Beverley

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>>> The Thin Line Between the Truth and Misunderstanding

A/N: Before starting, I want to thank you all for being supportive and leaving amazing comments! Especially Miksha, Em, Anne and inkseed because their comments were so detailed, well-thought and true criticism. I really appreciate what you've done there, love you all. :)

Also, Bayan for being there from the beginning and urging me to write. Also, being impatient - it sometimes works, too. ;)

ALSO, I CAN'T BELIEVE IT BUT IT IS #52 IN SHORT STORY! TWO DIGITS. OMG, GUYS, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

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>>> Chapter 2

During the walk, I realise I miss walking through these streets, breathing the familiar air and listening to the breeze brushing my face. When he stops at a building, I look over and frown. It is awfully familiar but I am sure I haven’t been here before.

We climb the stairs (I really struggle balancing myself), and he opens the door in a minute, gesturing me inside. I mosey in and check around. It seems neat and (again) familiar. I fall back on the wall due to dizziness of alcohol. High heels make it ten times harder to walk and I already want to throw them.

I feel Beverley’s hand on my waist and he gently pushes me forward and with the help, I manage to sit on the first couch in the room. I get rid of the high heels quickly, tucking my legs beneath and running a hand through my hair. He sits next to me and looks really concerned. (I don’t like the way he looks at me, it’s too familiar and caring.) “Can you pour me a drink?” I ask sweetly. I need more, the pain is there.

He laughs lightly. “You’re kidding, right?”

I laugh along with him. “No.”

He eventually stops and stares at me weirdly. “It’s enough, Gwen. You’re going to collapse.”

“Shut up,” I mumble, looking down with the aggressiveness of rejection. “I killed my boyfriend, indirectly. I need alcohol.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he replies firmly. “He was drunk and he hit a truck.”

“I want to die.” I say, not minding his explanation. He knows nothing, he doesn’t know why Beverley was drunk in the first place.

“You don’t.” I lift my gaze to face him. “You don’t mean it.”

“You cannot know if I do or not,” I spit. “You don’t know me.” I am bored of him pretending to behave so. “Spill the beans out.”

“I’m Beverley, I didn’t die.”

I snort. “Ha ha. You’re so funny.”

He sighs. “I’ll make you coffee.” When he attempts to stand up, I pull the edge of his shirt so he loses his balance and sit again.

I bite my lip and pull him closer by his collar. He looks at me taken aback and by taking advantage of it, I take his face within my hands and kiss him. Actually it is the effect of alcohol (with a little amount of his good looks and eyes). At first, he doesn’t kiss me back and his shock quirks my lips up. My eyes firmly shut, I swing my arms around his neck and pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

He grasps my arms and pushes me back, breathing heavily. “Don’t.” He looks at me with those gray eyes, blurred by conflict, then he lowers his gaze.

Another rejection wounds me up. “Why weren’t you surprised?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ear.

“For the kiss?”