Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

26

26
We did not speak a word to each other after returning from the beach, our clothes clinging to our skin and sand itching in weird places. We did not feel famished or fatigued.
For the first time, she put a pillow between us when we slept, or at least, made some sincere efforts to.
The first inkling of trouble.
I felt her staring at the ceiling just as I was and I tried to think about whatever she might be thinking. Eventually, she did fall asleep, when her body could not keep up anymore, somewhere around dawn.
I failed.
I spent the whole night trying to grasp at the magnitude and gravity of what happened and what will become of it, all the while, my racing heart throbbing inside like I was running from a bloody murder.
One thing I knew was certain.
Some things will not remain as they were.

A sudden jolt in close proximity makes me glance over at Anastasia's corner.
"It's okay," she says, visibly distressed and the sleep still heavy in her eyes, "Had a sleep start. I am fine."
I lay back, "Do you need something?"
Neither of us makes eye contact.
"Yes," she says, after a pause. Her palm covers half her face from me now. "I could use some space. Is that okay?"
Space? Right after a particularly passionate moment of a slip last night?
"Is everything alright?"
"Yes," she says, her voice awake now and reassuring, "I just need to be alone for some time. You know, rule number one."

I drive over to a McDonald's out of all the places I could have gone. It felt wrong, going somewhere without her.
I zip Ted open and fish around in him until I feel my fingers run past the familiar leatherback. I pull it out, my journal.
I knew I would not be able to write shit, but I carried it along with me. Perhaps as an excuse or a silent promise to Anastasia. But I flip open to a blank page and stare at it while sipping on my lemonade.
Five minutes in and I feel someone slide into the seat right in front of me. I instantly look up and it takes all of my willpower to counter my urge to throw the journal in her face.
Charlotte. Fucking. Nelson.
Of-fucking-course.
"Are you happy to see me?", she asks.
"How did you find me?"
"I asked your mother."
I close the journal in exasperation.
"Now answer my question. Did you miss me?"
"No," I reply, coldly, for the sake of replying.
She sighs dramatically, "I see you are still angry with me."
"I have nothing for you or towards you."
"You are being hurtful."
I scoff, "Ironic coming from you."
"Can we not do this here?", her eyes scan the crowd looking for an eavesdropping ear.
"I came here because I missed you. Brooklyn, I like you. We are perfect for each other. I abandoned a life in France for you."
"You abandoned me for a life in France!"
"I made a mistake, I was young."
"Well, no shit. Now you are back, begging to me."
She sits back, the expression of disgust plain on her face.
"Why are you here, Charlotte? We had everything. We were good for each other. I loved you. And you left because you thought you found someone better. What was his name? Pierre?"
"And obviously that did not work out. So now you are back, saying you made a mistake. Well, guess what, Charlotte? Whoever said it's okay to make mistakes is a fucking liar! Sometimes, you don't get a second chance at life. And what you put at stake, it matters. It matters more when it has a beating heart and a warm space you leave cold when you walk out."
"Where is Anastasia?", she immediately switches the subject.
"Not here."
"Is it her?", she crosses her arms over her chest.
"What?"
"Is it Anastasia? Do you like her now?"
I don't know. "I do not need another woman to replace your memories, Charlotte," I laugh nervously.
"Don't you say that you have anxiety? That you get nervous hanging out with people? Then how did you make a plan for a road trip with a girl you know for what, three months, over a dinner table and actually do it?"
I clench my fist.
She smiles, smugly, "You think you are so much better than the rest of us when you too are just trying to get in her pants. You and I are cut from the same cloth and stitched with the same thread, Brook."
I slam my fist on the table and stand up, looming over her.
"Do not ever call me that!"
She only smiles wider, "Everyone is looking."
But I am too enraged to care.
I pack up and move out of the table. I know Charlotte will follow me.
I get the keys out of my pocket when I hear Charlotte shout over the crowd, "You are just mad because I am right!"
I hold the car door open.
"Charlotte. Fuck off."
She scowls. I swing the door shut and put the car on ignition.

Anastasia calls me after sundown.
"Where are you?"
"The beach. Watching the sunset."
"Oh."
My heart sinks further down in my chest. With the amount of idle time I had, I have already overthought this to a separate dimension and back.
"When are you coming back?", she asks. Something in her is amiss, replaced by cold practical precision. My stomach burns.
"When can I?"
"Come back. We need to talk."

A sadistic part inside me laughs at my own jinxes. Here I am, fidgeting outside the door again in a time-space of one week. A tired part of me just wants to get whatever it is that awaits me over with. I listen to that part and knock before swiping my key card.

She was already prepared. "Hi."
I nod.
"Straight to the point?"
I nod again and take a seat.
"Um. I want to talk about the kiss on the beach."
"Yeah," I say, "About time we talked about it."
"It means nothing, right?"
I feel sick. I feel embarrassed.
I feel sick that I feel embarrassed.
"Because, you know, the rule and all," she continues.
"You are passing your verdict based on a rule?", I ask.
She raises her eyebrows, "No, Brooklyn. I am basing my verdict off of the fact that I am not romantically invested in you. You are my friend, someone I trust, treasure and love. I do not want to attach those sentiments to you and have them become secondary because of romance."
The delivery of her words cut through the armor I had worked on all morning to establish, fueled to a great extent by the Charlotte fiasco.
I hesitate for a moment if I should tell her about it.
I decide not to, out of humiliation and resent.
"So, Brook, the kiss?"
My lips curl upwards, "It meant nothing. And we should forget about it."

A/N: I had a massive fit and writer's block.