Warnings: Again, there's spoilerishness
A/N: Sorry if this sucks complete ass, I punched it out at like 3:00 in the morning when I was bored. Please review. Do I need to beg? Cuz I totally will. Please review! Please, pretty please with whipped cream and cherries and really hot sex on top?
Ah, the tangled webs I weave. I haven't spoken to Anna since she kissed me. And she's gone back to boarding school, and didn't say goodbye. Jake's taken off for parts unknown in search of Jenny, and I can't blame him. He wanted me to go with him. I almost did, got in the car, bags packed and everything. We'd passed a sign on the road, "Now Leaving Tree Hill," and I screamed so loud for him to turn back, I scared the both of us. It''s not that I don't care about him, because I do. But I don't love him like he wants me to. I wanted to. I've tried, I've tried so hard. But no matter how you slice it, you can't get a five-course meal out of a bicycle. Or something like that... My point is that I can't force feelings that aren't there and it was wrong of me to be with him like I was when I was so in love with someone else.
If it's possible, Lucas has gotten even broodier, patent pending on that word by the way. He's sulky and pining and clearly got a case of love-sickness. Three guesses who the lucky girl is. Competition is so not what I need right now. Not that I was ever in the running. But I can pretend, can't I? Now I'm gonna be stuck with serious thoughts all day. There's a thing at Tric tonight, but I'm not sure how much fun I'll be having, what with the working and all. Part of me wants to run into Rick again. But the other part of me won't admit why. Then both parts kick me in the ass for carrying on conversations with myself.
I think I might check out the after party at the beach house tonight. You'll probably drag me there anyway. You're not much for party hopping alone. I do worry about you though. The alcohol binges are obviously not healthy. I know I'm not one to judge considering you called me a crack whore and you were just about right, but I do worry. You're a different person when you're drunk. You're several different persons when you're drunk. There's Bitchy and Spiteful Brooke. She's the one who can't keep secrets, her's or anyone else's. There's Needy, Sometimes Depressed Brooke. She's the one who needs attention in the form of sweet friendly comfort or hot reckless sex. I've yet to provide either. And then there's Deliriously Happy Brooke, she comes out most often. She's the one who's all dimples and sparkling eyes and is always happy to see me. Or Nathan. Or Lucas, Haley, even that one guy who used to eat paste in second grade. Bitchy and Spiteful Brooke and Needy, Sometimes Depressed Brooke almost always go home with some guy. Deliriously Happy Brooke is the girl who always comes home with me. Not sure who I'm rooting for tonight.
I get to walk into the party with the most beautiful girl in school on my arm. You in a short dark purple dress, and me in tight jeans and a halter; "We're young, we're hot, let's do some damage." And you make a bee-line for the kegs. Half an hour later finds us on the beach. Thirty minutes and we're already hopelessly wasted. We had been contemplating the meaning of creation when you suddenly go silent. I turn to face you and wait for one of the three Brookes to talk.
"They're getting a divorce."
"What?" I'm not sure I heard correctly through the buzzing in my ears. "Your parents?"
"Yeah. They've been having problems for a while. Now that the money's gone, my mom doesn't have a reason to stick around. Guess I don't count."
I reach over to pull you into a hug. I miss, but you crawl into my arms anyway. I try to ignore how good your hair smells when I tell you everything will be okay. You won't cry though. That's a new thing you're trying. I'm surprised because this is what I imagine Needy, Sometimes Depressed Brooke would do. But no tears come. You're just nuzzling my neck and whispering things I can't hear because my heart is pounding so hard. I want to push you away because of what this is doing to me. And I want to hold you closer because of what this is doing to me. When you speak, your lips are so close they brush my skin as they move. I'm suddenly feeling very sober. And suddenly feeling very talkative. I open my mouth to speak, but you beat me to it.
"Let's go back inside, Blondie. All this ocean is making me seasick." You stand before I can even answer and my body feels cold without yours against it. It takes me a few tries but I stand up again. You wait patiently as I struggle, you always held your liquor better than I did.
You find us an empty room and collapse on the bed. I actually hesitate at joining you, but I do. I'm wondering what we're doing here, we don't usually crash at Nathan's unless we're too passed out to decide otherwise. I'm about to mention this when you say to no one in particular that you're horny. I'm not sure what to say to that and I can feel my ears burning which means I must be blushing, hard.
You roll over and face me, then you actually look me up and down, sizing me up. I somehow manage to get even redder. You lean over and brush my lips with yours so lightly I barely feel it. But, oh, I feel it. And I'm intoxicated again, but this time it isn't the beer. You pull away and I try to speak something of a protest. You're drunk or I'm drunk or We shouldn't, we can't, but whatever I try to say doesn't come out English. And it's so hard to speak when your lips are pressed against mine. This kiss is harder. More intense. It's desperate and rough and frustrating and feels unbelievably good. And I know I never want to kiss anybody else. But no, this is wrong. I'm taking advantage. And the little angel on my shoulder is beating me with its harp.
"Brooke, no," I say into your lips.
"We can't, we shouldn't, it's wrong, blah-blah-blah," you mumble back. Somehow I find the strength to pull away. "Peyton, come on. I know you want me. I've seen you looking at me. I've seen how you look."
"Brooke, I--"
"No, no. No more words. No more questions. Nothing but this." And your lips are on mine again. They do taste like strawberries. And they're not the only part of you that's sweet.
Come morning, my arm moves across the pillow to find you, then my eyes open to confirm what I already know: you're gone. And I'm all alone and very naked. Part of me is actually suprised but most of me isn't.
I make my way home and try to keep from crying. I grab my pad, and a charcoal pencil, and I curl up on my bed. I should be doing my homework. But I'm not up for algebra right now. Jimmy Eat World is playing behind me and I want to draw that old bridge I saw the other day. It was broken and forgotten and lonely and it reminded me a lot of me. But as the pencil glides over the paper, the arc of the bridge becomes the curve of a face. Instead of an overpass, I'm drawing you. Your eyes, your hands, your everything. I look at the drawing for a while when I'm done and try to decide who looks sadder, me or you.
It's been four days. And you've been avoiding me, I think. Or at least we haven't spoken. At all. I keep myself busy with whatever I can so I don't have to think about you. It's been working, I think. I've called Rick twice and hung up before it could ring. I've thought about calling you, but I know better from experience. I can't help but think you're mad at me. That I've messed up somehow. And I'm sure I have. And I don't understand why or how because from what I remember it was you who had done all the persuading. I had tried to stop you, so if anyone should be avoiding anyone it should be me. I just wish you would talk to me. I don't need to rehash how lonely I am without you, but I am.
I see you at school today. I wave to you, but you don't see me. You're not at my locker before class. And that's weird because we've met at my locker before class everyday since fifth grade. You spend all of fourth period actually paying attention. You don't try to whisper through the lectures. You don't pass me a note with the worksheets. And you don't so much as glance my way. You don't even find me at lunch, I have to spend it with Nathan and Haley. Now, I know something's wrong. I mean, some awkwardness was expected, it was inevitable, but I really didn't think it would get tis bad. I call you when I get home, leave a message on your answering machine. You finally answer your cell after three tries.
"Hey, it's me." Not the most origional, I'll admit. "What are you doing?"
"Peyton. Uh, I'm kinda busy..."
"Okay, you maybe wanna get together later? To talk?" I add quickly.
"I don't know, I'm kinda in the middle of some stuff."
"Alright, then do you--"
"Look, P. Sawyer, can I just call you later? I can't really talk right now."
"Yeah, sure." I hang up without waiting for a reply. Then I throw the phone on the floor. Then I pick it back up and wait for it to ring. How long is later?