pretty little liar // brad simpson

ten

SPENCER

I always slept better knowing Brad was on the other side of the mattress. But tonight, I had to lie still and resist the urge to toss and turn and get out of bed to wander the flat, because Brad had let me wrap myself around him and had fallen deep asleep long ago, leaving me to lie and consider all the mistakes I had made.

It was perhaps too late to be in love with Brad Simpson, although I doubt seriously that telling myself the truth and convincing myself of it were quite the same thing.

So I laid there, counting sheep and saying the alphabet backwards and writing numbers backwards starting at a thousand, and then I gave up and decided it was easiest to just accept defeat and let my mind go.

That was perhaps how I ought to approach it all - let myself accept that I had fallen in love with Brad while I was trying to convince myself it meant nothing to be sleeping with his best friend. Now I had to let myself go, live and exist and stop building my own walls up to keep him out.

Brad was persistent and repeatedly chipped away at my brick barriers, and now I had to help him knock them down instead of trying to reinforce them from the inside out, blocking myself in a tighter and tighter spot I just could not fit.

He moved in his sleep, his arm freeing me, and I grasped at my chance and slid out of the bed. My feet landed quietly on the wood floor, and I pushed myself up to make my way down the hallway and down the little flight of steps. The moonlight was the only thing lighting up the flat, seeping in through the open blinds. 

It wasn't often we opened the blinds, because some fans had gotten wind of where we'd moved off to and had taken to knocking or peering inside - which was all good and fine, minus the fact that it was our home, and we did as we pleased.

The clocks told me it was half five, and after almost thirty minutes of anxious pacing, I finally got to work switching the photos out of the broken frames and into the new ones I'd purchased. There were five that had been broken - one of the four boys, one of Brad and his dog Jesse, one of the pair of us at a festival the boys had played at, and then another of us on the beach, and then of Brad and Tristan playing footy with the other boys.

My fingers slid over each one as I tried to imagine how I'd felt on each of those two days we were together, but all I could manage was heavy sadness knowing that despite how I'd felt then, that this was what I felt now. So I slid them into the new frames and arranged them on the mantle, putting the broken ones into the empty box on the coffee table. 

I wandered into the kitchen, setting the recycle next to the bin. We'd chatted about cleaning the stove so many times, and seeing as I had no plans until sun-up, I got the cleaning supplies out and got to work. It started as the stove, and then the oven, and the counters, and then moved to each of the bathrooms and any edge of a surface we hadn't thought to clean in the months we'd lived together.

Soon enough, I was sitting on the edge of the couch using a Clorox wipe to pick up any crumbs from under the cushions, tossing them into the small trash bin beside me. The set of cleaning solutions and tools sat on the coffee table, and I knew I looked a right mess. Suddenly my body felt separate from my mind, as if I were awake in one sense and falling into a deep sleep in another. 

I sat back on the couch and tossed the cleaning wipe into the rubbish, curling up sideways into a ball and staring across the room at the large, black, blank television screen. Grabbing a pillow, I tucked it under my head and snuggled into a comfortable position, allowing my mind and my body to synchronize and slow into a sleepier state.

As I felt the cool morning air that was finding it's way inside grabbing at my skin, I closed my eyes and imagined the way Brad's warm hand would find its way to my knee at shows and dinners, or his shoulder would brush mine and send heat radiating through me, or his fingers would link with mine and feel like a soft glove made just for me.

And I thought of how everything about him was warm - his smile and his low laugh, his raspy voice like hazelnut coffee, and his heart like a cup of hot cocoa. Brad would swallow you up in his aura and cover every inch of you, so you felt safe and warm, and it was sweet but savory and addictive, and every part of my body ached to be back in bed, holding him, cuddling him. I'd give up every mistake and every joy and every wonderful memory in my mind to kiss him and hold his hand and have it mean something, and have it mean more than anything he'd had with Kenzie and anything he thought I'd had with Tristan.

And I wished I could take back Tristan. Not for me - not so I could escape what I'd done and get Brad to love me back, but for Brad himself. I wished I could take that time back so that Brad could trust in his friend, not feel betrayed and hurt and worthless. I didn't want to take it back for me, although maybe I thought it would help, but more for him. That was how I was sure that I wasn't just in over my head, playing tricks on myself.

I was in love with Brad, and I had poisoned it all myself.

There was no going back, so I had to just move forward and be open and genuine, for that was all he had sought from me for months on end, and whether it was too late or not it was what I intended to give to him. Tristan was another story - nothing I said or did could fix them. So I would live for myself, controlling my actions and my decisions instead of trying to manipulate Brad and Tristan to be friends, to forgive me and forget the past.

And then, suddenly I was being shaken gently awake by Brad, his hand on my shoulder to rouse me from the deep slumber I'd fallen into on the couch. "Spencer, wake up, sunshine."

My heart fluttered, but my mind blanched. If only I hadn't been the girl I'd forced myself to be, and perhaps he'd wake me up every single day that way, and perhaps I would be here without a pay check or a contract or an obligation. "Sorry, I couldn't sleep."

"So you cleaned?" Brad chuckled, glancing at the cleaning collection on the table where he sat. I shrugged timidly, sitting up and giving my arms a stretch over my head.

We were quiet for a moment, and then I pushed myself up to take the cleaning supplies and put them away. I couldn't just jump to and assume that my white flag in the wind - which I had thrown up by cleaning the flat - was adequate to apologize, and to even potentially redeem myself enough to ever have my love for him mean anything.

But it didn't help that Brad was calling me pet names, or still laugh at my odd behaviors, or maybe speak to me much less anything else - his gentle indicators of forgiveness were making it hard for me to comprehend what was his kindness and what was his acceptance. He wouldn't ever come out and say that it was okay, but he'd also never come out and say that he couldn't forgive me, so if I wanted more than his natural tendency to be sweet despite the conditions, I'd have to be the one to make it happen.

"Brad." I called, pushing the cleaning closet door closed and straightening up. I could have done with a shower, or a new shirt, or even a touch of deodorant - and, oh God, I haven't brushed my teeth yet - but if I didn't ask now, then I never would.

"Yes love?" His gravelly voice called back, and I waited until his footsteps started up and he finally appeared in the doorway. "What's the matter?" He asked, leaning a shoulder on the door frame and cocking his head to the side.

My mouth dried, as if it had gone from a grape to a raisin in the span of ten seconds. "Erm - coffee."

There was a long silence. "Yes...?" Brad responded quizzically, his eyebrows drawing together in uncertainty. My heart flipped over and I let out a short nervous laugh, which didn't meet my eyes and probably made me look manic.

"I mean, uh..." Wonderful, Spencer. Eloquent. Superb. "I'm going to get cleaned up, and then perhaps we could get a coffee?"

"We've been out this week, that's our criteria." Brad responded, pushing off of the frame. He was talking about our requirement for the job, which was that we went out once a week in public together unless we were at an event or posted on social media together.

He didn't move, though, and so I trusted that he was waiting, perhaps for me to give him a reason to stay. "I wanted to, though."

Brad nodded once, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his tight pants. He was wearing this tan knit sweater that was a bit large on him, rolled at the sleeves - I could remember wearing it, one night a month or so ago when we made cookies together in our underwear, sweaters, and socks, and Brad had called me beautiful.

"I'll be ready downstairs when you are." He smiled, nodding again. This time when he pushed away from the doorway, he walked off.