fic: when the grass turns blue (ai rpf, dcook/carrie)
Title: when the grass turns blue
Author: empressearwig
Pairing/Fandom: David Cook/Carrie Underwood, Carrie Underwood/Mike Fisher; American Idol RPF
Rating: PG-13 (for language, mostly)
Word Count: 2800
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is all for fun. This didn’t happen. Probably. Etc.
Summary: Carrie gets engaged. Dave gets drunk.
Author's Notes: For irishmizzy. Sometimes you want griefbone punching. Sometimes you have it foisted on you. This is probably the latter.
This was not how Dave thought his twenty-seventh birthday was going to turn out. He thought it would be a low key thing, just him and his family and friends, and singing the national anthem at the Chiefs game and god willing, seeing his team actually win a game for once. There would be beer (lots of it, he knows his friends) and maybe a cake, and it would just be a normal day. Or as close as he comes to normal days anymore.
But no. He couldn't even get that. Instead, he got a phone call wishing him a happy birthday and news that made him want to throw up, even as he was offering his own congratulations and best wishes.
Which is why, instead of being on his way to being happily wasted, he's sitting in a dark, smoky bar, getting quietly and methodically drunk. Happy birthday to him.
He pours another shot of whiskey from the bottle he talked the bartender into leaving three shots ago and downs it with reckless abandon. He chases it with a long pull from his bottle of Bud and squints at the neon signs flashing behind the bar. He can still read them. He's not drunk enough yet.
He senses, rather than sees, someone slide onto the stool next to his. He hears the sound of a lighter, and the quick inhalation of a drag on a cigarette. "Go away, Neal."
There's no answer. Dave doesn't know why he expected one. They are men. They do not talk about their feelings, especially not feelings Dave doesn't like admitting to himself, let alone anyone else. He'd known better -- known from the start. If he'd let himself fall a little bit in love with one of his best friends, that was his own fault.
It is his own fault.
"You happy for her?"
Dave blinks. Of everything Neal could possibly have asked, that was not even on the list of things he'd considered. He can't do anything but tell the truth. "Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Dave leans over the bar and grabs another shot glass, pouring one for him and sliding the other over to Neal. "Don't I look happy for her?"
Neal lets out a low laugh and takes the shot. Dave frowns and does the same.
He is happy for Carrie, goddammit. He doesn't know anyone that deserves to be happy more than her. He ignores the nagging part of his brain that keeps whispering 'but you wanted her to be happy with you.' The whiskey is supposed to be shutting that part of his brain up. It's clearly not working.
There's a long silence between them, just the sounds of Neal's smoking and beer bottles hitting the wood of the bar, country music in the background and pool balls clanking together. They don't fill the emptiness.
The words tumble out of his mouth before Dave even realizes he's spoken. "How long have you known?"
Neal lights another cigarette and inhales sharply, like he's considering. He shrugs his shoulders. "Months. Maybe since that thing at Disney." He shoots Dave a pointed look. "You have no poker face, asshole. You know that."
"That long?" Shit. Dave scrubs a hand over his face. "Does she know?" Please god, let her not know. If she knows, if she's been pitying him for almost a year... Well, he's not sure what he'll do. Changing his name and moving to Mongolia is probably out. He doesn't want to be sued for breach of contract. 19 and RCA would do it, too.
"I don't think so."
Dave tries not to sag with relief. "Well, that's something," he mumbles, taking a long drink of beer. He supposes he should be grateful for that. He's not. "Why didn't you ever say something?"
Neal snorts. "Do I look like a girl?"
It makes Dave laugh -- a real laugh, however weak -- for the first time in hours. "Well, in this light..." He's not surprised when Neal punches him in the arm. Relieved, maybe. This is normal. Normal is good.
There's another silence, but this one doesn't feel so long, so heavy. So filled with things that Dave wants to say and can't at the same time. He pours them both another shot.
Neal takes his and tosses it back. "What are you going to do now?"
Dave lifts the whiskey to his lips. "Forget." He takes the shot and looks at Neal. "What else is there?"
Neal nods and lights another cigarette. This time he's the one pouring another round, and sliding Dave's drink across the bar. For just a second he rests his hand on Dave's shoulder. It's unspoken sympathy.
It's all either of them can stand.
Dave raises his shot glass in silent salute. Neal taps his against it. They drink them together.
Behind them, there's the sound of someone breaking. A new song comes over the jukebox. The bartender serves more drinks.
They finish the bottle of whiskey and don't speak. They don't need to.
*
Dave has the mother of all hangovers the next morning. He doesn’t remember getting home, and his memories of Neal pouring him into a cab are hazy at best. When he tries to stand up, he remembers why he doesn’t drink that way anymore.
Somehow, someway, he manages to stumble downstairs to the kitchen. Andrew has finally proven his worth as a sibling, and there is coffee left in the pot. As he pours himself a cup and drinks it too fast, scalding his tongue and burning the roof of his mouth, he thinks that if he makes it out of this alive he’ll have to buy Andrew a better Christmas present. Never mind that letting him live in his house rent free is probably present enough.
Thinking that much hurts, so he stops.
He collapses into a chair at his kitchen table, and lets his head slump against the cool wood. He deserves to feel this way, he knows he does, but right now, all he wants is to die. Death has to be preferable to feeling like this.
The worst of it is that the thing that sent him to the bar, the thing that made him seek salvation in a bottle of whiskey is still there. Is still real.
Carrie is still engaged and he needs to start getting used to it. Especially if he doesn’t want to feel like this every morning for the rest of his life.
He makes himself stand up again, and pours another cup of coffee before climbing the stairs to take a shower. He strips off his clothes and stands under the hard spray, letting the heat soak into his bones. When he turns the water off, he feels almost human again.
The house is still mercifully quiet, neither his dog nor his brother making their normal ruckus. That’s another one he owes Andrew, Dave thinks as he finishes his second cup of coffee. He’s not comfortable with this. He likes it when Andrew owes him favors. That's the natural world order between them. It's better that way.
He starts more coffee and dry swallows aspirin. His headache is going away, but he doesn't want to give it any ideas about coming back. He's not brave enough to try food yet, so he starts hunting for his phone while he waits for the coffee to finish. He really hopes that Neal didn't let him do anything stupid last night -- like drunk text Carrie. He doesn't think Neal would have let him, but Dave knows himself. If there's a way to make a complete ass of himself, he will find it. Usually more than once.
His phone is still tucked into the jeans he had on last night, and he fishes it out of the pocket, wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke that's lingering in the denim. He presses a hand to his stomach, testing. He hasn't started puking yet, he'll take that as a good sign. He hopes that means there's nothing to be worried about in his call history.
He's got half a dozen missed calls, mostly from his mom and Andrew and one from his manager that he doesn't want to even think about, and twice as many texts. There's one from Neal telling him to let him know that he's still alive and one from Andy asking what the hell he missed last night and the rest from a lot of other people that Dave ignores. The only name he cares about isn't in the list, so he's mentally crossing his fingers that he wasn't as stupid as he normally is. He checks his outgoing calls and Carrie's name isn't there. He scans his texts and when he doesn't see any drunken declarations of love, he's willing to get down on his knees and thank whatever higher power was looking out for him last night. Maybe there's a god of pathetic lovelorn assholes, he doesn't know and he doesn't care.
All he cares about is that he didn't let Carrie know that he's more than a little bit in love with her. He'll deal with everything else later.
He stuffs his phone in his back pocket and pads back into the kitchen. He pours more coffee and tries to think what he can do next.
Another bender is out, for obvious reasons. He could write a song (will write a song, he knows himself), but even the prospect of that much noise is enough to make his head start throbbing again. He could ignore it, start the online Christmas shopping that he'd meant to start weeks ago and will now have to pay through the nose to have delivered before Christmas Day. But he's not going to the mall and it has to get done. Somehow he doesn't think his nieces and nephews (or Andrew) would be satisfied with just getting merch. It's kind of a shame, he has like a metric ton of it leftover from the tour. And he'll cop to a certain amount of vanity, but he doesn't want a million t-shirts with his face on them.
In his office, he turns on his laptop and pulls up Amazon and Toys'R'Us and Target, all the places he thinks he'll be able to find the toys that will maintain his status as the cooler uncle. He's got that in the bag with Gracie, but Gage is a lot trickier. And he browses for awhile, looking at karaoke machines that he knows their mother will kill him for buying and that he kind of secretly wants to buy for himself, video games that are probably more suited for Andrew than an eight year-old, dolls that he's not sure if Gracie's outgrown. None of it seems right.
He's surfing aimlessly on Amazon, clicking on whatever links look mildly interesting, and somehow he's suddenly staring at flower arrangements. He's about to close the tab, the cursor is hovering over the x, but he can't make himself press the button. He'll just look for a minute, he tells himself. Maybe his mom would like some daisies. Or whatever. The flowers won't be for his mom.
His phone rings. He looks down at the display. Neal. He sighs and answers. "Hey."
"You were supposed to call me."
Dave snorts and leans back in his chair. "Are you my mother now?"
"Asshole."
"That's more like it."
There's a silence that's a beat too long, and then Neal says, "Everything okay?"
Dave's pretty sure that's Tiemann for 'are you about to slit your wrists?'
"Yeah," he says. "Everything's okay."
"Good."
This is maybe the longest conversation they've ever had about feelings that didn't involve one or both of them being drunk. Or on their way to being drunk. Dave wants badly for it to be over. "I'm going to hang up now."
"Whatever."
Dave laughs. "Neal," he says, voice heavy with unsaid things. "Thank you."
He hangs up before Neal can answer. It's better for both of them that way.
He looks back at the computer screen and the picture of the flowers that's still there. He sighs and presses the order button. Fuck it. He should do this. It's traditional. Besides, he meant what he said last night -- he is happy for Carrie.
And they're friends. Good friends. He wouldn't have made it through the last two years without his family and the guys and her. He's not sure when she became just as important as everyone else he'd known before, but she did and he can't go back and change it. Wouldn't go back and change it, even if he could. So he'll send her flowers and write something funny on the card to make her laugh and pretend like she didn't break his heart without even realizing.
Because he is happy for her. Maybe if he thinks it enough times he'll start to remember it.
*
It's Christmas Eve and he's on his way to the grocery store for his mom when Carrie calls. At the sound of her ring tone (Cowboy Casanova, Andy set it, not him), he jolts so hard the car swerves a little bit and the driver behind him hits their horn and Dave's cursing and digging the phone out of his coat pocket and turning into the Quik Trip on the corner before his own stupidity causes anyone but him injury. It's Christmas, he doesn't want to be responsible for anyone going to the hospital.
The call is about two seconds from going to voicemail and he's a little out of breath when he finally answers. "Carrie?"
"David!"
Her voice is bright and cheerful, and even though all she's said is his name, it feels like he's been stabbed in the gut. He rests his head against the steering wheel. "Happy almost Christmas. Shouldn't you be making merry?"
"I was -- I am," she corrects, and he can hear the noise of Christmas carols and voices in the background. "But I just wanted to call and say thank you."
"Thank you?" he asks blankly. What does she have to thank him -- oh, right. That. Shit.
"For the flowers. They're beautiful. It was really sweet, David. You didn't have to."
"Right. Sweet." He wants to groan. He feels like he just got told what a nice guy he is. He shrugs, even though she's hundreds of miles away and can't see him. "I'm glad you like them."
"I do."
"Good."
There's a long silence between them, which is weird. From the beginning, they've never lacked for things to say to each other. But right now he's too tired and too raw to try to fill the gap.
"Are you okay?" she asks, voice full of concern, concern that he knows is genuine. She cares about him; he's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. "I know it has to be hard without Adam --"
He cuts her off. He doesn't want to talk about that either. "I'm fine. Really." He tries to sound more alive. "Just worried about what my mom's going to do to me if I don't get back with the milk soon."
She laughs a little. "Your mom is a nice woman, I'm sure she wouldn't actually hurt you. It's Christmas."
"You've never seen her when she's out of milk," he counters. This is better. Right now he doesn't think anyone would be able to tell his heart is bleeding unless they looked close. "But really, I should go."
"Okay, if you're sure everything is --" She cuts herself off. He wants to laugh, because she really does know him. It's why he loves her. "Merry Christmas, David."
"Merry Christmas, Carrie."
He lets her end the call. He keeps his head against the steering wheel for just a minute more. He can see his breath, white against the cold December air. He turns up the heat.
That could have gone worse. That could have gone better. He could have said something he couldn't take back. He wishes that the part of him that wanted to say something would shut up.
The one thing that he doesn't want is to lose Carrie from his life completely. Telling her that he's in love with her would probably do that.
So he'll be her friend and do things like send her flowers for her engagement and when she wins another Grammy and if she ever asks him to sing with her again he'll jump at the chance. If those things are all he can have, he'll take them. Even if they hurt like a motherfucking bitch. Because someday, he won't love her like this anymore. And when that someday happens, he wants her to still be there.
He puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking lot. He has milk to pick up. It's Christmas. She doesn't love him. Someday he'll be okay with that.
Author: empressearwig
Pairing/Fandom: David Cook/Carrie Underwood, Carrie Underwood/Mike Fisher; American Idol RPF
Rating: PG-13 (for language, mostly)
Word Count: 2800
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is all for fun. This didn’t happen. Probably. Etc.
Summary: Carrie gets engaged. Dave gets drunk.
Author's Notes: For irishmizzy. Sometimes you want griefbone punching. Sometimes you have it foisted on you. This is probably the latter.
This was not how Dave thought his twenty-seventh birthday was going to turn out. He thought it would be a low key thing, just him and his family and friends, and singing the national anthem at the Chiefs game and god willing, seeing his team actually win a game for once. There would be beer (lots of it, he knows his friends) and maybe a cake, and it would just be a normal day. Or as close as he comes to normal days anymore.
But no. He couldn't even get that. Instead, he got a phone call wishing him a happy birthday and news that made him want to throw up, even as he was offering his own congratulations and best wishes.
Which is why, instead of being on his way to being happily wasted, he's sitting in a dark, smoky bar, getting quietly and methodically drunk. Happy birthday to him.
He pours another shot of whiskey from the bottle he talked the bartender into leaving three shots ago and downs it with reckless abandon. He chases it with a long pull from his bottle of Bud and squints at the neon signs flashing behind the bar. He can still read them. He's not drunk enough yet.
He senses, rather than sees, someone slide onto the stool next to his. He hears the sound of a lighter, and the quick inhalation of a drag on a cigarette. "Go away, Neal."
There's no answer. Dave doesn't know why he expected one. They are men. They do not talk about their feelings, especially not feelings Dave doesn't like admitting to himself, let alone anyone else. He'd known better -- known from the start. If he'd let himself fall a little bit in love with one of his best friends, that was his own fault.
It is his own fault.
"You happy for her?"
Dave blinks. Of everything Neal could possibly have asked, that was not even on the list of things he'd considered. He can't do anything but tell the truth. "Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Dave leans over the bar and grabs another shot glass, pouring one for him and sliding the other over to Neal. "Don't I look happy for her?"
Neal lets out a low laugh and takes the shot. Dave frowns and does the same.
He is happy for Carrie, goddammit. He doesn't know anyone that deserves to be happy more than her. He ignores the nagging part of his brain that keeps whispering 'but you wanted her to be happy with you.' The whiskey is supposed to be shutting that part of his brain up. It's clearly not working.
There's a long silence between them, just the sounds of Neal's smoking and beer bottles hitting the wood of the bar, country music in the background and pool balls clanking together. They don't fill the emptiness.
The words tumble out of his mouth before Dave even realizes he's spoken. "How long have you known?"
Neal lights another cigarette and inhales sharply, like he's considering. He shrugs his shoulders. "Months. Maybe since that thing at Disney." He shoots Dave a pointed look. "You have no poker face, asshole. You know that."
"That long?" Shit. Dave scrubs a hand over his face. "Does she know?" Please god, let her not know. If she knows, if she's been pitying him for almost a year... Well, he's not sure what he'll do. Changing his name and moving to Mongolia is probably out. He doesn't want to be sued for breach of contract. 19 and RCA would do it, too.
"I don't think so."
Dave tries not to sag with relief. "Well, that's something," he mumbles, taking a long drink of beer. He supposes he should be grateful for that. He's not. "Why didn't you ever say something?"
Neal snorts. "Do I look like a girl?"
It makes Dave laugh -- a real laugh, however weak -- for the first time in hours. "Well, in this light..." He's not surprised when Neal punches him in the arm. Relieved, maybe. This is normal. Normal is good.
There's another silence, but this one doesn't feel so long, so heavy. So filled with things that Dave wants to say and can't at the same time. He pours them both another shot.
Neal takes his and tosses it back. "What are you going to do now?"
Dave lifts the whiskey to his lips. "Forget." He takes the shot and looks at Neal. "What else is there?"
Neal nods and lights another cigarette. This time he's the one pouring another round, and sliding Dave's drink across the bar. For just a second he rests his hand on Dave's shoulder. It's unspoken sympathy.
It's all either of them can stand.
Dave raises his shot glass in silent salute. Neal taps his against it. They drink them together.
Behind them, there's the sound of someone breaking. A new song comes over the jukebox. The bartender serves more drinks.
They finish the bottle of whiskey and don't speak. They don't need to.
*
Dave has the mother of all hangovers the next morning. He doesn’t remember getting home, and his memories of Neal pouring him into a cab are hazy at best. When he tries to stand up, he remembers why he doesn’t drink that way anymore.
Somehow, someway, he manages to stumble downstairs to the kitchen. Andrew has finally proven his worth as a sibling, and there is coffee left in the pot. As he pours himself a cup and drinks it too fast, scalding his tongue and burning the roof of his mouth, he thinks that if he makes it out of this alive he’ll have to buy Andrew a better Christmas present. Never mind that letting him live in his house rent free is probably present enough.
Thinking that much hurts, so he stops.
He collapses into a chair at his kitchen table, and lets his head slump against the cool wood. He deserves to feel this way, he knows he does, but right now, all he wants is to die. Death has to be preferable to feeling like this.
The worst of it is that the thing that sent him to the bar, the thing that made him seek salvation in a bottle of whiskey is still there. Is still real.
Carrie is still engaged and he needs to start getting used to it. Especially if he doesn’t want to feel like this every morning for the rest of his life.
He makes himself stand up again, and pours another cup of coffee before climbing the stairs to take a shower. He strips off his clothes and stands under the hard spray, letting the heat soak into his bones. When he turns the water off, he feels almost human again.
The house is still mercifully quiet, neither his dog nor his brother making their normal ruckus. That’s another one he owes Andrew, Dave thinks as he finishes his second cup of coffee. He’s not comfortable with this. He likes it when Andrew owes him favors. That's the natural world order between them. It's better that way.
He starts more coffee and dry swallows aspirin. His headache is going away, but he doesn't want to give it any ideas about coming back. He's not brave enough to try food yet, so he starts hunting for his phone while he waits for the coffee to finish. He really hopes that Neal didn't let him do anything stupid last night -- like drunk text Carrie. He doesn't think Neal would have let him, but Dave knows himself. If there's a way to make a complete ass of himself, he will find it. Usually more than once.
His phone is still tucked into the jeans he had on last night, and he fishes it out of the pocket, wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke that's lingering in the denim. He presses a hand to his stomach, testing. He hasn't started puking yet, he'll take that as a good sign. He hopes that means there's nothing to be worried about in his call history.
He's got half a dozen missed calls, mostly from his mom and Andrew and one from his manager that he doesn't want to even think about, and twice as many texts. There's one from Neal telling him to let him know that he's still alive and one from Andy asking what the hell he missed last night and the rest from a lot of other people that Dave ignores. The only name he cares about isn't in the list, so he's mentally crossing his fingers that he wasn't as stupid as he normally is. He checks his outgoing calls and Carrie's name isn't there. He scans his texts and when he doesn't see any drunken declarations of love, he's willing to get down on his knees and thank whatever higher power was looking out for him last night. Maybe there's a god of pathetic lovelorn assholes, he doesn't know and he doesn't care.
All he cares about is that he didn't let Carrie know that he's more than a little bit in love with her. He'll deal with everything else later.
He stuffs his phone in his back pocket and pads back into the kitchen. He pours more coffee and tries to think what he can do next.
Another bender is out, for obvious reasons. He could write a song (will write a song, he knows himself), but even the prospect of that much noise is enough to make his head start throbbing again. He could ignore it, start the online Christmas shopping that he'd meant to start weeks ago and will now have to pay through the nose to have delivered before Christmas Day. But he's not going to the mall and it has to get done. Somehow he doesn't think his nieces and nephews (or Andrew) would be satisfied with just getting merch. It's kind of a shame, he has like a metric ton of it leftover from the tour. And he'll cop to a certain amount of vanity, but he doesn't want a million t-shirts with his face on them.
In his office, he turns on his laptop and pulls up Amazon and Toys'R'Us and Target, all the places he thinks he'll be able to find the toys that will maintain his status as the cooler uncle. He's got that in the bag with Gracie, but Gage is a lot trickier. And he browses for awhile, looking at karaoke machines that he knows their mother will kill him for buying and that he kind of secretly wants to buy for himself, video games that are probably more suited for Andrew than an eight year-old, dolls that he's not sure if Gracie's outgrown. None of it seems right.
He's surfing aimlessly on Amazon, clicking on whatever links look mildly interesting, and somehow he's suddenly staring at flower arrangements. He's about to close the tab, the cursor is hovering over the x, but he can't make himself press the button. He'll just look for a minute, he tells himself. Maybe his mom would like some daisies. Or whatever. The flowers won't be for his mom.
His phone rings. He looks down at the display. Neal. He sighs and answers. "Hey."
"You were supposed to call me."
Dave snorts and leans back in his chair. "Are you my mother now?"
"Asshole."
"That's more like it."
There's a silence that's a beat too long, and then Neal says, "Everything okay?"
Dave's pretty sure that's Tiemann for 'are you about to slit your wrists?'
"Yeah," he says. "Everything's okay."
"Good."
This is maybe the longest conversation they've ever had about feelings that didn't involve one or both of them being drunk. Or on their way to being drunk. Dave wants badly for it to be over. "I'm going to hang up now."
"Whatever."
Dave laughs. "Neal," he says, voice heavy with unsaid things. "Thank you."
He hangs up before Neal can answer. It's better for both of them that way.
He looks back at the computer screen and the picture of the flowers that's still there. He sighs and presses the order button. Fuck it. He should do this. It's traditional. Besides, he meant what he said last night -- he is happy for Carrie.
And they're friends. Good friends. He wouldn't have made it through the last two years without his family and the guys and her. He's not sure when she became just as important as everyone else he'd known before, but she did and he can't go back and change it. Wouldn't go back and change it, even if he could. So he'll send her flowers and write something funny on the card to make her laugh and pretend like she didn't break his heart without even realizing.
Because he is happy for her. Maybe if he thinks it enough times he'll start to remember it.
*
It's Christmas Eve and he's on his way to the grocery store for his mom when Carrie calls. At the sound of her ring tone (Cowboy Casanova, Andy set it, not him), he jolts so hard the car swerves a little bit and the driver behind him hits their horn and Dave's cursing and digging the phone out of his coat pocket and turning into the Quik Trip on the corner before his own stupidity causes anyone but him injury. It's Christmas, he doesn't want to be responsible for anyone going to the hospital.
The call is about two seconds from going to voicemail and he's a little out of breath when he finally answers. "Carrie?"
"David!"
Her voice is bright and cheerful, and even though all she's said is his name, it feels like he's been stabbed in the gut. He rests his head against the steering wheel. "Happy almost Christmas. Shouldn't you be making merry?"
"I was -- I am," she corrects, and he can hear the noise of Christmas carols and voices in the background. "But I just wanted to call and say thank you."
"Thank you?" he asks blankly. What does she have to thank him -- oh, right. That. Shit.
"For the flowers. They're beautiful. It was really sweet, David. You didn't have to."
"Right. Sweet." He wants to groan. He feels like he just got told what a nice guy he is. He shrugs, even though she's hundreds of miles away and can't see him. "I'm glad you like them."
"I do."
"Good."
There's a long silence between them, which is weird. From the beginning, they've never lacked for things to say to each other. But right now he's too tired and too raw to try to fill the gap.
"Are you okay?" she asks, voice full of concern, concern that he knows is genuine. She cares about him; he's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. "I know it has to be hard without Adam --"
He cuts her off. He doesn't want to talk about that either. "I'm fine. Really." He tries to sound more alive. "Just worried about what my mom's going to do to me if I don't get back with the milk soon."
She laughs a little. "Your mom is a nice woman, I'm sure she wouldn't actually hurt you. It's Christmas."
"You've never seen her when she's out of milk," he counters. This is better. Right now he doesn't think anyone would be able to tell his heart is bleeding unless they looked close. "But really, I should go."
"Okay, if you're sure everything is --" She cuts herself off. He wants to laugh, because she really does know him. It's why he loves her. "Merry Christmas, David."
"Merry Christmas, Carrie."
He lets her end the call. He keeps his head against the steering wheel for just a minute more. He can see his breath, white against the cold December air. He turns up the heat.
That could have gone worse. That could have gone better. He could have said something he couldn't take back. He wishes that the part of him that wanted to say something would shut up.
The one thing that he doesn't want is to lose Carrie from his life completely. Telling her that he's in love with her would probably do that.
So he'll be her friend and do things like send her flowers for her engagement and when she wins another Grammy and if she ever asks him to sing with her again he'll jump at the chance. If those things are all he can have, he'll take them. Even if they hurt like a motherfucking bitch. Because someday, he won't love her like this anymore. And when that someday happens, he wants her to still be there.
He puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking lot. He has milk to pick up. It's Christmas. She doesn't love him. Someday he'll be okay with that.