party monster

andie cherry / 30 / she

[brightreddays]

I know what you mean, Andie says.  And it’s clear to Miles, from the flash of same-hat comprehension in her eyes, that she means it.

Thank God, because if he has to keep talking to make himself understood, he may actually implode out of sheer discomfiture.  “I’m glad,” he rasps, relieved, then hears himself, and backtracks. “I mean –  not in a misery-loves-company way; I just.."

GAH.  Christ.  He's babbling; he gives up. Sighs; offers her a small I’m trying smile.

This way of interacting – mask off, shields down, unguarded – is new, and a little unnerving.  Hopefully it will get easier, with time and practice. Even now, it's not so bad -- bearable, especially with some anxiety-dampening whiskey on board.

What's not bearable is the bumbling inarticulation that has come along with it, like a tissue stuck to the sole of a shoe.  Miles’ usual eloquence has done a runner.  He cringes, hearing himself talk: audibly hunting for words, hemming and hawing.

Luckily, Andie – lovely Andie, reclining beside him in the grass – doesn’t seem fazes. Her mien doesn’t change: the smiles and fond jibes and warm little touches continue. 

It’s a lovely, unexpected bit of grace.  Makes it easier stay in this open-oyster state, to resist retreating into shallow but comfortable banter.  She prompts him to go on, so he does: blundering ahead, ending with an overly-direct question and a sincere but breathtakingly awkward compliment.

He gets an eye-roll. No surprise. But it's a fond one, accompanied by a flirty hair-flip and a warm grin. And Andie doesn't seem to mind the personal nature of the question -- answers without hesitation. A punishment, she says.  “Oh…?” Miles, intrigued, props up on an elbow again, eager to hear what follows. 

Which, for a minute, is nothing. Her gaze falters and drops; her giddy, bubbly voice goes flat. She tugs at a blade of grass, suddenly silent. Maybe reconsidering..?

Maybe not. Glancing down, Miles notices her fingers, creeping across the grass towards his.  It’s a slow, tentative advance, almost shy:  surprising, considering Andie's normal brash self-assurance. He watches for a minute, pondering, then reaches for her hand, folding it into his, thumb tracing the slender bones.  No words, nothing showy – just a little silence, affectionate reassurance.  Grace.

It works.  Or something does, anyway.  She brightens again, and launches into a story:  housesitting, a secret party, an angry diva.  A spiteful feline that vanishes, then reappears again, too late to save Andie from exile.  It's amusing, a comedy of errors.

And Andie tells it with flair, all hair tosses and big gestures. But something itches at the back of Miles' brain. It's nothing big -- just a faint brittleness, at points, in her smile, a tick in her expression. Miles isn’t sure what it means; probably nothing . But he wonders, for the first time, if maybe he's not the only one here wearing a mask. 

He snaps in again just in time to catch the punch line, and laugh.  “Typical.  Fucking cats,” he snorts, eyes twinkling.  And when color rises in Andie’s cheeks -- another surprise -- he tucks her hand in closer, curling it warmly against his chest. “Well, I’m very glad you’re here,” he tells her, meaning it. “However it happened.”

A beat passes; the night air is warm and soft and shimmering with possibility.  If life were a movie, this is where the swell of romantic music would come in. Miles considers kissing her.  Nearly does, but then she blurts out something unexpected.

Wait -- what now?  Whoa horsey; cue the record-scratch. Miles tenses -- brow furrowed, gears turning. He doesn’t remember inviting Andie on a work trip. And he would remember something like that. Actually -- he's fairly certain he's never mentioned his work travel at all, until tonight. So --

..wait.

He barks a slightly-disbelieving laugh. "Did you just..." he begins, but he already knows the answer. Of course she did, and he almost fell for it. Bold as brass, this one; inviting herself along and trying to slip it under the radar. Fucking audacity!

There's a prim, stuffy part of Miles that wants to bristle, be affronted. But one look at Andie's face -- not audacious at all, almost heartbreakingly hopeful -- and it fades.

He chews his lip; thinks. It's nothing exciting; just a work trip to Zuzu City. A two-hour drive each way, to go peruse the contents of some old geezer's attic. Hardly sounds like Andie's cup of tea; hard to imagine she wouldn't be bored to tears.

On the other hand -- company would be nice. And she's just as eager for a change of scenery as he is, feeling -- what was the word? Claustrophobic. Zuzu may not be party central, but there are bistros and bars and shops, and clubs that play music blessedly devoid of fiddles and yeehaw. Work won't take all day; they could easily --

Another look at Andie seals it. Maybe the big puppy-dog eyes are nothing but shameless manipulation. Doesn't matter; they're Miles' Achilles heel regardless, impossible to resist. And besides....really, it could be fun. A lot of fun.

Still – there’s a price to pay for being so cheeky. He harrumphs theatrically and eyes Andie sternly, one brow arched.  “Fine," he rumbles, haughty and frowning.  “I suppose you can come.  But there will be no loud music. No smoking or drinking; absolutely no hanky-panky.  None of this dreadful "fun" you young people are always nattering on about,” he finishes – then drops the charade and grins, eyes bright.  

[stuckinthesprings]

Fucking cats. Miles is laughing. And not at her, which is perhaps the most important thing. The reason she’s here, as inarguably stupid as it is, fizzles into nothing more than a shared, comical embarrassment, fading between clasped hands and dissipating like smoke into the night. It’s a pretty big deal, she knows. But right this second, it doesn’t really seem so. This unignorable, virulent event now feels like nothing more than one of those bittersweet, everything happens for a reason things.

It’s a moment so overwhelmingly positive in the face of her vexatious admission that she’s forced to acknowledge it— a moment that doesn’t exist without her apparent mistakes lining up previously. Everything she’s ever done has dominoed into this, right here. For perhaps the first time since her arrival, she’s legitimately thankful. It doesn't erase the shame, but puts it into a new light.

It’s worth nearly ruining it with her little self-invite, her forehead falling against his shoulder with a giggle that teems with genuine relief. Did you just...

It's not the first time she's decided something in someone else's stead and it won't be the last. It's mostly innocent, and he can certainly say no if he really wants to, but... well, she knows he doesn't. It's easy to be convincing when it's a win for everyone, right? She gets a breath of fresh, non-Bleeding-Hearts air, and he gets the sheer unbridled entertainment of her company.

Does that sound insane? Maybe she should rephrase: this is really starting to surpass crush territory. She's tremendously at ease, despite the very real epiphany she's currently enduring, which is the fact that she's actually a little scared of the off chance he may not want to hang out with her. Dates are one thing, but there's something inherently different about doing something entirely mundane with someone. A rainy day spent inside, or running some errands, or maybe even a work trip, for example...

Of course she's fucking hopeful. It's the quickest and most fun-sounding route the hell out of dodge. But even more than that, the possibility of spending all day and then some with Miles has her rife with giddiness. They've spent a good few hours together tonight, and yet she feels a wistful, anticipatory gloom ready to hit when they part… As welcome of a feeling it is, she’s also been dreading it.

There is no universe where Andie ends up in Bleeding Hearts Springs and doesn’t immediately flirt with whoever she wants, and the same can be said for pretty much anywhere she goes. She’s aware that anything more is toeing a dangerous line; part of her is still fully prepared to hop back over to Gem City the first opportunity she gets. What happens then?

Well, she’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it. No use worrying now, especially as his banter overshadows every thought, like a comfy blanket covering a stain she can’t get rid of.

“Oh, yeah, duh,” she plays along, lifting her head. “John Denver the whole way there and back.” She meets his grin with one of her own and emits a huffy chuckle, the eye contact stunning the rest of her readied comeback into nothing more than a bated breath. Against her will, her gaze falls to his lips, but it lingers on purpose. If there’s any chance she should take to plant one on him, it’s now. She shifts just enough to face him better, tilts her chin up, and splays her free hand against one of his shoulders, the edges of her lips still curled affectionately as she finally meets his.

It's a little rushed at first, her enthusiasm reasonably palpable and inundating, almost as if there's a thank you in there somewhere. For what, she’s not entirely sure. Catering to her whims all evening, maybe, or perhaps the refreshing lack of judgment… logically a good amount of both. But there's a lot that can be said with a kiss; as it settles into something more serene, there's more evoked than she can easily put into words, anyway. Not only do I like you, but I want to like you. She hopes it's as obvious as it can be between shared breaths and licked teeth, unabashedly leaning into him and absentmindedly clutching the fabric of his shirt. The warmth in her chest soars, distinct and arrantly smothering in the exact opposite way this whole town is.

When she pulls away and blinks her eyes open, the first thing she comprehends is the sheer amount of lipgloss she's transferred to him. A jovial ‘pah’ bubbles up in an instant, quaking with the thrill of her lips feeling strangely bare now that they're pressed against nothing. “Oh my god, you look crazy,” she says before her spinning mind can stop her, descending into laughter as she attempts to wipe off his upper chin with her thumb. It’s comparatively casual, seemingly second nature, her eyes half-lidded and glittering. The handful of ambling townsfolk, her dinky workplace just a few several dozen feet away, and even the very park they’re perched in seems to fall away around them. “I think this might be your shade, actually.”

[brightreddays]

Masks are funny things.

Miles has worn his for so long that it’s become a comfortable second skin:  a thin veneer of polite, gruff English gentility, faintly redolent of money.

Which is, mostly, who he actually is. The mask is just a tidier, shinier version of the slightly messier, more complicated man underneath.  A simple social nicety, something to put on in the morning before going out into the world; no different, really, than combing one’s hair, or shining one’s shoea.

But it's also body armor.  It protects the soft parts.  And hides the messy bits, the slightly-frayed inner workings that Miles prefers to shield from public view. 

The mask has been a lifesaver. It’s gotten him through an immensely difficult two years.  Has kept him, for the most part, alive and functional and moving forward; pulled him through moments when he sincerely wished to be none of the above.

The problem with masks is they protect, but they also isolate, keeping everyone at a slight, safe remove. This isn’t news; Miles has heard it from therapists and sponsors and friends. But he’s never really felt it –- understood it, bone-deep –- til now.

He listens as Andie speaks, sitting beside her in the soft grass, the velvet night overhead spangled with stars.  She reaches over to fiddle with his collar, fixing it; her fingers are cool and smooth against his neck.  It’s a tiny gesture, nothing flirty or performative about it: intimate, sweetly domestic.

It stirs an unexpected curl of warmth behind Miles' ribs.  He exhales – slow and steady – and lets himself savor it for a second or two.  Lets it filter down and soak in.  And nourish something he has – unintentionally, unwittingly – allowed to starve for the last year and a half. It's good, so good that it shakes him a little.

The first slip of Miles’ mask tonight was purely accidental – a private thought escaping, slipping out into speech.  This time, when Andie asks what he misses, it’s intentional.  A casting aside; a deliberate, slightly-terrifying letting-in.

“I – Christ, where do I start?” he offers, with a self-effacing laugh.  “I miss being busy too.” He stops, brow knit, and backtracks.  “I mean – I am busy, but….it feels as though I’m manufacturing things to do.  Ways to fill my time.  D’you know what I mean?” he asks, hopeful - hungry for more of that real, genuine connection.

With a muffled groan he rearranges himself – stretching out on one side, propped up on an elbow.  It’s less unnerving to speak freely, openly,  when there's not continual eye contact.  He glances up to meet Andie’s gaze now and again; mostly speaks with eyes downturned, absently combing a hand through the grass.

“And I miss – change, I think.  The place we lived,” he explains, plucking another bloom, inked fingers gentle on its petals, “was a bit touristy.  Because of the National Park, and the college.  So there was a sort of a – a tide, maybe?” he ventures, trying the word on.  “New faces, new people coming and going.  Here, it’s the same faces, every day, all the time.  The same few places to go. Like living in a snow globe.”

Miles glances up to catch Andie’s eye, looking for a glint of understanding.  His brow furrows.  “That sounds awful, yeah?  I like the people here; I do," he tells her with a soft smile, aware he’s echoing her words.  “I suppose that’s part of the problem.”  He snorts, smiles faintly.  “It's pretty here, and everyone’s so bloody nice; makes me feel like a prick for complaining about it, or wishing I was somewhere else.”

Sighing, he rolls over onto his back, eyes on the stars.  “it's only the trips to Grampleton and Zuzu City that keep me sane." He glances up at Andie. "And this. And you.  And I really don't understand why you’re here.  I mean,” he amends quickly, “I’m very glad that you are.  But you’re a – a fucking --i dunno." He huffs a quiet laugh, mocking his own struggle for words. "You're Holly Golightly in Mayberry; a tiger lily in a cow pasture. What on earth are you doing in a place like this?”

[stuckinthesprings]

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” That’s exactly how she feels here, however he’s phrased it better than she ever could. The way her thirst for adventure leaks into every conversation is much less eloquent and more scatterbrained and fantastical, but that had always been something that was encouraged by her family and peers. She feels like a fish too big for its bowl. There’s water, sure— she supposes that’s the appropriate metaphor for the friends and crushes she’s picked up over the last couple of sprawling months— but there’s not much room to turn. No little decorations to swim around. Not even a few pebbles scattered at the bottom.

Miles shifts, and so does the air around them. A little detail of more sincere conversations that Andie enjoys to a near unreasonable degree is the inevitable dip in eye contact— the studious crumple of an expression wracked with choosing the right words. She savors the moments where she’s able to stare freely, capturing every bated breath and pluck of grass and dutifully adding it to the small pile of everything else she knows about him. It’s still a mere microcosm, but his words break the conversation open, a confetti egg that’s been waiting to crack, and Andie’s rushing for all the colorful debris.

We. The place we lived. It’s one of those admissions that’s fully expected; Miles is attractive, charming, with several more years of life experience… All the signs of someone who was probably married, or at least thoroughly intertwined with someone at some point. But it’s hard for him to talk about. She can tell by the way he dances around it, running a thumb over delicate petals. Vague as ever. But it’s something. A hint at who he was before. Messy divorce? She wonders, though it doesn’t feel like the time to ask. Either the answer is yes, which— yikes, or the answer is no, and there’s something perhaps more nuanced or tragic at play. Either way, she’s not looking for this chat to flatline like that, at least not by her hand. It’s an ex, a big one, one that he’s only comfortable sharing this much about in the moment, and that’s all she needs to know right now.

“I think it’s just, like… It’s not that this place completely sucks, it’s just the fact that it’s sooo not where I wanna be.” It’s not home. Her longing has extended far past her friendships and frequent patronages; she yearns for the simple things now more than ever. A bundle of palm trees swaying in the wind, the bustle of a nearby film set, the promise of a party anywhere she looked for it. Even the thought of an argument with her sister gives her a rush of homesickness that feels too complicated to parse.

But she perks up at his mentions of rolling out of town. It strikes at a hope within her, like unrooting a crystal from hardened clay, and she grasps onto that feeling despite being put on the spot. It's shrouded in his complimentary comparisons, and it has her chewing on a smile even though the question scares her, tilting her head back and rolling her eyes playfully. There's a few seconds of silence as she's forced to choose her words carefully, suddenly grasping how many emotions she's hanging onto at once.

"It's a punishment." It comes out lukewarm, ever so slightly slurred, perhaps the biggest diversion yet from her more typical bubbly lexicon, and she softens the admission with a soft tch of a laugh. Does he want the full story? Should she even bother either way? She finds herself mirroring him, avoiding his gaze more than she'd like to, fingers frilling through the grass— though they're inching closer to his. She inhales, slow and strong. The same kind of breath you take before you jump off a cliff.

"I kinda have a history of, like... okay, I'm bad at holding down a job," she throws it out with a dismissive wave of her hand and another breezy chuckle, a bit of context that's so annoying to admit that she has to camouflage it in nonchalance. "But I was working as an assistant for this, like, semi-retired stage actress who was kind of insane, right? Diana Pendleton. Human cigarette. But I was actually really obsessed with her, and she loved me, so, like," she throws up a hand again, as if to say match made in heaven, right?

And, strangely enough, her smile only grows when she continues, as if she's disconnected from the event completely, watching it play out like a TV show. "Long story short, she came home from vacation a week early and caught me throwing a party at her place... Which she actually wasn't even that mad about, but," and here's the kicker, "her, like, beloved purebred evil little cat that I was watching escaped," she admits, one hand moving up to her forehead, shielding her eyes completely as she attempts not to cringe herself to death. "And the second my dad found out, it was, like, you're done. And then that stupid cat showed back up literally a week after I got here."

There's something poetic to be found in that, maybe, but that's not her main concern right now. The older she gets, the harder it is to admit the consequences of the spoiled imbecile she so often is, and it's made worse when the person you're admitting it to is mature and erudite and looking at her like that. She reddens considerably under cover of darkness. And, suddenly, someone other than her Gem City friends knows why she's here. Hard to tell if it's a relief yet, though. "But, like... hopefully this doesn't impact your decision to bring me with you next time you go out of town. Please."

[mysteriousbook]

"No judgment here," she says, holding her hands up. And it's true—her previous life in the Springs had been barren in that respect (although it's not like she was particularly keen on high school relationships, anyway), and dating in the city was an exercise in futility. Squeezing a date into a gap in her schedule, taking the train all the way across town for an overpriced, watered-down cocktail, and then talking only about the weather or what she does for work... it turned her off the whole idea rather quickly. "It's good to have someone shaking things up."

Then questions are being turned toward her, and god, she loves herself an inquisitive type. And, of course, she is perfectly content to divulge—how can she expect to receive if she never gives, right? "Zuzu City! Had a full-time office job, but just couldn't resist the Springs. It has a way of pullin' ya back in again," she says, through a fond smile. "...Have you gotten a full tour? It seems real small, but a lot is hidin' where you wouldn't expect."

[stuckinthesprings]

It momentarily baffles her that there's still cool people left to meet in tiny little Bleeding Hearts. She thinks she's had to have gotten at least a third of the town's names and faces in her mental rolodex, and yet, here Patty stands, cool as a cucumber, and Andie couldn’t be more thrilled. “Oh, love that! I’ve been there a couple times. Insane thrift stores,” she says, remembering her time in Zuzu City fondly (other than the last couple days where she was sick as a dog from some sketchy food truck). “My credit card bills after that trip… Woof.”

It’s easy for her to imagine Patty in an office, honestly. She seems the type to toe the line perfectly between plucky hardass and personality hire. Someone who’s good at organizing papers and also sniffing out the drama. It’s a total breath of fresh air. "You're the first person to offer, actually," she says, with a grateful lilt in her voice. “I have one of those gas station maps literally falling apart in my bag, but that’s it. We should totally hang out!”

[brightreddays]

Andie, bless her, takes the hint without a moment's hesitation. No silly little mannerly dance of oh I couldn't possibly and please, I insist. She plops down on Miles' jacket, skirts hitched up around her knees, the moment he finishes spreading it on the ground. It's real, and it's refreshing.

She also calls him out. Busted. Miles flushes a little -- not much, just a faint pink warmth hidden by the dark. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, offers Andie a small, sincere mea culpa of a smile. It had been a copout. Sort of, anyway, although not a genuine attempt to conceal anything. More a knee-jerk reaction to the question -- an inability to deal quickly and neatly with the messy welter of thoughts that it provoked. Or to articulate them well.

"Sorry," he tells her, meaning it. And lowers himself to the ground next to her, settling on the grass criss-cross-applesauce fashion, suppressing a small groan when the ratchety knee and ankle issue their usual complaints. He sighs, and looks at her for a moment in the dark -- studying her face, the way the moon frosts her lovely profile and the curve of her cheekbone in pale silvery light.

"I've nothing to hide. Not really," he tells her, quiet, unusually unguarded. It's another of those liminal moments -- alone in the grass under the stars, in an odd and magical little bubble, the normal rules suspended. It feels safe, like an open-air confessional: as though confidences shared here will simply dissolve into the night, harmless and toothless. "I just -- " he begins, and stops, briefly stuck.

Tiny wild violets dot the grass, purple-blue; Miles plucks one, twirls it absently between his fingers, offers it to Andie. "The whiskey's got my tongue, I think," he admits, with a soft chuckle. 'It's just -- I like this." He gestures broadly -- a vague wave that encompasses the bar, the park, the stars, the two of them settled on the grass. "And I like you. And I don't want to fuck it up by answering and having it come out wrong. End up sounding daft, or maudlin, or ...I don't know. Sleazy. Player-ish."

Andie's own wish is a surprise. As is the tone in which she shares it; plain and wistful, entirely unaccessorized with the usual hair flips and flirty giggles. It's real, and relatable. And it touches Miles, sets something twisting in his chest. He nods, a silent earnest nod of comprehension -- eyes on hers as she explains, warmed by her inclusion of him in her city visions. The question at the end comes out a little desperate. A hopeful plea: Tell me I'm not the only one who feels this way.

And if Miles had liked Andie before -- and he had, a great deal -- he likes her even more now, handed this bit of realness: actual connection, a peek at the person behind the glittery, sparkly, saucy mask. A lovely mask, but a mask nonetheless.

"My favorite?" he echoes, brows raised; his expression softens and he barks a laugh, sympathetic and not unkind. "Dear God, no. I mean -- this place -- " He looks around the park, the square, almost the whole of the town visible from this very spot. "It has its charms; it does. And the people, by and large, are more interesting than I expected. I'm learning to like it here. But -- "

It spills out, blunt and unfiltered, before he has a chance to parse it properly. "I miss my life." The thought is a smack in the face; he's a little shook. It's true, and profound, and a bit painful to acknowledge.

And it's so bloody obvious, now that Miles hears it in his own voice. It's not just Elliot he misses, it's all of it. He's mourned his husband, but he hasn't allowed himself to properly grieve over the rest of it: the entirety of the life they'd built. The lively college town, the garden parties, the dinner table full of friends. The date nights, the road trips. The presence of a warm body to curl up with at night; that one person you always wanted to text right away whenever anything interesting or funny happened.

"Dear God, how did i manage to overlook that?" he wonders aloud, with a bleak, surprised laugh. Smearing both hands over his face, he regards Andie over the tips of his own fingers, a gleam of embarrassed amusement in his eyes. "I suppose you can fail to notice just about anything, really," he surmises, "if you keep yourself busy and try hard enough not to think about it."

[stuckinthesprings]

I've nothing to hide has a pretty similar ring to all of Miles' other very cliché, very male little quips, hitting her with that 'if I told you I'd have to kill you' and 'the wish won't come true if you say it out loud' energy that she's so used to blithely scoffing at. But even in the ditzy daze of her drunkenness, spinning a violet between finger and thumb before gingerly placing it in her lap, she holds her tongue. It’s clear that this is a tentative introduction to something more legitimate as he starts struggling to pick his words. Words like daft and maudlin, which she's pretty sure means stupid and sad, right? Sleazy and player-ish are both easier to understand and more relatable, at least for her personally. She doesn't think he's anywhere close to saying the wrong thing. Even if he was, it's not like she's the type to dance around it.

I miss my life. She holds her breath so that the loud, agreeable sigh she’s harboring doesn’t puff out of her and ruin the rest of his admission. But that’s the realest and excruciatingly simplest way he could’ve possibly put it. She misses texting her friends what they’re doing with their weekends and getting a response right away. More and more lately, she’s feeling like a tourist in her own group chat— photos and little ‘I miss you’ paragraphs left on read, constantly barraged by evidence of what she’s missing out on and ‘when are you coming back’ inquiries that she has no idea how to answer without exploding into a million pieces.

But she knows Miles can't possibly be here for the same reasons. Whether this is his favorite place he’s ever been or not, it had to have been more voluntary than the situation she’s found herself in by complete accident. It's already obvious what she misses the most, considering her incessant quests for flirtation and a public speaker to feed her brat-heavy playlist into, but Miles remains mysterious and broad, leaving her to scratch at the surface for any semblance of specificity.

"I miss being busy," she murmurs, edges of her blushed lips curled up, splaying a hand against his coat and leaning on her arm as she shifts a bit onto her side. The boa that she's pretty much refused to take off all night slides off her shoulder, nestling around her like a loyal, shimmery pet snake. "I never really thought I was, like, trying not to think about anything, I'm just insanely extroverted." With her parents and location and luxurious life, there was no way for her not to be. "But now, like... I suddenly have all this free time and nowhere to go, and it's so open and friendly and all that, but for some reason it’s still so fucking...” her free hand lifts, fingers dancing in a circle as she zeroes in on the right word. “Claustrophobic." She’s had more of her own thoughts driving her insane in the past couple months than she has in what feels like her entire life.

Her head is tilting to the side as she leans to adjust the collar of his shirt, slightly askew from when he'd taken off his jacket, before it’s falling back at her side, and she breathes the sigh she's been holding onto for what feels like forever. “But I get what you’re saying. I do like the people here. I mean— some of them,” she chuckles, moonlit eyes scanning over his profile, breath carried on the breeze. I like you.

“…You wanna talk about it?” She finally offers, almost a whisper, doing everything she can not to come off like she’s prying. It’s airy, unjudgmental, but the depth of her curiosity is notable in her coastering inflection. “What you miss?”

[brightreddays]

For future reference. Miles beams, whiskey-loose and comfortable, at the implication that there will be future dates. Or at least can be, if he wishes it so. "Pasta and dessert," he rasps, eyes sparkling in the dark, and offers her a quick, blink-and-you-miss-it wink. "Duly noted."

Their hands are clasped; Andie swings them gaily back and forth as though they're two happy children on the way to the playground, giggly and bright-eyed, not a care in the world. And it does feel a bit like that right now: the night air is warm and perfumed with spring wildflowers. Andie's small warm fingers intertwine with Miles', their palms pressed warmly together.

And she's pulling him towards the park, which is a lovely development. Miles has zero interest in breakfast, not hungry for anything except more time with his lively, sparkly date, preferably away from all the countrified racket of the bar. Somewhere they can talk without shouting, get to know each other better, cozy up a bit. The offer of a midnight nosh had been more of a concession -- offering Andie an out, a public option, in case she felt uncomfortable or unsafe going somewhere alone with him. The world is not always a safe place, particularly for young women; although Miles is harmless, not a predatory bone in his body, they haven't known each other very long. Perhaps Andie doesn't know that yet.

Or -- pleasant surprise -- perhaps she does. Because here they are, standing in the fragrant soft grass, still hand in hand, looking up at the stars and making wishes. "Oh...I can't tell you," he rasps, soft, glancing down at Andie, a glint of humor in his gaze. "Can't tell anyone. If I do, it won't come true, will it?"

Truth be told he doesn't know exactly what he wishes for. Everything that comes to mind, at the moment, either makes him feel a little beastly, or -- Or like a small boy, hoping, wondering if anyone will ever love him again the way Elliot once did. Whether lightning ever does actually strike twice.

The thought catches him off guard, staggers him for a second. It's far too maudlin and heavy for a lovely night like this one -- dressed to the nines, out for a tipsy midnight stroll with a lovely girl he hopes to at least kiss, and see again, an intriguing playlist tucked away in her purse and a fat handrolled blunt in his pocket. Pushing the thought away with a smile that starts out a little shaky and then solidifies, he raises Andie's hand and brushes his lips across her knuckles, plush and soft under a fringe of whiskers.

And peels his jacket off; it's warm. Off it comes; he shakes it out with a snap and spreads it in the grass, offering Andie a seat there. He rolling up his sleeves methodically, one at a time, baring spans of muscle and inked skin. "What did you wish for?" he inquires, airily. "Oh wait -- perhaps that's a secret too."

[stuckinthesprings]

As someone who’s never been in a relationship longer than a couple months, the way Miles looks at her is almost frightening. What she once expected to be a playful one-off has since blossomed into hours of interest, and she's caught numerous gazes of his that are notably different than what she's used to. The burn of attraction, or the crinkled expression of a joke received— she's used to that much, but Miles' version of it is uncharted territory, coming off equally as unintentional as it is pointed. Like he actually likes her and doesn't just want something from her.

She comes off as an open book, because she so often tends to be. It’s not necessarily a cover, or even a lie, but there’s some secrets everyone has to sit on for a while, whether it’s for personal comfort or sanity or even to avoid shame. In her case, it's nearly always the latter. Admitting mistakes is hard enough to do to oneself; to offer that to anyone else always seems too arduous to bother, especially if they don't really know her. They just know about her. Anyone can do that. Miles, despite being shrouded in his own mystery, wants to know her. At least, that's definitely the vibe he's giving off.

"Ugh, total copout," she calls it like it is, hitching her skirt up to her knees and immediately taking residence on top of Miles' coat. She's firmly in the camp that anyone who says you can't tell anyone what you wished for just doesn't want to admit it. But, rather than try to put that into simple English right now, she's studying the now visible ink of his arms and briefly wondering if she still has enough lipstick on for it to show up on his face if she's able to get close enough. Where she would typically be rambunctious and bitey under the influence of her usual tequila buzz, she found out tonight that whiskey chops her thoughts up into lazy, uninhibited waves.

"I almost wished I was home." She doesn't know why, but she finds it easier to admit than what she ended up throwing out in the universe. It's a little more embarrassing to tell someone on a second date that you want to know everything about them than to attempt to deconstruct your complex homesickness. "Not, like, instead of here, with you right now, but I wish we were both in the city, y'know? I miss that freedom." The freedom of spending just because she can, of coming and going as she pleases, of dragging whoever she wants back to her apartment by their shirt collar. So far, Miles is a much more worthy recipient than the past several contenders. "I mean, you've lived a ton of places. This can't be your favorite, right?"

[wldngmn]

Quentin offers her their hand, “I’ll do my best, darlin’. Not sure I’m the best teacher out there, but I won’t lead you astray,” their smile is warm and full of teeth and leads her toward the fringes of the dance floor where it’s a bit safer for someone still learning the steps.

Q leans in close to her, he smells like warm pepper and musk and the scent of wine follows him wherever he goes. One of the lingering effects of his work. They gesture with a loose point to their feet, “Put your weight on your left foot now,” the music is already picking back up. The thing about music here at the Springs during festival season is it never really stops. Where one song ends the next one picks up with barely a beat in between and when there is an extended gap between songs it’s still never silent, someone is still plucking strings idly, keeping the momentum going as background music before the next instrument falls in line and the next song starts up again to the thrum of bodies and humming laughter.

“Follow me close,” Quentin sweeps his right foot out on the next beat. It’s a collective sound of movement, fabric swishing, boots and heels stomping. “Circle to the left,” he warns her preemptively before the next movement swirls.

[stuckinthesprings]

"Okay," she's chipper as she follows their instructions, her smile as plucky and persistent as ever. Airheaded as she tends to be, Andie is always down for trying something new. Embarrassment only exists if you let it, and she would never and could never be caught getting embarrassed about some grooving in the town square. This is her Hannah Montana hoedown throwdown moment.

At first it's a little rocky, a shoulder bumping against Quentin's arm, a chitter of laughter effectively bungling her next step. Just like any old nightclub where they're blasting the likes of Britney and Charli, it's all about the beat, and she's reminding herself that as she starts to sway, eyes darting around to catch what everyone else around her is doing and emulating it with ease. "So it's just—" the steps fall into place, like she's learning a handshake during recess. "Oh, this is easy!" Thank god. Nothing makes her feel better than getting the hang of something right away, and it shows in the squaring of her shoulders and confident jut of her chin, now assured enough to attempt to hold a conversation as she sways and steps along. "I'm Andie! What's your name?"

[mysteriousbook]

As a certified internet investigator herself, she admires this unnamed friend for her eBay skills. Equally so, she admires Andie for her thievery. That's the mark of any good friendship. "Well, you both have great taste," she extends a hand in return, her fingers filled with a collection of kitschy vintage rings—all found at various city flea markets with Wendy. "I'm Patty. Patty Finch."

"You're new, yeah?" Asked as if she doesn't already know. "How're you likin' the Springs so far?" Patty is always a bit cautious when divulging the amount of information she knows about someone—some people get weirded out, others become actively hostile. (Those sensitive, private types. Boo.) But Andie? Well, Andie strikes her as the type to be absolutely flattered. "Y'know, I've heard you're already hittin' the datin' scene. Must've picked up since I lived here—it was beyond dead back then."

[stuckinthesprings]

Patty Finch, with her intensely elderly sounding name, has clearly been blessed with a fresh and discerning eye for accessorizing. That, along with her cadence and fiery gaze, strikes Andie as someone who's seen for herself whether or not the grass is really greener on the other side. Someone who hasn’t always lived here. “Well… I’ve definitely never been anywhere else like it,” she smirks, adjusting her sunglasses.

Patty’s next words have Andie gawking. But, like, in a positive way. Both the hint of a rumor and the confirmation that maybe she hasn’t been around for a while, tugging a laugh straight from her stomach. “Oh, god.” She’s not going to have to sport a scarlet letter for chatting around once or ten times, is she? A for Andie. Beware of a good time. “Like, what else am I supposed to do, right? Not my fault I’m so awesome,” she rolls her eyes playfully. “So you just moved back? Where have you been?” She asks, putting a little extra emphasis on the second question to highlight how genuinely nice it is to have her here.

[brightreddays]

Babe. To us. Miles flashes Andie a dimpled, whiskery grin, eyes bright and flashing, happy. And tips his glass back, the sweetened whiskey sliding down like a warm, sugary-tart nectar.

Miles is, admittedly, a little heart-eyes. It's just silly, superficial flirtation -- decent chance Andie's just toying with him -- but who cares? It's nice, sweet and spicy, makes him feel syrupy-tingly warm inside. The evening's passing like a pleasant, chatty, slightly-confessional blue-razz-scented dream. Two drinks -- three, four -- fuck it, who's counting? All eye contact, warm laughter, heads leant in together, knee bumps and little touches.

By the time the hackneyed warble of John Denver sounds over the speakers, and the crowd's collective ears perk up, Miles is a teensy bit drunk. Not too far gone -- not incoherent, still smooth and charming -- but flying high enough for a a loopy, raspy giggle to slip out at Andie's dramatic wail. Oops. "Oh dear," he rumbles, grinning delightedly, and takes her small hands in his, helping her up and out the door.

And out into the cool night, the country-western caterwauling receding as they make their escape. A few people -- couples and small groups -- stroll the neighborhood sidewalks. Miles snitches Andie's vape for a quick drag of blue-raspberry smoke, exhaling it into the dark sky before giving it back. "Cruel, cruel woman," he teases, eyes alight. "You know how I adore John Denver."

Halfway down the block, she pauses to turn in a small tipsy circle, eyes turned upwards, admiring the stars. Miles stands back, admiring her in turn -- catching her when she topples gracefully, on tiptoe, falling against his chest and leaning into him. "Oh, hall-lo," he says, a warm purr accompanied by a whiskery smile; big inked hands settle easily on Andie's waist, nearly spanning it, warm on the soft tanned skin just above the lowslung red skirt. "Time and place, princess; I'll be there with bells on."

The sky above is dense with stars; one bright streak slashes across the velvety deep plum night. Miles -- catching the flash out of the corner of his eye -- glances up, thinking a little fuzzily. Is there a meteor shower....? He remembers, dimly, reading something about a passing comet, some sort of one-off event. "Make a wish," he tells Andie, turning her around, back to front, and directing her attention to the sky. "And then come with me."

The park's just a short walk away in one direction, and the playground an equally short walk in the other. Both are further from the bright lights of the bar; one has picnic tables, the other has swings. And both have an abundance of soft, wildflower-speckled spring grass -- excellent places to relax and stargaze, listen to the unused playlist, and share the neatly hand-rolled joint of sweet, skunky Purple Rain tucked away in Miles' inside jacket pocket.

"Park?" he inquires, brushing a dark, Prada-scented curl away from Andie's brow, tucking it back behind her ear. "Or playground? Lady's choice. And I promise to be a perfect gentleman," he vows, earnest, smiling sweetly and offering her his arm, decorous. "Unless you'd rather grab midnight breakfast somewhere...?"

[stuckinthesprings]

There’s nothing quite like the closeness of another person— all the little touches and shared breaths that come in tandem with getting to pick at someone’s mind freely. The hand movements that go along with a long-winded story, or the expression someone makes as they listen, or the eye contact of an earnest moment... This is what she's always yearning for; sometimes it doesn't matter who it's coming from, and every once in a blue moon, sometimes it does.

Make a wish. It should be obvious what she picks, almost feeling a bit like Dorothy as she closes her eyes. Just click your heels together three times. Though, before she can even reach the thought of Gem City and its hustle and bustle, chaotic charm, and light pollution, she’s briefly imagining Miles as Glinda instead, and descending into tipsy giggles, tilting her head to look up at him. I wish I knew everything about you.

"You've been a perfect gentleman all night." She unspools herself from against his frame, slipping a hand into his and tugging him towards the park without a second thought. "And I'm not huge on breakfast food, actually," she admits with a quick yikes look, gritting her teeth and arching her brows, swinging their arms and trekking carelessly in the newfound comfort of her appropriate shoes. It melts into a smile, however, in an attempt to sugar-coat this second strike after the John Denver shade. "More of a pasta and dessert girlie. For future reference."

She finds it hard to pay attention to anything other than his presence next to her: sturdy and rousing, yet delicate. She's the one who's getting called princess all night, but there's an intentional fragility in how she approaches every admission of his own, every move, every word. Consistently shrouded in humor or flirtation or whatever she can grasp in the drunken present.

She spares another glance towards the sky, semi-triumphant sigh lifting her shoulders, shoulder brushing against his, gazing over to capture his expression, his manner, the invigorating glint in his eyes. The park approaches, but she cares not where they end up right now, but whether he's seeing this the same way she is. "What'd you wish for?"

[echoesofthevalley-deactivated20]

town square | open starter | 1/5 cap

The scent of marigolds lingered on her fingertips as Dyani Heartgrove knelt in the grass just beyond the town square, a half-finished flower crown resting in her lap and a woven basket brimming with golden blooms at her side. Morning light filtered through the trees in warm ribbons, catching the soft glint of dew still clinging to the petals. She hummed a tune older than memory, something her grandmother used to sing during the early days of spring, and with practiced fingers she twisted blossoms into loops and braids. Each crown was slightly different—one woven with violets and clover for a shy child, another adorned with baby’s breath and bluebells for a young couple in love. Her wrists were already smudged with pollen, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid dotted with stray petals.

By the time the fiddlers began tuning up and the parade-goers filled the square in bursts of color and laughter, Dyani was already moving through the crowd like a soft breeze, offering flower crowns with a smile that seemed to carry its own kind of warmth. She didn’t care for the Marigold Queen contest, not really—though she adored the dresses and the secret hopes hidden in the girls’ eyes—but it was the joy of giving, of watching faces light up, that brought her here every year. Pausing near the fountain, she held out a carefully woven crown—marigolds, dandelion fluff, and a single daisy tucked near the front—and tilted her head with a quiet smile. “Here,” she said gently, “I think this one’s been waiting for you.”

[stuckinthesprings]

Andie's been snapping photos of the festival like it's her job, running her battery down to 30% before the day is even halfway over. It's like... if someone took Midsommar and wedged it inside of a school carnival. And there's no proper way to explain that to her friends back home other than the photo evidence. It's not as if she's having a bad time, either; she loves any excuse to have the day off instead of withering away in Honky Tonk, forced to replay the same five listenable albums that they have on deck.

Shoving her phone away, Andie props her pink butterfly-shaped sunglasses up as the stranger approaches, and she silently admires her vibe. Squinting through her smile, she's subconsciously tilting her head right along with her. "Aww, that's so cute!" She exclaims, long glittery nails reaching forward to pluck the crown from Dyani's offering hand— but then she pauses before she can fully grasp it. "Are you sure this one's been waiting for me, gorg? I don't think it really matches my outfit..."

[brightreddays]

The sun is bright. Ernie blinks up into it, squinting, like some kind of pale nocturnal creature, before remembering the shiny aviators perched on their messy dark waves. Shifts them down -- better. For a small town, there are a crazy amount of parades and festivals and dances and other kinds of happy public hoo-ha here. Ernie, luckily, doesn't have to work this one, at least not today. Is free to just circulate, and socialize to the tiny degree their social battery -- perenially hovering somewhere around the 3% mark when not behind the bar --will allow. This one -- like another one earlier in the year, whose name Ernie's conveniently forgotten -- is about flowers. These people do love them some fucking flowers, for sure. In honor of the occasion, and the warm weather, Ernie's abandoned their normal jeans and flannel, for -- well, not for anything floral, that's way too far outside their wheelhouse. But at least something short, and colorful, and notably lacking in visible rips and punk-band logos. They've just scarfed down the second (ok -- lying -- third) in a series of honey sticks, when here comes a familiar face -- sparkly, pastel, bedazzled. And a lot more sober than Ernie's accustomed to. Also alone, a surprise. Miss SparklePlenty's usually got at least one or two gaga-eyed admirers trailing around in her wake. "Where's the entourage today, sweets?" Ernie asks her, grinning. They chuckle at Andie's assessment of the shadiness of the ring toss. "Of course it's rigged." And cheese a little harder at her assertion that she absolutely, positively, has no interest in a stuffed animal. "What's that I smell?" they ask, sniffing the air theatrically. "Could it beeee...pants on fire? C'mon, girl," they laugh, linking an arm through Andie's. "Let's go see if we can sweet-talk those guys out of a teddy bear. Between your looks and my bullshitting skills, I think our chances are pretty decent."

[stuckinthesprings]

“Entourage? You sound like my dad,” she chuckles, glancing over her shoulder and chewing on a smile. “Around here somewhere, I guess. I literally just got here.” And she’s already been absolutely swindled by the ring toss guy. One oh, y’almost got it that time! after the other, and she’s shrugging her shoulders and agreeing every time.

Upon mastering the balance between pouty and bubbly, she’s got little time to argue before Ernie is on their feet, linking arms with her. “My hero,” she laughs, free hand covering a quick yawn as she glances around. “So, I’ll distract him and you’ll grab the biggest one while he’s not looking, right?” She half-jokes, eyes dancing over the massive variety of crowns at the stalls they pass by. “God, this is such an insane amount of flowers. I thought I’d seen it all at the Goddess’s birthday party.” Then, after a single second of critical thought, she's looking over at the other. Now that she thinks about it, Ernie definitely sounds nothing like most of the other bumpkins around here. "Wait, you're not even from here, are you? Like, this is as crazy for you as it is for me, right?"

[mysteriousbook]

It feels like forever since she's been to a Rain of Petals festival. Any town event brings its fair share of drama—which is always a highlight, obviously, and she does have her notebook tucked neatly in her crocheted floral purse—but more than anything, she's missed dressing up in a cute little vintage number, delicately placing wildflowers in her mass of curly red hair, and stepping out to see how everyone else has dolled themselves up for the occasion.

She'd clocked Andie Cherry snapping photos almost immediately; they have yet to be properly introduced, but of course, she knows all the important details. From Gem City, party girl, flirting around town in a way that is both impressive and enviable.

And then said party girl is on the move, balancing an absolute array of items in order to rush over to... her? Patty? A diva? That's not a label she's ever been given in a positive way, so she's honored.

She places a shocked hand over her heart, eyes sparkling. "Thank you so much!" And, of course, she obliges to the request, giving a very theatrical twirl that causes a few flowers to come flying out of her hair. When she comes to a stop, she gives Andie a thorough up-and-down, leaning close to examine all the details. "You also look stunning. This embroidery is incredible... where did you get this?"

[stuckinthesprings]

Patty, shimmering and put-together and flourishing in a circle without a second thought, feels like a drink of ice cold water after a thirty-mile trek in the hot desert sun. Through a crazy straw. Compliments rapid-fire back and forth with the same gusto and grandeur as a drunken hype session in a club bathroom— and for once, she’s not simply missing that sensation, but wholly experiencing it in Bleeding Hearts for the first time since her arrival.

“This? I stole it from my friend,” she admits with a spirited chuckle. “Knowing her, probably ebay. She has a whole process for finding shit on there that should totally be patented at this point. It’s all about striking at the last second, or whatever.” She adjusts her sturdy grip on all the crap she’s holding and sticks out a hand adorned with little flower rings. “I’m Andie,” she introduces, entirely unbeknownst to Patty’s sleuthing skills or previous knowledge. All she can really think is one thing: where have you been all my (last two months of) life?

[wldngmn]

event: rain of petals parade

with: andie ( @stuckinthesprings ) & quentin

Music lifts through the air like a living thing, carrying bodies and laughter and raucous cheers. Folks in the Springs certainly know the meaning of a party. Quentin dances in the crowd with their chosen but temporary partner, a sprightly young woman with red hair tied up in braids with woven flowers through the strands so she looks like an honest to goodness fairy. The stomp and clomp of cowboy boots add a percussive element to the song as it draws to a close and their partner parts from them with a laugh and a smile. She's got another partner to return to for the next dance and leaves Quentin partnerless. That is, until their sweeping eyes glide over toward another.

Quentin is all friendly smiles, warm and broad like a bear as he approaches. "Pardon me ma'am," unmistakable southern tilt to his speech, he dips his hat at her, "But you look idle and we can't have that. Would you like to dance?"

[stuckinthesprings]

The square is fuller than she’s ever seen it, and the noisy fiddle reaching all corners is inoffensive only because it’s being played live and not through the Stag’s jukebox speakers. She’s on theme, for sure, but can’t help feeling a bit underdressed in her elaborate, but small butterfly crop-top and pink mini skirt. She feels a smidgeon of both pride in her certain individuality and a studious how do I get myself something like this, as she’s gazing at all the billowing, flowing fabrics adorned with careful embroidery and real flowers and—

Huh? Did this handsome stranger just call her an idol? She moves a hand up, pressing it to her chest as if to say who, me? But the look on her face makes it clear Q is in for an obvious yes. She flips her hair, gives them a once-over in typical Andie Cherry fashion, and nods. “Sure, cutie. I don’t have to know all the moves, right? Can this, like, double as a lesson?”

[stuckinthesprings]

location: rain of petals parade status: closed @brightreddays

It’s events like these that really have her realizing how many people there are left to meet here. It’s a wonderful exercise for her social battery, to see how long she can stretch it before having to search for a familiar face to recoup. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to work very hard in that regard, either; just a couple months in, and she’s lost count of of how many obligatory hellos she’s been happy to exchange.

Ernie’s most certainly included in that. It’s a rarity to see them outside the Stag, at least for Andie, and by the time she’s made her way over, she’s fanning herself with a hand, the other haphazardly adjusting her strappy, bejeweled butterfly top. “Whew. Summer’s definitely here, babe,” she says in lieu of a greeting, smile breezy and wide. "And it turns out ring toss is still totally rigged even if you're in the middle of nowhere. Like, how hard could it possibly be, right? Fucking impossible, apparently. I don’t even want one of those stupid teddy bears,” she says, hoping it covers for the fact that she absolutely does want one of those stupid teddy bears.

[stuckinthesprings]

location: rain of petals parade status: closed @mysteriousbook

Another month coming to an end, another festival. It’s nothing like home except for that of the vibe, which is airy and jubilant, and Andie’s soaking up all she can get, stealing drinks and snapping little pictures and— oh my god. She zooms in on the last one, spotting a mess of red hair dressed like Stevie Nicks, accompanied by a dead stare into the camera. What the hell is Chappell Roan doing here?

Andie looks up, squinting around before spotting her. She’s got a sly ease to her demeanor, and a notable intentionality about her outfit that most others are lacking, and she’s ungracefully balancing her phone, vape, and drink before running over, shouting out a “hey, diva!” on her way for good measure. “Oh my god, I just have to tell you, this is so cute,” she compliments expeditiously, sparkly nails flitting up to adjust curls as she catches her breath. “Like, you are just giving me star quality, here. Can I get a twirl?”

[vespcrtines]

He doesn't have to wonder whether that compliment was unwelcome—not with the way she throws it back so easy, a laugh spilling out of her, light and warm in the spring air. It hits him somewhere he wasn't expecting, settles deep in his chest and works its way up to the tips of his ears, bringing a little color he knows damn well no one’d notice on a face already sun-baked and wind-burnt. Still, it’s there, and he ducks his head just a touch at her quickfire quip, a huff of a laugh slipping out through his nose.

“Pretty?” he repeats, drawing the word out slow, worn through with curiosity, a little befuddled, like he’s trying it on for size. He glances down at himself, at worn boots scuffed near to hell, jeans faded soft with years of wear, a threadbare truck stop tee stretched across his shoulders that might’ve belonged to his old man sometime back when Huck barely had two conscious thoughts to rub together. Not exactly what you’d call a pretty picture, and the look he sends her says as much. “Can’t say I’ve ever been called that with a straight face. You keep talkin’ sweet like that, Miss Andie, I’m liable to forget I ain’t somethin’ worth showin’ off.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up into something that isn't quite a grin but working on it, that same half-smile he’s remembered how to wear sometime over the course of this conversation. He shifts, elbow hooked easy behind the backrest, chin propped in the cradle of his palm, letting his gaze find hers again and linger there, settled and steady, like whatever little distractions the square’s got to offer—babies hollering, dogs barking, some fella across the square hollering about fresh peaches—fades into afterthoughts when she’s sitting right here.

He’s spent a lot of years not thinking of himself as the kind of man anyone might bother looking at twice. Some of that was his own doing. Some of it wasn’t. But the way she’s sitting here now, sharp and fast and funny, catching hold of every word he’s tossing out like it’s worth something, hell, maybe he’s been wrong about a few things.

Was it foolish to think she—

Better not. No sense letting himself get ahead. Never done him much good before. Wasn't that the saying? Assume something, make an ass outta you and me, or however it goes.

“Just takes the word,” he murmurs, voice low and unhurried, a flicker of dry amusement glinting in his eyes, that almost-grin settling a little easier now. “Truth is,” he adds, letting it roll off his tongue like it wasn't much of a confession, even if it kind of is, “you wouldn’t have to try too hard to get me out to that race, long as you’re sittin’ shotgun.”

[stuckinthesprings]

“Well, yeah. You calling me a liar?” She teases, curls swishing with a tilt of her head. He’s reallllyyyy local, huh? Doesn’t even know the way he’s posed looks like some renowned fashion photographer has already thoroughly directed all the necessary steps— one arm back, the other hand brushing at his chin, looking at her like she’s ready to take a picture. Shit, why not? The Gem City group chat’s inevitably going to be asking for one, anyway. Ain’t somethin’ worth showin’ off. Yeah, right.

“Hold on— move your hand,” she shoos his fingers away and replaces them with her own, tilting his chin slightly upwards and motioning with her own cigarette for him to put his own back between his lips. “Yeah, now let it hang there, and—“ one quick, uninhibited ruffle of his curls, and she’s pointing out towards what remains of the sunset. “Look that way.” And then, like a ninja, she’s got at least ten snaps in the span of a few seconds, laughter rising out of her like smoke from a chimney when he’s donning that dopey half-smile in the last couple, staring at the phone instead.

But the first few… she might as well be applying for all the fashion photographer jobs she can get. Because no, she’s not going to sit here and lie and say that her pretty new friend Huck is fashionable, but he is modeling the hell out of this ratty old t-shirt. She pulls her phone up, inches away from her face, eyes flitting as she scrolls through— and then nods assuredly, a’la Olivia Wilde. “See?” She turns the screen to face him, as if he’ll take it for proof as much as she is— but it’s a good photo, rapidly squandered daylight playing against his eyes, breeze stuck in time.

If she were anyone else, her face might be starting to hurt by now. But the smile comes easy, settled around another drag of her smoke as she sets the phone down. It’s a little rough (she’s pretty much only used to a cig after a long few hours of drinks and dancing), and it’s certainly no blue razz kazoo, but she thinks it idyllic for the time being. Just takes the word. She feels blithely powerful, a more exhilirating sensation than nicotine can conjure, anyway. “I won’t try too hard, then,” she smirks. “Do you, um— can I give you my number?”

[brightreddays]

The good girl gets a slight rise out of Andie -- what Miles had hoped for. It's met with a flicker of light in her eyes, and a laugh -- a genuine, surprised one. Promptly followed, though, by an apology. And a confession. Now it's Miles' turn to be surprised. Andie's buoyant and appealing and outgoing; hard to imagine her social calendar flagging, even for a short time.

The admission has a genuine ring to it, though. "Oh, listen, you are preaching to the choir, sweetheart," Miles tells her, with a rueful chuckle, glancing up at her sidewise, a wry curl at the end of his mouth. "Neither have I; it's been a minute."

Miles hasn't been alone. Not exactly. But he'd be hard pressed to describe any of his most recent social encounters as dates, that's a generous, lipstick-on-a-pig sort of nicety. It's been many months since the last encounter that involved being fully dressed and having a semi-sober conversation in a public place. And that one had been a dismal failure -- a well-meaning setup with a grievously unsuitable person, Miles still too fresh out of rehab and still too mired in mourning Elliot to be even moderately good company. This, though, is a very pleasant re-entry into the social whirl. With someone he finds that he likes, rather a lot. "Whiskey guy," he agrees, as the drinks arrive. Andie immediately tucks into hers; Miles watches, a tiny smile forming under the end of his neatly-trimmed mustache as she tastes it and smacks her lips approvingly., pronouncing it good. "Cheers," he offers, raising his glass in a toast. "To the beginning of a beautiful something-or-other." It's been awhile since Miles' last date; it's also been awhile since he had a whiskey smash. The sweety-sour mixture goes down smoothly -- easy to forget how strong it is -- and loosens Miles' usual polite British reserve. "Fireball!" he pronounces with a slight theatrical shudder. "You didn't miss a thing; it's dreadful." Andie leans in close; the warm pressure against Miles' shoulder is agreeable, as is the small hand pressed against his, flattening it on the bar while she inspects his rings -- a thick gold band and a vintage Tiffany signet, half-covering the ink on one pinky. "Oh dear," he muses, as she turns away to fish for her vape. His forehead furrows, eyes turned upwards, as he thinks. Hasn't counted his tattoos in awhile. He's not quite as densely decorated as his friend Mars, but close. The hands are just a start -- the ink that swirls across Miles' knuckles continues up, under his shirt cuffs into unseen territory. "Rather a lot; they're sort of addictive. Started years ago in the military; haven't stopped since." There's not much visible tonight, fully kitted out as Miles is. "Not much to see at the moment; most everything's under shirt and trousers," he explains, a little apologetically -- but pulls his shirt collar aside to display dark loopy script mounting the curve of thickly-muscled trapezius, and a sliver of his former regimental insignia, lower down in the vee of his collar. Andie turns aside, lifting her hair; he stops to admire her small star. "Very nice," he muses aloud, inked fingers gently holding dark curls aside. The skin is warm and soft under Miles' touch, Prada-scented and as downy as a fresh peach. He isn't nearly drunk enough yet to abandon decorum, lean in and press whiskery lips to the nape of her neck; doesn't mean the thought doesn't cross his mind. "Estrella? Stella?" he guesses aloud, skimming a thumb lightly across the star instead.

[stuckinthesprings]

"Oh, fuck," she blurts, raising the glass back up and clacking it against his. Beautiful something-or-other is a lot more poetic than what she ends up spouting, rolling her eyes at herself as she says it anyway. "Cheers, babe. To... Us! God, I always forget to do that."

She knows, of course, there must be more ink hiding under his professor-y getup, and his admission has a you’ll have to show me sometime on her tongue, ready to strike— but she’s distracted by the subtle lore drop buried between words, a mention of the military, the first chew of real information she gets, and it’s a miracle how she’s not smacking herself over the head and and letting a duh slip past. It certainly puts a lot about his demeanor into perspective.

And then, stupidly and shallowly, she’s having to explain that no, her middle name is literally just Star (about as on-the-nose as the rest of her existence) before jumping into a line of questioning that spans at least a couple of hours, peppered with drinks she loses count of and periodic clouds of blue razz. He rambles on his time in service, his job here, the general hobbies, likes, and dislikes that often make up the typical dating gab. She hooks onto everything with enthusiastic interest, throwing back innermittent answers of her own: talk of family, music, and the city she misses so much (with plenty of clarifications that she’s definitely having fun now, though).

It’s not until the jukebox starts blasting Thank God I’m A Country Boy that she’s (quite rudely) plucked straight from the middle of her sentence about some convoluted seaside venture in the Gem Bay, mouth hanging open and vape perched precariously in her fingers. It’d gotten busier around them without her taking a single notice, and it’s only a matter of seconds before they all turn into an ocean of whooping and Boomhauer-isms. And, with swiftness, she realizes one thing above all else: she’s drunk.

“Noooooo,” she croons, head falling back, bleary eyes narrowing despite the breezy smile that’s stayed constant all evening. “Here, help me up— I can’t take it!” She uncrosses her ankles and latches onto his hands, popping up from the barstool with a giggly wobble and blinking as her vision blurs.

One look of get me out of here and her things are dutifully gathered, Miles accompanying her to the door as if he’s leading them out of a cave. “Oop!” She chirps as she bumps past the accumulating crowd rising to their feet, speeding up and finally taking in a relieved breath once she finds herself in the open air, elbows up and the backs of her hands resting drowsily against her forehead. “God, that was a close one.” She’s witnessed that particular number before and doesn’t need a repeat.

The evening has since cooled post-sunset, and she has a dizzy moment of admiring the visible stars— one of the only treats about living rural— before her gaze lands on Miles, a soft scoff of a laugh rising as the song continues on, muffled but jaunty all the same. “Sorry if you like that one,” she half-jokes, rising onto her tippy-toes and leaning against his frame. “One day…” she sighs wistfully, “One day I’m gonna hack the speakers in there. And you’re invited.”

[vespcrtines]

Huck huffs out another one of those low, rough laughs, the same as before, that barely makes it past his throat but leaves a ghost of a grin behind. “Long as you ain’t tryin’ to drive, you’ll be fine. Truck’s got more rust than sense, but she’s loyal.” His hand drops to the cigarette pack when she points, calloused thumb brushing over the battered paperboard before he slides one out, offering it between two fingers with a lazy little tilt of his head.

“Don’t gotta steal it. Fair trade for lettin’ me damn near choke to death on that kazoo of yours.”

The girlfriend comment lands a moment or so later, soft and offhand, but it sticks a little. Brings a brow up to a question he hadn't had to answer in years—not since Logan was born, at least. Not since Logan’s mama packed up and didn’t so much as cross the Buchanan fence line again. Folks stopped asking after that. Assumed things, maybe. Truth was, he never much cared to correct them.

His head falls back as he scratches at the side of his neck, a wry huff escaping pursed lips before he finally speaks. “Ain’t got one,” he says, voice dipping low, easy. Honest. But that part wasn't shocking. “Ain’t had anybody ask in a long while, neither. Guess havin’ a kid tends to dry up the ol’ dating pool.” He cuts her a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth tugging up, just a little. “So, y'know. No one to wrestle the passenger side for.”

There’s a flicker of humor in his eyes, the faintest little spark of something Huck Buchanan hadn’t dusted off in longer than he cares to count. Her words are bright and eager, catching hold of the ridiculous story like it’s the best thing she’s heard all week. Hell, come to think of it, she's catching hold of everything he's been saying like it's the best thing she's heard all week. Maybe it is. City girl might be bored out of her mind in a place like this, Lord knows he can be, too. But, on the off chance it's more him than his ridiculous tales of hayseed passtimes, well. It knocks something loose in him.

“Hell, I think you might actually love it,” he says, tipping his head back even further against the bench, curls falling clear of his brow as his arm settles along the backrest, easy and loose like they’ve got all night. “Folks pack that track like it’s the damn rodeo. Nothin’ better to do in a town where the biggest thrill’s whether Darla Gibbons gets bucked off her zero turn for the seventh year in a row.”

His gaze finds her again, lingering this time. Not in a way that’s careless—Huck Buchanan’s never been careless a day in his life—but in a way that says he wouldn’t mind sitting like this a while longer. Let her pick his brain all she wants.

“You show up to that race…” He shakes his head, grin crooked, voice dipping low to murmur a thought he lets loose too easily out of his mind. “Ain’t a soul in this town or the next gonna be watchin’ the track. Be too busy wonderin’ who the hell the pretty girl ridin’ shotgun with me is."

[stuckinthesprings]

It’s an odd sort of charm, where people bite off the ends of their words and drawl like they’ve got all the time in the world and refer to their trucks as she. Which is something she’d never thought she’d find herself admitting, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. And yet, it’s happening, as easily as the spring flowers bloom. For the first time, the storybook quality of her dad’s old tales are refired with a new, strangely understandable meaning.

She gladly accepts the cigarette— acoustic vape— between finger and thumb, fingertips brushing his with a slow intentionality and hiding her smile as she pins it between glossy lips, the end sizzling as she lights it up and takes a couple of puffs, simply listening for once.

She wishes she had some sort of handbook on everyone here. Live here long enough and you don’t need one, but she certainly hasn’t, and suddenly she’s feeling a little bad, because the way he talks about it doesn’t make it sound like things ended particularly well. Damn, it really be like that sometimes, is what her best friend back home would say, and she has to huff it away along with the smoke.

She thinks maybe she fucked up by bringing it up, but then, by some miraculous force of nature, he starts flirting back, as if finally asking to bum a cigarette were the magic words all along. One second they’re talking about zero-turn lawn mowers, the next… She’s waving a hand, whisking through tobacco-plumed air, an airy giggle bubbling up within. “Or maybe they’re looking at the pretty driver,” she throws back with ease, meeting his bright blue gaze with an unanticipated flutter in her stomach.

It’s easier to chat people up here than back in the city, all things considered. This isn’t her home; any consequences she might face don’t feel as permanent or dire as they would be there, though she stops to remind herself that her place here is a consequence. It sure doesn’t feel like one right now, though— not with the way he’s looking at her, chewing on his smile like he’s still not sure if he wants to let it loose. It makes her feel like she’s won something. “How many kazoos will it take to get you on a ride with me?”