Complicated (Alex Gaskarth)

What the Hell

A confrontation between Elizabeth and her mother has her realizing (yet again) that missing out on the concert may not be in her best interest after all, but not without having to accomplish certain hurdles first.

It was his stare that spoke to my soul.

Because by being as deep, intense, hypnotic, and all-knowing as it was, I swore Alex was sending me a telepathic message.

The latter being "Don't hide the fact that you're stalking the band's socials for pictures and updates. I know that you are."

In fact, that was exactly what I was doing at 7:13 AM on that Friday morning, the very same day that All Time Low was playing Quebec City—and the following day, Laval—, stationed at the kitchen table inspecting details of the photo they had just posted.

Otherwise known as Zach, Rian, Alex, Dan and Jack in formation, just casually strolling the streets of downtown Quebec City, while looking mightily handsome with their respective expressions, that is, shielding himself from the sun, pure happiness, The Stare, confusion and deep concentration.

Surely, said facial feature was posed. For one, telepathy was yet to be proven in humans, much less through a laptop screen. Second, how could have Alex known that I'd be looking at that exact photo at this exact time?

No, it was impossible, just pure coincidence.

There was nothing preventing me from trying, however.

Just a simple matter of visualizing Alex sitting in the chair across from mine and communicating an apologetic but heartfelt, "I love you too and I'm sor—"

"Do you want to go or not?"

Startling me of out of my reverie is an abrupt question pronounced none other than my mother. More so embarrassing, the latter has me, first, simultaneously, closing the laptop lip, pushing out the chair, its scraping sounds echoing off the floors, and attempting to scramble out of the kitchen, and second, stammering out what could only be called a lousy response.

"Oh, would you look at the time. I have to finish getting ready for work!"

"Answer the question Elizabeth."

Halting my tracks, however, is now a rather menacing order, one that forces me to look up at my mother, whose facial expression is, just like Alex's, all-knowing.

But who enjoys being proven wrong, right?

"I see no point in going." I reply defiantly, as I carefully push in my chair and with my bottle in hand, trek to the faucet, lukewarm water quickly filling up the recipient.

"How does Alexander feel about this decision?"

Usually, one of my favorite quirks about her, that is, her refusal to call him anything but his full name, in this situation; however, it makes the more real. More so, that she wouldn't be able to call him anything because, well, I didn't even know what our relationship was anymore.

From there, it brews. That is, the accumulated guilt, hurt, betrayal, anger and desperation, repressed over the last few days, that ferments in the pit of my stomach and finally evaporates into a nearly suffocating exclamation,

"How would I know? We're not exactly on speaking terms right now!"

"How about you close the water and tell me more about it?"

Nodding in agreement, I turn off the tap-hardly containing the tears that threaten to flow when seeing the wasted overflowing water in my bottle—then turn backwards, the image of my mother standing behind me with open arms and a sympathetic look upon her face driving me to nearly crash into them.