sorry jj
There were a myriad of things that JJ Maybank could say were facts without a doubt. Like pineapple did belong on pizza. That kids from the Cut never made it out. That energy drinks with a splash of Jack was a surefire way to start the day. That pretty girls like Kie never went for guys like him, no matter how intense the attraction may be. At the latter thought, the blond is huffing a humorless snort.
He had been back and forth with the thought endlessly the past few weeks—he would catch her looking at him, how her eyes would follow the trails of water he blinks from his lashes, how it would meander down the planes of his cheeks to his lips, where he would promptly lick the droplets away. He would glance up, oblivious at first, making eye contact with big brown eyes, ones that meet his in a quiet confidence, not daring to lose the unspoken challenge there.
She would blink, almost owlishly, as if in a reverie, easily distracted by the words coming from within the group. It was impossible, then, to keep his eyes off of her—the way she tucks two braided strands behind her ears, how she fumbles with the bracelets upon her wrists when anxious, how she would oftentimes look at him for reassurance when she was uncertain about something.
And God, he was a fucking simp.
Yeah, he said it. He had researched the stupid fucking word on Google and gotten the formal definition after Pope had teased him about it, as if he weren't the poster-child for the supposed simpetry to begin with. Was that even a word? He supposes he could urban dictionary that shit, and thinks to do so as he fiddles with his outdated phone, but supposes that if it wasn't, it sure as hell could be now.
JJ had been a little distant lately, all things considered. From the almost kiss on the boat, to the awkward energy that persisted between the two, how he was fucking frightened about the outcome if he had allowed it to happen. He couldn't let it happen, no, no matter how badly he wanted it; it would fuck everything up, he would fuck it all up just like he fucked everything else up. No, no, no.
He buries his face within his hands, ignoring the smudges of inky black that taint his palms. He leans back against his motorbike, foregoing the thought of tuning it up further, knocking over the half-empty can of oil in the process. Above him the sky darkens considerably as the minutes tick by and he knows that soon, the evening would take over and so would the darkness, yet there he is hyper-fixating on something to distract him from thoughts, from feelings, that he wishes would just go away.
He almost wishes it would be swept away with the incoming tides, that it would be lured to sea, never to be seen again.
Yet there he is, shoulders trembling, head shaking vigorously, trying to will even that thought away, "fuck it." JJ decides, exhaling sharply, "fuck it."
It was only a half conjured thought, or half-baked ( heh ), if he had any way to describe it. Not even a full idea, just something that came to him on a whim, something that filled him with an ounce of courage, enough to have him climbing onto his motorbike, nudging at the kickstand, then speeding forward with a rumbling engine. Splatterings of mud slosh behind him as he makes it through the grimy patch of grass and heads in the direction of home—.
There was something sobering about the rushing wind in his hair, airing out the smell of motor oil and weed smoke that collected on his skin, almost like a splash of cold water to the face. He tries not to think as he speeds through minimal traffic, ignoring the red lights as he goes; he was a man on the mission and the quicker he got there, the better, the less his resolve was bound to fail. He could already hear the mumbles of intrusive thought whispering at the back of his mind, that this was a horrible idea, that he would regret it, that she would never want him in the same way, but he ignores it and instead presses more heavily onto the throttle, slicing through the air as he goes.
