--
"My girl's in the next room,
Sometimes I wish she was you."
-- Hinder, 'Lips of an Angel'
You know that what you feel for Lucy is real, and that hurting her is
something that's never been on your agenda. You've never wanted to hurt
anyone, not even when they were rubbing your nose in the fact that they
have things you'll never own, never deserve, never covet like a jewel.
You used to think jewels were all those kinds of people had.
Until "those people" grabbed ahold of Rory.
"I like you," you'd confessed.
"I... like Logan." You watched the blue-green mass of her eyes swarm
in something like hesitation, as she was standing in unfamiliar
territory -- turning someone down, being cruel that way. You never
thought she could be a person to grow cruelty inside her, the mass of it
swarming up her throat to her voice and bubbling in the too-dry vision
of her eyes. The honesty was what wanted to kill you. Her honest
admittance that you weren't the one, and that she wouldn't even give you
the chance to try to be.
Lucy clings to you, steadying her 21 year-old self against your body,
her usually graceful feet stepping upon yours here and there to squish
your toes in your shoes. You don't mind much, as the alcohol has numbed
most of your body, and you remember being as drunk as her, back when
things made more sense than now. Back before Rory was sitting over there
on a couch, her eyes uncomfortable whenever they sweep near your gaze.
You try to lock contact with her through your stare that no longer
pleads for what she won't give you, but will always long for what she
pushed away.
And you think to yourself that Rory would never step on your feet in
a drunken stupor as the two of you performed moves to music, the sway
and the ease not quite there enough to declare it dancing. Only with
Rory could you dance. You may not be the one for her.
But...
You sweep back short hair from Lucy's neck gone sweaty, and kiss the
skin you've exposed. When she giggles and calls you that eternal pet
name, "Boyfriend", you close your eyes, and start to sway off balance.
The arms that catch you in their embrace are ones you imagine to not
be so familiar. You keep your eyes closed, and trace a finger along the
delicate skin of an arm, pulling close the one that you long to be
there, the one that you've longed for all this time. You no longer care
to engage in snark, that pitiful way of getting back at her for the way
she stuck your heart in a blender and set it to maximum speed.
You inhale her scent, and it's vanilla, just what you always knew it
would be. Like icing on cookies, she was the "extra added something" to
turn the norm into a treat worth recording and remembering. Vanilla, in
her soft hair that you touch, that gives way in its straight strands for
your hands that pet it like a long searched for thing. A treasure taken
out of the box, and loved until it was mussed and stained, and yet
somehow still beautiful.
Lips meet yours, moist and soft, tugging at you gently and coaxing
you into the oblivion of being attached to someone else. The thought of
those lips being hers almost makes your knees buckle, and you've
never felt more drunk or lost to the cosmos than when a tongue slides
into your mouth and meets your own. You whimper against those lips,
wanting more of her, wanting all of her. Here, now, and without the
prissy rich boyfriend to stand in the way, knowing that he's better just
because he says so. You want her, despite the fact that Lucy brings
light to your life where otherwise it was left moody and dim. You want
her more than what you have now, not just because she's unattainable,
but because you've always wanted her, from that very first day, when you
were naked and hurried to cover parts of you that swelled at the sight
of her concern and embarrassment.
Music from the room outside of your brain space makes your body hum,
the blood in your veins responding to the noise without and the calm
within. You are completely unaware of what surrounds you, other than
her, who you picture to be in your arms. And you don't want to open your
eyes. You don't want to step out of this daydream, not now that she's
been brought back into your life and you're dangerously close to hitting
the "just friends" zone again, perhaps for the rest of time.
You'd rather live in this haze, with the multi-colored dots that
appear randomly from behind your closed eyelids, as you dance, chest
pressed to the shoulders of a girl you imagine to be the one you want
with you always.
You can see Rory behind those lids, in her casual spring dresses, and
bundled all cozy in her fashionable winter scarves. You see her with
short hair and long hair, and bangs that appear out of nowhere. She
changes with the seasons; every color lights her face in a different
way; but she's always on a stage in front of you, being the Rory rainbow
without the invitation for you to be a part of it. And so you
encapsulate her in the rainbow you don't see, for you see nothing now,
and your feet move lazily across the dorm room carpet, with no movements
planned, as you can hardly feel your toes.
And you'd like to see her toes, peeking out from under your deep
purple comforter as the two of you would settle in your bed, your bodies
wrapped only in underwear, tousled hair accompanying lazy smiles. You
want to see how her toes would wriggle when the heat was stolen from
them, until you were the hero, and reached down to pull the comforter
over them once more. You wonder if her toenails would be painted in
different shades every week, to match the mood ring that hung about the
rest of Rory's body, being affected by silly kinds of things, like the
weather, or a term paper grade. Pink toenails could mean she did well on
her biggest midterm; blue could mean that it rained that day.
You want to see her in the rain, barefoot and squealing as the two of
you would run amuck in some abandoned park, with swings to sway in the
slight breeze that sent the raindrops pouring down at a sideways angle,
pelting your body and hers with soft wetness that penetrated every pore.
You can almost feel the wet grass sneaking up between your toes as you
would chase her, and she would run, and she would laugh, knowing you
would catch her. You want to be the one who catches her, hugging her
tightly to your chest, as the force of your gathered speed knocks you
both to the ground.
You want to be there any time she falls, to catch her with arms and
words that reassure, the way that you've never been able to, for anyone.
You believe it, deep inside, that she would be the one to listen, where
others only nod dumbly and pretend to understand. She would hear
you, and she would feel better, knowing that you understood her, and
that your arms could withstand the slight bit of her weight for as long
as she needed to lean on you in those shaky, infrequent moments when her
strength alone is not enough.
You want to be strong, and show her that it's an emotion you can
embody. You want to be loyal, and show her that your love is always true
and steady, like only a soulmate's can be. You want her to believe that
you're a good person -- that you're good enough to be accepted
the way you'll never stop needing to be.
It is these mumblings of the inner mind that cause you to open your
eyes, and find Lucy there in your arms, her smile radiant and drunk. You
try to smile back, but your thoughts betray you, placing their storm of
indecision in the color of your eyes. You realize things with your eyes
open, things like those traits you want to be known for should be known
no matter what girl leans against you in your arms. You don't want to
hurt Lucy, and you know that she would never hurt you.
This time when the two of you meet lips, you know that they're
Lucy's, and you have no delusion of whose lips you'd rather they be.
When you gently pull away, you set your chin on Lucy's shoulder to
overlook her body and see into the rest of the room. Your eyes find
other drunk dancers, struggling to match a beat that they're not fully
hearing, that's reverberating in their skulls. Your eyes look past them
to find Rory, sitting unsure and alone by herself on the couch. She's
looking all around the party, squeaking out small smiles to those whose
behavior requests one.
As her eyes meet yours and then hurriedly scamper away, you realize
that none of these smiles she's giving are reaching anywhere near her
eyes. And you realize that since she left your life, none of yours do
these days, either.
- -
end
