Scarlet knew, somehow.
Maybe not all that went on, but she knew. And she helped me get past the days that led up to the weekend.
Days I had to spend completing last minute assignments before spring break. Thinking about him and how could he? He promised spending time with me, staying in that tiny bed of his, in that cramped apartment with him. I had imagined lazy mornings, I had imagined breakfasts in bed and slow burning kisses. I had selfishly imagined him calling in sick everyday for work just so he could spend time with me. I had imagined his apartment suddenly feeling smaller, the dishes too unclean, the sheets too dirty with the smell of his sweat and mine interlaced. And we would throw open his windows, play music on high, stumble our way through cleaning his apartment. We would leave our clothes to dry and finally escape to the outdoors, relish in the changing climate, find somewhere else to steal kisses.
And instead of his plain, colorless wrists, Raphael would fill them will color. Colors from rainbow pallets, with pens that shined anew. He would sometimes press shapes and images, imprint them on my skin when he felt tired of his own. And then, when things went really well between the two of us, when a certain point in our lives revealed that we were more than just two bodies in need of more heat, we would find a way to rid him of his biggest fear. He would slowly open up to me, carefully as if unraveling tissue paper, and we would work on getting him behind that tattoo pen.
And in my deepest, wildest dreams, this would stretch further than spring break. This would stretch so far ahead that I would find a job nearby and we would settle down. Just the two of us. His tattoo work a massive success, and my job, whatever it would be, I would feel happy just to have.
Scarlet fixed me up. Pulled me out of bed and commanded me to work my way through it. She dragged me to the kitchen, insisting I help with that recipe like I once promised. Even though the kitchen grew silent while we waited for the dough to bake, and my thoughts swiveled back to him, and I didn't even notice when she pulled out the pan and burned her thumb until I heard the clatter of metal on kitchen tile. And then I'd spent hours apologizing until she angrily told me to, "shut the fuck up," and, "grab the strawberries from the fucking fridge. Fuck, this wasn't part of the recipe."
Then there was Nate to think about, too. Who had emailed me back minutes after my own reply, demanding a deeper explanation. One that I argued I could not deliver to him, that no words could explain what I had done or what had happened. He wouldn't believe me anyway, even if I told the truth. Yet he insisted for more. I gave him all I could provide, but it must not have been sufficient enough to him and I received no further emails after that.
And so I planned a getaway.
At first it was a stray thought as Scarlet hacked at some onions on a cutting board and babbled on about her annoying coworkers, who kept insisting they were better than her when clearly no one was better than Scarlet at what she did. A "what if?" that developed into a snow balling effect until I was pacing the apartment thinking "what if, what if, what if?" What if this and what if that.
What if I booked a ticket? For when? Sunday morning, 10AM. I would get there in a few hours, have enough time to find a place to stay. And do what? Fix things. For good, for once. I fucked up, and I had a solid plan to fix it.
"You're out of your mind," Scarlet said, Saturday night as I booked my ticket on my laptop.
"I need to do this," I said.
"You're wasting your money," she said. "Skype exists, you know."
"I know, but I need to do this face to face. What kind of person would I be if I did it otherwise? I need to see him."
"Where would you stay?"
The dreaded question. Where would I stay?
"I can find a friend."
She snorted.
"Or," I said, "worst case scenario, I would have to stay at my family house half an hour away."
"Worst case scenario?" she raised her eyebrows.
"Long story."
Her expression softened. "Jake, we need to talk about him eventually. I don't want you to go there with mixed feelings and-"
I flinched. "I don't have mixed feelings."
"Jake, he messed up. Really badly, and you have to accept that. When you come back, things will be different."
"They're already different."
She shook her head. "He'll find out you're gone. Back to Nate, and it would tear him to pieces."
"Good."
Bad.
"You're an idiot," she decided. "Both of you are idiots."
I knew Scarlet had spoken to him, somehow. Cornered him at the store, forced out a confession. I didn't care that she knew. Every time I thought about it, I thought about him too. If he felt bad, if he looked tired and worn out like I did. If he thought about me, or winced when he said my name. Or if he was trying to erase the feeling of my skin, my body, the feeling of my hair beneath his fingers. I thought about whether he lay thinking about us every time he lay down on his bed at night, if he remembered the things we'd done and the words we'd shared. I did that. I wondered if he did it too.
When Sunday morning finally rolled around, the sun still a dull shade of orange that tinted the apartment walls, I made breakfast. It was a rule now, one that I made up when I found myself thinking too much. I didn't allow myself to think too much, wouldn't allow myself to think at all if it were possible. I poured oil over a pan, scrambled four eggs, fried bacon over the remaining oil, listened to the whirring sound the coffee machine made before piling the food on to two plates.
Scarlet watched me sometimes, as I busied myself, and I hated it. She could see right through me and it was impossible for me to erect a wall solid enough to separate her from me.
"Did you finish packing?" she asked, nursing a mug of coffee in her hands.
I nodded, finishing up on seasoning the eggs. "I'm leaving for the airport in an hour."
"Jake, you have enough time."
"Doesn't matter," I said.
"I don't want you to regret it."
"I won't."
I wouldn't, but I was already slowly starting to. Maybe. I wouldn't admit it aloud.
The thing about him leaving, about telling him to leave, was that those two words that tumbled out of my lips, they tumbled out of mine. My lips. And so whenever I had the urge to beg for him to come back, to call him and hear his voice again, when my body wept and my skin set itself on fire with missing his touch so, so much, I knew it was my fault. I did this.
But in these moments I did this for no reason at all, and everything it meant back then disintegrated and floated through the ceiling. It was my fault and yet it still felt like I would have to beg for him to come back. How could I? I would ask myself. How could I let him go? How could I ever find someone with better rhythm to their fingers? He was perfect. He was everything.
I came close, so close to asking him back. Many times, again and again to the point where I almost forgot why. To the point where all the rules I kept, that I wove around my heart to form a metal cage, faded into twine.
I must have had some sort of durability, some sort of resilience. Enough so that when my fingers hovered over my phone screen, I had enough will power to turn my eyes away from his name.
9AM, and I was wheeling my luggage towards the counter. Ten, and I was on the plane.
People passed by my seat in a swirl of different colors. The ones that looked the same as those inked to his skin. Faces, blue eyes, blonde hair, stood out among the crowd, peaked behind airplane seats. Everywhere. He seemed to be following me around everywhere and I needed him to go away, disappear. Leave me alone.
It was his fault after all. It was his mistake, his impulsive decision, his actions that separated us. Not only us, but our bodies. I knew my body needed him more than I did. Two separate things, they were. Me and my body.
Yet I was flying away from him, leaning against the window seat and watching as the buildings shrunk away. So small now, my eyes couldn't see far enough.
I could almost feel it physically. As the plane flew higher up into the clouds, tugging at an invisible string that tied one end to my fingers, the other to his waist. God, how much I wanted to touch his waist at the moment. Feel the roundness of his bones, the pulsing of his blood, the surface of his skin. Goosebumps, if I touched him just right. Muttered just the right words.
I didn't know how long until the string cut itself loose. Caught itself against something sharp, got lost somewhere in the wind. If he would untie his end and allow it to fall away.
Thanks for reading guyyys <3
(I freaking love the song I linked asdfhfkdljfdn)