The rain falls in heavy sheets, soaking me the instant I step out from the shelter of the stoop. It runs into the collar of my coat and down my back like an icy flood, and I cringe. Great. I just put on a fresh shirt. I'm going to dinner with my best friend, Derek, who is also my long-standing crush. I know, cliche, right? Sometimes cliches are the reality, and it sucks. I slosh through the waterlogged streets, regretting my decision to wear my good black shoes. They'd be ruined for sure. I shuffle across the street in front of a car that needs its muffler checked or something. The driver, probably late for a meet with his drug dealer, honks the horn. I show him a hand gesture that is surely not rated PG, and mount the curb on the other side.
The street is dark, despite the wan efforts of the one streetlamp that has a working bulb. Courtesy of the neighborhood delinquents, no doubt. This lamp flickers as I pass, and I give it a wary glance. If it goes out, I'll surely trip over some unseen pothole and show up to dinner late, wet, and probably with some nasty disease. Perks of living in New York City. I sigh, wishing my car wasn't out of commission. It's probably sitting in some county waste facility, awaiting the crusher. Though, it's probably a good thing I'm not currently behind the wheel. I have a tendency to drive...fast. That tendency is what killed my brother, and put Derek in the hospital for three weeks--in critical condition, as if he needs any more reasons to hate me.
I walk into the restaurant--Derek's favorite, as I recall--the light and warmth making me only marginally more confident about seeing him for the first time since the accident. I catch my reflection in the glass of the door and sigh. I look like a wet poodle. I knew it was pointless to blow-dry my hair, which I never do. I shrug out of my black army jacket, which, in retrospect, was probably not the right thing to wear tonight. But I don't want to give him the wrong impression, make him think that I like him or anything. Which I do. And I don't want him to get scared off if I dress too normally, like I don't care. Which he would. So before I left my apartment, I threw on a pair of khakis and a casual yet classy dress shirt.
I'm still too nervous to breathe as I sit across from him in the booth. It's one of those comfortable, cushy numbers with dim lighting and a drink menu set strategically so that no one can see anyone else they're trying to talk to. I swipe it to the side and, for the first time in nearly two months, my gaze settles on his face. He is skinnier than I remember--almost as thin as me--but he's still got that mischievous look about his cunning black eyes.
"Hi," I say, genuinely pleased to see him.
"Hey," he replies. His voice is a low rumble that seems to emanate through the thick wooden table and make my heart flutter. I hate it. No matter how vehemently my head rejects the idea of 'fate' and 'true love', and no matter how much I tell myself I am purely scientific, I am still a hopeless romantic.
"How have you been?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice from squeaking. He probably already saw it in my face, anyway. Damn best friends. They know everything.
"Oh, you know, all right," he says. "I'd grown quite accustomed to the neutral tones of the hospital. This is nice."
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us. At least, it seems uncomfortable to me. I contemplate running out the door and never looking back. I would probably trip over someone's handbag and hit the door face first. Maybe he would laugh. He probably wouldn't even ask if I was okay. God knows I deserve it.
As I am thinking these masochistic thoughts, he is staring at me, waiting for a response.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, gazing fixedly at my hands on the table.
"Don't be," he replies quickly, reaching across in an unconscious gesture to grasp my hands. I move them away suddenly, as though his touch burns me. He stares at me with a mixture of hurt and surprise. I slowly place my hands back on the table.
We eat our meal in relative silence, the murmur of voices and the soft clink of glasses, plates and silverware in the background. I glance up at him from time to time, wary.
He sighs, and I look up sharply, expecting--however foolishly--that he will leave and not come back. I can't bear this thought, and I take a deep breath.
"You know it wasn't your fault, right?" he says, eyes dark and brooding, pulling me in like a double black hole.
I sigh, looking at him. He knows I blame myself.
"I was drinking, Derek," I whisper.
"We all were, Sam," he replies sadly, and I get the distinct impression he is blaming himself, too.
*****
If you like this intro, please review and let me know. :) I would like to continue with this, but I'm not sure of the direction, so if you have ideas I would love to hear them!
Jax