Written in Vaughn's perceptive through second-person point of view. I'll let you know now this might not end the way you want it to.
...
It ends when winter begins with a chilled tickle settling on the back of your neck.
Chelsea doesn't cry; doesn't tremble from the abrupt pain that had exploded from the pit of her stomach that travels to the very tips of her fingers. Instead she just nods and smiles sadly. She expected this, expected you to forget how exceptionally nice she smells on rainy days, how she crosses her legs when she's nervous, and especially how her hand fits perfectly in yours. This relationship, she knows, was just an opportunity you two had taken upon yourselves to flourish on for the time being.
After all, you needed a distraction and she, well, she needed you.
Because Will was an awfully charming man who had a charmingly awful habit of chasing the skirts of other exotic girls that weren't Chelsea.
And you're only twenty, you're young, and tremendously determined and talented at what you do and because of your new promotion, you're going places. Places you're not quite sure of, but places you're certain will separate you from Chelsea; places that will tear apart the very fibers that hold your relationship in tact. It's meant to be like this, you think. You're meant to break her heart not because its so open and fragile, but because you're so aloof and hard. You know this wasn't written to have a happy ending.
Besides, happy endings logically didn't exist. And you're the logical one.
"Are you sorry?" she hums quietly when she steps closer. You swear you see a tear drop from her cheek but you can't be too sure under the minimal lighting you're currently given. It's dusk, nearly, and its starting to feel colder than before.
Are you sorry that we were ever together?
Her smile's pleasant, like always, and you tip your hat down farther. You're not sure how to answer such a question, so you counter it with another.
"Are you?"
"Never."
You swallow.
...
Julia and Mirabelle force you to reluctantly write them, as well as Chelsea, letters when you're far from home and when you read theirs (hers specifically), it doesn't bring you any closer to it.
The thin sheets of lavender paper smell nothing of her, and her handwriting is precise, neat, and oddly organized. You find these letters hardly mirror the writer and, therefore, hold little comfort for you.
For the longest, most pathetic time you try and try to decipher the littlest meaning, something to lean on, in her mechanical paragraphs, but nothing's to be found. She's simply writing to a friend who broke her heart, a friend who didn't mean all that much in a matter of seasons and seasons that begin to pile upon one another, just like the snow in the city that you can see outside of your hotel room now. Glimmering pristine flakes are falling from the heavens, and they unceremoniously hit the glass slate of the cold window you're leaning on, and you blink, your vision blurring from beckoning sleep, as you finally give up on the latest letter.
You scan over its last few paragraphs:
Julia and Mark have been making such a fuss about their relationship. Poor Mark doesn't know how to handle girls, though partly because he refuses to tend to their littlest of needs, and Julia was never kind in patience. I suppose this is the end of their honeymoon mark, something you said would eventually come. I remember I told you that would never happen, but I guess you've proved me wrong, again. Jeez, you always seem to be right!
Well, Mirabelle asked me to tell you she said hello. She promises she'll get to writing to you soon and says she's sorry she hasn't been very on top of that as of late.
Looks like this letter is coming to an end! We all miss you terribly, Vaughn, and cannot wait until you come home for a visit! Sunshine Islands will be awaiting your arrival.
Much love,
Chelsea
As much as you try, you just can't bring yourself to feel any sort of love. In fact, you don't feel much at all except for this city's cold, cold winter.
...
When you return, its springtime and Chelsea's wearing this shirt that's a bright ugly shade of orange. You're at a BBQ Mirabelle and Julia are throwing, and the island's inhabitants you've forgotten about or never met have somehow found themselves in your friends' backyard. They swarm around you, pooled around your feet, and congratulate you but all you can thinkseebreathe is Chelsea and her horrendous colored blouse.
You're twenty-two now, and you figure no hard feelings, right? So you curtly tell Chelsea that that shirt is the ugliest thing you've ever seen and before she can narrow her eyes or say something nasty and scathing back, a familiar boy you never gave the time of day to before (but looks like you should have) puts his arm around her shoulders.
You and her blink, simultaneously.
"Really?" he smirks, "I think it looks beautiful on Chels."
Chelsea beams before becoming flustered and shoves his arm off her. "Oh shush Denny!"
Suddenly, its not only Chelsea's shirt that makes you cringe internally anymore.
...
You find Julia at the same quaint little café of Haila's she's always frequented with Natalie or Elliot. It looks exactly the same as before, but you suddenly feel too old to be sitting at this crisp and clean table, looking down at hands too worn and callused to be holding a brightly colored coffee mug.
They had connected at that Fireworks Festival.
On your travels to foreign lands to cater to different kinds of livestock, big and small, you almost forgot about those festivals, and you weren't entirely interested in how Chelsea and the fisherman came together, but Julia continues because she can't taste the same bitterness that rests in your mouth like you do.
"Chelsea was with me," she says, quietly. Like she's guilty that she had been present that very moment Chelsea and Denny had began; that she hadn't reminded Chelsea that you had lingering feelings for her; even if you didn't even know that. "He's changed a lot, you know. He isn't immature as before-"
"Mark's dating his ex, Lanna, isn't he?" you press.
Julia's eyes turn to stone. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."
"Chelsea says he's proposing."
"Maybe," she breathes steadily while her nostrils flare. "I know Denny really wants to propose to Chelsea though."
...
"Oh Vaughn!" It's dark out, a hazy navy blue color stretching lethargically across the sky. A few stars are sprayed here and there and a breeze nestles against your cheeks. You find her leaning against her farm's front entrance, enjoying the night's pleasant weather while her dog runs around with her numerous chickens.
Before she can push the regular formalities aside you blurt out, "you're too young to be married."
She freezes in her place.
Her lips barely move. Her whisper flutters against your earlobe. "What…?" She takes a shallow breath in, and then, bravely, "We're… we're not even engaged yet. And besides, Vaughn, I love Denny."
"You're twenty," you remind her, chidingly through gritted teeth. "You're twenty and he expects you to stay home and pick up after his messes and cook him dinner and––"
Your body is pushed the furthest it can be from hers and she's glaring at you through blazing eyes, her arms outstretched to ensure the distance between you two isn't closed. "How dare you! You haven't the slightest clue what kind of person he is, Vaughn!"
"Don't bullshit me, Chelsea," you find yourself calling out in frustration, almost ripping the fabric of your hat as you clench onto the tip of it with tense fingers. "I know you're not stupid enough to give up your farm and your animals to live in that piece of shit shack he calls home."
"Shutupshutupshutup!" she screams and she's suddenly jabbing her finger sharply into your chest. "You're the stupid one, Vaughn. You're the one who thinks you're betrayed because everyone else moved on before you could! You don't know who Denny is. You never took the time to know him. In fact, you probably don't even know who I am!" Her voice's octave slowly eases and lessens, and suddenly she's talking in a stage whisper. "Vaughn, I'm in love."
Her piercing, harsh movements are caught in your firm grasp and it never hurt so much to hold her hand.
"I should have never left."
Should have. Could have. Would have.
Didn't.
...
"Just don't leave again," she smiles a watery smile, forgiving you because she always fucking forgives you.
Chelsea gingerly threads her fingers around your stiff wrist.
In return, you move to the side to walk away from her and––
...
––you end up kissing her instead.
...
Initially, she struggles.
She's kissing you back, but at the same time, she's trying to wean herself away from you.
In the end, though, she loses (or is that wins?) and you can feel her crying and simultaneously pressing her lips to yours fiercely. She still tastes the same. Cinnamon and apples. And her hair still smells like a watermelon-strawberry and her touch is still soft and soothing; her body still fragile and thin.
You realize then that Chelsea is just a lovely, lovely enigma in this very moment:
A moment that shouldn't ever happen again.
Shouldn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
Does.
...
Red, orange, yellow and a musty brown bleed together in swarms of leaves.
It's fall and, damn, you forgot where the time had gone. Shortly after your spring homecoming, you're off again a year later, and you're back on the road, except this time, your travels aren't as far or time consuming. This promotion and job doesn't take you away for two long years, and instead lets you come back to the islands in one.
The invitation is left on the foot of your neatly made bed in the Inn. Carol must have placed that so strategically there because she knows you'd be crawling under your covers the minute you came home. It's an off white envelope and paper, scrupulously decorated on the sides with a pale pink and green lace, and the writing found inked into the letter is small and cursive.
You Are Cordially Invited To The Wedding Of
Mr. Mark Harris and Ms. Lanna Lucas
On The Fifth Of Winter
You wonder if Chelsea will attend.
Julia hisses out a sharp "yes" as an answer upon your meeting with her and Mirabelle.
You found Julia's invitation ripped promptly in half, carelessly littered near her kitchen's trashcan.
...
The wedding was grand.
You walk down the aisle with Julia, two small smudges of mascara found on the corner of her eyes by the end of the reception. Now, minutes after the reception, you're irritatingly and reluctantly carrying Julia back to her house. In hindsight, you should have just left her there, but Mirabelle, who retired earlier that night, would have your head and you aren't that much of an asshole. You're even generous enough to help Lily's slightly intoxicated form back into her own room at the Inn after telling Will to piss off for the night and leave the poor girl alone.
And finally, the wedding was, thank-the-almighty-goddess, over.
You groan at the knock on your door, and you assume it's Julia's piss-drunk self wailing behind it so you begrudgingly open your door and in Julia's place you find Chelsea squinting at you.
She glares at you suspiciously and your eyes catch sight of the diamond on her finger.
The wedding prompted Denny enough to finally propose to Chelsea, after seasons of excuses.
"What?" you unintentionally snap. You shouldn't be bitter, because you ought to know these sorts of things happen after years of dating, but you are anyway.
She flushes when her eyes trace nervously across your room. "I um, I thought Lily was in here." Her flush brightened into a vivid blush and you cock an eyebrow. "I saw you walking her down the hallway. I wanted to make sure she was alright."
"She's fine, passed out on her bed." you assure and you lean against the room's threshold, your eyes involuntarily glancing at every angle of her body. She's still in her bridesmaid wine-colored dress, her shockingly high heels dangling from her right hand, and her hair is a bit of a mess from all the dancing and drinking.
The ring on her finger gleams a little too brightly in the dim hallway as she answers, "oh, okay then."
As she turns to leave, you watch her footsteps cease when you murmur, "you thought I was sleeping with Lily."
She pivots around, her eyebrows knit together.
You continue promptly. "Don't be an idiot."
"You know you broke up with me," she whispers back. "You're the one that ended things and you're the one that's messing everything up. I'm engaged to Denny now, Vaughn. No more fooling around, no more coming in and out of my life whenever you want, no more taking everything you want from me and giving nothing to me in return."
No more, she says. No more.
She can't love you anymore and you think, bitterly, but I can love you. You can love her in her very own white wedding dress, flowing behind her at her own elegant marriage that isn't to you. You can love her, no matter how much Denny thinks he does too.
"No more," you quietly agree, and when her lips curve into a solemn smile, you catch her arm as she turns to leave. "After tomorrow."
...
It's not quite tomorrow when she leaves. It's around two AM, and she's muttering excuses to herself that she is sure to pour into Denny's worried mind.
Oh, Lily was just awful, Den! She was throwing up everywhere and crying; she was never really the one to ever hold her alcohol quite right. I'm sorry I didn't call from her room, she was just a mess and I didn't even think about anything else other than helping her.
...
Its a few weeks after the wedding and things have quieted down. No more marriages or proposals and your job has allowed you to visit the islands more frequently, like half a decade back when your routine tied you to Verdure Island on Mondays and Tuesdays.
During the day you're found in Mirabelle's shop, on your breaks you frequent the library to say hello to the reclusive Sabrina or grab a bite to eat at the diner or cafe, and retire to your room in the Inn. Things have almost, so subtly, returned back to normal.
Today, however, against your utmost will, Julia's dragged you down to the beach because Denny's throwing a get together for all the young occupants of the islands. Will's there, finally retiring his vocation of wooing all the girls of the area and came with Lily, still quite unique with her foreign tongue and rituals. Lanna demands Mark to join her and they're still a fairly happy couple. Denny and Chelsea, the hosts of the party, had set everything up near Denny's old shack that they fixed up to be a vacation home for the two. To your disbelief (and bitterness) they primarily reside in Chelsea's farmhouse.
You wish for nothing else than to bury your head into the sand.
Drinks are being passed around, people are seated in beach chairs, and laughs are exchanged while the tension wedged between the couples are bitingly ignored. Well, until––
"You are not kidding," seethes the blonde.
Chelsea blinks innocently and smiles easily, catching your horrified stare. In return, your insides turn quite horribly. "Jul, for goddess sake, take a joke!" She glances at her husband momentarily before returning her gaze upon her friend. "Denny, tell her I was only kidding!"
This entire time you watch Denny. He thins his lips and grimaces from the raging sunlight while nervously fiddling with the napkin in his hand. He shrugs nonchalantly when the blonde's glare swerves from her friend to him. "I'd advise you to believe her, Julia. I would've told someone if it were true."
Lanna nods in agreement but Julia doesn't even make eye contact with her, as usual. The popstar clears her throat, flipping her newly dyed hair over her shoulder and smiles gently at Chelsea's rather embarrassed face. "Honestly, I didn't believe it for a minute. Chelsea would be glowing if it were true. A baby changes a woman, you know."
Continuing to ignore Lanna, Julia squints at Chelsea, long and hard. Her grasp on her chair becomes tighter and you glance at the concentrating blonde, watching her lips twitch as words dance feverishly on the tip of her tongue. Another wave breaks against the shoreline and pearly foam sprays over the dampened sand. Her grip releases and her words follow quickly in toll.
"Alright, Chels, if you insist."
"Beer break?" Mark offers, uneasily. He's tapping his foot, impatiently, and his eyes are swerving around the pier.
Julia frowns. "Drink break," she corrects softly and he shoots her a glance. Nonetheless, the two reluctant friends stand to their feet and shuffle into the shack, collecting empty glasses of alcohol and beer bottle to rinse and clean. Lanna parrots their moves, proclaiming dramatically about making a phone call to her manager.
Denny's eyes follow them and he then glances at Chelsea. He reaches over and your heart stings briefly as he squeezes her hand, excusing himself.
Will joins him because Lily's about to leave anyway. As the two also start to head off, you hear a mutter to Will, and your stomach suddenly drops.
"We haven't done, you know, anything," Denny informs lowly, shaking his head in relief, "for a season since I've started fishing more. I was worried for a while."
Will, like any good gentleman would, pats the fisherman's back reassuringly and Denny smiles at him weakly. "Chelsea's such an exquisite maiden and she certainty enjoys the thrill of surprising people. Her humor is quite unique."
The fisherman looks a bit unconvinced and swallows down his insecurities before shaking his head again, giving the aristocrat a weak grin. He opens the shack's door, ushering Will in before agreeing quietly, "yeah, I just never thought she'd joke about being pregnant, but she's definitely always been a wild one."
You're alone now-you and Chelsea-and the distance seems like it's increasing at an alarming rate. Before you can stop yourself your callused fingers suddenly brush against Chelsea's arm, and the feel of her skin is pulling you back down to earth.
You want to say something, anything, but her trembling lips cease all words.
"I…lost… I lost it," she whispers brokenly, her hand slipping over her flat stomach. It feels empty.
She stares at her other hand, envisioning the same crimson blood that dripped from it weeks ago, when panic and hysteria washed over as plus signs turned into negative ones. When Doctor Trent's smile wavered, nearly crumbling into tiny fractions of a frown, as he told her of the unexpected loss, the complication that she hadn't, just couldn't have, caused because she was going to be this loving, beautiful mother who looked even more divine with her baby in her arms.
You suddenly remember what Denny had first whispered to Will. 'We haven't done, you know, anything' rings relentlessly in your ears. You can't look her in the eye anymore.
Instead, when you know no one's watching, you replace her hand over her stomach with yours and she leans into you, sobbing.