Canvas (Peterick)

Eight

(Continued)
Patrick Stump

"So," Pete widened his smile, showing off his shiny teeth, "how does that sound?"

Marrying him instead of Elisa? It wasn't something I had thought about, and certainly not an reality I could picture. I loved Pete, but it felt like marrying her was right. It was what I always wanted.

I flashed him a fake grin, trying as hard as I possibly could to look genuine. "It sounds pretty good to me."

He pecked my lips, giddy with excitement. "Now all you have to do is break up with her," he said, frowning just a bit. "Are you going to do that soon?"

My faux grin faded. My heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces on the floor. Watch out, you could get cut if you step there. I was cheating on Elisa, and Pete was fully aware. I was fully aware, though I didn't think anything of it at first. How could Pete do that? No, how could I do that? Why was I blaming Pete anyway? It was my own fault, and I fucking knew it. I wanted to call Elisa right then and there to make up with her. I wanted to hop off the bed, jump in the car and drive back to her. Tell her how sorry I was for letting Pete almost kiss me. How I wanted to call on the wedding, marry her (not Pete) and start a family. But I wouldn't tell her about Pete and I, hell no. He was my best kept secret. My biggest mistake.

I lifted myself from the mattress and stood, looking as if I didn't know what to do with myself. Because I didn't. "Pete, I..."

I repositioned himself, propping up his elbow to look at me. "What? You don't want to dump her?"

"I don't know—I mean," I shook my head, trying to shake the right words into it, "I don't. I want to stay with her. I love you Pete, I think I really do. But I think she's the one I have to marry."

Pete's face fell pale. He looked as if the last person he cared about on Earth had just left him for dead. Maybe I did.

"Pete," I exhaled. "I don't want to break your heart, but this is extremely difficult for me. I just need you to understand—"

"I understand perfectly well." He hopped up and pushed passed me, nailing his shoulder into mine. He started down the hallway, his boots loud but muffled against the carpeted floor.

I called out his name and chased after him, following him into the living area.

"I was making something for you. It's under my bed," he said. "You probably saw it anyway while you were snooping around. But I fucked it up, so I guess it's perfect then, right?" Pete bent down and picked his jacket up from the floor from earlier events, brushed it off and opened the door, hesitating, but came through, leaving me alone in curiosity. What did he mean by the last part? 'So I guess it's perfect then'?

I didn't even bother going after him.

Our apartment wasn't full of random stuff like other homes. There wasn't really anything I could push to the floor and shatter. But it was something I felt like I had to do or I'd rip my own hair out. I kicked over the coffee table, almost smashing it into the flatscreen. My heart rate fastened and sweat pricked at the back of my neck. I yanked at my shirt collar, trying to loosen it around my neck for I felt like there was something in my throat that I could not swallow. But I continued to let my anger out on shit around the house. I found the cd I had given to Pete as a gift. That was the day that ruined everything between Lisa and I. Started everything between Pete and I. It would give me chills every time Pete would play it, or even if I just saw it sitting on a shelf. This cd is the reason for all of this. I bent down both sides of the disk with a growl, letting both pieces fall to the floor. Letting my boot crush them like a little spider I felt threatened by. Stomping on them until there was barely anything left of it.

"My music is shit anyway," I mumbled angrily. I bent down and reached under Pete's bed, feeling for his painting. I let my fingers glide along the rugged canvas before pulling it out, hesitant to see how "fucked up" it is. Could it be that bad? I wondered, sliding it out from beneath the bed. I didn't think it was bad at all. I could now make out myself in the painting. But thin streaks of color were slashed across my face.

When he said that it's fucked up, did he mean that I'm fucked up? He was probably right. I'm not a good person. The lump in my throat became unbearable and my eyes glazed over. I let out a sob, engendering the salty tears to spill over. I unsatisfyingly punched the mattress in front of me, then dug my face into it. I was sobbing hysterically, pleading for Pete to come back between hiccups. I thought that nobody was ever going to want me back. Pete would kick me out and I'd have to live without him. Without anybody. I'd be the lonely loser who could no longer make a living. My tears continued to soak Pete's comforter. This fabric that I was so familiar with as I slept under it each night with Pete. And I'd probably never feel it against my skin again. Nor I'd ever feel Pete against my skin again. It felt like a stake through my chest thinking about never touching him, never kissing him, never loving him for the rest of time. I shouldn't have said what I said. I now regretted it; why couldn't I make up my mind?

I was still hysterical when I decided to pull out my cell phone to call him. I felt plain stupid. But I dialed his number anyway, hitching my breath after each ring. Then, my heart leapt.

"What?"

He sounded like he had something in his throat, too. Maybe he'd been crying like I.

"Pete..." I paused, unable to speak through the sobs.

He was silent as I regained my ability to let out words.

"Pete, w-where are you? Can you please just... come back I, I can't let you go. I can't let you lose yourself—"

"I know where I am," he said blankly. There was something sour in his voice. It sounded like he was holding himself back from coming home.

"...I'm, I'm sorry. Okay? Can you please come home?"

Pete sighed. "I am home."

How could he be here? Was he still in the building? I wobbled to my feet, eager to find him. Wiping my eyes with the back of my phone hand, I opened the door, jumping when I saw Pete on the opposite wall, hanging his cell next to his ear. His face damp, stained with the pain I caused him. A flash of color attracted my eyes to his right knuckle. Purple, blue, red. Like he'd punched a wall. I let in a sharp breath as I stared at his built but fragile figure. His eyes were fixed on my shirt, unable to look me in the eye.

"I never left," Pete whispered, the side of his nose twitching slightly as he shoved his phone into his back pocket. My lip quivered at the sight of him. In just one morning I had caused all this pain. To Pete and myself. I blamed me for whatever he just did to himself. Hurting his hand. It was my fault. Breaking his heart. All my fault. I never wanted to hurt him, but that's just what I did. Pete pushed passed me into the apartment and dropped his face into his bruised hands.

I opened my mouth to speak, staring at Pete's back. I wanted to pull him in and hold him.

"I didn't think it'd hurt you this bad," I told him, watching his body shake.

"You didn't love me for as long as I did you." His voice was just audible enough to discern. Some tears flowed down my reddened cheeks. I bit my lip to prevent a whimper.

"I'm sor—"

"I heard you the first time."

It was strangely quiet. Quieter than just regular silence.

"...Honey, I really didn't mean to hurt—"

"Patrick," he interrupted again.

"Hm?"

Pete turned, finally looking into my eyes, proving that he really meant his next words. "You should go."

THIS HURT ME. AND I'M REALLY SORRY I HAVEN'T WRITTEN IN A WHILE. -MICK