notes | i should be writing for other things but i thought of an idea about a coffeeshop!au so here it is; so this is my weak attempt at a prettyfic -
by the way i wasn't trying to be angsty i was trying to be fluffy and then i don't think i can write fluff
if you'll be my star, i'll be your sky
aliciacam, slight aliciaharris
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Bonjour mes copains! Comment est-que . . . Alicia stares at a nearly blank computer screen, and thinks that it was probably her fault in the first place for signing up for French III Honors in freshmen year - the rest of her friends had decided to opt for much simpler courses, one where the most difficult task that they would be forced to complete would be either slicing an apple or grating some cheese - consumer ed classes were of course, obligatory, but Alicia's mother had decided that she needed a challenge, something to force her to work harder - being second best wasn't really an option anymore.
Her eyes wander around the coffee shop - it's a small place at the corner of Canal and Bowery, nestled in between secondhand bookshops that smell like delight and friendships and chain restaurants which sell mouth-watering, delicious candies, piles of gummies and sweet n' sour treats stacked high upon one another, like the Tower of Pisa, about to fall - and she finds herself enwrapped in the affairs of other people. There's a boy with mismatched eyes and floppy black hair standing at the corner, adeptly lacerating a golden apple, turning into a mangled mess, its ends dipped into white chocolate, which is splayed across the treat, placed into a red-and-white Christmas themed box, its very own chrysalis.
She walks over to the counter, her legs moving numbly with lunging steps; dulcet tones and a violet fragrance filter in from the shop next door, and the strong whiff of cinnamon hits Alicia in the eyes, which tear up slightly. Uh, I'll have a small Java Estate, on the go, please, Alicia murmurs, trying to remember the words that Massie had repeated three days earlier, one of the girls' weekly shopping trips - it sounded snobby enough, for her own mind, and the fragrant aftertaste, though ephemeral, had tasted divine.
We don't have any of that stuff, the boy with the mismatched eyes murmurs, smiling a little. Are you friends with Massie Block, by any chance?
Alicia frowns, slightly, trying to keep her halcyon expression - or at least, what she hopes it looks like - brimming with insouciance. Her azure eyes and straw-colored hair catch in the sunlight, and she reflects upon an expression of innocence. No offense, but what's that supposed to mean? He doesn't respond for a minute - Alicia watches him slice apples, bruised and calloused fingers, lined up with cuts on the sides of them, as though it's a work of art; the orange-brown colored seeds of a golden apple are discarded, one foot reaching backwards smoothly to raise the lever of the plastic disposal chute, the other placing the remains of peels upon a gilded tray.
You're Alicia, right? Massie's told me about you; I'm Cameron, by the way, he introduces himself, blatantly ignoring her question; Alicia thinks that a boy like him doesn't belong in Westchester, NY - there's a glazed over look in his eyes that's reminiscent of a world away, where people aren't handed scholarships and trophies on a golden platter, implements of silver spoons lined on the sides or embroidered rugs, stashes of silk tissues in preparation for heartbreak or the loss of a sudden opportunity.
She remembers his name, then, suddenly. Cameron Fisher, step-brother of Harris Fisher-Price? His emerald-blue eyes catch in the sunlight, and for a moment, Alicia thinks that she recognizes the same, stubborn jawlines from his older brother, with the slightest traces and undertones of regret and guilt laced underneath broad smiles and pretense, and then it's blown away, as quickly as it had ever appeared.
That's the one, Cameron replies, smiling. Who are you again, exactly? He passes over a bowl of assorted fruit, laced over with drips of white chocolate, and Alicia frowns slightly, before fingering the rough texture of the apple, and the way that the pomegranate juice dribbles down her chin; she wipes it away quickly with a storebrand napkin, wondering why out of all coffeeshops in the world, Kristen Gregory had recommended this one - apparently, all the soccer boys hung out there, even some upperclassmen, Kristen had stated.
Alicia dips a fork into the crystalline drink, which has tinges of minerals and something akin to water from a campsite, and smiles, the mellifluous liquid coating her cherry-painted lips. I'm Alicia Rivera, your older brother's girlfriend. She hops out of the silver seat, her opulent high heels resounding with a repetitive click-clack as they leave coated linoleum floors and enter onto paved streets, a rush of New York ambiance through her lungs.
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Hours later, Alicia finds herself perched upon a piano bench, clear fingernails brushing away the dust that forms upon the grand piano's ancient exterior; she walks over, high heels carelessly slinged upon one hand, Prada bag in the other, in front of the mirror - Alicia dons cerulean blue dresses, the Polaroid images all a little too shaky from fidgeting, maladroit hands and obstinate zippers, and fingers powdered boxes with gilded golden names on the sides of them, something reminiscent of life from the movies - Elizabeth Arden make-up containers and the like.
She burrows her nose into the comforting warmth of a Macy's box - its red stars and diaphanous texture are an afterthought of her mother (it's all Alicia has left of her, really, this dress and a matching jewelry set) and as she slips on the filmy material, Alicia feels as though this dress was meant to be hers, no matter how clichéd the thoughts seem to be. There's a cacophonous sound on the lower floor of the Rivera mansion, and she refrains from dialing her cell phone number; I will be strong, she mutters to herself, I will not run from my problems; she fingers the ancient railing of the staircase and dangles her high heels upon her left hand, the stench of acetone and nail polish chemicals permeating the perfume-filled air of the hallways, and creeps down onto the bottom floor.
Alicia's just at the front door - almost there, just a few more steps - and then there's the familiar voice that closes in on her. Just where do you think you're going, dressed like that, in your mother's clothes?
Yeah, Alicia says, slowly. Massie's going to pick me up in a bit and we're going over to the library, to study for a history test. Her father moves with lunging breaths and as he nears her face, she can feel his breath which reeks of alcohol and bottles of scotch from the cellar downstairs, door halfway open. There's a momentary pause where she thinks that everything will be okay - he'll just leave, then, and she can leave and come back home through the back door, the servant's entrance - and then his fist makes contact with her jaw, and she slides numbly onto the floor.
He disappears after a while - Alicia thinks that she should have expected it. Everybody leaves her, after all, in the end - there's the occasional kick or punch, and she falls asleep in a pile of blood, blaring alarms in the back of her mind; she thinks that she sees golden eyes now and then, and then there's nothing but the everlasting silence and the overwhelming feel of loneliness.
There's a ring at the doorbell in what feels like forever, and Alicia refrains from opening it, instead moving with all her remaining energy down the carpeted staircase to the basement; she closes the steel door to the boiler room behind her, and curls up in a ball, tears silently running down her worn cheeks, evening out the consistency of fresh blood, dried now, perhaps. There's the turning of a doorknob, ever so subtle, and the click of a lock - Alicia wonders if her father is back for her, to finish the job - and is met with mismatched eyes which look down at her, almost as if in disgust and confusion. Alicia? Cam murmurs, softly, as though louder tones would perhaps finish the job, and break her in two.
Yeah, it's me, she dons a fake smile, trying to support herself upon the railing - she's never been the type to need the assistance of anybody, much less the help of a boy that she barely even knows; he tries wrapping her arm around his shoulder, and she flinches away, instinctively - a hurt expression crosses his face, but Alicia doesn't let herself care. I can do this myself, y'know, she mutters, her voice brimmed with annoyance, about to overfill. I can take care of myself - I don't need your help.
He shrugs his shoulders in defense. I get it; let's just get you upstairs, Alicia, and then you can take care of yourself, his words are slightly harsher than most, but expected, nonetheless. Alicia's desultory lunges stop in the opulent foyer, hanging onto the edge of a railing, high heels picked up from the indentations they make upon the otherwise translucent hardwood flooring, and she points toward the door, reluctantly, and looks back at Cam, and turns away from the intensity of his glare.
What? She snaps, sort of sick and tired of Cameron Fisher believing as though he has to take care of her, as though that's his role. Well, it's not. She can take care of herself. Stop looking at me like that, with that question on your face - I'm not going to answer it. She takes a shuddering pause, gulping, I'm not ready to answer that question yet, so just stop it. Okay? Just stop it.
Cam raises his eyebrows, slightly, moving closer towards her. Y'know, Alicia, I'm not going to hurt you - I just want to know who . . . who did this to you. He points towards the bruises that are revealed by how her sleeves roll up, exposing her lower forearms and the right side of her neck, trailing down her spine and further onwards. How long has this been going on for - seriously, I need to know.
Just stop, Cameron. I'm not going to tell anybody, least of all you. Just let me go now; I have to meet up with a few friends for a gala of some sorts, so if I could please go now, she points towards the front doors, removing his loose grip from her forearm.
He gives her an easy-going smile, as though this isn't the situation that he's found her in. Well, now, you're not in any place to make the decisions —
Why? Alicia glares, speaking slowly. Because I'm a girl, and you're a guy, and this is probably something out of a history textbook and all, but because you're the guy, you can make all the decisions, as though this is a patriarchal society from the fourteenth century?
No. I'll make the decisions because now, I don't think that you're even in any condition to drive. Alicia acquiesces, picking up an emollient from the foyer, and rubbing the lotion onto her face - foundation comes later, and soon enough, as she stares at the glossy compact, it looks as though she's good as new, as though she's soon enough become a car at a repair shop - squeaky clean, and ready to be displayed to the public's eyes.
She's staring out the window, legs crossed daintily when Alicia recognizes flickering shapes and lights, neon bright signs through the darkness and sighs, Cameron, you better not be taking me to a dumpster where you're going to rape and then kill me, because I can kill you, just with my scarf. The words are slurred together, falling from her lips like acid rain, and her onyx fingernails grip onto a Prada glossy handbag, pepper spray in one hand, and a toothpick (which is sure to splinter before it can even hit this guys' eye, but looks threatening and pointy enough, all the same).
Cameron laughs - it's booming and without restrains, the scratching tones blending together in the back of his throat like mellifluous honey. I'm not going to kill you - I just thought that you'd like to have some fun, once in a while, with an event that doesn't involve society galas and snobby kids. He takes a gulp, No offense, by any means though - I'm sure that your society galas are . . . enthralling, Cameron continues with his 'I'm-so-charming-love-me' smile that Alicia's been warned about.
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His lips brush against hers, and Alicia feels herself falling; he tastes like poison and wine, a flavor when which combined causes a pounding in her head, perhaps a signal in her mind reminding her of Harris - oh yes, that's right, her boyfriend - and she pushes back, chocolate eyes flashing with alarm; she doesn't think twice about looking in the other direction and dismantles herself from the Ferris wheel as soon as the gilded ride reaches its end, striding in the direction of the old-school Jeep, and spends the rest of the car ride back to the Fisher mansion in silence, Cameron never bothering to say a word the entire way.
We should do that again, sometime, Cameron murmurs, his voice low and all too much wrong.
Alicia tilts her head in a quick and fluid motion, sharply. Are you trying to ruin my social life? She asks, wondering how long it would take for Harris, who had been nothing but the perfect societal arm candy, to realize that her tainted lips had been breached by another's, or more specifically, his brother's. Because, this isn't how it's supposed to be - I'm Alicia Rivera and you're . . . you're my boyfriend's little brother, and this isn't right. The Jeep pulls around the corner of the mansion - a symphony of mellifluous tones enter the tense ambiance, and it seems all too bucolic if not for the limousines that line the corner, opulent shows of click-clack high heels, and Alicia thinks that she recognizes a few of them as her classmates, and ducks her head down, embarrassed to be seen in a Jeep, of all places, with Cameron Fisher, all of people.
What would the people say? You can go, y'know, Cameron mutters, and Alicia almost feels hurt at the indifference in his tone, and then remembers how she shouldn't care about what Cameron Fisher thinks, because he's not even a part of her life, even if it feels like he is. She fingers the polyester material beneath her skirt, and trips out of the vehicle, cotton candy lip gloss plastered upon her lips with the undertones of cinnamon and regret; Alicia slips into the warm grasp of the older Fisher brother, lights around them flickering underneath the hollow chandelier, scintillas of cotton candy traces lining the corners of her cherry-painted lips, and thinks that his arms don't feel as warm and protective as they used to; she withdraws, slightly, standing back, a hesitant smile on her face, and lets go of any remaining vestiges of resplendent memories, and remembers her role in society, and placing her manicured hand onto Harris's right arm, slips into the opulent hall, and doesn't look back once.
(Because, if she ended up looking back, she might have ended up doing what she really wanted, having fun with a boy whose profession was nothing more than that of a simple coffee-shop maker, and none of her plans for the future included that.)
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She finds herself back at the old nook, nestled in between the subtle warmth of winter-themed hot chocolate and itchy leg warmers that cling to her legs and leave dry rashes that no emollient seems to cure; Alicia leans back in the creaking old chair, and examines (scrutinizes) the way her ever-so-dry hands wrap around a light orange pencil. Little mechanical pencil lead doodles are etched onto the front of her hand, bits of tanned skin peeling off near nails which glimmer with coats of wisteria acetone, the only beautiful part of her aged look. Quite honestly, she wouldn't be too surprised if wrinkles and light green nerves started appearing on her hand - there was already an ugly red bruise forming on the side of her ring finger, covered by the toned-down bling of a diamond engagement ring (something to keep creeps from making advances upon her). There's subtle movements in the somewhat bucolic atmosphere formed and Alicia turns her head sharply.
Calloused, frostbite-colored fingers pass over a cup of rich liquid, the smell akin to something of peppermint flakes and cinnamon dust, faintly reminiscent of apple slices frosted. Finals, huh? His voice is dark and Alicia is reminded of the forbidden fruit.
English, Alicia murmurs in a distracted tone, gnawing on the marred eraser of a tarnished pencil and hoping that nobody else at this coffee shop besides Cameron actually goes to Octavian Country Day - she takes the coffee cup in her hands, warmth transmitted to her inner palms and offers a weak smile, sipping the liquid before nearly spitting it out. What is this supposed to be?
Cameron sits down on the seat next to her, as though he doesn't even have a job (judging by the fact that only two other people are even in the coffee-shop - and one of them is the manager, Alicia reckons that he won't have a job for much longer), and smiles, I made you some coffee - you looked like you needed something to wake you up.
Thanks, she offers and wonders if it's the right thing to say - a smile lights up on his face, and Alicia reckons that it is.
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She sits in chemistry, legs crossed, smooth as satin yellow sweater covering half of her hand; small chatter fills the room, evaporating upon the arrival of the teacher — he's in his thirties and knows nothing about high school, based off of his business professional attire which includes a three-piece suit and reminds Alicia of her father during court cases, with a stern expression; there's a quick tap on her shoulder, and she slips her fingers through puffy sleeves and wraps them around a bright piece of pink paper; she quickly excuses herself to the bathroom.
We need to talk - after class, the note reads, etched in a scrawled out scribble; cursive letters entangled with one another. Alicia takes a deep breath and stares at her powdered reflection in the dingy bathroom mirror, neon flickering lights above casting harsh shadows upon her porcelain face. She nears closer and ignores the greenish colored acne spot on the side of her whitened cheek and instead chooses to remove a section of hair pinned up in a sleek ballet bun, letting an ebony curl dangle down, skimming along the edge of her cheek.
Alicia exits the deserted third-floor bathroom into passing period, and slides into a congregation of people she thinks that she can call her friends. There's a tap on her shoulder a few minutes later, and she looks back into familiar ice-green eyes and smiles broadly. Harris, hey! I got your message.
We need to talk, he says, gently pulling on her arm into a more secluded spot near the history week. Leesh, you're a great girl and all and I know that we've been together for a long time and been through a lot, but I think that we should uh, take a break, for lack of better words? Maybe meet other people and all - it'll be good for us, really.
Alicia stares at him, frozen, and suddenly recovers, an array of emotions flitting across her facial features. Are you breaking up with me; and, by other people do you mean Faith, because I saw how the two of you were getting a little too friendly last weekend, and if you're going to break up with me, and then end up being with Faith in a few days, then —
You shouldn't be talking, Alicia, Harris says with a glint of something akin to undistilled fury, an expression that doesn't belong on the face of a golden boy. I know what happened between you and Cam - he is my little brother, y'know —
I can explain, Alicia hastily mutters and can see her future pouring down the drain before her eyes.
No need - it's fine, okay? Anyways, you got what you wanted - the popularity - , right? Harris quickly walks away, steps confident as though he's been waiting to do this for a while and just needed a reason, and Alicia already sees the emblazoned letter 'A', scarlet in color upon her limousine and walks through the hallway, head tilted down in shame.
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She's at the coffee-shop for the fourth time in a week - after all, there's that perfect balance between amicable booming sounds and uncomfortable nail-biting silence, and the way that nobody minds if you sit there for three hours without purchasing more than a twenty-dollar item - and wonders why she even comes here anymore. Alicia props her pencil above the miniature sized violet notebook and scribbles down a line or so of notes now and then. A plastic bag of green apples is slid over, and Alicia looks up into mismatched eyes (forbidden fruit is forbidden for a reason) and mutters, I really should hate you, y'know. Actually, I do hate you.
You don't hate me, Cam returns with an easy-going smile - it's something of a trademark grin, and Alicia doesn't think that she's seen any other expression on his face (because he probably hides it underneath layers, just like everybody else in Westchester). It's not my fault that Harris and I actually act like normal friends, and it's not my fault that you cheated on my brother —
Alicia thinks that is completely his fault to instigate the brief kiss in the first place, but rolls her eyes, reminded of the real crisis at hand. Anyways, you go to BOCD, so you're going to Homecoming with me. You owe me that much, seriously.
I'm not going to Homecoming, Cam immediately clarifies, moving away in a quick motion - Alicia follows suit and perches upon a swirling grey stool, ignoring the way that it creaks under the pressure of her weight. Why would you want to go to Homecoming with me, anyway?
She tilts her eyes down, and then back up, chocolate eyes gleaming with deceit. Maybe I want to get to know you better, Cameron.
Or, maybe you just need somebody to go with because Harris broke up with you and no guy with any smarts would go with a girl who cheated on Mr. Golden Boy. Alicia stutters for a response, but Cam just passes over the bill. I'm not going to be your second option, Alicia. She finds herself frozen and then hops off of the school and walks out of the door, lost in a myriad of high-society clones and rushing business professionals, alone.
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She's cornered against the wall, the taste of blood and retching vomit in the back of her mouth, lungs about to collapse from asphyxiation; her father has his ice-cold hands around her throat and Alicia closes her eyes, resisting the urge to struggle, as it would only make things worse. There's a sudden reflex from within her, and she finds herself mustering the energy to send out a subdued kick into her father's torso, and throws a punch into his eye sockets, briefly feeling guilty from the way that he falls down the stairs, clutching his stomach.
Alicia runs upstairs to her bedroom, locking the door, and waits for the impending doom - perhaps, as soon as he recovers from his pain, he'll demand that she cooks something for him and his 'friends' or maybe leave the house for disrespecting one's elders - and waits, closing her eyes, and slides onto the floor, knees curled up with a straightener in one hand (quickly taken from the bathroom) as some sort of defense mechanism. The clock ticks five o'clock five minutes later, and there's still no audible movement from downstairs.
She cautiously opens the door, without thinking, and winces at the sight before her - her father lies midway down the butterfly staircase, unconscious; Alicia frantically presses her ear to his chest, searching for a heartbeat, and comes up with nothing. She runs down the staircase, picking up her cell phone, fingers trembling as she dials 9 - 1 - 1. Hello, she murmurs, her tone rising with impatience. This is an emergency - my dad's unconscious on the staircase, and I don't know what's wrong with him - she breaks down in tears, unable to finish the sentence, because this is all her fault.
It's all her fault; he was all that she had left, and now, Alicia's going to lose both parents (she wonders if her mother would have blamed her for the situation). Calm down; we need your address, and we'll have an ambulance dispatched quickly.
1934 Lancaster Grove, Westchester, New York, she manages out, leaving the phone on the side and dashing up the staircase; her father's eyes blink twice and the features relax into something of relief and relaxation.
The ER staff finds her crouched over her father's body, holding onto it as though it's the only thing that she has left in the world, and drag it away from her - Alicia sits in the ambulance, eyes unblinking, ignoring the shock blanket that one of the staff members places over her shoulders; her father's attached to a series of wires and placed on a stretcher upon arrival in the hospital. They tell her that they'll try everything possible and force her to sit outside, in the waiting room with everybody else, and she doesn't try to resist. Look where that got her the first time she tried resisting against her father. It got him killed.
Therefore, it's not much of a surprise (but it doesn't make the pain any less) when the doctor walks outside, a plain expression on his face without a hint of empathy for her situation (because she's an orphan now, you see) and tells her that I'm sorry, Miss, but your father is dead. If you'd like, we can send you his belongings - his watch, his wallet.
Alicia just sits numbly inside of her father's room (they tell her that she can't be in here, that the room has to be cleared) and stares at the heart rate machine and its blank line and wonders what death feels like, if it's so easy to die (just stop breathing), and thinks that she's been dead for a while, anyways.
(date of death: september 17th, 2013; cause of death: heart attack)
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The funeral is two and a half weeks later, and like any other Westchester event, highly publicized.
After all, it's the passing of Len Rivera, what the wealthy suburb acknowledges to be a prominent lawyer, whose wife had died out of cancer three years before his own death; he left behind a spoiled child, and had a penchant for eating food choices that led to high cholesterol intakes and some sort of diabetes with the chance of a heart attack which ended up killing him, in the aftermath of everything.
Alicia dresses in a sleek black gown, the same that she had worn to her mother's funeral, and resists the urge to laugh at the situation, because it's as grim as it can be; her aunt waits outside, ready to take Alicia from Westchester back to the 'homeland' of Spain, and for a moment, she thinks that she doesn't want to leave the only home she's ever known. There's a knock on the door - one-two-three. Come in, she speaks loudly, swearing in a softer voice as her brooch tangles in her hair. The door's open.
Cameron Fisher walks in, and Alicia nearly drops the brooch onto the hardwood flooring, before concealing her true emotions in a plain expression of nonchalance, rubbing the tears that form in her eyes. Cameron. What are you doing here?
I, I just wanted to apologize, he says in that sort of sweet voice that Alicia thinks only belongs to angels, and Cameron Fisher is anything but an angel in her mind. What I said a few weeks ago, it wasn't my place to say something like that; I should have gone with you to the dance - you needed somebody to go with after what happened with Harris . . . and that was my fault.
Forget it, Cam. I'm not going to be friends with you just because you feel bad for me because my father died.
That's not the reason —
Really? Because two weeks ago, you were pretty confident about your decision so stop being fickle, and just leave me alone. For good, this time. There's a moment of silence before the door gently closes, and she's alone once again.
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She finds herself at the cofeeshop over summer break, talking again with Cameron, because she doesn't have that many offers for friends anymore (the Pretty Committee is there, through thick and thin, but it's not the same), and Alicia will take all that she can get. So, Cameron ventures, hesitantly, you'll be there, at the game tomorrow?
Alicia smiles back, I'll be there - not because you're playing, but y'know, because Massie's forcing the rest of us to go to the game to support the Briarwood Tomahawks and all. The words fall out of her mouth, clinging to the edges like acid rain, and Alicia curses herself for being so awkward around potentially cute boys who confuse her with their mismatched eyes and Broadway show demeanor, and that remembers that she's Alicia Rivera, and Alicia Rivera is not like this, fumbling for words and positively awkward. Oh, by the way, I'm still waiting to hear those three words . . . she trails off, sunshine beams gleaming.
Cameron takes a sigh, and steps down from the latter, falling from the last two rungs. I'm an idiot.
Those are the ones, Alicia says, smiling (she hasn't smiled this much in a long time, and it feels good to be happy). She closes up her books, glancing at the grandfather clock and the repeated tick-tocks and thinks that time moves too quickly.
You'll be back here, maybe? Cameron asks, his voice laced with hopefulness and something that makes Alicia want to smile and hide away at the same time; there's silence for a moment.
Sure, she says, a careless statement - Alicia fingers the charm bracelet that wraps around her palm and thinks that the world is what she makes of it, and she'd rather not end up being caught up back in a world where popularity stems from being pretty and tragedies. There's something about tragedies that makes a person that goes through them more appealing, and Alicia thinks that it's quite ridiculous.
Tomorrow? He asks again, nervousness somehow endearing and unique at the same time - she'd had potential boyfriend offers before, several times in fact, but none of them were as confusing as Cameron Fisher was. She could have predicted their actions and words before they even opened their mouth, solely judging from the way that they walked down the hallway or which social circle they belonged to; Cameron Fisher is different than any boy she had ever met, and Alicia isn't sure if it was a good thing.
She smiles, Patience, Cam. You don't want to seem to eager, now do you? except Alicia's sort of tired of waiting for guys wasting their time on complex emotions and the like, and taking their time with everything, because if she likes him and he likes her, there's no point in even denying it; it's just a waste of time, really, and in a world like theirs, time runs out.
Right, that's why I said tomorrow, Alicia - I'm going to have to make it through tonight and tomorrow morning, mind you which includes some ballroom dancing lessons that Mom signed me up for and some silly birthday party of my third cousin, Olivia, who will most definitely try to kiss me even though I keep on reminding her that we are cousins - and I'll go through all that, just to see you again. His nerve-wracking tone makes Alicia want to blush and hide away in a corner, because guys aren't supposed to be this sweet. They really aren't.
Alicia saunters off, hops out of the silver seat, her opulent high heels resounding with a repetitive click-clack as they leave coated linoleum floors and enter onto paved streets again, but this time, she turns her head ever so slightly to respond. Her words could have been caught in the rush of New York ambiance, busy streets and taxis zooming by, but Cameron Fisher's waited too long for her words to slip by, and catches, If you're lucky, I'll stop by tomorrow, and thinks that he is ever so fortunate.
Cameron walks over to the counter, and fingers the cash register, turning into the gilded key and closing the knob, making one last call with the stringed phone, ignoring the way that it curls around his fingers, coffee stains imprinted like trademark designs, fingerprints with oil remains onto the device. Hey, Josh; I can take the shift tomorrow off of your hands.
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if you've managed to read through this mess, leave a review?
um i had a happy ending and i'm sort of happy with how this turned out, c: