HopelessRomantic! @cub1clez - Tumblr Blog

Jan 27

── ୭ ˚. Coworker Music ₊ ֹ ˖

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧ p. 1. | moodboard + synopsis. | wc: 5,899.

a/n: hello, this was posted yesterday but deleted early due to it not appearing in tags. fingers crossed it works now. if not, oh well i suppose.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ November 2003. Monday. ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒

The napkin made it home with you.

You placed it on the kitchen counter that night, next to your keys and the neat stack of mail waiting to be sorted through. It didn’t belong here. Your apartment was an environment of control. Clean lines, neutral colours, intentional decor. Everything had a purpose. The napkin stood out—crumpled, bright orange, and completely useless. You told yourself you’d throw it away in the morning, after the adrenaline from your argument with Frank faded overnight.

You didn’t.

Tuesday morning, the napkin joined you for coffee. After every sip, it tugged at you from the corner of your eye. You didn't mean to study it, but your brain did what it always did—observe.

Setting the mug down, you gave in and reached for the creased square.

He wrote heavy-handed, the letters jammed together like a mouthful of crooked teeth. You hated how he wrote his b’s. His e’s looked like backwards nines. You ran a manicured finger over the orange Dorito dust stuck in the napkin’s folds.

46 Brookdale Rd, Bloomfield. 9 PM.

You traced the address once. Twice. Slower the third time, lingering on the letters you disliked most, memorizing his penmanship.

Wednesday morning, the absurdity finally hit.

Professor Whitman would have been dissapointed. His star student, the one who wrote about Stoic philosophy and actually lived it, was unravelling over a grease-stained napkin from a man who drank Diet Coke for breakfast and strummed a cheap guitar.

You were better than this.

You were above this.

The moment you finished your morning coffee, you decided the napkin deserved a new home. Pinched between two fingers, you marched to the trash, hovering it over the remains of last night’s Chinese takeout. Your grip loosened. The napkin began to dip—good fucking riddance.

But before it could fall, his voice pierced your mind:

"You're a control freak with an ego that's scared to let go."

Pretentious. Stiff. Annoying. You could live with those. You'd been called worse by people whose opinions actually mattered. But scared? Scared was different. Scared was a splinter you couldn't remove, working itself deeper each time you tried to ignore it.

Your hand retracted. The napkin returned to its spot on the counter, sandwiched between keys and mail.

You tried burying the discomfort the way you always did. Under routine, under work, under the things you could control. You reminded yourself this was beneath you.

It didn't work. The splinter only sank deeper.

By Thursday night, you could no longer pretend it wasn’t getting to you.

You poured a generous glass of pinot noir and planted yourself at the kitchen table with your laptop. You took a long sip and stared at the blank Ask Jeeves search bar. Even the pixelated butler seemed to be judging you.

This was ridiculous. You were conducting research for a night in a stranger’s basement.

Draining half the glass, you began your search: "What to expect at a hardcore show?"

The page rendered with line-by-line slowness. The top result was a GeoCities site titled "NJHC 4EVA!!!"—an eyesore of animated flames and blood-red Comic Sans. You clicked the only link that looked slightly informational: "FAQ FOR N00BZ."

The text loaded in a blocky font:

"first rule of hardcore: NO BAD VIBES. posi crew only. second rule: if u go in the pit expect to get hit. crowdkilling is NOT violence and if u bitch ur gay lolzzz. crowd splitting during breakdown = wall of death. third rule: if u wear a band shirt of a band u dont know ur a SCENE WHORE. fourth rule: STOP READING THIS AND GO TO A SHOW POSER.”

A dull headache began to bloom behind your eyes. You minimized the browser and opened Microsoft Word, translating chicken scratch into something somewhat comprehensible.

HARDCORE_STUDY_11-13-03.doc

Observation One: Eye for aesthetics—nonexistent. Spelling ability—worse.

Observation Two: Phrases include "posi" (positive?), "n00bz," "scene whore," "crowdkilling," "wall of death." Investigate whether the last term is metaphorical or requires updated health insurance.

Refilling your glass, you tried another search: "First hardcore show advice."

A message board loaded, Makeoutclub.com. The posts appeared one by one, each contradicting the last.

“Go in swinging.”

“Don't be violent.”

“Hydrate.”

“Stop being a pussy.”

“Protect people.”

“Hit back harder."

Observation Three: Contradictions are common. Simultaneously promotes and condemns violence. Unclear values.

Observation Four: General agreement: hydration, closed-toe shoes, avoid front row. Pick up Gatorade tomorrow.

The cursor blinked. You swirled the wine in your glass, staring at the screen, when a thought struck. What do people wear to these things? Was the fashion at least cute?

You opened a new tab: "What to wear to a hardcore show?"

The image results were a gallery of everything you did not own and would never buy. Studded belts slung low on narrow hips. Band shirts three sizes too small. Ratty Converse and Vans that have seen better days.

You glanced down at yourself—cashmere sweater, tailored jeans, kitten heels. Clean. Deliberate. Academic. You opened your closet mentally. Orderly rows of Calvin Klein satin, Banana Republic trousers, Ann Taylor blouses. A wardrobe built for seminars, jazz bars, and being taken seriously. Not for basements that smelled like sweat and stale beer.

Observation Five: Attire is crucial. Incorrect presentation signals outsider status. Correlates with the term "scene whore".

Possible Solution: Black jeans (common), black turtleneck (form-fitting, mocks band shirt sizing), ankle boots (sturdy sole, closed-toe).

Conclusion: I am going to look like a fucking idiot.

And that's when it hit you.

That was the point, wasn't it? Frank hadn't invited you to be kind. He didn't care that you found it meaningless. He’d invited you because he knew—knew you’d show up, knew you couldn’t resist proving him wrong, knew you’d walk in looking exactly like what you were. An outsider. A tourist. A joke he could tell his bandmates later.

You could see it perfectly in your mind’s eye: standing there, overdressed in a sea of casual, every wrong choice on display, while Frank watched from the stage, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Revenge. It had to be revenge.

Your jaw tightened. You typed one last search, fingers moving before you could stop them.

"Boy invited me to see his band."

You weren’t sure what you were expecting from the search, but you hit enter anyway. This time, the results loaded differently. No message boards. Not a single FAQ page. Instead, your screen filled with advice columns and teen-magazine websites.

"omg! a boy from my chem lab asked me to watch his band play, is it a date?? plz help <3"

"does it mean he likes me if he wants me to see his band? guys are so confusing!!! o.O"

"how to not look like a poser when your crush is the guitarist??? EMERGENCY!!"

The girlishness of it hit like a bucket of ice water. You were comparing your toxic, complicated dynamic with Frank to the giggly dilemmas of teenage girls debating whether a shared Slurpee and a Blink-182 mixtape counted as a proposal.

You shut the laptop and downed the last of your wine. Stupid, you were being stupid. Glancing back at the kitchen counter, you stared at the napkin, a long sigh following.

But what did it mean?

⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒

Friday’s shift felt wrong from the start.

The shop was too quiet. No commentary on your alphabetization. No unsolicited facts about New Jersey’s most haunted bridges. Just the pesky buzz of fluorescent lights and the bass of a CD Frank had put on the store player. Even Mel picked up on it, lighting an extra stick of patchouli incense.

Distance built itself. Frank glued himself to the register, ringing up customers with minimal small talk. You busied yourself with inventory, shelving a shipment of Bossa Nova albums—João Gilberto, Nara Leão. When your paths did cross, you both adjusted instinctively, angling away like repelling magnets.

Lunch happened at opposite ends of the breakroom table. You ate your sandwich, he ate his. No debate. No provocation. The silence should have been a relief. You'd prayed for days exactly like this, for Frank to finally leave you the fuck alone. But the absence of it all sat heavy in your chest, a pressure you couldn't name.

By the time Mel flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, you were wiping down the listening station when Frank finally approached, entering your bubble for the first time all day. You stilled, the cloth hovering over a pair of headphones. Maybe, just maybe, he’d break the silence between you.

He didn’t. Instead, he set a CD on the counter next to your bottle of Windex.

The Backup Plan—Dearest Whomever.

Shit.

The Friday ritual. You'd been so consumed by the day's strange quiet that you'd completely forgotten.

“Right,” you muttered, turning too quickly toward the nearest rack. Your carefully curated library of a mind blanked into static—years of knowledge gone in a blink. Your hand shot out, closing around the first case you touched. Spinning on your heels, you slapped it down on the counter, forcing a look of confidence you didn’t feel.

Frank glanced down. A beat. Two. Slowly, his eyes travelled back up to yours, one brow arched in question.

Confused, you looked down.

Oh.

Staring right up at you was a promotional copy of The Cardigans’ Lovefool.

The world tilted, and your stomach dropped to the floor. The sugary lyrics flooded your mind, a bubblegum tune about a girl begging for crumbs of attention from a man who wanted nothing to do with her.

"Love me, love me, say that you love me..."

You opened your mouth to explain, but he was already moving. He pocketed the CD and headed straight for the door, leaving you trying not to vomit on the inventory.

You had three hours until the show. You still needed Gatorade. And now you had to figure out how to show your face after handing Frank a song about pathetic, one-sided want.

"Fool me, fool me, go on and fool me..."

Fuck.

⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒

The Gatorade you grabbed after your shift sat on the bathroom counter, sweating a ring around scattered cosmetics: open MAC compacts, brushes dusted with powder, a bottle of Chanel No. 19 gifted by your mother months ago.

Leaning closer to the mirror, the mascara wand glided through your lashes with a practiced hand. You moved on autopilot as your mind cooked up every possible scenario imaginable: being shoved into the pit, getting called a scene whore, Frank spotting you from the stage and turning it into a spectacle.

Your hand stilled, taking a moment to study your reflection. Clean, matte makeup. Black turtleneck. Polished hoops. You looked like someone who had a Blogspot dedicated to film reviews. You looked like someone who used "juxtaposition" correctly in casual conversation.

You looked like everything Frank Iero mocked and everything he would never, ever look at twice.

Realistically, you could still bail. Stay home, peel off the costume and slip into pajamas, watch Secretary for the tenth time, demolish that pint of Ben & Jerry's Half Baked waiting for you in the freezer. On Monday, you'd tell him something came up—family emergency, food poisoning, anything plausible.

But he’d know.

He’d see it in the twist of your mouth, the pitch of your voice, the subtle shift of your eyes. He’d lean against the counter with faux empathy and let you finish your excuse before hitting you with the one word you'd been running from all week.

Scared.

Your fingers tightened around the mascara tube.

No.

Fuck that. Fuck him.

You finished your lashes with two final strokes and capped the tube. Reaching for the perfume, you sprayed yourself in a thick, expensive cloud that smelled like confidence—even if it was a lie. You were stepping into enemy territory armed with three hours of Ask Jeeves searches and spite. But at least you'd prove you weren't scared.

⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒

The bus reeked of Newports, dust, and piss. Every jolt sent the few sips of Gatorade in your stomach sloshing unpleasantly.

You took a seat near the back, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and the other passengers: an old man cradling grocery bags like infants, a teenager in a grease-stained Burger King uniform staring blankly out the window.

Gradually, Belleville bled into Bloomfield: Catholic churches decorated for the upcoming holiday, closed Italian bakeries and delis, brick duplexes pressed shoulder to shoulder.

When your stop came, you stepped off quickly, boots clicking against damp concrete. The bus doors hissed shut and pulled away, leaving the street eerily quiet.

You started walking, the crunch of leaves amplified in the silence. Reaching into your coat pocket, you pulled out the tightly folded napkin.

46 Brookdale Rd, Bloomfield. 9 PM.

The neighborhood wasn't what you'd expected. In your head, you pictured peeling paint, broken steps, houses on the verge of collapsing—a crack den, if you were being honest.

This was the opposite.

Wide, manicured lawns. Neatly parked sedans. American flags hanging proudly from porches.

Your steps slowed.

What the hell were rowdy twenty-year-olds doing here? This was a neighborhood built for Little League carpools and PTA gossip, not for kids screaming about crowdkilling and walls of death.

Wary, you continued down Brookdale, your breath visible in the cold as you mouthed the numbers marked on the curb.

32… 33… 34…

By 40, the street curved into a cul-de-sac, the low rumble of a bass penetrating the silence.

Ahead stood a two-story home, its lawn packed with people. Your mouth went dry. They looked exactly like the images you saw online: tiny band tees, studded belts, inked wiry bodies.

Every instinct screamed at you to turn back, to retreat to the safety of what you knew. But you didn’t. You forced your feet forward, stepping into Frank’s world. Your heart slammed against your ribs, each beat so loud it made you painfully aware of every little thing about yourself—the sway of your hips, the click of your boots, the rhythm of your breath.

Approaching the house, a folding table waited on the porch, manned by a guy with stretched ears and a permanently bored expression.

"Five bucks."

You blinked, caught off guard by the demand. "Excuse me?"

“Five bucks,” he repeated, holding out an inked hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

What the fuck was this guy talking about? You shifted your weight, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I was invited?”

“Cool. Five bucks.”

Your eye twitched. Money was never mentioned. You were going to kill Frank.

Jaw clenched, you dug into your purse and fished out a crumpled five. Forcing a smile through gritted teeth, you pressed the bill into his waiting hand. Without a word, he dropped it into a battered metal cashbox and jerked his stubbled chin toward the front door.

⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒

You pushed through the front door and were greeted by the heavy hit of heat—thick and oppressive, bodies packed too close together. Then the smell: sweat layered with beer and the skunky bite of weed. The bass wasn’t distant anymore; it pulsed in your chest, rattling your ribs and making the floorboards vibrate under your boots. You froze, overwhelmed, trying to process a room that threatened to swallow you whole.

Your eyes darted around, searching for empty space—a wall, a corner, anywhere that wasn't a threat towards your nervous system.

That’s when you felt it.

Not everyone noticed you. But enough did. A conversation by the stairs faltered mid-sentence. A guy lifting a beer to his mouth paused, looking you up and down before turning back around. A girl whispered something behind a cupped hand, her friend eyeing you from the corner of her vision.

The question hovered, unspoken but unmistakable: What is she doing here?

You were used to being the only black face in a room. You knew how to move through those spaces elegantly. When to speak, when to soften, when to sharpen. You knew how to make a white person comfortable with your presence.

This wasn’t one of those rooms.

Here, you had no tools in your toolbox. No credentials. No reliable script. No professor standing beside you, reminding you that you had the right to occupy space. You weren’t the star student. You weren’t the girl going places. None of the things that usually protected you mattered here.

A sense of dread settled over you.

Move, you have to move. Standing here made you feel like an exhibit.

You forced your legs forward, dragging yourself down a hallway, praying it led to a bathroom. The walls felt too close. Your vision tunneled, everything blurring at the edges.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re —

A jolt knocked the wind from your lungs. The impact sent you stumbling back, your boot skidding against the hallway runner.

"Shit—my bad!"

A hand shot out, closing around your forearm with a firm, steadying grip before you could meet the floor. You looked up, wide eyes meeting a face of genuine concern.

“Whoa. Hey. You good?”

You haven’t been "good" since Monday. The heat, the stares, the music, the humiliation of almost falling—you were hanging on by a thread tonight. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to appear calm and collected.

“I’m fine.”

The words came out thinner than you'd intended, but at least they came out at all.

He released your arm slowly, his head tilting with the same curiosity everyone else seemed to have. “I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “First show?”

“Yeah, Frank invited me. He’s playing.”

His eyebrows shot up, disappearing into his shaggy brown fringe. "Frank? Like...Iero?"

Your eyes narrowed. “Is there another one?”

The surprise on his face melted, replaced by a bark of laughter that turned a few nearby heads. "Oh, shit! I didn't know Frank rolled like that!"

Your eyes remained narrowed. Rolled like what..?

He shook his head, wearing a grin born from blissful ignorance. "Yknow… that actually makes sense. I mean—he really likes Wu-Tang so it sorta tracks."

The words hung between you, stupid and sincere.

He really likes Wu-Tang.

You searched his face for a crack in his expression, a sign that he was just feeding you a bad joke. You found nothing. Standing in front of you was a man who truly believed he solved a puzzle. The correlation wasn't malicious. It was, in his mind, as simple as two plus two equals four.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What were you supposed to say? What could you say?

Before you could decide your fate, a voice cut through the noise from somewhere deeper in the house.

"YO! CHEMS ON IN FIVE!"

The guy’s eyes widened with excitement. “Oh, shit—Frank’s about to play!” He pointed down the hall toward a doorway already clogging with bodies. “Basement’s that way. You’re gonna wanna get down there before it gets too packed.”

He clapped your shoulder—too hard, too familiar for a stranger—and flashed another goofy, clueless smile. “Yo, it was nice meeting you. Tell your boyfriend Danny said what’s up!”

Boyfriend.

The word hit like a sucker punch. You couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t even muster a polite laugh. You just stood there, watching as he melted into the crowd, already hollering at someone across the room about tonight's show.

You had no more bandwidth. You’d been hounded for five bucks, gawked at like an exotic animal, and now mistaken for Frank’s girlfriend.

You checked your watch: 8:55.

The next bus wasn't until 9:45.

Fifty minutes. All you had to do was survive fifty minutes, collect what you came for, and you were home free.

You fished the Gatorade from your purse and took a long swig. It was warm, disgustingly sweet, but it grounded you just enough. You recapped the bottle, shoved it deep into your bag, and turned toward the clogged basement doorway.

Fifty minutes started now.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

You followed the crowd down the hall and into the basement, one hand balancing on the railing, the other clenched tight around your purse. Bodies pressed in from all sides, shoving you downward whether you were ready or not.

Danny wasn't kidding. It was even more packed than upstairs—shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, restlessness building. You wedged yourself into a sliver of space against the cinderblock wall, close enough to the stairs to make a quick escape the second your fifty minutes were up.

At the far end of the basement, movement caught your eye—band members shuffling into position, adjusting amps, testing mics. You spotted him immediately.

Frank.

He turned his back to the room, head bowed over his guitar, strumming the strings in a quiet warm-up. He paused, then crouched, forearms flexing as he adjusted a knob on a pedalboard littered with cables.

The man who treated life like a game was gone.

Without meaning to, you leaned forward, drawn toward this unfamiliar version of him.

A guy with a mop of greasy black hair and a shredded leather jacket bounced to the front, snatching the mic. The feedback shrieked, and the room answered with wild cheers.

"All right, listen up!" He yelled. “Same rules as always. Everyone fuckin’ gets killed. Fuck shit up. Don’t break too much shit. Let’s fuckin’ go!”

Without a second wasted, the band launched into the first song.

The drums hit first, a hard, ruthless beat. The bass and guitars crashed in after, messy and loud, followed by the singer's scream tearing through the space.

The room exploded. All that restless energy found its release. You pressed harder against the wall, closely observing.

The first verdict was immediate: This is sloppy.

There was nothing to grasp. No stable melody, no clean structure. The lyrics were barely intelligible, chords blurred together, and roughhousing seemed like a bigger priority than a coordinated performance. It was exactly what you'd expected. Angry white boys entertaining other angry white boys.

But as the song played out, you caught onto something.

The band wasn't just playing to the crowd. They were playing with them.

The singer dove into the pit, the mic cord snaking behind him as he shouted lyrics inches from people’s faces. They shouted back, word for word, spit flying, voices hoarse and utterly devoted.

The drummer was a blur of motion, beaming the entire song.

The bassist and lead guitarist moved in sync, heads bobbing to the frantic rhythm, trading looks that said I’m happy to be doing this with you.

And then there was Frank.

He was a wild dog off his leash, raw and furious.

He thrashed across the tiny stage, guitar swinging wildly as he barked lyrics into the mic. His face was twisted and red, the veins in his neck bulging. He threw himself into the singer—a full-body lunge born from adrenaline. The singer shoved him back, laughing through the lyrics as Frank stumbled from the momentum, dropping to his knees without missing a chord.

You couldn't decipher who was more pumped, the band or the crowd. Everyone seemed so... connected.

You still hated the music. It was still noise, still artless, still everything you'd accused it of being.

But you couldn't deny what you were watching.

Community.

The song ended with a crash of cymbals, the room already chanting for the next song. Frank rose to his feet, a breathless grin tugging at his lips as he drank in the excitement of the crowd.

Until he landed on you.

Your eyes locked, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. Just him, chest heaving, gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"I need you guys to get closer!" the singer bellowed, cutting through the moment. "This next song is about friendship, switchblades, diamond fuckin' rings, and killin' the head cheerleader to get a fuckin' hardon!"

A guitar riff cut through the noise. Drums crashed in behind it.

Frank held your gaze for a beat longer, the corner of his mouth quirking up before he went back to his guitar, lost in the music again.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

The band played four more songs. By the time the final chord echoed off the basement walls, you felt half dead. Your ears rang a painful, high-pitched whine. The thin layer of sweat that accumulated on your skin made you feel sticky. Your feet ached from standing too long in one place.

"Thank you," the singer rasped into the mic, wiping his face with his forearm. "We're My Chemical Romance—now get the fuck outta my buddy's basement."

The room responded with one last, deafening roar, half love, half demand for an encore. The band stood there, drenched and grinning like exhausted idiots, accepting the applause with sloppy bows.

You pushed yourself off the wall, cringing as your damp sweater peeled away from the cinderblock. A shower was your top priority.

You checked your watch.

9:25.

A slow sigh escaped you. Twenty minutes until the bus. You weren't getting out as quickly as you'd hoped. You needed air, but waiting alone at a dark bus stop, in a part of Jersey you'd never set foot in, felt like the start to a Dateline episode.

You followed the crowd back upstairs, the energy thinning into a warm post-show hum. Excited rehashes of the set, lazy laughter, cans clinking as people grabbed one last beer before heading out. After everything, you craved silence more than anything.

You moved through the house, searching for a room that offered even two seconds of privacy. On the verge of giving up, you spotted a door leading to the backyard.

You stepped onto the deck, and November air hit you. Crisp and sharp, laced with the smell of damp leaves and the distant scent of weed. The high-pitched whine in your ears persisted, but out here, you could finally hear yourself think.

The yard was textbook suburban. A well-loved grill tucked in the corner. A lawn painted with hydroseed green. A lonely Fisher-Price playset creaking faintly in the breeze.

You leaned against the redwood railing and closed your eyes, finding peace in the chilly stillness.

Reflecting, you attempted to categorize the night's events into neat mental folders: Sensory Overload. Microaggression. Musical Analysis.

But every time you tried to focus, all you could see was Frank.

His pre-show focus as he'd tuned his guitar, a seriousness you'd never seen. How he'd thrown himself across that tiny stage, writhing around. How his eyes had found yours in the crowd, holding your gaze just a second too long. That stupid quirk of his mouth.

You didn't have a category for that.

The deck boards groaned behind you, interrupting your short-lived peace. Before you could look back, a voice cut through the quiet.

“Didn’t expect you out here.”

You turned.

Frank stood half in the doorway, a hoodie thrown over his sweat-soaked shirt. His hair was plastered to his forehead, the apples of his cheeks still flushed with heat. He looked younger like this. Softer. Like a boy who'd spent the day running wild and was finally catching his breath.

“I needed air,” you said. Simple. True.

He nodded once, like that explained everything. He stepped fully onto the deck, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Instead, distant sounds filled the gap. A car starting up, a joyful laugh from inside, the faint echo of the next band bleeding through the walls.

“So,” he started, the click of a Zippo following. He lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating the structure of his face. “Thoughts?”

You turned back to face the yard, training your attention on the playset. You weighed your options, debating if it was even worth describing all the trouble you went through for a thirty-minute set.

“It was loud.”

He snorted, guiding the cigarette towards his lips. “And the sky’s blue?”

You didn't take the bait, too tired to engage in a back-and-forth debate.

“It was...a lot. I’m still processing.”

Frank took a drag and exhaled smoke toward the yard. He settled with that answer.

"Why are you still here?" His voice was softer than usual, genuinely curious.

“I took the bus. Next one’s in twenty minutes.”

He pulled away from his cigarette and laughed—a sudden belly laugh like it was the funniest thing he heard all week. “You took the bus? You?” He shook his head and outstretched an arm, giving you a teasing shove. “Wish I could've seen that shit. Bet you sanitized everything like a freak.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitched. It was pretty gross. You rolled your eyes and brushed off his comments. “Can you finish your cigarette and go?”

His giggles faded, but his eyes still held that soft, playful gleam. “I can drive you.”

You glanced at him sideways. “You don’t have to.”

He shrugged, flicking ash over the railing. “We both live in Belleville. But if you wanna freeze your ass off at a bus stop for twenty minutes, be my guest. Your funeral.”

Your first instinct was to stick to the safety of your plan. But when another gust of wind hit, the thought of waiting twenty more minutes for a ride made you grimace.

“...Fine.”

Finishing his cigarette with a final drag, he crushed it under his scuffed shoe. “Parked out front. C’mon.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Frank's car was exactly what you'd expect—a silver Honda Civic with a dented bumper, fast-food napkins stuffed into the cup holders, and a Black Ice Little Tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

You mentally recited a prayer to St. Christopher. There was a solid chance of dying in this thing before you reached Belleville.

Stiffly sliding into the passenger seat, you hugged your purse like it could protect you. He jammed the key into the ignition, the engine coughing to life with a sound that made you question your safety even more.

As he reversed out of the tight spot, you rattled off your address. The first few minutes of the drive passed without a word, broken only by the wheeze of the heater and an off and on clicking from somewhere under the hood.

Without looking, he gestured toward the glove compartment with his chin. "Got CDs in there. You can put one on, if you want."

You popped it open and retrieved the black fabric CD binder. Unzipping it, you flipped through the predictable sleeves. Bad Brains, Black Flag, Gorilla Biscuits. A burned CD labeled in wonky Sharpie: GEE'S MIX 8/03.

You flipped one more sleeve.

Stopped.

Wu-Tang Clan - Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers).

He really likes Wu-Tang.

You snapped the binder shut and shoved it back into the compartment, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

"No, thank you," you loudly blurted out.

Frank glanced over, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but shrugged it off in the end. You never made sense to him. Why start trying now?

"Actually," he murmured, "I have a CD."

He reached back, patting around the sea of junk in the back seat—a backpack, an empty chip bag, guitar cables. A soft, triumphant "aha" came out as he pulled something free, holding it up between two fingers like a prize.

The promotional copy of The Cardigans’ Lovefool.

You stiffened, every muscle locking.

He waved it around, adopting the tone of a pretentious music critic in deep thought. "Fascinating choice. Truly. The lyrics are quite profound."

“Frank.”

"'Love me, love me,'" he recited as if he were reading Shakespeare. "'Say that you love me.' That's some deep shit. I was moved."

“Frank, I swear to God—”

"I mean, you're always going on and on about how a song should have intention and a well-written story." He tossed the CD onto your lap, the streetlights illuminating the cheesy baby pink hearts that decorated the cover. "What's the story here, and why did you want me to hear it?"

The case burned in your lap. Hot humiliation washed over you, deeper than the stares at the party, worse than Danny's boyfriend comment.

"The story," you spoke slowly, not risking a stutter, "is that I made a mistake. It was next to the one I wanted. I grabbed the wrong one."

Frank nodded, pretending to consider your words. “Right, right. And the CD you meant to pick was..?”

Your nails dug into the leather of your purse. The urge to jump and bleed out in the middle of the road was starting to sound appealing. "It's late, I'm tired, can we cut the interrogation?"

He pressed his lips together, his tongue fiddling with his lip ring to suppress a laugh as he turned onto Passaic Avenue. “It was cute.”

The word hung in the stale, Black Ice-scented air.

Cute.

Not pathetic, not embarrassing.

Cute.

The word kept looping in your mind as Belleville reemerged—familiar storefronts, dim streetlights, the quiet apartments you called home. Frank eased the car toward the front of your building, the engine idling with a low, shaky rumble. You unbuckled your seatbelt, setting the CD on the dashboard.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

You opened the door, one foot on the curb, when his voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

You turned, leaning down to look back into the car. Frank’s gaze flickered everywhere but you—the dashboard, the gearshift, even the empty passenger seat before finally meeting your eyes.

“Can I get your number?”

The question landed awkwardly. You raised a brow. "What?"

"Your number." He pulled a pen from the glove compartment, the cap covered in deep bite marks. "I won't be at work on Monday. Got a check-up. Health shit." He reached out, offering you the pen. "I wanna hear the rest of your thoughts on the show. Don't feel like waiting 'til Friday."

You stared at the gnawed pen. Giving Frank your number felt like handing him ammunition.

It was a terrible idea, but slowly, you took it.

You uncapped it from the bottom, avoiding the teeth marks, and reached for his arm. His skin was littered with ink; it took you a moment to find a place to write. Stroking his wrist, you turned his arm to the left, finding a blank strip beside the bold lines of his rising sun tattoo. You wrote your number, the ink blending in with his other tattoos.

“Don’t make me regret this, Iero.”

He took the pen back, looking at the numbers now marked on his skin. He smiled, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "No promises."

You closed the door and waved goodbye, the engine revving back up as soon as you reached the front door.

Slipping inside, you leaned against the door, eyes closed, heart pounding. You tried one last time to file the night's events: Sensory Overload. Microaggression. Musical Analysis.

But once again, your mind drifted back to Frank.

For the first time that night, you smiled—a small, involuntary thing. Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling a girlish giggle that escaped before you could stop it.

You hated the music. You hated the crowd. You hated that you were already wondering when he'd call.

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