All I Wanted - Oneshot/Song drabble
Title: All I Wanted - Oneshot/Song drabble
Author: xjekkix
Word Count: 4720 words
Summary: What’s meant to be will be.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is not real.
A/N: Beta’d by csifreak90
I wrote this about a month ago. It’s basically the anti-thesis/prequel to All I Want is You and I thought it better to wait until that saga was finished before I posted this to avoid any confusion. Also, you should check out the song because it’s awesome!
"All I Wanted” - Paramore
It’s late. Lindsay should be sleeping but she can’t. Can’t lay still long enough to close her eyes, clear her mind and drift away - to a place where it doesn’t hurt like it does in reality.
She shuts her phone off, turns out the lights, and locks the doors. No one will be calling her now or showing up at her door unannounced - but that’s part of the reason she can’t seem to sleep.
Still dressed, she climbs under the covers for what seems like the hundredth time tonight. She stretches her legs out as far as they can go, pointing her toes off the end of the bed. Her head feels heavy and her eyelids too but she’s restless.
Her head sinks into the soft pillow beneath it. She yanks the covers up underneath her chin and kicks her legs out from the bottom of the heavy comforter.
Staring at the ceiling, she hums to herself. It’s not just a song; it’s their song. She can’t help but wonder if the owner of the missing part of her heart is somewhere, hearing this song and thinking the same thing.
Doubtful.
Think of me when you're out,
When you're out there.
Samantha sits cross-legged on the end of her hotel room bed, her elbows digging into her kneecaps as she rests her face in her palms. She has hours left before her gig and hates all of this time spent idle, thinking.
She flips through the movie guide found on her bedside table. There are many choices, but none that catch her eye. She’s seen most of them. And those she hasn’t seen, she has no desire to - not by herself, anyway.
It’s not the same to watch a funny movie alone. She doesn’t laugh as much, and misses some of the best jokes. In fact, she doesn’t laugh much anymore at all. Or smile. Or even feel like smiling.
For the better, she tells herself. Just like she told herself that night as Lindsay sat, in tears, on her doorstep.
“Please, Samantha. I can fix this. I’m sorry.”
“Fix what? Do you even know what’s broken?! I just can’t do this anymore. Not with you - not with anyone!”
She recoiled in shame. She didn’t usually raise her voice, or gesture menacingly. But she’d had enough. This wasn’t selfish - they both needed help and being together was hindering them both from getting that. Samantha never thought she would consider herself a co-dependent type of person but that was who she had become: An extension of Lindsay; a shadow of herself. It had to stop.
“Who is she, Samantha? They said you were with a girl. Who is she?”
She wanted to scream. In a way, she almost wished it were true, that she’d found somebody else. But it was purely business - her therapist’s assistant. If she could move on, would Lindsay do the same?
Samantha opened the door finally and peaked her head around. Lindsay crawled to her knees on the concrete step and pleaded with her eyes.
“Let me in, please. This is embarrassing. Let me in for five minutes and I’ll leave - I promise.”
I'll beg you nice from my knees.
She heard the chuckling, saw those unsightly red lights on paparazzi cameras. If it were any other circumstance, she would have left Lindsay on the doorstep to cry herself out and eventually go home. But, she’d become painfully aware of what it was like to be humiliated by these overpaid vultures.
“Alright. You’ve got five minutes.”
She stepped behind the door as the girl fumbled and gathered her things. Lindsay snuck inside and her hair brushed against Samantha’s bare shoulder as she passed by. The woman shuddered. She hated the way it made her feel; filled her mind with images of passion, Lindsay’s hair tickling her skin as the girl climbed on top of her.
Shutting the door behind herself, Lindsay leaned against the solid wood and turned the lock inconspicuously.
“Five minutes.”
Lindsay nodded and reached out to the woman. Samantha cringed and stepped further back in response. “Samantha, please. I don’t want to leave you. Ever. I made a huge mistake.”
She scoffed, and ran a nervous hand through her short hair. “If you’re not out of here in five minutes, I’m calling-“
“Yeah, the cops. I know. Because I’m irrational and unstable and I need help. I get that,” Lindsay said, sounding so sharply coherent that Samantha began to feel uneasy.
“I don’t think you do get it, actually.”
“Just tell me who she is, Samantha. That’s all I want to know and I’ll go. No kicking or screaming or smashing expensive vases.”
Samantha slouched her shoulders and looked the girl directly in the eye. The intensity paralyzed her but she forced herself not to look away. “Amber. She’s my therapist’s assistant. I agreed to be the guinea pig for her field training. Evidently, I’m a good practice case because I’m not an open book.”
Lindsay chuckled and smiled weakly. “I could have told you that.”
Samantha smiled back but caught herself and stopped immediately. “I’m not a cheater. I may be a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.”
Again, Lindsay stretched her arms out to the woman and was rejected. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.” Her chin quivered; a tear trickled down her cheek and landed just above her lip where it teetered dangerously.
Samantha reached out, brushed away the tear with her thumb and smiled sadly. “Just for now. We’re stuck and this is the only way to fix it.”
Lindsay shuddered and tears began to fall in waves. She shook her head; she couldn’t believe it.
“Can I stay here tonight? I’ll sleep on the couch.” The girl’s voice cracked - trembled - as she mumbled through her sobs.
And when the world treats you way too fairly,
Samantha nodded resignedly. She double checked the door lock, turned off the porch light (but not before impolitely gesturing at the cameramen on her sidewalk), and walked toward her bedroom.
“Thank you. Good night,” Lindsay said meekly, still standing by the doorway.
Samantha’s bedroom door closed quietly; she turned the lock and shut off her lights.
Well it's a shame I'm a dream.
All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you
She gives up trying to sleep. It only makes her angrier, lonelier. She paces the bedroom, clothing strewn across the floor. Boxes are piled high inside the closet. She’s lived here nearly a month and has yet to unpack a single thing aside from her clothes. Undergarments lay in piles around the house; when she’s alone that‘s all she wears.
In the living room, her furniture is all pushed against a wall. She remembers barricading herself in one night after her father had called.
“I don’t want to see you. You’ve ruined everything,” Lindsay shouted at the phone. She knows this isn’t true - his interference hadn’t made things any easier but she was the one at fault this time.
“Linds, I just really think you need to surround yourself with better people is all. You’re a mess right now.”
She hung up on him abruptly and predicted his next move would be to show up at her house and scream while he pounded on the front door. But he didn’t. Her life was becoming less and less predictable; she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
I think I'll pace my apartment a few times
Her couch, still covered in protective plastic, sits facing a doorway that leads to her backyard. She can’t remember if it has ever even been sat on. None of her friends have come to visit. Her mother is too busy writing self-help books, and her sister Ali is at home going to school.
Suddenly, she craves normality. She wants to go back to high school, to figure out her life the way regular teenagers do. Not this upside-down and backwards way, where her future leaves her behind, unable to catch up.
She sits on the couch, plastic crinkling beneath her. Despite this, it feels soft and welcoming - like home. She lifts her sweater over her head, nothing beneath it but a nude-coloured bra. Carefully she folds the sweater inside out and crumples it into a makeshift pillow. She lowers her head onto the sweater and herself onto the couch. Bits of her damp skin stick to the plastic but she doesn’t mind. The couch fits just her - no empty space where someone else should be.
And fall asleep on the couch.
Samantha’s gig goes off without a hitch - no technical difficulties, her drinks are on the house. This should please her but instead she just wants it to be over.
She watches the people dance. Usually this makes her feel good about herself, that she could inspire such inhibition. Flashes of red hair, flashes of blonde hair, flashes of auburn hair; they all make her think of Lindsay. The girl is diverse, adaptable. She can fit in just about anywhere - not blend in. She couldn’t, even if she tried, with those stunning, sharp features and an unearthly glow.
Samantha blinks quickly and the images of Lindsay on the dance floor disappear as willed.
She ends the night with a song - not just any song, their song. She can’t help but wonder if Lindsay thinks of this as their song too, its true significance unspoken between them.
The song fades out and into a generic dance club track. Crowds on the dance floor stop moving and scream for more. On most nights, Samantha would extend her set a while longer, unable to tear herself away from the turntables. But tonight, there’s nothing keeping her here. If she could, she’d hop on the next plane out of here and be back in L.A by morning.
But she’s obligated to her work, and so she quickly packs up her things, collects her pay and heads for her big, empty suite.
She decides she’ll take the stairs, too impatient to wait for the busy elevator. Besides, her room is only on the fourth floor and she tells herself she could use the exercise.
By the time she gets inside, she begins to feel weary. Days of sitting in airports, eating only when she has to and staying late after events for press have finally caught up to her.
She hates reporters - not because of who they are or what they do - but because they just can’t seem to take a hint. What she does when she isn’t working is hardly their business.
The night before, she had agreed to meet with a reporter from a magazine she’d only recently heard about, on the grounds that they discuss only music. The girl was young, bright-eyed and obviously nervous.
She greeted her politely with a handshake and ordered a drink. “You want something? I’ll buy,” Samantha had offered. The girl shook her head and thanked the DJ.
“Do you always drink when you work?” the girl asked curiously. Samantha shrugged and handed the bartender her money.
“It helps loosen me up, but if I don’t feel like drinking, I don’t.” The girl nodded and started jotting in her notebook. Samantha was confused. Were her drinking habits really newsworthy?
“When Lindsay comes to your gigs, do you two share drinks, or…?” The girl’s question trailed off as she saw the unimpressed look on Samantha’s face. She knew she had crossed a line. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, thanks. Who did you say you work for, again?”
The girl pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Tuneage. We’re an independent at the moment.”
Samantha nodded and sat back, waiting for the next question.
“Your song, “Built This Way”, was featured on the Mean Girls soundtrack, yeah?”
Another nod.
“Is that where you met Lindsay?”
Samantha chuckled and shook her head. How she could have expected something different is beyond her.
“That’s a no, then? Okay. Was your relationship with her purely professional when you met or was it romantic from the beginning?”
Samantha clenched her fists. She wanted to give the girl the benefit of the doubt; maybe she wasn’t given the ‘no personal questions’ memo. But she could sense this wasn’t the case.
“Let me ask you something. Off the record.”
The girl nodded, smiling.
“Would you tell the world that you slept with your boyfriend hours after you met him for the first time? I bet he wouldn’t appreciate that much. It’s nobody’s business but your own.”
The reporter’s jaw dropped. She stared, aghast as Samantha slammed back her Jack & Coke and stormed out of the hotel bar.
Sometimes she regrets being so aggressive toward reporters. They’re only doing their job. But it always comes back to the same questions - ones she doesn’t want to answer, ones she doesn’t want to hear - because they remind her of what she’s missing.
She kicks off her Supras in the closet and takes off her socks, curling them neatly together and setting them inside a bag of dirty laundry. She picks up the TV remote on her way into bed and turns it on though she knows she won’t watch it. She’s already asleep before her head hits the pillow.
Wake up early, the black and white re-runs
Samantha wakes, feeling disoriented. It takes a moment before she realizes where she is - in a hotel room and not her house. She stretches and sits up, blinded by the bright TV screen. While she slept, the channel went out and all that remains is a grainy screen and piercing feedback from the speakers. She scrambles for the remote and shuts it off.
As she lays her head back into the cushiony pillow, she closes her eyes tightly and prays for sleep to come again so easily. But of course it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s because she’s not in her own bed, out of her comfort zone. Maybe it’s because the lights of Las Vegas shine too brightly through her window. Possibly, it’s because she knows she’s stayed in this suite before, with its king-sized bed and silky bed sheets. Only last time she wasn’t alone and the bed didn’t seem to swallow her up in its vastness.
She climbs out of bed, cracks open a can of Redbull from her mini-fridge and wiggles uncomfortably into a soft chair by the window. She’s beyond sleep now; she’ll sit here until the restaurant downstairs starts serving breakfast at 9 a.m. She won’t be hungry so she’ll sit at the bar instead, and remind herself that it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.
That escape from my mouth, oh
Lindsay stirs awake and tries to sit up, pieces of plastic still stuck to her skin. She fights with it and ends up tearing it from the couch in a fury. Her eyes fill with frustrated tears as she crumbles to the carpeted floor.
All I wanted was you
She slams her fists into the ground and gasps, swallowing sob after sob. Silence. A car door slams outside.
All I wanted was you
“Samantha?” she says, instinctively. Running to the window, she wipes at her moist cheeks and feels that familiar pitter-patter of her heart.
All I wanted was you
One look out the window tells her it was just wishful thinking. Her neighbour, a polite older woman, waves to her as she piles her kids into a mini-van. Lindsay waves back and forces a smile.
All I wanted was you
She sits back down on the couch, now much softer without the plastic cover. She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her calves. Her chin fills the hole between her side-by-side kneecaps and she sighs. How long could it possibly take to fix something that didn’t feel like it was broken at all?
If given the chance, she knows she could prove to Samantha that this time apart is a mistake. If only she could take them both back to when it all began - that first night full of involuntary butterflies in both of their stomachs, innocent glances stolen across a crowded room, their harmless first touch as they shook hands. They knew nothing of each other but that they needed to know more.
I could follow you to the beginning
Just to relive the start
She has nothing to do today. She’s hit a dry spell for work, partially because she gave up on looking. What’s the point in auditioning for a part when she’s not doing a very good job even acting like herself these days?
At first, she told her agent she wanted to audition for only parts in romantic comedies - she needed to see the funny side of heartbreak. But every script made her cry, thinking of her real-life romance and how it wasn’t humourous at all.
Then, she requested only darker roles. Why shouldn’t she channel her anger for a living? But she wasn’t angry. She was devastated, inconsolable.
About the only role she thought she could pull off was desperation. It was true; she was needy. She needed Samantha. But what’s a girl to do when you need someone who doesn’t want to need you back?
She was at the peak of her career when she met Samantha for the first time, at one of those parties designed for the sole purpose of rubbing elbows with Hollywood big shots. Everyone was there from Brad Pitt to Meryl Streep, from Axl Rose to Michael Jackson. Every celebrity an aspiring actress could want to share breathing air with was in the same hotel ballroom as she was that night.
Via cell phone, her mother was coaching her, telling her who she should approach and what she should say to them. “Talk to some of the reality TV execs. Give them my number. You’d love to do a reality show, right, honey?” Lindsay rolled her eyes and hung up.
She saw a girl she recognized, Nicole, from another young Hollywood event and made a beeline for her. As she approached, she surveyed the girl’s company: Paris Hilton, Nicky Hilton, a few girls she didn’t recognize and a young man named Mark she had seen only in magazines.
Nervous suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks and contemplated turning around. She had always found Mark attractive and wasn’t sure exactly why, but she had no idea what she would say to him, face-to-face.
But before she got herself turned in the opposite way Nicole spotted her and waved her over. “Girl! I had no idea you were gonna be here. Mean Girls was epic!”
Lindsay smiled weakly and nodded bashfully. “Yeah, Tina Fey is genius, huh?” Her face burned, feeling Mark’s eyes fall upon her as he turned around. She kept her head down as she slowly approached the group.
“My sister’s song was on the soundtrack,” Mark boasted, adjusting the almost comical blue bow tie around his neck. Lindsay smiled, brushed her hair out of her face and finally looked up at him. He was even more dashing than she imagined he’d be but ultimately it wasn’t he who caught her eye. “Samantha. Someone you might like to meet…”
Samantha looked young, her dark-brown eyes bright and wide, surrounded by beautifully long lashes. Her olive skin glowed as her mouth rose at one side into a charming half-smile. She turned her body to face Lindsay’s and extended a slender hand. “My pleasure,” she said quietly, a slight British accent escaping as she spoke.
Lindsay’s mouth felt dry and cottony. She paused to swallow before speaking. “No, no. It’s all mine.”
Maybe then we'd remember to slow down
At all of our favorite parts
Samantha teeters back and forth restlessly on her barstool, her elbows resting heavily on a moist wooden surface. She’s still sipping away at the same drink she bought more than an hour ago.
“Little early to be drinking, don’tcha think, champ?” says a voice from behind her. It’s her friend Brandon, also the person in charge of booking her events. He sets a strong hand on her shoulder. She shrugs and turns to look at him.
“Not much else to do here. Isn’t this what people do in Vegas?” she swallows the rest of her drink and sighs.
“There’s lots to see. Have you been to the gallery that just opened? They’ve got a Monroe exhibit, last photos. You should check it out.”
Brandon leaves, on his way to make more important phone calls to fill up Samantha’s schedule. Samantha stays seated, pushes her empty glass to the edge of the bar furthest from her and shakes her head. Of course there’s a Monroe exhibit - Lindsay’s idol.
She thanks the bartender who watches her skulk out and into the lobby. “Where you off to? Not driving anywhere I hope,” he warns.
Samantha shakes her head and forces a smile. “How far of a walk is it from here to the gallery?”
He shrugs and then thinks for a moment. “Pretty far. You’d better take a cab.”
Samantha smiles genuinely this time, and waves to the man graciously. “I think I could use the fresh air. Thanks.”
All I wanted was you
She sits for a while, sulking on the couch and finally decides to shower and get dressed. She’ll never feel better if she doesn’t try.
In just a towel, she rifles through boxes and bags and suitcases full of clothes that remain unpacked. They’re all still folded neatly and smell richly of laundry detergent except for those filling a big orange garbage bag. Those ones smell like Samantha.
She pulls out a purple sweatshirt - the one Samantha wore the first day they held hands in public. Next, a plaid button-down - the one Samantha was wearing the first time they kissed. Finally, a printed black t-shirt - one she’d worn home after the first night they spent together after making things official.
Does Samantha miss these? Has she even noticed they’re gone? And more importantly, is a bag full of clothing she left behind enough to convince her to stop by? Lindsay knows if Samantha will just see her, even for a moment, she’ll do everything she can to make the woman stay.
All I wanted was you
As Samantha enters the gallery, she senses the silence. She is in awe of the exhibit as are the others inside. Gigantic, larger-than-life prints of Monroe’s last photos hang from the walls. Her chest constricts. It feels like her head is swimming as she looks around, trying to take it all in.
Amidst the gasps and barely audible whispers from other gallery patrons, all Samantha can think about is her.
She remembers the first time she saw the photos of Lindsay. The platinum blonde hair, the bright-red lipstick and signature pout, the way that sheer pink scarf hugged to each of the girl’s curves while not leaving much to the imagination, and those piercing but sleepy eyes.
At first, she couldn’t pinpoint how she felt about the photos. They drove her all sorts of crazy. It wasn’t as though she had never seen the girl nude, because she did - nearly every night. But never had she seen her so bare and vulnerable. She felt like she had to protect her.
And all at the same time, she couldn’t take her eyes away. Not much made her happier than to stare at those beautiful freckles, the way they seemed to paint a picture across the girl’s skin.
It wasn’t like she could tell Lindsay not to allow the photos to be released. The girl was an adult and perfectly capable of making her own decisions. And ultimately, it made her proud - honoured - to have the only pair of eyes to see Lindsay like that in the flesh.
All I wanted was you
It was cool and crisp outside so she bundled up in a jacket and wrapped a scarf around her neck. She had nowhere in particular to go, so she just wandered. Wandered and smoked. Smoked and wandered. She did this until she couldn’t feel her fingertips anymore; until her nose felt like it was no longer a part of her face.
It took her longer than usual to unlock her front door, fumbling with her keys more than once. Her hands were too cold to function. She tried to think warm thoughts: hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, sitting by the fireplace, wrapped in…
She stops. Her memories of Samantha have suddenly become too vivid and to think of them anymore without promise she may experience them again is more painful than the frostbite setting in.
From inside the house, she hears her phone ring. Her key finally turns in the lock and the door gives way. A rush of warmth gives her renewed energy to rush to answer the call.
“Hello?” she says, exhaling deeply, so cold that she can still see her misty breath.
At first silence on the other end. No greeting, just low breathing.
“I need to see you,” Samantha says plainly. Lindsay thinks she sounds like she’s a million miles away, but closer than she’s felt in months.
She swallows hard and nearly chokes on an oncoming sob. “Me too.”
And that’s all. They hang up, knowing just that they need each other. No when, or where, or why, or how.
All I wanted was you
Samantha drives by Lindsay’s house. She’s been past it before and always considered taking a closer look but never been so compelled to actually stop. Fresh off a flight from Vegas, her eyes are still encrusted with sleep, groggy after such a short nap, and she feels unclean.
Brandon had insisted she couldn’t bail on her gig unless she could find a replacement. Immediately, she called in a favour to her brother. He was concerned; she rarely bailed on a gig and especially one that paid so handsomely. “I’ll explain later. I need to get home.”
So she hopped on the next flight out of Vegas and promised herself she wouldn’t fall asleep. She needed this time to think about what she was doing, what she would say, what she really wanted. But she was tired and emotionally drained; sleep was inevitable.
Lindsay’s car is parked in the driveway. The blinds are closed but as if by magic, as soon as she takes begins to open her own car door, the front door flies quickly open.
Unlike Samantha, she hasn’t slept. In fact, she’s been waiting by the door and with her phone since their previous conversation. Not once did she worry that the woman wouldn’t show up; it was simply a matter of when.
Samantha’s knees shake as she steps from her car and onto the paved driveway. Her arms, her hands, feel numb. She walks slowly across the driveway and to Lindsay’s gated front yard. The girl meets her at the cast-iron barrier.
At first, they just stare at each other, as if in disbelief that this is really happening. They’re really on the verge of being back in each other’s arms after months of emptiness.
Lindsay reaches out first, her hand almost touching the skin of Samantha’s cheek but she pulls back quickly at the last second. It doesn’t feel real. She reaches out again, her fingertip connecting with soft skin this time. Her finger twitches nervously and so does the corner of her mouth as a smile breaks onto her face.
Samantha lifts her hand to meet Lindsay’s as it retracts from her cheek. The girl’s hand is warm, her skin silky and electrifying. She slides her own slender fingers between the girl’s and repeats the same with her other hand. Perfect fit.
“There’s so much I need to say to you, Samantha. I’m-“ Lindsay begins, but Samantha quiets her with a soft yet powerful kiss on the mouth.
“Shh,” the woman says, running her fingers gently up and down the girl’s long arms.
It’s not time for apologies or confessions or even words at all. It’s time to appreciate this - the beauty of having all you ever wanted right in front of you all along.
All I wanted was you…
Author: xjekkix
Word Count: 4720 words
Summary: What’s meant to be will be.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is not real.
A/N: Beta’d by csifreak90
I wrote this about a month ago. It’s basically the anti-thesis/prequel to All I Want is You and I thought it better to wait until that saga was finished before I posted this to avoid any confusion. Also, you should check out the song because it’s awesome!
"All I Wanted” - Paramore
It’s late. Lindsay should be sleeping but she can’t. Can’t lay still long enough to close her eyes, clear her mind and drift away - to a place where it doesn’t hurt like it does in reality.
She shuts her phone off, turns out the lights, and locks the doors. No one will be calling her now or showing up at her door unannounced - but that’s part of the reason she can’t seem to sleep.
Still dressed, she climbs under the covers for what seems like the hundredth time tonight. She stretches her legs out as far as they can go, pointing her toes off the end of the bed. Her head feels heavy and her eyelids too but she’s restless.
Her head sinks into the soft pillow beneath it. She yanks the covers up underneath her chin and kicks her legs out from the bottom of the heavy comforter.
Staring at the ceiling, she hums to herself. It’s not just a song; it’s their song. She can’t help but wonder if the owner of the missing part of her heart is somewhere, hearing this song and thinking the same thing.
Doubtful.
Think of me when you're out,
When you're out there.
Samantha sits cross-legged on the end of her hotel room bed, her elbows digging into her kneecaps as she rests her face in her palms. She has hours left before her gig and hates all of this time spent idle, thinking.
She flips through the movie guide found on her bedside table. There are many choices, but none that catch her eye. She’s seen most of them. And those she hasn’t seen, she has no desire to - not by herself, anyway.
It’s not the same to watch a funny movie alone. She doesn’t laugh as much, and misses some of the best jokes. In fact, she doesn’t laugh much anymore at all. Or smile. Or even feel like smiling.
For the better, she tells herself. Just like she told herself that night as Lindsay sat, in tears, on her doorstep.
“Please, Samantha. I can fix this. I’m sorry.”
“Fix what? Do you even know what’s broken?! I just can’t do this anymore. Not with you - not with anyone!”
She recoiled in shame. She didn’t usually raise her voice, or gesture menacingly. But she’d had enough. This wasn’t selfish - they both needed help and being together was hindering them both from getting that. Samantha never thought she would consider herself a co-dependent type of person but that was who she had become: An extension of Lindsay; a shadow of herself. It had to stop.
“Who is she, Samantha? They said you were with a girl. Who is she?”
She wanted to scream. In a way, she almost wished it were true, that she’d found somebody else. But it was purely business - her therapist’s assistant. If she could move on, would Lindsay do the same?
Samantha opened the door finally and peaked her head around. Lindsay crawled to her knees on the concrete step and pleaded with her eyes.
“Let me in, please. This is embarrassing. Let me in for five minutes and I’ll leave - I promise.”
I'll beg you nice from my knees.
She heard the chuckling, saw those unsightly red lights on paparazzi cameras. If it were any other circumstance, she would have left Lindsay on the doorstep to cry herself out and eventually go home. But, she’d become painfully aware of what it was like to be humiliated by these overpaid vultures.
“Alright. You’ve got five minutes.”
She stepped behind the door as the girl fumbled and gathered her things. Lindsay snuck inside and her hair brushed against Samantha’s bare shoulder as she passed by. The woman shuddered. She hated the way it made her feel; filled her mind with images of passion, Lindsay’s hair tickling her skin as the girl climbed on top of her.
Shutting the door behind herself, Lindsay leaned against the solid wood and turned the lock inconspicuously.
“Five minutes.”
Lindsay nodded and reached out to the woman. Samantha cringed and stepped further back in response. “Samantha, please. I don’t want to leave you. Ever. I made a huge mistake.”
She scoffed, and ran a nervous hand through her short hair. “If you’re not out of here in five minutes, I’m calling-“
“Yeah, the cops. I know. Because I’m irrational and unstable and I need help. I get that,” Lindsay said, sounding so sharply coherent that Samantha began to feel uneasy.
“I don’t think you do get it, actually.”
“Just tell me who she is, Samantha. That’s all I want to know and I’ll go. No kicking or screaming or smashing expensive vases.”
Samantha slouched her shoulders and looked the girl directly in the eye. The intensity paralyzed her but she forced herself not to look away. “Amber. She’s my therapist’s assistant. I agreed to be the guinea pig for her field training. Evidently, I’m a good practice case because I’m not an open book.”
Lindsay chuckled and smiled weakly. “I could have told you that.”
Samantha smiled back but caught herself and stopped immediately. “I’m not a cheater. I may be a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.”
Again, Lindsay stretched her arms out to the woman and was rejected. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.” Her chin quivered; a tear trickled down her cheek and landed just above her lip where it teetered dangerously.
Samantha reached out, brushed away the tear with her thumb and smiled sadly. “Just for now. We’re stuck and this is the only way to fix it.”
Lindsay shuddered and tears began to fall in waves. She shook her head; she couldn’t believe it.
“Can I stay here tonight? I’ll sleep on the couch.” The girl’s voice cracked - trembled - as she mumbled through her sobs.
And when the world treats you way too fairly,
Samantha nodded resignedly. She double checked the door lock, turned off the porch light (but not before impolitely gesturing at the cameramen on her sidewalk), and walked toward her bedroom.
“Thank you. Good night,” Lindsay said meekly, still standing by the doorway.
Samantha’s bedroom door closed quietly; she turned the lock and shut off her lights.
Well it's a shame I'm a dream.
All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you
She gives up trying to sleep. It only makes her angrier, lonelier. She paces the bedroom, clothing strewn across the floor. Boxes are piled high inside the closet. She’s lived here nearly a month and has yet to unpack a single thing aside from her clothes. Undergarments lay in piles around the house; when she’s alone that‘s all she wears.
In the living room, her furniture is all pushed against a wall. She remembers barricading herself in one night after her father had called.
“I don’t want to see you. You’ve ruined everything,” Lindsay shouted at the phone. She knows this isn’t true - his interference hadn’t made things any easier but she was the one at fault this time.
“Linds, I just really think you need to surround yourself with better people is all. You’re a mess right now.”
She hung up on him abruptly and predicted his next move would be to show up at her house and scream while he pounded on the front door. But he didn’t. Her life was becoming less and less predictable; she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
I think I'll pace my apartment a few times
Her couch, still covered in protective plastic, sits facing a doorway that leads to her backyard. She can’t remember if it has ever even been sat on. None of her friends have come to visit. Her mother is too busy writing self-help books, and her sister Ali is at home going to school.
Suddenly, she craves normality. She wants to go back to high school, to figure out her life the way regular teenagers do. Not this upside-down and backwards way, where her future leaves her behind, unable to catch up.
She sits on the couch, plastic crinkling beneath her. Despite this, it feels soft and welcoming - like home. She lifts her sweater over her head, nothing beneath it but a nude-coloured bra. Carefully she folds the sweater inside out and crumples it into a makeshift pillow. She lowers her head onto the sweater and herself onto the couch. Bits of her damp skin stick to the plastic but she doesn’t mind. The couch fits just her - no empty space where someone else should be.
And fall asleep on the couch.
Samantha’s gig goes off without a hitch - no technical difficulties, her drinks are on the house. This should please her but instead she just wants it to be over.
She watches the people dance. Usually this makes her feel good about herself, that she could inspire such inhibition. Flashes of red hair, flashes of blonde hair, flashes of auburn hair; they all make her think of Lindsay. The girl is diverse, adaptable. She can fit in just about anywhere - not blend in. She couldn’t, even if she tried, with those stunning, sharp features and an unearthly glow.
Samantha blinks quickly and the images of Lindsay on the dance floor disappear as willed.
She ends the night with a song - not just any song, their song. She can’t help but wonder if Lindsay thinks of this as their song too, its true significance unspoken between them.
The song fades out and into a generic dance club track. Crowds on the dance floor stop moving and scream for more. On most nights, Samantha would extend her set a while longer, unable to tear herself away from the turntables. But tonight, there’s nothing keeping her here. If she could, she’d hop on the next plane out of here and be back in L.A by morning.
But she’s obligated to her work, and so she quickly packs up her things, collects her pay and heads for her big, empty suite.
She decides she’ll take the stairs, too impatient to wait for the busy elevator. Besides, her room is only on the fourth floor and she tells herself she could use the exercise.
By the time she gets inside, she begins to feel weary. Days of sitting in airports, eating only when she has to and staying late after events for press have finally caught up to her.
She hates reporters - not because of who they are or what they do - but because they just can’t seem to take a hint. What she does when she isn’t working is hardly their business.
The night before, she had agreed to meet with a reporter from a magazine she’d only recently heard about, on the grounds that they discuss only music. The girl was young, bright-eyed and obviously nervous.
She greeted her politely with a handshake and ordered a drink. “You want something? I’ll buy,” Samantha had offered. The girl shook her head and thanked the DJ.
“Do you always drink when you work?” the girl asked curiously. Samantha shrugged and handed the bartender her money.
“It helps loosen me up, but if I don’t feel like drinking, I don’t.” The girl nodded and started jotting in her notebook. Samantha was confused. Were her drinking habits really newsworthy?
“When Lindsay comes to your gigs, do you two share drinks, or…?” The girl’s question trailed off as she saw the unimpressed look on Samantha’s face. She knew she had crossed a line. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, thanks. Who did you say you work for, again?”
The girl pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Tuneage. We’re an independent at the moment.”
Samantha nodded and sat back, waiting for the next question.
“Your song, “Built This Way”, was featured on the Mean Girls soundtrack, yeah?”
Another nod.
“Is that where you met Lindsay?”
Samantha chuckled and shook her head. How she could have expected something different is beyond her.
“That’s a no, then? Okay. Was your relationship with her purely professional when you met or was it romantic from the beginning?”
Samantha clenched her fists. She wanted to give the girl the benefit of the doubt; maybe she wasn’t given the ‘no personal questions’ memo. But she could sense this wasn’t the case.
“Let me ask you something. Off the record.”
The girl nodded, smiling.
“Would you tell the world that you slept with your boyfriend hours after you met him for the first time? I bet he wouldn’t appreciate that much. It’s nobody’s business but your own.”
The reporter’s jaw dropped. She stared, aghast as Samantha slammed back her Jack & Coke and stormed out of the hotel bar.
Sometimes she regrets being so aggressive toward reporters. They’re only doing their job. But it always comes back to the same questions - ones she doesn’t want to answer, ones she doesn’t want to hear - because they remind her of what she’s missing.
She kicks off her Supras in the closet and takes off her socks, curling them neatly together and setting them inside a bag of dirty laundry. She picks up the TV remote on her way into bed and turns it on though she knows she won’t watch it. She’s already asleep before her head hits the pillow.
Wake up early, the black and white re-runs
Samantha wakes, feeling disoriented. It takes a moment before she realizes where she is - in a hotel room and not her house. She stretches and sits up, blinded by the bright TV screen. While she slept, the channel went out and all that remains is a grainy screen and piercing feedback from the speakers. She scrambles for the remote and shuts it off.
As she lays her head back into the cushiony pillow, she closes her eyes tightly and prays for sleep to come again so easily. But of course it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s because she’s not in her own bed, out of her comfort zone. Maybe it’s because the lights of Las Vegas shine too brightly through her window. Possibly, it’s because she knows she’s stayed in this suite before, with its king-sized bed and silky bed sheets. Only last time she wasn’t alone and the bed didn’t seem to swallow her up in its vastness.
She climbs out of bed, cracks open a can of Redbull from her mini-fridge and wiggles uncomfortably into a soft chair by the window. She’s beyond sleep now; she’ll sit here until the restaurant downstairs starts serving breakfast at 9 a.m. She won’t be hungry so she’ll sit at the bar instead, and remind herself that it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.
That escape from my mouth, oh
Lindsay stirs awake and tries to sit up, pieces of plastic still stuck to her skin. She fights with it and ends up tearing it from the couch in a fury. Her eyes fill with frustrated tears as she crumbles to the carpeted floor.
All I wanted was you
She slams her fists into the ground and gasps, swallowing sob after sob. Silence. A car door slams outside.
All I wanted was you
“Samantha?” she says, instinctively. Running to the window, she wipes at her moist cheeks and feels that familiar pitter-patter of her heart.
All I wanted was you
One look out the window tells her it was just wishful thinking. Her neighbour, a polite older woman, waves to her as she piles her kids into a mini-van. Lindsay waves back and forces a smile.
All I wanted was you
She sits back down on the couch, now much softer without the plastic cover. She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her calves. Her chin fills the hole between her side-by-side kneecaps and she sighs. How long could it possibly take to fix something that didn’t feel like it was broken at all?
If given the chance, she knows she could prove to Samantha that this time apart is a mistake. If only she could take them both back to when it all began - that first night full of involuntary butterflies in both of their stomachs, innocent glances stolen across a crowded room, their harmless first touch as they shook hands. They knew nothing of each other but that they needed to know more.
I could follow you to the beginning
Just to relive the start
She has nothing to do today. She’s hit a dry spell for work, partially because she gave up on looking. What’s the point in auditioning for a part when she’s not doing a very good job even acting like herself these days?
At first, she told her agent she wanted to audition for only parts in romantic comedies - she needed to see the funny side of heartbreak. But every script made her cry, thinking of her real-life romance and how it wasn’t humourous at all.
Then, she requested only darker roles. Why shouldn’t she channel her anger for a living? But she wasn’t angry. She was devastated, inconsolable.
About the only role she thought she could pull off was desperation. It was true; she was needy. She needed Samantha. But what’s a girl to do when you need someone who doesn’t want to need you back?
She was at the peak of her career when she met Samantha for the first time, at one of those parties designed for the sole purpose of rubbing elbows with Hollywood big shots. Everyone was there from Brad Pitt to Meryl Streep, from Axl Rose to Michael Jackson. Every celebrity an aspiring actress could want to share breathing air with was in the same hotel ballroom as she was that night.
Via cell phone, her mother was coaching her, telling her who she should approach and what she should say to them. “Talk to some of the reality TV execs. Give them my number. You’d love to do a reality show, right, honey?” Lindsay rolled her eyes and hung up.
She saw a girl she recognized, Nicole, from another young Hollywood event and made a beeline for her. As she approached, she surveyed the girl’s company: Paris Hilton, Nicky Hilton, a few girls she didn’t recognize and a young man named Mark she had seen only in magazines.
Nervous suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks and contemplated turning around. She had always found Mark attractive and wasn’t sure exactly why, but she had no idea what she would say to him, face-to-face.
But before she got herself turned in the opposite way Nicole spotted her and waved her over. “Girl! I had no idea you were gonna be here. Mean Girls was epic!”
Lindsay smiled weakly and nodded bashfully. “Yeah, Tina Fey is genius, huh?” Her face burned, feeling Mark’s eyes fall upon her as he turned around. She kept her head down as she slowly approached the group.
“My sister’s song was on the soundtrack,” Mark boasted, adjusting the almost comical blue bow tie around his neck. Lindsay smiled, brushed her hair out of her face and finally looked up at him. He was even more dashing than she imagined he’d be but ultimately it wasn’t he who caught her eye. “Samantha. Someone you might like to meet…”
Samantha looked young, her dark-brown eyes bright and wide, surrounded by beautifully long lashes. Her olive skin glowed as her mouth rose at one side into a charming half-smile. She turned her body to face Lindsay’s and extended a slender hand. “My pleasure,” she said quietly, a slight British accent escaping as she spoke.
Lindsay’s mouth felt dry and cottony. She paused to swallow before speaking. “No, no. It’s all mine.”
Maybe then we'd remember to slow down
At all of our favorite parts
Samantha teeters back and forth restlessly on her barstool, her elbows resting heavily on a moist wooden surface. She’s still sipping away at the same drink she bought more than an hour ago.
“Little early to be drinking, don’tcha think, champ?” says a voice from behind her. It’s her friend Brandon, also the person in charge of booking her events. He sets a strong hand on her shoulder. She shrugs and turns to look at him.
“Not much else to do here. Isn’t this what people do in Vegas?” she swallows the rest of her drink and sighs.
“There’s lots to see. Have you been to the gallery that just opened? They’ve got a Monroe exhibit, last photos. You should check it out.”
Brandon leaves, on his way to make more important phone calls to fill up Samantha’s schedule. Samantha stays seated, pushes her empty glass to the edge of the bar furthest from her and shakes her head. Of course there’s a Monroe exhibit - Lindsay’s idol.
She thanks the bartender who watches her skulk out and into the lobby. “Where you off to? Not driving anywhere I hope,” he warns.
Samantha shakes her head and forces a smile. “How far of a walk is it from here to the gallery?”
He shrugs and then thinks for a moment. “Pretty far. You’d better take a cab.”
Samantha smiles genuinely this time, and waves to the man graciously. “I think I could use the fresh air. Thanks.”
All I wanted was you
She sits for a while, sulking on the couch and finally decides to shower and get dressed. She’ll never feel better if she doesn’t try.
In just a towel, she rifles through boxes and bags and suitcases full of clothes that remain unpacked. They’re all still folded neatly and smell richly of laundry detergent except for those filling a big orange garbage bag. Those ones smell like Samantha.
She pulls out a purple sweatshirt - the one Samantha wore the first day they held hands in public. Next, a plaid button-down - the one Samantha was wearing the first time they kissed. Finally, a printed black t-shirt - one she’d worn home after the first night they spent together after making things official.
Does Samantha miss these? Has she even noticed they’re gone? And more importantly, is a bag full of clothing she left behind enough to convince her to stop by? Lindsay knows if Samantha will just see her, even for a moment, she’ll do everything she can to make the woman stay.
All I wanted was you
As Samantha enters the gallery, she senses the silence. She is in awe of the exhibit as are the others inside. Gigantic, larger-than-life prints of Monroe’s last photos hang from the walls. Her chest constricts. It feels like her head is swimming as she looks around, trying to take it all in.
Amidst the gasps and barely audible whispers from other gallery patrons, all Samantha can think about is her.
She remembers the first time she saw the photos of Lindsay. The platinum blonde hair, the bright-red lipstick and signature pout, the way that sheer pink scarf hugged to each of the girl’s curves while not leaving much to the imagination, and those piercing but sleepy eyes.
At first, she couldn’t pinpoint how she felt about the photos. They drove her all sorts of crazy. It wasn’t as though she had never seen the girl nude, because she did - nearly every night. But never had she seen her so bare and vulnerable. She felt like she had to protect her.
And all at the same time, she couldn’t take her eyes away. Not much made her happier than to stare at those beautiful freckles, the way they seemed to paint a picture across the girl’s skin.
It wasn’t like she could tell Lindsay not to allow the photos to be released. The girl was an adult and perfectly capable of making her own decisions. And ultimately, it made her proud - honoured - to have the only pair of eyes to see Lindsay like that in the flesh.
All I wanted was you
It was cool and crisp outside so she bundled up in a jacket and wrapped a scarf around her neck. She had nowhere in particular to go, so she just wandered. Wandered and smoked. Smoked and wandered. She did this until she couldn’t feel her fingertips anymore; until her nose felt like it was no longer a part of her face.
It took her longer than usual to unlock her front door, fumbling with her keys more than once. Her hands were too cold to function. She tried to think warm thoughts: hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, sitting by the fireplace, wrapped in…
She stops. Her memories of Samantha have suddenly become too vivid and to think of them anymore without promise she may experience them again is more painful than the frostbite setting in.
From inside the house, she hears her phone ring. Her key finally turns in the lock and the door gives way. A rush of warmth gives her renewed energy to rush to answer the call.
“Hello?” she says, exhaling deeply, so cold that she can still see her misty breath.
At first silence on the other end. No greeting, just low breathing.
“I need to see you,” Samantha says plainly. Lindsay thinks she sounds like she’s a million miles away, but closer than she’s felt in months.
She swallows hard and nearly chokes on an oncoming sob. “Me too.”
And that’s all. They hang up, knowing just that they need each other. No when, or where, or why, or how.
All I wanted was you
Samantha drives by Lindsay’s house. She’s been past it before and always considered taking a closer look but never been so compelled to actually stop. Fresh off a flight from Vegas, her eyes are still encrusted with sleep, groggy after such a short nap, and she feels unclean.
Brandon had insisted she couldn’t bail on her gig unless she could find a replacement. Immediately, she called in a favour to her brother. He was concerned; she rarely bailed on a gig and especially one that paid so handsomely. “I’ll explain later. I need to get home.”
So she hopped on the next flight out of Vegas and promised herself she wouldn’t fall asleep. She needed this time to think about what she was doing, what she would say, what she really wanted. But she was tired and emotionally drained; sleep was inevitable.
Lindsay’s car is parked in the driveway. The blinds are closed but as if by magic, as soon as she takes begins to open her own car door, the front door flies quickly open.
Unlike Samantha, she hasn’t slept. In fact, she’s been waiting by the door and with her phone since their previous conversation. Not once did she worry that the woman wouldn’t show up; it was simply a matter of when.
Samantha’s knees shake as she steps from her car and onto the paved driveway. Her arms, her hands, feel numb. She walks slowly across the driveway and to Lindsay’s gated front yard. The girl meets her at the cast-iron barrier.
At first, they just stare at each other, as if in disbelief that this is really happening. They’re really on the verge of being back in each other’s arms after months of emptiness.
Lindsay reaches out first, her hand almost touching the skin of Samantha’s cheek but she pulls back quickly at the last second. It doesn’t feel real. She reaches out again, her fingertip connecting with soft skin this time. Her finger twitches nervously and so does the corner of her mouth as a smile breaks onto her face.
Samantha lifts her hand to meet Lindsay’s as it retracts from her cheek. The girl’s hand is warm, her skin silky and electrifying. She slides her own slender fingers between the girl’s and repeats the same with her other hand. Perfect fit.
“There’s so much I need to say to you, Samantha. I’m-“ Lindsay begins, but Samantha quiets her with a soft yet powerful kiss on the mouth.
“Shh,” the woman says, running her fingers gently up and down the girl’s long arms.
It’s not time for apologies or confessions or even words at all. It’s time to appreciate this - the beauty of having all you ever wanted right in front of you all along.
All I wanted was you…