[VicFuentes] I Want

[VicFuentes] I Want [ChapterThirteen]

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I bite down on my lower lip as Paul wraps his arms around me, and before I realize it, my head is resting on his shoulder and tears form like clouds in front of my eyes. “It’s such, it’s, ugh. Is there something wrong with tattoos on females?” Standing up straight, my shoulders tense, I scratch the back of my neck with my hand, looking up at him, weakly drawing my eyebrows together.

Blinking, he runs a hand through his hair, wrinkling his nose in confusion, as he attempts to put the puzzle pieces together. “If guys can have tattoos, why can’t girls? And stop. You’re going to cut the circulation in your arm if you squeeze any tighter.” Concern washes over his face, and he places his hand on mine, prying my fingers off of my arm, his eyes narrowing as if he was getting ready to scold a young child. “Do you see this? It looks like someone abused you.”

Frowning, I run a hand through my hair, hugging my arm to my chest, gently placing the palm of my other hand atop of it. “It doesn’t look like someone abused me. The drumsticks are more abusive than my grasp.” Lifting my shoulders up, I let my shoulders fall back down, wrinkling my nose when the quickness of the movement hurts more than I had ever anticipated it to. “And you’re not making me feel any better. And I could care less if males can have tattoos. You didn’t answer my question.”

“There is nothing wrong with your tattoos. I still don’t understand why your tattoos are a concern right now.” Paul raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side, as he bends down to open the guitar case, and I could see it in his eyes that he’s having a hard time staying calm with his guitar resting on the dirty floor. Shrugging my shoulders, I sigh, running a hand through my hair and wishing we weren’t touring with them anymore. This, all of it, is too much, too much to deal with, too much to process, and too much for me to handle.

Sitting down on the floor in front of his guitar, I look up at his tall, lanky figure, waiting for him to sit down, knowing that he knows how badly I want to be led away from my thoughts. As he sits down, I wrap my hand around the neck of his guitar, pulling it onto my lap, resting it down, the strings facing the ceiling as I strummed my fingers across the strings, my nose scrunching at the sound. “It needs to be tuned.” I say simply, handing it back to him, not able to get lost in an instrument.

Placing the guitar back in its case, he cocks his head to his right, knitting his eyebrows together as he attempts to figure out what is happening. “Did it really go that bad when you met his parents? Did his ex-girlfriend really make it awkward?” The questions, I knew they were coming, but I didn’t expect him to ask them. Usually he sits with me until my mind is off the subject just enough for me to willingly tell him everything when he asks because I'm so involved in something else to notice that I'm answering the questions.

Opening my mouth to respond, I shut it, noticing Mike walking over to us, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched forward: the awkward stance of a tall, lean guy trying to walk with his hands shoved in his pockets. “I didn’t think that they were coming this early. We kind of bombarded you.” Stopping when he stood next to Paul, he sits down, pulling his legs under him, pretzel style. “It was really awkward just standing there. I'm sorry about my mom.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Forcing a smile to tug at my lips, I run a hand through my hair, letting out a soft sigh as I bit down on my lower lip, wondering why he was the one who was trying to comfort me while his brother, and my boyfriend, is nowhere to be seen. Sliding my tongue across my teeth, an unusual habit I had picked up earlier in life, I pull my knees up to my chest, my fingers curling around the straps of my heels. “I’ve gotten worse.”