Hey Everyone! Chapter two, in continuation, thank you for the reviews, I'm grateful. You guys give me the motivation to keep on writing - every bit of encouragement counts and gets me all excited. someone5, you're responsible for this second chapter alone, but butterflykisses, kursk, nooneinparticular and everyone else - thank you :-

All right, here's all the Bright goodness you can stand. Disclaimer - you know it - respect as I respect the source.

luce

Chapter 2: The Mathematics of Pinball

Bright

I've had a lot of sex.

I'm not, like, bragging or anything. If I said I had a lot of good sex or I had more sex than anybody I know, that would be bragging. It would be true too, but that's besides the point. The point is that she hasn't.

It's like this giant iceberg thing underwater and we are like the boat going towards it. I saw this movie once, I swear. Amy made me watch it. It had that little Leonardo shit in it – Titanic, yeah, that's what it was called. Me and Hannah are like the Titanic, and sex...is...it's ...yeah.

I don't spend all my time thinking about sex, which is probably what everyone thinks. I used to, but back then, it was easier to. Sex is weird that way – the more you have it, the more you think about it, actually. It's never enough. And it's always different.

I'd be lying my ass off if I said I didn't think about doing it with her.

I didn't at first. I'm a fuckup, but even I'm not sleazy enough to do a chick like her even when she was looking at me like I was Superman, with the big puppy eyes. It would have been, like, beyond wrong, making her think I liked her. Besides, she's not hot.

In the regular way. She's way hot in a different way.

That's not a way I'm used to.

It's like, figuring out a math problem. There's always this rule or something floating in the background that you're supposed to know, it's assumed you know it. And you're trying to put the two and two together and it's coming out wrong, and you don't know why. That's what being with Hannah's like. I'm always screwing up, cause that's what I do. But sometimes things add up – what I say, what I do, what she does, and when that happens...we're kissing.

Which is good. Kissing is good. It means everything's ok.

I haven't tested that enough to know – it was one time, and she was looking at me and laughing a little – like I'm transparent or something, which bugs me – and then all this junk is coming out of my mouth that I actually mean and she looks so fresh or something, like new snow. And happy – then I give up talking and kiss her, because that's the way we're going to be. Her mouth is warm and GOD every breath she takes moves against my chest, like this fluttery thing, soft and girl-shaped. I'm so nervous I can't even think. And then I've picked her up, and I'm swinging her around, and she's so light, and laughing, and ...it blows my mind.

It's like a tape, fastforwards and backwards, playing all the time in my head.

She said she felt sweaty. It was random and like an inside joke, probably. But it was weird how she nailed it. I couldn't think of a better word. Sweat is nerves, it's sex, it's heat, all that stuff. I try not to think about that too much because then my brain goes haywire and I end up with blue balls.

Just trying to be honest.

I was thinking about this stuff last Thursday, when Amy came over with a plastic hamper full of hangers, two pots, paper plates and my X-box. Good old Amy, hauling shit for me to my apartment. It's funny – no matter how smartass she is, how much she rides on me and gets pissed at me, there's always something there that makes her a little sister, looking up and wanting to make me happy and stuff. It's how girls are to their older brothers – I remember the way Laynie would look up to Colin, how she'd make him sandwiches and cut them in triangles and even remember to toast the bread.

Bad thought. I shove it to the side.

I try not to think of little stuff like that. When you think of it, big picture style, it's ok; I had a friend named Colin, he's dead now, he makes me think of how life is a gift to be grateful for, I miss him sometimes. See? All general, and it goes down easy to numb you like cough medicine. But little stuff, like the sandwiches? Like the fact all his socks had little Nike swooshes on them?

That shit is like a giant needle, like a shot jabbed into your arm. A bad kind of numb.

Never mind about that junk. Like I said, Amy came over.

She looked around the room, and 'hmmmm-ed' at me.

"Needs a woman's touch," she said. "And I know what woman-"

"Cool it," I growled, tossing a sofa pillow at her.

"No need to be embarrassed," she sang. She was enjoying this way too much. I had to flatten her, just for my peace of mind.

"A girl came by here to look at the apartment," I said. "Damn, she was hot. She wants to split rent."

Her face dropped, then got mean, mean, mean.

"Brighton, are you out of your mind?"

"What!"

"You can't live with a girl! You have a girlfriend! If you have a skank ho walking around here all the time in her boxers you might as well count Hannah out because-"

"Alright, ok! Don't have a frickin' aneurysm," I muttered. "Besides, who said I had a girlfriend?"

That was when the shit really hit the fan. You should see Amy get mad. Her mouth pinches up small and her whole face goes so still that you get this feeling like she's about to pick up a chair and brain you with it.

"You listen to me," she said, and I swear she turned into Mom right there at that moment. She'd hate me if I told her that. "Hannah doesn't have an older brother here to watch out for her and kick your ass. But you'd better know I'm willing to fill that position, you moron. If you mess with her heart – this is so stupid! I told her to stay away from you, that you were like, in different leagues! But nooooo, Bright this, Bright's a good person-"

"I am a good person!" I said, but I don't know if it sounded that convincing. "Besides, she's a ballsy chick. She can handle a lot of stuff."

"You might think that, but she still doesn't understand a lot. And she's nervous when you turn the tables on her, and, you know, sensitive."

"Oh my God."

"Bright!"

"Man, are you going to bitch me out everytime I hurt her feelings? Cause that's not the way I see this working," I said, and this time I was serious, and sort of quiet. Because it just came to me that if she did, it would suck ass.

And all over again, I wasn't sure.

See, this is the way it goes.

One day I really want to be with Hannah. The next day, I think of all the junk we're going to go through, and how hard it's going to be, and I just feel all tired. The next day, I wake up, and I miss her, and I think it doesn't matter.

And back and forth all the time like pinball or something.

Then, sometimes, between those days, I have one of those dreams if you know what I'm saying. Then I wake up and damn, I wish she was here, cause it really does a number on you; and I don't even think about pros and cons, I think about her in her underwear.

Like I said, just trying to be honest here.

But I'd probably gouge out my own eyeballs and eat them before telling Amy any of this. I wonder if Hannah'll tell Amy that stuff? It would be way beyond disturbing if she did. That's why I had to draw the line right there.

"Like, what I mean is, if you're always going between one side and the other, it's just going to make stuff harder. I understand that you're her best friend, but when you were going out with Colin, we didn't talk about you AT all. Except maybe if you were mad and he wanted to fix it, then he'd ask me what flowers to buy you or whatever."

Right when I said that, I wanted to kick myself. She got really quiet. I forgot not to mention that around her. But I guess she had been thinking about it too. Her eyes were sort of shiny – I am such an ass – and then she made a little face.

"Ew, do you think I want to know what all goes on between you and Hannah? There's some things I hope I never hear in my life." She took a really deep breath, and tilted her head back, pretending to examine the fan on the ceiling.

"Nice fan," she said. "Antique iron-work."

Which was bullshit. You tip your head back when you're trying keep any tears from coming out. Don't ask me how I know – I don't cry. Cause guys don't cry. And I'm a guy. Hey, that rhymes. Anyway, Amy.

I went and gave her a hug. She felt really narrow, and sort of small, and that made me sad. I wondered what was the last time she had a guy give her a hug.

"Look, we'll figure it out," I told her. "I'll try hard. I don't want to fuck up now, God, cause this is a really good chance, you know? It's all...different."

"Yeah, I know," she said, all whispery.

"Hey Little Sister, don't get shitty sentimental on me," I grinned, and she smacked my arm, grabbing the hamper and carrying it off to the bedroom. Her voice floated back out at me, totally smug.

"Nice twin mattress. A little snug for such a ladies' man, doncha think?"

Brat.

That night, I didn't write. Or the night after, or the night after, because I was afraid that if we started writing every night, I'd run out of smart or funny stuff to say in a week. It's stressing for me. Besides, I have big hands. I type slow. And since the last job, I really hate computers. All excuses, excuses, I'm good at excuses.

Then, I got freaked out somehow. I can't explain what it was. It was like, I had stopped writing for so long, I was scared of starting again, or procasti – procraste – whatever the fuck, putting it off. I didn't know what to write about. I really wanted to write, and I was being a pussy, and I didn't even know why.

I don't know why I do stupid shit sometimes. I just do. The end.

Then I got her postcard.

It was morning and I went out to the mailbox with the milk-carton in my left hand cause I was drinking from it and it didn't come to me to put it down when I went out. And I was wearing my bathrobe, and Mrs. Knutsen, my 60 year old neighbor gave me the weirdest look – ever. I think she was perving on my boxers.

Anyway, there it was in the mailbox. It had her name and it was from Minnesota, and there was something written in the middle – then scratched out.

And I couldn't read it.

It drove me fuckin' nuts. Crazy. Loony.

I knew I was going to have to ask Amy. After the talk we'd had, I also knew I'd look like a giant ass. But I didn't really care.

So I did. And I couldn't believe what she told me.