A/N:Merry Christmas, Morgan! Sorry it's a day (and a bit) late!
It was originally just going to be a short, one-shot but it kept going and going and I realised that I didn't want to write a rushed ending. So I've split it into two. The second part will come tomorrow (when I am not too tired to write it. I want to do it justice!)
Enjoy! x
Ashley has been glaring at me from across the table for the last four hours. We haven't even been here for four hours.
"Psst," I nudge Chris beside me with my elbow. He passes me a barely patient, pointed stare. "I don't think your girlfriend likes me."
He looks on the bridge of denying that she's not his girlfriend – probably out of habit, probably out of denial, probably because he wants to protect her – and then he speaks plainly, "You pretty much traumatised her, bro. Give her a break."
I scoff, pulling back. "Why don't you tell her to give me a break?"
"Chris," Ashley sings sweetly, though her tone is sharpened with a knife of disdain. "Can you tell your friend over there to stop looking at me?"
"Wha-?" I splutter, glancing precariously at her. She narrows her eyes almost in a snarl. "She's the one who's glaring at me!"
"Josh," Chris shoots harshly. "Just- Just shut up."
I snap my gaze to him, about to protest wildly. And then I see the look in his eyes – a look of pleading and hoping. A look of desperation, because he really wants this to work. So I curl my lips back in and lilt away like a puppy.
Chris has gone back to curling up to Ashley, whispering something in her ear. It sounds like something along the lines of, 'We talked about this. Please just... give him a chance.' And, for a brief second, something shivers in the eyes that she has locked on me. And she lets her gaze dip to Chris, her facial expression wilting, even without her realising.
Then, in another second, she's hardened it again. Like she's trying to protect herself. And I catch a glimpse of her grabbing desperately for Chris' hand. As if she's fighting something and she needs him there to be her weapon. Or her shield.
"Where's Sam?" I finally say, not comfortable in the silence. And I find my eyes darting around the room, trying my best to avoid catching Ashley's killer gaze as best as possible. Or maybe I'm just trying to avoid my guilt.
The restaurant is nice. Claustrophobic but nice. There are customers and waiters everywhere, serving food and eating food. It's dark in here. Romantic. Haven't these people heard of lights? And the walls are painted red, like blood. Or maybe it's more of a mauve colour. It still looks like blood.
I had specifically said that I was not coming here unless Sam was coming. I don't know why, it was just instinctive. Maybe it was because I knew, deep down, she wouldn't agree to come. Or maybe it was because I wouldn't be able to face this without her. Ashley has her shield in Chris. I have mine.
But I've felt so unprotected for so long.
"She said she's coming," Chris shifts himself uncomfortably in his high-backed, wooden seat and I can't help but notice the way he scrapes his chair ever so slightly towards Ashley. And away from me. My eyes are programmed to catch things like this. I focus in on things that hurt.
I swallow, pretending I'm more interested in the wood grain of the table, and the silver knife at my side. My fingers stroke it. Comfort.
Ashley's whispering again. It's a mix between hushed worries and hissing and I'm curling myself further into my chair. Why did I even come here? Why did I think this was a good idea?
I didn't. It's not a good idea. It never was.
But I did it for him.
My hand clenches around the cold, metal knife.
I don't want to lose my best friend.
"Sorry I took so long," a voice huffs beside me and I hear the chair to my empty side creak under someone's weight. I freeze. I keep staring at the table. Even when I see her place her phone on it at the edge of my vision. Even when I see her rest her hand on it. "Got stuck in traffic."
"Thanks for coming," Chris responds like the good host he is. I still cower. Even Ashley sounds relieved when she says hi, her voice sounding lighter.
The girl beside me shifts.
"Hi Josh," she says. It sounds reserved. Careful.
I drag my gaze up to dare to look at her. She looks back. Underneath clouds of hurt and painful, reluctant forgiveness and a few stray strands of blonde hair.
"Hi Sam," I say quietly.
She smiles. It's tiny. It barely pricks at the edges of her lips. But it's still a smile.
I capture it in my hand and don't let it go.
"Maybe we should order," Chris starts, as if he's trying to cut the awkward tension.
Sam hums as she pulls out the menu, keeping her eyes trained on it. She's either scouring for suitable, vegan options, or she's desperately trying to avoid my gaze.
Probably both.
I'm about to say that I don't care what we eat – as long as it's pizza – when a waiter appears at our side, notepad poised in his hand, a pen in the other
"What can I get for you?" He smiles professionally.
A redo? An escape? My sisters?
Instead, I just sit there and wait for someone else to speak. I wish I'd worn my hoodie. I could be cradling in it right now. I could be disappearing.
"I'll take the nut roast," Sam says decisively, pointing at it on the menu. And then she passes it to me and I barely notice until her fingers have grazed on mine.
"Your Lamb's Liver Stroganoff," Ashley starts, looking so innocent as she glances up at the waiter. "Does it come in the Washington variety?" And suddenly she doesn't look all that innocent. "I want to stab my fork into it."
You already did that with scissors.
Chris looks at Ashley in alarm. She glances him, an apologetic but not weakening gaze.
"I'm sorry, I don't think we-" the waiter starts, perplexed and tense.
"Don't worry, Ash," I bark, leaning back in my chair. "I'm pretty sure I've already destroyed my liver with all the alcohol."
"Josh-" Sam hisses, staring at me in shock and – is that worry?
And instead of looking away, I finally stare back at her. "Don't panic," I let the words slither off my tongue with ease. What am I doing? "I'm not dead yet." I can see the horror on her face. As if my words are an omen. Like I'm promising that I'm not going to stay not dead. That's not what I meant, Sam. I don't think.
"Would you like the... Lamb Liver?" The waiter starts, trying to stay professional. Trying to stay out of this mess that is me.
Ashley's voice curls in on itself; "I'll take the carbonara."
Chris orders for himself and then for me. He obviously doesn't trust me not to order something I can choke myself on. Don't know why they trusted me with a knife then.
The next half an hour is muddled into a blur. Our food comes. We eat. We chew. They talk. Even Ashley laughs. Even Sam laughs.
I try to avoid conversation as much as possible, constantly shoving things into my mouth. Because I know what's coming. I know why we're here. And I know I'm hiding from it.
And then we're not occupied with food anymore.
The table is empty, except for stray, desert spoons and the odd food stains left over from messy eaters. Then Chris coughs. And I tense.
Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.
"Right," he starts. "Right. I just-" He sighs like the words are a weight on him. And I see the way Ashley grabs for his arm, squeezing to comfort him. Like I should be doing. Like I'm avoiding doing. "I just wanted to bring you all here to... we just need to sort things out."
He said it.
"Bro," I start, glancing at him. Pleading. My voice bubbles. "Don't do this. I'm not ready."
He looks at me. His eyes widen. They harden. "It shouldn't matter if you're ready," Chris almost growls. I fall back into my chair, staring at him in alarm. He's not like this. He's not usually like this. He doesn't get angry. "This is about us." He points at Ashley and Sam and himself in turn. "It's about what you owe us."
"Okay," I snap back, falling into myself, letting my gaze fall with me. "Okay." I stare at my clenched fists in my lap. "I get it."
Silence cuts across the table.
Well done, Josh. You've just ruined it. Again.
"Chris is right," Sam finally says. I stop. My ears tune in on her. It's like an automatic shift. I'm programmed on default to recognise her. "I want to- to get over this." She says it like it's clinging to her, like it's trapped in her throat. I inhale. I didn't realise how much I've hurt her. "We should... sort this out."
Right. Sort it out. Sort out the mess I've made. Sort out the friends I've lost. Sort out the hurt, the hurt, the hurt.
"Josh?" Chris says slowly. Like he's coaxing me to say something. I stare down. I keep staring down.
"Josh?" Sam repeats. Her voice is harder to hear.
"I-" I start, finding each word trapped and tumbling in my throat. My hands are clenched, knuckles whitening. I keep seeing their faces. The horror, the broken hurt, the things I have done to them. I don't want to admit it. I don't want to deny it. I don't want to hurt them anymore. "I- I can't."
Ashley stands up sharply. Like something has pushed her over the edge. It's probably me. It's always me. She looks panicked. "I need to go to the toilet," she says suddenly. And then she's rushing off.
Chris snaps up to his feet, his eyes following after her. He throws his napkin on the table, aiming to rush after her. Sam reaches over and grabs his arm. "I'll go," she says meaningfully.
Chris glances at her in alarm. He shakes his head repeatedly. "No, I need to-"
"No you don't," Sam says calmly, making it to her feet and circling around to face him. "Besides," she chuckles, her lips curling into a small smile. "I don't think you'd get into the girl's toilets."
Realisation widens Chris' eyes. "Right," he coughs, slowly retreating back into his chair. Sam smiles in reassurance, her feet padding in the direction that Ashley went.
And me and him. We're left alone. Best friends in tatters.
"Sorry," I mumble. I haven't look up since I looked down. It's far more comfortable down here. It's easier than looking him in the eye.
Chris doesn't say anything. Instead, he just leans back in his chair. I hear it creak.
"I don't know why I try with you," he says slowly. It's not harsh. It's not judging. Just a simple fact.
He does know. It's the same reason why I'm here.
So I breathe. I drag the oxygen into my lungs, finding enough courage in it to look up. And I speak. "Sorry for being a dick."
I can tell Chris knows what I mean. He looks at me, eyebrows creased, understanding hiding behind his glasses. It's not just about right now. It's not just about today. It's about everything. It's about that night, it's about avoiding him before that night. It's about what I did to him and to Ash.
It's about not being a best friend. Sorry for being a dick.
"Thanks," is Chris' simple reply. You didn't need to say that, it says, for me to forgive you.
Something eases away from my chest; in the crevice between my ribs where my heart should be.
The rest of the evening disappears in stages. Sam and Ashley return, Chris pulling himself to his feet to share some hushed words to his girlfriend. I feel incredibly uncomfortable when her tiny eyes whisper over to me. They look more haunted than angry this time round. I know they're talking about me.
Sam finds herself back in her seat, folding her napkin over and over into smaller and smaller triangles.
"I think we're going to go home." Chris finally says when the two of them return to the table, Ashley clinging close to him. "I'll get the bill."
"That's not fair," Sam sparks up. It's almost like she's taking any opportunity to speak, to fill the silence. "Mine was expensive." She's digging into her handbag to pull out her purse.
Ashley snorts from behind Chris. And even Sam looks surprised at the outburst. "Sam, yours was the cheapest," Ashley smiles mischievously. Chris laughs, glancing with affection at his girlfriend. How does Ashley even remember these things.
"Seriously," Chris insists. "I've got it covered-"
"I'll pay for Sam's," my voice jumps out of my mouth like an unwelcome record player. I almost curse at myself.
All three pairs of eyes turn to me.
I stare back, trying to give stumble up with an excuse for my rebellious, inappropriate voice. And then I realise why they're staring. They know why I said it. Why I want to do it. Even before I did.
This is what dates do. This is what people who are dating do. This is what people who are in love with the other person do. They pay for each other.
They think I want to pay for Sam.
They think I'm in love with Sam.
And I suddenly realise that I don't want them to think differently.
Stiffly, I stuff my hand into my pocket and pull out a crumbled up $10 note and a few, loose quarters. I drop them limply onto the table. Even I don't have to be a mathematician to know that's not enough.
I'm about to retreat and curse and tell them to forget I ever said anything when Chris steps forward. "You can pay me the rest later," he offers, giving me a meaningful look. And it doesn't take an idiot to realise he understands.
I smile. It's stretched and awkward and unused. But it's still a smile.
"Sure," I say with a nod. And I don't even feel pain when I pass the money over to him. And Ashley doesn't even glare at me. And I don't feel like I'm losing my best friend.
"Hey," I mumble, catching him by the arm before he's about to turn. He looks at me questioningly. "Tell Ashley..." I start, trying to find the right words. "That she can stab me in the liver with a fork anytime."
Chris laughs. Really laughs, and I catch a glimpse of what we used to be; caught in the creases at the edges of his eyes. "Don't give her the chance," Chris smirks knowingly at me and even I grin back.
"See you later, bro," he slaps me on the back as he steps away. And it's not just a phrase; it's a promise. An assurance that he will see me later. This isn't the last of us.
And then they're gone.
And it's just me and Sam.
She raises her eyes to look at me. Something is captured in it. Like she doesn't want to leave yet. She sighs. "Do you want to go for a walk?"