Kudzu – Chapter One
"Your heart blames it on you this time."
IMAGE SOURCE: [x].
GUIDING GROOVES: "Blame It On the Sun" by Stevie Wonder.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Heartbreak. Extreme angst.
A/N: I've owed y'all this joint for nearly a year. 🫠 Charge my head, not my heart. I deeply appreciate all the patience, the gentle nudges, the support and the inspiration y'all provide my soul. This is meant to be a very feel-oriented introduction to AU Nebraska (read: a whole ass worldbuilding experiment). As always, comments are appreciated. 🥰
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There were many things that Nebraska Williams wore well. Many. Heartbreak, however, wasn’t one of them.
Fifty-two nights passed since his breakup with AD was made official. His comforts were completely confiscated, compounded by a bevy of emotions: the lack of forgiveness he refused to extend to himself; the blame he initially (and readily) placed on his wayward dick but knew it was his inconsiderate mind at the root of his actions; the grief that came with mourning the most fulfilling partnership he’d ever experienced. Just to name a few.
A sense of stillness consumed him. That stillness haunted their once-shared space like ghosts in the witching hour. Her silhouette often teased his peripheral. Her scent, a mixture of black currant and magnolia, occasionally invaded his senses. The phantom feeling of her fingertips grazing his cranial scar questioned his sanity. Whatever progress he thought he was making was progress purely in theory. He was stuck. And that was a severe understatement.
Nebraska carried the last moving box down the entryway of his warehouse-style apartment. AD would be over soon to pick up the last of her things. He sighed at the finality of it all before welcoming the distraction of an episode of “Doug” and its scored solution to the silence. The Nickelodeon version, of course. He never quite understood Disney’s direction once they acquired the property.
Patti, you’re the ketchup on my (hiccup) hotdog! / Patti, you’re the ice in my (hiccup) tea!
The sound of bubbling water moved his focus to the kitchen next. He added the Samyang noodles to the boil and watched them cook. After setting a bit of water on the side for mixing later, he tore through the carbonara and spice sauce packets with his teeth.
Patti, you're the mustard on my (hiccup) -wich! / And, Patti, you're the mayonnaise for me! / Whoa-oh-oh!
He chuckled at the subliminal poking of his favorite nostalgic cynic. The universe couldn’t and wouldn’t cut a nigga a break.
Bowl in hand, he sunk into the couch and began to eat. It was something slight, filled a forced need. A comfort meal of his for the fourth night straight. When he wasn’t chomping down on the extremely-spicy-with-just-the-right-amout-of-salty delicacy, he was cruising through Instagram, catching up on the escapades of his crew by way of Stories.
Anthony and Brianna’s date night at a gallery that culminated with sashimi at a fancy spot in the city. Kwabena’s weekly culture rant, 80s erotic thrillers centering tonight's argument. Quincy’s poll to help him pick out his next pair of frames, knowing damn well he wasn’t going to consider the results with his steadfast ass.
Quite a few updates from the artists he kept tabs on – exhibit announcements, behind-the-scenes, new work, the like and everything in between. Rounded out by some old associates from various stages of his journey that he couldn’t unfollow but tapped through out of unspoken obligation (because those are just “the rules”).
A push notification from AD interrupted his dinner doom-scrolling. It was anticipated. She’d reached out earlier in the week, making her plans to grab her items known and clear with a polite, stoic voice memo. He made sure to prepare everything with a meticulous eye; every second of his free time was devoted to gathering them all and boxing them with care. Nebraska wasn’t necessarily looking forward to the series finale this symbolized. Instead, he reveled in this being his chance to see her face-to-face after a month’s time. He banked on this being his last chance to fix it all.
She robbed him of that with one screenshot of a TaskRabbit confirmation without context. Three bouncing grey dots appeared in the chatbox before he could put his bowl down and thumb a response.
She conjured one quicker.
“No, no, no, no.” The springs under the sectional yelped as Nebraska sat upright. “AD, c’monnnnn,” he bellowed out loud in distress. Feverishly and foolishly, he responded. Over-responded. Attempted a phone call that AD promptly declined. His chest started to constrict.
It was really happening. The grand closing in the form of an iMessage chat.
Heavy was the only way to describe it. Heavy defeat.
Nebraska nestled his phone between his bottom lip and the scruff cloaking his chin. That was it. Hell, he should be lucky AD even gave him this. Those blue bubbles should’ve turned green weeks ago. How selfish of him to think he deserved penance or reconciliation. How telling that he assumed she had another ounce of grace to offer. Adrienne’s instruction to “stay out of trouble” was intentional.
And then there was that damn painting. The backdrop for the many celebrations, disagreements, duvet tussles, venting sessions and future ideating that hung in the center of their bedroom. His favorite piece from his favorite artist. A gift from his former beloved, one that required AD to deplete her savings to acquire it. A gift he repaid with his carelessness more often than not.
As a musical assortment led by a harmonica and banjo ushered in the episode’s credits, Nebraska looked over to the painting leaning on the boxes, a heavy lump forming in his throat.
"Shit."
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