Black Roses

No, no, no–me and dancing do not mix well. I used to convince myself that I didn’t dance in public because I would make other people feel bad considering how good my moves were, but then I realized that me dancing is a hazard to people’s safety more than anything else.

We’ve got that in common. Don’t feel too bad. I’m Thatcher, by the way. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.

#convo: ilsa

xbi-forever

And I told you when you left me there’s nothing to forgive. But I always thought you’d come back and tell me all you found was heartbreak and misery.

Jealous by Labrinth (via xbi-forever)

#;{ inspired }

theseawitches

#;{ thatcher }

Try as hard as she could, the brunette couldn’t ignore the small stab at her heart with those same prim thorns as he calls her ‘Winnie’ a name Tucker would use and refute to try any other. “What are you doing right now, can you get a break?” It was out of the blue and entirely unlike her to change a subject let alone ask what she was about to, but this was the first person who understood that it was okay not to be okay and not to ask questions. “I have to go flat hunting in a little while but I’m actually starving and know this great place where you actually cook for yourself. Fellow chef and all. You in?” She was in fact hungry, but she also knew that if she was left alone after this chance encounter she may finally burst into tears she had been holding in for four years. “I look at it this way, you spend the afternoon working at this retched place, and sorry for the language but I’ve known you most of my life, or you spend the afternoon with your dead best friends sister and we eat gourmet Italian and watch the baseball game.” Morbid, entirely and grossly morbid and for some reason the words only came around thatcher, but it was a piece of who she had become now. She was Alaska Young.

It was strange to be around a girl he once fancied who seemed so different – an absolute contrast from so long ago. “I just clocked out actually. That was probably the fastest run of my life,” A chuckled escaped his lips, his shaky fingers now reaching up to detangle his untamable hair. It was an habit. “There’s a restaurant where you pay to cook yourself? I must say, I’m quite intrigued. I’ll give it a go.” The words circled around her tongue so crudely, like the world was an audience and life the joke. Like she didn’t miss the punchline. It was her way of dealing with loss, and he couldn’t judge a person for hurting. “Baseball? I happen to be a huge fan of baseball. I’m sold.” He dismissed her earlier statement, by just addressing the question at hand. Quite frankly, he didn’t want to be the one to open old wounds and heartache. “Would you like to fetch a cab, or is it at walking distance?” He took a brief moment to scan her soft edges, he could see how life had drained from her eyes. Eyes that once glittered in gold, and shone like the stars above. It was different. Saddening. He didn’t feel pity, or like she was a lost case; he felt sad that her shine had been stolen from her. “You know, it’s funny. The reason Tucker and I became best friends in the first place – i-it was quite the story. I fancied you from afar. Honestly thought you had the prettiest smile, and the nicest hair. Once Tucker and I started talking, and I started spending more time around your house; I realized I stood no chance. You seemed to have this massive crush on another lad, so I did the valiant thing and turned my sight elsewhere. It didn’t seem like you were too into the whole James Dean cliche; with the slicked back hair with the leather jacket and the combat boots. Tucker knew, too, he found it hilarious. Eventually we got really close, and well – I guess, I met my dead best friend thanks to you and I never got thank you for that.”

I’m sorry it wasn’t me. Those five words often visited Winifred’s thoughts on more than one occasion, and since returning home they had become more of a frequent form of self loathing. The looks and words offered up to her all felt like a direct jab at the fact that she was alive and her brother wasn’t. Tucker was the favorable child, the nice one, the sweet one, the charismatic. All Winifred was could be put in a one page book titled ‘diary of the outsider’. “Did you go.” She asked gently, winding her fingers in knots around her jumper as she keeps her chocolate orbs to the sidewalk. “… to the funeral, I mean. Did you go?” Of course he went, the whole town did. The only person who wasn’t in attendance and was a two hour drive away was the person Tucker would have wanted most there. “Was it nice? Did they have primroses?” When Tucker and Winifred were little, she would put on fake plays where her brother and her would often pass away in a battle with a king or dragon in search of princesses and lost treasure. In the back of their ranch primroses would often grow, which was what she hoped her mother would remember for his funeral. But why would she remember, that was only a memory Tucker and her shared. “You must think I’m a terrible person.”

“I didn’t.” He answered quickly, the knot growing bigger in his throat. “I couldn’t. It would’ve made it real.” His tone had dropped. He was completely flat, he even sounded unaffected. It wasn’t often that Thatcher tried to be strong, and he knew it wasn’t fair to let her feel so low. “Why? Because you didn’t attend a funeral? What’s the point of a funeral anyways? To say goodbye to a person who is already dead? No. It doesn’t make you a horrible person, Winnie. In fact, I get it. You don’t want to say goodbye, and sometimes it’s better if you don’t. It makes it less painful.” Was it nice? One vexing question after the other. Ones he couldn’t answer. “I reckon it can’t be nice to say goodbye to someone you love. Between you and I; don’t think it was very nice.” Each syllable seemed like a smack to the gut -- in fact, had it not been his own sister, and he would’ve snapped. It felt so intrusive, and when it came to feelings it was safe to say that Thatcher wasn’t an expert.

She had already put in her headphones, not realizing someone was following her until a shadow was cat far too close. By then she had pulled out the cords, only catching the very end of the sentence as she gladly accepts her novel, cursing herself for her forgetful stupor lately. “Oh, right. I’m rather forgetful when it comes to fiction. No pun intended.” She tucks the book to her chest, pulling her jacket tighter around her slim frame in the process. “Hang on—” She pauses, the light of the restaurant having done no justice to his physical appearance as a wave of deja vu kicks in like never before. “Thatcher Harris— you’re Thatcher Harris, right?” Of course he was, her memory was like a sunny day when everyone else searched through clouds for a couple of rays. Winifred knew what follows, how she knew him, but that explanation meant bringing up a name she refused to speak of. And even worse, now she had to hear the dreaded ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ a term almost everyone felt obligated to remind her of. “It’s been ages. It’s Winifred, Winifred Blythe. You know, Blythe’s ranch. You were friends with—- with…” Nope, the name wouldn’t pass her lips. “You look so grown up.”

“I remember you,” He stated simply, his cerulean gaze avoiding her chocolate orbs. It made sense. Painful sense. “It was nice to see you.” A weak smile took place upon his face, his hands shook under the thick layers of his coat. His best friend’s little sister was standing in front of him, and she looked just like him. He couldn’t muster an ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, or even an apology for his strange behavior. “I am grown up,” He continued, “I suppose everyone has to at some point.” He was no longer the boy in the leather jacket, with the slicked back hair and the combat boots. The boy who dreamed about being in a rock band. He was a man now. Though his hair was longer, and his pride bigger. “It was nice seeing you.” Though it really wasn’t. It brought painful memories, and he felt selfish to even think so when she was probably going through much worse.

frecklesonthisdoll

#;{ thatcher }

It worked, good! And yeah, this was a huge example of my clumsiness, moreover. Happens more than I wish it did, but, hey, what can I do if I was born with two left feet?

It did. Good job. Reckon you don’t dance very often then, do you?

#convo: ilsa

Oh – I don’t want to seem like a bad person, and do nothing about it. I mean, you might’ve saw me trample those plants, and what would you’ve thought if I had just left? I’d probably seem like a jerk… so I’m trying to avoid that?

#convo: ilsa #haha yeee dork

Well, I can see you’re not a jerk and you’ve taken responsibility for your actions. So great going.

I want to personally apologize to whoever owns the flower garden that I just accidentally trampled through on my morning walk. I promise I’ll pay better attention to where I’m stepping next time.

Do you usually apologize to random people on the streets? Or you’re just really that sorry?

#convo: ilsa

I'm Nate. If you want to plot shoot me a message.

#ooc

Winifred didn’t know him, she wasn’t at liberty to give any advice when she was sure he had heard enough complaints and rambled confessions; it wasn’t her place. What she did believe in, was paying it forward. The brunette waited for him to resume his usual work ethic, looking around at the waiting staff and more who looked just as miserable as the rest of the customers. Welcome to Weston. Her fingers scale through her book bag, taking out a small scrap of paper and inching for a pen as she gets to work on a tiny note she would attach to the back of her receipt. ‘I admire someone who is willing to pay it forward, and knowing the pride of a chef by having one in the family, let me give you this to put towards your whole staff and maybe a couple of drinks. Change is brought in numbers. Thank you for the tea. Freddie.’ Her hand slides a hundred dollar bill under the paper, standing as she takes a final sip of her tea before placing on her autumn jacket and bustling for the front door. She was sure to wave goodbye to the staff, hoping it would add a little less misery to them; helplessly forgetting that she had left her book on the bar counter top.

From the corner of his eye he’d seen her walk away, after jotting down a note and leaving it on the table. His eyes widened at the sight of a hundred dollar bill tucked neatly under the note that he’d picked up with shaky fingers, “What-” He was cut off as he noticed she’d left her book, he quickly snatched it and darted towards the mysterious brunette who seemed too giving. “Miss!” He shouted after her, reaching her with long strides, “Your book.” He was panting, but not from the run. He was slightly nervous, he’d served lunch to someone who was probably important in town and he’d been too caught up to even recognize her. “Thank you, Freddie. You didn’t have to do that, but we really appreciate it. Kindness is rare these days.” His orbs trained on her, she seemed so familiar. Who is she?

She almost dropped her novel, Plato in Greek, ruffling in her fingers as it nearly avoids the soup that rested below her extended wrists. “I’m sorry, pardon?” Winifred’s mind took her a moment to register that she had, in fact, heard him; politely lowering her novel and marking the page with a torn up gum package. “No— I’m so sorry, I’ve just been preoccupied.” Winifred had opted to stay at a hotel one night before finding the courage to return home, and reading in the hotel restaurant was just a further excuse to avoid her family. “It’s not so bad.” If Winifred knew anything, it was how to cook. She wasn’t going to be rude by exploiting what was wrong with the hotel menu, but she wasn’t entirely interested in eating reheated soup. “I’m just going to finish my tea and get the bill.” From what she had seen on television from watching Gordon Ramsey, she knew that chefs often had little control over an owners tyrant menu. It’s not your fault. She tried to relay those four words through the smile she gave him, taking her tea and pressing it to vibrant red lips.

“You’re not a very good liar, you know? But I’m not a fan of the food here myself.” Truth was, he wasn’t exactly happy with his career path at the moment. “Don’t worry about the bill. It’s on the house.” It was amazing what a little bit of kindness could do. He was constantly berated by his boss, calling him out on his lack of work though it was hardly his fault. He worked with what he could. He picks up the untouched bowl of soup, disdain clear on his sharp features. “Have a great day, miss.” His timbre was apologetic, it was embarrassing when he couldn’t live up to expectations.