Author's Note: Here it is and here we are: the last chapter. I'm so inexplicably grateful for all of you and I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter 35: The Climax: Porn or Plot?
"Can't repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"
- F Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chance
Expect the unexpected. That's what everyone tells you, as if it's some sort of genius piece of advice. As if they're not telling you to do something impossible. They tell you to be prepared for anything; to be ready for anything that life can throw at you.
And perhaps it is possible to be prepared for a variety of possibilities, but how can you be prepared for all of them?
How can you be prepared for the divorce of your parents?
How can you be prepared for the constant absence of your mother?
How can you be prepared for the harsh conditions of your lonely life?
How can you be prepared for anything?
The answer?
You can't.
You can't be prepared for everything. And you're incapable of expecting the unexpected. Because it's not unexpected if you expect it, is it?
Tragedies form in the midst of contentment, and contentment forms in the midst of tragedy. No one expects the moment their life will fall to ruin. No three year old can expect their mom to leave. And no seventeen year old can expect their boyfriend to lie to them. Yet it happens. Right when we least expect it to; right when our skin meets the welcoming warmth of a flame, is when we start to burn.
Expect the unexpected.
The term isn't about being prepared for everything. It's about not letting your guard down. It's about not letting the veil of confort cloud your reasoning. It's about constant awareness.
It's not about expecting the unexpected, but being prepared to deal with the unexpected.
So though I was in no way prepared for the words that left Callaway's lips, I wouldn't be clouded by them and I would deal with them.
But he loves me. He just said that he -
I clenched my fist.
But I don't know if it's the truth.
I walked towards the silhouette blindly, just as I walked through life.
"What did you just say?"
A dark head of curls turned toward me, frigid eyes becoming exposed.
"I love you, Cha."
I felt my heart race and my skin dampen with sweat. My body began to thrum with anxiety and my mind rushes with thought. But with all my willpower, I coerced my being into stilling.
"Why?"
The question was calm as it left my lips, using little more force than a breath.
He looked at me then, eyes hidden by shadows, but even so, his desperation was apparent.
"Do I really need a reason?" He laughed, sound broken.
I felt my hand clench. "Yes, actually you do." I stepped closer. "Because just a couple of days ago, you told me it was impossible. You . . ." Anger filled me. "You told me you didn't care about me at all."
There was a shuffle of noise, and the boy in question rose from his seat, coming to stand before me.
"I lied, Chance -"
"And you just keep lying," I snapped back. "So tell me, Callaway . . . How am I supposed to know what really is the truth?"
The question resonated through the air as a pale face peered at me, green eyes vacant. Chapped lips were equally as vacant as my words were met with nothing.
I sighed. "At least answer me this," my gaze met his. "Are you high?"
Callaway's eyes widened at that, looking up at me and scanning my face.
"What? How did you . . . " He trailed off, realization cascading across the pallor of his cheeks. Sniggering at himself, he pulled something out of his pocket. "Unfortunately, I'm not."
I looked at his hand, something dangling before me.
A frown formed upon my face as the item in his grasp was revealed. "Acid. How retro."
He smiled grimly. "I didn't take it. And against all underlying instinct, I'm completely sober." Scoffing, he spoke, "Save for a few meager sips bit of shitty beer."
I looked at him, eyes bearing into his skin with channeled ferocity.
"I did it for you," he admitted hushedly. "Staying clean."
I was trying so deeply to process Callaway's words; to listen to what he had to say and to try to grasp for the fragments of sympathy that once shone so brightly in the space of my mind. But despite my attempts, there was but one thought in my head.
He will burn out.
Callaway bit at his cheek, continuing, "I did it because I couldn't bear to see -"
"Couldn't bear to see what, Callaway?" I interrupted, unable to help myself. "Couldn't bear to see me disappointed in you? Because it's far too late for that."
Icy eyes looked up at me. "Chance, everything I disclosed that day at the cafe . . . it wasn't true."
"So you lied about lying?" I tried to contain my rage. "You said all those hurtful things for the sake of . . . the sake of . . ."
"Protecting you." His voice began to heighten with mine. "I was trying to protect you from me, Chance."
"Did you ever consider that maybe - just maybe - I don't need protecting? That maybe I knew what I was getting myself into and that I did it by choice?"
"By choice?" His fists clenched at his side. "How do you expect me to believe that?"
Cool wind brushed against my cheek as a shiver rushed down my spine.
"I did it because I love you, Callaway," I said.
"You say that." He inhaled sharply. "But how could anyone truly love someone like me?"
"I do, okay?" A hand came up to tug at my hair. "I was willing to look beyond all your flaws and to truly immerse myself in the whole that was you; the real you. Not the boy who dedicated his time to hiding behind big words and clever insults and other bullshit. But the boy who smiled every once in a while and sang when he thought no one else was looking." Instinctively, my hand came up to grasp his. "I don't need any shielding from you. I love you for who you are. Or who I thought you were. But it seems like the Callaway I fell in love with is hiding." A shaky breath. "Hiding behind his own vision of himself."
"I'm still the same person I was a week ago." Stepping closer to me, he gripped my hand tighter.
"Maybe." The word felt weak. "But how am I supposed to know that?"
Hand shaking, I let go of his and took a step back, eyes downcast.
Anger infiltrated every syllable of his words. "I fucked up, okay?"
"You 'fucked up'?" I gasped, looking back up. "You more than fucked up, Callaway. You are fucked up."
His lips parted, eyes widening ever so slightly in apparent shock.
"And you know what?" A laugh left my lips. "So am I."
I could feel the truth rushing through my head like billowing wind.
Heart racing, I continued, "I know you all like to think that I'm absolutely perfect, but I've got my own issues to deal with, okay?I've got problems too. It's not just all about you and how broken you are." My teeth grit. "You can't expect me to fix you. Because do you really think that telling me the truth will get rid of all the lies? Do you really think that not wanting to see me disappointed will just get rid of your addiction? Do you really think that loving me will just get rid of your sociopathy?"
The boy in question looked away from me then, his eyes dark and lifeless. Nothing was said as his lip twitched and his fingers trembled.
"You might be broken, Callaway. But so am I. And no matter how hard you try, two broken people can't make a whole."
Green eyes finally met mine in silent agony. "I know."
My foot brushed against the snowy wood of the porch, creating a shaky line across the surface.
"But does it mean we can't try?" A desperate voice asked.
I smiled sadly. "I was willing to give you everything I had. Even walking into this party, I was ready to forgive everything you've done."
He interrupted me, "Was?"
My head shook in agreement. "I was. But then I . . . realized the mess I'd be getting myself into."
The wheels in Callaway's head were evident as they spun wildly, eyes beginning to blaze once more. "So you do comprehend precisely why I was trying to distance myself from you. I wanted to spare you from this scorching mess."
Something flared up within me then, burning as it infiltrated my lungs.
"The problem isn't you, Callaway." My jaw clenched.
"Then what is?" He snapped.
"It's . . ." Thoughts tried to gather in my mind. "It's your insecurity."
Callaway's mouth slipped open. "Excuse me?"
"Your insecurity, Callaway." Repeating, I gained confidence in my thoughts. "I couldn't see it before. But now . . . It all makes sense."
"You . . ." He grimaced. "You can't be serious."
I could feel everything piecing together in my head. "You're so scared, Callaway. So scared of the things that you could do, that you bottle yourself up until you implode. You retaliate out of fear, but your retaliation is what caused this 'scorching mess.' We wouldn't be in this situation if you hadn't been so scared."
"I'm not scared -"
"You're so scared that you lose yourself in alcohol, drugs and self-destruction. Your fear drives you, Callaway. And it's destroying you. And your fear could - and would - destroy me."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding as Callaway just stared at me. Eyes blinked ferociously, a gaze flittered aimlessly, and a lip quivered ever so slightly. He was so close that I could feel his stuttered breaths on my face.
"Chance," shaking voice starting. "What precisely are you implying?"
"Even if you're telling the truth right now about actually caring about me, there's no way that this will work." I took in a breath. "We have half a year left, Callaway. And then I'm going to New York."
"I'll wait for you." The phrase was like a desperate hand clinging to mine, refusing to let go.
"But I won't wait for you," I said. "I'm not going to leave for four years and come back to find you drowning in yourself. I'm not going to come back and find a mess."
"Chance I haven't consumed drugs for such a long time -"
"But you almost did today, didn't you?"
Silence. And that was enough of an answer.
"I can't be the one to ground you. Especially when I'm miles away. You can't do things for other people, Callaway. You can't do things based on your debilitating fear." I exhaled. "You have to do it for yourself. And clearly, that's not enough motivation for you."
"You're . . . " He took in a breath, and something in his face changed then. His scowl softened and the furrow of his brow dissipated. He looked calm. "You're right."
"I'm in love with you, Callaway. And you may be in love with me, but love can't overcome your doubt." My eyes flickered down. "My mother was driven by her fear. Just like you are. And she left us. And it ruined my father and I. I know how fear can manifest and rot in a mind, how it can destroy a person's life. And I see it in you."
"You don't even know me, Chance," Callaway sneered. "You're preaching multitudes of statements you deem factual in some endeavour to explain why you don't want to be stuck with me."
I watched carefully as anger flared up in the boy's eyes; I watched as his fingers clenched and his breathing quickened; I watched as he took a warning step closer to me; I watched as he proved my theory right.
"You don't know me or my mind as well as you think you do."
My head nodded. "Actually, you're right. I was wrong about you."
Green eyes shot up, eyelashes fluttering in surprise.
"You're not scared, Callaway. You're terrified."
I watched as his face fell like the violent downfall of rain in a thunderstorm.
"But you'll never admit it to yourself, will you?" Questioning, I inched closer. "Because you don't want to seem weak. Because you don't want to stray from the perfect persona you have created for yourself."
"I know I'm not scared, Chance," he said. "Because my weakness isn't fear. My weakness is my love for you."
The words weren't uttered with the same reckless ferocity as usual; they were firm and solid. They sounded so sure. I felt like I needed to believe him, as I always did. But the verity of reality was clear in my mind.
"You don't get it, Callaway." I let out a breath. "Love is a disease. And fear is
both a symptom and a cure."
Callaway looked at me then, green eyes far and distant as they processed my words. I watched as his features began to crumble under the heavy weight of realization and something akin to acceptance.
"I'm scared too, Callaway. But our fear doesn't make us special," I told him. "It's not us against the world. It's us against ourselves. And that is a battle we can never win."
There was a peacefulness beginning to enclose us then. My face softened as the air around me began to feel warm despite its frigidness. The snow fell languidly, softly. As though in apology for the previously billowing weather. I watched as a single flake landed on the small boy's face before me. The snowflake melted in a mere instant, leaving a damp trail across the flushed cheek.
Despite everything, I smiled at him.
And he smiled that ever-so deprecating smile of his; lips quirking to one side, cheeks rising and eyes sparkling in something unidentifiable. A smile that was both amused and disappointed; a smile that was both excited and bored; a smile that was both loving and loathing. It was a smile that meant both everything and nothing.
"It's a battle we've already lost," Callaway spoke, soft as the snow.
"Yeah, it is," I agreed.
"Despite it all, I love you, Chance."
I felt moistness perpetrating my eyes. "I love you too, Callaway."
Before I could cry in front of the boy I knew, I took a step back, taking a moment to remember this scene; these moments that would soon become the dusty memories of a glittering past. It was a past that I would cherish forever, though not a past that would progress into the future.
I looked out at the boy in the silent night, party still roaring behind me, and I left.
I didn't look back.
___________
Callaway
I found myself immersed in isolation within a swarming crowd. The feeling was far from foreign; in fact, it had been my default state a mere month prior.
But it felt different now.
Refusing to dwell, I averted my focus towards my phone, mouth biting at the ruby red in my grasp. Juice trickled from the bite into my palm, leaving a viscous trail. The dampness made me frown.
I wiped at the liquid with my opposite hand, ignoring the syrupy stain as I immersed myself in the monotonous movement of my jaw.
Staring at the stark tile of the room, my mind was devoid of thought. My usual apathy settling in like a dusty film.
"Hey."
A voice pierced through the filth of my thoughts, the sound a duster brushing through. I didn't need to look up from my apple to know who was addressing me.
I grit my teeth. "I don't want to talk to you."
"I . . . I know. But we need to talk ." Chance sat down in front of me, uninvited.
"Need? Are you really sure you know what I need?"
A sigh, full of evident exhaustion. "You need friendship," he said, matter-of-factly.
"You were my friend, Chance." I added, "'My only friend."
"We're still friends, Callaway."
I smiled, bitter. "That's what you think."
"You don't have to do this."
"Do what?"
"Shut me out. Like you shut everyone else out. It's unhealthy," he declared.
"Health? Like that's a primary concern."
"I still love you, Callaway." The voice was a whisper. "And I can't bear to see you ruin yourself like this."
"People are created to be ruined. And love isn't meant to last." I frowned. "We'll both get over it."
"I'm so sorry." The syllables cracked as Chance spoke them.
I nodded. "I'm sorry too."
The "I'm sorry I wasn't better for you" remained unspoken.
"I hope to see you around."
"I don't," grimacing, I replied. "Goodbye, Cha."
He nodded and then looked at me, eyes twinkling as brightly as ever. "Beat on, Callaway." An ever so slight smile graced his lips. "Beat on."
I didn't even scowl with my habitual piercing contempt. I didn't even frown with my seemingly-everlasting hollowness. No, I smiled. I smiled like I had never smiled before. I smiled like nothing was wrong and I smiled like the world was within my grasp. I smiled like I knew Chance smiled. And I smiled like I knew Chance wanted me to smile. And I smiled like I had never began to let myself smile.
And for once, I didn't need alcohol or drugs or kissing to feel something. I didn't need endless material comforts to pervade the gaping hole in my chest. I didn't need distractions. All I needed was the harsh reality of life. The shocking realization of the possibilities that were before me. The newfound knowledge that life was not a light across a river for me to swim across.
There was more to life than a distant shining light. There was more to life than a distant shining boy. And there was more to life than I could ever possibly know.
The shining light diminished amongst the bustling crowd. A shift was imminent as I was being thrust into the pulls of the times to come.
And I wasn't scared.
___________
END
Answer: Plot