prompt - "and then you got it and it wasn't as good as you expected?"
Jack is lying with his face pressed against your thigh, right arm drooping off the sofa and nearly reaching the floor. He tilts his head up to look at you and asks, “Have you ever wanted something so badly it just hurt?” It’s dark and you’re sitting on the couch in the back of the bus; neither of you could sleep so he asked you to watch a movie with him - of course it’s that movie - so you said yes. You have to bite your tongue because the thing you want more than anything is lying sprawled across most of the couch with his face inches from your crotch.
“Yeah,” you tell him, skimming your fingertips over his shoulder lightly. He reaches up to catch your fingers before you take them away and curls your hands awkwardly together. You hate seeing him this sad and he has been sad ever since he came back from Vegas.
“What was it?”
You are maybe the worst person in the world for considering telling him. It’s a bad idea. He’s in a vulnerable state emotionally so you would be taking advantage. Then you remember the night he kissed you a couple of years ago, when the band wasn’t as big and you weren’t as jaded. It was that night when he pushed you up against the wall and just looked at you with big eyes - drunk eyes - and said your name before he grabbed both your wrists before pressing your lips together sloppily. That was it. Nothing big or spectacular; there was no super-secret Jalex love affair like everyone suspects. He kissed you that one time and that was enough to guarantee your extended misery for maybe the rest of your lie.
He prods your side impatiently. “Alex. What was it?”
“A kiss,” you sigh. He shifts his fingers between yours until he’s got your hand palm-side up and then proceeds to stroke your palm with the thumb of his other hand. You know he doesn’t realize it when he does these things; he doesn’t realize the effect it has on you and you are never going to tell him.
You know what he’s thinking about without having to ask. It’s the Holly thing again. He had been so excited before he left - excited to spend time with his girlfriend, you think - and then when he came back he was sullen and quiet. Before he said anything to anyone, you knew what had happened. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. It wasn’t nothing; he doesn’t remember so he doesn’t need to know about it. But he’s known you long enough to be able to catch you in a lie, so you correct yourself. “I don’t know,” you confess. “The lead-up made me think there would be more to the story than a drunken kiss in a parking lot.”
Wide-eyed, he mutters, “And then you got it and it wasn’t as good as you expected?” He’s still stroking the palm of your hand in slow, easy circles.
“No,” you say, remembering the way he had stood there staring at you in total disbelief. “It was better.” You know that’s not what he wants to hear. His voice is starting to get sleep-heavy. In a few minutes you’re going to tell him to go to bed because the only thing that can heal a broken heart is time, but for now you’re going to be a little selfish. You don’t get these moments with him as often as you used to. There’s too much at stake, so you keep your feelings for him in a container at the back of your mind. It’s like those stores your parents used to take you to when you were very young; the ones where they would tell you ‘Look, but don’t touch.’
Maybe you’re better off not knowing what it’s like to be with him. “Why aren’t you with her now?” he asks quietly, tugging your entwined hands underneath his chin. He sounds genuinely baffled by the situation and you don’t know what to tell him.
You tell him, “Sometimes two people can be perfect but not for each other.”
“You never told her how you felt.” It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement. You’re surprised he doesn’t already know since he can see through you like you’re made of glass and treats you about the same way sometimes. He presses his lips to the back of your hand before letting go of it and sitting up. “We should go to bed,” he says.
He bumps your shoulder with his fist awkwardly and kisses your cheek. “I, yeah. I’ll be there in a minute,” you tell him. You brush your teeth in the tiny, cramped bathroom and your reflection in the mirror is wild-eyed and flushed. One day you’ll tell him, maybe. By the time you are done in the bathroom, he’s already sound asleep in bed and you don’t want to wake him. You don’t want to be a bother with your feelings and everything.
“Yeah,” you tell him, skimming your fingertips over his shoulder lightly. He reaches up to catch your fingers before you take them away and curls your hands awkwardly together. You hate seeing him this sad and he has been sad ever since he came back from Vegas.
“What was it?”
You are maybe the worst person in the world for considering telling him. It’s a bad idea. He’s in a vulnerable state emotionally so you would be taking advantage. Then you remember the night he kissed you a couple of years ago, when the band wasn’t as big and you weren’t as jaded. It was that night when he pushed you up against the wall and just looked at you with big eyes - drunk eyes - and said your name before he grabbed both your wrists before pressing your lips together sloppily. That was it. Nothing big or spectacular; there was no super-secret Jalex love affair like everyone suspects. He kissed you that one time and that was enough to guarantee your extended misery for maybe the rest of your lie.
He prods your side impatiently. “Alex. What was it?”
“A kiss,” you sigh. He shifts his fingers between yours until he’s got your hand palm-side up and then proceeds to stroke your palm with the thumb of his other hand. You know he doesn’t realize it when he does these things; he doesn’t realize the effect it has on you and you are never going to tell him.
You know what he’s thinking about without having to ask. It’s the Holly thing again. He had been so excited before he left - excited to spend time with his girlfriend, you think - and then when he came back he was sullen and quiet. Before he said anything to anyone, you knew what had happened. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. It wasn’t nothing; he doesn’t remember so he doesn’t need to know about it. But he’s known you long enough to be able to catch you in a lie, so you correct yourself. “I don’t know,” you confess. “The lead-up made me think there would be more to the story than a drunken kiss in a parking lot.”
Wide-eyed, he mutters, “And then you got it and it wasn’t as good as you expected?” He’s still stroking the palm of your hand in slow, easy circles.
“No,” you say, remembering the way he had stood there staring at you in total disbelief. “It was better.” You know that’s not what he wants to hear. His voice is starting to get sleep-heavy. In a few minutes you’re going to tell him to go to bed because the only thing that can heal a broken heart is time, but for now you’re going to be a little selfish. You don’t get these moments with him as often as you used to. There’s too much at stake, so you keep your feelings for him in a container at the back of your mind. It’s like those stores your parents used to take you to when you were very young; the ones where they would tell you ‘Look, but don’t touch.’
Maybe you’re better off not knowing what it’s like to be with him. “Why aren’t you with her now?” he asks quietly, tugging your entwined hands underneath his chin. He sounds genuinely baffled by the situation and you don’t know what to tell him.
You tell him, “Sometimes two people can be perfect but not for each other.”
“You never told her how you felt.” It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement. You’re surprised he doesn’t already know since he can see through you like you’re made of glass and treats you about the same way sometimes. He presses his lips to the back of your hand before letting go of it and sitting up. “We should go to bed,” he says.
He bumps your shoulder with his fist awkwardly and kisses your cheek. “I, yeah. I’ll be there in a minute,” you tell him. You brush your teeth in the tiny, cramped bathroom and your reflection in the mirror is wild-eyed and flushed. One day you’ll tell him, maybe. By the time you are done in the bathroom, he’s already sound asleep in bed and you don’t want to wake him. You don’t want to be a bother with your feelings and everything.