dancing in the dark V | s. crosby
warnings: language, allusions to sex.
summary: between a rock and a hard place and you make the familiar choice
request: yes
word count: 2.8k
a/n: okay i was going for miscommunication and thinking of you vibe buuuuut i was listening to phoebe bridgers specifically moon song and do yall know the saying about the song"wanting someone to treat you badly because at least they'll treat you at all" because that is what this part is
previous part | part five | next part
—
“Hi.”
You’re standing just inside the door of the old breakfast place where you and Michael used to come every single Sunday. Same corner booth by the window. Same waitress who still remembers your orders. It’s been four months since you last saw him, maybe a little more, and you’re pretty sure this is actual rock bottom: breaking no-contact with the man who cheated on you for half of your six-year relationship just because you can’t get Sidney Crosby out of your fucking head.
He’s already sitting there, one arm draped over the back of the booth like he owns the place, wearing the same faded blue tee you used to steal on lazy mornings. His hair is a little longer than you remember, curling at the nape of his neck, and those blue eyes lift to yours with the same half-smile that used to give you butterflies. Now it just lands flat.
“You look good,” he says, the first words out of his mouth. It maybe should’ve felt better, that compliment, but it doesn’t. It feels like a line he’s used a hundred times on a hundred different girls, and you’re just the latest rerun.
“Thanks,” you mutter, sitting down across from him and grabbing the sticky menu even though you already know you’re getting the same thing you always got: two eggs over easy, wheat toast, hash browns extra crispy.
Anything to have something to do with your hands. Anything to avoid looking too long into those blue eyes you know that when you do, all you’ll see are hazel ones instead. The waitress comes by before he can say anything else, and you both order on autopilot. Coffee black for him, coffee with cream for you, the usual. She gives you a little sympathetic smile like she remembers how things used to be and wonders what the hell you’re doing back here. You wonder the same thing.
Breaking no-contact was supposed to be a reset. A way to claw Sidney out of your brain after that last night at your place. You haven’t messaged him since. You’re still pissed about that stunt. Still refusing to be the bigger person even though your self-esteem is currently somewhere in the gutter next to last week’s takeout containers. You had nothing left to lose. It was either the man who treated you like a hooker or the man who cheated on you after six years. Slim fucking pickings.
So here you are.
You try to be in the moment. Really. You sip the coffee when it comes, burning your tongue on purpose just to feel something other than the humiliation that’s been there since you texted Michael last week. You ask about his job, some sales thing he’s been doing since college, and he asks about the restaurant like he actually gives a shit. The conversation is nothing important. Surface-level bullshit. Two strangers trying to shove themselves back into the old skin suits that used to fit so perfectly.
“So how’s the old place?” he asks, stirring sugar into his coffee even though he always used to drink it black. “Still got that leaky faucet in the bathroom?”
You shrug, tracing the rim of your mug with a fingernail. “Fixed it myself. Took three YouTube videos and a lot of swearing, but it’s good now.”
He laughs. “That’s my girl. Always figuring shit out.”
My girl. Like you’re still his. Like the last time you saw him wasn’t the night you found the texts from her on his phone and threw his engagement ring at his head. You force a smile anyway and ask about his truck, about whether he finally got the dent fixed from that time he backed into a pole at the bar. He talks. You nod. The eggs come and you push them around your plate while he tells some story about work that you only half-hear because your brain keeps replacing his voice with Sidney’s groans against your neck.
It’s painful. You can feel the tension under your skin, that restless itch that’s been there since the morning you woke up to an empty bed and a hundred bucks. Michael falls back into his old ways faster than you expected, the way he leans back in the booth like the world owes him something, the little comments that used to feel teasing but now just feel mean.
“You seem different,” he says eventually, fork paused halfway to his mouth. What, you finally get tired of waiting tables and decide to go back to school or something?”
“I slept with a hockey player. Twice.”
Why you said that? You’re really not sure.
He barks out a loud laugh that turns the heads of multiple people. “Bullshit. What, some AHL loser who bought you a drink after a game? Come on, babe, you can do better than that.”
Those guys were far more accomplished than he’d ever be, but you don’t say it. You just stare at your half-eaten eggs and feel the embarrassment warm your cheeks. “Not AHL. Actual NHL. Doesn’t matter.”
Michael’s still laughing. “Right. Sure. And I got fucking rich in the last four months. Why’d you call me then? If your whole shtick is fucking hockey players, what do you need me for?”
Your self-esteem is already in the fucking gutters; might as well dig the hole deeper. “Because he left me a hundred dollars on my nightstand after the last time.”
Michael stops laughing. Then he starts again, louder this time, leaning forward on his elbows like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all year. “Holy shit. He left you cash? That’s fucking priceless. Did you keep it?”
You don’t answer. Just stare at the little puddle of yolk bleeding across your plate.
“Look, it’s not exactly like you’re swimming in cash. You could be a little more appreciative. Hell, you can use it to pay for breakfast right now.”
The waitress drops the check a minute later. You pull out your wallet and slide your card across the table. Michael doesn’t even pretend to reach for his. He just watches you sign the receipt with that same look like he’s won something.
When you’re both standing outside on the sidewalk, he kicks at a loose piece of gravel and glances at you sideways.
“So… the place still look the same?” he asks, voice dropping into that old familiar tone that used to lead straight to your bedroom. “Or did you redecorate after you kicked me out?”
You should say no. You should tell him to fuck off.
“Yeah,” you say instead, voice flat. “It’s the same.”
He smiles like he knew you’d say yes all along. “Cool. Lead the way.”
You turn toward your car without another word, even as Michael falls into step beside you. The game you started with one man is still replaying in your head, but right now you’re choosing the lesser evil.
Or maybe just the familiar one.
The whole drive back to your apartment is quiet. His hand rests on your thigh at a red light and you don’t push it off. You just stare at the road and wonder when exactly your spine decided to dissolve. When you pull into your parking spot he’s already unbuckled, slinging his arm over your shoulders the second you both step out of the car. You let him keep it there while you walk up the stairs, his fingers brushing the strap of your tank top like he never stopped having the right. At your door he takes the keys straight from your hand and unlocks and pushes it open like he’s the one paying rent.
“After you,” he says, holding the door wide like he’s being chivalrous instead of just taking over again.
You step inside and Michael makes himself at home immediately, kicking off his shoes by the door like he never left, dropping onto your sofa with a groan and stretching his arms along the back cushions. The cushions sink under his weight exactly the way they always did. You should stop him. Instead you sit down on the other end of the sofa, knees tucked up under you, and watch as he grabs the remote like it’s still his.
“What are we watching?” you ask, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He doesn’t even look at you. “That new action thing on Netflix. The one with the car chases. Think I’ll like it.”
He gets comfy fast, his legs spread wide, one of his feet propped on your coffee table, arm still draped along the back of the sofa so his fingers keep brushing your shoulder every time he moves. You don’t move away. You just watch the explosions on screen and try not to think about the last person who was in this apartment with you.
Halfway through the movie his phone rings. He answers it without pausing the movie, his voice gets infuriatingly loud like you’re not even there.
“Yeah, man, I’m at her place right now,” he says, grinning at whatever his friend says on the other end. “Nah, she’s being cool about it. Told you she’d cave.” He laughs at something. “Yeah, I’ll hit you later. We’re just here.”
He hangs up and tosses the phone onto the cushion between you. “Guys wanna see me later. You should come.”
You don’t say anything. You just nod and stare at the screen, trying to keep up with whatever is happening.
Twenty minutes later he’s up again, wandering into your kitchen. You hear the fridge door open and him moving shit around on the shelves.
“You got anything to drink?” he calls out, voice muffled by the wall.
“They’re mine.”
He comes back with your last two beers anyway, popping the caps off on the edge of your counter the way he always used to even though you’ve told him a hundred times it leaves marks. He hands you one then drops back onto the sofa and cracks the other open for himself. The first pull makes him sigh and he kicks his feet back up on the coffee table again.
“Still drinking this cheap shit, huh?” he says, tilting the bottle toward you. “Some things never change.”
You take a sip just to have something to do. It tastes bitter on your tongue. “Some things do.”
He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Yeah? Like what? You letting random hockey players pay you for sex?”
“Fuck you, Michael.”
“What? I’m just saying. You called me after he left you cash on the nightstand. Sounds like you’re branching out. Upgrading from waitressing tips to hockey tips.”
You set the beer down harder than you mean to, the bottle thuds loudly against the coffee table. “It was one time. And I didn’t ask for the money. He just left it there like an asshole.”
“An asshole who fucks you better than I ever did, apparently. Or did he? Because you’re sitting here with me instead of texting him back. Kinda says something, doesn’t it?”
“At least he didn’t cheat on me for three years while I was planning a wedding,” you snap. “At least he looked at me like I was actually there when he was inside me.”
“Oh, here we go. Still crying about that? It was one girl, babe. One. And you act like I murdered someone. Meanwhile you’re out here getting fucked by some rich prick who treats you like a whore and then pays you for it. Real upgrade.”
He tears you down the way he always did when things got bad, picking at every insecurity he knows by heart, the ones he helped create.
“You wonder why I looked somewhere else? Look at yourself, babe. At least she actually wanted to fuck me without making it a goddamn chore.”
“Yeah? And how’s that working out for you now? Still single, still calling me when you’re bored?”
“At least I’m not the one paying for pussy with hundred-dollar bills, sweetheart.”
You’re both breathing hard, the movie long forgotten, the beers forgotten on the table. His face is inches from yours now, blue eyes dark with anger and something that used to always lead here.
And then he kisses you.
His lips are all kinds of wrong, too familiar, too rough, tasting like cheap beer and the eggs from breakfast, but you don’t stop him. You let it happen, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck like it still belongs there, his mouth moves against yours with the same confidence he’s always had. Your hands stay limp in your lap at first, then one of them curls into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even while your brain screams at you that this is a mistake.
It’s wrong. It’s so fucking wrong.
But you don’t stop.
~
The sheets are tangled around his waist, and one of his arms is flung out across the pillow where your head used to go. You lie there staring at the ceiling fan spinning, you couldn’t sleep after what you did. Sex with a stranger who thought you were worth a hundred dollars, or sex with your ex-fiancé who still couldn’t make you finish after six fucking years together. You honestly weren’t sure which was worse.
Michael doesn’t stir when you sit up. He just shifts a little, mumbling something into the pillow, and curls deeper into the blankets like he still belongs there. You pull on the thin black robe hanging off the back of the door. The fabric is soft and barely covers the tops of your thighs, and you leave him there, cuddled up in your fucking sheets like some kind of victory lap he didn’t earn.
You pick your phone up off your nightstand and pad barefoot out of the bedroom, closing the door behind you. You pace slow circles through your apartment, your feet stick slightly to the hardwood in spots where the floor needs sweeping. You try to talk yourself out of it. Genuinely. You stop by the kitchen counter, grip the edge with both hands, and stare down at a scratch in the floor.
Don’t do it. Don’t fucking do it. He left you cash like a hooker and then ghosted before sunrise. You paid for his dinner because he was too jealous and petty to do it himself. You let Michael back in your bed tonight because you were desperate and pathetic and rock bottom looked a lot like your ex’s stupid face.
Texting Sidney now would just prove you’re exactly what both of them think you are. Just some girl who can’t stay away from men who treat her like an afterthought. You pace another lap, phone clutched tight. You pull up the thread and type the words before you can stop yourself.
You: Why would you leave that.
You hit send and immediately regret it, but the message is already a blue bubble sitting there like a live grenade. You pace again, faster this time. You hate yourself a little more with every circle around the coffee table.
The phone doesn’t ping with a text. His number lights up the screen in a call. Your stomach drops. You stare at it with your thumb hovering over the screen. You don’t answer. It stops buzzing, and the screen goes dark.
Then it rings again.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
You bolt for the fire escape, your robe slipping open further as you fumble with the window. The metal of the handle is freezing against your fingers. The cold night air raises every hair on your body. The fire escape is narrow and rusty, and you pull the window almost fully shut behind you so the sound doesn’t carry back into the bedroom. You’re shivering already, bare under the thin black material, thighs pressing together for warmth that doesn’t come.
You answer on the second ring.
You don’t waste time on hello. “Why would you leave that? After everything. After you knew how it made me feel. Why the fuck would you leave a hundred dollars on my nightstand like I was some kind of hooker you had to pay off?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it started off as a stupid joke. I get that. I guess that it didn’t sit right with me after. I didn’t know how else to make it right with you. I figured if I offered cash later you would’ve told me to fuck off maybe uh spit in my face. You would’ve said no. So I just… left it. Like an idiot.”
Your teeth are almost chattering but you don’t go back inside. “You knew it made me feel cheap, Sid. You knew. And you still did it anyway.”
“I know,” he says again, voice cracking just a little. “I fucked up. I always fuck up with you. I wanted to fix the dinner thing. I wanted to show you I wasn’t just some asshole who ignores you in public and then fucks you and leaves. But I did it wrong. Again. I’m sorry. I really am.”
You’re about to answer, about to say something mean or maybe even honest for once when the window scrapes open.
“Babe? Who the fuck are you calling out here?”
—
previous part | part five | next part
taglist: @whosmev , @sideraaeterna , @renegadebirch ,
@amalianorris , @puckmedude , @marvel-mendess , @kuskumu , @destinyg237 ,
@ponyboygirl1234
if you would like to be added or removed from a taglist for a story please message me, comment on the story, or send in a submission! if anyone has a better idea on how to do a taglist please let me know!!
