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"Matty, where are you?" I cried over the phone, storming down the sidewalk.
"What's happened?" he replied, worry streaking through his voice.
"I need a fucking drink, are you at home?" I choked, pulling my jacket around myself tighter. God, it was fucking cold.
"Yeah, should I come get you?" he asked, "I'll come get you."
"I'm already here," I stood at his doorstep, listening to him clamber down the stairs. He swung the door open, both of us still holding our phones to our ears.
"What did he do?" he frowned, jaw tense at the sight of me. I rubbed at the smudged mascara under my eyes, watching him slip his phone in his pocket.
"What makes you think he did anything?"
"It's always him," he spat, ushering me inside with an arm over my shoulder, "Fucking useless prick."
"I haven't even said anything yet," I gave him a hollow laugh, letting him sit me down on the couch.
"You don't have to," he grabbed a bottle of whisky, ignoring my sour expression as he handed me the bottle. "Just drink it." I let the alcohol hit the back of my throat, the sting more comforting than usual.
"You'll like this one," I rolled my eyes, passing him the bottle. He handed me a tissue as he took a slow sip.
"Go on," he nodded, eyes expectant and patient, "How tall was he again?"
"You could take him," I shrugged, "How about we pay him a visit after we finish this bottle?"
"Gladly," he smiled, a bit too wide, "Tell me already."
"He asked me a stupid question," I sighed, palm against my forehead. "Maybe I'm overreacting, I just-"
"You're not. Just tell me," he took another swig. I groaned, burying my head in the couch.
"He asked me to rate my looks. Like, on a scale of ten."
"Yikes," he winced, shoving the bottle in my hand.
"Yeah, fucking yikes," I look up to see him shaking his head, "So, I'm honest, and I tell him I'm a seven."
"A seven?" he coughed, jaw slack. "That's... Well, what did he say?"
"He said I was a ten."
"Okay, good," he nodded with approval, "What did he say next?"
"He clarified," I huffed as a tear threatened at my waterline, "That if he didn't know me, I would probably be an eight." The tear rolled down my cheek. I took another sip, passing it back to him.
"He said that?" he said in monotone, knuckles white around the bottle.
"I know it's silly, but it just hurt to hear," I bit my cheek, frustrated. Flames were licking at the back of my throat. "He's a fucking idiot, I can't explain it anymore."
"Honestly," he whispered, "Good fucking riddance."
I looked at him, shaking my head with a quivering lip.
"No," he groaned, "No, you're not serious. You broke up with him, right?"
"I just left, and I walked straight here," I raked my hands through my hair, another tear wetting my red cheek, "I don't know, Matty."
"What is this, strike fucking eleven?" he stood abruptly, the bottle clattering on the coffee table. "What's it going to take?"
"I just-" I bit my lip, knowing one more word would have me sobbing in his living room.
"The next time you come over here crying about him, I'm not answering the fucking door," he paced in front of me, "I can't see you like this anymore. Why don't you know what's good for you?"
"That's not fair," I whispered, hugging my arms around my knees.
"I'm sorry, but please, just fucking listen," he knelt in front of me, dropping to my eye line, "Break up with him."
"I will," I couldn't meet his eyes, "I just..."
"We can go right now," he said, pulling at my wrists, "I'll take you to his apartment. I'll break up with him for you, I don't care."
"I'm fine, I'm taking this too seriously," I shrugged, "I'm sure he has his reasons for saying that."
"Stop deluding yourself," he squeezed my wrists, "You're a fucking ten. Anyone can see that, without even knowing you. And knowing you, you're an eleven. When you're hungover, eleven. Sick, eleven. Sobbing on my couch, eleven. Eleven. It's that fucking simple." He sighed deeply, standing again. "It's that simple, and he can't even do that."
I let his words sit with me, stirring in my head, then my heart.
"Eleven?" I couldn't help but smile.
"Yes, fucking eleven," he rolled his eyes, pulling his sleeves up his forearms, "I've known that from first glance."
"Sure," I rubbed my palm against my cheeks, collecting the tears.
"You don't even believe me," he threw his hands into his hair, "He did this to you. Planted all these insecurities, this doubt. You would've never had that with me."
"With you?" I laughed, without humour, "What are you talking about?"
"With me, yeah," he sat back down on the couch, "I know I make you happier than he does."
"As if you were ever an option," I muttered, "You haven't been single a day in your life."
"Neither have you!" he shouted, hands in the air, "If I knew I could have you, I would have waited for you forever."
"You wouldn't have waited," I reached for the whisky, bringing it to my lips, "You barely even showed me any interest."
"You're joking," he caught my hand holding the bottle, "Be serious."
"You wouldn't even look at me! For nearly an entire year, you wouldn't glance in my direction. Why would I think you were interested?"
"Of course I was interested," his head hung low, "And all those years after, you still thought I wasn't in love with you?"
My voice was caught in my throat. "In love with me?"
His lower lip hid between his teeth, "Yes, in love with you." His fingers were tight against my hand as we gripped the bottle together, letting it hang in the molasses air between us.
"Don't lie to me," I watched his eyes, sinking into his pupils, "Because I have always loved you."
"I don't lie to you."
The bottle slipped from our hands, shattering to the ground. Amber liquid spread over the hardwood, crawling under the couch. He didn't even flinch. He snapped to me like a magnet, mouth on mine in an instant. My chest caved in, my perfectly organized emotions and carefully concocted delusions tumbling inwards, joining the pool of whisky below us. His mouth was desperate, the years of braided patience severed as soon as our lips met. My hands gripped his shoulders, his waist, his back, all the places I had daydreamed of kissing and memorizing. His hands were free, too, holding my jaw tightly. I could finally taste him, taste his carefully watched mouth. He kissed confession after confession into my mouth, and I prayed he'd never relent.
