A/n: First off, I want to warn about the language in this chapter. If profanity upsets you, than I would suggest not reading this or cleverly overlooking the two bad words in this chapter.I know I shouldn't be posting another story. I have, what, four I need to finish? But this was one of those things I just had to write. And there never can be too much Jiley. But seriously: Where the hell is the Jiley?! Sometimes I wonder if the people who come to this fandom even know that this is the Hannah Montana fandom and not the Jonas Brother fandom anymore. Anyway, so yeah, I hope you like it and reviews are always so greatly appreciated. I'm trying not to let the lack of HM fics get in the way of the way I feel about being on this website but it would also help to know that there are people reading this that miss good 'ol regular HM fics too. Because I'm starting to think maybe I'm the only one...
"It's too late baby, there's no turning around." - Boys Like Girls, "Hero/Heroine".
He reminds her of winter.
She thinks this as she soaks in the lukewarm water, soaking it all up through osmosis, growing dehydrated, thinking that nothing could make her leave. She imagines she's just sitting here to relax after a long day when in reality she's hiding from him.
It wasn't that he was cold to her per say, which would make more sense as to why he would remind her of winter. It was the contrary, actually. He loved her more than she would have ever thought possible. It was just that, like winter, she had spent most her life waiting for him only to be disappointed. When she was in the heat of summer the idea of something cool was refreshing, but once she was in the dead of the cold she wanted nothing more than the fierce, torpid weather of summer.
His fist beats on the door and she sinks lower into the water until her ears are filled with water. If she can't hear him maybe he's not there, maybe he's not real. Maybe she could be alone for once. Maybe if she sunk further underneath this temporary covering she could finally escape.
She stays in the bathtub until the water is freezing, until her fingers and toes are so wrinkled they look swollen, until there's only a tiny bit left. He's outside the door, talking to her about his day, trying to get her to tell him what's wrong. She wants to tell him that he's wrong, and that's always what's wrong, but she is afraid to talk to him because that will just make him talk even more.
Finally, he bursts into the bathroom, certain she's drowned or been shot in the head, and looks confused to see her just sitting in the bathtub.
"Miley," He starts, his eyebrows drawing together in a way that makes her grit her teeth, "Are you alright?"
No, she wants to say, not as long as you are here.
Instead she smiles. She wants to grab his shoulders and shake the life out of him and ask him: What happened to us? What happened to you?
But she doesn't. She just fucking smiles. Like she's so happy to see him standing in her bathroom. Like the sight of him makes her heart race. Like she's still in love with him.
He reaches out and for a terrible moment she thinks he is going to touch her. But his fingers dip into the water and he grimaces.
"That water is ice-cold! You're going to get sick. Get out." He says sternly, as if he knows better about her wellbeing than she does.
He holds a towel out like he's helping his daughter out of the tub. She hesitates and considers telling him to just fuck off, and never getting out of the water. But while her mind is strong her actions aren't quite so blunt. She stands up slowly and he wraps the towel around her, pulling her into a hug. He smells like recliners and football and hanging out with his friends, if they ever had a smell.
"Tough week?" He asks sympathetically. He rubs her back in what he must see as comforting circles. She felt like he was trying to rub the skin off her. She bites her lip and turns her head away, trying not to look at him and let the words that she wanted to say slip out.
"Yeah." She mutters. She can hear one of his friends calling for him and he hears it to. He smiles at her and kisses her before hurrying back out to them. He shuts the door firmly on his way out, as if sealing the fate that nobody but him is allowed to see her unpolished. It is then that she remembers again why many people cannot stand marriage. To be married is to give up everything that is yours. You share everything. Possessions, thoughts, bodies…nothing is just yours. And it drove her insane that he was the one she was sharing all this with.
She reaches for her clothes that are folded nicely on the counter. They smell of detergent and are perfectly nice and acceptable for her to wear out to see his friends. He never told her what to wear, but he always hinted at the clothes he liked to see her wear for other people. Meaning clothes that showed no skin whatsoever, basically.
So just to piss him off she throws the clothes on the floor and opens the bathroom door, wearing just a towel. Her rebellion is pointless because she would never in a million years go out where his friends were, clothed or not. To avoid temptation you have to try and stay away from it until you are strong enough to resist.
She did not like that they were friends. It sat wrong with her. He, meaning her husband's friend, had been her first everything, but she was willing to bet money on the fact that her husband did not know that. Her husband did not know a lot of things.
The hallway is drafty and she can hear their deep voices from all the way up the basement stairs. The house has horrible echoes, something she always hated. They have too much space and not enough things to fill it up. She does not focus on the voices because she is afraid she will be able to single his out.
Their bedroom was just three doors down from the bathroom. The bathroom adjoining their bedroom was having sewage problems after her husband had decided to try and fix the plumbing himself. So they'd been reduced to using a bathroom they had to walk to.
She plans to dart out of the bathroom and hurry to the bedroom, but her feet drag against the hardwood floor. Water slides down her legs and drips from her hair and makes small puddles on the ground. He'll yell at her about it later. She stares at the small puddle, imagining she can see her reflection, and imagining it looks nothing like her at all.
Soft footsteps make her look up. Someone is coming up the stairs and she's willing to bet all her money it's her husband coming to check on her again. She sighs heavily and continues to trudge slowly on the peregrination to the room. She thinks about eating snail in France, of sipping sweet tea on a front porch swing in the humid summer of Tennessee, of standing by Niagara Falls. Anything to get away from where she is. Anything to be away from him.
"Miley?"
This voice is soft and suddenly she feels like she's standing in the middle of a field in the dead of July. That sun starts beating down on the top of her head making a crown of heat for her to wear as solid proof of her thoughts of sin. The heat slinks slyly down her temples to her ears and continues until her toes are pressed on hot coals.
She considers ignoring him. She considers to just continue walking away. It had been easy enough for them to do seven years ago when they walked out of each other's lives for good. But something about the heat, the memories, the explosions she feels for him makes her turn around. And when she does it's like she's falling and nothing but his hand would ever be solid enough to catch her. She looks away from the green of his eyes, the golden of his hair, the smirk on his lips, and focuses on the wall which can't make her feel like she's just been born again.
He takes a step toward her and she remembers that this is not seven years ago. Seven years ago he would have pulled her in his arms slowly and dropped her towel and his and with every touch she would have been reminded of why they were here and how they got there. But this is not seven years ago. It is not but she wishes it was.
"How are you?" He asks, as if he hasn't even noticed she's standing almost completely naked in his presence for the first time in seven years. But, God, did she notice him...! The blue of his shirt reminds her of a day they spent on the beach so long ago. The dark wash of his jeans reminds her of the first time they mixed their laundry together in the same load. She'd folded her pair that was the same color and accidently sent it home with him when she mistakenly kept his pair. They called each other about it the next morning when they caught the unintentional mix-up. They laughed about it but never actually got around to switching them back. She liked the idea that a solid piece of him was mixed with her.
She considers just dropping the towel to see what would happen. Testing the waters is her new trade of art and she is failing horribly.
She swallows and clenches her fist until her nails cut half-moon slices in her palm that she hopes scars.
"I'm fine. How are you?" She's not sure how she said the words, but she did, and he looks relieved that she's talking to him.
He looks at nothing but her while she tries so hard to focus on everything but him.
"Alright. Could be better."
She smiles and feels like it doesn't even express how happy she is to see him.
"Couldn't everyone?" She says, a rhetorical question that says everything in the spaces that she cannot.
He steps another step closer and she imagines her soul catching fire inside of her. Her face must have been as red as a male Cardinal. He's still out of arms reach but it feels as if he's right up against her. She clears her throat, trying not to look visibly flustered. But she knows he can tell and that is why his cocky grin is taking over his features. God, she wanted to kiss it off him.
"I've missed you." He says bluntly, not caring that those three words could be her undoing. She hates him for a brief moment for taking the initiative to invite her into temptation. She tries to back up but he is filling her mind and her sense of direction is clouded. She moves forward instead. He takes this small action as her admitting that she misses him too. He moves forward and she sees him walking in slow motion until his hand is touching hers and her head is spinning out of control. She can hear her husband walking up the stairs and this is the ultimate rush of adrenaline.
"I'm glad." He says, and he winks. He lets go of her hand just as her husband appears in the hallway and she knows it's too late to try to get her skin pigment under control.
"Jake," Her husband says, his voice too sharp with jealousy, "We found the movie downstairs."
He walks backwards from her, his eyes appraising her once more before he turns around.
"Oh, okay, sorry. I was just asking Miley if she knew where to find it."
She finds it slightly scary and slightly thrilling that they are lying to him even before they have done anything that should be hidden. She regrets that thought as soon as she has had it. She shouldn't even be thinking about doing anything that they would need to hide. In fact, she shouldn't be in the same room with Jake at all.
He starts down the stairs and her husband stays rooted to the spot.
"Oliver," Jake calls from the stairs, "You coming, man?"
Her husband turns away from her and starts down the stairs. As soon as he's out of view, she leans against the wall. She fans herself with her hand and her breathing is labored as her heart feels too large for her chest. She stares at the ceiling and can only think one thing.
It is summer again.