Title - The Right Thing 1/?
Disclaimer - Don't own the characters, of course, just borrowing.
Summary - In this follow-up fic to I Can't See, Bosco narrates the trials of his life after moving to the 7-9 and describes his struggle in winning back the person who means the most to him.
Warnings - Language. This is Bosco talking, after all.
Lyrics - "Blind" by Lifehouse, "Something Like a Broken Heart" by Hannah-McEuen, and "That Ain't My Truck" by Rhett Atkins.
The air is cold as I open the door of my car, and it hits me hard. I take a deep breath, slam the door carelessly with my shoe and stumble ahead through the darkened parking lot. He's parked in the same place - a far corner, the furthest from the building, and completely hidden during the night. I always thought it was foolish, because surely a big, NYPD detective could snuff his way into a closer parking space. But what angers me more is that on the days she drives it home, she's left to trek across the parking lot herself. And on those days, she always leaves after shift-change, meaning there's plenty of parked cars, but no one around. It's not like I don't think she's capable, but I worry about her. I always do. Part of me can never believe he could do as good a job protecting her. Ma tells me its jealousy. That's usually when I tell her to pour me another one, and then in response, she refuses and tells me I'm self-destructing and 'I won't help you do that, Maurice'. It's kind of become my routine to go by her place, drink myself bloodshot and report my new record of how long I stayed outside their place...waiting. Ma doesn't even bother to tell me not to anymore. I guess after six years, she's given up trying to dissuade me. Now, she only occasionally encourages me to move on with my life. But it confuses me. I just try to snatch the bottle of Jack and ask her how I'm supposed to do that when someone took the only life I had.
I'm closer to his pickup now, and even in the blackness I can see it. It's not the kind I'd expect from some upstairs gold shield either. It's an old and worn 4x4, at least, that's what I assume it is...there are no titles left on it to tell me. They must have fallen off over the years...but even a moron could tell its a Chevy. It looks as old as my Mustang, but it's uglier. And slower, too, I'm sure. I laugh. I'm definitely not jealous of his ride. I never met the guy formally, or anything, but I still didn't get that sentimental vibe from him, so I seriously wonder what he's doing with the bucket of rust. I think for a split-second that maybe it used to be his old man's and after he kicked it he felt the need to keep it in the family or something. The reason is lame to me, especially since I know I wouldn't want to keep anything my dad touched. I never understand why people feel compelled to keep things like that anyway, especially after someone dies. Isn't it kind of a morbid reminder?
But more than I'm concerned with why he has the piece of crap, I can't help but wonder if it has defective airbags, if the brake pads are worn, or how often he checks the tranny fluid. I cringe, thinking of something malfunctioning while she's driving. I shake away my thoughts. I don't have much time, so I pull the knife from my pocket and take a long, last drag of my cigarette before tossing it on to the pavement and smothering it with my sneaker. I don't really know when I started smoking, I guess somewhere around the time I started drinking like the early Fred Yokas. Speaking of Fred, I remember asking her if this Miller guy was anything like him, back during one of my first - and last - confrontations about him. It had been my not-so-discreet way of trying to figure out if he deserved her. She didn't give me much to go on, besides that he wasn't like Fred, and that wasn't saying much, so as far as I was concerned, he wasn't good enough. I have heard stuff about him at the House, though. Everyone I hear from makes him sound all honorable and crap, and I'm not sure if that makes it easier or harder to hate him. I shrug, deciding on the latter and stepping up to the front wheel.
After last night, my intentions are solid. I'm not waiting any longer.
---------------------------------------------
22 Hours Earlier
After all this time
would you ever want to leave it
maybe you could not believe it
that my love for you was blind
The same goddamned song was on the next night, as I sat in my car, nestled against the same curb opposite her building. It was the same time, too, give or take twenty minutes. What were the freakin' chances? Ma would probably say it was some sort of sign, but if I told her the lyrics she'd probably take it back because it would entirely discount her theory. Just because, of course, she openly opposed my "stalking", as she'd termed it a few years back. Stalking my ass.
Over the years, the only thing that ever separated the nights from one another other, or kept them from blending monotonously together, was the weather and the radio. And since the radio was obviously fucked up, the weather was the only thing I had to bet on. And, thankfully, it was raining. Otherwise I might have actually gotten a little creeped out. I had my engine on accessory so the windshield wipers could keep the rain from blurring my vision of her window.
Couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you will ever know
a part of me died when I let you go
I lurched forward, jabbing an angry finger onto the seek button. Anything was better than that song. I scanned through a crapload of ads and few stations shouting something about Jesus, silently kicking myself for not having XM or Sirius something. It was 2011, for Christ's sake, and I still had to search through terrestrial radio for some half-decent music that didn't try to rub my face in the shit I was going through. Of course the only channel not in need of funding at that very second was some redneck crap. Yeah, my only option was the single goddamn country station in New York City...
I pulled over by the curb No, that ain't my truck in her drive
I've been sittin' here all night
Wonderin' what it was I did so wrong
That he did so right
I thought of breakin' down her door
But there's nothin' left to say
That chevy four-by-four
Says it all, sittin' in my place
Man this ain't my day tonight
Looks like she's in love and I'm out of luck
That ain't my shadow on her wall
Lord this don't look good at all
That's my girl, my whole world
But that ain't my truck
"Somebody shoot me," I mumbled to myself, and then reached forward again and turned off the radio completely. The silence disconcerted me, but I really had no choice. CDs weren't an option since the player went out the window around the same time my A/C started to go. And literally. Someone carved my it out of my dash back in 2008 - just busted my window and snatched it in the middle of a goddamn police department parking lot, and in broad daylight no less. The civs of Bedford-Stuveysant were bold sons of bitches. I hadn't been too devastated, though, but mainly, I had to dish out the money to fix the window before I could start thinking about getting a new CD player. So I never did get around to replacing it. Besides, that was all insignifcant crap anyway compared to what I'd been through.
Now that there was no music on, I could actually hear myself sighing and it reminded me of just how alone I was. The temperatures had been dropping over the past few days, and several times I wanted to turn the heat on, but my car was just too old to sit and idle for hours. Instead I just leaned back in my seat and sighed again, prepared to keep a steady gaze on her window until I couldn't see inside anymore, simultaneously preparing to let my mind wander back to the year when everything went wrong.
A sudden knock on my driver's window sent me sitting up straight, startled. In six years, the only knocks I'd ever gotten on the window were from a countable number of bums who I'd told to piss off, before resuming my surveillance. And I can't even remember what year that was in, I just know it was a long enough time ago that I'd let myself become unprepared for interruptions and, so, whoever dared to mess with me tonight was about to get an earful.
I rolled down the window, looking up to meet some guy with graying hair, and eyes so baby-blue they belonged more on a chick. I squinted to adjust to the dark and realized I recognized the man. I was just trying to figure out how he'd gotten from the entrance of the opposite complex and across the street to my driver's side without me seeing him. It made me doubt my instincts for a second. I found over the years I'd been doing that a lot. My eyes had never gotten back to 100. I mean, I saw well enough to get by, but I never let on to anyone that my vision was still somewhat fucked up. That and the years weren't exactly making me young again. I'd be 39 soon. That was another fact I enjoyed trying to drown with whiskey.
"The hell do you want?" I barked, averting my eyes from the man's suspicous glare.
"I want you to leave us alone," he said simply. I looked back up again, kind of surprised. I'd been ready for an argument of some sort. Of course, then I remembered what a great guy he supposedly was, and clearly he wouldn't lower himself to the hostile Boscorelli Standard. He nodded as if waiting for me to agree.
"No."
"No?" He looked shocked that I hadn't immediately obliged and started to leave. I repeated myself, getting an evil, incredulous laugh in return.
"Look," he said, leaning in toward the window and pointing a finger at me. "I see you out here. Outside our place every night. You don't think anyone knows, Boscorelli, but I do---"
"Oh save it, Captain!" I shrieked, slamming a fist into my steering wheel. I narrowed my eyes. "I been sittin' outside her place every night for six years! What, you just now grow some balls to come say somethin' about it?"
"You're stalking her, you little rat bastard!" he roared. And it would have been funny, since having watched him from a distance on the job over the years, I'd never heard him so much as raise his voice. He sounded too intellectual to be at all threatening and I don't think he could've scared the pants off a whore. But when he kicked the side of my Mustang I lost the capacity to see any humor in the situation. I shoved the door open and stood up to face him.
"I don't stalk people," I informed flatly, shrugging and somehow managing to suppress my growing rage that craved to beat the crap out of him.
"No? Then what do you call this?" he made some flamboyant gesture from my car to her window, which was still aglow. "Huh? What do you call that?!"
I crossed my arms calmly. "It's a free country. And I call it being parallel parked. On public property."
"Don't mess with me, Boscorelli. I want you to get the hell out of here and never follow her again, you hear?"
"I'm watching out for her!" I hissed, then lowered my voice to a mumble. "More than you do."
He wiped a hand over his mouth in frustration, and I tried to shake away a feeling of unsettlement when I realized he didn't seem too threatened by me, either. "Look," he started, glancing at me and then off to the side. "I don't really know you, but from what she tells me you're okay. So I don't want things to get ugly, but---"
"You threatening me?"
He shook his head, "Just stay the hell away from her," he warned, then turned and walked off, leaving me to stand in the cold, swallowing back tears. When I finally climbed back into my car, I was torn between feeling complete betrayal and a sense of optimism, because according to the bastard, she still talked about me.
-------------------------------------------------------
The sound of air escaping from the tire makes a hissing sound that seems to echo in the parking lot. I briefly scan the area, but see no one, so I wrench the knife from the rubber and start for a back tire, stopping short at the driver's window. I don't know why I suddenly feel compelled to look inside, maybe just because I never have. There's a condensation built up from the cold air and last night's rain, and I wipe it away before pressing my face against the window and squinting, allowing my eyes to adjust. I think maybe if this guy's as sentimental as it seems there should be some black and white wallet photo covering his odometer or something. The interior comes into view, though not that well. I can make out the seats - they're in better shape than I'd have expected. There's some trash on the passenger floor. And a jacket slung over the seat - her jacket. I recognize it, too. But there's no pictures. I roll my eyes. The man is not living up to my preconceived stereotypes. Regardless, I get back to work, reaching the back tire, stabbing it and slicing it until it has no choice but to go flat. And not just go flat, but go-flat-and-be-slashed, meaning no possibility of being patched with Fix-O-Flat or some crap. Meaning four brand new tires, which is money - even on a veteran detective's salary - you don't hand over happily. And on top of that, money that probably isn't even worth being put into the lemon. I rush around to the other side, hastily imposing the same violence on the remaining tires, and then stand back to revel in my victory.
It's not some cheap way of lashing out because he kicked my 'Stang. Hell, I don't think he even left so much as a mark or dent. And besides, like I said, I lost whatever zeal I ever had for keeping my car in prize condition. I expect little more from it than for it to get me to work in the afternoons, to Ma's bar, and back home. The rain washes it and occasionally I put ten dollars in for gas when I absolutely have to. Of course, that only makes me wonder when ten dollars started getting me less than a gallon. More incentive to drink, and I definitely don't need more of those. But, anyway, that's not why I'm standing here admiring the sinking tires on his shitty Chevy. There is more at stake than some piece of crap car or my pride. And, yeah, I could probably, somehow, pull it off without having slashed the tires, but I guess there's always room for spite.
I back away, slowly, glancing around again to ensure I'm the clear. There's a few uniforms wandering inside for the overlapping first shift, but they don't see me. I get in my car, searching frantically for my lighter. It's been a few minutes since I put out my New York Cut and that's just far too long to go without. But all I can find is a half-empty pack of Newport in the crevice of the passenger seat. It will do. Lighting it, I watch the back door, ignoring the slight blur in my eye when I focus too hard. See, if I planned everything right, she'll come out in several minutes. I used to have reservations about eavesdropping, but I had to know what time he'd be meeting his ex-NYPD buddy from the first generation 7-9 at some seedy diner around the corner. I had to know everything so I wouldn't screw anything up. I even had to stand outside her office when he told her who was in town and how they needed to 'catch up', "So, honey, I'll leave the car". I hope I didn't miss any crucial details when I ran to the locker room to puke after that.
I know both their schedules like the back of my hand, even when they vary with each case. And his revisiting of his street days only helps me to seal the timeline. And, right on schedule, she appears out the back door. I watch her for a second before taking a long drag.
"Thank-you, Miller," I mumble bitterly, before coughing as the smoke burns my throat and lungs. And I laugh to myself at his naivety. Sure, I'm betting on a lot of things working out exactly how I hope, but the plan is in motion, now. There's no going back.
She's still on the top of the steps, pulling her hands around her arms like she's cold, and glancing back at the door. I figure she's probably deciding whether or not she feels like fetching her coat or something. She never did dress for the weather.
Finally she tosses a hand toward the door in a 'fuck it' fashion and heads across the parking lot, digging around in her purse until she pulls out the keys. I wonder if she could see me if she looked up - if she could make out my car or if its too hidden by the dark. Or, if maybe she wouldn't notice me at all. I try not to depress myself with any more 'maybes', and move my head to follow her as she reaches the truck. I realize the sane person might find this somewhat creepy or voyeuristic, but I justified it to myself a long time ago.
I wait silently until she discovers the not-so-operatable state the truck is in, shouts a few expletives and then, expectedly, pulls out her cell phone.
"Call your hero, Faith," I breathe out bitterly, along with more hot smoke. I start the engine, noticing how aged and uncared for it sounds but not caring, and drive slowly toward her, flicking on the lights when I slow to a stop. Her hand shoots up, shielding her eyes from the sudden brightness, and thankfully, with her other hand, snaps her cell phone shut. She wanders toward me, almost cautiously, leaning over a little to see better.
"Bosco?"
"Hey," is all I say, and somewhat coldly at that. It's not intentional, but we've already just about set a record for our exchange of words over the past years. The only thing that really tops it is our necessary communication at a crime scene, and even then, it rarely surpasses anything more than, "Have you canvased?", "Yes.", "Thanks." And recently I haven't even been on scene with her, but even when I am, that dialogue hardly counts.
She looks at me suspiciously and then glances at her watch. "What are you doing here? You got off...two hours ago."
"I was...around," I mutter, disguising my lie behind a nicotine-induced cough. This is one part of the plan I didn't prepare for. "...My new partner sucks with the paperwork," I add, and I wonder if she notices its weird that I refer to him as my 'new' partner even though we've been for six years. She still stares with a doubtful glint in her eye, but shrugs, and eventually points to the truck.
"Some...bastard slashed John's tires," she shakes her head, and suddenly I wonder how obvious the truth is. But then, I realize, I've never been outwardly hostile toward him. She'd really have no real reason to suspect me. So for now, I feel I'm in the clear. "He's gonna be pissed."
"Jagoff," I murmur, and she nods in agreement, shrugging. We're both quiet for a few seconds before I speak again. "...You need a ride?"
"Uh, yeah," she looks as if she might agree, but then stops and shakes her head. "Actually...you know, I could walk."
"In the cold?" I notice her hands are back around her arms, hugging herself.
She shrugs. "It's not that bad out. Really, I can walk," and she starts to leave. I wonder if maybe she's suddenly reconsidered because my voice doesn't exactly sound like myself. It's low and scratchy and guarded. But seriously, who is 'myself'? I don't even know anymore.
I step on the gas, pulling up abruptly, blocking her in with the front of the car. She stops short and looks up.
"Faith, we don't talk. We hardly even look at each other. Now I can't give you a ride home anymore, either?"
She looks from me to the ground, and even in the dark I can tell she's biting her lip. I realize my tone was combative, so I remember that my original intent was never to come here to fight, and continue more civily. "Come on," I sigh, tossing a hand up and letting it fall and hit the side of the door. "Just get in. There's no tellin' how much longer this thing will stay runnin'."
I swear I see the hint of a weak smile on her face as she shrugs and starts for the passenger side.
"Since when do you smoke?" she asks, sliding inside and pushing my Newport pack onto the floor. I don't need to look at her to know she's displeased with the tar stench of the vehicle.
"Since when do you hesitate to get in a car with me?" I counter, pulling away from the lot, but still avoiding her eyes.
I can tell I've succeeded in pissing her off already, but as usual, I talk before I think. And I don't want her to change her mind, but I do feel a little better knowing that as long as I'm driving she can't just jump out or anything.
She dodges my question to answer with one of her own. "Have you been drinking?"
"What?"
"You heard me," she repeats, her tone accusing. "You smell like alcohol. Have you been drinking?"
I shrug and move my cigarette to my mouth again. "It depends what you mean by that exactly. If you mean tonight, then no. If you mean since we left the 5-5--"
"Why do you have to be such a smartass?" she interrupts. "I asked a simple question."
"Well I'm not drunk," I inform, turning to her for the first time since she got in. I know my expression's stony when our eyes first meet, but I notice the concern in hers so I soften my features and nod. I'm really not drunk, so it's not a lie.
She turns back toward her window. We ride in silence for a few minutes before she frowns and looks around. I can tell she's looking at me but I use all my resolve and keep my gaze straight ahead as I anticipate her protest.
"Okay...Bosco..." she sounds more annoyed than anything as she looks through the window suspiciously before turning back to face me. "Where are we going?"
I stall by inhaling my cigarette once more for all its worth before heaving it out the window. I don't answer, and out of the corner of my eye I see her shake her head and lean back, defeated. She rests her chin on her hand and stares off through the window again. Content she's looking away, I shift my attention from the road to her. The air from my open window has snuck in and is tossing her blonde locks all around, but she seems unaware.
She's beautiful.
And I suddenly notice how fast my heart's beating. We haven't been this close for a long time. The sad part is, there's still a good two feet and a console between us. And that's not including all of the distance between us that isn't physical - the years since we've been partners, the years since we've said more than a handful of words to each other, the years since we were best friends. I guess my entire plan was about trying to salvage whatever might still be left of that.
"The bridge?" she asks, sitting up straight as I reach the destination and cut the engine.
I nod. "Our bridge. We used to always come here, remember?"
She looks at me but doesn't speak, tearing her eyes away to look back outside again and shake her head. "Why did you bring me here, Bos?"
I shrug. "I guess...I wanted you to remember."
"I never forgot," she tells me, her voice strained and almost offended. I see her shiver and remember she has no coat, so I pull off my own and drape it around her shoulders. She looks like she might reject it but the warmth proves too good to give up, so she accepts, pulling it tighter around her arms.
The only thing I can hear is the occasional sound of the wind and distant traffic as we fall into silence. But its not an awkward silence like I expect.
"You seen anyone lately?" I ask, trying to spark conversation. I'm not exactly good at getting right to the point, and if it means we sit here longer, that's fine with me.
"What?" she glances up, confused, and I realize I was vague.
"I mean," I clear my throat and try to cough away the acidic taste left in it. "Anyone from the 5-5 lately."
She shakes her head, "No...not for awhile anyway."
"Yeah, me either," I confess. "Ran into Sully a few months ago, though. At the bait n' tackle checkin' out the lures."
"What were you doing at a bait shop, Bosco?" I swear I think for a split second, she might actually laugh.
I shrug. Ok, so I didn't run into him by chance. But I'm not gonna tell her I actually met with him for his advice, or that it wasn't months ago. Namely because it concerned her, and secondly because I never take advice. Especially not from Sully. But I'd been desperate, and he'd laughed and in his usual un-sarcastic tone told me, "Crap, Bosco, six years? Why give up now?"
So I'm not gonna.
"Told me Davis is finally marryin' Monroe," I add, hoping she'll temporarily forget about the discrepancies in my account. "We should be gettin' invitations soon."
"Yeah," she nods. "I heard that too. And that Finney's having another kid."
"No kiddin'," I mumble, though I'm more distracted by the simple sound of her voice - talking... to me. "Weird isn't it? I mean, everyone movin' on."
"Yeah," she nods again.
I laugh, "'Course you didn't really have any trouble doin' that..." And I avoid her stare because I know I've pissed her off...again.
"So, why can't you?" she says finally, pausing again "...Move on, I mean?"
I shake my head, slightly angered by how easy it is for her to strike a nerve. "It's not that easy," I snap.
"So what, then, Bosco?" she pleads. "Tell me. Tell me why you really drove me out here at 1:30 in the morning! Because it wasn't just--"
"I want it back," I say suddenly, trying to make progress. "Us."
All I get for my efforts is a long pause and finally, a shallow laugh. "That's unrealistic, Bos. I'm a...Detective. How would we ever work together again?"
"Not that," I mutter, shaking my head as I try to find my words. "I mean, I hate it. I hate him. I hate that he's there now. I hate that there's someone else there to look out for you. Someone else to have your back when you're on the streets, someone else to take you home at night, someone else that you talk to. I hate it! I hate him! Okay?"
I succeed in scaring us both back in silence as she pretends to concentrate on something outside.
"I mean...tell me you don't," I challenge, turning to stare her down. She looks back questioningly. "Tell me you don't think about me, too."
"Bosco..." she trails off, looking away as her voice becoming weak and shaky.
"No, tell me," I order persistently. "Tell me you---"
"Ok!" she concedes, fresh tears spilling down her face. "Is that what you want me to say? Because I do, every second," she lifts her hands to emphasize, "...of every minute...of everyday! Okay? ...But, but...you can't just come back after all these years and make me second guess myself...and my life! You can't!"
"No, no, no, I didn't come back," I correct angrily, leaning over and throwing a thumb toward myself. "Because I never left, Faith!"
Had I really made her second guess things? Maybe I'm making more progress than I thought.
"I know it was a long time ago, Bos," she starts, narrowing her eyes at me. "But I'm pretty sure it was you who asked me to shoot for you, you who told me to stay out of your business, and you who wanted me out of your life!"
"So...so, what?" I ask, leaving no time between the end of her words and the start of mine. I have my left hand on the steering wheel, and throw my right up in question. "You're...doing this out of charity or somethin'?"
She shakes her head like she's giving up. Like I'm not worth effort the effort of a rebuttal. She glances off through her window.
"Oh my god," she mumbles suddenly. I've since readjusted my stare straight ahead, but I turned to see what she's so shocked about.
"It was you," she continues in disbelief. I struggle to figure out what she means. "You did it, didn't you?"
"I didn't do anything," I mutter, looking away. My voice is filled with regret. I sure as hell wish I'd done something a lot sooner.
She ignores my tone. That or she just doesn't notice it. "You slashed his tires! What the hell is wrong with you, Bosco?!"
"I did not," I lie, but my argument is weak. I kind of expected her to figure things out - in a way, I almost wanted her to. Maybe she'll see how serious I am.
"Yes, you did. And you weren't just 'around', were you?"
"I was," I insist, but I avoid her eyes because I know my own will contradict my words.
"You're lying," she accuses.
"I wouldn't lie," I mumble.
"You already lied! No one is 'just around' the House after work. We leave, we get the hell outta dodge. You set this whole thing up! The truck, giving me a ride..." She shakes her head as if she can't possibly believe she walked into my 'trap'. But I only did it because it was the only way to talk to her. The only time in years I had ever been able to get to her when she wasn't being guarded by that Miller bastard.
"I told you I had to do paperwork," I bluff, my voice low. I'm still staring ahead through the windshield, although I know its futile to try to fight my case now. "Had to catch up."
"Bullshit, Bosco," she intercedes, leaning back. "Wolf does more paperwork in one shift than you've done in your career so don't think I'm gonna believe that crap. And I've seen his reports, he can spell."
I scoff, grinning bitterly. I can feel her eyes burning into me as she stares me down for an answer of some sort. I don't exactly know what she wants me to say. She knows she's right, I know she's right. Maybe she think I'll apologize. But if that's the case, she might sit there waiting all night.
"Take me home," she orders suddenly, apparently giving up waiting on me to speak. Her voice is defeated...almost disapointed, in a way. Like she never believed I was capable of doing something like I'd done. Which is a funny thought, because I remember doing stuff that should've pissed her off a lot more.
I hesitate, staring down sadly at my steering wheel, wracking my mind for something to say...anything that will prolong our time together. Anything at all.
"Faith..." I start. I hear my own voice and it startles me. It's weak and high, and desperate.
"I mean it Bosco. Now," she says, her voice strained and with warning. She reaches for the door handle. "Or I'll just get a cab."
"Okay, okay," I concede, punching the steering wheel. I see her flinch out of the corner of my eye at my sudden anger. Then, begrudgingly, start the engine.
I pull up against the curb, something I've perfected somewhere over the years. I could probably parallel park with my eyes closed by now. Without hesitation, she reaches for the door, even before I've completely pressed the brake. Almost reflexively, I reach out for her arm.
"Wait," I plead, and I realize how pitiful it sounds - and how futile my attempt is. But I don't care. All I know is how much I don't know what I'll do if she walks away. I might head over to Ma's and watch her clean up, try to sneak a few drinks while she's preoccupied telling me about how dad walked out on her again, like it's some big revelation or something.
"Bosco, let me go," she sighs insistently, trying to shrug out of my grip, but I hold on tight.
"Look, can we just talk?" I beg. Yes, I beg. I have no other options - my plan failed miserably - no, scratch that, backfired.
"No."
I continue to try to reason. "We don't have to go anywhere else. We can stay right here...and just talk," I motion to the car.
She glares at me through teary eyes and shakes her head, "I think you've said enough."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just stare back for several long seconds, before, in one motion, leaning in and pressing my lips against hers. She backs into the corner between the seat and the door. With my fingers still coiled around her wrist, I kiss her harder - with all of the desperation and acrimony I've accrued over the past six years. I don't pull back until I feel my lungs threatening to burst from the lack of oxygen. When I finally do, she stares back, completely still, and I try to read her eyes - they're confused and shocked, bewildered, even, but there's something else in them that I can't quite place. And it depresses me, because it never used to be impossible for me to figure out.
She finally yanks her wrist free from my hands, and struggles, almost in panic, to find the handle and push the door open. When she succeeds, she runs toward the entrance, stopping short suddenly and turning back. I'm sorting through the war in my head - the massive haze of complete confusion and fog - when I notice her walking briskly toward the car again. For a split second I feel new hope - not much of it, but a tiny spark somewhere amongst the inner battle I simultaneously fight - that maybe I've said or done something to make me matter to her again. But when the door swings open, all I get is a freezing burst of air and a pile of material when she hurls my sweatshirt at me, slams the door shut, and stalks off for good.