Demi Lovato Imagines

Betrayal pt.2

Grace jumps when the bell chimes again but it's just another student, laptop tucked under his arm as he strides to the counter and orders a coffee to go. 

"You okay?"

You've asked this every time the colour has drained from Grace's face and she twists her head in the direction of the door, fingers shaking around her empty cut. And every time, she responds with a small nod and gritted teeth, fighting to keep the fizzle of anxiety locked inside. 

"It's going to be fine," you reassure, bouncing your legs up and down under the table. You've been telling yourself this a lot recently. Ever since you both got on the plane to LA and started the countdown to the 'reunion'. 

You sit for a few minutes more, each making conspicuous glances to the clock on the wall, counting the number of minutes it has been after the hour. It's almost twenty now. Eighteen to be exact. And even you've started to feel the hot burn of embarrassment in the centre of your chest at the prospect of sitting here like a lemon. 

"She's not coming," Grace finally blurts out, voice quivering and hands balling into fists. 

"She will be," you say back, not entirely convinced yourself, "She'll be here."

She shakes her head, "No. I can't do this. I need to-...I need to go..."

You don't have time to do anything before she's out her seat and heading for the door, her handbag trailing heavily behind her as she pulls it only by its long, snake-like strap, bashing into the legs of other tables. You offer quick glances of apologies at the people who grab their cups to stop them from spilling, fleeting enough that you are out into the sunshine within half a minute. 

"Grace, wait!"

She continues pacing down the street, back turned, as if she can't hear you. You jog faster. 

"Come on, Grace, just wait a second!"

You reach out and tug on her sleeve but she immediately yanks away from you. 

"No! I'm not doing this, Y/n. Not again. I can't let her humiliate me like she-...like she did..."

Her eyes drift past you, down to the end of the road, and her words stop as if there's a blockage right at the back of her throat. When her vacant expression doesn't change, you frown, turning your head to see what she's looking at. 

The sun is set at that exact height where a blinding streak of mango yellow cuts your vision in two, and you squint your eyes against the dull ache of pain. But you still saw it. Her. Walking towards you as a black silhouette, encased in the glow. You lower your hand from your brow. 

"Y/n."

It's not a question. It's just your name, said in that soothing tone she had when she phoned you two weeks ago. You feel like there's only the two of you now, held steady by some sort of invisible string pulled taut between you. She hangs back, not moving forward to release some of the tension. 

"Y/n, come here."

It reminds you of how she summoned you to her room that time, however long ago. You can't remember now. You just recognise that sparking feeling, like tiny flames trying to catch alight inside your chest, threatening to bloom into an uncontrollable fire and incinerate your entire life again. 

"I'm not mad at you," she reassures, shifting slightly so that her head blocks out the sun. You can see her features now, soft against the evening light. She has hardly any makeup on, her eyes warm and friendly without the long false lashes.

You knew that. Yeah, you knew that. But without her voice, you don't think you could have unstuck your feet from the pavement, shuffling forward and into her open arms. She wraps herself around you like a mother does to her child, and you can't help but think about how this is the closest you've ever been to her, to your boss. It's not like you were her favourite dancer on the road. Not even second favourite. And as she squeezes tighter, you're hyper-aware of the newness.