the latter | andrew clark ✅

twenty

Despite agreeing to meet Andrew under the bleachers and that she'd go out with him tonight, it still hasn't really clicked in her head that she's going out with the Andrew Clark. The one that gets all the cheerleaders, all the trophies, all the awards, everything. And yet he asked Jamie Bender. The one who has anger issues, who has to see the counselor twice a week, has terrible habits that she can't seem to get over, all of that.

And speaking of bad habits, she finally notices that she scratched one of her scabs off. She can't see the scab, but she can feel the blood slowly seeping into the dressings. It's a slightly warm feeling on the bandage, notifying her that she opened up the wound again. Still, she picks and picks, rather wanting herself to have scars than to listen to her thoughts for even a moment.

She's forced to after a moment though. A pair of hands grab her own. They engulf her own, feeling soft in some places but rough in other areas. She looks up slowly, finding herself looking at the Andre Clark. "You're going to make scars," he points out. She can feel his eyes on her, but doesn't feel like responding. Instead, she feels claustrophobic beside him. It makes her turn away from him, moving to lean against the structure. Despite his words, she scratches at her hand once more, finding it soothing her anxiety.

"You sure this is a good idea?" she mutters. Jamie could've sworn he wouldn't have heard it, but somehow he does.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Have you looked at me?" she scoffs, raising her head to look at him. The corner of his lips moves the slightest bit up, turning neutral expression turn into amusement.

"All the time." She watches his eyes look her up and down, his smirk becomes even larger. She has to look away, clearing her throat as heat rises to her cheeks but also lowers to the pit of her stomach.

"Like really looked at me?" she tries to clarify. It only gains a look of confusion from the boy, forcing her to continue. "You don't know shit about me. That's the thing. I'm so fucked up, dude." She lets out a chuckle, but her tone shows that she doesn't find it amusing. "Wouldn't you want a blond cheerleader? That seems like your type."

Another shot to his pride. She watches as his lines become prominent in his face, the corner of his lips pulling his skin.

"Wow," he scoffs. His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek before his jaw tightens. The look in his eyes makes Jamie look away for a moment, finding it a bit overbearing. "Didn't think you'd think that low of me." He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. It reminds her of a child.

"Yes because a pothead total seems like your type," she sighs, giving another eyeroll. Andrew groans silently, listening as Jamie continues. "I don't need you fucking up your life so you can date me."

"You sound exactly like my dad."

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you!" he sneers. "I want to be with you. Why can't you just see that?!"

Her jaw tightens as her hands ball up into fists. She can't seem to look at him, her eyes staring at something at the end of the bleachers. Her nose twitches for a second, reminding Andrew of a bunny, before she lets out a large breath. She brings hands to her chest, crossing her arms below her bosom. Andrew watches her jaw tighten once more before opens her mouth.

"I-" her words get caught in her throat. She closes her eyes, finding herself having trouble breathing as well. "Fuck," she mutters. A heavy weight presses against her ribcage, not allowing any air in. A thin layer of sweat begins to sweat on her forehead, becoming more anxious as she can't seem to catch her breath.

"Jamie?" His quiet voice helps her for a split second, but it isn't enough. She wants to move towards him. She wants to hug him, be held by him, but she's stuck. And it makes the weight on her chest become heavier. "Jamie..." She doubles over, nearly falling to the floor. She feels a pair of arms wrap around her, holding her tightly. She knows its Andrew, hit doesn't want to acknowledge him. She doesn't want to acknowledge him helping her. She doesn't want to acknowledge how he whispers incoherent words to her, but they sound sweet. Or how she can feel his chest against her's, and how his heart is beating a mile a minute. She especially doesn't want to acknowledge that he's just simply holding her, something she's wanted for so long.

But she does acknowledge it.

And she can feel the tears begin to form.