Fighting to Let You Go
A/N: Thanks for the awesome reviews, guys. This story was hard to post, but I'm glad I did. And for those of you who have said you connect with Trish's emotions, thanks. It means a lot more to me than I'm willing to express here. So, keep the reviews comin', I don't own 'em, and as always, Enjoy!
Just because her personal life was in complete disarray, Trish knew that the show had to go on. And though every venue brought a painful onslaught of memories, she plastered her trademark grin firmly on her lips and determined that her job would not fall victim to the same fate her heart had.
On-screen, she was the same old Trish. The fans assumed that the Hardy/Stratus thing was just a storyline anyway, and his leaving did nothing to change her in-ring persona. But behind the curtain, she was slowly slipping further away from everything she had once been. Holing herself up in the hotel-of-the-night and crying herself to sleep was the only event on her agenda, and she committed to it with what was left of her energy. Jeff Hardy was a hurdle her mind just couldn't jump, and she surrendered to the agonizing pain of being left face first on the track of heart break and loneliness.
Two weeks and a hundred sobbing fits after Jeff's exit, Adam made a suggestion. He was so sure that it would work for her, on some level, that he had refused to leave her room until she vowed to give it a shot. Though Trish thought he was full of bull shit and marshmallow fluff, she promised to commit her mind to the task he had laid before her, and pushed him out of the room with a little more force than she had intended.
After a hot shower and a chicken sandwich that tasted like cardboard, she wrapped herself in an oversized terrycloth robe and situated herself by the small table on the balcony of her hotel room. The balmy, late-night Phoenix air washed over her as she opened her journal and started her assignment.
Things I Miss About Jeff
The anticipation in his eyes when he planned a date to somewhere I had never been, or to do something he knew I had never tried. Also, the pride in his eyes when he realized how impressed I was by the time and creativity he put into every outing.
The way our fingers would kind of stick together when we held hands after a match. He was always in such a hurry to take the tape off, and sometimes he wouldn't get all of the adhesive washed away. He used to say he did it on purpose, so I couldn't let go of him.
The sound of his sweet, Southern drawl when he said my name. Trisha. Sometimes it was a frustrated whine, which was cute. Other times it was a firm, "I'm not in the mood for your bull shit" kind of groan, which was also cute. Not sure which I miss more.
The feeling of his wet hair on my cheeks in the morning. He was always up before me, in and out of the shower while I snoozed away. His hair tickled my cheeks when he got in my face and woke me up with those little kisses all over my nose and eyelids.
When he was in the shower at night, and I was getting ready for bed at the bathroom counter, and he would make up those stupid songs about the soap or the shampoo. Even more, I miss the way he would always pretend he had no idea was I was there, even though we both knew he could hear me giggling right outside the curtain.
That bastardly, shit-eating grin that would spread over his expression, all the way to the twinkle in his eyes when he knew he was just seconds away from taking my body to a place it had never been, a place I couldn't have imagined ever being. And the way he always whispered "amazing" under his breath when he rolled off me.
The slight flare of his nostrils, and the angry crimson color that crept up his neck whenever Vince, or someone else in management, would say something about my weight, or the way my boobs or my legs looked in my costume for the night.
The way his whole demeanor shifted when he was in Cameron, like he was finally free to be himself and could relax again. And the smell of pine tar, and the glow of fireflies, in the woods that night we talked about our families until after midnight on that damned rotten log. Oh, and the way he picked the splinters out of the back of my jeans when we got back to the house.
The sarcastic way he would shrug his shoulders and say "eh" every time I complimented his songs, or poems, or drawings. And the shy smile that he always tried to hide at the same time. I miss the way he always worked some inside joke that only we would get into his songs, and that all the women he sketched had one of my facial features. And the way he used to say it was because I had leaked into every part of his brain and he couldn't help himself.
Every nod, look, or wave that said everything we were thinking or feeling without a single word.
As she continued her list, Trish realized something. Adam Copeland was a sneaky bastard. Without harassing or berating her, he had found a way to help her begin the healing process. In thinking about the little things, the things that made her love, and miss, Jeff the most, she had done the one thing she hadn't done since he left. She smiled.