Hello friends! I've missed you!
I'm sorry this took two and a half months to get out to you. I hope the fact that this is the longest chapter yet - and that it's one hell of a chapter - will make up for it a little bit.
Part of what took so long to get this to you was that it took so freaking long to write in order to get it just right. I could spend three days writing and then rewriting a single page, refining its language, its cadence, its flow... between the dialogue and the last scene of this chapter, it was one hell of a monster to write.
I hope you like it!
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Tip
ISABELLA
We needed stop to fighting. We neverfought, not really. We teased and disagreed as much as any friends did, but we never fought.
Which begged the question: was it the fighting that had us ending up here? Was it the alcohol? Maybe it was to feel something that wasn't rejection or maybe it was simply recklessness, an impulsive flash that had us crashing together a second time in as many days—irresponsible and thoughtless and wild.
Ferb yanked me forward from the wall, but my gasp was lost between us. His hands seared where they snaked up my back, pressing me flush against him and teasing the skin that was all too easy to access now. This dress! God, it was thin, making every place where our bodies touched burn all the more.
And he was taking advantage of it. There was no crumpled blouse or bra strap or room full of people just beyond the hall that limited how much his hands could wander. While his mouth moved on mine, his fingers brushed at my lower back, traced each vertebra past my shoulder blades, cradled my neck before grasping my hair, pulling me, molding me to him in a way we hadn't dared at that party.
It was shattering—the raw need that radiated from him. He needed me, I could feel it humming in his arms as he held me, and damn if I didn't want to be taken.
He was doing something around my shoulder blades, and then I felt the line of cloth ribboning around my shoulders like sleeves go suddenly slack. Aaaah, damn, how easily he'd untied it. He didn't go any farther, but it was enough. He left the two strands of fabric hanging down my sides to brush against my thighs with each movement, and I felt so exposed.
Heat swirled my mind, and my instinct was to react. Without the sleeves constraining my arms, I pushed against him, meeting force with force as I took his bottom lip between mine. He wasn't prepared, and we stumbled back until he was against the kitchen island and—
We both jumped at the sharp clang of a spoon hitting the floor as Tangie leapt, spooked, from the island and darted into the living room. It hadn't been enough to immediately break our focus—he'd cupped my cheek when I'd started pushing back, keeping our kiss deep and fluid, and I'd fisted my fingers in his shirt, the other in his hair, and he'd made the most alluring sound when he'd felt the impact of the counter behind him—but it left a crack in what was happening wide enough for reality to slide back in.
Ferb pulled back, and it was only his hands on the top of my shoulders, holding me still, that kept me from following his movement. That knowledge—that I wasn't prepared to stop—crashed down with mortifying certainty, enough that I squeaked with alarm and scampered back, too.
"We—were manipulated," he breathed, pulling his hands away with deliberate effort. "This was manipulated. We shouldn't…"
When it was clear he didn't know how to continue, I nodded. After a second's recovery for my neglected lungs, I mustered an airy, "Right."
"We shouldn't be doing this," he finally managed, and I once again nodded, trying to get the room to stop spinning. He was right, and I knew it.
"Ferb…"
I'd forgotten where I'd been going the second the syllable floated between us, and the word alone had him taking a step back towards me. I took that step, too—when he caught my upper arms, forcing us both back a half-step again to stay at arms' length.
But the problem with the gesture was that his hands held me where my sleeves used to be, reminding us both of how fragile and compromised of a barrier this dress already was between us and incredibly poor decisions.
"Change," he panted, anguished as his gaze shot to the ceiling. "Go change. I can't—"
His fingers tightened, digging into me with restraint. But I could only nod, the air punched from my lungs by the hunger in how he'd been looking at me. Fuck. Fuck.
"Isabella, go," he begged when I still hadn't managed to move, and he spun me around, giving me a push in the direction of my bedroom. That was enough to finally jolt me back to my senses.
I sprang forward, practically leaping to my bedroom, where I slammed the door behind me. Then my legs finally gave out, and I fell back against it.
Oh my god. Oh god. This was so bad. It was so good and so freaking bad.
I covered my face with my hands and forced myself to breathe out. Breathe in.
If you hadn't seduced me.
Breathe out. Breathe out, breathe out.
I was caught on the exhale, frozen and stuck with my mind going dizzy. Finally, I gasped out my air, and I pressed my palm to my chest, an anchor against the confused anxiety that held me captive. Under my fingers, my heart raced wildly.
Oh god oh god oh god, this wasn't happening.
"Stop," I hissed under my breath, willing my Leader Brain to reboot, to assess this situation as if I were simply helping out one of my girls. Pull yourself together, Isabella, I ordered. Change clothes. Pajamas. It was simple.
I pushed myself from my door, scampering to my dresser. I yanked the top drawer open, needing to act, just act, before my mind could catch up. Before it could trip me up and send me spiraling. I grabbed some fuzzy pajama pants and pulled them on, hitching my dress up around my waist. Then I snatched the discarded volleyball t-shirt I'd been wearing earlier from my bed.
But that's when I froze again.
Change, go change. Hands grasping my arms, pulling me forward, pushing me away. You're the one wearing that. The ribbons that were once my sleeves hanging off my shoulders falling slack, untied by those clever fingers.
It wasn't simple.
I buried my face in my t-shirt and whimpered. This was all so complicated. Phineas rejected me two days ago! After Ferb told him about my feelings! And now here we were, jumping on each other again as if each of us weren't already swept away in our own tempest of disappointment and rejection and embarrassment.
It was just—a poor decision. That's all. Ferb's words, from the porch. The first moment things went on tilt.
"A poor decision," I reasoned, forcing myself to say it out loud, to hear myself say it. Then I shimmied this slinky dress over my head and tossed it on the floor. I hesitated before tossing on my t-shirt, though.
I'd lost track of how many times I'd been around Phineas and Ferb in my pajamas, but I'd always kept my bra or a support tank on whenever I was with Phineas. I felt too exposed otherwise. But I'd never cared with Ferb. Why should I have? Ferb was as non-threatening as any man could get. Or he had been, before.
"Damn it," I muttered, snatching my bra from where it hung over the side of my hamper. The last thing I wanted to do was put it on, but I needed barriers right now. As many as I could get. Bra in place, I finally tugged on my t-shirt.
In my floor-length mirror, I looked like myself and not myself. The frizzy, haphazard ponytail, the holey, paint-splattered volleyball shirt, the fuzzy ladybug pajama pants—those were all me. But my eyes? They were shadowed and a little wild. Reckless. Blurred by shock, nerves, and alcohol.
I bit my lip and dug my fingernails into my palms as I turned my attention to the doorknob. Opening a door shouldn't take courage. Hell, maybe Ferb would be gone anyway. Heaven knew I wanted to run away right now.
Come on, Isabella, I commanded. I reached out and opened the door.
He hadn't left. Instead, he stood with his back to me, leaning against the counter by the sink. Tangie butted against his arm for attention, the previous spoon scare apparently forgiven, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. It was only at her fourth headbutt—and a demanding mewl—that he gave an absent scratch to her head.
He must have heard me open my bedroom door, but he didn't acknowledge me. I let it thud shut, once again announcing my presence, and it did the trick. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath, and now he turned to face me.
I was hoping he'd know what to say, because I was completely lost. We hadn't needed to face the aftermath last time. Phineas was there, the ultimate distraction for both of us. We hadn't needed to stare at the other, chests heaving, hands fisted to keep them from reaching out again and taking. We hadn't needed to process it, at least not together.
He nodded in acknowledgement, and I saw relief as he took in my pajamas. I approached, my mind on reclaiming my tea to keep my hands busy. When I got closer, I saw that he must have splashed cold water on his face while I was changing; some was still dripping from his hair.
I'd seduced him. It was his own admittance: that I'd seduced him in that hallway. It seemed completely ridiculous, but his fierce rebuttal when I argued—yes, you did!—had radiated through me. It filled the space between us and sent a snap of realization that trapped my response, that trickled all the way down to my fingers and toes and formed a tight, taught line in my abdomen.
How the hell had I seduced him?
It was a poor decision, I reminded myself. It was heartache and alcohol. It was a mistake we stumbled into to distract ourselves from the other mistakes that had imploded in our faces. It was an escape.
Feeling grounded in my own stupidity, I swiped up my mug and took a hearty swallow. Then I noticed Ferb's mug.
"You finished another?"
Ferb cringed, then nodded. He didn't meet my gaze, probably because he didn't need to to know that we were both thinking the same thing right now: that that was going to haunt him. Or maybe, more accurately, haunt us. He'd be well on his way to drunk now, and between the fruity bombshell of a cocktail Vanessa had ordered me and half of this mug, I was right on the same trail.
The notch my electric kettle flicked up with a little pop, and it made me jump with how frayed my nerves were right now.
"And you're having another?"
He quickly shook his head, answering by brandishing an herbal tea bag; just tea this time.
"Good," I nodded. Good. Although, it very well could be that the damage was done. I felt the hum and blur of our drinks already, after all, and I was sure he was, too. How else would you explain what had just happened between us?
"I need… to say something," he said, and my spine stiffened. Oh boy. He must have sensed my sudden anxiety because even though he hadn't taken his eyes off his mug, he shook his head in dismissal of my worries. "Nothing bad."
"Okay?" I managed.
"I never meant to imply that you were a poor decision."
"Oh." I hadn't expected it, and I felt a lump forming in my throat.
"You said that I'd made it perfectly clear that you were a poor decision. I hurt you, at the party. In that hallway. And we're making incredibly poor decisions," he rushed on, "then and now. But you aren't a poor decision, Isabella."
I nodded, but he wasn't looking at me. "I know." Lord, my voice was barely more than a panicked rasp. I swallowed, and my second "I know" was stronger.
Having said his peace on this guilt that had apparently clung to him, we fell into silence. I didn't know what to make of it—both his clarification and the fact that this silence was so damn awkward. Silence came with the territory with Ferb, but never had it been this consuming. This time, I realized I needed to be the one to jumpstart things.
"What did you mean," I began, "when you said this was manipulated? Earlier, I mean."
Now his eyes flashed to mine, if only for an instant. He took the time to slowly fill his mug with water, bob his teabag up and down along its surface while it saturated. Finally, he answered my question with a question.
"Why would Vanessa invent so wildly to get me over here?"
"I'm so sorry, Ferb," I answered, feeling like my brain had catapulted across the room. "It was crazy, and I'm fine! I promise I had no idea she sent it. I would've stopped her! You must have been so freaked, and it was stupid."
On an exhale, his sharp gaze cut up from his mug to pin me. It clearly said, That's not what I asked.
So he wouldn't let me dodge it, huh? Ugh, fine. Fine. Now neither of us could live in denial!
"She obviously wanted to get you over here." I let why drift off, unspoken, into the silence.
He nodded. "And that's how this was manipulated. We were pushed together, thrown into this outcome." A heavy sigh fell from him. "Not sure what to make of Vanessa doing the pushing."
As always, he was absolutely right. This had been Vanessa's plan. She must have decided she couldn't convince me to talk to Ferb about everything and took matters into her own hands. For all of her distance and neglect, she apparently knew Ferb well enough to know that he'd read that ridiculous text about my being in trouble and instantly dash off to my rescue. And she was perfectly right. After all, here he was.
"She probably didn't want me to be alone tonight," I offered in way of explanation. Not a lie, just not the whole truth. "It's been a hard couple of days. Brutal, really."
I felt my eyes sting with the beginning of tears, and I willed them to go away. Unfortunately, that never really worked for me. My emotions were always way too close to the surface, and I found myself blinking up at the ceiling, trying to keep the tears from falling. I was too tired and tipsy to open that floodgate, and I'd cried so much already.
The one bright side of my stupid, overproductive emotion factory was that my impending tears softened Ferb's sharp edges. The defensive tension that primed around him like thorns melted, and for a moment, despite everything that had gone wrong and gotten mixed up, we were able to settle into the familiar mold of comfort and support.
"Isabella, I'm sorry," he sighed, and this time, he didn't hesitate when he pulled me into a hug. It was a jolt, his touch, but I sunk into it.
"No, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Ferb. I shouldn't have made this about me. About Phineas, even if he was sending Vanessa all those texts. Tonight's your night to cry, okay?"
He snorted, dismissing my blanket offer of supporting him. It was a defense mechanism, and one I could see right through. Ferb wasn't a crier like I was, but over the years, I'd decided that his quiet, lonely kind of pain was the worst kind of all. It was so much worse than mine because at least my pain was visible. People saw it and comforted me, took care of me, noticed when I needed more than what I currently had. But Ferb? He'd never had that. He never let himself have that.
"Brookie or mint chip?" I sniffled into his chest, and it was only at this question that I felt him begin to relax.
"Yes."
I laughed, and I was more than a little relieved to pull out of his reach. Getting ice cream was routine for us and something that always put him at ease. It was a concrete, tangible first step to being taken care of, and I'd learned that Ferb always did better with emotional things when they were broken down into incremental steps.
Maybe we could recover. Maybe things could go back to normal. That's what I promised myself as I scooped a tiny half-scoop of each flavor into two bowls and followed Ferb to my couch. In a practiced gesture, he'd already grabbed both of our mugs, and when we settled into the cushions, everything felt a little bit more stable.
We spooned up the first couple of bites in silence, but the ice cream was a good buffer against awkwardness. This time, I'd wait for him to speak first. With Ferb, sometimes you didn't have to say anything. He didn't need all the pep talks and hugs and cuddles that I did. He just needed to know you were there. It was convenient right now considering I had no idea what to say.
Finally, he let out a sigh. "Isabella?"
I froze with the spoon in my mouth. "Hm?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm drunk," he admitted, and a bolt of nerves jittered through my stomach. Now that we were sitting and the tone was shifting to something less edgy, I could feel it, too. My body was metabolizing this ice cream and the whiskey, and it was going straight to my head.
"Yeah. Yeah, me too."
"Do you feel better?" He looked at me now, and for once, his expression was hard to gage.
"I don't know." My gaze dropped to my bowl. "I don't know how to feel about anything."
From the corner of my eye, I saw him nodding, like it made sense to him. Silence reigned for a few more bites, before he let out something like a laugh.
"What?" I asked, but he began quickly shaking his head. He was grinning and cringing at the same time. "Ferb?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "Just something Phineas said."
"What?" I prodded when he continued to dodge, "Tell me."
He let out a sigh and inspected the glob of green, chippy ice cream on his spoon. Without looking at me, he said, "Phineas just made this rubbish comment about picturing our get-togethers like we were two teenage girls at a slumber party—pink pajamas, ice cream, gossiping about love lives." He popped the spoon in his mouth, and after a considering moment, he added, "I laughed at him, but he's ludicrously close right now."
I studied my own ice cream, playing with the mental image. "I'd let you borrow some of my pink pajama pants. They'd be too small, but it'd still be worth it to see you try."
He shook his head, and his sarcastic "Thanks" sent us once again into silence. That was probably a good thing, though. I was getting to the swirly stage of drunk, and I didn't need to do or say any more stupid things tonight. I'd surpassed my stupidity quotient for the year.
"She said they were committed?" he suddenly asked, all playfulness gone. "Vanessa actually used that word?"
I bit my lip, not sure if it was better to respond or if I'd be able to let him talk himself through this. When he stared me down, though, I resigned myself to the fact that the latter just wouldn't happen.
"Yes."
"And she loves him."
I nodded. "That's what she said."
Usually Ferb needed fewer words; that was how he processed things. Still, that didn't make my heart hurt any less when his chest rose and fell. It was such a crestfallen sigh, something that shrunk his entire figure.
This was way different from my reaction when I went through this with Phineas. I'd sobbed my eyes out, but Ferb? He did the same thing he always did: sit silently and observe the world.
"Did she help you?"
The question was out of left field, beyond my ability to compute. "What? Vanessa?"
He stared at me dryly, as if to say, Obviously.
"I don't know." I took a moment to process the turn in the conversation. "I think I needed my talk with her, but… I don't know. What I wanted was something more lighthearted. Fewer tough questions. A couple of drinks and dancing. Lots of dancing." I rubbed my brow. "It gets me to stop thinking, you know? That's more of what I was expecting when she pretty much kidnapped me for a girl's night out."
He nodded in understanding, but I shook myself, remembering my goal.
"But tonight's not about me. Tonight's about you. What do you need, Ferb?"
His grip went tense on the handle of his mug, and for just an instance, he looked at me, eyes dark and alluring. Mmph, wrong question. Maybe need was a topic we needed to stay away from, because I sure as hell wasn't sure how many of those looks I could take.
"I don't know," he sighed, and if he caught on to the little electric current his glance sent sparking down my synopses, he didn't show it. "What does anyone need after they've been made a fool out of?"
The edges of his words were sharp and bitter, but at least the bitterness wasn't directed at me this time.
If I had an answer, I'd tell him, but I'd been made a fool out of, too. I couldn't believe Phineas had been messaging Vanessa. As well-intentioned as it had been, it was a pretty stupid thing to do. For all of his genius, emotional sensitivity and tact were not Phineas Flynn's strengths.
Of all the strange and bizarre things he could possibly do, Ferb let out a soft chuckle.
"What's so funny?"
His smile was sad and bitter as he shook his head. "How have we possibly managed to remain on the same level, even now?"
"What?"
"It's just as you said the other night," he continued quietly. "That silly analogy of which you're so fond: how we've always been in the same boat."
"It's not silly," I muttered, "it's accurate." But he continued, ignoring my protest.
"Falling for someone because of completely impractical fantasies, pursuing them for years despite mounting evidence they will never give you what you're looking for, hopelessly persevering anyway. Despite all odds, we're still on the same level, even now: when we both inevitably sink to the bottom of the barrel, embarrassed and tired and bruised."
He took a swallow of his tea, and for once, I found it difficult to read his expression.
"You're pretty hot stuff to be found at the bottom of the barrel," I teased, hoping humor would lighten his dark mood. "I'm not buying it."
He snorted before making a sweeping gesture with his mug: and yet, here we are.
"Seriously," I told him. "At least you've attempted to date other girls! I was so determined to be with Phineas I've never done anything with anyone!"
We faltered, dancing too close to a topic that neither of us could afford to breach. Because, of course, my statement was no longer true—I had done something with someone, and I was pretty sure we'd been dangerously close to doing even more.
Ugh, I couldn't go there. We couldn't go there! I needed to stay focused on Phineas and Vanessa, only on them, or everything would fall apart.
I blurted out a truth that had been poisoning my mind: "I've been captain of the S.S. Heartbreak for years, Ferb. I'm convinced I'll go down with the ship."
This got his attention, and he scowled disapprovingly.
"Oh don't give me that," I laughed. "It's true!"
For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue. Then the fight left him, and he sunk back into the cushions.
"I saw the iceberg years ago, Isabella," he admitted. "Deep down I knew Vanessa would never work out. I knew this ship would sink, I knew it. But I did nothing. I didn't abandon ship. I didn't even pack a life jacket. We may both be sunk, but I did a lot more than you did to put myself here."
I took a moment to process this, my heart growing heavy.
"Well, if you didn't have any real hope for a relationship with her, that must soften the blow a little when you hear she's in a relationship, right?" It was wishful thinking, but I'd take any wishes I could get to somehow make this easier on him.
"But that's just it." He stared at me for a moment, and I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed that it didn't hold that flash of electricity that it did last time. "You'd think that'd be the case. That'd certainly be logical and convenient, but I feel…"
He seemed at a loss for how to finish, but that was okay. I understood.
"Heartbroken. Like me."
A sad smile curled at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe in a different way, maybe for different reasons. I don't know," he sighed. "But yeah. It's so pathetic it borders on comical."
"It doesn't border on comical, it borders on sadistic. Masochistic," I corrected, "this cycle. Seriously, Ferb, we both fall for people who can never give us what we want! What's wrong with us?"
His chest rose and fell with another sigh, before he said, "I don't know."
"It's so messed up. We're so messed up! I want Phineas, I've always wanted Phineas, but he'll never pay enough attention to me. Not when his next project waits. I need romance—and that can mean so many things, but it boils down to attention, you know? I'm not saying I need to be pampered and doted on like some kind of princess—"
"You wouldn't say no to that," he teased, and for some reason, I felt my face flush.
"But I don't need that," I quickly pushed on, "I just want to feel like I'm a priority. Like I always exist in your orbit, even when you're in the stars. That you see me, always see me, and not just what you're working on. And," my voice broke, "well, I don't think that's asking too much. Is it?"
"No, Isabella," he murmured, "I don't."
It was the answer I'd hoped for—support, validation—but instead of soothing my nerves, it ignited a tight line of frustration in my chest.
"I want Phineas so much, but he'll never be able to be what I want. Like, what I need from a relationship. And that makes all of it even worse. How does that even make any sense?!"
He shrugged in response, but I wasn't done.
"And you with Vanessa, it's exactly the same! She's so emotionally contained; she doesn't need a knight to save her—and you're a knight in shining armor kind of guy, Ferb."
He snorted. "More of a squire."
There was self-consciousness mixed into his deflection. I knew Ferb often thought of himself as nothing more than Phineas' sidekick, but it was another thing altogether to hear him admit it out loud.
It was true that Ferb seemed the most comfortable unnoticed in the wings while his brother took center stage. I supposed that wasn't exactly a knight in shining armor characteristic. But Ferb was clever, thoughtful, observant, composed, reliable, and always coming to everyone's rescue. He was always swooping in to save the day, knowing just what was needed.
"Knight in silent armor, then," I decided, scrunching my nose in concentration to push past the alcoholic haze clouding my mind. Then I was giggling, a drunk sort of bubble in my chest expanding. "You're not a squire."
He shook his head, but his mouth twitched in a hint of a smile. "Ridiculous."
"Okay, okay maybe, but my point is—" It took a second to regain my focus, to wind back to what I meant to say, because he could be so distracting sometimes. "My point is that Vanessa would never let you in, never let you support her. She's not a princess who wants that kind of steady, focused affection, that dedication and thereness. She'd never need you as much as an amazing guy like you deserves to be needed. In the way you need to be needed, because you get off on that kind of thing—the support thing."
His brow scrunched. "Are you saying I need someone who's needy?"
"What, no." I paused, considered. "Not exactly. I mean, not in a bad way. Just that you thrive off of helping people. Off of figuring out what they need, sometimes before they even realize it themselves, and then just bam, wizarding it to happen. Vanessa doesn't need that. She's just so fiercely independent—like you. You don't like relying on people either. She'd never break down your walls, she'd just let you be silent. And believe me, you need someone to help break down your walls, to chisel away until you let things out. You'd explode if left on your own."
"I'm not—I don't need that." Offense rang in his voice, and his denial was so fierce and false that I couldn't help but laugh.
"Yes you do, and Phineas would totally agree with me. We'd find your remains on the bottom of your phone booth!" I could see I was losing him, though, and I knew I had to swing back around to my main point. "But what I'm saying is that Vanessa wouldn't know where to start, and she wouldn't put the effort in to peel back those layers. You're layered, Ferb."
"I'm too tired for a psych analysis," he grumbled, and I threw my arms up in impatience.
"I'm not trying to start anything. I'm just saying that we're—god, Ferb, we're fucked. We're both completely fucked."
"Only we're not," he said darkly. I looked at him, and my confusion must have shown because he shook his head. "Never mind. Horrid joke."
"Oh." I blinked, and then it clicked. "Oh."
Of course, we were both so romantically twisted up that neither of us were getting fucked.
Sounds like you wanted to, Vanessa had said. Sounds like you wanted to sleep with him.
The reminder of her words was completely unhelpful right now. I shot to my feet so fast the alcohol swirled in my brain and plummeted to my feet. I teetered, careened—but Ferb caught my elbow, steadied me with a concerned look in his eye. Not a knight in shining armor, my ass.
"It was a horrid joke," he repeated, standing to take my other elbow when I tried to scamper back out of his grasp. "I'm sorry. I'm wasted and not thinking."
That giddy, drunken bubble in my chest burst, and I had to fight to keep a wave of heartache and fear from pulling me under.
"That's part of the problem, isn't it? We're not thinking, and everything's different. Everything's messed up now. So many of my relationships are screwed."
He looked like he wanted to protest, but he ultimately didn't. I wasn't wrong, after all. Standing now, feeling the flush of emotions that came with the magnitude of how royally screwed up everything was, my head swam and the room spun. I hadn't felt the full brunt of the alcohol until this moment, and Ferb looked about the same.
"It'll work out," he assured me, but his words were considerably less assuring when he didn't seem to be convinced of it himself.
"How? Things were so weird with Phineas that night and in the morning. So much pity, I can't—" God, I felt like crying, but now that the words were suddenly spilling out, it was like I couldn't stop them from coming. "And he stopped texting me, and he was texting all that stuff about me, and the girls were pitying me, and Vanessa—Vanessa, of all people—showed up to do something about it! Because Phineas was messaging her. And then there's you!"
I hadn't meant to say the last part, to draw him into this. My hurt, my hormones, and a few shots had mixed into a toxic brew that pulled the air out of my lungs, and now that the statement was out, I wasn't sure we could brush it under the rug a second time.
"Isabella…" he began, hesitation and regret sounding from each syllable, and I decided I couldn't handle this, too.
"No, no, never mind," I insisted, taking a step back. He didn't stop me this time. "Forget that last part. Things were fine, and then I ruin it, just—we can't talk about this."
There was a silence, and it was only broken when I finally chanced a glance up at him. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was contained when he said, "If you'd feel better if I left, I—"
"No!" I yelped, surprising both of us when I took his shirt, as if to anchor him in place. I quickly pulled my hands off him, but that didn't change much because my outburst had tethered him to the spot. He stared at me, a flitter of that dark look in his eyes for the slightest second, and I think I nearly died when I saw the blush that flooded his usually calm face.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, trying to reign in my sudden, inexplicable panic. "If you want to leave…"
My throat seemed to cement itself shut, and I didn't know what else to say. My message was clear regardless, though: if he wanted to leave, I wouldn't stop him. Heaven knew escape looked pretty damn good right now.
"Was she right?"
"What?"
"Vanessa," he clarified when his question caught me off guard. "About you needing someone. Was she right?"
It was a loaded question. I didn't want to be alone, and I could probably use someone to keep me from doing something stupid. But I wasn't sure Ferb was the best person for that. If anything, his presence made it too easy to do something stupid, and the drinks really didn't help.
"I don't know!" I groaned, burying my face in my hand. Then, because that somehow made me feel even more vulnerable, I forced my arms back down to my sides. "I don't know anything anymore, Ferb! Not a damn thing!"
"Do you want me to leave?" he repeated, his tone firm and straightforward.
"No!" It was the honest answer. "But you should."
His brow quirked, and it was immeasurably unfair right now that boys' pajama pants had pockets because at least he had the luxury of burying his hands inside of them. With my stupidly pocketless pants, my fingers were left to toy anxiously with the hem of my t-shirt, revealing more of my emotions than I'd like.
"I can't drive, but I can walk. Or I could order a ride." He hesitated, then exhaled. "I don't want to leave, either."
"Because it's late," I explained. "And we're drunk, and everything is exhausting."
"And for the support," he added, then had the gall to adopt a cocky smile. "Because you're needy and I 'wizard' things."
"You're making fun of me."
"Only a little. But at least that's normal, right?"
"I don't even know what normal is!" I exclaimed, throwing my arms up. "There isn't a 'normal' anymore, Ferb. We killed it! Normal is dead!"
"Let's just go to bed, then." His statement sent my stomach flipping until he added, "I'll sleep on the couch and we can try to resurrect normal in the morning."
"But what's the point?"
"What's the point?" he repeated, and I could tell he wasn't following what I was trying to say.
"I mean, sleeping on the couch." I tried again, trying to sift through my muddled brain to string the words together. "What's the point? Why not just sleep beside me, share the bed? Why bother with the couch? We've already obliterated that barrier, so what's the point anymore? We killed normal."
"The point is putting that barrier back," he stated, but it was ruined by the way his words lilted up at the end, making it more of a question. God, we couldn't afford uncertainty right now.
"I don't know how this can be fixed, Ferb." I hated to admit it, and I hated that we were so freaking jumbled up that I couldn't get a good sense of how he was feeling right now—maybe somewhere near defiance or denial.
"Fix it?" he questioned, which immediately gave me my answer: denial.
"Fix what's broken."
"Nothing's—" He let out his breath, sounding exasperated. "Nothing's broken, Isabella."
"This," I offered in proof, gesturing at him. "Us. Everything. How you're looking at me. It's all broken."
His gaze shot to his feet. "I'm not looking at you in any way." It was a lie, and I thought we both knew it, which was probably why he rushed on, "You caught me off guard—that dress…" He sighed, seemed to shake himself. "We just need boundaries."
"Boundaries." I tested the word out, too. "What, just pretend that all of this never happened?"
"Isn't that what you want?"
The question hung heavy between us, and I thought it was entirely unfair that he was the one who asked it, who placed its weight squarely on my shoulders.
"It's what we need," I answered. "So—so, that's it? We agree this never happened. None of it: the hall and later that night and earlier in my kitchen—none of it happened."
"Can you do that?"
"Can you?" I shot right back, tired of being stuck answering the tough questions. Because I wasn't sure I could. Standing here, staring at him in this single second before he had the ability to respond, I realized that maybe there really was no coming back from that party. There was no erasing from memory that we had melded two helpless heartbreaks into something incredibly satisfying. Or at the very least, something highly distracting.
I wanted the jolts of electric fire tracing paths under my skin, the mind-melting sweetness, the touch, the desperate sort of ache to be closer that I only recently knew existed—but I couldn't have those things, and I certainly couldn't have them with Ferb, and of course I didn't want them with him but with Phineas, so it didn't matter. It couldn't matter, so I needed to stop thinking about it and reliving it, but I couldn't stop wondering, wondering, wondering.
"What would have happened if—"
I'd started talking without thinking, started voicing a question that damn well shouldn't be shared, but it was too late now.
"What?" he prompted, and an embarrassed heat spiked its way up my spine, making my cheeks burn.
"It's not important," I squeaked, shaking my head.
"It clearly is," he countered, and I spun around. His gaze was just too intense right now.
"No, it doesn't matter. And it's inconsequential!"
The beat of silence behind me made me wonder if I'd gotten away with it, but of course I hadn't. Instead, Ferb pulled out the biggest weapon he had: "Isabella, talk to me."
It was unfair. It was completely unfair that he could weaponize his voice so easily. Though, I supposed that was a benefit of not speaking often: when you did, when you chose to and carefully, it held power.
"What would have happened…" I began again, but the words got stuck in my throat. Then his fingers brushed my arm from behind, unexpected and startling and warm, and my voice jolted free as I spun around, out of his reach. "If Phineas hadn't interrupted us? Or Tangie?"
It was a bombshell for him, I could tell—and one I knew immediately would have been much better, much wiser, to have left well enough alone.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, rubbing almost absently at the back of his neck. He sunk back onto the couch, pulling one leg up in front of him in a guarded sort of gesture. Unsurprisingly, he seemed more than happy to look at anything and everything except me.
After a moment of halted silence, he sighed. "Do you want the truth? Or do you want a lie that will be easier to swallow?"
It was a loaded question, and while my answer should have been obvious and immediate, I faltered. There was safety in obscurity, after all. But Ferb was always the one person I could be completely honest with, ugly tears and heartbreak and all, and I wasn't sure I could give that up. I depended on it, on him, too damn much.
"The truth," I told him, mustering a thimble of courage. "Always the truth, Ferb."
He nodded, like this came to no surprise, though he didn't speak. I almost wanted to laugh and remind him that he asked for this, that he was the one who wouldn't let this drop, but I couldn't manage it. Somehow, some way, too much rode on his answer.
"How far?" he asked, as if clarifying a test question, and I nodded.
More silence. I was beginning to doubt that he was going to answer, tormenting myself over what it would mean if he didn't. Then he rubbed at the back of his neck again before exhaling long and slow, as if in resignation.
"Farther."
He said it simply, left it to hang between us. Farther. Completely open-ended and yet damningly clear.
My mouth felt dry, my tongue glued in place while I worked through the sudden lump in my throat. I had no idea what to do or say in response, which was probably why I could do nothing but obey when he gestured to the couch beside him. Numb and buzzing with his answer, I dropped down next to him, pulling a knee to my chest just like he had.
"Isabella?" he said after a moment, and even though I couldn't get my voice to work, couldn't get anything to work, he took my silence as a green light and tossed the primed grenade back in my hands: "What about you?"
How much farther did I think we'd have gone if we hadn't been interrupted? The tiny amount of courage I'd managed a moment ago was so much easier to command when receiving an answer instead of giving one.
Looking resolutely at a fabric ladybug on the top of my thigh, I nodded: Farther.
We'd probably have gone much, much farther.
My stomach flipped over itself, nerves blossoming from admitting this basic fact, and I wondered if he could see it. If he could tell. I pursed my lips, feeling the itch to spring up and run from this conversation, from him, from inconvenient answers—when he shifted just slightly. I peeked up at him, following the movement, but his gaze was just too intense. On a groan, I pulled my other leg up on the couch and buried my face in my knees.
"It's a bad idea to get more alcohol right now," I muttered. "It'd be a bad idea, right?"
It was a beat before he answered, "Extremely." There was reproach in his voice, one that reminded me we were both drunk enough already. But there was also inquiry: Why?
I shook my head, still buried. Then, because the silence was too much for me to stand, I said, "Ferb, it's just… it's just so lonely."
"That appears to be the theme of the night, doesn't it?" His response was so quietly gentle that it pulled my head up, pulled my eyes towards his like a magnet. His face was smooth and damn near unreadable, but there was volume in the steady way he was staring right back at me.
"I just—need to stop thinking! Overthinking! I'm so twisted up and crazy and I feel like I'm going to explode! I just need—" I saw something flash in his expression, something that made me falter, and I realized that was the last thing we needed.
"I'm just so—so hurt," I redirected us. I forced my gaze on my lap again, away from those dark blue eyes that were a little too lustrous, a little too inviting. Eyes that made me wonder if Ferb had as much self-control as I gave him credit for. "That's all, and I—I want it to stop. It needs to stop! It just hurts."
I jumped when I felt his fingers brush my cheek, and I couldn't think, couldn't do anything when I felt not just the touch but the pull. His other hand slid behind my neck, focusing everything I was in his hold, and it was all so fast and so slow, the way he pulled me in.
I couldn't question why, how this was happening, where it would go. When his mouth came against mine, a spark popped in the back of my brain, sending warmth all the way down to my fingers and toes, and I was on him in an instant.
My hands grasped for any part of him I could find, settling for the base of his neck, a fistful of hair, and a noise rumbled in his throat. It was the same startled, exhilarated noise he'd made when I'd backed him against the counter in my kitchen, and it sent my stomach fluttering. Then he was grabbing at my waist, and for a moment, I was worried I'd done something wrong, that I'd somehow messed up already—but he practically pulled me on top of him, the same desperate need in his response that was singing through every inch of me.
This wasn't the lost desperation in the hallway or the sleepy resignation in his bedroom or even the raw, visceral need from earlier, in my kitchen, finally resumed after too long of an interlude—and yet it was familiar. He was familiar, the feel of him. It was exactly what I needed right now, and it was terrifying.
There was no time to pause, to shatter and reassemble every piece of myself so I could somehow fit, so we could fit, in this moment. He destroyed me the moment he'd pulled me in, then again with that noise, then again when he'd dragged me even closer, up and over him. I'd shattered when I'd thrown my leg over his so I was on top of him, straddling him in a way that pressed us together and sent heat steaming through me.
The shattering was easy. It was the reassembling that would take some doing.
He worked my hair loose from its ponytail, sending it toppling down around us with the same quick, clever efficiency he'd used when untying the sleeves of my dress. Now he was tracing patterns down across my back, and when he kneaded the skin at my waist again, he took my caught breath as permission to slide under the fabric, to cradle the small of my back.
I should be doing something other than clinging to him, I knew it, but his roaming hands wrecked my thoughts, leaving me breathless and lost. All I could do was mold my mouth against his, taking his lower lip between mine, meeting pressure for pressure, and hope I was doing this right because—ahhh, it certainly felt like we were.
I knew we were drunk. He knew it, too. And we both knew we shouldn't be here, doing this, but we couldn't seem to manage to avoid it. Not after we'd drowned common sense with whiskey and honey, and not when it was so damn good at soothing the bruises and dulling the pain. The alcohol was the only excuse I had for this annoying craving, for the many poor decisions we were bound to make tonight. I knew better, damn it if I didn't, but I also didn't want to think straight, didn't want to think at all, if it meant we'd need to stop.
He gave a short pull on the tips of my hair, as if sensing my distraction, and defiance flared in my lungs. I shifted the weight on my knees, and the movement brought our hips together in a way that sent a current skittering through my stomach—and sent a jolt I could feel through his whole body.
"Isabella."
It was low, a warning gasped out but easily ignored in the surging thrill of control. I moved my hips against his in a slow, agonizing roll like I had in the hallway and swallowed his groan. It tasted like power, the satisfaction of command, heady and exhilarating. It tasted right. It tasted like home.
Then everything was toppling, and I yelped as my back fell against the couch cushions. A throw pillow went flying before his body pressed above mine, and my mouth went dry at how easily he'd turned the tables. I grappled with his hands, with reclaiming a shred of dignity, but then he was kissing me again, andmy mind collapsed under the pressure. His fingers tangled with mine, pinning my hands and wresting control, and even though I managed to hook my legs around his waist, all I could do was use them to draw him tighter against me.
This time, when our hips ground against each other's, he didn't pull back or stop, and this time, it left us both groaning. The friction was everything I needed, a pool of heat inside of me that grew desperate, and our kisses turned into something else, something loud, halted, throaty.
Then he pulled back—pulled up, I realized, lifted me—taking my shirt with him. Just like that, my ratty top went in the same direction as the discarded pillow, and I only had a moment to wonder if it was a stroke of genius or a mistake that I'd put a bra on before coming out here. Ferb's indignant huff of frustration at the discovery, at being stymied, I realized with almost a laugh, did all sorts of things to my insides: a mix of excitement and nerves, want and insecurity.
But his second of hesitation was gone, melted as all our lines crashed back together. He ran his hands back up my bare waist, only it was so different now, so exposed and immediate. There was a new gravity in every movement, and we were stuck in its pull. His touch ghosted along the fabric of my bra, making me cry out as he traced my ribcage. Then his lips were doing the same to my jaw, my collarbone, my neck, and I couldn't breathe.
Oh. Fuck. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't. I moaned.
This. This was what we kept missing. This was where we'd been heading if we'd just stopped being interrupted! And we needed to be interrupted, we needed it, but instead, I yanked Ferb's shirt over his head, sent it flying, and trailed my fingers down the length of his back. He was lithe, but years of working with power tools had made him strong.
"Bella," he panted, propping himself up on his elbows, but I followed the movement, grasping his hair so I could taste his skin, claim his exposed collarbone—and he made the lewdest noise I'd ever heard. His moan shot right through me faster than any amount of alcohol ever could, and I whimpered. God…
"Fuck—Isabella," he tried again, but whatever he was trying to say was ruined when he dove for my mouth. He nipped at my lower lip, sent the world spinning—then righted himself again. "Wait—shit. I need—a moment, or…"
Confused, I blinked up at him: his broad shoulders propped above mine, his shaggy hair falling around his face, the utter anguish tensing his brow. He seemed unable to finish the statement.
"Or you'll make a poor decision?" I concluded. It was obvious. In his eyes, the way they were dark and desperate. In his gaze, wandering me, caught in this new territory we'd lost ourselves in. He wanted me.
"Or I'll make an incredibly selfish one."
His voice was gruff, almost pained in its intensity. That pool of heat inside me ignited, though it was laced with nerves, and I strained against him. I was wound too tight to just stop, and it must have shown because he lowered himself enough to brush his lips along my temple, down to my jaw, and my breath escaped in a hiss. He was so gentle, so hesitant it was agonizing. God, I was going to explode if he kept that up!
"I don't want to use you," his lips burned across my collarbone, and I whimpered, the air punched from my lungs at the exquisite agony of his palms kneading at my bra—under my bra.
Then he bit my neck, and it was a strike, a white flash in front of my eyes. He reared back when I cried out, afraid he'd hurt me instead of nearly sending me over right then and there. His retreat tore at me, tore a whine from me, impatient and fraught and completely mortifying as I caught his arms. I yanked him back down, burying his face in my neck as I stretched to give him access, and he kissed my pulse.
"But I might be." His words were a tormented whisper at my throat now, working up until he finally found my mouth, drew a moan from my lips with his before hovering over them. "I think I'm using you. I'm so unsorted, and I don't—"
"Use me," I demanded, gripping his shoulders and rolling my hips against his. God, everything in me wanted to scream at him to use me however the hell he liked! But that wasn't the healthy answer, damn it! It was the manic one, the needy one, the easy one, and it was enough to make me wonder, was I just using him? If I were, was that really so bad?
"Isabella?" he questioned, blinking down at me like he didn't even recognize me. And hell, I hardly recognized him! The hand-thrown hair, the bare shoulders, the tense line of his arms as he held himself above me, the used lips, the punch-drunk eyes—he was a stranger to me. We were strangers to ourselves.
"I don't know!" I panted. "I don't know, I don't know, Ferb, but I need you to touch me, damn it! I might die if you stop!"
I needed this. I needed it! God, couldn't he see that? I was on the brink of begging if that was what it took. Everything, everything was a mess, but this felt so damn good. He'd always had the ability to make things better, and I ached for him.
"I need—" I began again, and while I didn't know how to finish the sentence, my message was clear. He obliged in giving me exactly what I wanted, starting by swallowing my words. His hips ground against mine, and I almost couldn't handle the intensity, pressing against him without it being more.
I didn't know how to fix it. At least, I didn't know a sane way to fix it. A way that wouldn't break everything after tonight, shattering relationships into pieces. And the insane thing was that right now, I didn't care. Even more insane, apparently, he didn't either. I sensed a shift in him, a sudden wave of uncertainty that trembled just under his skin. I felt the hesitation in his palms, his lips, but it only lasted a second before his hand trailed down my torso and finally, finally touched me below.
It was only through my pajama pants at first, lightly, but the effect was immediate and immense. His name flew from my mouth in a shocked yelp and my nails bit into his shoulders. My mind skittered beyond thought, and he took the encouragement to slide his fingers inside my waistband until they rubbed against the soft cotton of my panties and—ah!
I think I may have screamed. I didn't even know anymore. I arched into him hard. My hips bucked against his hand, searching for more, and his mouth crashed down on mine to quiet me, but fuck. Fuck. I was unraveling completely. Unraveling, only to be wound tighter. Warmth clenched my stomach, held me until I was writhing. My muscles pulled tight and taught, a banked heat, a fever that—broke, a lightbulb shattering silently across my mind, flashing white electric arcs in every direction, in every part of me. It was a flood, a hum, a song in an instant that swept me up and left me gasping, gasping, gasping.
He pulled back, his stare wide and disbelieving. "Did you just…"
I could only whimper in response, breathing hard and blinking the lights from my vision. Oh my god.
He sat up, perched upright on his knees instead of draping over me, but I was floating too far away to protest. It took a moment for me to register anything, and then another to finally settle on his face. It took another moment more to realize the suave, collected Ferb Fletcher… was turning pink at the ears. The stoic, genius boy actually looked flustered, and it was impossible and bizarre and sent my insides all over the place.
I should have known, though, that it wouldn't hold him back for long. I was still panting, trying to bring my heart back under control, when a hint of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. A smug smile, god, it sent my cheeks scorching.
"Shut up!" I gasped, propping myself up on my elbows to feel less vulnerable, but his grin only widened.
His head cocked to the side, his shoulder rising and falling once in a self-satisfied sort of gesture that said, I didn't say anything.
"You don't need to say anything to say everything," I groaned, and because I couldn't stand the way he was looking at me, I pushed all the way up on my arms to hide my face against his chest. I didn't even know why I was so embarrassed, but I felt I might burst into flames—but being pressed against him again did nothing to make it better. Gees, what the hell were we getting ourselves into?
His hand closed over my shoulder, and it sent a shock that pooled annoyingly again behind my navel. You'd think I'd be good now, settled instead of responding to his touch like a stimulant injected right into my veins. The problem was, it seemed to have the same effect on him. His other hand threaded into my hair, pulling my head back enough to access my mouth, where we found a steady rhythm again entirely too easily.
I pushed against him, honestly just trying to get closer, but he took it as a signal to get off of me. It was a scramble, untangling our limbs, but he kept me pressed against him, drew me with him as we drunkenly stumbled to our feet.
There was urgency now, sharp and demanding as we clung to each other, that hadn't lessened now that we were standing. If anything, it was more urgent—the tangible step forward, the possible promise of things to come. There was a tug in my abdomen, the pull towards him, the sheer energy of all of this that told me that even though we should, we should, it didn't look like we'd be stopping after all.
"Ferb—Ferb, we should…"
Hell, I didn't know what we should do. What I wanted and what I needed to do didn't align, and the opposing forces were crashing inside of me. It was so hard to think when his chest was warm on mine, so much touching, such an intense focus on each other.
He faltered at my words, looking as lost and drunk and needy as I was. I took a step back from him, though I wasn't sure if it was to convince myself to think about this or because it took us one step closer to my bedroom. I didn't turn away from him, though. I couldn't, not when I was visually devouring him. The lean angle of his hips before they were cut off by the dark fabric of his sweats. The marks my nails left on his shoulders. A beautiful mess.
It wasn't until I settled on his face that I saw he was doing the same thing: his eyes trailing my disheveled hair, my purple bra, the strap halfway down my shoulder, the place where the band of my pajama pants bunched up around my hips.
Damn. This would have been so much easier to avoid if he weren't so… so…
"Isabella…" he exhaled. "What are we doing?"
He sounded way too sober, and his question was equally sobering. It was completely unfair, placing the weight of this question on me to answer. I was nervous. God, he was too, I could tell.
"I—I don't know," I admitted. "Each other?"
Above all else, Ferb was usually composed. He was dignified, together, and possessed a tidiness of mind that I'd always depended on so heavily. It was always confounding, his composure. But right now? Now he looked… different. Provoked. Corrupted. His face flushed, his chest rising and falling, his hair a wild tousle, his eyes heavy with desire.
I never knew Ferb could look like this.
That was when I knew it: we had gone too far for shame to push us back, for common sense to wake us up. This edge was too steep, and we'd already fallen all the way down.
I took his hands, holding them up between us, pressing our palms flush against each other's and twining my fingers in his.
"Ferb?" I breathed. "Are we?"
That was when he lunged forward, capturing my mouth with his. I squeaked in surprise at his intensity, and my eyes fluttered closed as he dropped my hands to let his wander my skin. My hips, my waist, my back—ah, god, he unhooked my bra as we stumbled across the room, still pressed to each other.
When my knees hit side of my bed, I fell back on it. Then he was over me again. This time, when he said my name, it wasn't hesitant or pained or burning with restraint. This time, it was promise, it was anticipation, and I knew getting that sleep I needed was just going to have to wait.
- Fin Chapter Seven -
Well, I hope you liked it! Woo hoo! So relieved to have this chapter over!
Also, I defended my second master's last month! Double woo hoo! That was another reason why this took so long to get to you.
I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Please drop them in a review; they are lifeblood that keep me pecking away at these keys. I hope to get the next chapter to you before too long, though I'm not certain on timeline (it would really help if I planned my writing out instead of just making it all up as I go along haha).
Anyhoo, I'm wishing you wellness!
All my love
Lilly-Belle