Jade|
A cold wind bites my cheeks, weaving through my hair and across my bare shoulders. I didn't bring a jacket because I like the way goosebumps feel when they crawl over my flesh. It doesn't ever get too cold in California, but the fall months do provide chilly nights and fogs of breath to cloud outdoor conversations. The steam of my black coffee rises from the cup clasped in my hands. It smells thick of mornings I hate waking up to and late nights spent memorizing a monologue or revising a draft for a play. The drink is so intricately woven to experiences I despise, and here's another one I can add to the list, another espresso-related moment I can scribble down and cringe at whenever it comes up.
Sometimes, I just really fucking hate everything.
Beck's face is solemn. His head is bowed, black hair a jagged shadow, elbows on his knees, and his own coffee is sitting forgotten between us. Neither of us are talking. It's just the sound of footsteps rumbling in and out of the Starbucks behind us and the traffic vibrating the road. There's a streetlight alternating between stop and yield and go and I stare at the changing colors like it's a kaleidoscope. A car tries to jump the green, a sleek, red vehicle that's pulsing music far too loudly, only for it to rock back on its brake as a truck zooms across the intersection. There's some yelling, a raised middle finger, before the driver is off.
"Say something. Please."
I bring my coffee to my lips. It's really far too hot to be drinking it quite yet but I don't care; I let the scalding liquid sear the roof of my mouth, my tastebuds frying away. I lower the cup to my knees, pinching it between them. My mouth is throbbing, blood swelling, and I suck it down my throat.
"Jade. Please."
"What do you want me to say?" I tear my eyes from the streetlight, that stupid fucking indicator that has probably lead to more deaths than any war, that has malfunctioned or prompted people to go without looking and it's probably their fault but, Jesus, sometimes life is distracting and you just don't think to look up. Beck meets my eyes, dark and ringed with sadness - not the same sadness that settled there after his Gran died, not the same sadness that plagued him when he didn't get a callback for a commercial he desperately wanted to star in. It's different, new, thick and heavy in his eyes like black-out curtains. "Honestly, Beck. What the fuck do you expect me to say? 'Thanks for everything? No hard feelings? We'll be the best of friends?'"
"Don't be like that." He looks away again, a sigh rattling his shoulders.
My usual answer to prolonged anger is violence. Everyone who has pissed me off has learned that the hard way. I have an insane urge to punch him right in the nose until I hear it crack, or black his eyes, or slam my boot between his legs until he begs for mercy. Anything to even come close to what's tearing my insides to shreds, plucking every tendon and ligament until they snap.
But he's Beck, and I've never physically hurt him before. I've never swung at him, even when he's done nothing but piss me off for days. Because I love him. Because I've loved him for two years. Because he's Beck and he's been with me forever and I'm so in love with him I don't know how to picture my life without him in it but here he is, cropping himself out of the photograph.
"Fuck you." There's no real malice in my words. I try, really, to generate the anguish that's ripping me apart somewhere in my chest into a tone of complete and total hatred, but it just breaks and shatters and the pieces litter the bottom of my lungs. My throat is tightening. My eyes are stinging. I've always been vulnerable with him, have always let him settle in my soft spot. But now he's puncturing it, digging deep, clawing, all with a frown on his face. "Fuck you, Beck."
"I did love you, Jade. I really did. And I still do. I just, it's not - it's not working. This isn't working."
I glare at him like I want him to set on fire. What's not working? I love him. He loves me. We kiss, we talk, we hang out, we laugh, we do things together. How is it not working? We fight. We bicker. I'm jealous and overbearing whenever he so much as looks at another girl, but he always said he liked that about me, that he felt protected. Just the night before he kissed me before I went home, hot and soft on the lips, and the same spark that has jolted me with every brush of contact had airplanes colliding in my stomach.
