Beautifully Broken

Take Me as You Please

Ashley

I miss you. Please come home.

I'm not sure he meant to send it. I wonder if he's drunk. I wonder if he picked up that little orange bottle and swallowed what was left inside. He didn't kiss me when I left. I got a pitiful smile, a nod, and then nothing. No hopeful words, no I want to see you again. It feels unfinished, like a song you just can't get right, a chord that hangs in the air for just a second too long, an off-tempo drum beat.

The gate looms before me, a gaping mouth, happily waiting to swallow me whole. The plane sits on the tarmac, glittering in the early morning sun, ready to carry me home. Something's wrong. My stomach twists in awful knots, legs unable to stay still. I pace back and forth in front of the windows lining the wall, teeth working feverously against the inside of my cheek. This is more than pre-flight nerves. I've flown dozens of times, managed to shake off the fear that used to cling to me when I boarded. This whole situation feels like the end. If I get on that plane I'm not going to make it back. With each pass by the windows, I hope to rid myself of the sinking feeling in my chest. It lingers, seeping into my bones, making me shiver. I find myself staring down at the little flame now inked into my thumb. My cheeks burn.

A part of me hoped he'd be here. Hair all a mess, shoes untied, flannel flying out behind him as he dashed through the airport toward the gate. I wanted him to tell me leaving is the dumbest thing I'd ever do with my life. I was hoping he'd be here to sweep me off my feet and spin me around in circles and press his lips to mine. I wanted to hear him say he loved me and he wants to try again. That isn't going to happen though. Frank isn't going to come flying through the terminal begging me to stay. This is my life. It isn't some made for television romance movie. Things like the boy rushing in at the last minute to confess all his feelings don't happen in real life. I guess I was just hoping that this time would be different, that Frank wouldn't let me just walk away without a fight.

As the stewardess begins to call boarding zones, I gather my things. This is it. Tour is over. The album is coming out next week. It's time to go home. So why does it feel like this? I've longed for my bed. I've dreamt about the warm California sun and the waves crashing against the sand. Why do my feet stay cemented to the ground? Why am I unable to follow the others as they line up to board? Honey green eyes swirl before my vision, a jingle bell laugh knocking out all other sounds. I can't leave. I can't get on that plane and go home. Not now. Not with so much left unsaid. Maybe Frank is sitting at home right now wondering the same things I am. Maybe he's waiting for me to start the fighting. After all this time, after everything we've said and done, he's hoping I'll pick him. That text message is Frank's fight. I want to pick him. Even if it isn't easy, even if in the end we decide we're too different and it just won't work. Right now, I want Frank. 

"Ash, you coming?" Matt calls over his shoulder, digging around in his pockets for his boarding pass.

I blink back at him, the words not quite registering.

"Ash?"

"I can't get on that plane," I answer, already scanning the terminal for the exit signs.

Matt steps out of line, gathering my face in his hands, "It's time to go home, Ashley. We gotta get on the plane."

"No. I can't get on the plane. I can't leave."

My brother's face creases in realization, his lips pulling down into a frown, "Ash."

"No!" I push him away, dashing back through the terminal.

I can hear them calling after me, but I don't stop. My feet carry me through the airport and out the sliding front doors. The bag on my shoulder digs into the flesh, biting at it, trying to tug me back. I throw the address at the cab driver, settling into the back seat. I should call him. I should've called last night while I sat on Andrew's couch, unable to sleep. Nothing about leaving felt right. The idea made my skin itch, my brain pushing against my skull. We can't leave things how we did. It was unfinished, tension hanging heavy in the fog around us. I need to hear his voice again. I need to sink against his chest as he wraps his arms around me. I need to feel his lips moving against mine, silently telling me that we're okay, that we'll work out. I fought too hard to just leave it like that.

Frank's street is lined with Birch trees. Little green nubs push out against harsh brown bark, trying to usher in warmer weather. I'm not sure how long I stood in front of the blue door. Maybe an hour, probably only a few minutes. My fingers twitch, lifting up to touch the peeling paint only to be shoved deep inside my sweatshirt. For a little, I press my forehead to the wood, letting the number plaque dig into my skin. There's no noise on the other side, no sounds of anyone shuffling around, no beep of the coffee pot. Maybe he's not home. A little part of me wonders if he's running through the airport terminal, trying to catch me before I leave. Smiling, I lay my knuckles against the door. This is right. He's who I want. I love him. Nothing in my life has ever fallen into place quite like this has. We were shoved on that tour together for a reason. We were meant to forgive and heal together. I was meant to realize I still loved him.

My knuckles hit against Frank's apartment door, "Frank?"

For a few heart-stopping seconds I think he isn't going to answer, that he really isn't home. Then the lock clicks and my heart jumps into overdrive and I'm certain I'll pass out right here on the rotting doormat. He looks like he hasn't slept. Sleep clings to his unshaven face, deep purple blending into honey green. Frank rubs his eyes, eyebrows coming together as he stares at me, "Ashley? I thought you were flying out."

"I couldn't leave," I admit, allowing him to usher me into the apartment, shutting the door behind me. Half-smoked cigarettes litter the window ledge, coffee cups scattered over the floor. Frank's rich red comforter sits in a heap on the floor by the couch. "It felt wrong. It was another detour and I'm getting tired of taking those. All my roads keep leading me back to you and I didn't want to take the long way this time. I figured maybe we could ride together for a little. See how that is."

His lips are on mine, hungry, his fingertips pressing into my neck, arms holding me to his bare chest. Frank pulls away for a second, long enough to smile down at me, bury his face in my hair, and then kiss me again. When he finally pulls away for good, Frank keeps our foreheads connected, his palms pressed into my cheeks. Somewhere between the door and the couch we're sitting on now I've lost my luggage, the weight off my shoulder.

"I'd like that," Frank voices, still holding me to him. "I'd love to drive with you, see where we end up, but Ashley?"

I hum a response, fingers trailing over the tattoos that litter his skin, trying to burn them into my memory.

"I get to drive," Frank grins down at me, chuckling lightly as his lips press to the tip of my nose. "Your driving scares the shit out of me."

I give him a playful shove, giggling back as I twine our fingers together, "I love you, Frank Iero."

"I love you too, Ashley Benson."

Frank's lips press to mine, soft and sweet and so full of love it makes my heart ache. Ache in a good way. In a way that lets me know every fight, every angry glance, every night spent wishing he were there was worth it. In a way that tells me he's never going to walk out again. In a way that lets me know I can trust him because he trusts me. He tastes like nicotine and caffeine. He smells like Irish Spring and coffee and old books. He feels like home.