Lover | Richie Tozier

Chapter 67.

Elle evaluated the smeared black ink covering the creased napkin that Bill had slid to her many weeks ago. The messily printed address made as much sense to her as it ever would, and she peered up at the residence in front of her desperately hoping that it was the right one.

The house seemed welcoming, but the paint masking the sidepanels was peeling along with the souls that lived inside of it. It was merely the decorated shell of a crumbling family.

Despite the silver beads of foam rising to the top of champagne glasses and barely-legal adults downing bottles of alcohol as if there was nothing left to lose, the streets webbing throughout Richie's neighborhood were vantablack and deafeningly silent. The stillness caressed Elle's skin like a secret admirer who was afraid of coming too close.

When it became brave enough, it swept under the cuffs of her sweater and sent a polar shiver up her spine. The cold had stalked her all the way there as if nature was wondering why she had left her house so abruptly without anything more than what she was wearing. There was no jacket, no gloves, no scarfs, nothing at all that could preserve the flame inside of her. It was left to battle against the wind to the best of its abilities.

The walkway leading up to his front door was stared down by the precarious girl with complete indecisiveness. If the porch lights weren't so dead and the concrete wasn't covered by laces of ice, then maybe she'd consider walking up and taking the risk.

Maybe, she'd lock away every single feeling of doubt and leave three placid knocks on the only thing that separated her from the rest of the world. And if she was lucky and he was conscious enough, he would answer. Then maybe, when their eyes met, they would both sober up even though Elle hadn't even been drinking. Somehow she'd still manage to reach a new state of tranquility that was impossible to grasp up until that point.

And then they'd both get drunk off of each other all over again. The faint chanting of crowds ready to ring in the New Year would echo in the distance while butterflies would let themselves loose in the stomachs of those about to kiss the very person that they had been waiting all year for. The space in between their lips would close like the world would end when the countdown reached its final digit. Everybody would take their chance, and Elle & Richie would stay wondering if they should take theirs. The chanting would come down to three numbers: 3, 2, 1-

"You found me," Richie intoxicatingly smirked, standing on the steps that led away from his front door.

The voice apprehended so vividly and suddenly that Elle's head spun as if she had been drinking, too. His hands found themselves in his pockets while he swayed with the wind.

The one-sided grin that he held on his face was so alluring, she could've mistaken it for lightening striking in slow motion.

"Jesus Christ, Richie. You're... you're so..." Elle began.

"Drunk?" He finished, growing his lazy smile. "Don't remind me. It was fucking- it was fucking stupid. It worked, but maybe not as well as it was supposed to. Because here you are."

Elle only blinked, completely indifferent over his comment. Whether he wanted her there or not, she didn't know. But he was right; there she was. And there he was, waiting at the end of the sidewalk like a groom waiting for his bride. Their eyes measured over each other and took in every new inch with infinite tension. 

"Fuck, come here please," she finally pleaded, desperation tied into her words. Her hand motioned for him and every new wave brought him closer and closer. "What the fuck what were you thinking?"

After sauntering his way down the dark path, his hands collapsed over her like she was the only thing that could ever level out his harsh thoughts again. He buried his head into the warmth of her shoulder, his lips dangerously lingering over her neck.