My Favourite Part

56: a little kindness

Evangeline Channing

"What the hell?"

Against my better judgement, I hirple towards the figure on the open porch across the street, too eager to get out of the goddamn rain to stop and question whether the shady silhouette roaming the street at midnight might be dangerous.

Frankly, my mind is so foggy that I can't even be sure I'm not imagining it, in some misty-eyed heartbroken haze.

As I get closer, though, and my sight gets clearer, the figure starts to look familiar, and I'm sure I've seen that AC/DC t-shirt before...

"Scott?"

Scott's tall figure moves cautiously into the porchlight, and his eyes meet mine with wary curiosity, like I've got a face full of tattoos, or I've grown a third arm or something.

Oh God. I've been balling my owed out for the last hour. I must look like absolute shit. That's why he's looking at me like that.

I drop my head quickly, wiping the mascara streaks and God knows whatever else from my face.

"What are you doing here?" I say, coughing once to clear the obnoxiously nasal sound of a post-crying voice.

"Sorry, I just- you seemed upset earlier, and then I saw you leaving the party, and it was raining and everything, and... I don't know, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

I nearly laugh at how far away I am from being okay. But I wouldn't even know where to start.

When I look up, I'm ready to tell Scott a lie, or make up some lame excuse about needing to go home just to get him off of my back, but suddenly, I recognise it: the careful stare and stiff demeanour - the way he's looking at me. The reason he's looking at me.

"Oh, my God," I breathe, my red face in my hands. "You saw."

It's not a question, so he doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to.

In a strange sort of way, I wish I could see what he saw. I wonder what I looked like at my absolute lowest, crying at the door of someone who...

I clear my throat, shaking my head before I upset myself and burst into tears again in front of the someone that I definitely don't know well enough for all that.

Part of me is relieved that Scott saw what happened, as opposed to someone else. There's such sympathy in his look, in his soft, strong brows, that I almost feel... comforted. As comforted as I can feel for now, anyway.

"Evangeline..." he sighs, "are you alright?"

I shrug, hoping to look indifferent at best; fine, at least. "You saw it," I say.

And just like that, the mere mention makes the floodgates open all over again. Before I can stop myself, I'm crying like a baby, and trying to blubber apologies for crying, which only makes me feel even worse, and cry even harder.

"Hey, hey..." he says, his husky whisper soothing and firm. When he moves towards me with arms raised in concerned, I don't know if it's a gesture of goodwill or a genuine invitation, but I don't care either way: I step into them, and against his chest, I stop holding back the tears – I'm too tired to try.

I can tell he's not quite sure where to put his hands. His presence in itself is warming enough, but I can feel his hands hesitating behind me, like a jerky scanner.

It's fair enough really. We've only properly been talking again for a month or two, and then bam. Suddenly I'm post-breakup blubbering in his arms. I'm not sure I'd know exactly what to do either.