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Game Over
chapter fifteen
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"NICE ROOM." Phoebe's eyes lifted from the array of college brochures spread across her bed. Standing at her dresser was Alan Dominguez. He wore a denim jacket over his white t shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. An earring dangled from his left ear. She rolled her eyes with a smile. "Sure," she replied with a slight laugh. He picked up the glassless frame with furrowed brows. The picture was a class picture. He could easily spot Phoebe amidst the group, sitting between two girls he didn't recognize. She was probably ten in this picture. She had braces and her hair was pulled into pigtails. She looked cute. "No, I'm serious," he told her, looking over his shoulder to find her reading the entirety of a brochure to Northeastern Illinois University.
She tossed the brochure to the side and picked up the next. "Are you planning on staying in Chicago?" Alan asked as he moved closer to the bed. She had a suitcase sitting on the wall close to her closet. Beside it was a standing lamp the color of slate rock. It's shade was in the shape of a geometric sphere. "I don't know," she admitted. She glanced up from the paper before returning to her reading. There was only six reasons to stay, those reasons being each of the Gallaghers. She didn't really have anyone else to stay for. She was almost positive that once she graduated high school, her parents would finally leave Chicago and go their separate ways. They'd escaped the hold Phoebe supposedly had on them.
"Get out of here," Alan sighed as he plopped down onto her bed. He kicked his shoes off one by one and stretched his arms behind his head. Phoebe laughed at his attempt of getting comfortable. "Go somewhere you want to go. Hell, leave the country." Her hands fell into her lap and she peered over toward the older boy. A soft, minuscule smile found her lips. "Go to a beach, a wooded forest. Swim with the dolphins, go bungee jumping, become a survivalist." His hand inched forward, softly taking the stray strand of her hair that had fallen out of her ponytail between his fingers. The seriousness on his face was enough to make her snort. "With what money?" she asked, seriously. "Once I'm out of the house, my parents are dipping. That means no money, no home, nothing."
He tucked the hair behind her ear with a heavy sigh. "I'll go with you," he suggested. "For financial support. I've got a little something saved up." Her smiled broadened. She laughed to herself, hiding her face from his sharp eyes. Her hand came to cover her lips, a sheepish blush cradling her skin. "Don't you think you're moving too fast?" she inquired with a joking tone. They had only met recently, though they could say they've known each other from school. He shrugged his shoulders. "You've got, what? Another year? So, no. I don't." She scoffed at his confidence. In one swift moment, she slid over to face him fully. "What makes you think we'll still be talking in a year?" she asked him curiously.
"Call it a hunch," he hummed, eyes fluttering closed as a confident smirk rested on his lips. She couldn't believe her ears. He was so arrogant. She kicked his side slightly, shaking her head. "No, no. You gotta go," she teased. When he didn't budge, she pushed at his side with her hands. He began moving gradually, until he caught her wrist. A shrill squeal left her mouth as he pulled her onto him, their chests colliding. His laugh was like wind chimes on a spring evening during rainfall. It just sounded like it made sense. His arms wrapped tight around her, trapping her there. She gasped aloud, her hands pressed to his abdomen. "This isn't fair," she grunted out, her fingers pinching at his stomach. "You're stronger than me!"
He looked up at her with soft eyes. The room grew warm as they stayed glued to one another, Phoebe's attempts at escaping coming to a close. She smiled down at him, hair framing her bare face, teeth on full display. It had been a while since she had met someone who could make her laugh like this. Normally she was at the Gallagher residence, taking care of kids, watching documentaries or movies off of her laptop. She had fun, of course, and loved all of the time she spent over there. But Alan was like this breath of fresh air. He made her smile, laugh, he taught her Spanish. He wasn't like Lip, at all. "Let go of me," she giggled, digging her fingers into his sides. He squirmed against her.
His laughter spilled out as she continued to tickle his sides. He tried to stop her by grabbing her arms, but she only continued relentlessly. His eyes began to tear up before he finally found an advantage. Her back soon hit the mattress and he hovered over her, pining her arms above her head. Her t shirt rode up her stomach to expose the creamy flesh and the waistband of her Fruit of the Looms underwear. He huffed breathlessly above her, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of discomfort. But she only looked up at him almost as if she saw a new person in his spot. Her eyes flickered from his to his lips before darting back to his eyes.
"Not trying to be weird, but you're really beautiful," she whispered. He noticed the twitch of her smile before it blossomed tenfold. Her eyes crinkled as she giggled to herself. Alan felt his heart skip a beat at the sight. He held himself up by his elbow and his free hand came to caress her cheek. Her skin was warm against his palm, smooth like silk. His thumb trailed over her cheekbone before his forefinger followed the line of her jaw. She stared up at him as he took in her features. Gently, he put pressure right at her pulse point, a ghost of a smirk painting his face. "Your heart's racing," he teased the girl. "Do I make you nervous?"
"No," she lied. "You're smushing me." She went to pull her arms back, but his grip tightened for a moment. In a flash, he was pressing his lips to hers in a soft, tender kiss. It was different from any other kiss she had ever experienced. It was a clash of teeth and tongues. It wasn't forceful of uncomfortable. It was gentle, sweet. She relaxed against the mattress, her eyes fluttering closed. As her lips moved against his, he released her arms and moved that hand to her neck. He cupped her face with one hand, thumb tenderly rubbing against her skin. She left her arms there, too invested in the sensual kiss to get increasingly comfortable. Instead, she chose to float along a cloud behind her eyelids.
His mouth tasted like sour candy, Airhead Xtreems to be exact, and stale cigarettes. He pecked her mouth once more before pulling away with a beaming smile. He rested onto the bed from beside her and sighed. "Damn," he vocalized aloud, instantly touching his mouth in surprise. Phoebe lolled her head to the side to see his fingers feeling over his lips. "Mhm," she hummed in agreement. His hands came to rest on his stomach as the two stared up at her ceiling. "So.. What's your favorite color?" he inquired. She smiled over at him with puckered brows. But as the moments ticked on, she realized that perhaps he was asking a serious question.
She turned her head to face the ceiling and shifted to a more comfortable position. She matched his, letting her hands rest against her stomach, fingers drumming along her shirt. "Hm, I'd have to say green," she answered with a nod of her head. "What's yours?" He sucked his teeth noisily as he pondered on the question. His finger tapped against the button of his jacket with a soft noise. "Purple." She looked to him in an instant, surprised by his answer. "Purple," she repeated, eyebrows raising in questioning. His head lolled to the side. "Yeah?" he replied, a confused smile gracing his lips.
"You're lying." She shifted onto her side and propped her head up with an elbow. He stared back at her silently with furrowed brows. "You're not?" He shook his head as an answer, shocking the girl further. She would have never guessed that his favorite color would be purple. She'd never seen him dress in anything but monochromatic schemes of black and white. "What? I can still be manly and like a soft color," he stated matter-of-factly. It wasn't completely because of his masculinity, though that did play a part in it. Thinking like that now made Phoebe feel gross. "Why purple of all colors?" she asked curiously.
"Why not?" he countered. She shrugged her shoulders. "I think its really pretty. It looks good on everything: flowers, food, people." He poked the tip of her nose jokingly, smiling over at the girl. "I bet you'd look pretty in purple." Her heart stuttered in her chest at his statement, causing her face to flush with a rose petal bloom. She pushed away his hand with a shy smile. "If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?" he asked. It was strange to be answering questions about herself. The people she talked to daily knew basically everything about her, and the new people never tried to get to know her. They focused solely on what she could do for them financially or sexually. Sitting with Alan then was like frolicking in a field of flowers.
"Corndogs! I could eat them for breakfast, lunch, dinner. With a side of mustard and onions." Alan grimaced at her answer. Shock arose on her features at his reaction. "What?" she asked. He turned his head to hide the disgust he truly had for her choice, but it was too late. She rolled onto her stomach and took hold of one of his hands. "Answer me," she jokingly demanded, shaking the hand she held to pry his attention back to her. Her attempts humored him. She was like a child demanding attention. It was cute. "Why would you pick onions?" he asked in return, looking back to her with a wry face. "Do you not realize how gross your breath will smell for the rest of your life?"
She scoffed at his reasoning with a roll of her eyes. "What would you pick then?" He pursed his lips. He just knew she was going to laugh. But as he met her eyes and saw the peaceful expression on her stunning features, he felt at ease. "Chicken nuggets," he admitted. "From anywhere really. I can cook some mean ones though. They'd make you wanna slap your grandma." Her eyebrows rose in amusement. Their hands that had been resting on his stomach slowly inched together, finally coming to kiss palms. She looked down at their conjoined fingers, a content smile crossing her features.
"You know, this is the longest a boy has ever been in my room," she told him. He grinned proudly at that fact. "New record," he jokingly muttered, his eyes enraptured in the way her hand fit in his. His fingers were decorated in these bulky, silver rings while hers had chipper nail polish and small, wire like rings resting on her middle finger. Braided bracelets sat on her thin wrist, green and white beads hanging from the remaining strands used to tighten the jewelry. Her fingers carded between his perfectly, resting comfortably, giving off a warmth he hadn't felt in so long. "Why'd you fight Kendall that year?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
A heavy sigh left his nose, deflating his chest. His thumb ran gently over the back of her hand. "You know, there was this older woman in my neighborhood. Most of the kids on the block called her Abuela María because she treated us all like her own grandkids." There was a kind, warm smile on his face as he reminisced. "My parents weren't great role models. When I needed food, clothes, and whatever kids need, she was there. She'd throw these parties for the kids in her backyard and she'd make the most delicious fabada asturiana. She's was my whole world, you know. I did everything to make sure she would be proud of me."
Despite how sweet the story was, Phoebe had a bad feeling she knew the ending. She climbed closer to Alan and rested her head against his shoulder. He sighed before resting his cheek against her head. "When she died... I went into a dark place. I turned to dealing, and got into trouble with the law a bit. And then Kendall — that snot dribbling ass hat — decided to talk about stuff he didn't know anything about—" His heart rate escalated as the memory of that day resurfaced. The way Kendall would speak illy of people of lower class, specifically those Alan knew all too well. But the moment he said something about Abuela... he snapped.
Noticing his discomfort, Phoebe wrapped her arm around him. Their hands disconnected, but he still felt her warmth. Her head cuddled up to his chin while her arm held him tight. Her eyes fluttered closed as she attempted to comfort him to her best ability. "I would have fought him, too," she muttered softly. It was that moment that Alan truly felt that connection he had been chasing after for years. In Phoebe's arms, he felt at home.
—
It had been a few hours since Alan had climbed out of her window and said goodbye. She had remained in her room, sorting through college brochures, sipping at the can of Arizona Tea she had found on her nightstand. But as time went on, she realized that she was starting to get hungry. She felt her stomach cramp and could hear its pitiful groans, and the tea wasn't doing too much to satiate the need. She forced herself out of bed and slipped on her favorite slippers before padding out of her bedroom.
A tristful tune flooded the air. Its soft, melancholic whispers floated up the stairs and through the house at a slow pace. Confusion swept across Phoebe's face as she looked around her. Every door upstairs was closed, lights turned off. It drifted up the stairs from the first floor like an eerie presence. Phoebe wasn't too sure she wanted to find out where it was coming from, but her complaining stomach was enough to have her feet moving. She slid over the carpeted stairs with silent, slow steps until she came across the last one.
Sitting in the love seat with a bottle of wine in her lap was Millie Lim. Mascara trails stained her skin, glittering under the soft lamp light. It wasn't uncommon for Millie to fall into one of her episodes. They happened frequently enough, especially after Patrick went back to work. The small hope she held onto, the hope that Patrick may still love her, would shatter into a million pieces and she would return to the ruthless reality that he was incapable. Patrick Lim was incapable of loving anything that wasn't himself. Phoebe watched for a moment as her mother sniffled, clutching onto the bottle for dear life.
It was these moments she hated the most. Despite how she treated her, Phoebe still cared. She hated seeing her mother so broken. She hated seeing the woman she was meant to hold on a pedestal crumble all because of a man. With a heavy sigh, she ignored the ache settled in her stomach and entered the living area where her mother sat. The record player was playing from the corner. It was an old record, one that Phoebe hadn't heard in a few years. "You okay?" she asked, plopping down beside Millie and pulling the throw blanket over her lap. Her eyes hesitantly cut to her mother. She looked so hopeless.
"I want to hate him," she croaked, her bottom lip trembling. Tears continued to pelt down her cheeks like marbles, rolling against her shirt or falling to her arms. Her fingers flexed a moment before gripping the bottle neck tighter. She tipped it back with a bit of struggle, gulping back the red liquid as if it was nothing. Phoebe's hands came to rest on her stomach, her fingers instantly moving to fiddle with the rings resting there. "It isn't fair that he can just move on so easily while I'm stuck here, reminiscing the past and wondering where it all went wrong. It just isn't fair." The bottle fell back into her lap and she hugged it to her like it was a child. It almost made Phoebe envious.
"You don't have to hate him to move on," Phoebe muttered softly, carefully. Her nails dug into her skin as Millie's dead eyes turned to her. Her bags were darker from the mascara fragments and her smudged eyeshadow. There was nothing behind her eyes. "You never loved him," she clipped. "You wouldn't understand." Phoebe's nose scrunched up at her mother's accusation. Never loved him? How could a child never love her parents? There were moments where Phoebe thought the world of her father. She saw him as some secret agent, defeating evil by influencing others to join the fight through video games. She had once thought her mother was a beacon of light, even though she was always a little too tough on her.
Like any child out there, Phoebe had loved her parents. She would go to sleep at night and pray for their safety, for their happiness. She'd tell her classmates just how important they were and how they made her the happiest person in the world. She thought they were humble, kind, pure saints. But as she grew up and saw things as they were, those fantasies faded like cotton candy in water. She no longer saw those good qualities and instead saw the bad. She wanted to be naive again, to follow her mother around by her coattails and show her how she was her good girl. She wanted to see the impressed gleam in her father's eyes when her teachers would brag about her intelligence. But she couldn't, because life wasn't a fantasy.
She didn't want to hold this against her mother. How could she have known besides from the happiness that little Phoebe always expressed when she saw her parents. But, of course, how could she remember when there was not one documentation of her life around. "I love him," she argued, lips tightening into a straight line as she bounced her head. "I loved him so much, Mom. He.. I wanted to be the very best just for him. I wanted him to love me like I loved him." Millie scoffed in disbelief. She moved so quickly, slamming the glass bottle onto the round coffee table.
She stood swiftly, knocking throw pillows off of the loveseat, and turned to face her daughter. "So, now you're going to feel sorry for yourself?" she asked incredulously. "You? You don't get to feel upset! He didn't leave you, he left me!" Her voice rose with every word she spoke, piercing Phoebe's ears. She stared back at her mother in awe. "You know what, I love you!" she shouted back. "Why does he only matter? I love you!" She couldn't understand why she was left out. She didn't understand why she or her opinions never mattered. She stood up next to her mother and grabbed her hands tightly. "I love you, Mom. I love you, okay?"
Her breathing quickened as she searched her mother's eyes for any emotion, but they remained cold. "I love you. Why don't you love me? Why can't you love me... Mommy.." Her face crumpled as she knelt before her mother. She held onto her hands as tight as she could, scared that if she let go, her mother would disappear. "Stop," Millie demanded of her weeping daughter. She tried to easily pull her hands from Phoebe's grip, but resorted to yanking them away. "You always make everything about yourself. It's disgusting."
And she stepped away, leaving Phoebe to wonder what was so bad about her that her own mother could never love her.
from rumi . . .
how could we go from something
so soft to something so heartbreaking??
what are you guys thinking about
alan though? do you like him?
i'm so soft for him i would
honestly jump in front of a
train tor him.
but hey! we've gotten a longer
chapter this time!! i'm v
impressed.
what's your favorite part of the chapter?
maybe i'm a sadist, but it was so
satisfying for phoebe to finally
ask the question she had been
wondering for so long. even though
millie didn't answer her, at least she
asked.
don't forget to vote + comment!