synopsis: jj maybank is a whore and has always been a whore, but the last thing he expected was when he and the rest of the pouges were finally settled into pougelandia 2.0 was to find out he was a father, father to a young boy at that. will jj break the cycle of bad parenting he experiences, or will he look just like his father?
meet everyone | part one |
author's note: this was inspired by my need for dad!jj and like him by tyler the creator!
synopsis: what if chandler groff had never abandoned his son with luke maybank? instead, larissa genrette divorced her seemingly abusive and power-hungry husband, chandler groff, and raised her son with the help of her father. enter jackson j. genrette, the playboy casanova, who is best friends with rafe cameron, also known as the "king kook." one day, while at the country club, he meets pouge!reader, the new summer server, and is immediately entranced. will these two people from opposite sides of the island fall for each other?
a kook!jj maybank smau!
intros | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine |
synopsis: y/n is an up-and-coming influencer who has established her own with a thriving youtube channel and podcast. when she releases a new episode with her new co-host and special guests, things get messy.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen |
liam. oh liam. god. he was the one i worried so much about ever since the band. like, it used to be zayn but when zayn left and grew i thought "ok, he's going to be ok" because you could see after a while that the band was not good for zayn. you could see it. but liam, god. he carried so much weight, all the time. from the band all the way to the present, he was the guy who was supposed to be put together. he was "daddy direction" he was. yeah. he was that guy. and i know it weighed on him. i KNOW it did. the drinking and the fucking spiraling he went through after the band, it was all connected. and i'm not. defending his choices, i'm not. but i'm grieving him and i'm aching for him, and. i just wanted him to be okay. i really really thought that he would be okay. and he's not. and i'm. fucking heartbroken about it.
saw a video that was like “everybody comment what you did today so we can see how everyone experienced something different” and the comments have me tearing up on this train. what the fuckkkk. the human experience
Just my Rafe Cameron writings for my masterlist :) I will be updating this frequently with all my new posts. Enjoy!!
My work contains dark themes / inappropriate content. remember that you choose the media that you consume & what you expose yourself to, not me. 18+ blog.
Family Vacation - (COMPLETE)
Summary: Y/n's family vacation includes her dad making a deal with Rafe Cameron's father. The trip is not at all what she expects when Rafe decides that he has to have her, and everyone knows Rafe gets what he wants.
Innocent - (COMPLETE)
Summary: Everybody knows Rafe hates pogues. He can't stand them, and he has a deep hatred for anyone who associates themselves with a pogue. But when Rafe makes an exception out of lust, will an innocent pogue make him realize they aren't that bad after all?
Flower - (COMPLETE)
Summary: When Rafe lays his eyes on a beautiful girl in a beautiful blue dress, he can’t keep his eyes or his hands off of her. In his mind, she is his little flower, and he is determined to make sure she knows it.
Smile - (INCOMPLETE)
Summary: Rafe is a shy photographer who simply has an eye for beauty and knows what best to capture. He discovers that he likes to take pictures of you the most, when you are out and about at your most carefree, and he does so secretively… until he is inevitably spotted.
A Deal Is a Deal - (INCOMPLETE)
Summary: When JJ puts the pogues in danger, the reader is forced to strike a deal with none other than Rafe Cameron, knowing that he is the only one that can protect her in this situation. What he wants in return is simple — her.
Requests - a compilation of blurbs, one shots, and requests. Blurbs specific to series will be in the series masterlist.
Warnings: alcohol, food, parties, ANGST, fluff, mentions of death, break-ups/past relationships, mentions of drug use, cursing, minor injury/blood (it's a cut), some really questionable medical knowledge, mentions of medicine (otc), past mental health issues, smoking (weed), jealousy, arguments/verbal fighting, smut (fingering (f-receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slight overstimulation, breeding kink if you squint, praise, just the tiniest bit of something akin to degradation but blink and you'll miss it), guitarist!conrad, exes-to-lovers, tending to injuries <3, a lot of random references, slight belly/jeremiah, happy ending :)), really bad planning so don't think too hard, if i missed anything else lmk!!
Summary: exes to lovers set in a band au
a/n: look. this thing is massive. a beast. actually threatening. but i promise it is the biggest angst to fluff + smut session you're ever going to witness (from me, at least). power through! pls forgive any errors and feedback is appreciated <3 i've spent like two weeks on this <33 also HUGE shoutout to caz @anywherebuthere because this thing would have died as an untitled doc otherwise
AO3 Link
—————
i.
It had been two years since you last saw him.
But you could still pick him out of a crowd of a hundred.
He was standing by the bookcase in the office, somewhat removed from the rest of the party. It was in a house you didn’t recognize, though you had to admit that you rarely remembered much from nights in Cousins. Your attention had always been focused on one boy — the same one you were staring at now.
Jeremiah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, whispered something in his ear, then retracted. You watched the exchange with barely veiled interest, then corrected yourself.
You refocused on the drink in your hands and the game of beer pong you were supposed to be setting up for. Belly was your partner — she always was, despite her skills (or lack thereof) — and you felt her eyes switch between you and your now-abandoned target.
She brushed her arm against yours, and you appreciated the attempt at grounding. She filled the last of the cups on your side of the table, then nudged you again. “Let’s go.”
You smiled, your new fixation the triangle of cups across from you. You raised your arm, chose the singular cup closest, then lined up your shot. Belly jumped when you made it, and Steven glared as he raised the drink to his lips.
Jeremiah was his usual partner, and you were not surprised to find that he was struggling with his new teammate. Clay wasn’t a good friend to any of you, but Steven would call these desperate times, so nobody complained.
You fell into a rhythm like that: you made most of your shots, Belly less so, and Steven carried his own team. His competitiveness came out, and it took everything you had to match him with your own.
However, the attempt was futile, and your attention fleeting. More often than not, your gaze drifted far from the table of cups, two beers souring the back of your throat (though you thought the view must be more to blame).
“Stop staring,” Belly murmured. “It’s weird.”
“It’s not weird,” you said defensively. “I’m just taking in my surroundings.”
“You’re taking in one surrounding. Trust me, I would know.”
You sighed, then aligned your next throw. You eyed the far right cup, then bounced the ping pong ball on the table, landing it was a soft splash. Clay drank it happily. “It’s not like that. I’m over him. I’ve been over him.”
Clay missed his attempt, and you took it as an opportunity to face your friend fully. Belly looked at you suspiciously, searching for verity in your features, and you prayed the alcohol in her system would allow her to overlook how little there was.
She shrugged. “Then don’t ogle him like you’re not. It’s the same look you had three years ago.” She attempted her shot without looking (not that it made much of a difference).
“Maybe that’s just my face.”
“Maybe you need to figure your shit out.”
“Belly,” you scolded, “you’re too young to talk like that.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a kid anymore. We’re playing an entire drinking game.”
She wasn’t wrong — all of you had grown up. Years had passed, people were lost, but the Fishers and the Conklins would never leave Cousins, and you didn’t plan to either. Still, Belly was and always would be a little sister to you. It was the way of the world. “Doesn’t matter.”
Steven made his next shot, and you drank the beer eagerly. The ache that built in your stomach was nearing unbearable.
“Seriously, though,” she said as you paused to line yourself up. There was one cup left, and you knew you could get it. You smiled to yourself as you aimed. “Don’t let this — let him — get to you. It’s not worth it.”
You knew she was remembering what had transpired just a couple of years ago. The heartbreak that left you fragmented for months. Conrad’s career had taken off — there simply was no longer room for you in his life. That didn’t make it hurt any less. “I’m fine.”
Your wrist bent back, arm raised in position, a familiar sound reached your ears. You had just released the ball when it clicked in your mind, knees buckling at the weight of it, and your shot went wide, not remotely close to your lonesome target.
It had been two years since you last heard him laugh.
Some part of you — the shattered pieces of your heart you never dared to clean up — collapsed at the sound, the sensation of broken glass resting on your tongue. Cuts littered your mouth, but when Conrad laughed again, you let your teeth meet, those calcified ridges mixing and joining the brigade. When you opened your mouth to speak, the words spilled like blood.
Belly noticed the shift, and her fingers curved around yours. She waved off Steven, signaling the premature end of the game. Squeezing your hand, she whispered, “Let it go. Let it all go.”
You took a deep breath and nodded. Glass shards turned to sand in your mouth, so dry that you suddenly needed a drink. Smiling at Belly, you extracted yourself, hunting down the kitchen of a house that felt too large.
You bumped into a few vaguely recognizable people, but you didn’t bother with pleasantries. The kitchen was full, and you navigated it quickly. One hand found the bottle of tequila and the other the cheap mixer someone had the forethought to bring. Your cup was full within seconds, and you swallowed it down just as quickly.
Was it your best move? No. But you were certain seeing your exes for the first time in years at a random party fell into Steven’s list of Desperate Times. Your throat burned, and your mind tingled from something stronger than watered-down beer.
Conrad was within your sights now, and his head tipped back as he laughed again. There was such pure joy on his face — the type that was so painfully gone in the months before your breakup. Those were days you could never forget — his grief, his stress, his coping. His absence would forever be a part of you, something you could note and ache for, but never fill on your own.
You had tried.
Jeremiah, too, looked happier around his brother. Conrad had missed the past two summers, too busy touring. He was in different cities every night, following his dreams, as well as the direction of his manager. The lines had blurred until the latter was all that remained. But at least he was back now, for the sake of everyone else.
You refilled your drink, then let your feet draw you closer, to the emptier corner of the living room. Despite your unsteadiness, your sight cleared, tunnel vision on him and him only. You were able to pick out details, discrepancies, and you took them in with no small amount of sorrow. Still, your heart had no issue rearranging to paint this new picture of him, to adjust the space he took up to fit all the results of time.
It had been two years since you last met his eye.
But you were doing it now. Shock filled them first, his body visibly tightening when he caught you in his peripheral. He found you easily enough — he always had a gift for that. And while the rest of Conrad might have changed, his eyes never did.
The deep, careful brown of them greeted you now. From across the house, their comfort curled around you, deceptively-soft talons digging in until you ceded, embracing it.
You hated him for it.
Jeremiah stole his attention again, and the moment was over. That quick. You swallowed the ball in your throat, then went back to your observations. You had lost your shame a handful of drinks ago.
Conrad’s hair had grown over time, soft waves that your fingertips itched to touch. You supposed they couldn’t help themselves — you knew him by instinct alone, knew him as less of another person and more as a part of you. He was ingrained in your memory, in your body, in the prints of those wistful digits and gaps between them, designed just for him.
He had gained more muscle, his skin was clearer, his eyes were lighter. If anything, you could be happy that some weight had been taken off his shoulders. He was more open than you’d seen him since Susannah had passed, and even now — even after the heartbreak and humiliation — you could find relief in that.
It had been two years since you lost everything before you realized you had it. Since everything became him.
(Hey, sweetheart. It’s Conrad. I’m in Houston tonight, and they weren’t kidding when they said everything is bigger in Texas. There was a burger literally the size of my head, I wish you could see it. Maybe I’ll bring you some day, I don’t know. Look, I miss you more than you can imagine, and I’m trying to get home soon. I feel like it’s been forever. After these next few weeks, I’ll be done, and then you won’t be able to get me to leave your side. I promise. See you soon. I love you.)
—
ii.
“You should have told me he was going to be there.” You let your head fall back against the cabinet behind you, savoring the pain, then sudden emptiness it brought. The Fisher’s house was blissfully vacant, but that only emphasized your memories of last night.
“I didn’t even know. Steven said he was coming next week. He must’ve got an earlier flight.” Belly sounded apologetic enough, though you knew it wasn’t her fault.
“Still. I thought it would be just us this summer.” From now on.
Belly removed the batch of cookies from the oven. She dropped them on the counter without ceremony, then propped herself on the island opposite from you. “I’m sorry.”
You sighed. You knew you were in the wrong, knew the majority of your distress was the result of your drunken state. “It’s fine. I’m just so…so….” You searched for the word.
“Sad?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“No.”
“Hungry? We have cookies.”
“No. But hand me one.”
“Hmm…angry?”
“Who do I have to be angry at? Myself?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either.”
She smiled at you. “You’re stressed. Eat another cookie.” She was already reaching for the pan behind her, and you accepted.
“I want to want him gone. I do. But I can’t.” You laughed, though it lacked humor. “I need to figure my shit out.”
Belly made a sound of agreement. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“It just sucks. All of it. I’m so….”
“I can’t play this game anymore.”
“Embarrassed!”
Her brow furrowed, and she kicked your shin lightly. “What do you have to be embarrassed about? You didn’t even speak to him last night.”
No, you didn’t. You just sat in the corner, sipped on your tequila and citrus, and stared at your ex like some forlorn lover. Thinking about it now brought all those feelings back, so you couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol. You missed him, missed the wholeness you felt with him.
It was pathetic, really. You had broken the whole thing off, after all. You had loved him, and then you had lost him. Time would never change the truth of circumstance, and this well of grief was not finite. Not in the slightness. What you felt for him, his presence and his absence, was unending. It was something you had kept buried down over the past two years, but that didn’t make it any less consuming when it inevitably rose up.
“I must’ve looked like a stalker,” you answered. “He and J were just talking and I kept sneaking looks like I was slick.” Belly opened her mouth, but you beat her to it. “I was not slick. I was a stalker.”
“You can’t be a stalker if you’re friends with them.”
“Am I friends with Conrad, Belly? Is that what you call this?” You shook your head, jumping to your feet. You needed to move, this energy inside of you making you restless. You couldn’t spend an entire summer like this.
“I just think that maybe — maybe — it might be worth a shot.”
You sent her a glare. “First, Jeremiah, and now you telling me this? It’s like you think I have a death wish.”
She gave you a look, brow raised. “Conrad isn’t capable of murder. He’s too soft.”
You returned her stare. “Being his friend would kill me. After everything, we can never go back.”
There was too much history shared, too many lines crossed. You couldn’t forget what it was like to be his, to be loved by him, for something so platonic. Your relationship was built on friendship, on years of it, and you weren’t willing to risk losing something like that a second time. It was simply too much.
“Don’t be like that. He misses you.”
“I left him.”
“He left you first.”
You snorted. “Are you trying to change my mind? Because if you are, you’re doing a shit job.”
Belly tracked you as you paced, her eyes heavy on your shoulders. “I’m just saying that nobody was innocent. And that if you can miss him, he can definitely miss you back.”
“Who said I missed him?”
She scoffed. “And I thought I was the idiot.”
(Hey, it’s Conrad. Again. I’m sure you’ve been super busy, and I guess I just keep missing you, but guess what? I’m coming home early. Something got messed up with the venue and they had to cancel the show. I’m getting on the plane now, and it’s late so maybe you’re asleep. It’ll be a surprise then. As long as you don’t listen to this first. Seriously though, I was wondering if we could talk? I know shit has been…shitty recently, and I really wanna talk to you, sweetheart. See you in a bit. I love you.)
—
iii.
Your head ached and your stomach churned — the unforgiving symptoms of a hangover. You were never drinking again, that was for sure.
Your feet landed loudly as you made your way downstairs, the sun flowing through the windows telling you you had slept later than you thought. It had to be afternoon, and that still felt too early. But the house was silent, and you had enough sense in you to appreciate that fact alone.
Appreciate it, and take advantage of it.
You fell into your ‘morning’ routine quickly enough. The pot of coffee had long since grown cold, but you downed it anyway, hoping the caffeine might kickstart your nerves.
That, paired with a piece of hard toast (you made a mental note to thank Belly for the effort later), was enough to revive your senses. The lighting became less harsh on your eyes, and you finally took in your surroundings.
The place was trashed.
You knew having a rager at the start of summer was never a good plan — nobody remembered their limits until at least a month into the season. All it left you with was a destroyed house and an even worse pit of regret. This would take hours to clean up.
The text from Belly that awaited you when you woke up suddenly made more sense. An explanation that she, Jeremiah, and Steven had to run into town for some errands, and a long-winded apology for leaving you alone.
You smiled to yourself. Sure, you weren’t looking forward to cleaning up alone, but summers in Cousins came with such less-than-ideal situations. That’s what made the good parts so much better.
Once you drained the last of your coffee, plus two glasses of water and some Excedrin, you got to work.
The bottles came first, clinking around in the garbage bag as you piled them in. The noise was almost unbearable, but you were determined to have this house clean by the time everyone was back. With the glasses and cans gone, all that remained was a sea of red Solo cups. You dug through it with caution, but remained efficient.
This was not your first rodeo.
And it was amidst the random articles of clothes and bags of chips that you fell into your rhythm. You were stuffing items into trash bags, tying the plastic up, and then moving on to the next quickly. Your focus remained on remembering what you could, and you were pleased to have a decent enough recollection. (And even more pleased to realize you couldn’t have done anything too bad.)
You were quite so distracted that you didn’t notice his presence until you had spun around, his body taking up your sight and a scream leaving your mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” you cursed, a hand on your chest as you calmed yourself. He was too silent for his own good.
“Morning,” Conrad said, a secret smile lingering on his lips. There were bags under his eyes, but judging by the empty foyer behind him, you could tell he had been cleaning as well.
You took a few more deep breaths, waiting for your heart to slow. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I can tell.”
You narrowed your eyes and pressed your lips together for a moment. “How long have you….” You gestured with your finger.
“Been watching you? Almost an hour.”
“Shit.”
“You’re not very observant.”
“Shut up.” You tied up the last bag in your hand before throwing it into the pile. That was the last of it, and all that remained (thanks to Conrad, you hated to say) was a heavy round of disinfectant. And Febreeze.
His hands slid into his pockets, and you could feel his gaze roving over you. It made you feel hot all over, and you refused to look at him, lest he read the emotion in your face. This was the closest you had been in years — despite the urge to call him, to text him, to book a flight out to whatever town he was in just so you could see him perform. You never followed through, the fear that what you felt would no longer be reciprocated too much.
And now, with him staring at you, so many questions dancing on the tip of his tongue, you couldn’t take it.
“Do you mind taking those bags out?” you asked instead. You needed him away, even if only for a few minutes.
“Yeah…yeah, totally.” You knew he wanted to say more, but you walked away before he could.
With every passing second, Belly’s apology made more and more sense. You were absolutely going to kill her.
You took out the broom, sweeping out sand and crumbs and other substances you refused to inspect too closely. Conrad came back to help you move furniture, but you only gave him a quiet thank you in return, still not meeting his eye.
He was all around you, and it set you on edge. You tried to think only of the mop in your hands, letting the action use all your focus, but when he began vacuuming even the smallest area rugs, you knew it was no use. Conrad consumed your thoughts, just like he always had.
You were thankful he didn’t mention your behavior, evident as it was. He tossed a couple of looks your way — some confused, some regretful, some merely sad — but it was not something you wanted to acknowledge. You chose ignorance instead.
That was until he initiated the conversation.
“So,” he broached as he emptied the debris he had collected, “how have you been?”
You bit your tongue, waiting. But when seconds passed and he kept expecting a response, you gave in. “Good. I’ve been good. You?”
“Good,” he echoed. “Lots of shows.”
Oh, how you loathed him. It was always about his career, you knew that. You never should have expected anything different. It’s what tore you apart, what created such a rift between Conrad and everyone who cared for him.
It was a distraction at first: the small venues, writing songs, attracting a few fans. He had lost his mother, barely got along with his father, and was looking for something that would fill the hole that they left. Music was his way out.
You could still remember when it got too much. When the happiness from his success turned to dread, because you didn’t know the next time you’d see him. When he’d spend hours locked in his room, writing and writing and writing like it was all he had left. Like you weren’t waiting on the other side of the door. His shows drained him, led him to alternatives for energy, until he was isolating himself. You could never tell if he loved or hated what he had achieved.
And in the end, you had reached your breaking point. Maybe he deserved more sympathy, but so did you.
“That’s good,” you said, but it came out a whisper. “I’m happy you’re happy.”
If he was going to add something, he held his tongue. The silence was no longer as tense, but it was filled with unspoken words. You still had a few more hours until Belly returned, and you decided to pass it like you had planned all along.
You began spraying the counters, and handed Conrad the duster. He took it without complaint, and you let all the unsaid things remain that way.
(It’s Conrad. Listen, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. Not at all. You’re not clingy, you’re not too much, you’re not overbearing. You’re perfect. For fuck’s sake this is my…third voicemail of the night? Something like that. I just need you to talk to me, darling. That’s all I’m asking. I take it all back, and I’m sorry, and I love you. I do. Just talk to me. Phone works two ways, you know.)
—
iv.
You never should have listened to Belly. This — this cramped bar with just a slightly raised platform where Conrad stood — was the last place you belonged.
You cursed your recent bout of bad judgment.
“I want to go home,” you whispered for the umpteenth time.
Belly dutifully ignored your complaints. “Just a little longer,” she countered. “It’s important to him that we’re here — I promise that the second he finishes his set we will leave.”
You groaned internally, leaning back against the counter behind you and letting the minutes tick by. Jeremiah was glued to Belly’s side, and Steven to a girl you didn’t recognize. Alone at the bar, you thought you must make for one pathetic sight.
Conrad had only planned one event during his stay in Cousins. It was a fundraiser event for the women’s shelter Susannah had dedicated so much time to. You appreciated his effort and would donate money of your own, but that didn’t mean you wanted to sit through the entirety of the show.
Most of his songs you recognized. While you had made it a point to not listen to Conrad’s music over the past two years, you couldn’t simply forget it. Nor could you control the radio stations that played it. He was inescapable in that sense, so you shouldn’t have been surprised about how often he littered your thoughts.
It was not as though you hadn’t tried with someone else. You had been on plenty of first dates, even stayed with one for a couple of months, but things never worked out. Not like they did with him — like the two of you had been the most natural thing in the world.
There was new music, too. While you tried not to focus on the lyrics too much, you couldn’t help but pick out a few of them. The heartbreak contained in the words, the desperation and dreams, and when his voice grew raspy, completely spent, you accepted that you might never fully get over him.
And more than anything else, you hated him for that.
You hardly even noticed when the show ended. People were exiting the bar, chatting quickly about his eyes and his hair and his smile and how mesmerizing it all was. You were only watching for Belly to move, resigned to stirring your drink in silence and waiting for the night to be over. This was not somewhere you wanted to be, but you would stay for her.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice surprised you, and you would have fallen out of your seat were it not for Conrad’s hands on your waist steadying you. He removed them quickly, but the sensation of his touch lingered. “J told me you were coming, but I didn’t believe you’d show.”
“Well,” you raised your arms a few inches at your sides, spreading your fingers, “here I am.”
“Don’t look too happy about it.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
He raised a brow, sensing your half-truth.
“It’s been a while,” you continued. The rest of your group seemed to have disappeared, and you mentally cursed Belly.
Conrad smiled, and your chest tightened. “You didn’t have to stay. If you were uncomfortable—”
“I was fine,” you cut him off, sharper than you intended. You softened your voice. “It’s just difficult. A lot of memories.”
He dipped his chin in understanding. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, seeing you in the crowd was a surprise. A good one,” he added.
You hummed in response. Irritation was an ember in the bottom of your stomach.
“I’m serious. It reminded me of before. Made the lyrics feel a little more real.”
That’s when the anger in you, the one that would forever be aligned with him and the way he made you feel, flared up. “I don’t need your consolation. I told you I was fine.”
“And you expect me to believe that? You think I don’t know you?” His voice had an edge to it, but it remained controlled.
“You haven’t known me in two years — in longer than that. Don’t act like you do now.”
His face changed, a flicker of feeling crossing it, but disappearing soon enough. It turned cold, just as it was when he was younger. It was his fallback — acting nonchalant, uncaring. He tried to speak, but you were on your feet before he could.
He called your name as you approached the exit quickly, and his long legs made it easy for him to catch up. You might have once appreciated them, but now they were just another thing to hate.
The parking lot was deserted, the only two cars belonging to you and him. You kept your gaze locked on your vehicle, digging through your pocket for the keys.
“Come on, sweetheart.”
You had just reached his car when you spun, finger pointed at him accusingly. “Don’t call me that.”
Conrad’s eyes pleaded with you. “You’re being unfair.”
“I’m being unfair?”
“Yes, you are!” He took another step toward you, but you weren’t backing down. “You won’t give me anything. Not a hello, or a goodbye — I can’t even have a fucking conversation without feeling like an ass by the end.”
You threw up a hand. “Maybe you should listen to your intuition. Seems pretty accurate to me.”
“What do you want from me? I’ve let you have your space, I’ve tried to talk to you, and you haven’t given me shit! For fuck’s sake, you couldn’t even answer a fucking phone call!”
It was your turn to approach him. “So that’s what this is about? Me not answering my phone? What are you, 16?”
You were inches apart now, and you could smell the mint on his breath, as if he had recently been chewing gum. You glared, but when your back met his car door, you didn’t move.
His voice was lower, but just as angry. “I called and I called and I called. And do you know what I did when you didn’t answer? I left you voicemails. Hundreds of them.” Conrad was in front of you now, a mass of muscle caging you.
Your hands found the fabric covering his chest, fingers curling around it. “I know exactly what you left me.”
The world became silent, save for heavy breathing and thundering hearts. You could feel his blood thrum, or maybe that was yours. There were no barriers between you, not when the wall of lies came crashing down. Your grip tightened, and you didn’t imagine when his eyes flicked down to your lips.
You licked them subconsciously, and he followed the action.
Five more seconds passed, his oxygen became yours, and his hand inched toward the handle of the door. One more second, and you were moving.
His lips tasted the same: sharp, warm, inviting.
He was completely identical and drastically different from who he was two years ago. You slotted against him perfectly, filled in all his gaps the same way he filled yours. Your hands were on his chest, his shoulders, his neck, carding through his hair like a lifeline drifted too far out. You were asking him to save you from himself, but the two of you were already gone.
You barely registered he was pushing you into the car until you were laying along the row of backseats. His weight was familiar, his tongue greeting you like an old friend. You gasped at his crudeness, at his lack of care for propriety and patience — no, he wanted to taste you quicker, to gorge himself on something he had lost so long ago.
“Conrad,” you whispered for no reason other than because you could.
“I know,” he murmured, and the words echoed into your jaw. You learned the flavor of his tongue, of his sweetness and his bitterness and his apologies as they burned all the way down.
Your hands shook as they unbuttoned his shirt, a few ripped stitches the collateral damage. You needed him closer, needed to touch him like you were freshly 18 and learning that clinking belt buckles and shifting fabric could be so much more intimate when it was his fingers at fault.
You closed your eyes and drowned in the past and present as they met right here, right now, in the backseat of a beaten car and in the care of the boy who taught you to love for the first time. You wanted to want him gone, you really did, but he made it too damn hard.
You didn’t even notice you were being turned around until your knees dug into the unforgiving leather and his palms were gliding over your throat, your tits, the slope of your waist and down to the place between your thighs and the wetness that waited for him there.
Clothes littered the floor, the windows were fogged from your breath, street lamps shined moonlight onto your bodies for all you could tell. You never imagined yourself returning to the juvenile years of car sex in the middle of the night, but Conrad was an exception you’d always make.
You clenched your jaw, let your teeth grind and waited for the dryness, the broken glass that composed your heart to cut you up and then turn into the shifting sands under your feet. But when his lips pressed to your pulse, when you twisted to meet his eye, you only tasted sea glass, all smooth edges and soft beauty.
That was his magic.
(Hey, it’s me. My manager just called and some stuff came up. I won’t be home tonight. I know I said we’d talk, but I gotta push it back. It’s my fault, I should have planned it all better. I’ll be out for a couple of days, and I don’t know how much time I’ll have to call. Just wait for me, baby. We’ll talk soon. I know I keep saying that, but I’m serious this time. Fuck, I gotta go. I’ll see you in a few days. Love you.)
—
v.
“You’re full of shit, by the way.”
Belly’s accusation floated through one ear and out the other. You had no reason to dwell on the truth any longer — you were absolutely, completely, entirely full of shit. No use pondering facts.
“Just let it go, Bel.” Your voice was warmed by hours in the sun, slow like molasses and melting lies past your lips. “Everything is as it should be.”
You knew she was scrutinizing you in the neighboring lounge chair, but you didn’t bother opening your eyes to meet her gaze. You were content with your perch on the pool's edge, the faint sound of music coming from the speaker across the yard.
It was always playing something new, and today was hits from the ‘70s. ABBA drifted to your ears, and you succumbed to the ease the songs of the past brought. In addition to that, you were promptly ignoring the sounds of laughter, their source the group of boys at the dock. You could hear Conrad’s above the rest, and you pretended it was just a memory.
“You can’t lie forever. I’ll get the truth out of you one day.”
You sighed, lifting your sunglasses and turning your head. You met her eye. “Trust me, when something relevant happens, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Liar!” She jumped up from the chaise, and you begrudgingly followed her into the house. If she was going to make a scene, you wanted as many walls as possible between her and the boys.
You slid the door shut behind you, then propped yourself on the kitchen counter in preparation. One brow raised, and you waited for her to begin.
Belly was the one pacing this time, shooting you looks of betrayal every so often, but the only emotion you could hold was amusement. You secretly loved when she got like this, spirited and excited, just as she was when she was younger.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” she said, “to tell me the truth.” She raised one finger, showing it to you with as much importance as the digit could hold. “One more chance.”
You rolled your eyes, but the grin was inescapable. “There’s no more truth to tell. After you left, nothing happened.”
“Then why did you come back so late? You took over an hour to get home, when it should have taken you, like, five minutes. Conrad also came home late.”
“I got hungry, sue me.”
“And Conrad?”
“Coincidence. He was probably hungry too.” You knew he was — could still remember the reminiscing smile on his face when you pulled up to the 24-hour burger place last night.
Belly shook her head. “You haven’t acknowledged him all day. You walk out of every room he walks into, you refused to look at him when he’s nearby,” she was ticking off evidence with her fingers, “and you practically had a heart attack when he asked you to hand him a towel earlier. Is that coincidence too?”
“....Yes?”
“Bullshit!” She stopped in front of you, looking at you deeply, as if this was a matter of much urgency. Perhaps it was for her. “You’re avoiding him. I want to know why.”
You tilted your head, smiling and mustering as much faux-oblivion as you could manage. “I’m not avoiding him. I just don’t want to spend time with him. I want to spend time with you.”
“Oh, shut up.” She pressed her lips together, considering. Then, she pulled a familiar bracelet from the back pocket of her cut-offs, and your stomach twisted. “So, I suppose this bracelet — the one I found on the floor of Conrad’s car — doesn’t belong to you?”
You considered your options. Lying was always a viable one, but she really did have you here. Your name was engraved in the damned thing. Groaning, you snatched the inculpatory chain from her hand, sliding it onto your wrist. “Don’t say anything. It’s not like that.”
“Not like…what?” She leaned closer. “Like you didn’t fuck him—”
“Belly!”
“What? I’m stating the truth.”
Goddamn her. You rubbed your face, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. There was no way out of this now. “Look, stuff happened last night. One-time stuff. It didn’t mean anything.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You threw your hands up, exasperated. “It’s the truth. For real, this time.”
She shook her head, and you gave up. “It’s more than that. I know it is.” She narrowed her eyes. “What happened to you guys?”
You shrugged, then pushed out a deprecating smile. “I wish I could tell you.”
“Why are you avoiding him?”
“I’m not avoiding him.”
“You’re definitely avoiding him. Even he said it, in that sad tone of his while he looked at you like a lost puppy.” She mimicked said look, eyes going wide and bottom lip coming out to pout.
“You’re ridiculous. He doesn’t look at me like that.” Maybe once upon a time.
Belly propped herself up on the counter beside you, her voice nearing sympathy. “He so does.”
And for a minute, you wanted to believe it.
(Sweetheart, I’m trying here. I’m really fucking trying. I know you’re mad but please come home. Baby, please. You can scream at me and fight with me and hate me all you want, but I just need you home. You’re giving me nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t know what you want. You know I love you. Just pick up the damn phone, will you?)
—
vi.
The sounds of music and drunken laughter filled the air, and beneath it all, the crackling of the fire and the sighs of wistfulness. Those were the symptoms of summer that you had grown well-acquainted with over the years you had spent in Cousins. Despite the freedom and the parties and the hours spent under the sun, the season was a fleeting one, and like so many others, you found yourself missing it before it was even over.
Your feet kicked through the sand without much caution. You knew the dangers of broken glass and hidden animals, but they weren’t of concern to you tonight. No, your mind was miles away — much farther from the bonfire than your legs managed to take you.
It was better this way, you thought. Under the cover of night, the sand was a cool reprieve from the inferno that was your mind. The moonlight was soft on your skin, guiding rather than blinding. Noise was only something that existed far away from your bubble of solitude. It was peaceful.
However, all the benefits in the world could not detract from the instinct to join his own silence. Upon finding Conrad sitting a few feet from the shore, the only light coming from the end of his joint, you half-willingly joined him. Your body was the culprit, seeking out familiarity, regardless of who it existed in.
“Fancy meeting you here,” you greeted. The small smile he sent you made your heart twist. It was a little happy and a little sad and every bit the boy you had known better than yourself.
“Hiding from the masses?” he asked.
“You won’t tell, will you?”
He patted the sand next to him, indicating for you to sit down. “Only if you don’t.”
You followed his direction, finding a distinct heat in his body next to yours. “How are you feeling?” you asked, because worrying for Conrad was muscle memory at this point. Summers, this place, all of it was hard for him. For everyone. Ghosts lingered around every corner, but you knew they haunted him the most.
He hummed. “Good, I suppose. Being here feels like home, but that only makes her absence that much louder. But it gets easier every year.”
You had intended to keep your distance from him, to limit your contact, lest you have a repeat of what happened only a few nights ago. But you were weak then, and you were just as weak now. You leaned your head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wish it were different.”
He made another sound of acknowledgment, the vibration running through you as well. He took a hit from his joint, then held it to your own lips.
You accepted the offer, inhaling the smoke, holding it for a moment, then exhaling. “Where are we?”
It was a game you had created for the two of you years ago. When time felt both too fast and too stagnant, you created your own junction. A different place to dwell, to exist, to share between two people who only had each other at the end of the day.
“We’re in Paris,” Conrad started softly. “We’re sitting on my overpriced balcony, smoking cigarettes that are definitely ruining our lungs, and watching as a million different people live a million different lives.”
“How long have we been here?” You took another drag, your muscles loosening.
“A few weeks. We came for a show, but after one night we fell in love with the city and all its ridiculousness. I took you to the Louvre, and we stared at the paintings and pretended they meant something to us. We found significance in the most human action.”
“And what would that be?”
“Art.”
You closed your eyes, listening to the timbre of his voice meld with the lapping of small waves on the shore. “Did I tell you that you belonged on those walls? That I wish I could paint you and canonize you forever that way?”
His fingers — so timidly — brushed yours. “You did. And then I told you that even the most brilliant painter could never capture your essence.”
“You sap.”
He was close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “It’s the truth. My only truth.”
You let yourselves sit in silence, soaking up the mundanity of the moment — the earthy smell from the paper between his fingers, the gentle wind that tickled your cheek, the arm he wrapped around you at the first sign of chill.
Maybe you weren’t in Paris, but you definitely weren’t in reality either. Because in reality, his touch would burn you, and his words would be cold, and you would be running away from Conrad instead of burrowing deeper into his side.
Finally, with the joint burned out and the distant sirens telling you that time was almost up, you gained some needed courage. “Did you ever write a song about me?” you asked.
You felt his eyes shift to you, but you kept your gaze on the horizon. Some amount of tension returned, but neither of you moved to leave. Those unspoken words were nearly tangible in the space between you.
“Are you really asking that?” He almost sounded affronted.
You nodded, anxiety lining your fingertips (only soothed when his touch crossed them once more). “You don’t have to answer if—”
He laughed, a soft, deprecating sound. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”
This time, you pulled away. Your stomach churned, and you were certain you had arrived back in the present. Unsteadily, you rose, your legs weak under you. “Let’s not do this.”
Conrad remained seated, ignoring your words. His gaze cast out toward the ocean. “It’s hard to believe you would ask that. I would think after everything—”
“Conrad…” you warned. Your heart was in your throat, and you were struggling to swallow the damned organ down.
“After everything, after we loved and we fought and you left, that that question wouldn’t even be a question at all.”
Hurt passed over your face. His voice was empty, and it only made you ache. You didn’t need to hear any more of this. You took a step, but his hand closed around your calf, keeping you in place. Now, he looked up and met your eye.
You swallowed glass. You didn’t move, even after his grip loosened.
And, like it was the most obvious fact in the world, he said, “They were all about you.”
(It’s Conrad. Again. I want to talk. I know things have been rough, and I take responsibility. It was my fault. I said shit I shouldn’t have said. I did shit I shouldn’t have done. I didn’t treat you right. But give me another chance, baby. Please. Just one more chance and I’ll fix it all. Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Because if so, this is it. I’m begging you to come home. I’m begging you to talk to me. I’m begging you to give me a chance. Please. I love you.)
—
vii.
You had a lot of regrets in life. A multitude of them. Ones where you stayed, ones where you left, ones where you remained silent, ones where you spoke words you didn’t mean. But the one that chipped at you the worst right now was the fact that you walked away that night.
You knew what he meant, knew there was no malice in his words. But the memories of what had once existed between you two, of what you thought would be forever, were too much. You regretted walking away, and you regretted that he didn’t hold on just a little bit longer.
And perhaps your response to those emotions was not the best, hardly justifiable, but sensibility was not your friend tonight. You wanted to stay away, but you couldn’t — so you opted for the next best thing.
There was a stranger’s hand pressed against the small of your back as he pulled you closer. His lips tasted like cheap beer and cigarette smoke, and the scratch of his facial hair on your cheek was far from enjoyable. But regardless, this spectacle was not for your sake.
No, it was for Conrad’s.
His eyes were lasered into the back of your head, your back, the legs that were currently straddling someone that wasn’t him. You knew it would make him mad, make him hate just a little bit more, but maybe that was just what you needed.
You couldn’t avoid him. Not like you planned, not like what was necessary. So, you needed him to do it, to break your heart one more time, to destroy that hole he left beyond repair, to perhaps make room for someone else. It — him breaking you, that is — was bound to happen, anyway. It was an inevitability; you loved Conrad so much that it would always become too much.
Or that was your fear, at least. You weren’t willing to test any other possibilities.
So, yeah, you were making out with a guy you didn’t know — you might even let him take you home, if he made it worth your while. You needed Conrad to recreate those barriers for you, because you knew damn well you’d break down every one of them if it meant having him for just a second.
And, judging by the heated whispers you couldn’t help but overhear and the glare he sent your way when you stood up, you would call your mission a success.
You wanted to want him gone, but you couldn’t. You would rely on him to feel that way instead.
But ultimately, you were wrong. Ultimately, Conrad found you hours later in the Fisher’s beach house while you were just trying to get back to your room.
“I need to talk to you,” he said roughly, fingers curling around your wrist.
You were exhausted, having spent the last twenty minutes scrubbing every inch of your skin and trying to eradicate the taste of smoke on your tongue. You had a lot of regrets in life, and hooking up with someone you didn’t know was one of them.
Still, you looked up at him. His skin was hot, and his eyes were blazing. “Yes, Conrad?” you prompted.
“What were you doing tonight?”
“Surely that’s not something I need to explain to you.” You kept your tone level, shaking his hand off of your arm.
He ceded the grasp easily enough, but he was not done with you. “I’m serious.” His voice was tight, angry. “What the fuck were you doing with him?”
“Having fun,” you supplied, albeit dismissively. You prayed the racing of your heart would not give you away. “It’s summer.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You didn’t even know him.”
You raised a brow. “And you know all my friends?”
He narrowed his eyes. “He could’ve been a creep. Something could’ve happened. And what was it for? To make me jealous?”
You scoffed, continuing your path to your bedroom. He trailed after you. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he wasn’t a creep. He was very nice. This wasn’t about you.”
(Yes, it was.)
“Bullshit!” His hands were in the air, his body thrumming. This was something that had been building, something that could only come out like this — erratically. “You make no sense, do you know that?”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“You! You stare at me all night, make it seem like you might actually miss me, then you fight with me. You fight with me, and then you turn around and fuck me. And then what do you do? You go right back to pretending I don’t exist.”
“Not everything is about you, Conrad!” you yelled. You didn’t remember getting mad, but your skin was prickling with the anger now, a fire consuming you and your mind. “Not everything I do is based on you.”
“It is when it only ever affects me! You ignore me and then you talk to me like you did when you loved me and then you go hook up with someone else! How is that not about me?”
You were going to throw something. Very soon. You crossed the threshold of your room, but let the door remain open between you. You were uncaring of the rest of the (sleeping) household members. “God, you’re such an asshole. I’m sorry your feelings are hurt, but I can’t fix that. I can’t fix you or your feelings or any of this.”
“Yes,” he said, very carefully, very fervently, “ you could. You’re the one who gave up first — you left and you ignored all my calls and you wouldn’t even give me a fucking chance to make things right.”
Tears burned the back of your throat. “Are you serious right now? I gave up first? Because from what I remember, you were the one who barely came home, who I probably shared a bed with once a week, who chose your career over everyone who ever loved you. And what did that get you? Are you happy now?”
Guilt was buried deep in his irises, but his voice didn’t betray him. “What did you want me to do?” He didn’t cross into your room, but you knew that boundary bothered him. He would respect it, but he needed more than this separation. “My mom was dead, my dad was gone, I had nothing. I had no one—”
“You had me!” Your finger was shaking, but you pointed it at him all the same. “You had me, and Belly, and Steven, and Jeremiah, who you left alone, for fuck’s sake. You had everything you could ask for, but you still chose the money. All of this, and you preferred coke with the band and throwing your life away for a few golden years.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Then what was it, Conrad? Was I really so terrible? Did I really abandon you for no reason at all?” When he didn’t answer, you kept going. “You were a sinking ship, and I wasn’t going to let you pull me down too.”
His breathing came in shudders, a million emotions battling over his features and no single one winning. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.”
You were in silence once more, drastically different from how it was spent last night, on a cool beach with a dying joint. You realized you hadn’t needed to fool around with other people, to make him mad enough to avoid you himself. No, all you needed was to spill your truths and see that the past was just as bloody as you remembered.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the door. “I regret it,” you finally said. “I regret everything with you. Every fucking second. You were not the man I thought you were. Two years wasn’t long enough.”
If he was going to respond, he didn’t have the chance. You slammed the door hard enough for the wall to shake, then locked it for good measure.
The tears resurfaced, the dishonesty of your words choking you, and you crawled into bed unsteadily. You hated him. Hated him so much it hurt. Hated him even more for the fact that you still didn’t hate him enough.
(I fucked up. I fucked all of it up and I’m sorry. For everything. There it is. I’m sorry and I miss you and I need you and I’m so, so lost without you. I hate myself for making you leave, more than I’ve hated anyone before. Please just give me a call back. A text, even. Give me some type of sign. Tell me this is something we can fix. I’ll fix it all, just give me the chance. I’ll do anything. I do it all for you anyway. Give me a call. I love you.)
—
viii.
“Teach me something.”
Conrad raised an eyebrow at you, eyes squinting against the sun to see you properly. “What?” he asked.
“Teach me something,” you repeated.
He took only a few seconds to pack away his surprise, and then he was handing you his guitar, helping you find your grip. He smiled as you fumbled with the body. A few stray strands of hair fell across his forehead, and you had to fight the urge to brush them to the side.
Once your hands were in place, fingers splayed across the frets in what felt like an arbitrary manner but you knew had meaning, he began instructing you. “Strum.”
You hesitated. “Don’t laugh if it’s bad,” you warned, semi-serious. “This is my first time.”
“You’re going to do great,” he said with more sincerity than the moment warranted. He was golden like this, taken in hues of yellow and orange and pink as the sun set. It was as if the light was crafted just for him — to pick up the slightest bits of blond in his hair, the flecks in his eyes, the tan of his skin. He was sunlight incarnate, and like called to like.
You did as he said, your other hand coming down to strum the strings. It sounded…less than ideal, nowhere near the natural sound Conrad never failed to elicit, but it was not terrible. It was something.
He laughed when you winced, and you nudged him with your foot. “Great,” he said. “You’ll have a career of your own in no time.”
You giggled, the sound young and carefree. The two of you were at the start of something new, the edge of the world you had known and ready to step into the next. He had moved up from a couple of lowkey venues — those coffee shop performances were turning into packed houses, his Spotify listeners growing by the hour, and he had even been recognized twice while in public. Things were changing, but you were ready for it. “I’ll be your opening act,” you promised.
Conrad plucked the guitar from your hands, placing the acoustic down quickly before falling to lay on his back. He dragged you with him, and you made a sound of surprise as you ended up straddling him. “You know,” he started, “the park is looking pretty deserted…”
You slapped his arm, face flushing when he pinched your upper thigh. “It’s still light out.”
“Come on, sweetheart. Who’s going to see us? You got a skirt on and everything.” He gestured to the empty fields surrounding you. There truly was no one in sight.
Sighing, you leaned down, fingers curling into his hair as you kissed him. It was the heavy, unending kind of kiss. The one that could go on for hours and hours, and it would still only feel like a few seconds.
His hands gave up on teasing you, deigning to just pull you closer instead, dancing over the arch of your spine as you bent to meet him. His tongue had just barely grazed the seam of your lips when you pulled back, a smile on your face. You felt like you were glowing.
Still just a few inches away, you murmured, “Not right now, you perv. You’re going to have to wait.”
He groaned dramatically. “You’re a cruel woman.”
“I know.” You pulled his arms until he sat up with you. “I have priorities.” And you grabbed the guitar once more.
“I can’t give away all my secrets,” he argued, but adjusted the instrument in your lap, then fixed your hand along the neck, setting you up for a different chord. “Next thing I know, you’ll be outselling me.”
You hummed. “I’ll bring you backstage one night.”
“I’ll just become a groupie. That way you’ll never get rid of me.”
You grinned, strumming another chord with just as much (or, more accurately, as little) success. You pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “I love you too much for that.”
Your only warning was the smile playing across his mouth, and Conrad was once again tossing the instrument to the side, flipping you so you were on your back, pinned under his body. “I love you more,” he whispered as he began to decorate your throat in love bites. He said it between movements, as if it were something he needed to show you.
You resigned yourself to him, letting your laughter and your fingers and your kisses do all the talking. Conrad Fisher was the sun, and you were lucky enough to be in his orbit. You would never want to get rid of him.
Not when he made you feel like something just as golden.
(Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. The number you are trying to reach is not available. The mailbox is full and cannot accept any messages at this time. Goodbye.)
—
ix.
With every day that passed, you were getting an increasing sense of déjà vu. You had lived this life before — the one where you were young and happy and living under the sun for two months straight. The one where you saw him every day, and in the dreams in between.
Conrad was a fixed point in your life, everything began and ended with him. He was inescapable, even when you needed him gone the most.
That being said, despite falling asleep with more anger than you’d ever felt, you’d woken up with a lighter chest. Some of your words might have been founded in falsehood, but they were a device that aired out all the feelings you had kept buried for so long.
Conrad, too, seemed less inclined to argue the next day. And those tensions continued to cool down from a rapid boil to a gentle simmer. Granted, you didn’t speak to him for a week, but at least you didn’t want to throw something at him every time you saw him.
And you managed to spend that week in peace. If Belly noticed the shift, she didn’t say anything, and you were able to accept that. The two of you functioned around each other; you knew his schedule like he knew yours. You navigated the world according to him, all in the name of avoidance.
It was that ceasefire that you operated under now. Conrad was in the living room, idly strumming on his guitar, and you made yourself useful in the kitchen. The house was empty of everyone else, and you couldn’t help but notice the parallel from the beginning of summer.
You had taken to cooking for him recently. It was a silent form of apology, an olive branch to extend. While you would never directly hand him the food, it was always left for him when you knew he’d be around.
You took the clean plates that appeared on the drying rack as a good sign.
Today’s meal was bruschetta. You had made it a few times with him, and it was something he once enjoyed enough to take a break from work to share with you. The tomatoes had already been blanched, peeled, and cut, currently sitting in a bowl with the garlic, basil, and the rest of your seasonings. The bread came next.
Pathetic as it seemed, you had gotten up extra early to pick up a loaf of bread from the farmers’ market. It was for your own sake as well, you told yourself. Regardless, the bread was soft with a nice crust, and there was no point in debating the good things in life.
While the oven warmed up, you were cutting slices from the loaf, slanted in the way he always appreciated. You should have been more concerned with how much Conrad factored into your decisions, but it had already been made clear that he knew.
He began to play a familiar tune on the guitar. From rooms away, you were smiling. You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the first time he played it for you, and let your hands guide themselves as they sliced the bread.
You had been sitting in his bedroom. His skin was starting to return to its normal shade, less pallid, more alive. His eyes held bags but they were lighter, as if he finally found reprieve for whatever battle raged in his mind.
He sat you on his bed and his touch lingered for moments after. He played a song, one that was new and soft and took you away to a different plane. His voice rasped as he quietly hummed the lyrics, but you were more focused on the notes his fingers evoked, as if each one was carefully plucked and placed to create a sound so perfect.
He asked you if you liked it. I love it, you said.
He kissed you gently after. Your touch might have brought him back to life.
He said he would marry you one—
“Shit!” You dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the ground as you covered your thumb with your other hand. “Shit, shit, shit—”
Pain shot through you, starting at your finger and lasting all the way to your toes. It eradicated anything else from your mind. There was blood on the counter. Blood on the cutting board. Blood on the floor. Blood dripping down your forearm. All your hard work—
“Hey. Hey, let me see.” Conrad was in front of you, worry lines digging into his forehead, his hands cradling your own. “You’re alright, just let me see it.”
You registered the wet tears on your face, but they were faint compared to the searing heat in your thumb. Your bread was ruined, everything was ruined. You couldn’t tell what you were crying about anymore. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to step back and only narrowly missing the sharp blade on the floor.
Conrad put a hand on your back, guiding you in the opposite direction. He helped you onto the counter beside the sink as best he could, mindful of your wound. “Just let me see,” he repeated.
Slowly, you let him pull the shielding hand away, giving him access to the cut on your thumb. There was so much blood. Had you ever bled this much? “It hurts,” you whispered, so quiet you thought he wouldn’t hear.
“I know,” he said just as low. “But it’s not deep enough for stitches. We’re okay.”
You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against his shoulder, trying not to see the crimson staining his white shirt. “I’m sorry.”
Conrad pulled a first aid kit you didn’t know existed from the drawer beside you. With one hand, he turned on the sink. “I’m going to rinse your finger off, okay?”
He didn’t wait for you to respond. The water added some sting, but it was soothed by the hand running up and down your spine. You didn’t know what had come over you — why this injury felt so much worse. You supposed there were exacerbating circumstances.
“Alright?” he asked, and you soaked in the vibrations.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
You looked up at him then. His eyes were deep, currents of emotion moving through them. You felt yourself get caught in a rip tide. “I’m fine, Conrad. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “No apologizing. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay,” he repeated. “I’ll clean this up for you.”
You settled your head back against his shoulder, only managing one glance at the cut. It wrapped around half your thumb, deeper than any regular kitchen slice, but you found consolation in the fact that stitches weren’t needed.
Your truce had been building to this moment: the one where he had the chance to fix you, to make things right, as he said. You were tired of the push and pull, and the hating and loving, and the silence and passion. You craved this stability; the quietude, the balance that had always existed between you and him.
It was easier that way. To stop thinking, to have someone else take care of you.
You hardly even noticed the burn of alcohol as it splashed across your skin, too lost in the steady beat under his skin and the gentleness in which he held you. He disinfected and wrapped the injury, all the while reminding you that you were fine. We’re okay.
But when he pulled away, your free hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, keeping him close.
He paused. “I’m going to clean up the blood. I can run out and grab another loaf of bread—”
“I’ll take care of it, you’ve done enough.”
“But—”
“Just forget about it,” you cut him off. “Forget it all.”
He gave you a sad smile, catching the double meaning in your words. He reestablished his proximity, this time standing between your legs, the counter placing him closer to your height. His eyes roved over your face, searching for something you didn’t know, and stopping when he must have found it.
There were so many nuances, so much history, but you were content here, with him close enough to share body heat, and for his smile to be a balm for the worst of vexes. His thumb brushed an errant tear from the corner of your eye, and you covered his hand with your uninjured one, keeping him there.
You pressed a kiss to his palm, and you swallowed the seconds as they ticked by, preferring to keep them all inside rather than let this moment end too soon.
He held the side of your head with more care than you thought possible. Then, scared and hesitant, he asked, “What happened to us?”
You wished you had the answer, some quantifiable reason that could explain it. Somewhere between the time and the fear and the love, you knew you’d find something close. But instead of digging around and unearthing potentials and possibilities, you settled for, “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I really, really fucking hate it.”
And, judging by the quiet laugh paired with lips that pressed to your forehead, you knew Conrad agreed.
—
x.
You don’t know what, exactly, drew you to leave the comfort of your bed. Perhaps it was those sleepless tendencies, or perhaps it was an innate calling that needed to be answered, but here you were, the moonlight silver and soothing on your face.
Conrad appeared to have a similar idea. You wished you could say you were surprised, but you thought this summer had made that emotion unfathomable. Nothing could shock you anymore.
Although late-night swims were always Belly’s thing, he seemed to have picked up the habit. You watched him make slow, but steady laps. At one point, he must have noticed your presence, but he didn’t stop right away.
It was only after you had sat at the pool’s edge, legs dipped into the water below, that he paused. He was at the corner opposite you, and you smiled hesitantly when he caught your eye.
This fear was foreign. You couldn’t recall the last time you had been so nervous around a boy, nonetheless Conrad. He had seen you at your best, just as he had seen you at your worst. And he accepted you every time. What was there to be scared of?
“Hey,” you said, the word coming out quieter than you intended. But it was enough for him.
He swam over, and your anxiety prevailed in your wringing fingers. You didn’t know who he would be today: friend or enemy or lover. When he was treading in front of you, he whispered back, “Hey.”
You took in his wet hair, the strands barely slicked back from the hand he ran through it. His broad shoulders, the shining droplets of water caught in the divots. His lips, welcoming in the exact way you remembered. Something designed just for you.
“It’s a bit late for a swim,” you observed, finger curling around a lock of his hair. You dropped it, but did not move away.
Conrad smiled at you, the tilt a little crooked and a lot more endearing. “Got restless.”
“You should’ve woken me up, I would’ve joined you.”
“That’s alright.” He placed himself between your legs once more, forearms resting on both thighs, holding his lighter weight there. “You needed the rest.”
You laughed. “You calling me ugly, Fisher?”
“Nah,” he said, something secret hiding in his eyes, something that baited you, “never that. You’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, you know that.”
You flushed at his sincerity. You opened your mouth to quip something back, but words were no longer a possibility. Not when he was looking at you like that. You shook yourself out of the reverie. “Why are you really out here?”
His temple fell to his arm, looking at you sideways. Your fingers resumed their ministrations, coming through the strands of hair. “Couldn’t sleep,” he supplied, not that it was any more telling.
“And why’s that? You gotta give me something here.”
“Too many thoughts. Memories.”
You hummed. You knew what he meant, like a galaxy lived in your mind, and contained in each star was a memory. The cosmos resided within a prison, a skull bursting with light and life. “Good ones?”
“Some. Most of them. But those’ll just make you miss it all more, won’t they?”
Your heart ached for him, and you hoped your touch could convey your sympathy where words failed you. “I’m sorry.”
“You keep apologizing to me. You have nothing to be sorry for. You were right. About everything. I should be the sorry one.”
“And are you?” You didn’t know what answer you were looking for.
“About some things, yes. The way I treated you, the way I hurt you. There are things I wish I could take back, more than anything else.”
“But?” Your hand paused.
“But knowing you? Having you? Loving you? Being loved by you? Those are things I will never regret. I could never be sorry for those years, because they were the best of my life.”
Your throat burned, and you willed the tears down. This was not the time for that. Not when he was so unguarded, when he was gifting you his truths so willingly. “I lied,” you said. “What I said before—”
“You don’t have to do that.” The vulnerability, the understanding, on his face tore into you, but you needed him to know.
“No. I’m not just doing that.” Your hands moved to hold his jaw, to keep him in front of you, to prove to him that this was your truth. “I don’t regret anything with you. I don’t regret you. I was hurting and embarrassed and missing you and I said shit I never should have. I have been fighting this whole summer to feel that way, to want you gone, as proof that I really was over you.”
His lips were pressed together, gauging you. But you trusted him implicitly, trusted the way he could read you. He would know if you were lying, and you weren’t.
You went on, “But all the past month has proved is that I wasn’t. I was mad at you, sure. But I was to blame, too. We both were. I think what happened needed to happen, that we needed to grow on our own for a bit. But I still loved you. I still love you — I don’t think I could stop if I tried. That’s not something I could regret.” He was the sun, imperfect and with the potential to hurt, but necessary to sustain life. Time had passed, you were no longer stranded at high noon, burning alongside him — no, now he was on his way to setting, to settling. And that was something you could handle.
“I love you,” he said, three words heavy and honest. His lips pressed to the inside of your knee, and he maintained eye contact. “I loved you then.” He moved up a handful of inches, to the middle of your thigh. “I love you now.” He reached a place closer to your hip, and a shudder ran through you, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll love you forever, I think.”
“Please,” was all you could manage, a desperate plea that built at the bottom of your throat.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” His thumb and index finger played with the hem of your thin cotton shorts. “Use your words.”
His lips continued to decorate the inside of your thigh, and you began trembling without noticing. You wanted to fall into the water with him, to drown with him, in him, for however long he’d have you.
“You,” you managed. “Something. Anything.”
His teeth glinted in the moonlight as he grinned, and you hardly registered getting to your feet, too focused on Conrad pushing himself up and out of the pool, a quick and practiced motion. “Alright, then.” His hands were on you, roving over your body, and neither of you bothered to dry off as he backed you into the house. “Let me make you feel good, hmm?”
The air conditioning brought a chill to your skin, and it clashed with the searing heat that came with his hands on your hips, felt even through the fabric of your shirt. Half your attention was spent on not slipping on the tile, while the other, more devout half was on him.
Conrad captured your lips quickly, exploring them as if he hadn’t once been so well acquainted. He found the corners, the seam, the top of your cupid’s bow and the fullest part of your bottom lip. He was rememorizing you, learning your ins and outs and venturing to take a taste, bathing you in something divine and erotic and lovely and sinful.
Your back met the edge of the countertop, goosebumps rising at the cold sensation. That’s what you were drowning in: sensations. The air and the marble and the water and his voice and his mouth and his fingers that were dipping dangerously close to the place you needed him the most.
“Conrad,” you said, the name rolling off of your tongue in a manner so familiar. You played with the hair at the nape of his neck, relishing the moment his attention traveled to your neck.
He chuckled, something that warmed you down to your center. “Is this alright?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Yes,” you said too quickly. “Yes. Yes, you’re perfect.”
He laughed again, the reverberations shooting through you, and you made a small, desperate sound when his hand slipped under the waistband of your shorts, immediately coming into contact with the evidence that betrayed everything you were feeling.
Instinctively, your legs closed, and he tutted. “Darling,” he murmured into the junction of your throat and jaw, “is all that for me? That easy?”
You had half a mind to nod, hating the way he rendered you quite so breathless. “Don’t tease, Fisher.”
A digit circled your entrance as he hummed, and your nails dug into his shoulders, the only thing keeping you standing. His finger went in to the second knuckle, and you hated the way you clenched around just that presence. It drew a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, and he sucked just a little bit harder on the delicate skin of your throat, the smarting sensation giving in to the pleasure of it all.
But the moment ended too soon, and he opted to gather the slick instead, spreading it. It was when he began circling your clit, hardly any pressure, that you truly lost any sense that was left. Lightning shot through your body, all sourced from his ministrations and the way that your nerves bowed to him so easily. Your moans were soft, hiding things, and Conrad was intent on uncovering every one of them, uncaring of the sleeping household members just upstairs.
You knew it had an effect on him. For fuck’s sake, his hard-on was digging into your thigh and you caught him grinding against you every so often. And honestly, you would let him take you right now — you were certainly ready enough. But you knew this — toying with you, bringing you a paced pleasure — was something he enjoyed, and you weren’t in any state to argue.
So, when two fingers slid into you, his thumb rubbing through your folds just to land back on your clit, you were the picture of agreement. The bundle of nerves he was slowly circling, the spongy spot that he hit when those digits curled, the hand that slipped under your top to knead at your breast — those were the things that prompted your acquiescence.
The sheer amount of stimulation made all other thoughts in your mind dissipate. Of course you knew Conrad was good — you’d experienced him enough — but it always surprised you. Even after all this time, even after the quick round in the back of his car, being with Conrad was never a disappointment.
Your head fell back, and although you registered him murmuring things to you, praises and adoration and the few occasional words of condescension — domination — none of it could be properly discerned. Not now, at least. Your arms wrapped themselves around him, your back probably bruising from the way you were pushed against the countertop, and your hips rolled as you rode the waves of euphoria rushing through you.
His fingers increased their tempo, pumping in and out of you, curling just enough, while his thumb did the same. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, teeth making an appearance as you tried to muffle yourself.
“I’m gonna cum,” you said in one exhale, pulling him as close as you could, muscles twitching as he pinched your nipple lightly.
“I know you are, sweetheart.” He said it without any surprise at all, like he truly did know your body better than you did. “C’mon, I got you.”
The coil that had built so tightly in your stomach snapped, and you would have fallen were it not for his body pinning you against the kitchen island. One arm curled around your waist, while his other hand continued its movement, those two fingers and thumb enough to prolong your orgasm.
Flames licked at your body, your muscles spasmed, every inch of you felt exposed. The touches, subtle as they were, that moved over your arms and back made you twitch. You felt more alive than you had in months.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Conrad whispered when he finally stopped. He pulled his hand from your shorts, and you swallowed thickly as he popped those fingers in his mouth. Desire burned in his irises when he was done. “You taste like honey.” He leaned closer, a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You are exquisite.”
You could only look at him, still recovering from the aftershocks. Your eyes flitted down to the tent in his swim shorts, and you absently brushed your knuckles over his hip bone. He shivered, and you did it again.
“Don’t tease,” he echoed your words back to you.
Like someone else was in control of your body, you pulled your shirt off of you, happy you had slept without a bra. Conrad’s gaze dropped down to watch, pupils dilating until the brown of his irises was nothing but a thin circle. Your shorts came next, and then you were standing in just your panties, the thin fabric soaked long ago.
You pushed yourself to be seated on the counter, and Conrad naturally stepped to be between your legs. Watching him carefully, your eyes never once leaving his, you reached your hand under the waistband of his shorts, palming his cock.
A muffled groan came from behind his closed lips, derived from the deepest place between his ribs, presented like you ripped it from his chest yourself. He looked pained, his breathing labored, as you pulled out the length of him.
He was hot, heavy and leaking in your palm, and you pumped him a few times for good measure. His hands shook as they placed themselves on your spread thighs. His lips, however, were kind, intimate as they grazed over yours, nothing more.
“You’re killing me here,” he whispered, but he looked like he was more than ready to die by your touch.
“Sorry, pretty boy.” You smiled, though you knew he could only feel the tilt.
Then, he kissed you. In just a few seconds, he pieced your nervous system back together, and you were suddenly aching for more. “No more apologizing,” he said as he broke away.
You let out a breathy laugh, and fought the urge to do just that once more. Instead, you held his gaze as you pulled your panties to the side, then aligned his cock with your entrance. His hands moved to the top of your ass, and his mouth dove back to yours.
You swallowed his moan when he pushed in, barely an inch. You urged him forward, legs hooking around his waist. He continued, inch by inch, until he was fully seated within you. There was a moment of pause, in which you adjusted yourself to the size, the stretch of him. There was the initial smarting sensation, but you were soon accommodating him, needing him.
“Good?” he mumbled against your lips, hips twitching when you ground yours.
“Mhmm.” Your eyes had fluttered shut, savoring just how full you were.
You could feel his amusement, but you didn’t dwell on it long, for he had begun moving. They were slow strokes at first, ones that allowed you to feel every inch, that brought him as deep as he could. You felt his shape, his curve, and you could even imagine the thick vein that ran along the underside of him.
Impatiently, you squirmed. You were slightly overstimulated, but you still wanted more. Wanted him to be rougher, faster, harder. But you knew what this moment meant, why it was so important that every second was held just as reverently as the last.
His lips moved indolently against yours, even once he picked up the pace. It was dirty and vulgar; his tongue was in your mouth, sliding against your own, learning the caps of your teeth and soothing any old wounds from glass shards. You could have been embarrassed by the resulting noises, could have been terrified of being caught, but you weren’t. You felt like you were on a different plane, where you and him were the sole inhabitants.
Conrad was the only thing that existed in your sensory. His taste and his scent and his sounds and his image and his touch. His cock prodded at a place that made your stomach tighten, the talons of climax curling around your mind. Whatever change in body language you displayed spurred him on, despite the increase in volume. You supposed he stopped caring about that a long time ago.
You rolled in tandem with his thrusts, sparks traveling across your body. The base of his length would brush against your clit, and tears pricked in your eyes from the sensitivity. Still, when his grip tightened around your hips, giving him more control of your body, you only felt relief.
Your mind was still numbed from your first orgasm, and it was all but nonsensical now. He was harsher, bruising even, but you hardly felt the pain when he fit so perfectly.
He grunted and you swore and you were hanging off the edge of the world when he began to twitch inside of you. You leaned back just enough to get him deeper, to give him all the access he could ask for. You’d have no qualms being nothing but a doll for him to please, to fuck stupid.
“You feel like heaven,” he breathed, his mouth traveling to the shell of your ear. He was close. “I could do this for hours.”
You whimpered, and it sent him over.
Three particularly hard thrusts, and he was spilling inside of you. Your breasts, as sensitive as every other part of you, required just the briefest of touches, and your release shot through you.
His curses were echoing in your ear, alongside your name and his love and those little praises that made you feel like exactly what he said you were. Exquisite.
You fell back onto your elbows, white the only color you saw against your eyelids. You absently felt him pull out, and you twitched when a thumb ran over your swollen clit. The sensation was too much, and your pussy clenched around nothing at all.
You felt his seed drip out of you, could’ve cried when his fingers continued to toy with your overstimulated body. Your legs were weak, the only thing that could move them being the jerks that came with every circle over your clit. You didn’t stop him though, not when the last dregs of pleasure still existed underneath all that pain.
A few stray kisses covered your thighs. “How’re you feeling?”
“Good.” Your voice was raw.
“Good,” he said. His lips pressed chastely to your clit.
You flinched, holding back a whine.
When you opened your eyes, you saw Conrad searching for an old rag in the hallway closet. Once he found it, he returned to run it under the tap water. Slowly, you sat up, opening your legs as best you could, some amount of soreness already setting in.
His smile only revealed kindness, and he began drawing the rag over the inside of your thighs. Not teasing, but in earnest care. Some fascination swirled in his pupils when he caught sight of his cum leaking out of you, but he said nothing.
“What now?” you asked as he wiped himself off, then tucked back into his shorts. Your fingers danced over his shoulders, hoping to relieve some of the tension.
And despite the fact that the two of you were almost completely bare in the middle of the kitchen, muscles fatigued and hearts racing, Conrad planted his palms on either side of your hips, settling so he was just inches away. He was still open, still honest, and relief rushed through you. You were okay.
“Well,” he said, “I think Jeremiah might flip his shit if he finds out that we…” he gestured with his finger between you, “in his kitchen, so the first order of business would be—”
“Conrad,” you reprimanded. “That’s not what I meant. Where do we go from here?”
He sobered, his thumbs skimming the sides of your legs. He almost looked sad. “I have a few more shows during the fall. I don’t want to drag you back into that. You deserve better than the person I was — the one I could be again.”
Your chest constricted. “I see.”
“Hey,” he said when your gaze fell, already getting lost in the rush of new thoughts in your head. You looked up at him, and he continued, “This isn’t like last time. This isn’t a one-time thing. At least, I don’t want it to be.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You.” His voice was desperate, pleading. “I want you. But this is something I already signed up for. I can’t just cancel a whole season of shows for….”
“For me?”
He sighed. “Don’t say it like that. You know what I mean.”
You nodded. You were being unfair. “Yes. Yes, I know what you mean.” You rubbed your hands over your eyes, counting to ten, then facing him once more. “I’m sorry, it’s just…hard.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
This wouldn’t be like last time. You would make sure it wasn’t like last time. Both of you had grown, and your relationship did not have to become some cyclical heartbreak. “What about after? After the fall? What comes then?”
Light returned to his eyes, and he relaxed. “I’ll be done for a couple of months. Working, I guess. Probably recording. But no shows.”
Compromise. You would compromise. “So, we wait. We can wait a little longer, I think.”
Conrad nodded, his grin returned. You felt your own lips tug up in response. “Yeah,” he agreed. “A little longer.”
Hope bloomed somewhere deep in your stomach, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that fell out of you. This really was not the time or place for this conversation, but the two of you were anything but conventional. Your mouth chased his one last time, searching for something warm and familiar and promising.
He returned the gesture, but pulled back early. “One more thing?”
“Yeah?”
“Promise you’ll answer the phone when I call?”
You kissed him again. “I promise.”
—
xi.
If you were being honest, you had never been this nervous in your life.
Your bag was a heavy weight in your hands, and the December wind was sharp as it cut through you. Nonetheless, there you were, standing outside a hotel in Boston, fist raised and prepared to knock on the door in front of you.
You knew you had the right room, had read it a million and one times from the text he sent you. This was it — he was right behind that door.
However, trepidation lingered. What if he felt different? What if things had changed since summer? What if he met someone new? Someone better?
Thankfully, the questions lost their opportunity to plague you any longer, for the door to Room 216 swung up before your knuckles even had a chance to rap against it.
You were greeted with a painfully familiar face.
A smile hung on Conrad’s lips, and he leaned against the doorframe as you stayed frozen. “Are you just going to stand there, or….”
You shook yourself out of your trance, the chill resurfacing on your goosebump-ridden skin. You stumbled into the room quickly, letting him lift your weekend bag from your hands and place it next to his. “Hey,” you finally said.
Conrad’s teeth glinted, his amusement evident. “Hey yourself.”
The room felt about forty degrees warmer, and you shakily fumbled with the zipper to your jacket. After two consecutive failures at pulling the damned thing down, he stepped in. One hand landed on your shoulder, grounding you in place, while the other pulled down your zipper with ease. He removed it from your arms next, folding it and placing it on the dresser, before turning back to you.
“Relax,” Conrad said, and you listened.
You took three deep breaths and reminded yourself why you were here. He invited you. He wanted you here. You smiled. “I missed you.”
His grin was bright, and his arms welcoming as they opened. You fell into them naturally. His chest rumbled against you as he said, “I missed you more.”
You stayed like that for a few moments more, making up for the past months spent apart. In that time, you had felt just about every emotion known to man, but you would still come back to him. The hotel room wasn’t ideal, but you knew he wanted something close to his childhood, his history.
You couldn’t ignore the disappointment that filled you when he broke away, but it was only to lead you to the bed, and his hand never left yours. In fact, you almost thought Conrad was being clingy.
The thought made you laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, brow furrowed.
You only laughed again. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I just really missed you.”
He frowned, searching for something deeper, checking to guarantee you were okay. “I wish I could’ve seen you sooner. I just wanted to get it all out of the way first.”
You squeezed his hand. “I get it,” you assured, earnest.
When he laid down against the pillows, bringing you with him, you followed without complaint. You found comfort here, with your head on his chest and his arm around your waist and his fingers — always moving, always working — drawing circles on the exposed skin of your waist. His heartbeat was a steady and sure thing under your ear, and you listened to it like it was the most sophisticated of symphonies.
“How was the drive?” he asked after a few minutes spent soaking in the silence.
“Long. Everyone’s traveling now.”
He hummed. “But you made it here alright?”
You raised your head to smile at him. “I’m alright.”
Things began to decompress. You fell into your natural rhythm, the ability to coexist with him never fading. You knew his body, his breathing and his speaking and his pulse, from both miles away and from right underneath you.
However, things were still left unsaid. You could tell he was holding something back, something important, but you weren’t sure you were ready to push him. After all, you had only been here twenty minutes. You didn’t want to waste the time you did have, didn’t want things to end too soon.
But it seemed that Conrad didn’t share the sentiment. Your eyes had just shut, the exhaustion finally catching up to you, when he spoke. “I have something to tell you.”
You didn’t move, but your ears were holding on to every word that left his mouth. “Hmm?”
He held his breath for a second. You felt it. It was enough that you opened your eyes, a hand drifting across his jaw, an attempt at comfort. “Tell me,” you said.
He waited one more beat, and then: “I’m not doing any more shows.”
“....What?”
He met your eyes. “I’m done. At least for the next year. No writing, no recording, no concerts—”
You jumped, landing yourself in his lap. Concern and excitement and worry and hopefulness tore through you. “You’re done? What do you mean you’re done? Do you want to be done? Conrad, you can’t just quit. You love music. It’s what you always wanted to do. Did something happen? Are things—”
He grabbed your wrists, stopping your hands from roving over him in assessment. “Everything is okay. I just need a break. It’s not something I love anymore — not like I used to. It’s been that way for a while, and now I finally have a reason to do something about it.”
Your teeth dug into your lip, heart in your throat. This felt like a dream, and you were scared you might wake up too soon. “Are you sure? Listen, I don’t want you throwing your career to the side for this. I want you to choose what makes you happy.”
His fingers stopped on your waist, holding you in place, punctuating his point. “This is me choosing. I’m thankful for the past few years, I really am. But I’m also tired of it. I don’t want to be in a different city every night and playing songs for people I don’t know. I want to be able to come home and sleep in my bed and hopefully — hopefully — wake up next to the person I love.”
He emphasized the last few words, and you knew he was genuine. This is what he wanted.
You smiled so wide you swore you’d split right in half. “When did you even come to this decision? Why didn’t you tell me?”
His thumbs drew patterns on your sides. “Honestly? It started when we were sitting on the beach during the bonfire. You walked away and I realized I could never handle that again. But after that night in the kitchen, I was certain. I called my manager the next morning.”
“Conrad….”
“I knew what I wanted.” He looked at you, holding your gaze. “And even if you wouldn’t take me, I knew that I needed to become someone deserving of you. That’s the man I’ve always wanted to be — the one that was loved by you.”
Your throat closed, and words — not for the first time — failed you.
He continued, “Things are different now. I promise.”
You nodded, because it was the truth. Things were different now. Because this wasn’t summer, it was winter. Because you were wrapped in his arms just for the sake of being there. Because you had taken your time, relearned who the both of you were and who you could be together. Because this was a hotel in Boston, Conrad had stepped back from the life he had lived for the past three years, and you were no longer spitting glass at the thought of him.
Things were different now. Because when he called, you answered.
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