terrible things - ashton irwin

twelve

I've decided to make the chapters longer cause I just can't stop my self from writing and I know I get carried away... The song for this chapter is Stella by All Time Low! Love this song to bits! :)

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We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge that night, gliding over a dark San Francisco Bay into the narrow streets of the Presidio. Since the car offered a solid roof over our heads we decided to spend the night inside the Pontiac.

I curled up on the back seat, and Ashton folded himself, with difficulty, into the front. There was no question of us touching with all that upholstery in the way. A tiny part of me felt relieved, but larger part of me longed for the so-cozy-it's-claustrophobic tent.

That was my realisation for the night: I was capable of missing Ashton when he was less than two feet away from me.

I was starting to develop a theory about missing things in general. It had started when we left Mikey the Harley behind and I hadn't stopped thinking about it the rest of the drive. If I practiced missing things- like the rumbling ride of a motorcycle, or the faint murmur of my dad talking in his sleep, or now sleeping right next to Ashton- maybe I could get used to missing things. Then, when it came time to miss something really important, maybe I could survive it.

We listened to the radio for a while, Ashton humming along and me keeping my tuneless mouth shut until we drifted off.

In the morning, fog rolling in from the bay blurred the streetlights into soft orange halos. I peered over the seat at Ashton's tangled limbs.

"Rise and shine," I sang. He opened one eye and gave me the finger.

Not everyone is a morning person.

"There's someone I want you to meet," I told him.

"Now?" Ashton asked. But I simply handed him his shoes.

There was one book is gotten Ashton to read in the last six months. The Winding Road was a memoir about growing up as the daughter of an alcoholic mother (I could seriously relate) and a run away father (ditto) in a small town in southern Oregon. The author, Miranda Eastwick, could have been me, which is maybe why I found her story so fasinating. A couple of years ago, I wrote her a fan letter. She wrote me back and a friendship- I guess you could call it that- was born.

You must stop for a visit sometime, we'll drink tea and ponder vagaries of love, the secrets of life, the mysteries of the universe...

If ever there wa a time for a conversation, it was now. Miranda's house was on Nob hill, at the top of an impossibly steep street. I rang the bell and we waited nervously on the stoop. Ashton didn't even know what we were doing here, and I refused to tell him. If you ask me, a person doesn't get enough good surprises in life. Birthday, Christmas... That's only two times a year to count on.

But when the front door opened, I was even more surprised than Robinson. Since Miranda and I had so much in common childhood-wise, I guess I thought she'd look like an older version of me: slender, medium-sized, with full lips and wide set eyes.

Miranda looked like Bilbo Baggins. In a Gypsy costume. Under five feet tall, bedecked in scarves and necklaces, she reached up to take my hand. "You must be Lavender," she said. Her green eyes, set in rosy cheeks, positively twinkled at me.

I swallowed. "Yes!" I said brightly. "Ashton, this is...the one and only Miranda Eastwick."

He turned towards her smiling his wide, gorgeous grin. 

"Hey, you wrote that book, the one about the town even worse than ours." If he was dazed by her clothes, he didn't look it.

Miranda laughed. Older ladies loved Ashton.

We followed her into the darkness of her home, and already was chatting about how Mark Twain never said the famous line about how the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco, but he should have, because it was absolutely arctic today; how birdsong had evolved over decades to cemetery with the sound of traffic, and weren't those sparrows outside deafeningly loud; how she's gotten a bad fortune in her cookie from Lucky Feng's, but didn't we know that it was the Japanese who's actually invented the fortune cookie?

She motioned for us to sit on a dusty-looking Victorian couch. " I lived stout short Steph about that old deli, Lavender," she said. "The one about that boy and girl who are best friends but maybe something more-"

"Oh, yeah, thanks," I said hurriedly, not wanting to cut her off but needing to. 

Ashton cleared his throat. I could practically hear him thinking: You wrote a story about John's? And us?

I'd ignored him. Of course I'd written about him. He was my best freind, wasn't he? The one who knew me like no other. The one I thought about approximately 75 percent of my waking hours, if not more.

"Thanks for letting us come over ," is said. "I really wanted Ashton to meet you. I can't get him to finish any book, ever, but he read yours in a night."

"It gave me...insights." Ashton said, looking pointedly at me.

Miranda laughed. "Lavender and I share certain background details, don't we? But Lavender's much smarter than I was at her age."

"That's for sure." Ashton said.

I kicked him in the shins- lightly.

Miranda produced a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of sugar cookies, and Ashton helped him self to two.

"So, how's the writing going, Lavender?" Miranda asked.

"Um, not much lately," I admitted, reaching for my own cookie. "Please tell me there's some secret to keeping at it. Not giving up. Believing in yourself. That kind of stuff." I tried to keep the desperation or of my voice.

Miranda sighed and began to braid the fringe on her scarf.

"My dear, there is no universal secret. There's only the secret each writer discovers for herself. The path forward."

I could feel my shoulders slump. Of course. There's no such thing as a magic bullet. Who doesn't know that?

That's pretty much how the rest of the conversation went. We didn't ponder the unpredictability of love or the mysteries of the universe but none the less, I felt like it was time spent well.

After a forth sugar cookie, though, Ashton excused himself, saying he needed to get a bit of fresh air. I watched his retreating back, feeling the vague sense of unease. My body gave an involuntary shiver, and Miranda looked at me piercingly. We continued our chat, but later, as we ere leaving, she put her hand on my shoulder. 

"Are you alright?" She asked.

For one tiny millisecond, I wanted to tell her everything. The real reason behind what Ashton and I were doing, which I hadn't actually admitted to myself this whole time. It didn't have anything to I do with me escaping my boring life in Klamath Falls. But i couldn't tell her.

"I'm great," I said.

"And your friend?" She squinted toward Ashton, who was leaning against the car, staring down the hill toward the bay. He bought his arms up and almost seemed to hug himself, as if he were cold. Or as if, for a moment, he felt the need to reassure him self about something.

"He's great, too," I insisted. Why are you lying, Lavender?

Miranda picked a yellow flower from one of the vines around her door and tucked it behind my ear. "Give your story your heart," she repeated.

It sounded reasonable enough. But when I looked at Ashton, I knew I'd already given my heart to something, to someone, else.

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word count - 1343

Soooo mannnyyy feelllzzz ugh! Once again long chapter! I really enjoyed writing it so hope you enjoyed reading it :)

Charlotte xxx