Mess You Made

17.

Miguel.

"But if you had to." I say.

"No."

"But if you had to—"

"I'm not picking how attractive I find you compared to all other men, you pretentious jerk."

I sigh where I'm lying back on my hood, my forearm slung under my head whilst looking up at the night sky, only a few stars visible. Malibu's near me but she refuses to sit on my car next to me so she just keeps walking about, or choosing to sit in the passenger's. Right now, she's sat herself on the ground in front of the car, her back against the number plate. Knees comfortably tucked to her chest, consistently nursing the Bacardi bottle in her lap.

My legs are hanging down beside her in this entirely empty parking lot. She doesn't want to go home, neither do I, that's the string tying us together tonight.

"Fine." I stare up at the sky, "Back to my last question, then—"

She drops her forehead to her knees and mutters, "Never stops with the questions."

"One wish."

It's a game I remember playing when I was little. If you could wish for anything, as fucking weird or outlandish or unrealistic, if you could wish for one thing to be in front of you right now, what would it be? We played it, me and mom.

Like a smartass, she muses, "I wish for you to be—"

"Quiet. You're predictable."

She's rolling her eyes. I can't see her but I know she's rolling her eyes because she seems to do that the drunker she gets, and she's having a lot of fun with that Bacardi bottle.

And thoughtfully, she says, "Do you talk like this all the time?"

"No, you just bring out the best in me."

She completely ignores the line, "Is there ever a time you're quiet? Are you quiet and not so much sunshine at home? With your brothers?"

I wince, teeter my head, "Uhh—"

"So, no."

"I have such a great fucking brain, Malibu Adams, if only you listened and let it speak." I smile.

"What else do I ever do, you give me no chance for anything else—"

I shake my head, "I'd rather be a talker than a brat. And mute. You just randomly go mute."

She takes another swig of the bottle, and her voice is a bit lazier, "You watch me too much."

"Preach to the choir." I say, aggrieved. That's a problem for me, not her, because I can't stop. It's an issue. Ellie Arrison, remember that? If only she'd stop looking back. If only I wasn't really lost to the girl, right now. Pretty things are destructive, I've said that before. Really getting the feeling, like I'm on a sure one-way path to being fucked up, here, eventually, some way or another.

I don't care.

I want to sit with her right now more than I want to sit within anyone else's presence. The dark sky, the quiet of the parking lot, her bickering with me but not really, not whole-heartedly — just half assed arguing that we keep doing, I'm more at ease than I've been in a long time. It feels like a fever dream. I want to capture the feeling and not let it slip away before it stops.

We have school tomorrow. We probably shouldn't be here with alcohol bottles in a random parking lot in the middle of the night, procrastinating going home to our family comprised of siblings, but here we are.