Saving Grace

11

When the moment girl stumbled across a difficult moment, as she had that night in her luxurious bathroom, she saw it as completely necessary to distract herself with whatever – or whoever – she could get her hands on. So, her and her shallow friends ventured in the balmy night and found a young man – blond, fit, and strong enough to pin her to the back of a bathroom stall in a trembling nightclub. She later recounted that in the midst of this, he had moved the wrong way at the wrong time, and that lovely scarlet dress that we were both so fond of suffered a colossal tear along the right side of Grace's thigh.

"Oh, you idiot!" She screamed. "Look what you've done! Dammit, what's wrong with you?"

The lad backed up, lowered her to the ground.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Get out! Just get out!"

"But – "

"Now!"

Frowning, I imagine he rolled his eyes and squeezed out of the stall, before disappearing out into the masses of young, horny animals. Grace, on the other hand, would have hovered for a moment, cursing his name – if she could remember it – and wondering if the dress would be cheaper to repair or replace. All I know for certain about that moment was that Grace took a picture of herself pouting into the bathroom mirror, holding the torn hem in her hand, before posting it to some social media website. As the photo uploaded, Fiona walked in.

"Grace," she squawked, "you'll never guess who's here."

Grace tucked her phone away, frowned.

"Who?"

A moment later, Grace emerged from the pounding nightclub, appearing in the doorway of the smoking area – a small, comfortable little space where a polished wooden divider separated smoker club-goers from the rest of our sober society. I paced the tables and stools, eyeing the brown cigarettes filters crushed into cheap ashtrays. My hands would not stop fidgeting, mind would not stop racing – except when I looked up and finally saw her. Only then did my thoughts go white and snap into obscurity.

"Grace," I whispered, a small smile fumbling on my torn lips.

She crossed her arms, lowered her eyes.

"I, um," I stumbled. "I came to apologise. For making a move. I didn't mean to offend."

"I know," Grace said. She cleared her throat. "And I know it's not you who keeps calling."

I nodded. Silence followed. I pressed my lips together.

"Listen, Grace, I – "

"Richie, please," she interrupted, holding up her hand. "Just don't."

I frowned.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't... don't do this. Don't come here. Don't jump in the middle of fights for me. Don't care about me."

"Don't care about you?" I scoffed. "Grace, you saved my life. I'm going to care about you."

"Well, don't. It's best for both of us if you just forget about me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't want to be friends, okay?" She snapped. "I don't want to see you anymore. I don't want to talk to you anymore. So, just, go home."

She turned away from me. My jaw clenched, heat rising.

"Why?!" I roared. She paused. "I want to know why," I demanded, "after everything I've done for you."

Grace, frozen, slowly turned around. Tears welled in her eyes.

"Isn't it obvious?" She whispered. "I care about you."

My eyebrows furrowed, confusion fixed in my features, until I realised what she meant. I shook my head, laughed bitterly.

"As soon as the people get serious – as soon as the moments get hard – she ditches everyone and starts again." I looked her in the eye. "Don't get attached to 'moment' girls, because you'll only end up in the dust like the rest of us." Grace frowned. I cleared my throat. "I really should've taken that advice."

I passed by her silently, hands deep in my pockets, and I wandered out into the pulsing street. There was beauty in Grace's brokenness, but there was heartache as well, and so I decided that I had no choice but to listen to her. I disappeared that night, and every night after, believing wholeheartedly that I would never see her again.

© A.G. Travers 2018