It's 2:15 am and your phone is going off on your nightstand. You fell asleep five hours before, after watching Donnie Darko for what had to be the thirtieth time. You were in the middle of a nightmare, the one you always have where you're running as far as your legs will carry you and hit an area of nothing but towering trees. You sprint through the forest, casting quick glances behind you to see if it's still chasing you but to see it, you'd need to stare longer and you can't afford to do that. You trip and fall face first into the dusty forest floor and you can't breath. You can feel your heartbeat begin to hammer against your ribcage. You can't get that breath to pull you over and it's making you panic. It's 2:15 am and your phone is going off on your nightstand. You're relieved and you make a mental note to thank whoever called you and tore you away from your dream. Sleepily grabbing the phone, you fumble to unlock it. Your eyes shocked from the brightness which you left on high, you blink. Once, twice, finally three times until you can see who's calling you. Your eyes are watery from being awoken so you blink once more so you can see who your savior is. Clare Edwards. And your heart plummets to your feet and you can feel it do so because it put that nauseous tingling feeling in your stomach like when you are on a roller coaster and it's a feeling you've never been too fond of. You and Clare have history, a long, deep and dark one. You two had been to hell and back hand in hand as best friends before things got all wonky and tangled. Feelings got involved, something you had prayed for at night to the God you don't believe in to not happen. Clare caught feelings and you'd be lying if you said you didn't too. Clare Edwards had always been more than just a friend. But you didn't want to fuck that up, nor did you want to fuck her up. So you ended up fucking her over which in the end left her fucked up. You hadn't spoken for years and you wonder what could possibly bring her to call you at now 2:16 am. You begin to worry it's something serious. Hesitantly, you slide the green phone icon to the right and put the device to your ear. "Hello?" "Mm-hello is Elijah Goldswor-" she hiccups, "thy available?" Her words are slightly slurred together and your stomach drops knowing she's probably shitfaced. Your stomach sinks lower when you realize that even though it's been years since you've spoken, she still thinks of you enough to drunk dial you. You wince at how much it hurts to know that you avoiding fucking her up just fucked her up more. You don't think you're worth these drunk calls nor do you deserve to be on her mind years after what you did to her. "This is he," you managed to mutter back, your voice almost getting caught in your esophagus. She lets out a humph and you can practically see the face she's making, cheeks puffed out in a huff and her eyes rolling at your response. "Well, long time no talk, Goldsworthy-" the girl on the other line spat at you. You shake your head, you should have been expecting this. For most, drunk dials lead to drunken confessions and terrible hangovers in the morning. And while most stereotypical things didn't apply to Clare Diana Edwards, this one did. She wouldn't remember anything she said to you hopefully. You really wish for it to all be over but if you were being honest with yourself, you missed her voice and hearing it makes you feel comforted despite the incessant pounding of your heart. "Yeah, it has been a while and I'm so sor.." you begin to speak but she cuts you off. She doesn't want to hear anything you have to say. "Well, I've got some things to" another hiccup, "say to you." You nod a little before reminding yourself that she can't see you. "Alright, say them," you bring yourself to say and it's hard to breathe again.
Your brain is fuzzy, your stomach feels warm from the shots you just downed and you can feel said warmth spread outwards to the other parts of your body. You sit at the bar by yourself, abandoned by your best friend for some guy wearing denim capris and a hawaiian themed button up. You roll your eyes, "You're in Canada and it's fucking winter," you scoff to yourself, ordering the bartender to hand you another shot. He obliges, casting you a concerned look and you scowl in response. You feel the alcohol burn the back of your throat and your body responds to this with more heat in the pit of your stomach. You're getting drunker by the minute but you stopped giving a fuck about three shots ago. This was the most you've felt in years and while it was a shit way to feel something, it worked and you weren't going to deny yourself this moment. You are about to order another shot before you decide that it's a bad idea and push yourself up from the barstool. You're wearing these black six inch heels that Alli made you wear in a sad attempt to make it look like you hadn't been hiding away in your apartment for the past two years. You stumbled your way outside and you can't tell if it's the alcohol or because this is your first time wearing heels this high. You decide it must be both and push open the front door of the club, the cold wind hitting your skin as soon as you set foot on the sidewalk. You shudder slightly cursing yourself for letting Alli doll you up when you would much rather be in your pajamas and slippers at home right now. The shots seem to be doing their job because before you know it, the cars whizzing past you seem to be moving slower and you aren't processing things as quickly. Like, you taking your phone out and dialing a number you haven't dialed in a while but you know by heart. It rings three or four times before he answers. You hear his voice and your heart skips a beat before you let the anger engulf you. You're not about to let his voice get to you. You hear yourself speak and it doesn't even sound like you. Words slurring together to become one. Before you know it, the ball is in your court. "Alright, say them," he says, his voice tense. The ball is in your court and you have no idea what to do with it. You're quiet for a split second before you let the anger and alcohol concoction stirring inside of you to do the speaking. You decide to take some more shots after the phone call in an attempt to forget about it by morning.
"Fuck you," she begins. If you two were together in person you would have had to wipe her spit off your chin with the back of your hand with how she spat the words at the phone. You seem taken aback at her cursing towards you. Clare Edwards had a beautiful mind and a vocabulary so vast that most of the times she didn't need a dumb curse word to express her dislike or anger towards something for she could write a paragraph that flowed beautifully and made you feel how she felt without throwing in words like fuck, shit, and damn. You have to remind yourself that she's wasted and isn't thinking about what she is saying. But deep down you know that she must mean her words, for they say that drunk people and children are the most honest. "You think that it's okay that you-" she pauses and you can tell she's racking her brain for the words that sober Clare would have no problem coming up with, "abandoned me here? I confess to you how much I liked you and you just up and left?" Her sentences are slurring into one but you can manage to understand them because you understand her. You could always figure her out. "I wish I knew where you were," she muttered, her drunkenness obvious with the way she was speaking like half of her mouth was numbed. You remember the first few months after you moved out of your apartment in Canada and to the states. You made Adam call you weekly and let you know how she was doing. She hadn't done too hot for the first couple months and you didn't know how she continued to handle it after that, because Adam was furious upon hearing that you didn't plan on telling anyone where you were and cut all ties with you after that. This left you alone in New York which wasn't initially too far from home but just far enough for you to get some fresh air and a reality check. After two years alone in the big apple you made the decision to move back home and live with some guy you found on Craigslist. You'd only been back for a couple of days when you got this phone call. You were snapped out of your thoughts by Clare's voice on the other line, "I hate you so much." She says it in a voice so low you can tell you're not meant to hear it. But you do and you can't really pretend you didn't and so your free fist clenches by your side and you're biting hard on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying. It's hard to hear those words from someone who sat by your side at your worst of times and would always whisper "Eli don't be silly, I could never hate you." And you can't help but wonder if the meaning behind the words were true. "You don't hate me..." you whisper back, your voice almost cracking beneath the tension. Almost. You pull yourself together before it can.
-—-
You're hesitant. You know you don't hate him but after so many years spent convincing yourself that you do, it's hard to realize the truth. Hearing his voice makes your bitter feelings melt away and you wish that it wasn't this easy for him. If only he knew what hearing his voice did to you, he would know that what you said wasn't true. Not even a little bit. You purse your lips as he responds and you want to throw in the towel, agree. You want to say 'no, Eli. Of course I couldn't hate you, I could never ever hate you and it's fucking killing me," but you can't be that easy to win over. For a brief moment, you're grateful for the liquid confidence that you downed only minutes before. "I hate you," you repeat, matter of factly. Your voice doesn't even crack once, you thank the God that you no longer believe in. You hear an intake of breath from his end and you can tell that you caught him off guard. He is surprised but you can't even feel bad for him anymore. Not after what he did to you...to your relationship. You hiccup again, your thoughts becoming one big jumbled mess of words. "I hate you so much, I could go-" hiccup, "the rest of my life without ever seeing your face again, Goldsworthy." That sounded convincing, even to you. You take a deep breath and the line is silent all but for weeping on his end. You made him cry. Big, bad boy Eli Goldsworthy is crying on the other end and your heart pangs with guilt. But only for a moment, you've gotten a little too good at being apathetic. You don't know why you didn't hang up right then and there. You should have hung up right after you said what you needed to. It would have been the perfect dramatic exit, like the one he made out of your life. What an asshole. You scoff, "Tears, Eli?" Your voice is acidic, eroding the words as soon as they are out of your mouth. You tighten your abdomen in hopes of stopping your stomach from falling to your feet. It's minutes before he responds, but it feels like years. You're still standing out in the cold, your teeth chattering. You thought your anger would provide you heat long enough to get this conversation over with but you were wrong. "Blue Ey-" he begins and you tense up, making the cold from the surface of your skin sink deep until it hits your bones. Goosebumps rise and your teeth are clenched. He caught himself but he already did his damage. "Clare," he begins again, sounding apologetic. You roll your eyes and you can't tell whether or not he wants you to answer him. You part your lips to speak when he says, "I'm back." It takes a minute or two for your drunken mind to process what he just said. But when it finally does, anger courses through your veins once more. "You're ba-" you start to say, your voice rising with rage. He cuts you off. "I've only been back for a couple days, okay? What club are you at, I want to see you. I want to have this conversation in person." You're filled with a desire to punch something or someone, your knuckles ache to have contact with a pillow or a face. The bouncer standing at the door of the club seems like a good option, as he has been eavesdropping on your conversation the whole time. He is way too into it. You're drunk enough to think about punching him-maybe even almost approaching him and threatening it. But you're definitely not intoxicated enough to do it and have it be dismissed as no big deal. "Clare?" you hear Eli say, you must have been pretty into your fantasies of socking nosey bouncer right in the fucking face. "I'm here-" you respond, your voice low enough so the bouncer won't hear you. "I'm at Club Royale," you say before your brain can stop you. Eli sounds overjoyed and says he will be there in ten. You hang up without saying goodbyes and wonder how far away you could get from this place in ten minutes.