asks Addie, feeling her irritation levels steadily rising again. ‘Jesus, Marianne. I’m not trying to get with every guy who’s good-looking and nice to me. We share some opinions on social media and whatnot, he agreed with them. It’s not that big of a deal.’

‘So you’re saying you wouldn’t shag him if you had the chance?’

Addie looks away. Her cheeks are hot and body is on fire, and she’s had more than enough of Marianne’s attitude today, and that’s on top of already having had a pretty fucking shitty day in the first place.

‘You can’t be ser—’

‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

She grabs her phone and, absentmindedly, checks her Instagram notifications – none. The feeling in her stomach intensifies and she opens up her work group chat instead, and curses herself for hoping that maybe there’d be a specific person in her messages.

Maybe Marianne isn’t that far off.

◇

11: WELCOME TO MY LIFE

tagging. @jjmaybanksbaby @taiter-tots @sacredto @snkkat @drewswannabegirl @yeslifeofateen @rudypnkw @stfukie @x-lulu @sacredto @drewstarkey @butgilinsky @solllaris @hyperactive2411 @chasefreakinstokes @surferkie @jroseron @k-k0129 @starlightstories

#drew starkey #drew starkey fic #outer banks #obx #phone swap series

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twilightfan02 · 4 years

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The Storm Coming In / Jasper Hale Imagine

A/N - Hi everyone! This is the first imagine I have posted and I am very excited! Don’t be afraid to send in any requests for Twilight characters. I would love to see them.

Jasper leaves with family when Edward leaves, reader struggles to stick to a routine. Jasper shows up to watch her sing in a diner after a month and they figure out how to go on from there.

Word Count- 4.2k

Warnings- Cursing

Enjoy!

It had been almost a month since any trace of your boyfriend Jasper disappeared with the rest of the Cullen's and as much as you would love to remain in your bed for the rest of your days, you saw the world changing around you, you knew you had to adapt to survive. You didn’t seem to know what adapting meant at this point, but you knew you couldn’t keep doing what you were doing. You finally found yourself being able to stand in the outside world and you knew that you had a show tonight at the diner in your hometown of Forks. You could not have called out of this again. Ever since you were little you’d find yourself on the small, dinky stage at the secluded diner, performing every Saturday night. You had always loved to sing, nothing had ever intervened with your love of performing before, Jasper seemed to have taken your passion with him when he left. There was not a show you had done since meeting the boy that hadn’t had a song dedicated to the love of your life since you met him, he hadn’t missed one yet, neither of you ever thought he really would. You shook your head trying to void yourself of any thoughts of the guilt-ridden empath. It was currently 4pm and you had to be at the diner by 6:45pm to do a quick mic check before the show would start at 7pm. It seemed that everyone in town had known what had happened to you. Everyone had thought you and Jasper would be together for the rest of your lives, it wasn’t a question. You think people expected you to act differently, you had spent your whole life making sure your reputation stayed squeaky clean and no one thought it would be easy for you to get over this, no one expected you to completely shut down as you did.

You stepped into the shower and you let the scalding water pour over you, you stood there for as long as you could before going on with your normal show routine. Everything in your life had a routine. You never realized how controlled to the clock you were before a month of forcing yourself into isolation, it almost made you laugh. You couldn’t care less anymore. Once you finished, you stepped out of the shower, towel drying your hair and body before getting dressed. You wore a simple white knit sweater, black mom jeans and your favorite pair of doc martens. After your hair finished drying you french braided the (Y/H/C) pieces into a low curled ponytail. You put on just enough makeup so you didn’t look completely dead and called it quits. You couldn’t eat on show days. No matter how many times you had performed, nervous or not, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat anything. You knew the sweet owners of the diner, Don and Barb, would have a to-go box waiting for you once you had finished. Barb had texted you a few days after word had gotten around that the Cullens had left telling you to take your time, to call in if you needed and she had dropped off your favorite soup at least twice throughout every week of him being gone. When you had asked to take a month off from your Saturday nights at the diner, she had been so kind and when you told her you were ready to come back she was more than ecstatic. You walked past your mother when exiting your house towards your car, who informed you that she and your father would be there tonight to support your first night back. You bid a quick thank you and continued the walk to your car. Your parents had been so amazing through this break-up, they followed your lead the best they could. Neither of them had expected this either, they had nothing, but love for yours and Jaspers relationship. Your mother was so heart-broken that this was how you were doomed to spend your junior year, she didn’t know how you would come back from this. They knew that Jasper was the one for you, your father had done his best to get a hold of Carlisle who didn’t offer much of an explanation at all. No one knew what to tell you anymore. No one knew how to comfort you or how to approach you when you ate lunch alone at the Cullens table. The people around you really struggled when it came to seeing you so down and out, you were a walking ray of human sunshine, seeing you upset was never something they had prepared themselves for.

You drove the familiar road to the small diner and you were there in under ten minutes, you sat in the car for a little while, preparing to go into the public willingly again. You made sure you had all of your stuff, checked your reflection quickly, took a deep breath and proceeded to leave the safety of your car. You walked through the doors and began your path to the little sound system next to the small stage. As you were walking, you caught Barb's eye as she was putting some money in the register, she looked up and sent you a wave and a smile. She shook her finger at you signaling that she would be over there in a second, you sent her a tight lipped smile and a nod in response. Once you arrived at the stage you pulled up the karaoke playlist you had made earlier that day to make your transitions between songs easier. Before you knew it you had been spun around and pulled into a firm hug. The familiar scent of Barb and apple pie filled your nose and for the first time in a while you had a genuine smile.

“Oh my dear, it is so good to have you back,” You could tell she was being honest.

“It is good to be back, I have a good set list tonight. I am bringing back some old stuff, I have something new too that I really think will be fun.” You were trying your best to carry on a normal conversation.

“I am so glad to hear that. How are you doing? Have you heard from him at all?” There it was. The inevitable Jasper question. The second you heard it your mouth went dry, you shook your head and gave a quick answer, obviously trying to end this portion of the conversation.

“I am so sorry, love. We sure will miss seeing the two of you around here.”

“I will miss it too, I just wish I knew anything at all. I have no way to gain closure and I feel like I am just stuck in this weird limbo.” This may have been the most open statement you had made about the situation so far. You and Bella had spent a lot of time trying to figure out why they had left, Bella knows Edward left to protect her from Victoria, but that doesn’t explain why Jas would leave you with no explanation. You had tried to text and call him nearly everyday, but it was radio silence. Eventually you and Bella fell out of touch, you were painful reminders of each other's missing half. You knew her father, Charlie and her would be at the diner tonight. Everyone was trying to be as supportive as they could.

Barbra interrupted your thoughts after letting the information you gave her sink in for a short while, “I am sorry, dear. I should not have brought it up.”

You responded honestly, “I have to talk about it eventually.” You didn't mean to sound as bitter as you did when you said this, but the poison behind your words were a given when discussing him.

Barb shifted a bit before saying, “Well, it's seven. Are you ready to start?” You took a deep breath and muttered a “Yes, of course.” Barb made her way up the steps of the hip-length, black stage, she took the mic in her hand and gave it a quick tap, gaining the attention of the usual Saturday customers, lots of which came for your little shows. It was as close as they could get to a concert in a town like Forks, seeing as the diner was a teen hangout it tended to be pretty packed on nights like this. You saw the door open and you caught Bella’s eye as she walked in with Charlie following behind her. You sent a quick wave and she sent one back.

“Hey! How is everyone doing?” Barb spoke clearly into the microphone as everyone gave a small cheer. She continued, “We are so blessed to have our own (Y/N) back to sing for us after a small break! I do not have to tell any of you new-comers how amazing this girl is, the turn out every Saturday night and her voice speaks for themselves. Give her a warm welcome everyone,” You walked up the steps taking this time to look into the crowd and register who was here You saw quite a few people from school, you saw your parents smiling wide as ever, you caught sight of your best friend Paul and the rest of his pack, you sent him a small smile which he returned with a bigger one and two thumbs up.

One you reached Barb, she handed you the mic and you sent her a grateful look, you loved her introductions. “Hey everyone! I have missed this a lot, I am so glad to go back at it again. For those of you who don’t know, I have sung here almost every Saturday night since I was 8 years old and it is my favorite thing to do,” You weren’t lying, but you sure as hell aren't telling the whole truth. Your first night out after Jasper leaving was becoming a little overwhelming, but you had to push through.

“I am going to throw it back with some of my old favorites to perform and then we will try some new stuff, does that sound alright with you?” The small crowd sent out a quick cheer and you smiled back at them.

“Alright! Here is, I Got Stripes by Johnny Cash!” You tried to do music to please the crowd which led you to do a mix of music that was older.

The music starts up and you see your dads head start bopping, this was always his favorite to hear you sing.

“I hear the train coming

Its rolling round the bend

And I aint seen the sunshine since, I don’t know when

I’ve been stuck in Folsom Prison and time keeps dragging on,”

You do your best to connect with people in the audience throughout your set, but all your mind could keep going back to was the Cullen family. You had always told yourself that your art would come first and if your 10 year-old self could see you right now she would slap the shit out of you. You were letting your career be interrupted for a boy, but you couldn’t help it. You felt completely numb, you couldn’t enjoy what you were doing at all. You thought back to seeing Jasper after every show. He always let you see everyone else first and then he would meet you in your guys booth in the back with a quick kiss and a bouquet of flowers. You always told him he didn’t have to do that. You’ve performed so many times that it wasn’t anything special anymore. He would always reply with a smug smile and say “Anything you do is special, Sugar.” That boy made you weak in the knees, but he was gone. He left you, with no explanation, after three years together. You knew all of his secrets, his family's secrets. He knew yours. You tried to push the thought of him out of your head again. Eventually you found yourself at the last song of your set, this was always a song you would dedicate to Jasper, you found your heart in your throat as you spoke.

“You have been such a wonderful audience, I am so happy to be back up here. The last song of the night is one I never thought I would perform. This song has always been my safe space and something that meant a lot to someone who I loved dearly. Hopefully you love it as much as I do. Here is Maybe This Time from Cabaret.” The second you finished speaking you saw the back door of the diner open and a man in a hoodie slide into the booth closest to the door. The second the music started you saw him stiffen and you knew immediately who it was. You wanted to stop the music, start a scene, but you knew you couldn’t do that. You had the wind knocked out of you as you saw Paul rise and slowly saunter to the booth that Jasper was sitting in, you had almost missed your entrance to the song, but quickly picked it back up in order to keep the audience's eyes on you and not on the back of the diner. You didn’t know what Paul would do to Jasper. You and Paul had grown up together, from chubby little toddlers in diapers to teen with intense hormonal acne, he had done his best to be there for you once Jasper had left, but between you pushing him away and the duties of the pack he couldn’t do much. You opened up your mouth and for some reason the words came out,

“Maybe this time, I'll be lucky

Maybe this time he’ll stay

Maybe this time, for the first time, love won't hurry away

He will hold me fast, I’ll be home at last

Not a loser anymore, like the last time and the time before,”

You finally brought your eyes up off the ground and looked at everyone except him, you couldn’t look at him and sing this song. You loved musical theatre, Jasper did his best to tolerate it. The only show he ever really loved was Cabaret, he would never tell you why when you asked. You just reminded him so much of Sally Bowles. She was a performer, hopeful, loud and opinionated, he loved that about you. When you had sung this song for him, it was the first time he had ever heard you sing. You were sitting in his bedroom and were playing Truth or Dare. He had asked if you had any talents and you said you could sing a bit, when he asked you to sing for him you clammed up. You loved to sing so much, but you had a huge crush on the boy and did not want to embarrass yourself. You were supposed to save this song for the weekend at the diner, but he loved it so much you never wanted to share it with anyone else. This song showed exactly how he felt towards you. He wanted to stay so badly, but he was always scared as to what would happen if he did. He thought, maybe this time, it would be different and he could. You found yourself reaching the end of the song and at this point you had looked at everyone except Jasper. When you finally willed yourself to look at him you saw Paul sitting next to him, completely, maybe he was trying to keep him from leaving, maybe he was trying to make sure he stayed close so he could kick his ass after they left the diner, you had no idea. Jasper looked up and you willed yourself to move your eyes off of Paul and onto Jasper. Meeting his eyes took everything out of you, every bit of energy and willingness to go on that you had in you completely disappeared.

“All the odds are, they're in my favor

Something's bound to begin

It's gotta happen, happen sometime

Maybe this time I'll win

Cause everybody, they love a winner

So nobody loved me

'Lady Peaceful', 'Lady Happy'

That's what I long to be

Well, all the odds are, they're in my favor

Something's bound to begin

It's gotta happen, happen sometime

Maybe this time

Maybe this time I'll win,” once you finished the last word everyone in the diner was on their feet. You stood, forcing a smile, glaring a hole into Jasper's head. Jasper stopped making eye contact with you towards the very end of the song. He could feel what you were feeling, he felt it over everyone else in the small space. Your pain was loud, it wanted to be felt. Your anguish nearly took him off his feet, he didn’t know how you were standing and smiling, even as unconvincingly as you were. You gave the audience a quick wave and walked down the steps after you thanked everyone for coming out tonight, the second you got down the stairs you were saying your hellos as fast as you could so you could leave immediately. You loved Jasper more than anything, but you weren’t ready for this, it was all too much. You finally got in your car, after Barb forced a to-go box on you. The second you got in your car you lost it, sobbing harder than ever into your hands. Why was this all so overwhelming? You knew Bella had Jasper hostage questioning him about Edward and such. He was grateful that you hadn't been pulling the stuff that Bella had been pulling, the dangerous stunts to get a glimpse of him. He didn’t know what he would have done if you were trying to injure yourself. He left to prevent that, he knew he was in the wrong , but he had the right intentions. The Cullens had come up to collect the last of their things when Jasper caught a glimpse of you through the window of the diner. It was almost eight so he knew you would be about finished, but he wanted to see you perform for the last time. He needed it, and when he heard you singing your guy's song, he knew he had made a mistake. When he felt what you had felt, he knew he had to stay. He couldn’t leave you feeling like this. He thought you would be okay, even better without him. You would find someone who could give you a good normal life, a normal marriage, four kids playing in the backyard, you could have grandchildren, and grow old and grey with whoever you honored with that job. He knew you were it for him, he had one great love and he was determined to do what was best for you even though it was slowly killing him. It seemed that he had underestimated your love for him, he would never make that mistake again. You were right that Bella had found him and begun to question him to death, what you didn’t know was that she had dragged him outside of the diner to interrogate him. You wiped your eyes with your sleeve before fumbling to find your keys to start your car, as soon as you had put your key in the ignition you made eye contact with him. The love of your life standing twenty feet away from you and all you could do was put your car in reverse and exit the parking lot, or at least try, but before you could even attempt it, Jasper was standing beside your car window tapping lightly. You could see that his mouth was moving, but you couldn’t register a sound that came out. You were blank, before you were pulled out of it by hearing Paul's voice, booming like thunder.

“Jasper, she obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. I told you I’d let you try. She’s not re-” You couldn’t hear the rest of it. You sped out of the parking lot nearly knocking Jasper over in the process. You turned off everything you were feeling and you just drove. You drove for hours it seemed, you didn’t go anywhere, you just drove in circles. Once you started to come to reality again, you took a brief look at the clock, and you genuinely laughed so hard you had to pull over. You had been driving for hours, 3 hours to be exact. It was almost 11:30. You laughed until you couldn’t anymore and that’s when the tears came. Stupid Jasper. Stupid Cullens. Stupid diner. Stupid Bella. Stupid Edward. Stupid you. You let yourself cry it out until the tears stopped, you saw Barb closing down the diner through the window as it approached midnight. You knew you had to go home, your parents were easy on you as you grieved this lost relationship, but there was no way they would be okay with you missing curfew.

After you went home, you heated up to go box from the diner as you hadn’t eaten at all today resulting in a nasty headache. As you ate your food you checked your phone for the first time in hours. You had quite a few messages from people who were at the diner, congratulating you on a stellar show. You had a message from Bella wanting to check in, and you had at least ten messages from Paul asking where you were and letting you know that he “dealt with the Cullen problem,” you found yourself overwhelmed again especially when you heard the voicemail that Jasper had left. You could hear the pain in his voice,

“(Y/N), I know what I did was horrible. I am so sorry Darlin’. I wish I could take it back, I wish I never left and that you never had to feel the way that you do. Paul told me everything about how bad it was and I am so sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for making you feel that way. I’m going to stay, we are all going to stay. Edward needs a little more time, but we are back. Please let me make this up to you, I will do anythi-,” His voice cut out as you stopped the voicemail. You couldn’t handle anymore. You turned your phone off, walked up to your room, took your make-up off, undressed, redressed in pajamas, laid down and lit your favorite candle, you were a robot. You were stuck in your routine, letting the clock rule you again. You were doing the only thing you knew how to do anymore. Everything else had gone to shit, but you could save your routine. You had done everything so effortlessly you forced yourself to check out. You were only brought back again by the loud thump of something landing on the side of your house. You hear your window open and you hear the sounds of Jasper entering. You felt the bed dip next to you and you felt his hand rub the side of your face. You kept your eyes closed the whole time. You both knew you weren’t asleep, but neither of you were ready for this moment to be interrupted by the reality that he had left you. The love of your life had left you without so much as a goodbye and here he was stroking your face.

“I am so sorry,” he choked out

“I don’t know what happened, I don’t know why it happened and I don’t know what you were thinking. I don't want to know right now. I just can’t talk about this tonight. I love you, Jasper. I love you so much and I don’t know how I will continue to breathe if you ever pull this shit again. I swear to God, I will kill you. For right now I just want to lay here. I want you to hold me and I want to talk about the weather, I want to talk about school, I want to talk about our families and our siblings and homework, but I will not talk about you leaving me, you understand? We can start rebuilding in the morning. We can fix this, it’ll just take time. I need time. Are you in or are you out?” Neither of you had expected you to say that much or speak at all. All of the words came out before you even knew what you were doing. He looked at you with wide eyes and nodded. He sat himself down and wiggled his body so it was slightly underneath yours, You rolled over to put your head on his chest and his arm fell into place on your back. It was as if nothing had changed.

“So, how are you enjoying the rain?” The pale boy spoke with a hint of his accent peaking through. You could hear the smile on his face when he talked. You softly replied,

“It isn’t too bad, I am a bit worried about the storm that’s coming through.”

#twilight #twilight imagine #imagine twilight #jasper hale #jasper whitlock #jasper whitlock hale #jasper cullen #jasper hale x reader #jasper whitlock x reader #jasper cullen x reader #x reader #twilight eclipse #bella swan #paul lahote #edward cullen

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richukisbb · 5 years

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Okay I know I’ve been MIA but I’ve a good reason. Thursday I went to the BB En Vivo concert and the Friday was Shawn Mendes and then I had to recover like all Saturday because I was out until 2am both nights.

Anyways the CNCO concert was amazing. I was dancing and singing way too awfully 😔✊🏼

Their hotel was literally two blocks from where my grandma lived and y’all know my story so I was a determined woman to share it with the boys.

Fast forward, and the boys finally come out. There were only five of us around. Zabdiel LITERALLY comes to me, opens his arms out and cheeks kisses me. Then says “Hey, I saw you singing and dancing at the concert tonight.”

Which i believe he did see me because the venue was small and I was legit the ONLY Asian person that recited the lyrics and did all the moves to Se Vuelve Loca.

Btw can conFIRM THAT THE BOYS SMELL LIKE FUCKING CHRISTMAS AND JUST SO SO GOOD??? LIKE I KNOW THEY JUST SHOWERED BUT WOW. I WAS LIKE 🥵🥵🥵

Zabdiel really pulled me into his lane by ignoring the other fans and walking straight to me like we locked eyes the whole concert or something. Damn.

I wish I got a picture with him but then Richard came out and I had to tell me everything!!!

So I missed Erick and Joel, sorry fam.

Richard Hugged and kissed my cheek. I asked if he could sign my little poster.

Then I asked him if he remembered the basketball game and sitting next to each other. I showed him the picture and he smiled and said he did. As quickly and coherently as I could, I told him how my ex broke up with me bc he was jealous that I met the boys.

Told him my ex was cheating on me and I found out only after the basketball game.

Richard was looking at me and in utter disbelief but genuinely paying attention. Like we were holding hands because I seriously don’t think I would’ve been able to support myself. I was so nervous lmao. Then we talked about being young and not needing that kind of person in our lives.

So he signs my paper and we take a picture.

I’m pretty sure the boys were expecting cheek kisses photo that’s why our faces are touching but I’m not that kinda fan lol. Like I love them but getting cheek kisses by them is more than enough for me.

At this point they’re going to the clubs and Richard heads to the bus but before he enters he turns around to me again and says “listen. Move on to the next one.”

It’s you though bb

Then we waited for Chris to come out. He also gave me a cheek kiss. But poor boy was probably so tired. He needs to rest.

BASICALLY CAN confirm that the boys smell amazing and also F U C K whoever says they aren’t nice to their fans.

These boys have been nothing but a saving grace for me these past few months.

I think that’s why I had to tell at least Richard my story. How our boys really changed my life for the better. I just needed them to know.

From meeting them to meeting you all, I wouldn’t be in the same place of healing if I didn’t talk to y’all everyday, read/write Fics, or listen to their music too.

Ahh I’m so in love with them. But basically ya girl is back and I thank y’all for being patient with me ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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heartsofminds · 5 years

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Grudges

Description: The one where a girl named Izzy holds a grudge, and Shawn calls her out on it.

Word Count: 8.3k

If Shawn Mendes was to describe himself, party animal was not a word that came to mind. He’s too reserved for that, too cautious to really let loose and enjoy himself through dancing and drinking games.

He’s only here because his friend Marcus begged him to come. Despite Marcus being a good friend of his, he doesn’t give a shit about his surroundings and he can’t be bothered to know whose who and where he is exactly. He can’t name any streets and he can’t sing along to any of the songs being played.

The atmosphere makes him dizzy and lethargic and he can only soak up everything his eyes scan to keep from dying of boredom.

He takes notice of the specific shade of yellow the couch he’s sitting on is and the four ice cubes in his glass. He’s drinking some kind of sangria (it’s supposed to be watermelon, he thinks) and he comes to the conclusion that it doesn’t have enough alcohol. He only knows this because he’s had at least four and he isn’t tipsy in the slightest.

He’s never been a hard drinker, believe it or not, but he knows his alcohol and he knows party ethic. From years of being too underaged to drink he knows how much it sucks to be completely aware and sober at a party you aren’t exactly enjoying.

It really isn’t his cup of tea (or sangria, really).

He hates how observant he is.

He hates how he can count the beats of the 6lack song playing in the background and he hates how he knows how many tiles are in the ceiling (only because he’s counted them at least ten times). He hates how he knows Amber’s a bitch according to the girl behind him, and he hates how out of place he is.

He’s Shawn fucking Mendes, for God’s sake. Yet here he is on a Saturday night, with watermelon sangria in a glass with four ice cubes, on a mustard yellow couch watching the world turn without him.

He can’t really complain all that much, because deep down, he kinda likes it. He kinda likes the feeling of being absent but present in such a bustling area. He likes not being poked and prodded for information and he likes not having to focus on his every word to keep from sounding stupid or offensive or rude.

He likes knowing everyone’s little quirks and quips when they’re drunk and he likes the house plants Mallory put up for decoration and the fairy lights lining almost every goddamn entrance and exit.

He’s really only here for her and Marcus to be totally truthful, and it’s almost like he feels indebted. So much so, that he had to attend her "small" (a severe understatement) gathering (which is not synonymous to a party) even though he’d much rather be locked away in his condo and listening to Continuum on vinyl.

So in short, Shawn likes the minimal but all the most perceptive landscape of his surroundings exclusive to him and his thoughts only.

But he doesn’t really like the new view he has currently of a girl with a jean skirt on and a yellow shirt (that matches the couch, he notes) making out with a boy who’s decked out in designer clothes. Shawn thinks they make him look cheap.

They back up closer to where he’s sitting, so unaware and so caught up in each other’s mouths that they don’t realize that they’re backing up directly into him.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything and the sheer annoyance of what’s happening doesn’t seem to faze him all that much. Before he knows it, jean skirt girl sits on him and his cup of sangria;

spilling it all over him, the couch, and her ass.

She jolts up at the impact.

"What the fuck?” she asks, feeling her behind to judge is something is making it wet.

She looks behind her to see the dampened denim of his jeans. “Oh shit. Sorry, dude,” she apologizes, turning back to the boy in designer clothes and reattaching their lips.

"I uh- M’gonna head out anyway. You guys can have this spot,” he says and before she can respond, he pulls his jean jacket on and extends his long legs through the door. With muffled sounds of chatter and the brisk September air stinging his cheeks, he looks up and realizes how unfamiliar he is with this side of town.

So much for telling himself he was observant.

The next hour is spent with Siri redirecting him to his condo and recalculating every time he misses a turn.

Over the course of two months, Shawn and Marcus are almost attached at the hip and Mallory is one of his good friends now.

There’s been at least twelve house parties of Mallory’s he’s been invited to in the past eight weeks. With every invite is a smiley face and a "Hope you can come!!" attached and Shawn can never bring himself to decline; not after she so kindly invites him every time.

So whenever she knows he’s in Toronto (sometimes he’s in New York and other times he’s in California; Mallory’s timing isn’t a strong point of her’s), he sees a text with smiley faces and a friendly invite (that always includes a plus one).

Nine out of ten times he texts back that he’ll try and make it and, "Totally! Thanks for inviting me lol".

He’s not quite sure how he and Mallory became close because if it wasn’t for her frequent house parties, Shawn’s sure he wouldn’t call her more than an acquaintance.

Before the house parties and watermelon sangria (that’s shitty, but he never refuses when offered) and the fairy lights and mustard yellow couch, Mallory was a friend of a friend; a girl at his high school who sat at the same lunch table as him, but he can honestly say they never got that well acquainted back then.

He can only remember brief conversations about his soccer games and her scholastic bowl matches with choir concerts and small talk with witty humor mixed in somewhere. She’s grown up quite a bit since high school, but he can still picture her with braces and wild, curly red hair.

She was a talented artist who he’s pretty sure makes art for album covers and she’s dating Marcus, who was one of his closest friends in high school.

So he shows up at her doorstep with some overpriced wine coolers in hand and a dazzling smile. He likes to joke that it’s his own personal hypnosis technique because it works so well in getting him whatever he wants.

The little gold knob clicks and turns; the mahogany door swinging open and a dreary face meeting his dazzling smile.

It was jean skirt girl. He found out from Mallory that her name was Izzy, and that the two were best friends.

He puckers his lips and rubs at his mouth with his thumb. It’s something he does when he’s nervous and this girl’s icy stare makes his blood run cold.

"Can I help you," she says, voice a little more bitter than what he’s used to.

Shawn furrows his brows.

"Uhh, yeah, actually. Is Mallory, is she home? This is the right house, right?"

Izzy scoffs.

"You can see the party inside and the big ass 'M' on the doormat. Sorta thought you had a brain up there, Chip Skylark."

Shawn stifles a chuckle at her low blow. It’s one of the best ones he’s heard and it’s is kinda funny, he admits.

"C’mon. I brought wine," he bargains, flashing her a smile and reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. His hand glides up and down her forearm, stopping at her hand and holding it; giving it a slight squeeze.

He doesn’t know why he’s being so touchy, but this girl makes him pull out all the moves he’s learned from 2000s chick flicks and TV shows.

She eyes him up and down, sizing him up to make her final decision.

"Guess you can come in since I sat on your sangria that one time. Don’t think of it as a favor," Izzy says menacingly, opening the door wider and moving so he can get through.

He navigates his way to Mallory’s kitchen, setting the wine down on the counter and grabbing a beer; absolutely no shitty watermelon sangria for him tonight.

Somewhere along the lines of four shots and three Coronas, he ends up with some girl’s tongue down his throat.

He got her name ("It’s Macy spelled M-a-c-i-e," she had said) so he’s obviously more respectful than what he thought. She seems like a decent girl and he likes to think he’s a gentleman so he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he shouldn’t he locking lips with the rather attractive blonde in his lap and he knows it’s wrong; totally not the proper hook-up etiquette if you asked him.

Shawn believes that if you’re hooking up with someone, they should be the only thing on your mind and he’s certain that this girl isn’t.

It’s because he’s thinking about her. He’s thinking about the way she called him Chip Skylark and the burgundy skirt she has on. He’s thinking about what her lips would taste like and he also thinks that if she’s anything opposite of Macie, she doesn’t like tequila.

"I’m gonna go get a drink. Don’t go anywhere, babe," Macie says, playing with his shirt collar before getting lost in the crowd.

Mallory eyes Shawn from across the room.

“Condom?” she mouths, eyes filled with mischief. He waves her off. “Won’t happen,” he says, knowing Mallory can’t hear him but can see his lips move.

Mallory lets out a laugh before turning around to join in on the conversation surrounding her and Shawn overhears someone yell, "Nuh uh. No fucking way, dude!"

It almost makes him wish he was as unfamiliar with his environment as he first was.

He seriously has to pee and he curses himself for drinking so much tonight. It was more of a boredom thing he did while in social settings. He was very much a tactile person, always fidgeting and touching everything, so in an attempt to be less of an awkward nuisance (he thinks everyone thinks he is, anyway), he finds the most drinkable thing and just has at it.

It’s stupid that he drinks so much water because of that insecurity and it’s even more idiotic that when people ask why he downs them, he says it’s for his voice.

How pathetic could he get?

So while his bladder screams at him to find a bathroom, Shawn thinks about the words coming out of Macie’s mouth.

To stay put or to go pee? He decides that his bladder wins his inner debate whenever he jolts up and tries to find a toilet of some sort.

He brushes past what seems like millions of make out sessions and even some drunk karaoke before he finds Mallory’s bathroom.

He can’t be bothered to knock and prays to God that it’s unlocked as he turns the knob towards himself.

"Oh my God! Go! Just get the fuck out!" Izzy yells.

Her runny mascara and red nose obviously display that tonight isn’t one of her nights and Shawn’s not up for a battle; not when he’s a little more than tipsy and he’s gonna start leaking urine any moment now.

"Jesus, fuck. I’m - I’m sorry," he stammers, swinging the door shut almost as fast as he opened it.

He hears the tap run and stop. He knows she’s trying to calm herself down or destress or whatever the fuck and he seriously contemplates if pissing in Mallory’s kitchen sink is a good idea.

It’s not like she would care, and he would totally clean up after himself.

He knocks softly on the door.

"Hey, I know you’re upset or whatever but could you - could you like, hurry up? My bladder’s screamin' out here."

It’s the most asshole-ish thing he thinks anyone could ever say to someone who’s having a rough night, but it’s the truth.

Izzy swings the door open and her eyes shoot darts at Shawn.

“Yeah. Yeah totally, asshole. Just because you’re fucking pretty and famous, doesn’t mean that you get to chat me up at the door and act like you own the fucking place. I got broken up with tonight because of you, so cut the nice guy act. We all know you’re a dick,” she snaps, tone sending a million and one messages to him that scream “fuck you”.

She starts to stomp away, clearly angry at him for reasons he doesn’t really understand. Sure, her boyfriend dumped her and sure, he was probably being a little too friendly at the door, but he doesn’t see how any of this is his fault at all.

His need to be liked gets the best of him and he grabs her arm to pull her back, to talk about what happened and why she’s so angry. Shawn’s sure he’s never left a sour taste in anyone’s mouth before, and he sure as hell isn’t gonna start with her.

"Let me go," she spits, fury deep in her eyes.

His fingers reluctantly open, allowing her to spin away and evaporate into a group of people in the kitchen.

If he didn’t have to pee so badly, he would have chased after her. Instead, he settles for longingly staring at the pathway she took before he’s interrupted by the bathroom door being slammed shut in his face again.

Shawn leans his head up against the wood while banging his fist on it.

"C’mon, bro! I have to fucking piss!" he yells, hoping the person inside will have some type of sympathy for him and his bladder.

"Had all the fucking time in the world tryna chat up the Ice Queen!" someone yells back.

Shawn groans and slides down the wall in front of the bathroom, half hoping that he won’t pee his pants and half thinking it wouldn’t be a horrible idea. At least he’d get to go home.

His thoughts are interrupted as Mallory attempts to carry a more than hammered Marcus to her bedroom.

"Shawn, a little help?" she asks, giving him puppy dog eyes he can’t refuse.

He bites his lip. "Whatever. Make it quick because m'about to piss all over your hardwood floors."

Mallory laughs, adjusting Marcus so Shawn can lift him up on his shoulder.

"You wouldn’t dare. Hardwood’s fucking expensive, man."

Shawn grimaces, his discomfort maximizing. "Mal, please! Hurry so I can go!" he nearly shouts.

"Fuck, sorry. Sorry."

Marcus stands up straight before his face turns white. Shawn knows that look and he knows it well. It’s the look he had when he drank in Mexico for the first time when he had just turned eighteen.

Zubin’s rental car (which he had to pay extra for to shampoo the carpet afterwards) will never forgive him.

"No!" he yells out as Marcus doubles over, vomit exiting his mouth at lightning speed.

The pink mess reeks of watermelon sangria and beer and it really stands out on top of his expensive black boots.

"Oh my God! Oh my God, Shawn I’m really sorry. Fuck," Mallory apologizes, trying to stifle a laugh.

He sighs, smiling through gritted teeth.

"It’s fine."

So they drag Marcus to Mallory’s room successfully and she uses some lemon scented Clorox wipes to clean his puke stained shoes.

He gives her a hug and pretends to not be angry about his boots or his bladder and rushes to the unoccupied bathroom as fast as he can.

It’s when he’s washing his hands at 2:23 AM in Mallory’s bathroom that he determines her party throwing is getting a little out of hand, and that Izzy is a total bitch.

Growing up, Izzy never would’ve thought that she’d become so calloused.

She was the girl with pigtails and cloudy eyes stained with tears. She was the girl who cried when other kids got in trouble. She was the girl who cried at the thought of an abandoned dog. She was the girl who cried at any and fucking everything.

Her mother used to make jokes and say that her tear ducts would dry up if she kept using them, and while it was just a joke, it holds so much truth now in her adult life.

Her father used to give her speeches every night before he tucked her into bed.

"It’s okay to cry, but you can’t cry all the time,” he would say and at the time, she thought her dad was being a "meany", but he was right.

Izzy just wasn’t ready to give up crying.

She remembers the day she stopped crying or feeling or showing anything other than a default pallet of emotions.

She was in fifth grade and the teacher yelled at her for accidentally bumping into the TA and spilling the entire class sized bottle of glue on the floor.

Her throat got tight. Her eyes got big and her ears got red, but she was determined. Her determination was something that always earned her the 'Teacher’s Pet' title.

She refused to let her tears fall and for once, she didn’t cry. She sniffled, said an apology, and sat back down in her desk; mentally high-fiving herself for not bursting into a melodramatic waterworks show.

But she didn’t think that she would never cry again.

She didn’t cry when her dog got hit by a car. She didn’t cry watching the Titanic. She didn’t feel anything at all when her older brother passed away. She knew she was fucked when she couldn’t find it in herself to let a single tear fall due to her desire to be strong.

So Izzy doesn’t really know why she’s crying in Mallory’s bathroom over a boy she’s been hooking up with since Junior year.

Gavin was the exact appellation of useless and she doesn’t know why she’s settled for it for so long. The sex was god awful at times and the blur of where their friendship or acquaintanceship or whatever the hell they were, made her head hurt.

She’s tried to break it off hundreds of times before, but it’d never been successful. It’s became a pattern that always started with her getting wine drunk on Mallory’s living room floor, tears streaming down her face with the phrase, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Izzy used to not know what stung her throat more: the shitty red wine or her words.

She’s glad that Mallory is such a good friend because she never called her stupid or dumb or shallow. She never told her what to do because she lets her make her own mistakes. Instead of giving her motherly advice, Mallory always patted her back and swore to never tell a soul she saw her cry.

And when Mallory forced her into bed, she used to stare up at the ceiling and re evaluate her life and her relationships and the situation at hand. With the red headed girl dead asleep beside her, she typed out the “Hey”’s and the “It’s just not working out”’s and her finger tips became flattened by the excessive drafting of what she really wanted to say. She’s always been good at bottling herself up, so she never sent them and they reside in her notes in her phone that never see the light of day.

Even though she thinks that she doesn’t really care that Gavin is breaking up with her or breaking off their hookup or ending their friendship (it’s hard for her to find the exact words for it), it still stings.

It still stings to get your heart stepped on. It stings to know that he had seen her body bare and clothed and drunk and sober. It stings that he had gotten to connect their bodies through intimacy she was taught to save for her husband. It stings to know that he knew what she sounded like when she moaned or sneezed or laughed.

It stings because he makes her feel small, and it’s a reminder of how people used to make her feel when she spent every recess crying alone by the monkey bars.

So she doesn’t know why her first instinct is to be bitter and nasty. She doesn’t know why she wants to punch out the lanky brunette she encountered at the front door. She doesn’t know why her chest is on fire and why her hands have balled themselves up into fists. She’s never been in control of her emotions when she became angry and the cranberry vodka she had earlier intensifies them even more.

To Izzy’s horror, the door swings open and the same brunette boy with a cutting jaw and developing smile lines who caused Gavin to get the wrong idea comes face to face with her. He’s the same brunette boy that the world knows as Shawn Mendes, but she knows him as the cause for her piteous tears.

If she’s being honest, face to face is an exaggeration because he’s so fucking tall, her head has to cock back to be able to look into his dopey eyes.

“Oh my God! Go! Just get the fuck out!” she hollers, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to shield the evidence of her breakdown.

His hands shake as he looks for the door handle. His eyebrows furrow in worry and his eyes are wide. His lips quiver, searching for words to say but he comes up empty.

“Jesus, fuck. I’m - m’sorry!” he stutters, closing the door shut so hard and fast that it closes with a slam.

She grips the faux marble countertop and looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot and red. Her eyebags are prominent and stained gray from her runny mascara. Her lips are swollen and her tears salt the cracks in them, making her mouth burn slightly. She takes deep breaths and attempts to calm herself down. She splashes cold water on her face and applies her mango chapstick.

No man was ever going to make a fool of her; especially after the night she had. All she can think about was getting crazy wasted and fucking her way through her emotions with a one night stand.

She almost talks herself out of her rage when a pounding (it was really a soft knock, but she has a right to be dramatic and bitchy) on the bathroom door rings her ears. Her head starts pounding and her grip along the edge of the porcelain sink gets tighter.

Her cheeks redden and her ears make her feel like she’s on fire.

“Hey, I know you’re upset or whatever but could you - could ya like, hurry up? My bladder’s screamin’ out here,” the boy speaks in a gentle tone.

Izzy takes his tone as a weak attempt to sound like a little less of an asshole , but she’s over it. She refuses to accept bullshit and half assed attempts at people treating her like she matters when she knows they couldn’t give a shit.

She swings the door open and she’s glad his face wasn’t close to it because it for sure would have hit him. He’s gorgeous, she thinks, but having a pretty face didn’t matter to her attitude.

She knows pulling the famous card isn’t fair, but she doesn’t care.

Him being the reason she got broken up with wasn’t fair.

She turns on her heels to walk into the kitchen, ready to drink herself into oblivion and maybe score a hit of a blunt or some sex along the way.

Izzy feels a tugging on her wrist and she looks down to see slender fingers encasing her forearm. Shawn’s face is unadorned and he opens his mouth to speak but she doesn’t want him to. She swears that if she hears his voice again or sees his face again or hears his name again; she will fucking explode.

She sends him a look of disgust, very much feeling the repugnance in the pit of her stomach.

“Let me go,” she hisses and she’s not sure why she’s being so bitchy. Shawn drops her wrist like she’s a million degrees and he’s just been burned.

Before he can say or do anything else to disturb her well being, she takes off into Mallory’s kitchen. She slides past couples making out and crushed red solo cups on the ground to get to the backdoor; taking her outside near the fire pit Mallory shared with the other residents of her apartment complex.

She sees her friend Max rolling a blunt and he waves her over to come smoke it with him.

They often had wordless exchanges like this. Max just got her and she’s so thankful he isn’t forcing her to talk. He can see her red nose and swollen eyes but he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t try to fix her. He doesn’t try to make her feel better.

He hands her the lit blunt and lets her get high out of her mind to forget all her problems for the night.

When Izzy and Max finish the blunt, the sound of the bass in “Without Me” playing from the living room is intensified, and she’s at ease. She’s almost forgotten about the incident and her episode of bitching until she sees the same head of mocha colored curls she despises dart from upstairs to the front door. Her composure crumbles and waterworks to start again.

She doesn’t make noise as the tears roll down her face.

Max looks over and exhales smoke from the last hit he took.

“You’re an eclipse and he’s the Sun,” he speaks, laying down on his back in the grass.

She raises her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.

“Take it however you want.”

With that, Max steps on the almost nonexistent blunt to put it out and lays back down. The sound of crickets and muffled top 100 hits encompasses them both.

“What’s the deal with your fucking friend? She hate me or something?” Shawn asks Mallory on a Tuesday afternoon.

He has millennial pink splattered across his cheek and his white tank top has splotches of the pink paint all over it.

Mallory had texted (again) and when Shawn saw her name pop up on his phone screen, his heart dropped just a little. He knew that if it was a party invite he would have to turn it down because it was Tuesday for God’s sake.

Who the hell parties on a Tuesday night?

To Shawn’s avail, though, it was just a favor based text message; one that promised homemade lemon cookies in exchange for “interior renovations”.

Both Shawn and Mallory and Marcus know that painting an apartment is real estate suicide if you’re renting, but Mallory has always been a colorful person, and she felt like her apartment needed to be colorful or she was going to go insane.

She went crazy with the painting all week; blowing her entire paycheck on cans of yellow and pink and teal to paint her boring apartment walls. It’s a death sentence to her security deposit, but she doesn’t care. All she can think about is what color throw pillows would compliment the new baby pink walls of her living room.

Marcus sighs as Shawn earns no response from Mallory, the redhead’s nose deep into a ‘Style at Home’ magazine.

He plucks the magazine from his girlfriend’s hands.

“I don’t know if you know this, but it’s rude to keep reading when someone’s talking to you,” he lectures, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mallory puffs her cheeks out and pushes a curl behind her ear. She’s never liked confrontation, and she always tried her best to stay out of it.

“There is no “deal”, Shawn. Izzy’s my best friend in the whole wide world and well, that’s just her - I don’t know. Personality? I know that’s no excuse for the way she bitched at you the other night but still,” she gets up from her position on the floor to snatch her magazine back from Marcus, “You’ve gotta try to see the best in her. I know how great of a person she can be.”

Shawn rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, she spilled sangria on my pants and used the “famous” card to call me a dick. Sounds pretty fucking great to me, Mal.”

Marcus clicks his tongue, hand coming up to run atop his waves he’s been trying to develop after cutting his afro last November.

“Mallory’s right, man. I know how Izzy can be, but you gotta get her to warm up. She’s like an onion. They have layers.”

Shawn sighs, dipping his brush into more of the pink paint.

“First off, you just quoted Shrek, and you’re not fucking funny,” he turns his back to swipe a stripe of color against the wall,” And I mean, I think I’m a pretty likeable person. I don’t make mean jokes. I bring housewarming gifts and I’m helping paint your stupid walls this hideous salmon.”

Shawn cracks his knuckles and licks his lips. “I don’t like bragging on myself, but what isn’t there to like?”

Mallory shakes her head, grabbing the paintbrush from Shawn and painting the section of the wall he promised to do.

“Well, for starters, you don’t know how to paint and you don’t know the fucking difference between salmon and millennial pink,” she swipes the paint in a straight line, “I think that makes a world of difference, buddy.”

He gives her a weak chuckle and pretends to gag when Marcus comes up behind her, giving her a big, wet kiss on the lips.

“You know, if you’re gonna practice making babies, I can leave. I don’t have to stay to witness this,” Shawn speaks.

They both turn to him and laugh.

“Then leave, Uncle Shawn,” Marcus jokes and Shawn grimaces.

“Yeah, I’m gonna head out. If I don’t get those lemon cookies, I’m burning this whole fucking apartment complex down.”

Shawn grabs his keys off the coffee table and walks himself to the corridor of the front door. He hears Mallory giggle and can see Marcus sucking bruises into her neck, the pink ridden paintbrush falling forgotten to the floor.

“You two are fucking gross!” he exclaims, trying to pull his Nikes on as fast as he can.

Her front door opens with a creak and he can faintly hear Mallory joke, “You’re just mad because you haven’t won a grammy!”

He grins to himself, closing Mallory’s front door and unlocking his Jeep; pulling out of the parking lot to drive back to his condo.

“Izzy, I don’t think you should be so mean,” Mallory rushes out.

They both sit with their legs criss-crossed, a pint of mint ice cream filling the gap between them.

Izzy sucks the dairy treat off her spoon. “What’s this about?” she asks, knowing that Mallory never brings something up just to talk about it.

There’s always a motive or a favor or a suggestion and although she knows Mallory’s heart is always in the right place, her desire to redesign and fix everything drives Izzy nuts.

“Nothing! It’s nothing. Well- I mean, Shawn came by to help paint and it just came up. I swear, he didn’t say anything bad.”

Izzy shoots her friend a look. Mallory always cracks under pressure and Izzy’s knowing brown eyes make her flustered.

“I mean, he asked what your deal was. And he said that you sound pretty fucking great,” she chimes, trying to market Shawn like he’s an overpriced vase at an auction.

The recorded audience laughter of That 70s Show plays in the background to fill the void of sound. Izzy shakes her head before dropping her spoon into the tub of ice cream. She gives Mallory a sadistic grin.

“Oh yeah? Was that before or after he failed to mention that he was being a dick and he got me broken up with?”

It’s Mallory’s turn to shake her head. “C’mon, Iz. That’s not fair and you know it. You’ve talked to the guy, like, twice and if anyone’s a dick, it’s Gavin.”

Izzy sighs, muting the TV. “Yeah, but the sex was great. I miss the sex. And the weed. I miss that the most.”

Mallory scoffs. “You told me the sex was mediocre and in my opinion, Max rolls better blunts than what Gavin could ever imagine.”

The caramel colored girl shrugs her shoulders to her pale friend’s statement and they continue to gorge on mint ice cream until their metal spoons hit the bottom of the paper tub.

Izzy doesn’t say much to Mallory for the rest of the night and Mallory feels bad. She should have never brought it up, should have never tried to rub her nose in someone else’s business. She’s always struggled with the fact that she can’t fix everyone’s problems.

Mallory is a creator and she always had been. She harvested talent in oil pastels and watercolors. Creation was the root of her identity; especially since she spent close to $12,000 on a fucking piece of paper that classified her as one.

So Mallory doesn’t know why she tries to create things out of nothing. She doesn’t know how relationships don’t appear out of thin air and how Izzy can be so pessimistic all the time. She honestly doesn’t get it, but then she remembers that Izzy’s attitude isn’t for her to get and that not everything beautiful can come from scratch paper and shitty pens.

The two girls spend the rest of the night avoiding conversation and binging That 70s Show.

Izzy goes to sleep with Fez on her mind while Mallory goes to sleep feeling disappointed that she can’t fix everything.

Brian must think he’s crazy.

Shawn’s mind constantly runs in circles and he’s absolutely, positively sure that Brian is fed up with him. His red headed friend sits on his more than uncomfortable suede couch with a beer in one hand and his head thrown back on the cushion.

He exhales heavily through his nose, a sign that he wanted Shawn to shut the hell up and talk about something that wasn’t Izzy for one, goddamn second.

“For someone who tells every interviewer that you don’t give a shit what other people think about you, you’re a pretty good liar,” Brian comments, putting his beer down on the coffee table and running his hands over his face.

Shawn shakes his head. “There’s fucking coasters right next to you, dumbass. They’re there for a reason.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Dude, calm down. Who gives a shit about a water stain? You have enough money to buy eight of these fuckers.”

Shawn chuckles, long legs striding over to sit down next to his company.

“I’m one rich mother fucker. Am I right?”

Brian gives him a weak smile and takes a swig of the alcoholic beverage.

“You’ll be one dead mother fucker if I hear the name Izzy one more time. Seriously, bro. Marcus and I both said you shouldn’t sweat it if she doesn’t fucking like you,” he changes positions to look at Shawn who has his eyebrows raised, “She didn’t matter to you before, so why does she matter so much now?”

Shawn shakes his head and tries to find something to fire back at Brian with. He tries to find something to bring up, some reason to justify his sudden obsession. He comes up empty and tries to find some bullshit answer that will get him off the hook.

“She doesn’t have a reason to not like me. Doesn’t seem fair to judge someone based off of a bad night,” Shawn reasons, but Brian knows better than to believe him right away.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Marcus thinks you have the hots for Iz and if I wasn’t your best fucking friend who’s tryna set you up with Macie, I’d say the same thing.”

Shawn grunts and licks his lips. “Macie’s annoying and I do not have a thing for Izzy. She’s a bitch, and I just wanna find out why.”

Brian downs the rest of his beer and shakes his head at his brunette friend.

“First of all, don’t call her a bitch. Maybe you aren’t as likeable as you think you are. Izzy’s friends with everyone we’re friends with, so maybe it’s not her,” he clears his throat, “It’s you.”

Shawn furrows his eyebrows, sheer annoyance clouding his face. “It’s me? That’s so stupid, Bry. That’s ridiculous.”

Brian pats his shoulder, grabbing his keys from his pocket and standing up to let himself out.

“M’gonna head out. Maybe you’ll stop giving a fuck about Izzy and what she thinks if you’re here by yourself.”

The door to Shawn’s condo slams shut and he’s left on the couch with the shock of Brian’s words still in his mind.

Maybe he shouldn’t give a fuck anymore. Maybe Brian is right. Maybe Izzy isn’t so bad afterall.

But the pesky thoughts and his damn emotional intuition says otherwise, so he spends the rest of the night picking apart his actions and his personality to find out what’s so damn unlikeable about him.

The next time Shawn steps foot in Mallory’s apartment, he takes in the millennial pink walls and house plants galore. He admires the mustard yellow couch and makes his way to the kitchen; leaving the wine coolers on the counter and greeting Mallory and Marcus with hugs.

Brian eyes him from the other side of the kitchen and uncaps a beer for him. Shawn swears they’re best friends for a reason because they have this weird telepathic power that makes them on the same page for what seems like every single waking second of the day. The beverage is passed to Shawn who almost drops it and he curses himself for being so goddamn clumsy.

Mallory shoots him a death glare. “Drop that shit and have it splatter on my couch and I swear to fucking God, I’ll have your ass.”

Brian brushes her off. “Don’t be scared. She’s just mad because Marcus won’t clap her cheeks.”

Mallory smacks Brian in the chest. “That’s not fucking why. He’s not the one denying me sex. I’m denying him sex until he takes that God awful septum piercing out,” she takes a sip of her watermelon sangria, “It’s fucking hideous.”

Shawn smirks. “Kinda like your pukey pink walls then, huh?”

She rolls her eyes, exhaling loudly through her nose. “Unbelievable. You’re lucky you bring me wine and you’re lucky you’re a redhead because I wanna strangle you both.”

Shawn and Brian laugh in each other’s faces as Mallory yells greetings towards the front door as more guests show up.

The guest list this time doesn’t exceed twelve people and Shawn went to high school with all of them. He’s truly amazed at how much hasn’t changed and how no one treats him differently.

No one screams in his face when they find out he’s near. No one faints or cries or shoves a camera in his hand when he walks by. No one asks about music or tour or anything related to his career, and if it wasn’t for “Lost in Japan” being on Mallory’s party playlist, he’s sure he himself would have forgotten he was even famous at all.

Mallory excuses herself, the ginger haired girl making a mad dash for the front door. Shawn and Brian see Marcus follow her from the corner of their eyes. They pretend like they don’t know that their friends are going to run off and start making out somewhere and that one of them (Shawn prays it’s Brian and not him) will walk in on them mid random sex position while trying to find the bathroom.

It was a given that Mallory and Marcus could never get enough of each other, and the two young men roll their eyes at their disappearance.

“If you’re gonna suck face, you can just tell us,” Brian speaks loudly to them, making sure everyone present can hear what he’s saying. “We’ve all had sex before and I think some of us would like to go to a party without being scared shitless of walking in on you two.”

The other guests inhabiting Mallory’s kitchen and living room give off small chuckles, but return to their side conversations and artsy glasses filled with booze.

Mallory runs back to the couch, sitting on top of Shawn and Brian until they spread apart to make space for her.

“It’s not a goddamn party because I made pasta. How many parties have you been to where a meal is served, asswipe?” she chastises, squished between the tall brunette and short red head.

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t tryna get some in with Marcus before anyone notices. The shit you were talking about his nose piercing doesn’t stop biology,” Shawn speaks up, pushing Mallory’s elbow away from his ribs.

“Oh fuck off. Will you?” she pulls out her phone to reply to a text, “Making out isn’t sex and last time I checked, you didn’t fucking take biology, you drop out.”

Shawn theatrically gasps, putting a hand to his chest. “Excuse me but I am a proud high school graduate. And I don’t have student loans.”

Mallory rolls her eyes, fighting off Brian attempting to squeeze her into the junction of the couch more. “Whatever. M’still smarter than you.”

The doorbell rings and Mallory groans, pulling herself up from the couch. Brian smushes her in between him and Shawn even more, making it near impossible to get out from their sturdy shoulders.

Shawn watches in childish glee as Mallory struggles to free herself from the tight space created by his and Brian’s strong bodies. He wonders how him and Mallory weren’t super close as kids because it feels as if he’s had her in his for as long as he could remember.

A dark haired girl in a dark green crop top and ripped jeans makes her way into the living room; curls surrounding her face wildly and a bottle of white wine held by its neck in her hand. The sliver of brown skin her shirt and jeans don’t cover fill Shawn with utter fear.

It’s Izzy.

He can feel Brian gulp beside him and glance towards him to gauge his reaction. Shawn rubs his hands over his face, freeing Mallory in the process. She jumps up to greet her friend and attempts to block Shawn’s view of her by standing in front of him entirely.

Brian takes the opportunity to make a joke. “Damn, Mal. You got an ass, girl.”

Mallory kicks her leg back, her black Chuck Taylor’s leaving a skid mark on Brian’s white Adidas.

“Shut the fuck up,” she hisses, attempting to prevent the wildfire that she’s sure will happen if Shawn and Izzy get a good look at each other.

Brian sighs, slightly pissed at the fellow ginger’s actions.

“You’re acting weird,” Izzy accuses, shaking her head at Mallory and giving a small wave to Brian.

Shawn holds his breath. He figures if he doesn’t speak, he can’t fuck up and nothing bad can happen.

He sits as still as can be, condensing his large frame to fit behind Mallory’s shadow. His chest gets tight and hands get clammy. He’s angry and nervous and irritated all at the same time.

“What’re you talking about? I’m fine,” Mallory defends, moving forward to usher Izzy into the kitchen.

Izzy snorts. “Nah, babe. You’re hiding your popstar friend who’s too fucking good to mingle with the rest of society.”

Brian’s mouth falls open. Shawn grinds his teeth and tries his hardest to hold his tongue. Mallory’s gaze drops to the floor. Some of the guests in the kitchen lean their heads back to get a glimpse at the conundrum waiting to happen.

Shawn laughs coldly, shaking his head in disbelief and cracking a malicious smile. “What the fuck is your problem? Being a bitch isn’t a character trait.”

Brian grips his friend’s knee, pinching the skin to let him know that this is escalating far too quickly. Mallory puts her hands on Izzy’s shoulders, hindering the brown girl from making a charge at Shawn from her position.

Her eyes widen and Izzy shoots a shit eating grin back, her brown eyes crinkling and her cheeks heating up.

“Is this really coming from the same guy who sings to prepubescent girls ten months out of the year and pretends to love his hometown and his friends whenever it makes him look more personable?” she points her finger in his face, “Putting on a persona for the world isn’t exactly a skill, Shawn. But sure, keep pretending like you give a fuck about any of us.”

Mallory rocks back and forth on her heels. Marcus ushers the rest of the guests outside to the fire pit. Brian pulls on the brunette’s t-shirt sleeve as if he’ll float away with all the hot air Izzy and Shawn are creating.

Shawn stands up, the fabric of his shirt stretching from where Brian has him gripped. “You don’t get to say anything about my loyalty or my friends or about me. You don’t even fucking know me, so who the fuck are you to try and pretend like I’m some horrid ass person?”

Izzy rolls her eyes and steps closer to Shawn. She can see his chest rise up and down in anger. She knows she’s gonna go too far. She knows she’s gonna say shit she doesn’t mean. She knows she’s gonna make Mallory and Brian damage control experts once again, but she doesn’t care.

Izzy’s angry and provoked and she’s always had a temper.

“I know enough to know that you’re fucked. You only come around a couple of times a year. You didn’t speak to Marcus for months but he’s one of your closest friends,” she steps closer and puts her finger on his chest, “Mallory wasn’t fucking good enough to be on your radar as a friend but now she’s number one on your list. Don’t play fake nice with the people who’ve been there for you from day one.”

Shawn steps closer, her face directly in line with his torso. “Don’t try to turn you getting called out into a fucking testimony about how I feel about everyone else. This is about you and me. I don’t give a fuck about what you think. I don’t give a damn about you, actually. I just wanna know what your problem is.”

Shawn walks towards the door and thrusts his jean jacket on. “But since you like to pretend like you know what I think, just know I think you’re a fucking bitch who throws hissy fits when she can’t face the music,” he turns the door knob to exit, “So fuck your attitude and fuck you.”

The mahogany door slams shut and the apartment falls into a void of silence. The three young adults can hear Shawn slam his car door and speed down the street; desperate to represent the phrase, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

Izzy huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

Brian can see Mallory’s shoulders become heavy with tension, and he knows that she’s about to blow up.

“I can’t believe you just fucking did that,” the redhead speaks, back turned to the two other people in the room.

“What’re you talking about? He’s the one who caused a shit show,” Izzy tries to reason.

Mallory turns around, red curls appearing like fire due to how fast she moves. “No. No, he isn’t. I- I can’t deal with you right now, Iz.”

Izzy’s mouth widens. “I was sticking up for you. You don’t deserve to have people walk all over you like-”

“Don’t you get it? We’re not fucking six anymore. I don’t need you to stick up for me. I don’t need you to try and police good people out of my life! You’re not fucking God, Isobel. You don’t get to kill people off because of how you feel.”

Izzy swallows. Mallory only calls her Isobel when she’s pissed beyond belief. Being called Isobel by her best friend in the entire fucking world and knowing deep in her heart that Mallory is angry with her brings back the lump she felt in her throat everyday so many years ago.

“M’sorry,” she whispers, letting herself out and walking to her car to drive herself home.

Izzy can see Marcus out of the corner of her eye as she drives away. She has to pull over five minutes down the road to let out the sobs that were choking her since Mallory gave her that icy look.

She wipes her tears and rushes upstairs to her apartment before collapsing on her couch. The comfort of the TV show she wasn’t watching gives her some sense of security. Her phone rings repeatedly for the rest of the night, but Izzy can’t bring herself to answer.

She watches Mallory and Brian’s contact photos flash on her screen though black mascara tears.

It’s times like these when Izzy wishes she could erase the the words that exited her mouth and burn the guilt that emitted from her heart.

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