This fic was inspired by the song "The Freshmen" by the Verve Pipe. If you know what it's about...well, the story's ruined for you, isn't it? Also, I would like to comment on how all my stories seem to be based on songs. I have no original thoughts. And lastly, this fic is dedicated to Paulina, because she likes my stories and leaves wonderful reviews and understands about the Sulk.
It's Been a While
by Mallory
It's been a while.
He tries to remember her, but he can't really even hear her sing anymore, he can't recall the way her hands moved on the piano, he can't even imagine how she looked when she was sleeping, and he doesn't remember the sound of her voice when she said, "I love you."
It's been a while, and without her voice to say it, he wonders if she ever really loved him, and sometimes, less often, because he doesn't like to think about it, sometimes he wonders if he ever really loved her. But it wouldn't have mattered, he thinks. It's not like if he had loved her more - well, it's not like that. It's not his fault.
She made a choice. It was what she wanted, it was what she did. It was not his fault, and he didn't feel responsible, and he did not feel guilty, and he wouldn't cry, not over her, not over that.
It's been a while, but he thinks about it still.
He's not sure about the details. He remembers vague things, small moments, nothing concrete, nothing solid. It was all went too fast, and even as he was going through it, it was a blur. Except for her. Except for her face.
He was a basketball player then. He quit right after it happened, but then - then- he was a basketball player, and he was good, very good, and he was going to go to college and play basketball, and then become a professional player...That was the plan. And the plan was going to work, because he knew it would.
Everything would always fall into place for him. Basketball, Haley...he didn't worry, didn't have to, because he had and would always have everything he ever wanted. Things like what happened never happened to him. And he didn't once then think that he was anything but impenetrable, that he didn't know the answers.
He thinks she probably thought the same things. She probably thought that nothing could touch her, that she wouldn't ever get hurt. But sometimes, when he really thinks about it, he decides that maybe she never thought those things at all. Maybe she was really unsure of it all, maybe it was only him that made her that way, and when he failed her, she couldn't understand it, couldn't handle it, had to do what she did.
But those lines of thought were useless, because what was done was done, and it was not his fault.
But he remembers her sometimes.
He remembers how she touched her face then.
They were young and happy and lucky and nothing could touch them.
Everyone told her that she shouldn't get too involved, not with Nathan, not with anybody really. They told her that it would hurt her grades, being with him, being so wild and carefree. They told her it would hurt her future, would hurt her chances to get into some Ivy League school. Told her that she was wasting her time.
But she didn't listen. Kind of like Nathan in that respect. He was rubbing off on her. Haley - Tutor girl - was disappearing into Nathan's world. She went to parties and drank and danced and laughed.
She sang, too. That was his influence again. His funny sort of devil-may-care and I-can-do-it and baby-you're-not-gonna-fuck-up-because-you're-perfect attitude. He said that last line to her, that she wasn't going to fuck up; he said it to her when she first sang at Tric.
They were young and happy and lucky and nothing could touch them.
Sometimes he wonders why he didn't ask her to marry him. Things might have turned out differently then.
In senior year of high school, they started sleeping together.
"I want you," she said.
"I want you, too," he replied.
And then her hand touched her face, and he grabbed it and lowered it, and it was soft, so soft, and he was holding her hand. He remembers that. He doesn't really remember the first time he held her hand, but he remembers holding it then. He remembers how she had a small cut to her thumb, a bit rough against the rest of her smooth skin. He remembers how he pulled it to the hem of his shirt, he remembers how when he let go her fingers tripped the hem and crawled inside and touched his stomach. He remembers how...unsure she seemed...so unsure, when she pulled his shirt over his head...
But it was her decision. It was what she wanted.
It was beautiful. God, sometimes he remembers that and he wants to...but he won't.
And when it was them, just them, and they were alone, nothing mattered . Nothing ever mattered. They were perfect, nothing could touch them.
They were sweet, as lovers. He used to run his hand down her naked curves, her breasts, her sides, her hips afterwards. He used to whisper, "I love you." She used to smile. She used to say, "Yes. Yes."
Used to. Used to.
You get caught up in these moments, he thinks. You get caught up in each other, and how it's only you and her and you stop caring - if you ever did care - about the rest of the world, about what was right, about what was wrong, about what was safe, about what was unsafe, about what you should do, about what you should not do.
You get caught up. And nothing else matters.
He got caught up. And nothing else mattered.
Sometimes he wonders what it would have felt like to touch her stomach, her moving stomach, her beautiful stomach, if she hadn't. If they hadn't. If she hadn't.
She was crying, and touching her face, and this was different, this was a different way that she was touching her face. This was a sad desperate way; this was a what-can-I-do-I'm-crying-and-there's-no-one-there way.
He moved his hand towards her, to take it down from her face, to hold it in his, to say I'm-here-I'm-here. But she wrenched away from him.
And he looked at her in horror. And he said,
"What's wrong?"
She said, voice hoarse and eyes closed. "I don't want this. I don't want this."
"What, baby, what don't you want?"
"A kid. I can't deal with a stupid goddamn kid."
"What are you talking about?" he whispered, because he knew, already, knew what she was going to say.
"Why didn't we - " her voice faltered. "I'm pregnant."
"Oh." He recoiled; his voice was cold.
"What am I going to do?"
He paused for a second, because he knew what he was going to say, but didn't want to say it. "Get rid of it."
"Yeah. Yeah I know. That's what we're going to do. That's the only thing to do."
James.
That was it. That's what he thought when he was sitting on his bed without her. That's what he would've named it - after her last name. It would have been a boy, he thinks. Would've been.
But it was the right thing to do. He couldn't - he wasn't ready.
She wasn't ready either. She should've known that. She should've known that it was the only thing to do. That she was doing the right thing.
The right thing.
She shouldn't've...
But he does not feel guilty. He won't. It is not his fault. She failed him, not the other way around.
Sixty Tylenol. The whole bottle. He remembers that she threw up a little, after she did it. He didn't know until afterwards, but they told him that's what happened. She threw up, and went home to rest, fell asleep, didn't wake up.
She wasn't strong; he knows that. Knows that she wasn't like him. Knows that he was the only thing that made her strong.
But it wasn't his fault. Wasn't his fault if he couldn't make her strong enough for this.
It's been a while.
It's been a while, but he still remembers.