Cold At My Core | Johnnie Guilbert

Ch 7: Not Too Late To Apologize

I woke up with a splitting headache.

My first thought was on Johnnie. Something had happened, but I couldn't remember what.

Fuck... I missed his set.

I can't believe I was drunk during his first performance.

I dragged my phone until it was facing me, unlocking and instantly opening to my messages.

But before I could type out more than a hey i'm really sorry I noticed previously sent messages. From Johnnie's end.

We need to talk about the kiss.

Fuck. What kiss?

I tried to remember. Something terrible had happened... Obviously.

What kiss I typed back, and instantly I saw those bubbles appear.

We were drunk, he said.

Oh.

We were drunk and it was nothing but a sloppy kiss. It didn't mean anything. 

Did it? 

I needed him to hear my voice, face to face. I rolled out my hotel bed, quickly getting dressed and ridding the horrific smell of my breath with toothpaste and extra-strength mouthwash. Thank God I had packed a travel-sized bottle of Listerine.

With a few messages between us, I was at Johnnie's door within fifteen minutes.

As soon as he opened, memories flashed. The pink haired girl. Vomit. Vomit everywhere.

Vomit from me.

I just blinked, staring straight past Johnnie. Staring into his room, into that blank abyss.

"I'm sorry." And the words were heavy, a pang flashing and lightening my chest.

He just pulled me into another hug. And I could breathe easier, for once. I could look up and not anticipate pain.

Because, for once, I knew someone cared.

I knew someone could love me.

________________

We had time to kill before the next show, so we went out for ice cream, and I only thought of Baxter. His goofy tongue floppin' around, his bright smile that could light up any cloudy day, no matter how bleak it seemed.

My pen was tapping a new rhythm while I waited for my sundae and Johnnie devoured his. I swear, the calories this kid puts away.

"You okay?"

I perked up, brows raised but hidden thanks to my hair. "Yeah," I said truthfully. "Fine."

And then I asked him why. Something he shrugged one shoulder at, mouthing his scoop while his eyes looked elsewhere.

I've always loved this goofball.

I wished we hadn't been drunk when we "kissed"--maybe then I could remember his lips.

It was wishful thinking, but it was my brain, after all.