a bellyjere au where shayla, cam, taylor, and belly plan a trip to europe after their first year at college, (shayla's second) and run into steven, conrad, jeremiah, and nicole while there. this is so awkward to write ok lov u bye
stevenshayla b plo...
Jeremiah comes out of the building practically running as he pushes past us. He's gone before I can even process he was there. I strain my eyes, searching the crowd for him, and I'm about to go after him, when a hand grabs mine. Conrad. He shakes his head, a movement so slight it's almost imperceptible, but something in me untangles. He knows his brother, and if I'm honest with myself, I know Jeremiah doesn't want me chasing after him right now. Whatever he's dealing with, he wants to deal with it on his own. If I go after him, he'll just pretend nothing's wrong. But I still want to follow him. The flash of his face I caught as he passed me won't leave my mind. Instead, I force a small smile at Conrad, nod, and remove my hand from his. As Shayla and Steven exit and join us, we share a look, like what now? But then Steven clears his throat, and cracks some joke I barely register, but fake a laugh at anyways, and Cam snaps photos until Taylor starts to fake a tackle at him, and Shayla returns to her role as our defacto tour guide. She whips out her phone, steals Steven's baseball cap - a gesture that has me and Nicole rolling our eyes at each other, and Taylor flashing me an exaggerated wink - and then she's off, pulling us along to our lunch reservation.
As always, Shayla's taste is unbelievable. The restaurant is beautiful, tucked behind a street corner, it's tiny, but crammed. Every table is full, and the room is perfumed with the fresh scent of olive oil and the laden trays the waiters bare as they thread through the patrons. The hostess leads us to the garden out back, and we sit under a canopy of vines, shading us from the heat. We get a bottle of wine and a couple beers for the table, an extra for Jeremiah in case he shows up, and laze in the cool before we order. I can't help but worry. I sip compulsively at my wine, even though the taste sours my mouth, just to keep my hands busy, and away from my phone so I stop my obsessive texting. I twirl the stem of my glass, spinning the last of my wine into a whirlpool, until Taylor sets the glass flat and laces her hand through mine, squeezing it. She doesn't miss a beat of the conversation, cracking jokes and laughing, and through it she just holds my hand. I love her for it.
▬▬▬▬▬▬ INSTAGRAM ▬▬▬▬▬▬
@jaylort
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miau
@conradfisher ur welcome for the cards
↳ @jaylort ur welcome for beating ur ass w such grace and decorum LOSER
@camscamera be thankful he didn't bring uno
▬▬▬▬▬▬ JEREMIAH ▬▬▬▬▬▬
It's kind of embarrassing having to walk back to the restaurant alone, enter alone, and then sit at a table full of people who are trying very hard to pretend you have not just been crying. But I don't have a choice. Once I'd cried enough to let the space of sadness be replaced by annoyance at the constant buzzing in my jean pocket, I pulled out my phone. After that I couldn't think straight. Her texts were driving me insane. I know she doesn't mean it as anything more than a friendly gesture, but my dumbstruck, lovesick, idiot brain is at war with the spiteful part of me that insists we aren't friends because a friend would never have done what she did. They would never have abandoned me the way she did. I can't think straight through the headache it gives me. It feels outside of myself, like I'm walking through a thicket of trees, only they're all talking, bickering at one another, and under the constant expectation of my sudden and wise judgement, as if I could give them an answer that would make it all go away. Like I'm capable of bringing some great clarity. I'm not. What I am capable of, is moving one leg in front of the other, steadily following the path Conrad had us all revise this morning over breakfast. I don't want to be grateful to him, not right now, so I push the thought out, and immediately the bickering finds the empty space and occupies it with its shrieks. At this point I'm about ready to walk into the sea and not come back, but that text from Bells, the worry - imagined as it may be - it gnaws at me. I don't have a choice. So I walk the predetermined route, back to my friends, or at least the people who know me so far as to not question my sudden disappearance, but not well enough, never well enough, not as long as I play my part right. They have enough to worry about. Conrad especially. He's already fighting with our Dad, and after everything that's happened, especially now, here, with Belly - I can't. So I suck it up.
If I hadn't already pretty much guessed the extent to which Shayla had planned out this trip, hijacked by our group because Steven's planning barely made it past the flight here, it would be obvious by the restaurant. It was the kind of thing that must be impossible to find, hidden down a few little streets, a tricky twist round a corner, and yet somehow still within a perfect walking distance to the tourist areas we'd decided to hit up. The inside was decorated with old paintings, butchers diagrams and old-fashioned maps with imagined borders and monsters lurking between them, and the garden beyond looked lost to time, hidden among the vines. Only Shayla could have found a place like this, beauty and function, served effortlessly and with grace. As I pull up a chair at the table, Shayla flashes me a smile. I want to turn and run right then. Instead I smile back.
I can feel her eyes on me, but I can't look at her, not yet. If I look now I don't think I'll ever be able to stop. I don't think I have it in me to play my part right now. Instead I fix my attention on the menu, and the drinks, and the laughter, and on not looking at her. I can't. I can't.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ BELLY ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
He's avoiding me. He doesn't meet my gaze or say a word to me or acknowledge any of the million stupid jokes I make to try and grab his attention. There are stretches where he's as he always is, talking and laughing and joking, and I think I'm imagining it. And then I open my mouth and I can see how he changes, how he reacts to it. It's like running inside mid-Winter, and going to the sink to warm your hands up. In your childish hurry you forget to acclimate yourself, and thrust your iced hands under scalding water, sending prickles of razor stings along your skin. I'm six years old and I just finished my snowman and I'm running to the sink and then my hands.
I swear I can feel it, that prickle.
▬▬ ,.-~*¨¯¨*·~-.¸ AN ,.-~*¨¯¨*·~-.¸ ▬▬
*·~-.¸📰❣️,.-~*
i haven't posted an update in literal months but i found this waiting in my drafts and i'm thinking about continuing it?? i think i might??? i'm so sorry for the massive break but maybe i'll start posting again?
