A/N: Hello & good tidings to all, especially Dee, ReluctantWriter12 & Guest. Appreciate y'all. Have an extra dose of hockey-inspired chaos, handwritten rinkside (does this count as method writing? The jury is out).
If you skipped the last chapter because you are less of a shameless hoe than I (go you!), Jess & Seth had a very spontaneous hook up last chapter. That's it. No plot, just boning. Oops.
I hardly have a chance to pull up my pants before a tidal wave of regret crashes over me, drowning out any last ounces of positivity I could lay claim to. It's weird – I can't put my finger on where exactly this sudden malaise is coming from, especially since all I've thought about today is how I could possibly get Seth alone – and I can't help but feel unnerved by the unfamiliar anxiety twisting at my guts.
He can hardly meet my eye when he pulls away, awkwardly dressing in silence.
"I'm sorry," I say, because I get the sense that's what he needs from me, and not because I really feel it.
Seth shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed on his skates. "Don't be. It's not your fault."
Fault. As if what just happened was a mistake, something to atone for, ascribing blame like this is some sort of fender bender.
"You know I wanted that, right?" I say softly, trying to read his inscrutable expression.
"It shouldn't have happened," he says quietly, scuffing his skate against the concrete. "I should go. Brady will be waiting."
Brady. Right.
There's a whole other world out there, still spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by the seismic shift that's just transpired in my universe.
"Okay," I mutter, pinching my forearm between my index and thumb until a crimson bead of blood swells beneath. It doesn't quite chase the tears away, but it's a different sort of hurt, the kind I know how to deal with.
His gaze momentarily flickers over me, landing on my folded arms.
I turn away.
Seth pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and I count his breaths until he twists the handle, silently slipping into the hallway. When I finally allow myself to look back, the door has already closed with a soft click, leaving me alone with a battered collection of wet floor signs and endless canisters of cleaning agents.
Only then do I allow the tears to fall, holding my breath to stifle the sobs.
How could he just walk out like that – like it meant nothing? Am I stupid for thinking there was something real between us?
My chest burns and I wrap my arms tightly around myself, trying to hold it all in.
I should have realised that I was just an easy fuck to him – nothing more, nothing less.
The maintenance closet has never featured so heavily in my day, but as I sit there, counting back from a thousand, I know that I will never step foot in this room ever again. Partly because I hate cleaning, and mostly because I know this room will forever remind me of Seth – the Seth I thought I knew, sweet and gentle to a fault, intuitive and caring.
I don't know the Seth who left.
And, really, I don't know him at all.
Finally, when my face is dry and my breathing has evened, I know what I have to do.
I block his number.
I fluff out my hair.
And I pull myself up, striding back out into the hallway as if nothing ever happened – and, really, nothing did.
Just an easy lay.
The crowds have long since dispersed by the time I arrive at the lobby, well behind my scheduled appearance. There are a billion closing tasks that require my attention, and absolutely none of them are interesting enough to take my mind off of what just happened.
"Dereliction of duty," Lauren mutters as I lug the empty bottle crates through the kitchen, and something twinges inside me.
Ordinarily, I'd ignore her snide comments as easily as I breathe, but the fire licking at my insides burns hotter than ever, and my mouth opens of its own volition.
"Get fucked, Mallory. Everyone knows you can't tell mould from fuckin' flour. Get over yourself," I spit, landing a solid kick on the freezer door as I stalk by, crates forgotten.
She doesn't stop me as I pass, and I should be ashamed of the vitriol tumbling from my mouth like poison, immolating everything I touch.
I can't seem to keep it in tonight.
The tears are flowing freely again by the time Angela catches up with me in the walk-in, shivering and miserable in my den of poorly-organised prep trays.
"What, did Lauren let the wings go over again?" she asks, her tone laced with genuine concern.
I cry harder, knowing that's probably true. My budget is royally screwed.
"Seth," I whimper, scrubbing the back of my hand against my damp eyes.
"Gotcha," she says, demanding no explanation. "How about you head out early – I'll close up," Angela offers, hauling me up from my throne of diced lettuce boxes.
"I can't - "
"You can, and you will," she says firmly, prodding me towards the door. "Start over tomorrow."
I snag Paige's hoodie from the coat rack as I pass, tugging the fleece monstrosity over my head. It reeks of cigarette ash and tar, detritus from her million daily smoke breaks, and the fibres scratch uncomfortably at my skin. Still, it's warm and comforting and safe, even if it will make me smell like the wrong side of the gutter. With the hood pulled up over my head, shielding my blotchy pink face from view, it doesn't feel impossible to take the long route to my car, locking the dumpster cage on the way.
When I round the corner, I spy it almost immediately, the scrap of paper tucked carefully under the wiper. On closer inspection, it's a paper menu from the Thai restaurant around the corner, the one that Angela and I patronise only on days ending with a 'y'. The black inked words are stark against the cream tri-fold brochure.
I'm sorry. You deserved better.
Call me?
It's nameless, but it doesn't take a genius to identify the sender. I scrunch the menu into a tight ball, lobbing it as far as I can manage across the lot, lest the temptation to keep his number sets in.
How dare he, I think, clenching my fists until my fingers ache from the pressure. How stupid does he think I am?
"Screw you, Seth Clearwater," I bellow into the darkness, punctuating my pronouncement with a stunningly cathartic primal scream.
Sometimes, acting totally unhinged is the most appropriate course of action.
Despite what the neighbours – and the better half of your conscience - may think.
By the time I make it home to the apartment Paige and I share, I'm dead on my feet, shuffling drowsily into the bathroom. I don't bother to flick on the light as I undress, not wanting to see the same body that Seth had so recently ran his hands all over.
Stupid.
I step into the icy spray, turning my face upwards until the stream washes all thoughts clear from my head, leaving only a tingling numbness in its wake. My hands work mechanically, shampooing and detangling my curls, scrunching in conditioner, rinsing off with honey-chamomile soap. My mind is elsewhere when I twist the water off, wrapping my aching body in a plush grey towel, as if the material comfort could fix what had been broken. My skin, my muscles, they all ache like they haven't in a long while, burning hot like I've just ran an ultramarathon.
I pad slowly down the hallway, not even bothering to dress before crawling under my comforter, twisting the sheets tightly around myself. When I close my eyes, he is all I can think of, and it only makes my fatigued body ache even more.
Sleep comes sometime after I reach nine-thousand-and-five, and I know the moment I wake that I've had all sorts of strange dreams, the kind that flutter listlessly around in your brain, the finer details slipping away like sand through an hourglass. I can't recall a single thing, but I know that I dreamt of something important, and that tip-of-the-tongue feeling makes my skin crawl.
Still, it doesn't bug me quite as much as the three unread messages on my cell, the scarlet notification dot taunting me, beckoning me to open the texts.
I hate that I care so much, and I detest that I know exactly what I want those messages to say, despite my proclamations of independence.
Despite myself, all I can think of are his perfect lips forming the words it shouldn't have happened, and it's like my heart is being cleaved in two all over again.
Before I can second-guess myself, I tap on the icon, scrolling through my inbox. The messages are from a number I don't recognise, though the words are instantly revealing.
4.09 a.m.
Seth is exceedingly dumb. He is also a decent guy. Give him a chance to explain, you won't regret it.
5.37 a.m.
Not to make this your problem or anything, but he's been singing Adele for an hour now and I don't think he's even drunk this time. Just sad.
9.21 a.m.
If you change your mind, swing by the diner on the corner of Third & Seaview. We won't come by the rink anymore.
It's with a heavy dose of hope – and more than a slight dash of stupidity – that I text an apology to Paige, citing intractable period cramps and a total inability to give a shit about my job. I'm sure she'll understand – it's my first call-out in over a year, and God knows I put in enough hours as it is.
And if she doesn't?
Well, we're sisters. She'll forgive me eventually.
I pull on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean pullover, thankful I did laundry for the first time in what feels like a million years. Considering Seth has only ever seen me looking (and probably smelling) like a dirty gym sock, this is sure to be my best look yet.
The drive down to the Reservation is largely unfamiliar, despite having traversed the exact same roads the other night in Seth's passenger seat. I have to pull over twice to check my phone and, even then, I'm hardly confident that I'm headed the right way. It's not until I see the faded sign for Sue's Diner, hanging precariously from a single rusty nail, that some of the tension begins to leach from my body, abated by the mere thought of Seth's presence.
Sue's Diner seems to command a solid crowd, if the packed lot is anything to go by. I have to suck in my breath to be able to squeeze out of the driver's seat, and – for once – it isn't due to my poor parking skills. The ground is wet as I squelch my way across the unpaved ground, breathing in the earthy smell of fresh rain and pine, complemented by the cinnamon tang wafting from the open diner windows.
It's all too easy to slip unnoticed into the fray of breakfast-goers, edging into an empty stool at the lunch counter. I don't bother looking at the menu – that's hardly what I'm here for, anyway – but I'm not quite sure how to go about actually finding Seth. Wandering from table to table seems like a fool's errand, and so does approaching a stranger to ask about him, and so I sit, immobilised by indecision, until I hear a throat clear beside me.
"You ordering?" a woman asks, and I can't begin to describe the feeling that washes over me when I look up at her.
She's not Seth, but there's an uncanny resemblance that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The woman is impossibly tall, with the same high cheekbones and chiselled jaw that Seth sports, though the features are imposingly severe on her bird-like frame.
Her eyes narrow. "What do you want?"
I can't help the squeak that escapes my throat. "Uh…a coffee?"
She scoffs. "I meant, what do you want with Seth?"
My mouth falls open like I'm in some cheesy teen drama, but I can't help it. It's like I've slipped into some alternate universe where angst and tension and heartache are daily occurrences, where I actually have enemies that can somehow read my mind.
That, or they already know the backstory.
Thankfully, before I have to try and formulate a rebuttal, Brady emerges from the kitchen, looking equal parts line cook and saviour.
"Jess! I was hoping you'd come by," he says cheerily, fixing me a mug of sludgy coffee at lightning speed.
"That makes one of us," the woman mutters, stalking off into the back.
Brady shrugs, downing half a mug's worth of percolated heaven. "Don't mind Leah. All sorts of shit going on there."
I nod, taking a sip of my drink, trying not to wince at the bitter taste. "Did Seth really go on a karaoke bender last night?"
He snorts, lowering his cup with a clink. "Let's just say I've heard enough power ballads to last a lifetime."
"I'll keep that in mind," I laugh, tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear. "Look, I don't know what Seth told you – "
Brady leans his elbows on the counter, considering me seriously. "He told me enough to know how badly he messed up. He really does like you, Jess, trust me."
"Then why did he do…that?" I ask, feeling the furrow between my eyebrows deepen.
"That's a question he'll have to answer," Brady says, patting my hand lightly. "Do you want to see him?"
"Of course," I say, the words tumbling freely from my lips.
Brady grins, pouring my leftover brew into a styrofoam cup. "How 'bout you take a walk outside? I'll go fish him out from the back."
He sends me off with an encouraging nod and a wink, and I let my feet carry me outside before I can think the better of it. It's more peaceful outside, anyway, away from the humming crowd and watchful eyes of critical relatives. Around me is green as far as the eye can see, a million tiny drops of dew glistening on every inch of my surroundings, the sort of beauty I haven't seen in a long while.
For the first time all morning, my chest doesn't ache.
"Jess?"
I drop the cup squarely on my foot, splashing coffee across my once-clean sneakers. "Fuck," I groan, half-heartedly trying to shake off the stodgy liquid.
He laughs, deep and throaty, extending his hand as if he wants to help –
And then he drops it, realising.
The spasm in my lungs is back, as brutal as ever, and then he looks at me, his dark eyes meeting mine, and for a second, it all stops.
Seth looks more tired than I remember, his eyes shadowed purple despite the bright sunlight that washes across his golden skin, and it takes everything in me not to brush my fingertips across the bruised skin. His jaw, already covered in thick stubble despite having seen him clean-shaven not even sixteen hours ago, is set in a hard line, a solemn look that looks entirely out of place on him.
He looks older, somehow, weathered and weary.
The sorrowful, aching expression he sports makes me want to envelope him in a hug so tight that I could steal the breath from his lungs, taking it for myself, and I have to remind myself that I can't.
"Jess, I'm sorry. About the coffee, about last night – I messed up," he says lowly, sucking in a big breath. "I left because I was scared, and that wasn't fair on you. You deserve better than that, and I'm sorry."
To his credit, his eyes never leave mine, and I can tell from the way his brown eyes crinkle at the corners that his words ring true.
I hook my pinky finger around his, tipping my head towards one of the forest trails. "Walk and talk?"
He smiles, lacing his fingers through mine. "I like the sound of that."
Our feet crunch over the fallen leaves as we work our way deeper into the scrub, comfortably walking in silence. He pulls ahead as the path narrows, leading me through the rocky terrain with impossibly graceful steps that I can only try to mirror. I'm not entirely sure where we're headed, but Seth continues undeterred, pressing his blazing palm firmly against mine.
After a long while in companionable silence, the brush begins to thin, and the trail widens out to a small clearing, a small spot of serenity in the greater depths of the woods. Seth grins as he tugs me over to a fallen tree, effortlessly kicking a leg over to straddle the log. I perch carefully astride it, cautious not to rip my jeans on the rough bark.
"Congratulations," he teases, lightly tapping my nose. "You found my favourite spot without even trying."
"You've been here before?" I ask, looking around. I can see why he likes it – it's peppered with colourful wildflowers, littering the greenery like confetti, and, aside from our voices, the vast expanses of the woods are largely silent.
"Every now and then," Seth says contemplatively, following my gaze as I assess the surroundings. "First time with someone else, though. I think that's pretty special."
I can't help the childish snort that escapes me. "Sorry. Special wasn't exactly what I expected you to say."
His eyebrows pinch together, dismayed. "Call me cheesy, but you make anywhere special."
"Is that what made you leave last night?" I say, instantly aware of how scathing my tone sounds.
Seth flushes a deep shade of red, his gaze momentarily flickering downwards. "I'm about to tell you something embarrassing, and you're probably going to think I'm a liar, or an idiot, or both."
My expression instantly smooths into something more serious. "I'm all ears."
"Last night," he says, with a hint of his usual goofy grin teasing at the corners of his mouth, "was the best night of my life. Don't get me wrong – that's all I've been thinking about, honestly. You kind of have that effect on me."
"Cute," I tease, nudging his knee with my thigh. His skin burns hot beneath the thick layers of denim. "What's the problem, then? Secret girlfriend?"
Seth shakes his head, suddenly earnest. "Not in the slightest. Just caught me off guard, is all. I wasn't expecting to lose my virginity in a janitor's closet."
My ears buzz as the words sink in.
"I…took your virginity," I say slowly, trying to process the new piece of information.
"Yeah," he says, "and I kinda freaked out a bit. Not that I regret it – I just feel bad that I didn't make it special for you."
I blink a couple of times, trying to make sense of this bizarre conversation. "Let me just get this straight – I jumped you, and you feel guilty about it? Seth, it's sex. It's not the end of the world."
"It didn't mean anything to you?" he asks quietly, his brown eyes round, and I can feel my heart shattering into a million pointed shards.
"I'm saying that it can mean whatever you want it to mean, Seth, and I want it to mean it's the start of something. This doesn't feel like an ending," I murmur, threading my fingers through his. "Do you want this to be an ending?"
He leans forward to capture my mouth in a soft kiss, his lips cautious against mine. As quickly as he leans in, he pulls away, pressing light kisses across the planes of my cheeks, my nose. He works his way back towards my mouth at a painstaking pace, kissing the corner of my mouth, my cupid's bow. His warm breath blows across my face, just as sweet as the taste of his lips, and he stops short of slotting his lips against mine.
"Jessica Stanley," he murmurs, his mouth brushing ever so gently against mine, "this is the start of something great."
With that, he kisses me soundly, quietening the critical voice inside my head, and that's when I know:
I have died and gone to romance novel heaven.