Alright, guys, so I've decided to revamp the story just a smidge… okay maybe more than a tad… maybe more like a complete overhaul. But I LOVE what I've done so far, so I hope you will to. Please feel free to comment. Replies are always welcome! Also, just a reminder that this is a Jommy songfic to A Fine Frenzy's "Almost Lover."
xoxo,
Kaitlyn
Chapter 1… more like a prologue of sorts….
There was an element of creepiness to watching Tommy sleep, yes, but studying his little quirks was almost too interesting to turn down in favor of letting him be. I watched as his left nostril flared when he snored, how sometimes, when a snore was particularly gnarly, his brows would furrow and he would scrunch his eyelids together. And occasionally, instead of snoring, he'd breathe deep, usually taking up a good four seconds, and let it out in little puffs, with slight murmurs breaking the consistency of breath. I noticed things like the callous on the left side of his left thumb, where he held the neck of his guitar, the slight bump on the tip of his nose, breaking an otherwise smooth bridge, the minor razor burn right beneath his jaw line. He oozed of perfection as a whole, but breaking him down, it seemed like it was a multitude of quirky, charming imperfections that made him so different.
His raspy breath, felt on the little hairs dotting my neck, tugged me away from my dopey admiration like a child would pull at his mom's skirt, and brought me back into the reality of our physical contact. I was aware of his hand readjusting on my hipbone as he settled back in to huffy morning sleep and I had the distinct feeling one got when one knows a person so well, that this sleep rhythm would break soon, and he'd be up. It was the time in between this realization and the moment of his actual awakening that I became nervous of things beyond our control, or things, more specifically, beyond my control. I imagined our trip back to Canada, back to my house, back into the façade we had fallen victim to. The arguments with my family, the possibilities of Tommy leaving once again, the disappointment of everyone if they ever found out what happened here in this no-name seaside town, they all swirled around in my head and gathered speed with each moment I lost in Tommy's sleeping presence.
He began to stir with the slight burying of his face into the feather pillow that had fallen flat over the course of the last few days. His body followed suit, pressing even more into the pillow top mattress, all the while pulling me further down with him. The shifting of his hips made me aware of my palm, probably sweaty and feverish, that rested on his right hipbone. And now that my body had fully woken up, skin sensors were brought back to life, and like a jolt of electricity, I felt every single point where he and I were touching. I felt awkward, being so awake when his body was still unconscious and his skin was still fuzzy and void of electrical charge, and without warning, my mouth slid open and from the center of my belly came a giggle brought on by uncontrollable nerves. I stopped mid-gurgle, busied myself with the task of getting the hair out of my face by rubbing it against my pillow.
I let out a wheeze, blowing my bangs in frustration without thinking, and saw that his eyes squeezed tighter, blocking out the bad breath morning air. After a few moments of complete stillness, his eye farthest from the pillow fluttered open, beaming at me with the same dreamy feeling I had felt just minutes ago. The other eye quickly followed suit, allowing him to adjust to the cloudy light coming in through our curtains.
"I'm sorry." The whisper came out more like a choke and all I could think to do was smile with my lips closed, spread into a silly grin, "I didn't mean to wake you." I could feel my body weakening, my eyes frantically searching his for solace, probing what felt like regret. I forced myself to look at something different as I leaned away to keep the single tear from dropping out of my right eye.
"Don't worry." I wanted to tell him that I did anyway, but I kept quiet. "We have a lot to do today." I sensed his callused fingers near my face, the rough fingertips just barely skimming the surface. He tucked back a few stringy pieces of red hair behind my ear and gave me a clipped smile. I imagined asking him what the matter was, but I couldn't muster up the strength to follow through.
Your fingertips across my skin….
There was a touch of silver in the silky layering clouds billowed out across the landscape of the beach. I noticed this as I cradled my coffee mug and leaned into the door jamb to watch the sky. It was so much more mesmerizing than my empty ratty suitcase. The clouds crept by quietly, drudgingly. It had a way of slowing my pulse, like the clouds were embracing my stressed body and willing the blood to flow steadier, slower, calmer. My shoulders dropped a little lower, letting arguments and complicated record deals tumble off of my small frame. My fingers felt like they belonged to flowing piano hands as the tips of my toes tapped the concrete to the rhythm of the stormy waves.
I was itching to stick my feet into the foamy edge of the sea. But there was a storm warning, and the storm called for lightning.
I fell further into my sweater, letting the edges ride up the back of my neck, and let my weight shift to the right foot. I took a sip of chilly coffee.
"Jude?"
A seagull swept down to a tide pool and landed on the mound of sand, a miniature island of sorts, something I'd imagine seeing at a mini golf arena. The alien bird stared straight into the ocean, like God was whispering a secret only it could hear.
"Jude?"
I took my last sip of coffee, licked the last drop from the inside of the rim, and sauntered into the tiny living space. I was engulfed in tacky beach furniture, wicker couches, Hawaiian patterns, vertical blinds, "salmon pinks" and "aqua" blues, and I liked how out of place I felt in my chic beige sweater and tattered jeans. I sensed some form of life I hadn't known existed back in Toronto. I sort of felt cheated for not having experienced it before. I even admired the poorly painted beach landscape with a gaudy gold frame hanging crooked on the only available wall.
"Jude!"
"Sorry, Tommy, I've been lost in thought. What's up?"
"My jacket!"
I swallowed the urge to giggle.
"Mhm, your jacket. What about it?"
His usually cool, calm, and collected face stared at me with disbelief. I glanced around to see that the tacky room was disheveled. The pillows were awry, the corner table was crooked, the TV cabinet was partially hanging open, and his forehead showed signs of perspiration.
"Where is it?"
"Why don't you check the car?"
"Oh."
I had the overwhelming sensation to grab his receding figure and pour little kisses all over him for being such an adorable man, but I just couldn't let him be disgruntled over his precious outerwear any longer. Instead, I found myself folding all of the strewn about clothes and tucking them into our shared suitcase. He suggested it during his fit of romanticism that inspired this entire getaway. He was ecstatic, probably more ecstatic than I, and I had been waiting for a chance with Tom Quincy since he gave me the once over in the lobby of G-major.
His footsteps were again present. I smiled. "Did you find it?"
"It was right where you said it would be." I could hear the smile in his voice before I actually turned around. I loved little things like that. I loved him.
"Of course," my arms slithered around his neck, "you really don't need a leather jacket in beach weather. It's so hot we could walk around nude and probably get away with it."
His lips were softer than usual when I dared to close the gap between us. Kissed by the sun, I supposed. Or just kissed too many times by me. One of the two.
"Nude Jude." He grinned and pulled back to look at me.
"Oh stop it. You know I hate to blush."
I busied myself, packing the last of my t-shirts, and plopped down on the overstuffed suitcase, knees to my chest, chin on my hands. "Zip, please."
His hands were so manly, so cracked with work, and not "work" like slimy business transactions and phone meetings in plush office settings. His fingers were bloody remnants of too many hours playing guitar, his palms showed scars of blisters from chopping firewood with an ax the length of my body. That kind of work.
"Hop up, baby face."
I punched him in the arm, and stumbled my way back to a standing position. His rock hard arms made for a bouncy ball effect.
"You know I was thinking. Maybe when we got back to Toronto, we could-"
NOT go see a movie.
Or hear a band at Jodie's.
Not even have a nice dinner out with him holding my hand.
"It's alright." said the man who could have his pick of women the moment our plane landed, who would be content to keep me his 'little secret.'
But it wasn't alright.
And it wasn't fair.
It was bullshit.
To be continued….
