Yeah, Monday's a bitch alright. You're both sporting hangover wear and matching bruises and distance. The hangover wear, that's nothing new. Everything else is though, because even with your rough patches, things never got violent, never got that heated. No, everyone knows something is up, but no one is talking to face to face with either of you, you can just hear them, feel their eyes. Lord, who knows? Maybe you are paranoid.
Maybe you aren't. Maybe you aren't.
Either way, you're still sitting next to her in half of your classes, partnered in half of those. Maybe you should have skipped. maybe you should take the week off. Maybe the year. You're sure if you bug him enough, your dad will let you move. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Your head hurts, a double whammy from a lingering hangover, emotional leftovers and all of this turbulence. Yay, Mondays.
You're surprised when a note falls on your desk. You're hunched up, paying as little attention as possible to your surroundings. Of course, it's Brooke, and of course it says that we need to talk. Of course. You shake your head no, adjust in your seat and try to focus on the teacher. Pfh. Of course, of course it's the driest, most boring teacher you have. Of course.
You know she won't give up. You want her to. You sigh. You know it'll only get worse. Frustrated you scribble out a later and show her, hoping she'll let up for awhile.
Now that you're really dreading the end of class, it's flying. You don't know what's worse, the drag or the zoom. You glance up and see the class is almost over. You don't even notice how fast you're tapping your pencil as you try to plan your exit strategy. Do you fake needing to talk to the teacher? Do you bolt out? Do you wait for her? Do you talk now, or later?
You close your eyes and hang your head as your pencil flies out of your hand. Of course. Well. Now you do have to talk to the teacher. Now you just need to hope that she won't wait for you after class.
You mumble off some excuses to the teacher and promise to pay more attention, yada, yada, yada and slip out the door. You lean your head against the wall, not paying attention to the bell, the almost empty halls or the fact that she's on the other side of the doorway, waiting for you. You jump a little when she clears her throat.
"I wasn't going to leave." You blink slowly, looking at her confused.
"I wasn't going to leave, Peyton." You shake your head and turn, walking away.
"Peyton." You take off faster. Hurl yourself in your car and tear out.
No. No, that's not how she meant it or how it's supposed to be. You hide in your room, doors shut, windows locked, music pulsing, legs drawn to chest and hiding in a corner. No.
"Peyton." You don't register your name or the gradual lack of music, don't want to listen to that voice anymore. Don't want to pay attention to the person who just dropped to their knees in front of you. No.
"Peyton, please, look at me." You know she's crying, so you look up, and wish you hadn't, and not just because she knows you're crying now too.
"I wasn't going to leave you there. I wasn't going to cut and run. I don't...I don't want us to be a one night stand. If you do,...but I don't. You were right." You blink slowly, studying her.
"No."
"No?"
"No. No, no, no!" You slam your fists on the floor next to you and bolt up, barely missing her. You pace, in angry, stocky movements in your small room. She grabs you and makes you look her in the eyes.
"You're right, Peyton." She kisses you and you fight it, you fight it hard, but you can never win against her and you know it.
"Brooke..." You breathe out her name, and pull in her scent.
"Brooke." You pull her close, kissing her as deep as you can, trying to destroy all barriers and this is how you end up on the floor, naked and gasping with her, over powering her objections, her fears, steamrolling over the worries and just go.
You catch your breath, your head against her shoulder. You sigh as you sit up, cross your arms, draping them over your knee and study the baseboard. You hear her shift, and you tense, waiting. You don't hear her swallow, but you can feel the tension. You can feel her raise her hand, lose her voice and feel her hand falter. You don't see her close her eyes, or tentatively reach out, and touch your bare back. You shiver and tense at the touch, almost pulling away. She traces light designs on your skin, and you slowly melt. You slowly start to cry. And then she rises as you fall back into her, and she holds you as you cry.
"You're a mess, P. Sawyer." You smile weakly, squeezing her arm.
"But I'm your mess." You don't have to look up to see her beaming smile.
"Damn straight."