The Little Pieces of Us

and wake me up with all the words that I still haven't said "You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it." - Neil Gaiman

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Do You Remember (037)

Do you remember?

Do you remember those nights when it was just you and me and the sounds of the waves hitting the sand? You left the window open and the carnival was in town, and all night the spinning lights cast shadows on our walls. Half-asleep, I curled up into your arms, and you told me you’d win me a bear tomorrow.

Do you remember the mornings huddled around the breakfast table—black coffee (your favorite of course), fried eggs (mine), and half an orange? We fought about the paper—you wanted the funnies, I wanted sports—and of course, we’d end up with shredded comics and a pot of cold coffee.

Do you remember those afternoons feeding ducks at the park and we didn’t say a word? We sat on that bench watching the rest of the world walk by, and I realized I never wanted to be anywhere else.

Do you remember those days of us?

Now it’s just the days of me.

[thelittlepiecesofus]

An Excess of Him (036)

He was one of those people that made you feel substandard just by being in his presence.

He didn't do it on purpose.

No. He would never do that.

He was better than that.

And you wanted to hate him for it, but he was so goddamn humble about it all.

He walked into a room, and people lost track of what they were doing or what they were talking about because there was just something about him that drew your attention. You couldn’t help but watch him because you were afraid that if you looked away you might miss something important.

He was the sort of person you knew was going somewhere, and you couldn’t help but want to be part of it, even if it was only for that fleeting smile or brief moment of eye-contact. Having claim to those was more than enough.

For most people.

I wanted more than just a smile and passing nod in the hallways. I wanted calls late at night in a rough, sleep-riddled voice when he mumbled something drowsily. I wanted his hand wrapped around mine, leather bracelet brushing against my wrist. I wanted silly conversations sitting in the park on a Sunday afternoon where we braided stupid flower chains and picked at pieces of grass. I wanted him to see past the seven-year friendship stamp.

But all I got was a wink over his shoulder while he was busy chatting up a flock of admirers.

I was drowning in this absence of him, and I didn’t really care.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Leaving Neverland (035)

Sometimes I’m hit with the reality that I’m not a kid anymore, that summers are no longer carefree and the endless days of lounging in the sun with your friends have come to an abrupt end. All of sudden you’re working three jobs—up at 5 o’clock in the morning and returning until well after 11 when you’re only coherent enough to undress and fall into bed. People, your parents, don’t trust you like they used to, and everything becomes your responsibility almost overnight.

Did I skip the weaning period? It doesn’t matter.

Be warned that one mistake at this age sends you into the frightening pit of independence without a ladder, rope, or helping hand to get you to the top safely.

I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Please don’t make me go.

I’ve been crying for the past three days, and I can feel my personality slipping away with the tears. The sore knots in my back are supposed to slip away after I leave campus not crop up even more tense than before. The prospect of a job that once excited me now leaves me breathless at the thought. I’m overwhelmed, falling, fading, struggling to grasp this concept of “the real world.”

Don’t make me go.

Why are you kicking me out?

I just want to stay in Neverland a little longer.

Please.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

A/N: I apologize for this rant-related piece. Some personal issues have cropped up and the only way I can easily deal with them is through writing. Thank you for being my sounding board.

[thelittlepiecesofus]

She Missed Him (033)

She missed him. She missed the aroma of black coffee bubbling through the house at precisely 6:17 every morning. She missed finding his boots haphazardly thrown by the front door. She missed the tumbler full of amber liquid sitting on the counter. She missed glancing out the window and seeing that dirty, old pick-up truck parked in the driveway. She missed the notes written in his untidy scrawl strewn throughout the house. She missed the sound of his laughter booming from his office as he caught up with an old friend. She missed the warmth that enveloped her when he wrapped her up in a hug. She missed the way his hands held her waist while they danced at the restaurant on their anniversary. She missed the smell of him on the pillows, the sheets, the couch, the office. She missed seeing his face light up when she walked in the room. She missed his hugs and his terrible jokes and the scruff of his stubble. She missed his reckless attitude before the letter from the general slipped into the mailbox. She missed the dreams of him lying next to her, chest rising and falling softly, that had been extinguished with a letter from the general written in a sorrowful hand and heavy words. She missed him.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Dinner with Olly (032)

“Are you coming over for dinner, Beca?”

“Olly…When was the last time I missed Tuesday Tacos?”

“I just didn’t know if you could anymore because of…”

“Because of what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Oliver Hall, tell me right now.”

“Just…you know, with your boyfriend and all…”

“Ha! You think Gabe gets to tell me when I can see my friends? He knows we always get dinner.”

“Oh, okay.”

“So Tuesday at 6? I’ll pick the movie.”

“It better not be mostly naked Channing Tatum again.”

“I learned my lesson with that one.”

“So dinner, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Olly.”

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Not Good Enough (031)

There were pictures of them splashed all over the internet—meeting his friends, going out to his favorite bar, laughing together. And God, I’d never wanted to punch someone so much in my entire life. She was all sleek hair and long legs and look-at-me smile and she was bloody well perfect. And that just made me…what? The leftovers, sloppy seconds, unwanted? Not good enough. I wasn’t good enough for him. I was too tall and not blond and overweight and had a terrible cackle of a laugh that didn’t know when to stop. She…she was a friggin’ fairy princess. People sang her praises—oh her manners, her grace, her class. I heard the whispers that I had no hope of escaping.

“She’s much better than that other girl.”

“What a cute pair they make.”

“God, I can’t believe he stayed with that other chick for so long.”

Like I was a mistake or something, a cancerous tumor that should have been removed ages ago. And as much as I hated every inch of her, I hated him more. He’d left me. He thought I wasn’t worth his time now. We were only allowed to be friends so long as the cameras were off and the curtains were drawn, that dirty little secret he wasn’t allowed to indulge in anymore. I wasn’t worth his time. I wasn’t worth the effort. I’m only worth tears.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Lazy, Summer, Sunday Afternoon (030)

She lived in a little cabin at the end of a gravel driveway off of the highway. It was small and secluded and hidden so far back in the boonies that not even the traveling salesmen stopped by. A sweeping canopy of Spanish moss dangling from Live Oaks covered most of the property, providing shade in the humid heat of a summer afternoon. The tiny sliver of a creek bubbling off the to the left suddenly erupted in noise as Gulliver, a gangly coonhound, scrambled across the bank before flopping onto the front porch in front of her feet. She scratched behind his ears and sank into the rocking chair settled onto the wraparound porch, listening to the soundtrack of cicadas and tree frogs chirping around her. A warm breeze, soft and simple and just a little bit briny, floated across her face and kicked up bits of dark hair before swirling the pages of the book resting across her knees. She felt her heartbeat slow to a steady tempo as Gulliver rolled over and began nodding off in front of her. Nothing like a lazy, summer, Sunday afternoon to soothe a weary spirit.

  Photo Credit (x)

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Pressin' on a Bruise (029)

I felt like throwing up as the kitchen spun in circles around my head.

Maybe half a bottle of Jack on an empty stomach wasn’t such a sensible thing, but who did sensible things after the man they thought they were going to spend their life with found their happiness with another woman?

Somewhere above my head I heard the phone ringing in a piercing, high-pitch clatter.

Go away.

Go away.

Go away.

Leave me alone.

The answering machine finally picked up. “Rainie. Rainie! Pick up the phone, Rainie. I know you’re there.” Leia sighed. “You’d better not be emptying the liquor cabinet. Alone. Again.” She mumbled something away from the phone before clearing her throat and saying, “I’ll come over and we can talk or watch a chick-flick or cut up pictures or something. Just don’t sit there alone, alright.” She sighed again. “Call me later.” There was a click, and the kitchen was silent again except for the ringing in my ears.

The room titled sideways and wavered underneath my feet when I tried standing up. I grabbed the square glass off the tiled floor, stumbled into the living room, tripped over the coffee table, and fell onto the couch before sloshing some more alcohol down my shirt. “Shit…”

As much as I wanted every memory of him to disappear from my mind, as much as I wanted to burn all of the possessions he’d left behind, as much as I wanted to smash the pictures and draw x’s through everything and forget his face, I couldn’t. I kept replaying our relationship like an old movie, black and white, so obvious now. He’d never really loved me, never really cared. But I couldn’t let him go. I kept the memory of him around, like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.

It hurt like hell.

Inspired By: Pressin' on a Bruise by Brad Paisley (x)

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Heat Wave (028)

The summer before going off to college is supposed to a summer of nostalgia and memories and last dances, but all I remember is the heat wave that swept through our county. Temperatures peaked above one hundred more days than not, and we were currently experiencing the worst drought in the history of the region. Swimming pools closed, swimming holes dried up, and using water for anything but drinking and the briefest of showers was frowned upon. I lived in a bikini top and cutoffs and ran around barefoot after my feet got used to the sizzle of the pavement. And while the heat was certainly a welcome change from the frosty (and unexpected) winter snow, it had become so unbearable that we were actually prevented from doing anything most of the summer. The temperature rose so quickly that any exercise workout had to be done before the sun came up, and it didn’t cool down again until nearly midnight. We were living and breathing in a proverbial sweat box of sluggishness.

So in July, when we’d finally had enough of the heat and dried mud and barely functioning air conditioning, my friends and I packed Francie’s van and headed for the coast. With seven people, it was a tight squeeze, and at one point we had to pull over because Jared was throwing a fit about how everybody kept touching him. But after six hours of radio surfing and dumb car games and sweaty naps, I heard the crunch of sand under our tires.

The beach was still crowded, even in the glare of the afternoon sun. People lay out, sunbathed, napped, and idly read through their cheesy summer novels in every direction. Hannah immediately joined the sun-happy crowd and unfurled her beach towel next to the pack of frat brothers vacationing together while the rest of us unloaded the car and lathered up on sunscreen. Without waiting for anybody else, I ran for the blue water taunting me over the dunes. And while my feet burned on the scorching sand, the salty water nipped at my toes, and I felt goose bumps explode over my arms. I’d intended to walk in and slowly let the waves crash over my head, but my friends had other ideas. Randy came out of nowhere and fly tackled me into the ocean, sending salt water up my nose. They were still laughing when I came up, blinking furiously as I tried to find my attacker doubled over on the shore.

We spent the rest of the week living in the seawater, reveling in the feel of a rainstorm on our skin, and drinking as many frozen daiquiris as we could get our hands on. There was kissing and fighting and predictably a lot of sleeping until noon, and to most people, it might have seemed as though we simply enjoyed the laziness of summer. But there was a steady panic thrumming underneath the surface. Francie still didn’t have a job even though she’d elected to take a Gap Year under the stipulation that she worked. Becca was waiting on aid information, Hannah wasn’t even sure she wanted to go to college anymore, and Logan thought that Randy was going to break up with her any minute, having already discussed how they were splitting up in August. None of us wanted to talk about how time was moving too fast, and the listlessness of heat wave provided the perfect excuse.

The chill of fall was coming and with it…change.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Freeze Tag (027)

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

I looked up from my book and was startled to find a man looking down at me. “I’m sorry…” I muttered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My face started getting red, flushing the tips of my ears pink.

He sat down on the bench beside me, leg nearly touching mine, and I jumped sideways, trying to put as much distance between me and the personal spaceless stranger as possible. “You look familiar,” he pressed again and leaned forward slightly to stare at my face with those light brown eyes.

A little unnerved now, I stumbled up from the bench and began walking towards the door, thinking that if he tried anything I’d yell rape and run for the police station a block away. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

Shoving a hand through his untidy mane of blond hair, he furrowed his eyebrows and just stared more inquisitively at me backing into a corner of the local coffee shop. “No, no. I know you from somewhere, I swear.” A little smile danced across his face. “What? Are you scared or something?” He glanced back at the door I was trying to oh so subtly leave out of.

“Yes.”

“Well that was honest.” If I hadn’t been so focused on locating another exit, I might have noticed he did have a very nice smile. Of course, the rest of my brain was more concerned with trying to figure out whether he was a serial killer who lured women into the silence of an alley by pretending he knew them.

“I don’t know you.” I was practically shouting now, drawing a number of the stares from the other patrons.

“I never forget a face.”

No, no, no. Please leave me alone. I was barely comfortable with leaving the safety of my apartment, much less with strangers questioning me. A chair clattered to the ground as I backed into it and flattened my body against the back wall. The other customers were just blatantly staring now, and as I glanced around I could see several people looking around furtively as to whether they should intervene. But the stranger remained relatively non-threatening, sitting on the bench with a bemused smile, and most people seemed to finally assess that we were having a silly lover’s spat. He just sat there with his smug, bemused smile, hands folded over his crossed knees.

“Please leave me alone,” I pleaded.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I just think I’ve met you somewhere. Where do you work?”

“Like I’m telling you.”

“Do you work at the publishing company on 4th street?”

“How the hell do you know that?” A little flutter of fear shot through my chest. No, stalkers were not in my schedule for today.

He shrugged and sat further back into the cushy couch and began idly reading through the day’s newspaper. “I figured out where I know you from.”

“Where?”

“The bench at the corner of 4th and Grey. You sit there every morning at 9:15 with an iced coffee and the New Yorker. Unless it’s raining, then you’re sitting in the window of the bookstore next door, still holding that iced coffee of course.”

I just stared at him for a minute, wondering what exactly was sitting in front of me. “Excuse me?”

“I figured it out,” he said simply, not even bothering to look up from his paper. “Do you want me to repeat it?”

“No, I’m just confused as to how you know that.”

“Because I walk by there every day at 9:15 and see you. I work at the marketing firm above the publishing company.” My mind was whirring backwards as I tried to remember him, but I just wasn’t prone to noticing the people while enjoying my morning break. A thousand people passed by there every day, and he’d spotted me?

“I always wanted to say how beautiful I thought you looked, especially in the spring when you tuck a little daisy behind one ear.”

And that’s how I met the coffee shop stranger that I married a year later.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Black 17 (026)

“Bassett!”

“Hey, Bassett!”

“Look over here, Bassett!”

“Lane! Just one smile, please?”

The tight pack of players slogging through the tunnel ignored the shouts and cajoling from the press and paparazzi leaning over the edge and waiting at the entrance to the field. The forward in question briefly glanced up and flashed one of those million-dollar grins at the camera before turning back to his teammates with a stoic set to his face. As the crowd greeted their entrance with a roar, they jogged out onto the pitch, took their customary positions, and began warming up. Staccato shouts shot between the players as they called for the ball or an opening or for a teammate to come back into focus. But all of the camera lens and all the microphones and the eyes of the entire stadium were trained on one player in particular.

As Lane Bassett jogged up the side of the field, ready to take another practice shot on goal, he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. The offense coach, still thin and wiry even fifteen years out of the league, nodded towards the sideline where a flock of well-dressed press stood commentating on the warm-ups. Even from the nosebleed seats, the slump of Bassett’s shoulders was obvious, and when he tried to quickly tear away and join the rest of his practicing team, the hand on his shoulder became a tight grip that hastily steered him towards the waiting camera crew.

“Aw, come on, Coach. Really?” he muttered.

The older man chuckled. “Just do it, kid,” and he nudged him into the awaiting grasp of the reporter. Bassett was notorious for darting off in the middle of interviews, especially on-field ones, and most of the press had taken to either flanking him off from the pitch or gripping onto his shoulder.

“Now, Bassett, can you tell us…”

But he wasn’t listening—not even close. He knew what the big cats in the glass boxes wanted him to say and knew all the questions this woman was bound to ask, so he just sort of kicked at the turf before ruffling up his hair and plastering a smile onto his face. His brain was on auto-pilot, the words flowing out without him really knowing what they were. The game was the important thing; you know, the reason they were all gathered here today in this stadium where there were players out on the field and a ball being kicked around. If they tried to ask him one more question about his dead-beat dad or his little sister or his mom or—worst of all—if he was seeing someone, he’d flip some shit and dart onto the field before they knew he’d moved. He just wanted to play. What was so difficult about that? When eventually he couldn’t even hold the gaze of the reporter anymore, his eyes drifted up to the stands where several people were waving down at him. Bassett gave them a little half-wave, something closer to his usual smirk sneaking onto his face now. (He did, admittedly, enjoy the attention.)

Out of habit, he quickly scanned through the crowd looking for the one seat that he always had reserved: just off of mid-field towards the back of the section, right in his line of sight from the field. But the little blue seat was empty. He frowned now. She never missed a game; hell, she was never late to one of his games. Bassett finished the interview in an even surlier mood than he’d begun and jogged back onto the field once he’d finally been excused. With a glance up at the clock ticking down the seconds, he growled under his breath—only ten minutes until the game started.

The rest of the team were doing their second round of stretches, a new regiment after Markowski pulled a hamstring during the first five minutes of the last match, and Bassett plopped down next to them. He carefully stretched out his calves again, fingers absentmindedly flicking a rhythm on his cleats. Most of team glanced at Bassett out of the corner of their eyes, trying to gauge the young star’s attitude. Although he was younger than most of them by nearly half a decade or more, the team looked up to Bassett as a leader and had gradually learned that his attitude was generally indicative of the match’s outcome. A distracted man made for a distracted forward and a distracted forward meant no goals. While he might have been unpredictable, he was a brilliant player, agile and light on his feet with the right amount of power and attitude that he taunted opposing defense with. The coaches agreed: Lane Bassett was going to be a star in the very near future.

The referee’s whistle blasted across the pitch a few minutes later, and the two teams took their positions along the painted white lines, no last second huddle necessary. With his hands clenched into fists, Bassett took a deep breath and glanced up into the stands again.

She had to be there.

He needed her to be there.

And there, standing in her usual spot as though she hadn’t almost given him a heart attack, was Sadie. She was holding a pint of warm, stadium beer and—a wicked little grin spread across his face—was wearing the jersey emblazoned with a large black 17 and his name across the back. When Sadie saw Bassett was finally looking at her, she beamed back at him, and it was the wide, happy smile that made him puff out his chest and put a little fuel in his feet. He tapped at his wrist, and she just shook her head with a laugh and raised the glass apologetically. One of his teammates called out his name, and Bassett turned back to the field, feeling his mind begin to hone in on the stretch of green in front of him and the eleven players standing in his way. Game on.

Ninety-two minutes later, amidst the cheers and fight songs being shouted from the stadium, he hobbled off the field with a dopey smile. He might have gotten slide tackled in the last two minutes, but it was a poorly controlled, last ditch effort to stop the 3-1 lead Lane and his team had. The vicious looking bruise would fade within the week, and he would be walking normally within a few hours. Victory adrenaline was currently coursing through his veins, the rush numbing the pain for a few minutes before he made it into the locker rooms and collapsed onto a bench.

Coach Roderco only gave the team a short speech—his usual spiel about making him and the club proud and coming together as brothers who needed to get their heads focused on next week’s match. The trainer gave Lane’s leg a cursory examination and confirmed his suspicions about it being a weak bone bruise, and he was dumped into an ice bath for a few minutes to drain some of the stiffness from his muscles. A quick shower, a change of clothes, and he was walking (slowly) back out onto the empty field.

A lanky figure stood in the center of the pitch, idly kicking around a soccer ball. Lane could see a frizzy mane of blond curls swinging across her back and as she swung at the ball sending it hurtling towards the goal. He dropped his duffle and darted forward to intercept it. She looked up at the solid thwack of his foot hitting her missile intended for the goal and smiled at the sight of Lane ruffling his damp hair with a cheeky grin. “You’re getting pretty good,” he called over to her. Sadie just shrugged her shoulders and lazily walked towards Lane until she was standing an arm length from him.

“Heya, Skitch.” Her nose crinkled a little at the nickname he’d given her when they were only six.

She turned away from him to look at the abandoned stands. “Bassett.”

Sadie yelped when he suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist and muttered, “Don’t call me that.”

“Why?” she asked, turning her head to get a good look at him. Damp pieces of hair fell across his forehead, shadowing the little crease between his furrowed eyebrows.

“That’s what everyone else calls me,” he said with a slight frown on his lips.

“Well, then…Lane,” Sadie bopped him lightly on the nose, “not a bad match.”

“You were watching?” he asked in mock surprise.

“Oh you know, in between pints.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Caught bits and pieces.”

Lane buried his face in her hair and felt her giggle in response.  “Did you like that goal?”

“Oh, did you score?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh, must have missed it.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

Sadie ducked out of his grip and spun around to face him, a taunting smile on her lips. “You know you like it.”

“You wouldn’t be Skitch without it,” he said, diving after her and tickling her sides until they both fell to the ground laughing. Lane hovered atop of her before diving down and kissing her soundly. ”But seriously, did you see it?” The standoffish façade dripped away into the vulnerability of a little boy just looking for some praise.

“Of course, I did. It was spectacular.”

He reached down and pulled her up into a tight hug, her legs wrapped around his waist. “It was for you.”

“Hmm, was it?” Her voice was muffled in the crook of his neck she was currently kissing.

“Always.”

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Isn't She Lovely (025)

It was one of those nights when you woke up at 3:15 in the morning for no apparent reason. You stretched a hand out and felt only the emptiness of the right side of the bed. With a slight groan, you rolled into the cool sheets. He’d been up for a while, then. Sitting up, you groggily rubbed a hand over your eyes and fumbled for your glasses on the bedside table. He wasn’t working at his desk either; that only left one place. Without even bothering to tie a bathrobe around your waist, you rolled out of bed before padding down the hallway till you reached a warm breeze drifting out of the open door. He always forgot to close it when he went on his midnight visits. With a little smile, you stopped in the doorway to admire the scene in front of you.

He stood in front of the open window, a silver sheet of moonlight outlining his lanky frame. Dressed only in his sleep pants, you could see the edges of his newest tattoo curling around his bicep. You were half-way across the room—about to wrap your arms around his waist and drag him back to bed with you—when you heard a low murmur. He was singing, damn it. He knew you couldn’t resist it when he sang, and more importantly, he knew she loved it just as much. There was something about the way it just slipped out of him, just as easily as talking but utterly more attractive. Those deep, gravelly undertones combined with his just-rolled-out-bed look made you want to reach out and press a hand over his heart to simply feel the vibrations moving through him.

A patch of moonlight drenched his curls and hers as he swayed ever so carefully in the center of the room, letting her rock back and forth. You could see her now, tucked into the crook of his arm as his other hand brushed her hair off of her forehead. His singing slowed to humming, a gentle melody you only heard when he was trying to lull her to dreamland. His bare feet swished across the hardwood floors as he slowly spun in a circle, barely even glancing up to see you admiring him from the doorway. You might have thought he hadn’t noticed you at all were it not for the little smirk that quirked at the edges of his mouth.

Cheeky bastard.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and lowered her into the crib, standing there a moment longer to let his fingertips brush across her face while he hummed the last strains of the lullaby. You felt a slow wave of content sweep through you, the sleepy sensation of sitting in front of an open fire on a cold evening as the warmth washed over you. This was how it was supposed to be—him and her and you, all together.

It was on instinct that you fiddled with your rings. You twirled the tiny diamond on your engagement ring, sending little sparks of moonlight dancing around the room. You could remember it like yesterday—the day he got down on one knee and said those words you’d been waiting to hear.

“How long have you been here?”

You looked up from your study of the gold bands encircling your left hand where your fourth finger met your knuckle to find him staring at you. Those green eyes, too intricate to adequately describe with mere words, never left yours as he walked towards you. You felt your back bump against the wall as he stopped with his toes touching yours, both hands flat against the space beside your head as he trapped you between his maze of tattoos.

“Long enough to remind me why I married you,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist as his warmth soaked into your skin and his spicy scent hung around you.

He grinned, one corner of his mouth pulling up higher than the other as that dimple you’d long ago claimed for your own sunk into his cheek. You could only smile at him when he kissed your neck before pulling you against his chest and humming that simple song in your ear.

“Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she wonderful…”

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Chasing Cars (024)

“Quinn, sweetie, are you sure you don’t want someone to stay with you? At least for a little bit?” My mother flitted around the living room, straightening the folded blankets and rearranging the pillows. “You know Zoë is only around the corner, and I’m sure D—”

“Mom!” She paused mid-wipe. “No one needs to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”

“But sweetie…”

“Drop it, Mom.”

She stopped her frenzied scrubbing at a stain on the kitchen counter as her head fell slightly to her chest, a usually meticulous strand of dirty blonde hair drooping across her forehead. I thought I heard her take a deep breath before she turned around and said, “Quinn, you know it’s been hard on everyone.” Her dark blue eyes couldn’t even meet mine, drawn instead to the golden bands still encircling the ring finger of my left hand.

 “Mom…don’t.”

I wanted to be angry at her, should have been angry at her. No one was hurting more than I was. No one cried as much as I did curled up in my bed every night. No one’s fitful sleep was filled with dreams that left them screaming when they woke. No one. But as much as I desperately wanted the anger, the fury, to overtake me and invigorate my arms and legs and give me a voice, the inevitable lump started to grow in my throat instead.

“We just want to see you again, darling. You’ve barely left the apartment in three months.”

“Not true. I went to the…to the…”

The words wouldn’t leave my mouth.

“Oh, sweetie. The funeral home doesn’t count.”

I didn’t even try to hide the cry that tore itself from my throat.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Bleeding Out (023)

People tell you about the dangers of drugs and driving drunk and dangerous boys, but they never tell you about grief and how it slowly eats you from the inside-out like a cancer. They don’t tell you what getting that phone call in the middle of the night will do to you, how it keeps you from ever sleeping again. No one talks about how any sort of desire to go on without them drains you like a shallow cut.

You’re slowly bleeding out, close to fainting, almost dying.

You look down at the double gold bands wrapped around your ring finger and spin the larger one around and around wishing that you didn’t have claim to it. Trying to choke back another cry that would surely wake up your “babysitters” waiting downstairs, you crawl under your bed, feeling like a five-year-old playing hide-and-go-seek. The bed was heavy with memories—a t-shirt tucked between the sheets and the smell of his cologne burned into the fabric; you couldn’t stay there anymore. Not that you would be staying anywhere much longer. You were fading, dying batteries, a car without gas. You were losing it because losing him was draining you little by little, and soon there would be nothing left.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

A Haunting (022)

He imagined he could still hear the window panes in the front door rattling. The picture frame she'd thrown off the wall still lay shattered in the middle of the floor, bits of glass glinting in the glow of a street lamp. His world had just walked out on him, and the house had never felt so empty before. He wanted to go upstairs and stand under the shower until he washed her away. But she was everywhere, inescapable--the shampoo on the little ledge, fingernail polish on the sink counter. He couldn't get the smell of her out of the sheets or the house or his head. Sometimes he thought he saw her face, twisted and morphed in the glass of a beer bottle or the corner of a window or behind him in the mirror. She was like this ghost that wouldn't leave him alone, that haunted him waking or sleeping. He didn't know how to let go of the best thing that had ever happened to him.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013

[thelittlepiecesofus]

Suit and Tie (021)

When your younger sister gets married before you, people tend to say things.

“Well, isn’t that sweet? Now how does that make you feel?” (What are you, my damn psychiatrist?)

“You goin’ to be getting married any time soon, sweetheart?” (Well, I don’t know. Want to introduce me to somebody?)

“Must be great seeing your little sister married off.” (Keep reminding me, please. It does great things for my self-esteem.)

And these things people tend to say…well, they make you want to kill them (just a little).

But of course, I can’t be angry because its Josie’s big day and I’m the supportive big sister. I mean, at least she put me in the wedding party. So I shimmied into that periwinkle satin and pumps that Mother insists makes me look like a charming little fairy. (Really, Mom? I’m twenty-six; do I look like I want to be Tinkerbelle anymore?) And of course I can’t deny it’s a stunning ceremony—full of tiny forget-me-nots and handwritten vows and a four-piece orchestra playing as Josie and Marshall sauntered down the aisle. (Why couldn’t she have a DJ like a normal person?) By the time the newlyweds make it to the reception hall, Uncle Jared has drunk more than his share of the open bar and your cousin Kendall has tried to tongue half of the groom’s family. (This is why I don’t let them open the wine until after the turkey’s been cut at Thanksgiving.) The whole event was just another painful reminder of just how single I was. Dateless for almost eight months, still stuck in graduate school, no foreseeable career path ahead of me…will somebody pass me the vodka and an aspirin?

In the middle of yet another glass of cheap wine, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Ready to fend off the advances of another one of Marshall’s old frat buddies, the slightly concerned face of my best friend Cady looked down at me instead. She had one hand held across her stomach that was only just beginning to protrude and smiled at me almost sympathetically.

“How many is that now?”

“Well, I’m drinking for two now,” I said with a little nod to the small bump.

With a sigh, Cady sank into the empty chair across from me and nudged the half-empty glass away from me. “Well, I think you’ve had enough.” She glanced around the crowded reception hall before locking eyes with her husband and giving him a little wave, which he returned with a wink. “You can’t be pissed at your sister’s wedding, in the literal and figurative sense.” That’s Cady, always the democratic one. She looked around the room again, and I joined her, taking in the mass of sweaty button ups and dress pants currently “dancing” in the middle of the floor. “Go ask somebody to dance. Come on; give an old pregnant gal something to live for.”

“I don’t like it when you guilt trip me.”

“Yes, but as my maid of honor, you promised to always be there for me and do whatever I said.”

“I’m pretty sure that only applied to the wedding.”

“And godchildren.”

“I better be the godmother and godfather at this rate,” I said, shoving back from the table and stalking off stand by the band currently picking through a rendition of “September.” There’s something about weddings—I don’t think anybody can put a finger on it—that either makes you want to start singing Disney songs in a garden of daisies or excuse yourself to throw up in the bathroom for an hour or two. Right now, I was leaning towards the latter.

The crowd concentrated in the middle of the dance floor shifted as a limbo line began, and I caught sight of the other side of the room for the first time. And there he was. There were no harps and angels singing from heaven. (There was, however, a violin trying to saw through Cha-Cha slide.) But he was standing there in a non-metaphorical spotlight looking better than any guy had the right to. The sleeves of his white button-up were rolled up to his elbows to reveal tan forearms and tight veins spiraling down from his neck to his large hands. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone to allow the briefest view of bird wings inked across his collarbones.

(I could almost hear Cady singing the Hallelujah chorus now.)

One of his buddies said something funny, the boy smiled, and I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. He had one of those big smiles that seemed to take up most of his face while two small dimples creased cheeks. And then he did something even worse. He tilted his head back and laughed, a full laugh deep from his stomach. One hand slid up his face to ruffle his mop of messy curls. (Jesus, take the wheel. Take the seat. Take the whole vehicle.) With dark green eyes gazing intently across the room, the nameless boy looked up at me.

A little smirk danced across his face, one corner lifting up higher than the other, and we just stared at one another for a few hours that were probably only heartbeats. They didn’t make them like this where I came from. Oh no, these kinds of boys were reserved for novels and movies and things girls like me were not privy too.  I thought he must have been all kinds of dangerous—an attractive smile and a deep voice and clothes that fit him just right. He was trouble all right, the tattooed kind that went to weddings and laughed in a way that would have made saints smile. He was smooth Scotch and birthday kisses and walks through Central Park when the leaves started changing and oh sweet Lord was he trouble. But here he was, standing in front of me, staring right back.

I might have to rethink this whole wedding thing after all.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013 (photo credit to owner)

[thelittlepiecesofus]

The Waiting Game (020)

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waiting. Doesn’t matter what kind, I hate it.

I hate waiting for grades to be posted or for the seasons to change. There’s waiting for buses and waiting for the rain, waiting on a friend and waiting on Christmas. We wait for the hours to pass or the days to get shorter and the dark to get smaller. We wait for people to say hi and for some to leave us alone. We wait for everything to crash on top of us like a wave rolling onto the shore. We wait for that last straw that sends us to buckled knees. We seem to do a lot waiting without ever doing anything at all.

And while waiting for things is terrible, waiting for something is worse.

Sometimes it’s waiting on someone to change their mind—to say yes, to give you a second chance, to let you go, to move on. But (perhaps worst of all) is the desperate waiting, the last ditch hope and prayer that something, anything, will happen. That’s the waiting that kills you in the end because you can wait all you want but nothing ever changes. That’s the answer to the waiting game.

(c) The Little Pieces of Us - 2013