Short little wintery Bondy fic to kick off the new year :)
word count: 557
***
This was the first Christmas you'd spent with Bondy since moving in with him up north, and the weather was full of surprises. So when you woke up one morning to see your garden covered in a blanket of fresh snow you jumped out of bed and practically threw yourself down the stairs to check it out.
Barefoot and still in your dressing gown, you stepped out onto the lawn, instantly cringing from the cold that shot up through your legs. You didn't hear him come down the stairs, but Bondy chuckled behind you and coaxed you back inside with a gentle hand on your shoulder.
"We can go out there, just promise me you'll wrap up first." He said, playfully flicking your nose with his fingertip.
Now fully dressed in your coat and boots, knitted jumper tucked into your jeans, you practically dived face first into a pile of snow that had accumulated in the corner of the garden. Bondy was somewhere behind you scraping together bricks of snow.
Eventually you waddled over to him after flailing around in the snow and coating your clothes and hair in the cold powder.
"Want a hand?" You offered, curiously leaning over his shoulder and observing the spherical wall he'd begun making.
"Yes please love." He said, taking a few steps back to admire his progress so far. He gave you a few pointers and you got to work, packing the snow into solid rectangles and stacking them delicately on top of each other.
Eventually you’d developed a sort of system, you scrape snow into fairly even piles for him, Johnny does the more complicated job of making them into bricks before handing them back to you to add to the wall. You added the finishing touches by smoothing out the top and filling in the cracks with more snow to make it more “structurally sound” as Johnny had put it, before crawling inside. You both sat with your legs crossed, knees hugged closely to your chest as you chatted and watched your breath freeze as it left your lips.
“Hey, this isn’t half bad. I’d say we did a pretty good job.” You commented optimistically.
“Mhm and I think we should christen it with a joke”
“Oh god…” You roll your eyes
“How does a penguin build its house?”
You blink at him silently, preparing for the punchline
“Igloos it together” Johnny answers with a smirk
“I saw that one coming from a mile away”
“Did not.” He retorts like a child, playfully nudging you.
“Did too,” You argue back “anyway, ours doesn’t need glue. See? It’s rock solid-”
Just as you said that you knocked on the wall with your first to prove your point, however ended up putting your arm through the snow and causing the whole wall to collapse. Johnny chuckled as you struggled to free your arm from under the snow.
“Careful love, that could’ve been a lawsuit.”
“Shame it didn’t all come down on top of you, then you wouldn’t be laughing I bet.”
“You’re right I wouldn’t, I’d probably suffocate instead.”
“You wouldn’t suffocate, because unlike you I’d actually be concerned and help you out.”
When he eventually does rescue your arm from the rubble of your lovingly crafted igloo, he taps on your arm a couple of times.
“Hmm, looks like we’re gonna need an amputation.”
“Which I’ll pay for with the money I win from suing you.” You grinned
I’ve got some ideas I’m working on fic wise (lmao i know it’s hard to imagine) but on the side I’d really really like to find other catb writers, and just anyone who would like to be friends/mutuals!
This fandom and the amazing writers and blogs are what truly inspire me to try and write at all, and I’d love to be apart of a community thats only limits are tumblr’s censorship, and our imagination lmao
!Also! if you know any writers or have one’s you’d like to recommend, please don’t hesitate to submit their handles through my asks or however you prefer (i’m dying to check out as many as possible!)
prompt reader meets van while photographing the band in a photoshoot for @i-wanna-bring-you-home-myself. fluffy! word count - 2857.
notes I’ve never seen people do mood boards for their fics, so I’m going to continue doing it since it was so fun for Red. Let me know what you think!
__________
You slid your thumb across the winder of your 35mm camera, and sighed when you realized you’d used up the last picture on the roll.
“Take 5, lads,” you yelled to the four men posted up near the studio backdrop, and walked to your equipment table. To your anger, you realized the side pocket of your camera bag was empty. You’d only packed three rolls of film that day, and you’d just finished all the three on people unwilling to pose. These men took ages to photograph properly, and even so, still made odd “serious” faces that didn’t look natural. Ugh. You had barely used two rolls of film on Rita Ora last week, and her management had asked for a whole lot more final photos than Catfish and the Whatever-they-were-called. You’ve got to be kidding me, you mumbled under your breath, and pushed the palm of your hand against your forehead.
“Problem, love?” a voice piped up from behind you. You swiveled. Standing there was the frontman of the band you were shooting for their upcoming album booklet. He had a hard time with clenching his jaw in photos, and you had to tell him to relax multiple times, but he kept jittering around and making everyone nervous until you had to expel him for a cigarette break about an hour earlier. You weren’t too keen on talking with him; he’d interfered with your work too much by now, and he seemed like he could be a stressful presence on the regular. However, you had to keep it professional. Kelsey, your intern, giggled. Early on, she’d noticed how upset this particular job had made you.
“Ran out of film. Don’t have any more in the kit,” you sighed, talking more into the air than to the man who’d asked. “I might just let you all go today. I think we have the material we need.”
He chuckled, and sat on a nearby pop art yellow chair under a softbox, spindly legs awkwardly bent beneath the metal chair seat. “I doubt that. We lot are terrible at photos.” At that, the corners of your mouth turned upward. At least he knew he couldn’t model. His humility brightened your mood a tad.
“People have told us before, ‘You’re all nice, but you’ve got no good looks and you can’t pose for shit.’ Even when they use the regular cameras they’ve gotta change the SD card or whatever. We’re pros at wasting time. See, me mate Larry and I, he’s over there, we sit up in our kitchen for ---”
The buzzer overhead sounded off that the five minute break was over, and that everyone should return to their places for photos. You smiled and nodded toward the ceiling to dismiss him. Bless. Boy could he run his mouth.
The frontman stood up and stretched his legs a little. Instead of walking to the backdrop, he walked over to his friend, presumably Larry, and whispered in his ear. You shook your head and readied your digital camera. You were so glad you’d grabbed it as you left out the door this morning.
“Y/N, are we moving to digital?” Kelsey asked, ready to take orders.
“Yep, go ahead and dismantle the flashes on stands; we won’t be needing them for this shoot since I have another to attach to my camera. Thank you!” you called as Kelsey scurried about the studio and between Catfish members.
Once the men were back in place -- drummer and bassist in the back, lead guitarist and vocalist up front -- you readied a separate camera.
The band’s manager, Mike, walked in after you’d taken a few test shots. You called over to him.
“Hey Mike, unfortunately the photoshoot has taken up the three rolls of film I had ready for today. I have to use my digital camera to finish the rest.”
Mike walked over, gnawing on a toothpick. “Won’t that interfere with the finished effect of the photos we specifically booked your studio for?” he asked cautiously -- not getting angry yet, but about to be. “We don’t want to pay extra for editing to achieve that film look.”
“It will, but unless we get our hands on some film, I can’t continue. My studio didn’t expect them to be so… uncooperative.”
The mention of the word seemed to evoke whispers from the band members as you spoke, only semi-hushedly, to the manager, who tersely responded.
“My... apologies. We don’t know if we’ll be coming back here another day for the rest of the shoot. We’re on a tight schedule.” His eyebrow furrowed first at you, and then he shot a look over his shoulder at the four men standing awkwardly on the white paper drawn down for the shoot. Kelsey pretended to not be listening.
“And so am I. Today is the only day I blocked out for you lot.” The tension in the room climbed to uncomfortable levels as your voice rose.
The frontman came up from behind and tapped on Mike’s shoulder so he’d let him into the circle of conversation. “If it’s any consolation, I can pay to get you more film,” he said, sympathetic.
“That would be nice of you, but the camera takes only a certain kind,” you shrug. “I don’t think you’d be able to get it today.”
“Give me the details, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Very well,” the manager cut in, and left the circle to attend to other matters, probably to try to book another studio for this afternoon. You guessed you were trusting the frontman now.
“Thank you,” you said to him. You handed him a piece of paper with the film type scrawled onto it, courtesy of Kelsey. He smirked, pivoted on his heel, and walked away.
Stressed and in need of a dose of caffeine, you made your way to the table filled with snacks and drinks provided for your camera crew and the band. Mug in hand, you went to pour the coffee jug and realized there wasn’t any left. You scoffed and picked up a scone instead.
“Sorry,” the person next to you said raspily, clearing his throat before speaking again: “Took the last bit of coffee not more than five minutes ago. It was mostly the dregs though.” His rabbit teeth smiled in consolation, and then he sauntered off in a matching tracksuit. He paused to check his phone, typed out a text, and then kept walking. You took in the sight of the little man in his tracksuit, and chuckled to yourself.
At a table a ways away from the studio setup, you chewed your scone dejectedly. You were supposed to be a professional… but then again, so were they! They came into your studio and wasted your time all day, and you probably only got two good shots from all those rolls you used up. You wouldn’t be able to tell if they were adequate until you developed the film.
You sat there for thirty minutes, waiting for the lanky frontman to return. You’d sent the band members out on lunch break in the meantime. Kelsey entertained you and your lighting crew by setting up her laptop with Shane Dawson’s latest conspiracy videos… needless to say, your mood brightened considerably.
While you were checking your phone, a small box came down sharply on the table, and then a cup next to it. You looked up in awe. There the frontman was, smiling ear-to-ear.
“Five rolls of state-of-the-art film you asked for, exactly for your camera, and a venti coffee, because the bags under your eyes aren’t becoming you, love.”
“How did you…..?”
“Don’t mention it. I’m sorry to have caused you all this trouble today. I know you can’t complain much ‘cause it’s your job, but if I can make it less hectic, I will.”
“I have no words. That was…. quick.”
“I know,” he winked, and ambled back to where the other band members were camped out against the backdrop.
You stood from your seat and threw the plate with scone crumbs into the wash bin for the caterer, took a long sip of coffee, and started to ready your camera with a little pep in your step.
“Kelsey, would you mind calling Mike to tell him everything’s fine? Van saved the day.”
You listened to the chit-chat as you prepped.
“Van!” the guy in the tracksuit yelled across the room. It echoed against the industrial pipes framing the white brick. “Van!”
“What d’you want Larry?” the frontman, presumably Van, answered sharply before sitting up and catching whatever Larry had thrown at him.
Van. Cute name. It reminded you of a guy you’d met a few years ago at a pub. His name was also Van, and he’d bought you a few drinks before making out with you in the alley behind it. Thinking about that experience made you blush, and chuckle a little to yourself. Oh, the things you did when you were younger. Kelsey noticed you smiling, and air-high-fived you from across the room for getting into a better mood.
“I don’t get this Animal Crossing game, Benji,” the tall one with the hat said to the guy next to him. “Why do I have to give the animals what they want? Why can’t I get off on withholding?”
Bob snickered, and shook his curls out. Benji spoke slower than you’d ever heard anyone speak. “Bondy…. you just collect what they want from the different areas, and come back to them when you have it all,” he said. “It’s the whole premise of the game.”
“I don’t like this fuckin’ app,” Bondy said, laughing, and put his phone back in his shirt pocket.
“You’re going to have to remove that from your shirt pocket,” you told Bondy. “And the pack of ciggies you’ve got lingering in your front jeans pocket. I see you,” you motioned between your eyes and his with two fingers.
“Do what the woman says, Bond,” Van piped up, and smiled softly at you. For once that day, you felt like smiling back. Caffeine works wonders.
Camera in hand, you walked over to them and put your elbow on your hip. “I know you’re all tired, and so am I, so let’s try to get these done as quickly as possible.”
*****
That same night, shortly before closing time, glow from the safelight bulbs washed the studio darkroom in redness. You were dipping photos in solution, and hanging them on the clothespin against the wall to dry.
A knock at the outer door in the hall caused your concentration to break, and you jumped a bit. You were the only one in the office adjoining the studio today.
You pressed the intercom button on the far wall. “I’ll be out in a second!” you called, and removed your gloves.
You made sure the light was turned off in the hall before you opened the door, and then locked the darkroom before opening the hall door into the main studio, where Van himself was stood admiring your past photography framed on the industrial brick walls.
“Hello, love,” Van said, moving to stand closer to your desk. He’d changed clothes since the shoot, into a simple black short sleeve and black denim. You walked behind the desk in the studio and sat in your chair, waiting for him to speak again.
“It’s Van McCann, remember me?”
“How could I forget such a charming and resourceful person. Can I help you tonight, Van?”
“Just checking the status on those photos,” he said, tongue between his teeth.
“Unfortunately, they can only be picked up by the person who booked the shoot… and in your case, that’s Mike. Also, it takes at least a week to process them and log them. You’re a tad bit early, I’m afraid.”
You shook the computer mouse back and forth to revive your sleeping computer, and in your Catfish business folder, you made a note that said Van tried to pick up photos under the “Contact” spreadsheet.
Van leaned his elbows across the high shelf of the desk, and peered down at you, coquettish smile on his face. “Can’t you make an exception for little old me?”
“Are you…. flirting with me?”
“Might be.”
“Well, I have to close up shop in a few, Mr. McCann, so if you’re going to ask me out, make it quick.”
“As quick as the film retrieval, or?” he trailed off, smiling so hard his teeth could bust.
“Quicker than that.”
******
The next day at the studio, Kelsey was talkative.
“So, Y/N, how’d it go?”
“What do you mean, Kels?”
“Last night.”
“Wha ---”
“You wrote a note in the spreadsheet that Van tried to come pick up photos. The spreadsheet was still up on the computer, which you never accidentally leave open, or turned on, meaning something had to have happened to get you distracted. And then, after I’d seen that, I got a call from the band’s manager, Mike, asking to come round to pick up the photos today, meaning Van didn’t retrieve them. So I knew he was up to something. And you can’t wipe the grin off your face today. Which I guess answers the question -- last night went great.”
“I mean, yeah. We went to dinner. He seems traditional but fun. I laughed my ass off. It was…. good.” You tried to brush it off nonchalantly. Kelsey smiled mirthfully.
“Not in that way, Kelsey, he and I just met.”
“I never know with you! Remember the time---”
The banter was interrupted by a ring of the bells over the studio door.
“Good morning, Y/N,” Van sauntered in, carrying a vase overflowing with sunflowers. “These are for you.”
“Holy fuck,” Kelsey whispered, giggling softly to herself.
Your eyes widened as you silently took the vase from him. When you’d caught your breath, blush still fire engine red and evident on your cheeks, you turned to him. “Sunflowers are my favorite.”
He winked, and said, “how about coming out to lunch with me today?”
*****
The chivalry continued throughout the next several weeks, and you and Van saw each other at least every other day. Sometimes he’d pop into your studio with a coffee for you, other times he’d find a way to whisk you away for an afternoon of fun. You two were inseparable. All the original disgruntled feelings you’d felt toward him had vanished the night he came into the office late.
“Van, today’s your lucky day,” you called to him. He was in the main part of the studio, visiting you of course, but also chatting it up with a friend who knew Bob.
He walked over to your desk and leaned over to whisper in your ear. “Am I going to get lucky on this lucky day? After all, I am Irish. The luck abounds.”
“Maybe, if you don’t keep spitting in my ear,” you laughed.
Van glanced at your computer monitor and smiled. “These the photos?”
“Mmhhm! The second set you came back for, after the first press shoot. The ones where you all weren’t being assholes.”
Van smiled. “But if the band hadn’t been so uncooperative, we’d have never got on so well.”
You chuckled, “Maybe so.” You shifted your gaze back to the computer, and put on a presenter’s voice. “Fresh off the press, edited by my own hand. Digitized for you and your friends. Want to have a look?”
Van let you scroll past a few before commenting. Mike had given orders that they be transformed from color to black and white. That was easy, but finding a photo where they all looked decent and not like angry Arctic Monkeys fans was a challenge. You were able to find a few for their next press photos.
“Shit, you make me look good,” Van snickered, pointing at his jawline in one photo.
“You already look good.”
“But like… better.”
You scrolled past a few more, enchanting Van with the photos. When he spoke up again, his voice was a bit softer.
“You just make me better.”
You weren’t expecting such sincerity. You leaned up to where he was propped over the desk and kissed him. His plump lips tasted like the cherry chapstick he borrowed from you earlier.
“And I know we’ve only been going out together for two months, but there’s something I need to tell you.”
Your back arched with a tingle and you sat up straight in your chair. Fuck. No. Nope. It was too early for this, wasn’t it? Every nerve in your body was fighting the urge to hyperventilate. There’s no way he could love you this soon. Were you excited? But you were used to being independent. Breathe. He was good for you though. But what if it was a trap? You needed to--
“I’m going on tour.”
“Thank God,” you huffed out, relaxing in your chair.
“What?” Van asked, shocked.
“No! No, I meant... sorry… I didn’t mean that I’m glad you’re leaving. I just thought you were about to tell me you loved me.” You facepalmed. He smiled, and laid his chin to rest on his hand, looking you in the eyes.
But that was all the Before. You were now in the After.
The crepitating silence of time resonated in the streets like 200 year old floorboards under heavy boots. All of the joy you once felt evaporated; your memories floating around like specters, tokens of a life now past. Some days it felt like a hallucination, your life now so foreign it was as if you were watching it from the outside, hovering above yourself with the rest of your happy memories sulking around town like wraiths. Haunting yourself. It seemed as though everything you once knew had evacuated; disappeared without a trace. What remained wandered around like a lost dog, homeless and hopeless. When you got the overwhelming feeling that this was just a dream, and you would wake up next to Van, you flicked the inside of your wrist to bring you back to reality. This was real. This was happening. You were here. Van was not.
Not even a year ago you were chasing each other about, skipping over broken glass and laughing at everything.
Days passed the way the trees shed their leaves in autumn: slowly, then suddenly. You started to get out of bed more; even getting a job doing freelance copywriting and editing online. It took your mind out of the guest house, out of Llandudno, and gave you something tangible to do while putting money in your pocket that would all eventually go to the baby. You started shopping for baby stuff at thrift stores and online exchange groups, still avoiding social media for any other reason. You dressed modestly and kept your head low. You shopped off peak times to avoid running in to anyone you knew. Sometimes you felt like people were watching you, but you avoided eye contact to prevent any awkward encounters and dressed in baggy clothes to avoid suspicion.
But when you were in private, you couldn’t help pull up your blouse and admire your swollen abdomen, and would often massage it for hours. It was something that was yours, something you made. No one could take this away from you.
Your body had rapidly expanded; ripe with the promise of new life. You thought you would hate pregnancy and in some ways you did, but you had never felt so powerful and beautiful. How strange and wonderful it was to be able to create life. It felt like you held the keys to the universe between your thighs. Men had to construct power out of arcane figments and through oppressing others; women were born with it, naturally.
Motherhood was never something you thought much about outside of eventually having children with Van someday. It wasn’t something you were desperate for or avoiding; just a thing that would happen in life like death and taxes. You liked kids well enough, but the idea of being a mum the way some people elevated the title didn’t appeal to you. You had always pitied the girls who got pregnant right away, pushing their babies in prams around town as if it were an expensive car. They were so simple and happy, having nothing in life but purpose. Their baby’s fathers were deadbeats or on and off again, some leftover boyfriend from high school, some anonymous and truant.
Having a child with someone you loved seemed natural. Single motherhood had never seemed like a desirable option, you never imagined yourself wanting a child so badly you were willing to do it alone. But here you were, pregnant and unwed.
What changed, you weren’t sure. You and Van had never talked about what would happen if you unexpectedly fell pregnant. He was very confident in his purpose to be a father, talking about having children as if it was coming up on the calendar like Christmas. However, he never reconciled how children would factor into his career, especially his desire to be a career band. If he was constantly touring, how often would he be able to see them? Surely he wouldn’t expect them to go on tour with him, depriving them of a normal childhood. Then again, having a rockstar as a father voids your life from any semblance of normalcy. Everything would be a compromise or a sacrifice.
It was always you and your children who would have to take the fall. You couldn’t build a life or career of your own if you were following him around everywhere. Then when you fell pregnant, having to hang back and raise babies by yourself while your love was off touring. Van would get to have a career and a dutiful partner to carry and raise his children, even if he didn’t get to see them as much as he liked. No sacrifices.
You had always thought in some part of your mind you would terminate if you found yourself where you were now. Especially in high school, before you had left to follow him, and you could have finished school and gone to uni. You’d heard of other girls having terminations, you surely wouldn’t be the first or the last. Van would have only been a short part of your life, surely you would go on to accomplish bigger things and have greater loves. When you looked back, your relationship with Van would be a series of blurs, as if it never occurred. A dream long past.
But that was all the Before. You were now in the After. Van had evenly divided your life into Before and After when he savagely dumped you. Before, you were Van’s. After, you were not. You had never considered After as a real possibility, too drunk in love to weigh the viable consequences of your present decision making. If Van were to leave you, you would have nothing, but the kind of nothing you could mold like clay into a makeshift home. Perhaps not a castle, but a viable shelter one could habit. You could finish school, go to uni, find a job, and never return.
But Van did not merely leave you. Van left you with a child. With nothing in your wallet but a ticket home. Even though he had broken up with you, it was still a child born out of love. You couldn’t force yourself to hate him. Instead, when you thought of him, your heart just sank, leaving in its wake a grief so raw it felt primal. Even though Van had shattered your heart, you still loved him. A child made from love is still born of love, no matter what happens between those two events. Terminating the child of the man you loved felt wrong, despite how thoroughly he discarded you. Especially when you had nothing else to show for it. By having this child, you were giving your love new life.
-
The first time you and Van made love was in his bedroom. He had played you some new songs he had written, and you gushed over his talent like you always did. He could play you new songs every day and it would thrill you just as much as it had the day before. This, of course, led to making out. To your hands down the front of each other’s pants, to pulling off your clothes like they were on fire. Being naked together was still a novelty, fresh and exciting as the day you kissed at that party. The feeling of bare skin pressed together made your whole body tingle, echoing the hunger you felt in your most sacred spaces. You wrapped your legs around his back to maximize the area your skin was in contact. Your bodies rocked together and the earth stood still, as if you were the first couple to discover how to become a part of each other.
You thought your world would change upon your sexual debut, that you would gain some worldly knowledge or unleash a host of curses like pandora’s box. But you largely felt the same. There was no rapture. You had experienced something new, but it hadn’t changed anything for you. You remained yourself. The world spun madly on.
-
Van stopped inhabiting your mind as he once had. Every once and a while you would see something that reminded you of him, like jaffa cakes in the store or Austin Powers playing on TV. Or you would hear someone mention the band, which wasn’t often when you hardly spoke to anyone outside of your family. It didn’t hurt any less when you were reminded of him, but the pain didn’t visit quite so often. The band released a new album, which you only learned about by a poster near the bus stop. You didn’t listen to it.
-
When it came time to pick a name, you weren’t sure what you wanted. For so long, it had just been the baby, nameless but present. Giving it a name was making it real. It would be here soon, earthside. No longer just a concept growing inside of you. Out of your body, and into your arms. Yours.
-
Your brother would never admit it, but he was secretly ecstatic to be an uncle. He built furniture for the nursery and identified every nook and cranny of the guest house that would need to be baby-proofed. Your parents warmed to the idea of being grandparents, checking up on you daily; making sure you ate and took prenatal vitamins. Your mother started bringing home baby clothes and asking to accompany you to your appointments. But the appointments felt too private, you were doing this alone and wanted to meet your baby alone for the first time. You didn’t even want anyone in the delivery room with you. Except Van. You used to think nothing could be more pathetic than having to be alone in the delivery room, but you were excited to have your child all to yourself for their first moments of life.
The OB/GYN who helped you make a birth plan gave you a quizzical look when you said you would be alone in the delivery room. Surely she had noticed the lack of ring on your finger and the fact that you always arrived to appointments alone. Very rarely did the judgement of others truly bother you, but it hurt to be reminded that you were an unwanted fool, hungover on love. That this all could have been avoided had you terminated. But who is scorning all the men who knock women up and leave them to give birth alone? Why is there shame in being the one that stayed?
-
Soon you were so pregnant you could hardly hide it, and had to hide yourself in order to avoid the attention. You asked your family to pick up groceries for you, afraid of being recognized. The last thing you needed was more external stress when you were due any day now.
However, it was late one night and no one in your family was nearby, and you were desperately craving some yoghurt. You checked the clock anxiously, figuring no one would be at Tesco on a Friday night. Everyone but you would be at the pub or at home with loved ones. You put on your baggiest outfit just in case, but even that couldn’t disguise that you were with child.
The shops were a brief walk away, and the cover of night was suitable camouflage. You thought about how fucking pathetic you looked, a pregnant girl trying to hide it while walking alone in the dark on a Friday. The night sky was the same shade as when Van had walked you home from that party, inky and rich. Only now the breeze felt that much more bitter.
-
Tesco was predictably empty, and you exhaled a sigh of relief at the lack of customers. Being out in public gave you the same adrenaline rush as when you would sneak out through your window at night to meet Van, except this time the stakes were much higher. The only sound was the low thrum of the freezers and fluorescent lights. You shuffled to the dairy case at the back of the store, trying to make as little noise as possible, studying the brown and beige pattern of the floor tiles. Your abdomen was now too large for you to zip up your coat over it, so you held it together with your spare hand, a basket in the other.
It seemed that every section in the store had been rearranged since your previous visit, and you felt disoriented wandering around the aisles. The yoghurt section seemed to have doubled since the last time you were there. There were all sorts of flavors and various milk bases, like goat and coconut. You absentmindedly threw several in your basket, unsure of what you wanted now and later.
Suddenly, you felt the unmistakable feeling of eyes glazing over you, a petite form hovering in your peripheral. You could tell from the intensity this wasn’t a stranger--you were being recognized. That realization alone spawned sheer panic, your heart rate quickening. That panic amplified when you looked down, realizing that you had let go of the edges of your coat to stock your basket, your bump on full display.
You turned to the opposite side of the body, hoping to avoid an awkward confrontation. In the corner hung a convex security mirror. In it’s distorted reflection, you recognized the body that had been watching you.
It was Mary McCann.
-
You practically sprinted towards the self checkout, hands fumbling with every scan. You walked faster on the way home than you ever had in your non-pregnant life. By the time you made it in the guest house, you were out of breath and exhausted. Your face was wet--you hadn’t realized you’d been crying. You threw the yoghurt in the fridge, still in the plastic Tesco bag.
Leaning against the wall, you struggled to catch your breath. Fuck. On a night you didn’t think anyone would be out except losers like yourself. The cruel irony of it all.
Anyone adjacent to Van, including Van himself, was exactly who you wanted to avoid. You had no idea what he had told his parents about you. What if they thought you had broken up with him and had gotten pregnant by someone else? Surely they didn’t still think you were together.
Seeing Mary also meant confronting another painful reality for your child: that their life would be half. They would have half the parents, half the family, half the resources, half the attention. Half of the visitors, half of the birthday cards, half of the gifts on Christmas. Half of the support. Half of the love.
This realization turned your stomach, grief bubbling up through your esophagus in dry heaves and sobs. How could you be so fucking selfish? The child was yours, but at what cost to them? At least if you had terminated, you could have eventually moved on and pretended it had never happened. Now you had an eternal scarlet letter to show for it because you were a glutton for punishment.
You knew Mary and Bernie would adore any child of Van’s, whether he was with their mother or not. But the shame held onto you like an anchor; dragging you away from others. I mean, how do you tell someone you’re carrying their grandchild but their own child wants nothing to do with them? At the same time, how could you keep them from their own blood? It would be less painful if they had rejected you the way their son had. Who knows, maybe they would take his side. It wasn’t worth the potential hurt and embarrassment if they did. If Van didn’t believe in the existence of his own child, then it was best not to disturb his reality.
-
It was a crisp weekday morning when your water broke. Your brother drove you to the hospital, vowing to stay in the waiting room as long as it took so you wouldn’t be entirely alone. After several of the most transformative hours of your life, you felt the most immense, profound relief as you heard her cry for the first time. Her. Your baby girl.
Your brother wept when he got to hold her for the first time. Your whole family cried, in fact. You could hardly give her up, wanting to do skin to skin for hours while she slept in your arms. You were mesmerized, she was so delicate and fragile and you made her yourself. You had never known a love this natural and profound. The way you loved her father was different, he was someone you had found. But she was something you made, something more than yourself.
-
Single motherhood with a newborn was hard. There was no one to lean on for midnight feedings, helping with laundry, taking turns with diapers. Of course you enjoyed having her to yourself, and your family helped out as much as they could. But the exhaustion was omnipresent, as you rarely slept for more than two hours at a time on top of doing all the housework and caretaking yourself.
You tried to work whenever you could get someone to watch her or when she would go down for a nap, which happened out of the blue on one overcast afternoon. She had been fussing all morning but had refusing every feeding and pacifier, finally wearing herself out in the early afternoon so you could get some work done.
After just having settled into your desk with a warm mug of coffee, you heard a knock at the door. You didn’t know anyone to knock--your family simply barged right in, and the guest house was at the back of the property so it was out of the way of deliveries and salesmen. Throwing a sweater on over your nightgown, you softly stepped to the door, careful not to make too much noise and wake up your baby.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw on the other side of the door. You were sure it was a ghost--no way this could be real. The apparition was a long, thin body outfitted with black jeans and a well cut jacket; sat under a head of piecey blonde hair framing once-sharp cheekbones that had filled out with age. Most haunting of all were the piercing blue eyes--eyes you would recognize in a thousand lifetimes over. Your vision began to shift as if you were tripping, the air evaporated from your lungs as if you were underwater. The figure lifted it’s head as if to speak, but no sound was made.
Van was home.
-
tagging: @sweetperfume
srs I can’t believe someone asked me to tag them 😭thank you bb 💕
But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.
“How do you have so many of these?!”
Alicia had 10s of boxes of tests in her suitcase, as if they were hotel shampoo bottles or restaurant breath mints. The pink floral branding stuck out against the sea of black leather and denim that comprised her wardrobe.
“Get em in bulk on amazon, cheaper that way and saves me a trip to the store.” As if bulk buying pregnancy tests was as casual as ordering toothpaste or tampons.
You moved to the bathroom to take the test, stepping over used towels strewn across the floor. You were glad you were doing this in a place so impersonal, however uncomfortable. Whatever the outcome, good or bad, you would be able to leave without any memories tainting the space, never to return and have to relive the feeling. If this was your bathroom at home, you’d be reminded every time you had to go.
Alicia camped in front of the mirror, smacking her lips together after every layer of strawberry gloss, the wand alternating between tracing her plump lips and pumping the tube for more product. Leaning against the fake granite hotel counter, she fussed with her raven black bangs and adjusted her top.
“Is it ready yet?” She asked, without averting her eyes from their own contact, her lips now more reflective than the mirror.
“I can’t look..” The room was twisting more than your stomach as you picked up the test, double vision making it impossible to count the number of lines.
Was there just one? Two? How dark does the second one have to be?
“Does this look positive to you?”
Alicia cocked her head at the test, brow furrowed.
“The second line is faint...but it’s there.”
“Fuck,” You exhaled as you fell against the wall, exasperated.
“Didn’t you always want to be parents?”
“Well yes, but...not so soon. We don’t even have a place to live...”
Life on the road was hollow and lonely, even with your best friends. Playing shows every night to strangers who saw you as enigmas, then returning to cold hotel rooms to sleep until the having to get back on the bus or plane for the next event, repeat ad infinitum until you had crossed off a laundry list of places you had stepped foot in but not actually experienced. It all seemed so fun and exciting until you realized that you didn’t know anyone anywhere and were too tired to do things even on days off, and ended up just sleeping the day away and ordering in pizza. It wasn’t a viable situation for raising a child, and hardly sustainable for an otherwise healthy adult.
-
You laid on the scratchy quilted comforter, each tick of the clock intensifying your anxiety, like a bomb about to detonate. Every second brought you closer to confronting a situation that felt neither fully real nor fantasy. Like your whole world depended on what he would think.
The beep of the key card brought you back down to earth from the peaks of your existential dread. You couldn’t wait to be held, comforted, told it was going to be alright, even if neither of you had any idea what to do. His touch was a balm to your aching soul, one that no antidepressant could rival.
Van entered without a word.
“Baby?” You called to him, as if he couldn’t see you.
He remained silent, dropping his guitar case on the ground. After what felt like eons, he looked up toward the window behind you, as if you were invisible.
“I think you should go.” His eyes were sallow, skin dehydrated from all the smokes and shitty fast food and beers every night.
“What?” The single word came out like a croak, your voice evading you. First you couldn’t be seen, now you could hardly be heard, as if you were dissolving from material reality. As if only his acknowledgement made you real. “Van--”
“No,” He cut you off, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, the other on his hip, swiveling him towards the wall. His adams apple rose and fell without a word, bobbing like a buoy on a choppy sea.
“I don’t want to fight about this. I just want you to leave.” He looked down, running a hand through his hair before tucking it under his armpit as if he were chilled.
You were in disbelief. The same man who had invited you to accompany him across the world was discarding you as easily as you had tossed the test that said you were carrying his child into the bin.
“But Van--”
“JUST GO!” He belted, shaking the room with his volume. You had never heard him yell like that, hardly had ever seen him genuinely angry.
You struggled to catch your breath, hot tears erupting from your eyes.
“--I’m pregnant.”
There was a loud crack as Van’s phone hit the wall, leaving a mark.
“STOP LYING!” He thundered, grabbing your shoulders.
He was finally looking into your eyes. His were red and glassy and you could smell the last cigarette on his skin, so much so that you found yourself on the floor throwing up, then running to your suitcase like a wounded animal, then in the brass elevator, then out the lobby and into the street. You weren’t sure where you were going or how you would get there, just that you wanted to be gone.
When your legs finally collapsed from exhaustion, you found yourself out of breath in front of a bodega, simultaneously sweating and shivering from the physical and emotional trauma. You went in to buy a bottle of water and drank it in greedy gulps while scrolling on your phone to take your mind off of your predicament. At the top of your inbox was a flight confirmation, forwarded from the band’s manager. It was a plane ticket back home.
-
The sterile, unfriendly design of airports had always thrilled you. They were an exciting gateway to a new place in the wide world you hadn’t explored much of. You had never even been on a plane before Van had toured outside of the UK. The complete lack of rules and disregard for conventional social norms enchanted you; how strange a place to have bars open at 6am next to designer shops and restaurants more expensive than you had ever eaten in. Van would order bailey’s in your coffee while he had a morning beer, before sneaking tipsy kisses in cheap seats at 42,000 feet.
Now the airport felt like a portal to hell, sucking you back to the place you had escaped from.
You hadn’t told anyone you were coming home, or that you had broken up, or...anything. You hadn’t spoken a word to anyone besides the cab driver who asked which terminal to drop you off at. You weren’t sure who you would tell first, what you would say. If you opened your mouth, nothing would come out. Except maybe some incoherent stuttering and word salad, which fit how you felt inside--both numb and acerbic, cold to the touch but teeming with a pain so primal and acrid it could kill a horse. The water in your stomach felt like it was curdling, and you hoped you could make it through the flight without throwing up.
-
The cab dropped you off on the corner of your parent’s property where the guest house loomed, hardly visible through the gloaming. You fumbled with the key, hoping it hadn’t been changed since the last time. The door rattled open to dusty furniture and soupy air; musty and untouched as if it had been abandoned. You and Van used to sneak in here in for quickies and hold clandestine parties, lighting candles instead of turning on lights to not tip off your parents that you were present. The stain from when someone dropped a bottle of whiskey still marred the floorboards, and you wondered if anyone had been in here since you left.
You had hardly surveilled the place before the door snapped open behind you.
“Fuck, you scared me!” It was your brother, shaking the dew from his trainers. “Why are you back? I thought you would be gone until next year, at least.” You sucked in the thick air, scanning the room for alibis. Stretching the last few moments before you had the acknowledge that you now walked the earth all by yourself.
“Oh, you know. Just felt homesick.”
Your brother respected your lie, letting it dissipate in the stale air like the smoke from a snuffed wick.
“I never liked him, anyway”
-
Your parents were happy, albeit a bit startled, to see you. They had converted your room to an office and all of your old things from high school, like notes from Van and old chemistry notebooks, were collecting dust in the attic. It was good to have the guest house to yourself, to be miserable in peace without the lingering tension of having to acknowledge the reason for your return, or to have anyone ask why you were throwing up so much and sleeping for 14 hours at a time.
Your dreams were so deep and lifelike that you had trouble discerning reality from fiction in your own memory; your nightmares even worse. Once you dreamt that Van had come into the guest house bedroom with a cup of tea asking how you’d slept, how his baby was doing. When your eyes had burst open, you were cold and alone. Anguish gripped your stomach, forcing it’s contents up your throat then down onto the floor.
Other times the dreams were of him fucking you. Most nights it was just replays of your breakup, repeating every time you fell back asleep after being jerked awake from the sheer horror of that moment, worse than any organic monster ridden nightmare you had ever had. Each iteration more fresh than the last, as if someone was rewinding it over and over again on a cassette tape, starting at a high pitched blur then ending only when you could feel his hot breath ghost across your face.
Some days you woke up so paralyzed by your grief you wondered if you were in hell. Each moment was unbearably painful and eternal, the mere act of breathing felt sisyphean. But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.
-
The clinic was on the outskirts of town, far enough away you weren’t likely to run into anyone unless they were there for the same reason. The ultrasound tech didn’t make eye contact a single time, snapping her gum as she dispensed the chilly ultrasound gel in a single deft shake.
Your chest tightened when you heard the heartbeat for the first time, eyes prickling with tears. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump ticking through the monitor flooded your heart with a profound sense of relief.
Finally, something that was yours.
-
Tour stretched on, every night sold out. Press junkets, radio shows, interviews, and photoshoots were plastered all over social media, news papers, television, even the bus station adverts and shop bathroom posters. You quickly learned not to check your phone outside of calls and avoided the media. It was easy when you hardly had the energy to lift your head in the first place. Isolation was easier than breathing, and a lot less painful.
You had learned the hard way when you had tried reading the paper each day. You could leaf through mindlessly, until page 6 which always featured a half page spread of Van and a nameless girl, all uniquely the same. They always took similar form, as if made in a factory by formula: tight jeans and low cut blouses, cakefaced and bottle blonde; each one skinner, prettier, and younger than the last. Some looked like they had school the next day. You stopped reading the paper.
-
When you told your family you were pregnant, your mother cried--whether out of shock or happiness, you weren’t sure. Your brother punched a hole in the wall, then went outside to smoke. Your father just sighed--a long, deep sigh that validated his disappointment in your circumstances and choices. His reaction was the most heartbreaking.
Unlike your mother’s reaction, you knew unequivocally that his was one of disappointment. You were supposed to go to uni, maybe Oxbridge or a fancy American school or even elsewhere in Europe where you could learn a new language and lounge on picnic blankets in the sun with a bottle of wine and fancy cheese while mulling over your Literature seminar readings. You were supposed to be interesting and clever and successful and far away from here. Instead you were back where you had started, some wash up’s discards, nothing to show for it except a new dependent on your taxes.
Your brother followed you back to the guest house, determined to argue as ever. He was a man of few words until he was upset, and then every word cut like broken glass.
“Are you sure you want to keep it? It isn’t too late for you to finish up and go to uni.”
You had almost forgotten that you basically dropped out to follow Van on tour.
You had told your family that it would just be a couple stops, then you never came home. Until now.
-
One day your mother phoned in a rage after receiving a letter from the school that you had been expelled on the grounds of truancy. You remembered you told her you were turning in your work remotely—an obvious, bold faced lie.
Your relationship with Van had changed you from a studious rule follower to a fool, lucky in love, dropping out of high school to accompany someone else building their dream. Loving Van was like climbing a tree, higher and higher with no thought of how you would get down. But now you were flat on your ass, with another between your legs.
Your personality change had sparked concern in your friends in family, allegeding that you were “not that type of girl” to abandon everything for a man.
“I’m not really sure what type of girl I am,” was your only response.
After all,how could you know who you were meant to be when you were so young? Being with Van, being Van’s, was fun and exciting in a way you had never experienced. You’d never really dated, and didn’t have a lot of friends outside your brother’s friends, which was how you met Van. He was always nearby, goofing around and causing trouble.
Your earliest memories of Van were of riding bikes through town, collapsing in the cool grass when your legs turned to jelly and you could hardly peddle anymore. Van would blow dandelion seeds in your face while you giggled and rolled away from him. All of the hours spent under the gushing lemony sunshine ended in grass stained knees and freckled cheeks that lingered long after the popsicle drippings had been washed from your fingers.
That was the beginning--the familiarity; the quintessential bedrock of love that matures as you do, which each outgrown shoe and lost tooth. The type of childlike innocence entwined with companionship that warms your stomach just to think of, having had such a pure memory to call your own; an endless syrupy summer’s day that no one can take away from you.
-
As you grew and changed from girls and boys to women and men, your love morphed right along with it. There were many long stretches of time you hadn’t seen him at all, either from busyness with school or a row with your brother. But whenever you saw him again, that warmth returned right back to you, starting in your stomach and burning up to your sternum, bright and effervescent.
Your relationship mutated from platonic to romantic one night at a house party. Alcohol was still a novelty to you and two bottles of beer was your limit. You and Van were sitting together on a couch, the dim room filled with your other friends, illuminated only by fairy lights and the occasional flicker of a lighter. Van was telling ridiculous stories all while gesticulating wildly, each one making you laugh harder than the last. The combination of the alcohol and throwing your head back with laughter so many times had made you feel like you were on a rollercoaster, vertiginous and bubbly.
As if you hadn’t had enough, you got up to get another drink and fell back down onto the couch--except you missed your original spot by several inches and landed squarely on Van’s lap. You laughed out loud at your clumsiness. If you were sober you would have been so embarrassed! But your lowered inhibitions helped you see the humor in the situation. The room was aglow and the world was still big; the energy of youth electrifying the room.
Van instinctively placed a hand on the small of your back to steady you, and quickly jerked it up towards your shoulders as to not make you feel uncomfortable. A twinge of excitement seared in your stomach. You had never really touched before, and this felt nice in the most unexpected of ways--as if you had found something you didn’t know you were looking for.
You studied Van’s face, having never been so close to it. The perfect slope of his nose, the confetti of reddish freckles across high cheekbones, the pink pillowy lips that outfitted his wide mouth.
He must have been staring at your lips, too, because they clashed together as if drawn by magnet. There was no saying who kissed who as your heads met, puckering together needily. You wrapped your hand arms around him, leaning into his warm body so that your heads were resting on the couch, lips married together. His mouth tasted sweet like fairy floss, the room spinning like a carousel. You weren’t sure how long you made out for, but it felt like you were alone in the room full of people, coiled in the sweetest embrace that made time stand still. When you finally came up for air Van was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, gingerly tucking your hair behind your ear.
“I hope your brother didn’t see that,” he joked, making you blush.
You didn’t remember much of how the rest of the night went or how you ended up in your own bed the next morning, but the mere thought of having kissed Van so publicly both thrilled and mortified you. Surely people would talk--or were they all too drunk to notice? Did this mean he fancied you, or was it alcohol fueled happenstance?
At school the next week you heard his voice echoing in the halls, and turned to see him hanging on another girl while fraternizing with a group students the same year as Van and your brother. He tickled and teased her before hugging her from behind, then kissing her cheek with fervor. White hot shame flared inside you, ruddying your cheeks. You hurried home in a daze, scolding yourself for being so naive. He was a flirt and you were a fucking idiot for allowing yourself to be involved with someone like that--your brother’s friend, no less.
But the next weekend the same booze soaked gathering reoccurred, this time with more warm bodies packed into a smaller room. You sipped from a can while exchanging small talk with a girl from your chemistry class, wondering if you should leave or have another drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Van had arrived with the same girl from earlier, making a scene as he greeted his friends.
You decided to have another drink.
Cracking open a fresh can, you turned away hoping Van wouldn’t notice you. You smiled and nodded while your classmate blathered on, not registering a single word she said, unable to concentrate on anything other the imaginary tension in your head. The slick condensation beading on the aluminum can was your only anchor to reality as your body flushed from the discomfiture as much as the humidity. Though you hated to admit it, you wanted to be the girl next to him. Instead you slurped more beer, hoping to reach a level of inebriation where someone else started looking better.
Eventually the heat of the room became too suffocating to bear, and you excused yourself for a smoke. The noise of the party was barely a low thrum from the cement patio, despite being eight feet away. You sat on the very edge of the pavement, stretching your legs out into the dewy grass. The damp chill grounded you, your heart rate descending as you exhaled into the ether. The stars scrambled against the inky sky, floating in and out of focus as your nerves melted away with each crisp breeze. You were more drunk than you thought, but it felt nice out here where you weren’t being choked by calefaction and confronted with Van with the other girl.
The first drag of your cigarette was interrupted by a body shuffling next to yours, thumping down beside you on the cement.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here by yourself?” It was Van.
You scanned over the back of your shoulder to see if the girl was around you. She was not.
“I’m alright,” you sighed, tapping the ash from your cigarette onto the curb.
Van wrapped his arms around his crossed legs, shaking his hair out. From under his fringe, his eyes searching your face for clues to decode your expression.
You exhaled the smoke so at least there would be something between you to shield you from his intent gaze. The chirp of crickets in the distance filled the silence. Snuffing the butt out on the cement, you got up to leave without a word. Van grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks.
His expression nearly broke you, wide eyes begging for an explanation, confused as it was hurt. Letting out a deep sigh, you weighed your options: stay with him and exchange meaningless platitudes or leave. Leaving seemed like the better choice.
“I’m going home.”
Van sprang up. “You shouldn’t go alone this time of night after drinking. I’ll walk you home.”
Secretly, you loved the initiative he was taking. He wasn’t asking, he was announcing. This type of attention and caretaking were foreign to you, even as the kid sister and tagalong. No one ever fussed over you. Even though Van was known for being sweet to everyone, you were pleased as punch he was fussing over you.
Dark was the night as you trudged home, guided only by the flaxen incandescence of streetlamps and drunken intuition. For a long time neither of you spoke, reveling in the quietude of the sleepy town in the dead of night.
Van broke the silence. “So how’ve you been?”
“Same as it ever was,” you sighed, still uncomfortable with the hidden motive of his small talk. “Is your girlfriend gonna be upset that you’re walking me home?” Van laughed to himself, even though it wasn’t a joke. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
Only partially did those words alleviate the tension that had been badgering you all night. The alcohol poisoning your bloodstream was making you bold.
“So you just kiss all your friends like that,” You kicked a bottle down the road. Van’s head jerked up, turning towards you.
“Let me kiss you not as a friend then.” You stopped dead in your tracks. Of course he could be bolder than you. For the second time that night, you looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. You could feel yourself freezing in place like a deer in the headlights, but your bodies were being pulled together as if magnetized. Van grabbed your face as your lips married; exchanging greedy, hungry kisses. His arm migrated around your lower back, pulling you into him, subsuming your bodies as one. You kissed as if you couldn’t breath without the other’s air, desperate and smacking.
Even when your lips finally parted, your figures remained cocooned together. Your noses brushed at the tip, studying each other’s faces. Never had you seen Van so still and ruminative before. He brushed his thumb across your cheek before imparting a final kiss.
“How’s that for not friends?”
-
Soon Van was coming to your house to see you more than your brother and their friends. He would meet you in the hallway to exchange forbidden kisses, risking demerits and suspensions. Now instead of lurking on the outskirts at parties you were right next to him, the center of attention, with his arm wrapped around you.
You could tell your brother wasn’t comfortable with your arrangement, but he never said anything discouraging. You had never smiled so much in your life, and people sometimes didn’t recognize you next to him. You drank more and wore less. School began to feel like a prison, entrapping you 8 hours a day when you’d rather spend time with your sweetheart. Even in subjects you loved, you couldn’t focus. You tried to study while the band practiced, but you’d always get distracted by how cute Van was and his never ending questions about their creative direction. You started helping manage their shows, calling venues and arranging transport and making sure every piece was in its place.
Soon you were helping out so much that you were hardly home and rarely saw your other friends. As the band became more successful, you would occasionally skip school to accompany them to far off gigs and events, reveling both in the rebelliousness of playing hooky and the sheer delight of watching your favorite person achieve their dreams.
-
One of your favorite teachers had warned you against following Van, confronting you during office hours when you had dropped in to ask about an assignment. There was genuine concern in his expression, as if you were his own child that was making a stupid mistake.
“I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but you really should rethink your decision to leave. You could go to a great school and study whatever you wanted. You’re brilliant and clever and could charm the most stoic of souls. There are plenty of people in the world like Ryan, who will want to harness your energy to use for themselves. Don’t let them.”
You had thought he was just jealous, or perhaps had a tiny crush on you. You smiled at your past naivety. He was right. Your brother agreed.
“He picked you because you were hardworking and clever and too sweet to realize he was taking advantage of you! You were the best girl at that school and he fucking knew it. None of the girls like Alice or Nia would have lasted longer than a second with him! They would have crumbled from not being the center of attention, nor do they have a brain cell to show for it. He wanted someone to support him and do all of the hard work while he took credit for all of the glory. I mean, he didn’t even arrange you as a manager or assistant like Larry so you could get paid by the touring company!”
You hated when your brother was right, because it was a gut punch every time. He was a man of few words, but those choice words stung. You had organized much of the band’s earlier endeavors, like communication with agents and venues and examining contracts for faulty clauses and loopholes. The band was hardworking and talented, but still too hungry for success to make good judgements on their offerings. Without you, they surely would have fallen prey to a lecherous label under a contract that would have destroyed them.
“I know it wasn’t malicious, because he can’t pull his head out of his ass to think about anyone else. He surely knows you could achieve more without him, the thought just never occurred to him because it’s his world and the rest of us just live in it. And now you’re having his child in the town he abandoned while he’s living out his rockstar fantasies. Did he ever even call you to make sure you made it home, and the plane didn’t fucking explode with his unborn child on it? Does he even fucking know your pregnant? Does he even care?”
You turned away so that your brother wouldn’t see the hot tears in springing from your eyes.
“You can go now,” you mewed, hoping he would take the hint.
“If he sets foot in this town again, I’m going to fucking kill him.”
Cocoon was so good, I didn’t realize until the very end that Van wasn’t even in the chapter, I was just hyperventilating the whole time about how he was going to find out! I have so many questions about what happens next
Thank you so much!! Im glad it was still fun to read even without a lot of Van in it. Hopefully I can answer all your questions in the next part 📝
