Tutorial | Brendon Urie

Chapter Nine

It's coming back to me. It's fucking coming back to me. I am standing here under boiling hot water that is almost scalding my skin, and I am remembering every single detail of last night. Why does memory work like this? Why is it that when you need something, a piece of information, your brain is like, 'No. Sorry. You can't have that. That is classified information.' Then seconds later, once the need for that information is gone, your brain is like, 'Oh, wait, oops, you can have that information. Here you go. Here is the stuff you need and like three extra memories to compensate for our mistake.' I am recalling exactly what Brendon told me, and then some. I feel sick to my stomach. Not in a literal way, thank God. I replay the scenario a thousand times over as I let the steam pollute the air.

We were sitting there on the sofa, after taking our clothes off. Brendon had his eyes closed, and I remember looking at him. I was thinking about how perfect his features were. His head was leaning back against the sofa, resting. His mouth was slightly open, and his lips pouted just a little, to let air flow freely. I remember leaning over and touching his neck, feeling his Adam's apple protrude exceptionally from his throat. I also remember feeling his lightly scratchy stubble, result of a few days without shaving. His eyes were still closed. My hand moved down from his neck to his chest. I was curious. I wanted to know what his skin would feel like, if it would be as soft as it looked from afar. It was. It was definitely as soft as it looked. My hand made its way down to his stomach. The skin was warmer here. I found my way to the side of his waist, and pulled myself on top of him. For Christ's sake. What the hell was I thinking? I was now sitting on his lap, both my legs on the outside of his, knees bent so my ankles were off the seat. He finally opened his eyes. The dark chocolate gaze seared deep into me, burning with questions, and to break the intense contact, I leaned in and just kissed him. I fucking kissed him. It wasn't even gentle. It was a rough kiss. All my fine motor skills had been thrown right out the window when I had my third shot of whiskey. One of my hands moved to his face, pushing my thumb up his cheek, my other fingers dragging on the hairline behind his hard jaw. His hands made their way to my back, under my shirt and they moved up from the small of my back to the middle, and down again. He was hesitant to bring them any further up, and I don't blame him.

I'm pretty sure I had totally lost my mind at this point, because despite Brendon's clear investment in my inebriated seduction, I got up and walked over to his stereo. He was kissing me back and grabbing at my body, and I got up and left. I ran my finger, the same one that had travelled over Brendon's neck and chest and stomach, over the CDs on the shelf. I pulled a random album from the shelf and inserted it into the drive. After turning the volume to an unpleasant level I turned off the lights and just started dancing.

I step out of the shower hoping that crossing the threshold would cleanse me of my sins. It didn't. I am now cold and still an adulterer. I put my clothes back on and rub my hair dry for the second time with Brendon's towel. I have been here too long. He probably wants me gone.

I walk out of his bedroom and he is sitting on the sofa, head in his hands and his knee is bouncing like he's going cold turkey. I take a deep breath in and walk over to him.

"Brendon, listen, I remember everything, and I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I honestly am. I don't know what I was thinking. You're probably so uncomfortable. I am so sorry."

"Stop." Fuck. "It's my fault, Grace."

"How is it your fault?" I am starting to get annoyed. He can't be mad at himself for this. "I'm the one who came onto you. It's my fault."

"I provided the alcohol."

"I drank like half the bottle."

"I'm just sorry, Grace."