❝so much to say, but nothing comes out right. both of us left without words; both of us lost in this world. it's softer than ever before.❞
— mayday parade, new years project
♥
A WEEK AGO, Scarlett lost a husband, or a fiancé, or... or something. Scarlett lost someone she loved.
"Levi, that was..." I winced as the words tumbled out, heavy and hushed. "Fuck, that was only last week."
"Yeah, she bounced back quick," he snickered, leaning away.
Yeah, I guess the fuck so. Levi had to drag me—literally—out of bed a week and a half after I broke up with Kayla. Honestly, if he hadn't, I would have been perfectly fucking content with sleeping through the rest of 2019. And I mean, Kayla wasn't... dead.
Despite Levi's many, many, many serious threats.
I have about three people on speed dial, he'd said in a scarily serious manner that morning, who could make her disappear, Nicholas. Deadass. And after I'd finally showered and shaved... and seriously considered that tempting offer... I'd asked him why he knew so many shady people. Levi had simply laughed, and said, Oh, don't worry about that, bro. Just don't tell Mom.
Dizzily, I shook off the faint memory and peered up again. It was impossible not to be drawn to her; there was this hazy heartbreak tethering us together, luring my gaze across the bar to her softly lit silhouette. Scarlett seemed still, caught in a freeze frame—somehow, the only thing in the entire fucking world tonight that wasn't falling apart.
"Hey, you know, they have done studies about grief making you hornier," Levi chimed, swatting at my shoulder impatiently. "They say grief sex can be super fucking hot."
What. The. Fuck.
Who was they? Scientists? Psychologists? Assholes?
Was it just Levi, trying to make me feel less shitty about still wanting her?
Suddenly, Scarlett twisted, and between those conflicted feelings, beneath the smoke and stray silence, surrounded by a million strangers in a shitty bar in a shitty neighborhood, her dark eyes met mine.
My breathing hitched.
Okay. Nope. Now, you've fucking done it, Nick. Scarlett could probably feel me burning holes into the side of her skull. Yeah. Scarlett could probably hear my fucking thoughts because I couldn't stop wondering too damn loudly in my head if grief sex would be really, really, reaaaaaaaaally hot.
"Shit." I winced again, like an idiot, physically and emotionally too drunk to look away from her. "I..."
A coy smile tugged at her lips, and in that moment, she seemed crystallized, eternal, infinite, darker than darkness, saturated in silent emotions—an abandoned ghost swimming through a sea of strangers.
Scarlett seemed lonely.
I'd kissed her on a rooftop in Bushwick because she was alone.
"I still think she's into you." Levi snatched the shot in front of me, downed it, and slammed the glass onto the bar. "I think she's just playing hard to get, Nick."
"Or maybe she's really mourning," I said quietly, holding her glassy gaze. "Maybe she's grieving, and she just wanted to... go out... without an 'asshole from Bushwick' ruining her night."
