A Way to York

breakdowns and stilettos

:write a chapter in which a character purchases a glorious pair of stilettos after a hard day:

She paged through the modern guide, with an inviting woman holding a wooden spoon and sniffing a batch of something on the front. It was filled brim to brim with recipes (unsurprisingly), gluten-free and vegetarian alike. 

It was so unadulteratedly healthy and gourmet that York's eyes bulged at a majority of the ingredients and names. They sounded so out of her league, like a cute guy that had a steady job and tussled hair. Broccoli Rabe. Ricotta. Escargot. Other names that seemed foreign.

Why was this in the box? she thought, her eyebrows knitting together. It all seemed so silly as she shook it, tapped the back and checked for glued pages. There was nothing hidden or peculiar about this cookbook, other than the unnatural smile of the lady on the front.

A sudden feeling of nausea overcame her, rushing forward all at once. It was dark and heavy, settling on her shoulders, working its way to her stomach. The feeling made her sink to the floor, the book falling from her hands.

Her head sank into her hands, cradling them. The dread was becoming worse, especially in the dark crevice of her kitchen. A void of light, of safety to steer away her vagrant thoughts.

It had to be a mistake. There was no way it couldn't be. She didn't come to die in the past, just to mix up the very reason why she died. She knew that her life was worth something. That she had one last mission to complete and make someone proud. That she wasn't worthless. 

She even messed that up too.

Her body began to shake, and she could feel the walls closing in on themselves. Pressing her mouth to her knees, she began to breathe. Deep shallow breaths. 

She was going to die. That other version of her didn't look all too changed, so it had to be recent. She screwed up again, and now she had to rely on her younger self to fix it. Somehow, she had to fix it. Nobody wanted to die.

The lamented cover the cookbook caught her eye, and a ball of fire wounded inside her chest. It trapped her heart and lungs as she reached for the book. The thing that made her life a hell.

"You piece of shit!" she grabbed hold of the binding and swung it high over her head. "You fucked me, and now I'm going to die." Her voice choked on the last words, and her hands were shaking.

"York, stop!"

Her body seized up at the voice. A pair of thin yet strong arms hugged her from behind, and she collapsed onto the floor in a heap of sobs, the book falling from her fingers.

"Oh my god, are you alright?" Rachel knelt down in front of her, brushing the hair from her face. Her eyes were red and make-up runny, and she stared at her. 

In this moment, York hated herself for hating Rachel so much. It was more of a jealousy thing, how she managed to steal away Wyatt from her and keep him so entranced. As much she wanted to, she knew Rachel wasn't like the others. 

Rachel was like a big sister to her and everybody else. She knew how to take care of people, and what exactly they needed. It was like she was a genie, able to grant your wish before you even say it. She knew how to speak and what to say. Her voice was a flame to the ice that hung in silence. 

Her parents were world-class chefs, taking Rachel with them to exotic places and exciting cultures. By the time she was in high school, she had seen half of the world if not more.The other half she would soon explore, being a nomad herself. 

Not to mention, that she was immensely gorgeous and could compete for Miss America if she didn't think that those programs exploited women.

"You can tell what's wrong, you know. You can trust me," Rachel said, dotting it with a sweet smile and wrapping one arm around York.

God, she hated Wyatt's girlfriends.

"I'm fine," she snapped curtly, despite the fact that her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. "What are you doing here?"

For a moment, Rachel flushed and looked away. "I couldn't find Wyatt at his house, and he wouldn't pick up, so I headed over here to check if he was with you."

York's gaze fluttered over to the clock. "At four in the morning?"

"Sorry. I just thought–I don't know. He's always over your apartment, so I just assumed."

Wiping her eyes and shrugging off Rachel's arm, she stood up and scooped up the book. 

"I'm not leaving you here by yourself," Rachel said firmly, moving to shut the door. "I still don't understand what happened that made you such a mess, but I don't want you to hurt yourself–"

"You make me sound like a child," York laughed, a bitter and sharp edge to it. "Rachel, I might even be older than you. I'm twenty-eight for god's sake!"

Rachel pressed her mouth into a thin red line. "Age doesn't make any different here."

"It makes all the difference. I can take care of myself." The near-lie was cutting as it left her mouth.

"Wyatt would kill me if I let something happen to you," Rachel said, and even as she said it, her face was soft. Like she was desperate and Wyatt was her last resort.

And it worked. York's heart skipped a beat, and she sighed. "Fine. You can stay."

-------

A few hours later, Rachel had dragged her to the mall. 

Sure, she's been wearing the same hand-me-downs from her sister since she was in high school. Sure, the only reason she doesn't buy new clothes is because she doesn't have the money. Is she going to admit this to anybody?

Not one word. 

Rachel had her arms full of bags from various stores, refusing to allow anybody to help her, despite all the times she's almost tripped and sent the bags tumbling. Rachel kept talking to her about all the sales and what colors go with which, and oh my god, that woman just wore horizontal stripes.

Since Rachel was so content with helping her, most of the bags were her attempt to induct York into some sort of sophisticated style. Any sort of style really, other than what she called "vintage and adorable at heart". 

The advice and shopping spree had honestly surprised York. Rachel, despite being Rachel, never invited York to do anything. 

Honestly, she probably would't even come if Rachel did, but it's the thought that counts.

"York," Rachel's nails dug into her arm, and York had to pry herself free. "Look at those heels. They're stilettos. I bet you'd look good in them."

They were in reflective chrome, a small metal chain wrapping around the shoe. It certainly had the ability to grab your attention, York had to give her that.

York shook her head. "Those heels could take me to the moon."

"They're perfect. You have nice legs that need to flaunted. Come on," Rachel tugged her into the store, her chin high and voice soft when arguing the selling price. 

When she finally got it down to a reasonable price, York's jaw practically hung open. This woman could sweet-talk the food from a homeless man.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Rachel's head turned, and she smiled. It was a tug of the right side of her mouth, a side-smile. "You need a boyfriend."