Book #2 of Girl of Mine ✑
1957. It's the things you thought were yours. It's the lack of control and how you ought to make the most of what you have. Love for yourself or passed loves. There isn't a way to take hold of carried feelings, the actions...
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* chapter music * — Scream — High School Musical, Zac Efron
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Rosalie POV
The 20th of August, 1957
As his eyes belonged to my being, his blue held onto me—mixing his blue with mine. Leila, as I'd picked up on my nurse being named, switched out the fluids streaming through the venflon attached to my wrist. I understood that I'd been hurt—I remembered being upside down. But it was as though it was a faint memory jumping into my consciousness from time to time, making sensations of anxiety come and go. Soothingly, Elvis had reminded me twice why my body hurt—hearing his soft-spoken words once again.
The struggle to breathe in an even pattern back in the car and Elvis' voice disappearing—left me in complete silence to listen to falling rain. I had one thought that kept recurring as I waited for nothing but time to pass in that car, hoping I'd hold on. I didn't want to go out without seeing him again.
Moments ago, Elvis had swooped in to stop her from grabbing my wrist. The feeling in my chest, seeing him do that, became overwhelming. Watching him had been like that the whole time since I woke up to see him, but I played it off with jokes. Of course, it was naturally coming out of me—because it was me we were talking about.
But I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream about why I hadn't chosen him and instead went off. I wanted him to know how much I needed him too—in my life, around me, close to me. That he was my person. Then I wanted to yell at him for June—once again. For Natalie, for the Las Vegas showgirl and singer. For Debra and all his other flings.
If I had chosen him, would he ever leave me behind somewhere to bring another girl home to eat Gladys' Christmas dishes—while I came back the next week to cook with her? Serving the man that just could not keep it in his pants. Barely surviving—and I wanted nothing but him. His care for me traveled, going farther and farther. But the variable of him taking stops along the way, turning his head to other options, put the case of him and me to rest.
I felt foolish. Because our love for each other was so apparent—he was my person, and I knew what he felt for me. I may have caught on and understood that he didn't kiss that fan at the beach in Hollywood because of me, but what about others? I didn't mind him appreciating his fans. What did irk me was his heartstrings getting pulled at. With June—yeah, he wasn't truly in love because I knew when Elvis cared for someone deeply and not, but he thought he was. While going on the train to swoop her off her feet, I knew something was going on with us. What would stop him from doing the same to me?
As I watched the boy, feeling his hold at my knees, there was no sign of his care for me ever ending—and I believed it wouldn't. But Elvis enjoyed girls from left and right. Maybe not now and perhaps not tomorrow, but the next day? The following week, month or year? No matter if I was about to die last night—this didn't change. Elvis was Elvis, and I—betrayed by Wendell, was still me. I had vowed never to get hurt again. Elvis held the recipe to getting hurt, and he himself was the ingredient.
