Chapter Two

Ash awoke to the low rumble of thunder, in a cold apartment and a queen-sized bed, eyes fluttering open to see Lance's side of the bed still empty. She couldn't help but to see it that way, along with every other Lance-shaped hole in her life. But she had to try and banish these thoughts, even if it was just so she could say she tried. Ash grabbed her pillow and turned her head the other way. Her alarm clock flashed 7:30 AM in blocky red letters. It hadn't gone off. It was her day off from work. Normally this would come as a happy surprise to Ash, considering she hated working at that mind numbing, soul killing shoe store–but today it presented a very big problem. With no plans, no ride, and no one she was willing to talk to, Ash was about to spend an entire day alone with heartache and bittersweet memories.

She could always walk down to the Moon Theater and try to sneak in some guitar practice, but there was always the chance Buster or someone else would waltz in and try to give her some sit-down talk like Rosita did yesterday. They only did it because they loved her, and Ash knew that, but it just wasn't the kind of thing she could talk to them about; the terrible irony of the situation being that it was Lance's fault she felt this way, but he was the only person Ash wanted to talk to.

Ash laid in bed, struggling to suppress such thoughts, but she eventually acquiesced. All her life she'd heard folksy little maxims like It has to get worse before it can get better , and this must've been one of those times. She figured that this was just the kind of suffering someone had to feel. She sighed and slid out of bed, sauntering to the kitchen and rubbing her head. Ash was a teenager, and didn't really need coffee, but she drank it anyway; with sweet n' low and half n' half. Lance would always pour three or four tablespoons of sugar in his coffee and half a cup of whole milk in along with it. How he didn't die after more than two cups of the stuff was beyond Ash.

The porcupine stepped over to the kitchen window, listening to the raindrops smacking against the window pane and watching the storm bombard the city streets below. She brought her coffee mug up to her mouth with both hands and felt her stomach rumble. Around this time Lance would be sitting on the couch in boxers and a tee shirt while Ash prepared a special breakfast for the two of them; dipping bread for french toast and listening to Lance watch cartoons in the living room. And smiling when she heard his dopey little laugh.

Ash smiled, but felt like crying. She grabbed a granola bar and sat on the couch, peeling back the wrapper and flicking on the television. It wasn't an especially nutritious meal, but Ash wasn't in the mood to prepare some big breakfast she'd have to eat alone. The weather report was on, saying that the storm would subside into light showers later in the day, but resume in the evening. Ash thought about finding a show that was actually interesting, but all the shows she liked were ones she and Lance would watch together.

But there was no reason to try and avoid the memories anymore, Ash realized they were going to find her no matter what. She couldn't even hide in her music. Her most well-known composition was about Lance, first of all, and her guitar only reminded her of Lance's. They played twin Stratocasters, Ash's candy red and Lance's candy blue (Lance affectionately referred to them as the Strat-o-candies ). But now, like Ash and Lance themselves, the twins had been split up.

Between the two of them, Ash was the more talented guitarist, but Lance had a more technical understanding of the instrument and could coax a wider range of sounds from it. Lance was also more practiced at reading and writing sheet music than Ash. He considered himself a virtuoso (as did Ash) and had another guitar besides the blue strat-o-candy: a Gibson SG he had heavily modified and used for his experimental rock and jazz (the strat-o-candy he used exclusively for playing punk with Ash). It was sitting in it's case next to the couch, stood against an amp. Ash knew he must be missing it.

Ash knew Lance must be missing a lot of his stuff, considering it was all still in her apartment. The place looked as if he'd never even been kicked out. All of his little Russian novels and art books still littered the place, a half-read copy of War and Peace holding up a stack of his Frank Zappa and Marc Bolan albums. He always swore he'd finish reading it, but never did. His Xbox One rested next to the television, and his white and red chuck taylors (his favorite pair of shoes, out of the two he owned) still sat by the front door.

I wonder if his shoes have come untied yet, thought Ash.

The storm was starting to die down, and the clouds had become a noticeably lighter shade of grey. Just like the forecast predicted, it was barely spritzing outside. Ash, still sprawled out on the sofa, looked out the window then at the half-eaten granola bar she'd thrown on the coffee table. There was a nice little café around the corner she liked, and it crossed her mind to pop down to it while she could.

"I don't know, Bozzio... " said Lance, holding his smartphone against the side of his head. "She's never this late getting to work… Unless she got fired or something."

A smart-alecky sounding comment buzzed through the phone.

"You know what? Shut the fuck up, Bozzio!" Lance ended the call and slid the phone into the front right pocket of his soaked jeans. He'd been sitting next to the sidewalk with his guitar case and pretending to cry since six in the morning. " I hope she's okay, " Lance muttered to himself, picking up his guitar case and starting back toward the Capra Lounge. His black eye wouldn't heal for a few more days, or at least to the point it wouldn't elicit as much sympathy (or pity) from Ash, so he figured today's failure wasn't anything to worry about.

Walking down the sidewalk with his wobbly gait and humming a few bars from Joe's Garage , Lance dragged his hardshell guitar case passed some cutesy diner called the Paradise Café. He looked down at his black sneakers, waterlogged and laces tied up in mangled knots. Ash usually tied his shoelaces for him. Becky just laughed when he asked her to do it.

"Lance?" uttered a familiar voice.

"Huh?" Lance looked up to see Ash's beautiful blue eyes shooting through his own. They'd turned the corner at the same time. "U-Uh, Hey-"

"What happened to your eye?" asked Ash, concerned and stepping toward Lance.

"U-Uh…" Lance looked down and took a little step back. He was jumping for joy on the inside, but also nervous. His plan had already started to work, and on accident; but he had to play the part right. "I don't know…"

Ash pursed her lips, worried, seeing the once proud Lance hanging his head dejectedly. Then, she noticed the tracks of his tears running down from his piercing green eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand and stepped closer, "Lance… Have you been crying?"

Lance glanced up, making eye contact with Ash for a fraction of a second before his eyes darted back down. He wiped his nose and said, "N-no…" making sure to crack his voice.

"Oh, Lance…" Ash took him by the arm.

After exchanging a few choice words, Ash had convinced the despondent Lance to enter the cafe with her, if only to see what had happened to him.

And Lance worked his magic.

"That… That bitch," Ash wrapped her arm around Lance's and pressed up against him. "Lance, listen to me. It isn't your fault, okay? You don't deserve this."

Lance, who was still looking down, replied timidly, "Yes I do."

"What?" asked Ash.

"I do deserve it, Ash," said Lance, glancing up once more into Ash's eyes. "After what I did to you…" Lance's eyes darted back down and he shut them tight, even managing to conjure up some little tears.

Ash could only be silent, feeling her own tears starting to well up. Seeing him sitting there, broken, unwashed and in dirty clothes, his shoelaces all jumbled up from were he'd tried to tie them himself–and his cute buck teeth, it was all too much.

"Lance…" Ash cooed, and they were silent for awhile. Then she kissed him on the cheek, and it took Lance everything he had to contain his excitement. "Come on, you can get a shower at home, and some fresh clothes," Ash said, tenderly grabbing Lance's hand and standing up.

"O-Okay," Lance stuttered, standing up with her.

The storm raged in the night air, and the steady patter of rain hitting the window could be heard along with Ash's soft snoring. She was curled up next to Lance, who was still awake and smiling contentedly with his arms crossed. Finally, he was back in his own bed. He looked over, at his girlfriend , as she reached up in her sleep and grabbed his arm to cuddle.

Lance heard his phone vibrating on the little table next to his side of the bed. Carefully reaching over with his free hand, he plucked it up and examined it. Bozzio had sent him a text asking, Where are you?

Lance smirked. Shifting his weight carefully, he snuggled up to Ash and raised his phone to snap a picture. He did, and sent it in reply.

And the patrons of the Capra Lounge rejoiced.