Grown Ups and Misfits

3. After All This Time

3. After All This Time

"The sun won't shine on the both of us."
- Imagine Dragons

"So, I'm back."

Not really understanding what or why I was doing it, I handed him a mug of coffee, still in a tired and hazy state.

"No shit.," I breathed, wrapping my now free hand around my waist, as if I had gone into a delirious slope. Which I could believe. "But why are you here?"

I avoided him, looking up absentmindedly to the ceiling. It would have been a great time for my parents to come home from work. They really needed to paint it over again.

"I just..." He trailed off, and I looked to him that time, holding back words that threatened to tumble out when our gazes connected. "I just needed to come home. See how everything was. Didn't really stick around after... it happened. You know?"

My fists tightened.

"You didn't even come to his funeral." I spat the words coldly, feeling guilty when he flinched. "I was there."

As if that counted for anything. As if it could have brought Marco back.

Running a hand through his dark hair, he sighed, rolling back on the balls of his feet. He slipped out of the kitchen's florescent lights, shadows dancing their way across his naturally tanned skin.

"I couldn't." Still looking me in the eyes, he frowned, then took a step closer to the counter, leaning in to stop right before me. "I couldn't go, Katrina. And I'm sorry."

I sighed. Live and forget, right? I needed to stop thinking about it anyways. His eyes were always the worst part of him, part of Marco. And if I could only look past them, maybe I wouldn't care so much about it anymore.

"It's fine." His shoulders drooped, and a deep sigh escaped him, fanning out over my face in an invisible, minty cloud. I savored the moment, the way in which we both took from the same breath, staying alive for reasons that were probably more similar than I cared to admit. Or if I had been into that poetic shit, I could have said it was one thing: the aftermath.

So I took that chance to get away.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I pulled a chair up to the bar counter, plopping myself onto it. Ian followed suite.

"Is this your way of getting closure or something like that?" I muttered darkly, sipping my drink. Lip twitching, he let out a short laugh.

"Something like that."

We lapsed into silence.

"Are you staying long?" Trying to lighten the thick atmosphere, I slid my mug from hand-to-hand, frowning.

"I don't know, really."

"Okay."

I didn't stop him when he got up to leave.

*

The rest of the week went on in a patterned fashion.

Wake up, chug coffee, barely make it to the bus, unsuccessfully harass the freshman from my seat (whose name I learned was Evan), get to class, sleep in class, ignore Brynn, take the late bus home, ignore Ian - rinse and repeat.

If someone were to ask me why Brynn and I were friends, I wouldn't be able to give a real answer. There was absolutely nothing about our personalities that indicated we were ever a good match for each other.

But if there was one thing I could admit, it was that she threw wicked parties. Wicked.

I'd never exactly been to one, but I heard stories - no, legends - of the insane things that went down in her parent's beach house. (Which didn't involve drowning, surprisingly).