#10 Things fic
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surrealsunday · 2 years ago
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10 Things I’ll Tattoo on You
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10 Things I Hate About You AU
It’s a terrible idea from the start. Eliott knows that. But when presented with the possibility of a date with a cute boy for a generous sum of much-needed cash, could anyone blame him for taking resident-asshole-Charles-Munier up on the offer? Well, yes. Lucas Lallemant could. But there’s no need for him to find out about the arrangement. A date and it’s done. Easy enough. Or it would be... if Lucas wasn’t... Lucas. Head-strong, stubborn, cheeky, and everything Eliott didn’t know he needed. In conclusion: He’s fucked. 
CHAPTER 1
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iamespecter · 6 months ago
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"Well shit"
Designs of the entire cast for my fic, "The Unexpected Reunion"! You can read the prologue and the first chapter on my ao3 :) https://archiveofourown.org/works/56008111/chapters/142245028
Bonus with their real names:
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daddiesdrarryy · 1 year ago
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Me when I finish writing something:
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carebeardean · 7 days ago
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Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.
Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.
So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.
then Edwin starts writing back.
Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.
Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.
Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.
Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).
Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.
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bubblingsteam · 6 months ago
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sheerakk · 1 year ago
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theonewhowails · 11 months ago
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silly stuff i drew while reading Feel No Evil by @payasita , in which the Lamb does not know how to propose, Narinder does not know how to be alive, and neither of them knows what an obligate carnivore is
bonus? lmao
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courfee · 4 months ago
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little poster for the fic Operation Walburga's Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule :) 10 things i hate about you, but make it jegulus
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lead0 · 11 months ago
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based on from the outback with love by @neo-my-geo
no idea how tumblr works so no guarantee that link will work ahaha :,)
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featherandferns · 7 months ago
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rumours (fic)
jj maybank x grumpy!fem!reader | HEAVILY inspired
content warning: mentions of drinking and smoking; absent parents
word count: 20k.
blurb: your life has been surrounded by rumours, and so has JJ Maybank's. One night, out of the blue, he strikes up a conversation with you. From there, the rumours only grow, and some rumours are far worse than others.
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There was a rumour that you and your sister weren’t allowed to date until graduating high school. That one was true, until March of Junior Year.
Kildare Academy was full of spoilt assholes.
Well, in fairness, not everyone fit into that category. Some people were spoilt but bearable, and some people were assholes but not particularly spoilt. Rafe Cameron was the perfect culmination of both. He was in your junior year despite being a senior. He flunked so hard last year that the academy insisted that he retake it to graduate with a subpar diploma. At the yacht club, it had been the talk for about two months, much to the displeasure of Ward and Rose Cameron. You’d found yourself sharing nearly every class with Rafe since the year started and, man oh man, was it torture.
He found you the perfect bear to poke, never passing the opportunity to make a jab about your clothes or your face or your overall demeanour. The latter to mean that you weren’t the most approachable of people. Whilst you self-described as tempestuous, others might prefer the term ‘heinous bitch’. Rafe Cameron knew how to push your buttons it seemed, and you in turn knew how to bite back just enough to leave a mark.
“I can’t wait to get out of this town,” you complain to your friend Mia. “If I have to spend another seventeen years surrounded by these half-wits then I’ll pull a Sylvia Plath, I swear.”
“Clearly today has been a good day,” Mia chuckles. She’d known you long enough for the bitter grump of your character not to phase her. “Rafe bothering you again?”
“He’s intolerable,” you tell her, indirectly answering her question. “In music today he thought it’d be funny to put cola in the trombone. Men blow my mind with their stupidity. God knows how the patriarchy was even formed with how little brain cells they use.”
The two of you walk down the stairs of the school, heading to the parking lot amongst the herd of students. The spring weather is finally creeping in now that you're in March. The floral smell of blossoms hangs in the air, embracing the world in a warmish breeze. The briefly pleasant moment is rudely interrupted by none other but the devil-boy himself. His bright red Mercedes whips into the throughway of the parking lot. He doesn't seem to care about hitting anybody. To him, others are like bowling pins: he’d probably take delight in taking someone out.
You and Mia ignore him as you walk up to your car. At least, that was the plan, until you look up from your keys in time to see your younger sister Charlotte hopping into the back of Rafe’s pimped out ride per his offer.
“That’s an interesting development,” Mia remarks.
You watch as Rafe revs the engine - grinning like the pompous asshole he is - before jetting away. He narrowly misses knocking some poor kid off his bike in the process.
“It’s disgusting, is what it is,” you correct, promptly blinking away the surprise.
You follow Mia into your car, tossing your track bag into the backseat, and start up the engine.
Charlotte was only fifteen. She was young, innocent, carefree and (more often than not) insufferable. You couldn’t be more different. Whilst Charlotte searched for the good in people, you tried to find ways to stay as far away from them as possible. The only tell that you were related were your features. The same nose and same chin, you taking your father’s eyes and her your mother’s. At school, Charlotte enjoyed pretending that she didn’t know who you were. Your reputation didn’t pair well with hers, and at fifteen, nothing was more important to Charlotte than popularity. Those things didn’t matter to you. What someone thought of you didn’t make much difference to your mood or your future. Studying on the other hand? That was the stuff of consequence. Nevertheless, you cared for your sister. Her cushioned upbringing made her vulnerable. She had been sheltered by your family’s wealth and because of your father’s obsessive protectiveness, her experiences with boys were minimal. That to say, having her in Rafe’s line of sight certainly made you uneasy.
You drive home chatting to Mia about the plans for the weekend - planning to head to The Wreck for lunch on Saturday - but you can’t stop thinking about Charlotte sat in the back of Rafe’s car. When you pull up outside Mia’s house, she pauses just after opening the door.
“What do you think that was about? With Charlotte and Rafe?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” you reply, turning down the radio. "But I’m not gonna let it go any further.”
“Amen,” Mia agrees. With that, she gives a small wave and climbs out the car. “See you tomorrow.”
“See ya.”
When you pull up outside your house, you spot your dad sitting on the porch. He’s probably reading notes about the latest case he’s taken on. As one of the best lawyers on Figure Eight, he always has plenty of work to be chipping away at. Sometimes it feels like he has a new client every week.
You make your way up the neatly kept garden path, the creaking gate giving you away.
“Afternoon sweetheart,” he says, not looking up.
“Hey dad,” you reply, walking up the steps.
“How’s your day been? Made anyone cry yet?”
“Not yet, but the day’s still young,” you return, only half joking. With that, he glances up. “How’s the case?”
“Long. Boring. Don’t let on that I said that.” he says. “Where’s your sister?”
Before you can delight in telling, as if manifested into existence, Charlotte comes floating up the pathway. Her ridiculously short white tennis skirt floats in the wind like a dove’s feathered wings taking flight. Not one hair is out of place and not one eyelash misaligned. You resist the urge to roll your eyes as she makes her way up the stairs.
“Where’ve you been?” your dad immediately quizzes.
“Nowhere daddy.”
“How come you’re later home than your sister?”
“Well, somebody wouldn’t give me ride,” Charlotte replies, shooting you a glare. Her perfect smile takes on an edge when you lock eyes.
Your dad sighs and looks up at you. “We talked about this. Until Charlotte gets her license, you drive her to and from school. Y’all are both heading to the same place anyway, so what’s the big whoop?”
“She hijacks my radio and plays fluffy pop crap.”
“Taylor Swift is not ‘fluffy pop crap’. She’s the bible itself. You’re just not used to listening to good music,” Charlotte replies.
Swallowing your anger, you correct your stance, folding your arms across your chest. Biting back a smirk, you say, “ask Charlotte which guy drove her home today.”
“Don’t change the—Guy? What guy?”
Charlotte’s face goes to drop but she recovers quickly. Taking a reproachful step towards your dad like he’s an unpredictable stray dog, she talks in a sickly-sweet voice.
“Now, daddy, don’t be angry, but there’s this boy at school and I think he—”
“Believe me, I think I know what he’ll be thinking,” your dad immediately cuts in. “And the answer is no. It is always no.”
As your little sister’s eyes flash to yours, you grin victoriously. Enjoy, you mouth to her. The angry twitch in her brow is delightful.
“Daddy, this is ridiculous! I’m the only girl in high school who isn’t dating!” Charlotte whines.
“You’re fifteen, you don’t need to be dating. And you’re not the only girl. She isn’t dating either,” your dad replies, shoving a thumb over his shoulder in your direction.
“And I don’t intend to. I got bigger fish to fry,” you say. Charlotte’s deadly stare hardens tenfold. “Besides, the boys in this town are whack jobs.”
“Like music to my ears,” your dad practically sighs. Very rarely do you seem to please him, but your stance on boys appears to be the one common ground the two of you have. “Now y’all both know the rule: no dating ‘til you graduate.”
“This is so unfair! The two of you are so unhinged!” Charlotte goes on. She seems about a minute away from stomping her feet and waving her fists like a toddler throwing a tantrum. You’re only half ashamed to say that you relish in every moment of it.
You see, Charlotte was a daddy’s girl. Pretty, pink and poised, she loved the theatrics of Kook life. At the yacht club gatherings and the monthly dinner parties, the two of them would soak up every minute whilst you’d skulk in the back, headphones in and bitch-face on. You’d never much connected with either of them. Your mom understood you well, but she wasn’t around now, so, what did it matter? All the Kook crap was just that to you: crap. Fickle people who were so rich that their nerves were deadened, leaving them to enjoy nothing more than gossiping about everyone and everything. Whilst one half of the island waited tables and sweated out in the sun day-and-night to keep the lights on, the other was complaining about their golf clubs not being shiny enough. It was all crap.
“Alright, fine. Here’s how we fix this. Old rule out, new rule in. You can date,” your dad says to Charlotte. Her smile is instantaneous. As your mouth goes to gape open in horror – the thought of Rafe Cameron snapping up your sister like a crocodile preying on a bunny – your dad makes your day. “…when your sister does.”
“What!?”
“Har har,” you grin.
Charlotte points accusingly at you. “But she’s a mutant! You couldn’t pay a guy to date her!”
Your grin only grows with the thought.
“Then I guess you’ll never date. Oh! I like the sound of that,” your dad gloats. God, you have never loved him more. “Now get out of my hair, the both of y’all. I need to get these notes done for tomorrow.”
“Thanks dad,” you chirp, promptly heading into the house. Charlotte is quick to follow.
“You’re evil,” she hisses.
You shrug, back facing her as you start up the stairs. “And you’re spoilt.”
“Urgh! Has it ever occurred to you that you’re like clinically insane!?”
“Don’t care!” you sing-song before darting into your room, closing the door behind you. Through the wood, you hear Charlotte let out a shriek.
Smiling, you dump your school bag and take up shop at your desk, hoping to get some studying done, peaceful at last with the thought of Rafe Cameron never getting near your sister.
There was a rumour that when JJ first spoke to you, you spat in his face. That one was false.
“Hiya princess.”
The rasp of a guy’s voice interrupts your conversation about the yacht club’s annual spring-ball with Mia. Slowing turning your head to your left, you come face to face with a dirty-blonde haired boy. He looks to be about seventeen. His skin is slightly glossy, presumably from sunscreen and sweat, and there’s a smirk hiding behind his smile. That’s when you know that this boy is trouble.
“You talking to me?” you ask, unimpressed.
“Who else?”
“Hopefully anyone,” you say.
Mia snorts. You look away from him to share a bemused look with your friend. This guy cannot be serious…
“You need’a hand there?”
Eyebrows pulling together, you glance at him. He seems to think you’re confused about what he’s referring to, nodding down to the Sprite bottle in your hand. The cap’s still on. The truth is, you’re confused as to why he’s even talking to you at all. Wordlessly, you lift the bottle to your mouth and secure your teeth around the cap. There’s the satisfying click-crack as it comes lose and you spit it on the floor by his feet. Then, holding his gaze, you take a drink. His eyebrows quirk up in surprise.
“That’s, uh, certainly one way to get a guy’s attention,” he says, chuckling to try and regain some charm.
“My mission in life,” you return. Then, before he can cook up something else to say, you turn to Mia and loop your arm in hers, guiding the two of you to the exit of The Wreck. You’d been planning on heading out anyway, having finished your lunch earlier, and this was a sign from the universe that whatever good time you’d been having was officially over.
Unfortunately, the guy doesn’t seem so easily deterred.
“I’ll pick up at eight then?”
“Oh, yeah, eight. Uh huh,” you agree dismissively.
He falls in step with you on your left, hands casually shoved in his short pockets, combat boots loudly thudding on the wooden floor.
“Well, you know, the night I take you to places you’ve never been before.”
You see his boyish grin in your peripheral, making you whip your head around to meet his stare.
“Where? The seven-eleven off main street?”
His lips part, blundering for some quick-witted reply, but you don’t give him chance.
“Do you even know my name, screw-boy?”
The smirk is back, full force. Tilting his head slightly, self-assured, he replies, “I know a lot more than you think.”
“Doubtful. Very doubtful,” you assure.
Finally, you and Mia seem to shake him. He doesn’t follow you to your car door and he probably made the right call, because you were moments away from using the bottle of Sprite as a weapon. As you unlock the car, Mia leans against the side of it.
“What was that all about?”
You spare a glance back to The Wreck to find him stood there, glancing inside the building as if debating heading back, scratching the back of his neck. His misplaced confidence seems to have dwindled significantly. Ah, success.
“God knows."
“You know, I think that’s JJ Maybank. One of them Pogues who hangs out with John B,” Mia says.
JJ seems a fitting name for him, you think. You vaguely recall seeing the Pogues hanging around. Kiara from the academy seemed quite close with them. You watch as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting up and taking a drag. Gross.
Pulling open your car door, you look back to Mia. “Come on. Let’s hang out at the beach.”
“Yeah, and far away from that nutjob,” she snorts, walking around the car to the passenger side.
As you go to climb in, you find yourself looking one final time to the entrance of the restaurant. The messy haired boy is nowhere to be found. Good riddance, you think to yourself. Happiness restored, you swing into the driver’s seat and shut the car door.
There was a rumour that your mum was in witness protection. That one was false.
You weren’t entirely sure how it got so late but it was nearly one in the morning. Having spent the past three hours studying, you’d sort of lost track of time. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head when you’d checked your phone screen.
“Goddamn,” you mumble. Pushing away from your desk, you close your notebook and switch off your lamp.
Walking to the bathroom, you don’t bother closing the door. You know your dad’s asleep by now and with his own en-suite, there’d be no reason why he’d need to use this bathroom. Charlotte is probably asleep too: beauty rest and all that. You turn on the faucet and pull your hair out of your face. You wash and dry and reach for your toothbrush. That’s when Charlotte appears.
“Oh,” she startles. “Didn’t know you were still up.”
“Could say the same to you.”
You take in her pyjamas. They’re Roller Rabbit, selling at $150 a set. Pastel pink and plum purple, they sit sweetly on her dainty frame. You on the other hand are dressed in an oversized t-shirt that you got given for free at an indie film festival, and a pair of boxer-short bottoms.
“Cute pjs,” you tell her.
“Thanks. Daddy bought them for me,” she chirps.
Charlotte makes a b-line to the vanity. She opens the drawer and retrieves the tweezers. You watch her in the mirror as she tames her already perfect eyebrows. She makes eye contact with you through the reflections, taking in your own nightwear. “You could try a new look, you know? People might like you if you weren’t so hostile.”
“I’m not hostile,” you defend. You put toothpaste on your toothbrush, breaking the line of gaze. “I’m annoyed.”
“Potato potata. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if people didn’t like me.”
“You forget that I don’t care what people think,” you reply honestly. What would it matter if some thought you unwelcoming? Everyone ends up as bones in the ground anyway.
“Sure you do,” Charlotte says. “At least on some level.”
It’s too late in the night (or early in the morning) to argue. Instead, you start brushing your teeth. Charlotte goes on pimping and preening her appearance in the mirror silently. She produces a jade face roller and begins massaging her cheekbones and jawline. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. As you’re rinsing out your mouth, you see Charlotte’s extensive skincare routine continue. If someone was to walk in, you’d think she was heading to the Oscars at the crack of dawn. She unbuttons the top two fastenings of her polo pyjama top and shrugs it down enough to reveal her collarbones, taking the effort to jade-roll them too. That’s when you notice the string of pearls around her neck.
“Nice pearls,” you comment, putting your toothbrush away. They did suit her, as did most delicate jewellery.
“Thanks.”
“Dad buy them for you too?”
“No,” she says. “They’re moms.”
Your stomach twists like a viper. “Moms?”
“Yeah. Daddy found them in a drawer last week.”
“And what? Now you’re just gonna start wearing them?” you say aghast, spinning around.
She frowns, looking over her shoulders. “It’s not like she’s coming back to claim them any time soon.”
You scoff. “You’re woefully missing the point.”
“Whatever,” Charlotte mumbles. She looks back to her reflection, smiling at herself, lifting a hand to fiddle with the small beads. “I think they look good on me.”
“Well trust me, they don’t,” you lie before promptly leaving the bathroom.
There was a rumour that you wrecked Rafe Cameron’s car. That one was true.
“Morning Lucy,” you greet, walking into An Offer You Can’t Refuse.
“Morning. Early start for a Saturday, don’t you think?” Lucy replies from behind the counter.
You shrug and shift your tote bag further up your shoulder. “Wanna get first dibs, I guess.”
“Well, all the new stuff is back there, like always,” she says, gesturing with her head to the far end of the store.
You were somewhat a regular at the shop. It was the only spot in town that sold old movies. Not old movies like the nineties. Old movies like the early 20th century: the black and white classics, with extravagant sets and telephone-voices and an untouchable charm that modern things just couldn’t quite capture. You weren’t a film snob exactly. You’d sit through a Marvel movie and tag along with Mia to see the latest cheap jump-scare horror. But those weren’t as gripping, as enthralling, as captivating as the classics. Somewhere along the way, you’d made it your life mission to see every old movie on earth.
Flicking through the cases, you pick out a couple that had been sat on your list. One was a thirty’s flick and the other from the sixties. Lucy settles up with you and you slot one in your bag. You keep the other out to read the back, scanning over the summary as you walk out the door.
“Nice car.”
Stunned, you stop and look up, finding none other than JJ Maybank. He’s sitting on the bonnet of your car with such carelessness that one would assume he owned it.
“Are you following me?” you outright ask.
He looks offended by the insinuation. Gesturing across the street, he says, “I was in the fishing shop. I saw your car and I came over to say hi.”
Rolling your eyes, you put your movie in your bag and continue to your car. “Hi.”
Before you can reach for the handle for the door, JJ slides over, effectively blocking it and forcing you to meet his gaze once more. You catch a whiff of his cologne. It smells more modest than some of the fancy crap the guys at school practically drown themselves in.
“You’re not much of a talker, are ya?”
“Depends on the topic. My car doesn’t really whip me up into a verbal frenzy,” you return, folding your arms across your chest.
JJ takes a moment simply watching you. It’s annoying. First, he interrupts your pleasant weekend by wiping his grubby cargo shorts all over your car, and now he’s trapped you in the most disinteresting conversation of all time. You quirk a brow, hoping that your displeasure reads plain and clear on your face.
“Can I help you?” you prompt, annoyed.
The smile he gives you is less cocky than usual. It’s almost curious. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
You frown. “Afraid of you? Why would I be afraid of you?”
He shrugs. “Well, most people are.”
“Well, I’m not,” you counter.
Whatever he was thinking before seems to have passed. His grin turns smug again, as quick and smooth as the moment dusk turns to flat-out night.
“Well, maybe you’re not afraid of me, but I’m sure you’ve thought about me naked, huh?”
Oh, brother.
You gasp, feigning your fluster by lifting a hand to your sternum. “Am I that transparent? I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby.”
With that stellar performance, you practically shove him out the way whilst forcing the car door open. JJ seems to take the hint and backs off, shoving his hands in his short pockets. He watches you climb in your car and he pulls out a cigarette in the process. You’re half-surprised he doesn’t keep blabbering away. JJ doesn’t seem as wounded this time by your dismissal and you’re not sure whether that ticks you off more. As you glance in the rearview to reverse out the parking spot, none other than Rafe Cameron drives up behind you. He then parks illegally in the middle of the parking lot, blocking you in.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“What is it? Asshole day?”
Rafe shuts off his engine and walks past your car with a faux swagger in his stride. It makes you sick.
“Do you mind?” you loudly ask him as he goes by.
He doesn’t even spare you a glance. “Not at all.”
Your blood is bubbling under your skin, boiling up your nerves and burning up your patience. Doing one last glance at the Rafe’s back as he walks away from you, you don’t think twice before pulling your keys out the ignition. Getting out the car and slamming the door shut, you storm over to the ugly Mercedes. With the car key positioned between two fingers, you lean down slightly and dig it through the paint and into the metal, dragging it along in a satisfying streak. The sound is as pleasing as nails on a chalk board. One cut doesn’t seem to diffuse your anger enough, so you go in for a second. You debate doing a third but better to be safe than sorry. So, you pocket your keys and start walking home. You can pick up your car tomorrow. As you go to leave, you catch JJ’s impressed expression in the reflection of Rafe’s blacked out windows.
There was a rumour that you and JJ hooked up at an outdoor movie night. That was completely false.
Over the dialogue over the movie, the swell of the orchestral music, and the mumbled chatter of friends and families, you can’t hear the soothing lap of the sea waves on the sand. That didn’t take away from the beauty of the scenery. Twilight had painted the sky in the most ethereal pinks, purples, oranges and blues. The boats which had taken anchor looked like shadows with how the sun had dipped. Huge trees framed the waterline cinematically. You can’t seem to help glancing at the view every now and then. It feels like something from a coffee table book. No wonder the beach was your mother's favourite place to be.
There were few island traditions which you liked, but the movie nights were one of your favourites. From March onwards, they ran bi-weekly. A huge screen would be put up in a lawn and people would come with deckchairs and picnic blankets and take up space on the grass. Snacks and cakes and drinks would be shared in the jovially calm atmosphere of the evening. There was a snack bar over near the bathrooms selling bags of candy and pre-prepared tubs of popcorn. When you hadn’t been shooting looks to the view, you’d been looking to the snack bar, debating buying some. At the rumble of your stomach, you relent.
“I’m gonna go get some snacks. Want anything?” you ask Mia in a whisper.
She doesn’t look away from the film when she shakes her head.
“Okay. Be right back.”
Standing up, you whisper out apologies to other movie-goers as you slink away from the lawn, venturing to the snack bar. It’s only when you’re seconds away do you recognise JJ Maybank. He’s wearing longer pants this time, still of the cargo material, and an old t-shirt that says Pelican Docks on the left breast. It looks well-worn at the sleeves. His hair is tucked under a cap. The most notable thing you pick up on is the fact that he isn’t smoking. Every other time you’ve seen him outside, he’s had one of those cancer sticks stuck between his lips. It’s annoying to admit to yourself that he looks good.
Ignoring him, you head straight to the girl manning the snack bar.
“A bag of Sour Patch kids please,” you smile, holding out a couple of dollar bills. She exchanges them for a bag of sweets. Candy in hand, you walk over to JJ.
“If you’re planning on asking me out again, you might as well get it over with,” you tell him, already disgruntled.
He looks away from the movie screen. “You mind? You’re kinda ruining this for me.”
You frown, glancing between himself and the film. “You like ‘Singing In The Rain’?”
JJ shrugs. “Course. Don’t you?”
The guilt from assuming is overshadowed by your curiosity. Before you can think of something to quiz him with, he’s talking again, eyes fixated on the actors.
“I mean, it’s no ‘Casablanca’ or ‘Some Like It Hot’, but I’ll take it,” he says casually.
Your eyebrows must shoot up into your hairline. “You know the movie ‘Some Like It Hot’?”
“No doy. It’s a classic,” JJ says. “Jack Lemmon is a natural in roles like that. It’s kinda rogue of me to say but I gotta admit, I think he’s better in that than in The Odd Couple.”
The question ‘you know The Odd Couple?’ is on the tip of your tongue but it’s silenced by a loud crash in the movie, catching your attention. You watch the theatrics of Cosmo as he performs ‘Make Them Laugh’, and you can’t help but smile. It’s one of your favourite parts of the movie.
“You know, I saw you earlier and I was gonna come over,” JJ admits, drawing your gaze to him once more. “I’ve never seen anyone look so sexy without even trying.”
The pre-teen at the counter snorts, clearly having overheard. When you and JJ look to her at the same time, she flushes bright pink and presses her lips together in embarrassment. It makes you laugh though, and when you look back to JJ, he’s holding back too. The sunset and reflection of the screen is painting his face in a youthful glow. The smile on his lips seems more genuine than before; it’s no longer bolstered up with ostentatious flare. His self-assured demeanour remains though. You can see it in how relaxed he stands, shoulders loose and back.
“You’re not surrounded by your usual cloud of smoke.”
“Yeah, I quit. Turns out they’re bad for you,” JJ says.
“You think?” you mirthfully reply.
Come with me to the keggar tomorrow night,” JJ asks out of the blue.
You don’t roll your eyes this time. In fact, you’re not even annoyed. Instead, you find your smile growing. “You never give up, do you?”
“Is that a yes?”
You chuckle under breath, passing your candy bag between hands and turning to return to Mia. "No."
You begin to walk away.
“Well, is that a no then?” JJ calls. Someone shushes him abruptly.
Sniggering, you call back, “no!”
“Nine tomorrow night! I’ll pick you up!”
“Hey, shut it, man!”
“Sorry, dude. Jeez,” you hear JJ mumble.
You bite back your laugh, making your way back to the film. Mia is waiting impatiently for you. Taking your spot on the blanket again, you fight the urge to look back over your shoulder to JJ. She takes the bag of candy despite her earlier turn-down.
“What took you so long? You missed the best song,” she whispers.
You shake your head and steal a gummy, eyes fixating on the screen again. “Doesn’t matter.”
And then, you’re lost to the cinema. 
There was a rumour that you threw up on JJ’s shoes at the keggar. That one was (unfortunately) true.
You know you’ve made a mistake braving going downstairs for a snack the moment your foot hits the final step.
“Daddy, it’s only for one night!”
Charlotte is there, whinging away, stood beside her friend Laura. You didn’t like Charlotte all that much but you liked Laura even less. Whilst Charlotte was losing her sense of humanity bit by bit, Laura was a hollowed-out husk dressed head to toe in Shien. Maybe if she had a stellar personality you wouldn’t care, but she didn’t. She was cruel, two-faced and you trusted her as far you could throw her. So, you were obviously thrilled to find her stood in your house.
“You know anything about a party?” you dad asks you, roping you unwillingly into the conversation.
You shrug, shaking your head no.
“Of course she doesn’t know, she’s a cave troll,” Charlotte snarls.
“That’s a new one,” you mutter under breath, starting for the kitchen.
“If she isn’t going, you’re not going,” your dad tells Charlotte.
“Urgh!” Charlotte exasperates. She rushes over to you, taking you by the shoulders and forcing you to meet her gaze. You’re a little surprised to find how genuinely desperate she is to leave the house for a dumb keggar. “Can you please forget that you’re completely wicked and just be my sister for one night. Please.”
You suck your teeth, feeling your conviction dwindle. Suddenly the half-completed page of notes about maths drops in your priorities. Charlotte seems to notice. The puppy-dog eyes come out in full effect - the ones that she used to get the new Mac book and the ones that she used to get your old pair of converse when they suddenly became trendy again.
“Please,” she begs, doubling down.
You sigh, shaking your head as if in disbelief of your own actions. “Fine, I can make an appearance.”
Charlotte looks over to Laura and they begin to squeal, hopping up and down like the floor is lava. You realise that she’s wearing the pearls still, but before you can think much more about it, you’re trapped in a hug. Everything tenses, from your head to your toes, and it isn’t over soon enough. You open the downstairs cupboard and retrieve a jacket to combat the spring breeze that’s likely going to haunt the beach at this hour. Your dad is lecturing Charlotte and Laura as you shrug it on; you pass them to the door.
It's a little frightening to open the front door and come face to face with someone who you’re not expecting to be there.
“What are you doing here?” is the first thing out of your mouth when you meet JJ’s eyes.
“Nine o’clock, right?” he replies.
It’s impossible to bite back the smile that’s coming to your face at the sound of his voice. When did that start to happen?
“Well, I’m little late, so,” he admits almost sheepishly.
You blink out of your stupor with that. A man who can’t even be on time for a date that he practically begged for – once again, the bar is on the floor.
“Whatever, I’m driving,” you tell him, brushing past and down the porch steps. He follows.
“Nice digs here.”
“Thanks,” you reply. You pull open the front gate and it creaks like it might snap off any moment.
“Y’all rich and can’t afford to oil that damn thing?"
“Help yourself to it,” you jokingly quip back. You pull your keys out your coat pocket and unlock the car. “Hop in.”
The drive to the keggar is mostly quiet. JJ points out the turnings you need to take and you refuse to let him turn on the radio. He goes to put one leg up on the car seat but must see your sideways glare, making him stop. Instead, he rests an arm on the window frame and taps his fingers along to a non-existent beat.
He’s dressed rather nice. Quite casual, but you supposed for a keggar, it didn’t much matter. It wasn’t like you were dressed to the nines either. A grey sweater hangs slightly big on his frame, but it sits on his broad shoulders a little too nicely. He’s wearing a pair of black cargo shorts which are muddied with dust on the thigh, probably from biking, and those damn cargo boots again. No cap this time, he lets his blonde hair sit mussed, seemingly from running his fingers through it. That’s something he seems to do. A lot.
When the two of you park up, the beach is already buzzing. It’s swarming with people from your school and his, yapping away to one another. People are passing drinks and passing out. Some are carrying coolers in and others are shot-gunning the moment their feet touch the sand. Sighing, you mentally prepare yourself for a hellish night.
JJ tries to walk beside you but you seem to be one step ahead every time. He takes to following your tail around the keggar as you survey the scene. A girl vomiting in the corn; a group passing around a bong; a group of horny dirtbags jeering and cheering as two girls make out. A brunette girl comes stumbling over, practically throwing herself at JJ.
“Kiss me,” she slurs, clearly hammered.
JJ doesn’t look too thrilled but it doesn’t keep you from rolling your eyes and continuing on.
“Not tonight, girly,” you overhear him say. You then hear his footsteps behind you once more.
His popularity among the Pogues is startling. Soon enough, someone else is coming up to him, followed by a third. You overhear good-humoured conversation kick up, spirits high, and the smacking of hands as they enact a brief handshake. It seems a good opportunity to ditch him.
The moment of freedom is over quicker than the final week of summer. Rafe Cameron, in all his knobheaded glory, saunters over.
“Didn’t peg you as a keggar girl,” he tells you. Even on the night, you can’t catch a break from him.
“You know me: full of surprises,” you return dryly.
“Surprising in that outfit too. Nice to see the puppies out today,” he says, licking his teeth as his eyes shamelessly flit down to your top.
You roll your eyes. “Eat crap creep.”
Rafe doesn’t seem to be finished. He follows after you leisurely when you walk around him. “Your little sister coming tonight?”
“Stay away from her, Rafe,” you warn.
“Oh, sure, sure, I’ll stay away,” he nods, raising his hands in mock surrender. The most wicked, twisted grin sinks into his skin. “But I can’t promise she’ll stay away from me.”
Your disgust must read plainly on your face. Rafe chuckles darkly, apparently finished with the interaction, and you watch as he makes his way over to his pack. You shiver out your repugnance and distract yourself by making another lap of the keggar, hoping to find your sister in the process.
Unfortunately, you’re not quick enough to get to her before Rafe. He’s fiddling with a strand of her hair, looking down at her in a way that she might think is doting but you can only read as looming. Your stomach sinks as he notices you, jutting up his chin proudly.
“Yo. Look who found me,” he taunts.
Intestines are now in your shoes as you spot his hand looping around her waist and laying grip. Charlotte tangles her fingers into his, a red solo up in her other hand, and goes to lead the two of them away. You quickly dart after her.
“Charlotte, wait, can I talk to you?”
“Don’t address me in public,” she hisses, horrified.
You hope your expression is as pleading as hers was earlier, but it mustn’t be, because she continues to move away from you.
“Go, enjoy the night,” Charlotte says. She probably thinks she’s being nice, putting your mind at ease, but it makes you all the more concerned. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”
Looking around as if something or someone might tell you what to do next, your eyes fixate on the coolers. You soon find yourself taking a swig of tequila. It burns as it runs down your throat; you close your eyes with wince.
“I’ve been looking all over the place for you!”
You open them to find a very disquieted JJ.
“I’m getting trashed bro,” you reply, lifting the bottle up in proof. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at a party?”
“Not with that crap,” JJ replies.
Rolling your eyes, you take another shot. “Whatever. I’ll catch you later.”
Then you’re walking away from him and weaving through the crowds. The trashy RnB music playing over a loudspeaker thumps through the sand and rattles through your bones. You find yourself collecting drinks like a pre-teen collects trading cards. With each sip, the alcohol goes down easier and easier, and your control becomes lesser and lesser. You’re only half sure of the time. Nobody here looks familiar to you and you have no idea where Charlotte has gone. The thought of her with Rafe has you reaching for another drink but it’s taken from you before the bottle can meet your lips.
“Hey!”
“How about I have this one?” JJ offers.
You snatch it back. “No way, this one’s mine.”
Was that your voice? Jeez, maybe you’re more drunk than you thought. That doesn’t keep you from necking the whole thing, some dumbass cheering you on. Dumping the bottle in the sand, you pull a face to JJ, extending out your arms as if to say ‘see – what you gonna do about it?’ .
The makeshift dancefloor becomes randomly appealing. The rhythm of the music seems to have finally crept out of the ground and into your bones, and you stagger your way to the crowd of dancing, swaying drunks and begin to move to the music. Closing your eyes, you drag your hands up your sides and into the air, hips dipping and diving to the song. It isn’t your usual thing but you find the groove to it. The reason you lose it is the elbow that suddenly jams into your back. You wince in pain and tumble forward, balance screwed from all the drinks. The ground comes to meet you surprisingly quick and you don’t have time to put your hands out to save your head from hitting a stuck-out branch from driftwood.
“You alright?”
It’s JJ.
“I’m fine,” you slur.
When you go to stand, everything is spinning. It makes you slip in the sand and nearly face plant a second time.
“You’re not fine. Alright, come on,” JJ mumbles as his hands gently take your biceps. You grumble out complaints as he helps you off the ground.
The music drifts away from you as JJ guides you somewhere. The shakiness of the world makes you feel nauseous so you opt with keeping your eyes closed. There’s a throbbing from where you hit your head.
“Can I talk to you?” someone asks. You don't open your eyes to find out who.
“Not right now, man. I’m a little busy,” you hear JJ return, patience clearly dwindling.
“Can you give me a second?”
The firm but friendly hold JJ has on you momentarily vanishes. You hear the crunch of sand as he walks away a few steps but you’re too busy fighting to keep yourself upright to see where he’s gone. Just as you’re about to lose the fight, JJ’s back, catching you and steadying you on your feet.
“Woah, woah,” he chuckles. “Come on.”
As the mayhem of the party fades, you find the pounding in your head to lessen. You’re slowly lowered to sit on a piece of driftwood.
“This is so patronising.”
“Leave it to you to use big words when you’re smashed,” JJ says.
Braving to open your eyes, you find JJ digging around in his cargo pockets. “Why are you helping me?”
“I’m worried you might got a concussion,” he tells you. He produces a small box from his pocket, no bigger than the palm of his hand, and he cracks it open.
“You wouldn’t care if I never wake up,” you snort. The scrunch of your brows has you reaching up to the stinging pain of your head wound. Before you can touch at it, JJ’s pulling your hand away by the wrist.
“Sure I would.”
“Why?”
 “Cause otherwise I’d have to start taking out girls who actually like me.”
“Like you could find one.”
“See? That right there, makin’ me swoon, mama,” JJ ribs. He reaches out for your face then. “Alright, this might sting a little.”
His fingers are warm as they touch your skin. He lightly coaxes your head up and back by the edge of your jaw. You watch with half-blurred vision as he concentrates, gently dapping what must be an alcoholic wipe to your cut.
JJ has a pretty face. Dimples that are visible even when he isn’t smiling. A soft jawline that sharpens when he’s flexing, whether it be in concentration or aggravation. The long slender nose sits nicely on his face, guiding into surprisingly neat eyebrows and eyes with lashes so long Charlotte would cry with envy.
The wipe hits the deepest point of the wound. Flinching back, you hiss in pain.
“Sorry,” JJ mumbles.
“S’okay,” you quietly reply.
He finishes dabbing the blood away and sighs, pulling the wipe back. JJ seems to notice your stare at that point, flitting his eyes down to meet yours.
“What?”
“Your eyes have a little grey in them,” you observe.
His lips twitch in a smile. Maybe it’s the warmth of the booze, but you’re half sure that the boy blushes. Your eyes glance down to his lips, the one part of his face you haven’t yet analysed. JJ clears his throat and removes his hand from your head. He litters the wipe on the beach floor and shoves his hands in his short pockets, creating some distance. He doesn’t move any farther away from you though.
“How’d you know to do all that?”
“Cleaning cuts?”
“Mhm,” you say.
“Kinda have to learn, when you grow up in a house like mine,” JJ vaguely replies.
You spare a glance at his side profile to find his eyes trained ahead in an almost vacant stare. He comes back to himself, looking at you.
“So, uh, why’d you let him get to you?”
“Who? Rafe?”
“Uh huh.”
“I hate him,” you state.
JJ purses his lips and nods. “Fair ‘nough.”
Someone whoops out to another in the far distance. You try to ignore it, instead focusing on the susurrus of the wind, the sighs of the sea, and the steady inhales and exhales of the boy sitting beside you.
“So, your mom a nurse or something?” you ask.
“My ma?”
“Yeah. With the cut cleaning and all that.”
“Nah, she ain’t a nurse,” JJ replies. “Fact, I don’t know what she is. She ain’t around anymore.”
“That sucks,” you say.
He shrugs. “Happened a long time ago. She walked out on us so guess there can’t be much to miss, right?”
“I guess,” you agree, though you’re not sure if you fully do. For some reason – maybe because of the alcohol blurring your barriers – you find yourself telling him, “My mom walked out on us too.”
“Really?”
You nod, and instantly regret it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It gave the yacht club something to talk about for like a year,” you say, cracking a smile.
JJ grins. “You Kooks gotta have your gossip.”
“Oh yeah,” you whistle, nodding. “Otherwise we’d actually have to start making conversation about shit that matters. Or realise how little we all like each other.”
The two of you laugh and lock eyes. His dimples are now out in full force, teeth shining in the off-cast street lamp glow and enchanting moonlight.
“You know, you’re not as vile as I thought you’d be.”
His smile only grows. “Thanks. I think?”
The pulsating pain in your head seems to vanish for a moment. You think it’s because of JJ and his weirdly wonderful ways. You think it is, until you realise it’s because your body is distracted by a whole new problem.
Head whipping down, you aim away from your shoes and somehow directly at JJ’s.
And then bam: vomit.
There was a rumour that you and JJ hooked up in the back of your car. That one was false.
It’s abnormal seeing JJ sat behind your steering wheel. His elbow is propped up on the window ledge, knuckles cracked as he grips the wheel at the top, guiding it with the other hand. You keep stealing glances. He focuses ahead on the road. It’s pitch-black asides from the glare of the headlights and the few and far between streetlamps. You’re not entirely sure how you got to this point with him, to have him driving your car and to find yourself completely okay with it.
The playlist that the radio is humming out changes to the next song. You instantly feel your body soften in the passenger seat with the swell of violins and cellos. Naturally, gradually, they find a melody. It’s solemn and serene all at once.
“I love this song,” you hear yourself say.
“What is it?”
“Love Theme, from Cinema Paradiso,” you reply.
JJ’s lips twitch with curiosity. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s my favourite piece of music of all time,” you tell him. “It makes me cry.”
“Really? Don’t know if any song’s ever made me cry.”
“Then you’re listening to the wrong things,” you're quick assert.
JJ chuckles at that, but he doesn’t disagree.
The piano chimes in now; steady waltz-like chords which complement the strings flawlessly. You sigh and watch the world pass by through the window. After throwing up, draining the alcohol from your body in the least flattering of ways, you feel more stable. There’s still a blur to the edge of the world hinting that you’re not fully sober but you no longer feel out of control. The three mints which you had the moment you got in the car helped to freshen your mouth.
“It’s a pretty song,” JJ observes. You’re surprised that he’s listening to it. “Is it meant to be happy?”
“Sort of. It’s the third version. There’s three reprises of the song throughout the film. The movie’s sort of a culmination of genres. It’s a love story about Salvatore and Elena, this girl who he’s completely infatuated with throughout his teens. But it doesn’t work out. It’s also about his relationship with Alfredo, this old man who runs the cinema. Salvatore falls in love with cinema and Alfredo is like a father figure to him. As he grows up, he’s pushed to leave the small town and live his life.”
JJ whistles lowly. “That’s a lot’a unpack.”
“Sorry,” you meekly reply. Maybe you rambled on a bit too much.
“Don’t be. It’s interesting,” JJ says.
You glance over to him and see him smiling, and you struggle to bite back your own, looking back to the road.
“You seem to have a thing for movies,” JJ notes.
“I love them,” you sigh, pushing your hair behind your ears. The music builds at that moment, with the wind instruments taking control of the melody and pushing the emotion to another level. You find your eyes slipping shut on reflex. It’s with them closed that you find the confidence to admit, “I want to write movies for a living. But nothing like the new crappy things. Films like the old ones. The ones with real emotion and meaning behind them. I’m so sick of the cheap rewrites and remakes. All the CGI junk that fills the cinema now and the empty scores.”
“So, why don’t you? Write movies, I mean?”
As JJ asks you this question, he pulls up outside your house.
You scoff. “Yeah, my dad would just love that. He wants me to go to school for accounting or economics. Something with ‘a future’.”
The engine shuts off but the song continues to play. JJ glances down at the radio, his eyes scanning over the song title. He seems lost in thought, or perhaps lost in the music, and you feel a small smile settle comfortably on your face. He’s so pretty in this light. He’s pretty in any light.
He seems to remember himself, coming out of his stupor in a similar manner to how he did back on the beach. Looking up to you, JJ catches your gaze. He reflexively switches off the radio, cutting the song off and enveloping the two of you in silence.
“You uh,” he begins, gesturing lamely to the house, “don’t seem the type to ask for your dad’s permission.”
“Oh what? Now you think you know me all of a sudden?” Your tone is teasing. It’s so different to the usual bite it has from your other interactions.
JJ shrugs. “I think I’m starting to.”
The honesty behind his words has your lips parting, somewhat taken aback. The bad-boy façade that he hides behind seems to have slipped tonight. You hold his gaze and he offers you a warm, tender smile. There’s a nervous yet excitable thrum in your chest. It's terrifying.
“Yeah, well, the only thing people know about me is that I’m scary,” you say dismissively.
“Well, I’m no picnic myself, so,” JJ muses.
And it’s things like that which catch you off guard. Your efforts to push him away and close him off are so easily dismissed. He seems to have a talent for peeling away your walls and it never feels intrusive. Instead, it makes you feel seen. Understood. It’s something that you haven’t really known since your mom walked out. Mia understood you to an extent, but you weren’t sure that she knew you. You weren’t sure if you’d ever let her, as awful as it sounds.
“Well, thank you. For driving me back,” you quietly say.
JJ nods. His eyes never stray from yours. He’s so beautiful it’s unfair.
“Course. Anytime.”
He takes a breath and it’s shaky, tempered with nerves, and that’s when you wonder if his heart is beating as fast as yours. If his stomach is full of butterflies too, bringing about the most addictive of anxieties. As his tongue darts out to dampen his lips, you find yourself taking the leap. Slowly, so slow that you’re not sure you even are, you lean forward to him, letting your eyes slip shut. In the moonlight, in your car, after the conversations of the night, you finally feel as though you have seen the real JJ, and he’s seen the real you.
A second passes.
Then another.
Then a third.
You hear the rustle of clothes and the creak of the car seat as JJ shifts. It makes you open your eyes. He’s watching his fingers trail along the leather grip of the steering wheel, knuckles uncomfortably tight and lips rubbing together.  
“Maybe we should do this another time,” he eventually says.
For a moment, you just sit. You take him in. He doesn’t appear cocky or disgusted, or even amused. He seems timorous. It’s so confusing and irritating that you find yourself defaulting to anger. It’s that anger that smothers the burning hot embarrassment you feel deep in your chest. It conceals the crumbling disappointment of not having his lips on yours. Suddenly, you want to be as far away from him as possible.
You scoff and push open the car door. It slams loudly behind you as you storm back up to the house, arms wrapping around yourself in comfort as you feel your heart painfully pulling at your throat. The sting of tears is hard to fight but you manage to keep them at bay until you’re in your bedroom. It’s there that you feel safe enough to cry.
There was a rumour that JJ tracked you down in a movie shop. That one was true.
Have you ever had so much on your mind that it’s physically impossible to concentrate, even on the simplest of things? Ever since the keggar three days ago, that’s how you’ve felt. Studying was more gruelling than usual. You would start reading an exert from Romeo and Juliet and somehow, you’d find your mind drifting to the sound of JJ’s voice on the beach, telling you about his mom. Watching movies was no longer an escape because any guy on screen had you back in the passenger seat, basking in JJ’s beauty. Even now, stood in An Offer You Can’t Refuse, you find yourself staring blankly at the back of a DVD case, trying to make sense of the blurb.
Sighing, you give up and shelve it. You wander back to the main throughway of the store and look at some of the more recent releases. Tugging your cardigan tighter around you, you round the end of the shelve, heading for the exit, to instead come face to face with JJ.
It’s a shame that your stomach twists unpleasantly at the sight of him.
“Excuse me, have you seen ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ I’ve lost my copy?”
You hold back a grunt and opt to roll your eyes instead. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard there was a secret screening,” JJ tells you, humour lining his words.
You scoff. “You’re so…”
“Charming?” he offers.
You breeze past him.
“Wholesome!”
“Unwelcome,” you correct.
“You’re not as mean as you think you are, you know,” JJ suddenly tells you, tone taking an edge.
Mystified, you return, “and you’re not as badass as you think you are.”
“Oh, somebody’s still got their panties in a twist,” JJ quips.
Spinning around, you raise a finger threateningly. “Do not for one second think you had any effect whatsoever on my panties.”
JJ lightly taps your hand away. “What did I have an effect on then?”
It’s moments like these that you’re thankful your mouth is quicker than your mind. “Other than my upchuck reflex, nothing,” you lie.
JJ sighs, frustrated.
In the corner of your eye, you see the movies of the week. The universe works perfectly sometimes. Snatching up a copy, you shove Breakfast at Tiffany's in JJ’s chest before leaving the shop.
It sucks to be mad at JJ. You don’t want to be, but you don’t know how not to be. The whole night felt like an oxymoron. There was a moment when things felt so perfect and then he shattered it. It was abnormal. All that hard work to get you out on a date; the time taken caring for you and driving you back, checking you got home safe; and the conversations that felt far from empty and false…And then nothing. You knew JJ wasn’t a virgin. Not all rumours are based in truth – you knew that – but when it came to JJ Maybank, it was common knowledge that he had a way with girls. You weren’t the first girl for him to lay eyes on, and you certainly wouldn’t be the first girl he’d kiss, so why did he suddenly seem so discouraged? It didn’t make sense.
Whatever.
You close the car door and start up your engine.
You had more important things to sort out than deliberating over JJ’s intentions. Since when had a man ever interrupted your life before? There were some math notes which needed finishing back at home, and a track meet practice to prepare for tomorrow. Life was bigger than some pretty teenage boy.
Catching your eyes in the rearview mirror, you harden your gaze. “Get a grip.”
Your day doesn’t seem to improve when you get home. Whilst you’ve managed to put thoughts of JJ to bed, letting the irritation rest, your dad seems unwilling to give you peace. You walk through the door to hear himself and Charlotte talking animatedly about the Spring Ball at the yacht club.
“I’m not sure,” your dad sighs.
“But daddy, I’ve gone to them before.”
“But this one’s different. The guys there are older now. You’re older now. After last year, and our reputation, I’m just…”
The creaking floorboard before the kitchen doorway gives you away. Charlotte jumps at the chance to lasso you in.
“What if she comes?”
“She has a name,” you mutter, heading to the cupboard for a snack.
“I mean, if your sister goes then you can go, but I doubt she will.”
“She will what?” you ask. Cereal bar in hand, you tug away the wrapper and take a bite.
“Go to the Spring Ball.”
You guffaw loudly. “Yeah. No.”
“Knew it,” your dad says.
“Oh, come on! What’s wrong with the Spring Ball?” Charlotte carps.
You roll your eyes. “They’re stupid and performative and in bad taste. And old-fashioned. It just makes me feel icky. Whilst the Cut are trying to raise money to renovate the parks, we’re throwing balls for the fun of it. Plus, they’re boring. It’s just a bunch of rich morons talking about other rich morons. No offence, dad.”
“Plenty taken,” mutters your dad.
“You’re exhausting,” Charlotte tells you. “And unhinged.”
“Thanks,” you grin before taking another bite of your snack. You go to leave. “I’ll be upstairs.”
There was a rumour that JJ snuck into your school. That one was true.
You started running track following your school guidance counsellor’s advice. It was after you kneed Kelce so hard in the balls that he had to go to the nurse (you pride yourself for that achievement daily). Track was a good way to let off steam though. The world felt smaller and simpler on the circuit. You felt as though you could run away from all the things that were bothering you: Rafe, your dad, Charlotte, your mom. And now, JJ. The steady beat of your feet hitting the sand-topped track works like a metronome for your musings.
You’d heard the rumours that had been circulating about the night of the keggar. Charlotte hadn’t told you what happened between herself and Rafe, but there was a rumour that he didn’t drive her home. Apparently, someone called Louis had given her a ride back. You’d seen him at school every now and then. He’d only transferred a few months back so there wasn’t much to know about him. He seemed harmless enough though. Compared to Rafe, a rabid dog would be preferred.
“Good pace!” your coach praises loudly to you as you complete a third lap.
You’re panting in the warm sun. April was right around the corner now and the temperature was picking up, bit by bit, every day. Slowing to a jog, you direct yourself to the benches and retrieve your water bottle.
As your swallowing your third sip, you hear the loudspeaker system crackle to life. At first you don’t pay it much mind, assuming it’s one of the band members checking everything is working for a game tomorrow night or something. But then a voice is droning out of the speakers. It has a Carolina twang to it that is more common on the Cut and a youthful rasp that’s now all too familiar.
JJ.
‘Morning you wonderful Kook folks.’
You stare wide-eyed at the speaker.
‘Y’all are probably busy preparing your caviar or whatever the hell it is that you be doing out here on Figure Eight, but I’m here to read something I prepared. Brighten up your day and all that.’
Surely you have heatstroke. Surely this is not happening.
“’I’ve come here with no expectations, only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is, and always will be, yours.’”
Sense and Sensibility. You glance around the field as if to check that you’re not the only one hearing this and - yep, you’re not.
“‘Me? I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all, I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.’”
Dirty Dancing. Lips twitching into a smile, you’re in disbelief. Some people are sniggering at the cheesiness, others are completely befuddled by the whole thing. It is rather random. If you didn’t know what he was doing, you’d be confused too. Well, you still are, in fact. Did he know you'd be at the track today?
“And my personal favourite, ladies and gentlemen: ‘No, I don’t think I will kiss you, although you need kissing. Badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’”
Your perplexed smile turns more sober with that. Something trills in your chest – most probably your heart – and you nod in quiet approval.
“Alright then, Kooks and…Kooklemen. Y’all have a blessed day.”
The speaker clicks off with a crackle and some people on the field whoop and cheer, laughing and jeering. You shake your head and finish your drink, grinning like an idiot.
Maybe, just maybe, you can find some room to give JJ another chance.
There was a rumour that JJ Maybank spent his free time fishing. That one was true.
JJ Maybank was like a candy bar. He had a way of being sweet without being sickly, and he stayed on your mind the same way one gets chocolate stuck between their teeth. After asking around, you’re told that the best place to find the so-called delinquent was at a local fishing spot, down some old jetty. The floorboards creak unnervingly with every step you take. The sun is high in the sky, it only being mid-morning, and you find JJ easily. He’s perched on the end of the jetty, leaning forward against the rotting wooden railing. In one hand he’s supporting a rod, the wire of which is submerged deep in the water, waiting for a bite. There’s a small cooler by his feet alongside a bag of fishing tack. The back of his t-shirt has a large circular graphic on it. It’s well washed but you can make out the ‘sex-wax’ text.
“Yo,” you call out.
He startles then turns. There’s a strange flurry of emotions that cross over his face in a second when he lays eyes on you.
“Hey. How’d you find me?”
“I have my ways,” you reply, finishing the journey to him.
JJ moves so his back rests against the fence, body now facing you, and you pause a comfortable foot or so apart.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
“I was kind’a an asshole at the movie store, the other day,” you say, uncomfortable in your confession. The proud twitch of his brow doesn't go unnoticed. “So, I figured it was only right to fess up.”
“Mhm. Anything in particular brought this on?” JJ wonders innocently.
You smile at that, rolling your eyes. Nevertheless, you play along. “You know, it’s so weird. This voice came over the speakers at school yesterday and it got me thinking.”
“Oh? You know who it was?”
“I don’t know,” you sigh, scratching your hairline. “Maybe God?”
“You sure it weren’t an angel?” he checks, tongue poking through his teeth with his boyish grin.
“Nah, but he sure had the voice of one,” you play along.
The entertained lift of JJ’s brows makes your smile flatten into something more genuine.
“Did you get in trouble for it?”
“For breaking into Kook Academy and hacking your intercom?” JJ asks. His face scrunches up as he shakes his head falsely. “Nah.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“I’m a pro, sweetheart. I was in and out, like an ops-mission,” he recounts, using his free hand to gesture lamely like a discount spy.
You roll your eyes once more and move to stand next to him, separated only by the cooler. Leaning your arms forward on the jetty fence, you sigh and close your eyes, basking in the sun.
“What’re you doing right now?”
“Right now?” you say, opening your eyes to look at him. He nods. “Nothing much.”
“Wanna go to the break? Hear the waves are meant to be pretty sweet today,” JJ asks.
Your lips twitch at the corners. His seem to mirror. “Sure, yeah. Sounds good.”
“Sweet. Lemme just pack this stuff up,” he says. “My friend’s lent me his car for the day so we can ride there in that.”
There was a rumour that you nearly drowned when you went surfing with JJ. That one was completely made up.
The water is so blue you can almost taste it. The gradient of blues and aquamarines is mouthwatering in beauty.
Sighing, your feet sink into the sand, desensitised to the burn on the soles of your feet. On one shoulder you have your rucksack. It’s packed with snacks that the two of you picked up from a local shop: granola bars and a large back of chips, that sort of thing. JJ found some cans of soda when turfing through the cooler. Tucked under your other arm is a surfboard that JJ’s letting you borrow; there were three attached to the roof of the beat-up camper van he’s borrowing. JJ’s carrying a tattered looking picnic blanket that he dragged off the backseats and his own board. It seems JJ’s surfboard is the thing that is the best kept out of all the belongings he has.
JJ whistles. “Pretty good swell, huh?”
“Hell yeah,” you agree.
He walks in front and dumps the picnic blanket, lazily spreading it out with his foot. You put the rucksack down with it before leaning down to place your board carefully on the sand. As you go to stand, you find your eyes falling on JJ’s back. He’s tugging off his shirt, lats and triceps tensing and relaxing with the quick change. You can’t help but stare. The guy’s in good shape – nobody can disagree with that. He turns and catches your eye just before you can divert your gaze to the water, frowning as if assessing the waves. There’s an amused smirk that comes to his face, cocky like always.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks.
Your face scrunches in deliberation. You pretend that he’s referring to the sea. “Yeah; the waves look pretty strong.”
“Mhm,” he hums, entertained.
It’s then that you decide to seek some revenge. Casually, like the whole situation doesn’t make your heartbeat with elated anxiety, you pull your top off, revealing a crotchet-style bikini top. Living in Kildare meant that bikinis instead of underwear were sort of a given. Unbuttoning your shorts, you wiggle them down your body before stepping out and tossing them on the blanket. Glancing up, acting as if you’d completely forgotten JJ was there, you quirk a brow. He’s staring shamelessly at your body.
“Something up?”
“Not yet,” he mumbles.
It’s hard to bite back your smile. Hard, but not impossible. Dipping down to retrieve the board, you strain a little as you lift it.
“Come on. We’re wasting daylight,” you tell him, walking past towards the water.
“Yes ma’am,” you hear him say.
The crunch of sand behind you tells you he’s following. Then, his pace picks up and he’s rushing past, taking a moment to dab at your head jokingly.
“Hey!”
His laugh is light like buttercream frosting. You chase after him, towards the break, and soon enough you’re sliding atop of your board and paddling through the wake. JJ’s just a bit ahead. His back glistens in the sunlight with saltwater. You swallow your pride and dignity and let your eyes trail up his legs and butt. The water makes his clothes stick more than usual. He steadily rises to his feet, finding his balance on the board in such a natural manner that one would think he was born on it. The way he leans forward and back is effortless. He tames the waves like a creature of the sea, dipping on the currents and following the dives. You can’t help but sit up on your board for a moment and watch. His face is tight with concentration but the joy is as clear as the water. The sharp edge of his jawline teases you as you watch him surf. The tremble of your heart and knot in your stomach isn’t unfamiliar and yet it still catches you by surprise. To distract yourself, you paddle out some more before rising to your feet.
You know the old saying ‘time flies when you’re having fun’? You never much believed it until today. The two of you must have been on the water for an hour. Somehow, simultaneously, the two of you agree that it’s time to call it off. The scratchy over-washed cotton of the blanket is only slightly uncomfortable on your legs as you sit. JJ takes your rucksack and digs about for a snack. You opt for taking in the quietness of the beach; it feels as though you’re the only souls for miles.
“Who’s this?” JJ asks.
You glance over to find JJ holding up a photo he’d taken from your wallet. A part of you wants to make a jab about how he’s snooping around, but you don’t. Instead, you smile weakly.
“My mom.”
“Oh,” JJ says, looking back down at the photo with new interest. “She’s pretty. Can see where you get your looks from.”
“Thanks,” you smile.
JJ reaches back into the back and pulls a can of soda free. He tosses it to you and you crack it open.
“I go through phases of having it in there,” you say, nodding down to the photo that he continues to hold. “Sometimes I want it around and other times I don’t. I know that probably sounds dumb.”
“No, it doesn’t,” JJ responds rather easily.
He tucks the photo back away in the wallet, safe and sound, then grabs a can of sofa for himself. He reclines on his elbows. Your eyes fixate on the shark tooth necklace hung around his neck on a discoloured piece of yarn. It rises and falls with each steady breath he takes. As your eyes trail down his stomach, you notice the water droplets drying in the sunlight. In a desperate effort not to stare, you find yourself watching him crack his feet, outstretching them on the sand. Crossing your legs, you take a sip of your soda and glance back up to his face. Then, you follow JJ’s line of sight to the water. The routine of the waves pulling in and pulling back, over and over, is calming in a way few other things are. As the sky’s mosaic of colour darkens by the minute, the water reflects it back like a mirror with a pretty shimmer.
“Sometimes I wish I had a photo of my ma.”
“Don’t you?” you ask, looking to him again.
He shakes his head. “My dad went on this crazy rager when she left and burnt up all her stuff. I was too young and stupid to take a photo for myself and hide it somewhere.”
“Bold of you to assume that you’re not still those things.”
JJ snorts, shooting you a glance. “Thanks.”
You smile back but correct your manners. “Seriously though, that sucks. I’m sorry.” It’s a lame understatement for the reality of it, but it’s all you can think to say. Tenderness isn’t something that comes very naturally for you.
He shrugs, looking back to the water. You know he’s trying to act like it doesn’t bother him, and maybe if you’d only met yesterday, you’d believe it, but there’s something about his composure that tells you that it isn’t true.
“I just wish I could remember what she looks like, y’know?” he says, looking to you once more as if seeking affirmation. You give a small nod. “I mean, I can’t even remember her voice. Not that it should matter. Fuck her, right? She’s the one who left.”
He takes a hasty sip of his soda, breaking eye contact. You frown and watch him, and deliberate whether to speak your mind. I mean, of course you’re going to, but it feels good to deliberate first.
“Well, no, not ‘fuck her’,” you eventually say.
JJ looks to you, eyebrows knotted: bordering on angry.
You continue. “I think it ain’t that simple. It’s why I go through phases of having that photo of my mom in my wallet. You can be mad at someone and still miss them. At least I think you can. They’re not binary things, or mutually exclusive. So, I don’t think it’s as simple as ‘fuck her’.”
There’s a moment where JJ just looks at you, as if he’s soaking you in the same way the two of you are basking in the warmth of the sun. It’s a certain kind of stare; the kind where you don’t feel calculated under his gaze but unquestionably seen. There’s a momentary concern that you’ve offended him but then JJ gains this almost-smile that’s becoming more and more familiar to you, and he nods.
“I’ve never really talked to anyone about her before,” JJ confesses.
You smile sadly. “Me too. About my mom, I mean. Dad shuts down when I bring it up and Charlotte…She remembers things differently.”
“Well, it’s nice to talk about it.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “It is nice.”
The whispering of sea waves melts into the sound of songbirds and geese, singing and squawking in a weirdly melodic harmony. There’re crickets in the dunes which chime in from time to time and you take a moment to look back to the water, close your eyes, and enjoy it all.
“So, what’s your excuse for it?”
“My excuse for what?” you wonder, never opening your eyes.
“You know.” There’s a soft scrape on your skin as JJ kicks some sand off his feet and onto yours. “For acting the way we do.”
Sighing, you deliberate on how to answer. JJ has this way of opening you up. With others, you were hard-shelled and closed off, but like a pistachio, he knew where to pry just right to get you to spill. It was like he already knew the password so you never questioned letting him through the door.
“I don’t want to care what people think of me. It makes no difference, whether I impress them or not, so what should it matter? Why should I waste my time with it?”
“‘Makes no difference?’ Like makes no difference whether they stick around?” JJ wonders.
You open your eyes and look to him, a little taken aback by how easily he translated your words. “Sure. Like that.”
“Like your mom?”
It doesn’t affect you when he asks that. If someone else were to, your fury would spike suddenly and you’d snap. Say something you’d regret. But maybe because JJ might understand more than others, it doesn’t. So, you nod.
“Yeah,” you quietly reply. “Like my mom.”
“I get that,” JJ muses. It’s with that small token that you feel comfortable to elaborate.
“I think it really came clear after she left, how fake people can be,” you say. “Seeing how all our so-called friends reacted. At the Yacht Club, my dad was the laughingstock. Everyone talked about him, about mom leaving, like they didn’t know him. Like he wasn’t this great guy - which he is - and like they hadn’t been drinking cocktails and pints on his tab for years. It was so fake. That’s when I realised that people will think whatever they want to, even if they say another thing. So…why bend yourself backwards to try and change it?”
Sniffing, JJ nods in understanding as he digests your story. His toes dig into the damp sand and you find your own spare hand reaching out and playing with the grains, sifting through them soothingly.
“What about you? Why do you act the way we do?”
“I guess the same, in a way,” JJ replies. You notice that he likes to gaze ahead when he talks about himself, like eye-contact is too painful. Too vulnerable. “With my dad being who he is, people just assume the worst about me. I’m sick of trying to prove them wrong. They’re gonna think what they wanna think so what’s the point, right?”
“The ones who care enough won’t judge a book by its cover. They’ll get to know you and see through all the bullshit,” you assure him.
His head turns with that. Unblinking, he asks, “like you?”
You’re momentarily stunned by the bluntness of the question but soon enough, you’re smiling at him.
“Yeah. Like me.”
When JJ smiles, his teeth peak through in this adorably youthful way. There’re dimples that poke through his cheeks and no tension in his forehead or jaw. Just happiness. You like him like this, all tousled and sun-kissed and seawater bathed. It’s strange. Sitting here with him on the beach feels like the first time you’ve ever been to the water and truly appreciated it. It’s like you’d always thought you would sink, so you never swam. But now, with JJ looking at you the way he is, and the way the two of you seem to click in an inexplicable manner – as if you’d been the two missing parts of the other’s jigsaw puzzle – you realise that maybe you were wrong to make such an assumption.
“It’s weird. We come from such different lifestyles but I don’t think anyone understands me as good as you do.”
JJ’s voice is quiet but not small when he tells you this. It’s a private thought that you’re honoured for him to have shared. There’s only one way you can think to answer.
Leaning forward, you leave your drink abandoned on the blanket and cup his jaw, fingers damp from condensation. His lips meet yours willingly. The kiss the two of you fall into makes your feelings for him all the more obvious to you, and all the more terrifying.
There was a lot of rumours about the both of you. Some were true, and some were not.
JJ drops the campervan off at his friend John B’s house. It’s this quaint fishing shack that could definitely do with a lick of paint on the boarding, and a few fresh nails to keep the porch from caving in on itself. But it’s homely by how clearly lived-in it is. There’s no emotionless ornaments like in your house; only fishing gear, empty cans of beer by the stairs leading up to the front door, and far-from-new throw pillows. You wait on the grass at the bottom of the stairs as JJ heads up to the door, skipping one of the steps entirely. He raps with his knuckles on the door before letting himself in.
“Yo! John B, you home?”
“Back here!” you hear a guy call back. JJ vanishes into the house, car keys in hand, ready to hand them over.
Shoving your hands in your short pockets, you glance out to the backyard. There’s an impressive sized tree from which a hammock hangs, and a less than stable looking jetty. A sort-of shed stands, filled with all sorts of tools and gear, and a half-waxed board lies on a table.
“Alright, let’s bounce,” JJ says, reappearing. He hops off the porch and grabs your hand like it’s second nature, guiding the two of you away from the house.
“You known John B a long time?”
“Since kindergarten,” JJ replies.
“Damn. Don’t think I’ve ever known someone that long. Well, apart from Charlotte.”
“What’s her deal, anyway?”
“Who? Charlotte?”
“Yeah. Like, is she as conceited as everyone says she is?”
Your brows quirk up. “People say she’s conceited?”
Watching JJ fumble and stumble over his tongue is entertaining. He looks to you, mildly panicked. “Well, like, I don’t say that but—”
“I’m just messing with you,” you grin. He unconsciously gives a small sigh of relief. “I know she’s conceited. And spoilt. And bratty.”
“Hm. Sounds like you’re really fond of her,” JJ chuckles.
You laugh under breath and rock your head from side to side in deliberation. “She’s hard to love but harder to hate.”
“That’s ice cold, girl,” JJ whistles.
The moment your feet hit the tarmac of a main road, you realise that you’ve been following the blonde-haired boy blind.
“Where are we going, by the way?”
“To mine.”
“To yours?”
JJ seems to catch onto the innuendo. He looks to you and adds, “my bike’s there. I can give you a ride home.”
 “Oh.” Something inside you sinks with disappointment. You don’t dwell on it though. “Thanks.”
The weight of JJ’s fingers nestled between yours is casually intimate. Usually you’d feel coddled and clammy and want to pull away, but instead you feel safe.
“What’d you think I meant? When I said we were heading to mine?” JJ asks you.
You quirk a brow and pull a face which seems to be answer enough. He cracks up. “I mean…I’m down if you’re down…”
“Slow and steady, JJ Maybank. Slow and steady,” you return with a grin.
“That’s my motto baby,” is his sultry reply, topped off with a wink.
You’d be lying if you said your body didn’t flush with that comment.
“You’ve got a reputation, JJ. I’m not gonna be another notch on your belt,” you jokingly say.
JJ rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, half of my reputation is bullshit rumours.”
“Same here, amigo.”
“Yeah, I’ve gotta admit, I’ve heard some pretty batshit things about you,” JJ tunefully says.
Smirking, you turn to look at him. “Oh really? Like what?”
He takes a moment to think. The eventide light shadows his skin like a painting. “The state trooper?”
Ah. You remember that one. Bobby Cromack spread a rumour that you’d kicked a state trooper in the balls during a protest. On accounts that no protest ever existed that month in Kildare, that was a lie.
“False,” you say. You take the opportunity to debunk some of that you’d heard about JJ. One that you were certain wasn’t true was the rumour that he ate an entire turtle raw. “The turtle?”
He blows a raspberry. “Bullshit. The college guy?”
“Hearsay,” you say. Apparently, a friend of a friend of someone at Kildare Academy saw you at a frat college party in Wilmington, snorting coke off some guy’s chest. Incredible how easily fake news flies. “The hooker?”
“Lies,” he debunks. So, JJ didn’t lose his virginity to a prostitute. “The Banksy side-gig?”
You guffaw. “Complete crap.”
Yes, it appeared that people at school thought you were spending your free time running around Kildare, throwing up mediocre spray paint art as an act of rebellion. Stunning.
“Damn. You’re just full of disappointments, ain’t ya?”
JJ leads the two of you up a small dirt road and through a culmination of trees and shrubs, a house begins to emerge. It’s slightly bigger than John B’s but still small. It is somehow even more banged up, but not in an inviting way like his friend’s. No, this place looks desolate and lonely. Sad even. You feel a sympathetic tug when you notice JJ’s shoulders tense at the sight of it. You’re not even sure he realises that he’s doing it. There’s a bright red bike that you recognise; it’s sheltered under a small shack in the garden. It seems that neither of you are ready to close off the conversation yet. Instead, JJ takes you to the steps of his porch and the two of you sit. You lean against one pillar and him against the other. The wood is splintering and the paint is peeling off in strips. Facing one another, you slot your feet between his staple combat boots.
“Tell me something true.”
“Something true?” he checks, rubbing at his jaw. You nod. “I don’t like snakes.”
Laughing, you shake your head. He seems to like your laugh, smiling at the sound and sight. “No. Something real.”
JJ reaches out and plays with one of your laces.
“Something nobody else knows,” you explicate.
“Okay,” JJ nods. He retracts his fingers from your shoe, using his hand to help him keep his balance as he leans forward. You can smell the salt on the skin of his neck from the sea as he presses a kiss to your skin. There’s something sensual about the warmth of his breath on the apple of your cheek.
“You’re sweet,” he says. Your lips push together, suppressing your smile, and JJ pulls back only to move to the other cheek. “And sexy.” He pulls back so he can plant a kiss on your lips. You love how JJ kisses. “And completely hot for me.”
You guffaw, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re amazingly self-assured, has anyone ever told you that?”
He frowns momentarily before nodding, saying, “I tell myself that everyday, actually.”
The smile that his joking response brings you quickly fades when he kisses you again. There’s something different about this kiss. Something passionate, and emotive, and sensuous. When his hand reaches up to cup at the place where your jaw fades into your neck, you find yourself leaning into his hold, deepening the kiss. The brush of his tongue on yours sends electricity shooting from your head, down your spine, straight through your toes. It’s over all too soon. When he speaks, he’s close, and he asks his question against your lips.
“Go to the Spring Ball with me.”
“What?” you dumbly ask, eyes slowly opening.
“The Yacht club spring ball. Go with me,” JJ clarifies.
Your smile doesn’t falter as you gaze into his eyes, admiring the flecks of colour. The answer is easy. “No.”
His brows gently tug together. Smiling, he repeats, “come on, go with me.”
“Is that a request or a demand?” you half-joke. The magic of the moment is dissipating as quick as vapour. He doesn’t reply but the way he holds your gaze suggests that he’s still waiting for an answer. “No.”
“No? Why not?”
You pull away now. “Because I don’t want to. Because it’s a dumb tradition for fake rich people.”
“Come on! People won’t expect you to go. Plus, it’d be a laugh seeing the look on those Kook asshole faces when you show up with me, don’t you think?” JJ prompts.
You frown. Something manifests in your gut. It weighs heavy like a stone. Cocking your head, creating more distance between the two of you, you ask, “why are you pushing this?”
JJ’s lips part. You see them try to form words but nothing comes out. It makes you prod further.
“What’s in it for you?”
He turns, sitting fully on the porch, feet side by side on the step below. You watch his side profile and notice how his jaw ticks and tightens, like he’s annoyed. Like you telling him no has annoyed him. That stone turns into a rock.
“So, you’re saying I need a motive to be with you now?” JJ asks, tone clipped.
Your anger ticks. “You tell me.”
He scoffs and shakes his head, glancing out to the unkept yard. Suddenly, he looks to you. There’s a dark, twisted look on his face that’s so scarily unfamiliar. “You need therapy, you know that? Has anyone ever told you that before? Like you’re actually sick in the head.”
The words hit like darts aimed straight for your heart. You swallow the pain and keep your gaze steely but your voice gives you away. It’s shrinking and holds no conviction as you say, “answer the question, JJ.”
The ugliness of him only grows as he shakes his head once more. There’s a sick smile on his face that comes and goes quick like a hurricane before he sardonically says, “nothing, alright? Just the pleasure of your company.”
The rock in your gut is a boulder; it makes you feel like you’re sinking into the ground. The shock barely has time to settle before he delivers another blow. You watch JJ dig into his short pockets and pull out a pack of cigarettes, shucking one free and propping it between his lips. He said he was quitting. Scoffing, you reach out and take it as he searches for his lighter. You toss the cigarette carelessly on the ground before getting to your feet, hastily walking away from him. It’s like you can’t get away fast enough. Your arms wrap around you in a far from comforting hug the minute you feel obscured by the foliage. When you realise that JJ isn’t following you, your head dips and lips tremble. With the call of a songbird, your mind flashes back to earlier that day, at the beach, and your tears finally start to fall.
There was a rumour that your sister wanted to go to the spring ball with Rafe. That one was (thankfully) false.
Academics don’t hurt you the way people do. Math equations can’t talk back and Shakespeare quotes don’t bite. Throwing yourself into your studies seems the best way to get your mind of JJ’s cruel words. The look on his face when he snapped at you was so different to the way he’d been with you before. It was cold and callous and downright mean. It was also befuddling, how defensive he got. JJ and Spring Ball didn’t seem like the most obvious pairing to you. You knew that JJ liked to stick-it-to-the-man and get under the Kook’s skin, but pushing the spring ball just to take the piss was so abnormal. Maybe that was what hurt the most.
You’re halfway through analysing a sonnet from Romeo and Juliet when there’s a soft rap on your bedroom door.
“Come in!”
It creaks open and you glance over to find Charlotte. She softly closes it behind her. Then, she takes a seat on your bed.
“What’s up?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” you say, closing your notebook. Spinning around in your desk chair, you face your younger sister.
She takes a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. She stands out like a sore thumb in your bedroom, amongst your old movie posters and tapestries and postcards, and the deep grey and white of your bedsheets. Her blossom pink skirt doesn’t quite fit the theme.
“Why don’t you want to go to the spring ball? Is it just to keep me from going?”
You sigh and look away, down at the floor. Shaking your head, you say, “no. I just don’t like the yacht club people. You know that.”
“You act like you’re not one of us,” Charlotte tells you.
“Because I’m not,” you reply quickly, offended. She quirks a brow.
“Look at where we live! At the car you drive! We’re in a lucky position in life and it’s stupid to act like that isn’t true!”
“I can acknowledge my privilege without leaning into it,” you say.
You weren’t stupid. You knew your socio-economic status gave you an advantage in life. Not once had you ever had to worry about money, or not having dinner on the table, or not being able to go for coffee. Your dad worked hard to get to the place where you were at now; it wasn’t handed to him. Nonetheless, spending more time with JJ, seeing his and John B’s homes, made you realise just how easy you had it. That didn’t mean that you liked the frivolities of the lifestyle, though.
“Look, I know you think the yacht club is dumb and fake and all of that stuff,” Charlotte reals off. “But I actually care about it. I really do. It means something to me.”
“But it’s so—”
“You can preach all you want, but it won’t change my opinion,” Charlotte interrupts. You slam your mouth shut. It’s a fair point (something she rarely makes). “Look, there’s a guy that I really like, and he wants to take me.”
“Rafe?”
“No.” She says it in a way that makes you think she’s almost amused at the thought. “Louis. He’s actually nice.”
“Actually?” You check.
She smiles and nods. She has a pretty smile. “Yes. Actually. But daddy won’t let me go if you don’t and I really want to go.”
You swallow. It’s clear where this conversation is going now. Sighing, you look out the window. It’s windy today. Blossoms keep getting blown from the trees and they pass by your window like fake snow.
“The thing with the yacht club isn’t just as simple as not wanting to get all dressed up for some dumb tradition,” you admit. “I don’t like how they treated dad, after mom left.”
“I know,” she says. Then, after a moment’s thought, adds, “But that wasn’t everyone. Remember how Mrs M brought us casserole for a week? And Mr Cameron invited dad out on a fishing trip? Some people are fake, that’s true, but not everyone. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”
That last sentence has your eyes snapping back to hers. She doesn’t seem to realise what she’s said. In fact, it looks like she’s waiting for you to tear into her like you usually would. But when you take her in, you see a sweet fifteen-year-old girl who’s a little tightly wrapped in cotton wool, who wants an excuse to wear a pretty dress and dance to trashy pop music and get to know a cute guy. The thought of keeping her away from that makes you feel guilty. Plus, if you’re there, at least you can keep an eye on her from the outskirts. Check that this Louis isn’t just another Rafe in disguise.
“Fine.”
She blinks at you, confused. “Fine?”
“I’ll go. We can go.”
“We can!?”
The way her whole face lights up like New York at night makes the night of horror already worthwhile. Starting to smile, you nod. The hug that Charlotte fires at you nearly sends you falling out of your chair. As much as you hate hugs, this one might be the best one you’ve ever had from her.
There was a rumour that JJ’s dad beat him. He never told you that was true, but you had a feeling.
JJ’s house seems eerily quiet. It isn’t the sort of quiet that makes you feel as though nobody’s home. It reminds you of the quiet in the movies when the hostages are hiding from the bad guys. The kind where nobody wants to step on a twig and give away their location. Something about it stops you from heading up the porch and knocking on the door. You’ve barely rounded the corner of the house, about to see what you can spot around the back, when someone is grabbing at you from behind. It’s a man, you can tell by their arms. One wraps around your middle, fastening one of your arms to your side, and the other comes to cover your mouth. It muffles your panicked yelps.
“Calm down, calm down, it’s me,” JJ’s whispering frantically in your ear.
It doesn’t stop your struggling though. He’s barely pulled you away from the house before you shake free, shoving him off you. He takes you by the wrist then, guiding you into the marshland.
“What the hell, JJ!”
“Shut up, alright? He’ll hear,” JJ shortly replies.
You do as he says begrudgingly and let him take you further from the house. Eventually, JJ lets go. He takes a second to catch his breath, bringing his arms up to clasp his hands behind his head, back facing you as he paces.
“What’s going on?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Don’t matter.”
Turning around, it seems as though his whole demeanour has reset. Well, almost. There’s a tension in his muscles that he can’t fully shake. You overlook it the same way you overlook the bruise forming near his eye. It’s brown and purple. Definitely caused by more than a tap on a doorframe.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I had to come see you,” you say. Suddenly, with the spotlight on you, the confidence that Charlotte instilled within you falters. “About the other day.”
“The other day?”
“Yeah, on your porch…” you clumsily say.
JJ raises his brows, changing his weight from one leg to the other. It seems easier to fixate on his cap rather than meet his eyes. It’s green and purposefully frayed on the edges; it compliments his skin tone well. Swallowing your pride with a sigh, you awkwardly twiddle your fingers.
“I came to apologise for how I reacted.”
“You did?”
Your eyes dart down from his hat to meet his. “Yeah. I shouldn’t have questioned your motives. It was dumb of me, and stupid, and…dumb.”
“Said that one already.”
“Shut up.”
“Right.”
You sigh and rub at your forehead like this conversation is causing you a headache. It turns out pride and stubbornness are sisters.
“Anyway, I just wanted to come and say sorry and see if you still wanted to go. Maybe,” you rush out.
“You wanna go to the spring ball?” JJ frowns.
“Yeah. Charlotte wants to go and my dad—You know what, that doesn’t matter. Because you’re right,” you tell him, cutting yourself off in the process.
His eyebrows almost shoot into his hairline with that. Something tells you that he doesn’t hear that phrase a whole lot.
“It would be funny to rub it in the kook-club faces. And maybe I’d actually enjoy the night if I went with you.”
JJ purses his lips and plants his hands on his hips, looking off to the greenery. You know what he’s doing. He’s basking in this moment, with you stood, tail between your legs, and milking it for what it’s worth. It isn’t exactly amusing, but it does somehow ease your anxiety.
“So, you’re saying that I’m right and that you want me to take you to your fancy spring ball?”
“Yes,” you reply through gritted teeth.
“Huh.” JJ nods, pulling a face. “So this is what it feels like to be right…"
Silence.
"It’s oddly unsettling.”
“Look, do you wanna go or not, cause I’ve got plenty of other things I can do with—”
JJ makes it to you with two large strides. Your face is enveloped by his hands as he guides your lips to yours in a smooch-like kiss. It’s awfully annoying how all of your worries seem to melt away with that one gesture.
“Yes. I’ll go with you,” JJ says the minute he pulls back.
You want his lips on yours again already, but you practice restraint. Bringing a hand up to lay over one of his, you look up into his eyes. God, he’s so dreamy.
“I’m sorry for questioning your motives,” you repeat, more sincerely now.
JJ swallows before nodding. “You’re, uh, you’re forgiven. I’m sorry too, for saying the things that I did. I gotta pretty ugly temper sometimes and I just speak without thinking.”
You missed the smile that comes to your face. Nobody makes you smile like JJ does. Nobody gets you like JJ does either. As if trying to tell him so, you lean up and kiss him again. You can feel his smile against yours, melding and merging like you’re two of the same souls. You assume that this is JJ’s way of saying yes; he’ll join you to the spring ball.
There was a rumour that your sister punched Rafe at the spring ball. That one you weren’t sure about.  
The yacht club was a cream building with pastel green shutters and doors. It stood in front of the beach, surrounded by perfectly trimmed green fields and a stone’s throw from a golf course. Several flags stuck out of the thatched roof, waving proudly in the air. For the spring ball, the porch had been decorated with ivy and flowers. Purple and blue blossoms were intertwined with foliage and string-lights, dancing up the poles as if growing. The main event was held in the back, facing the sea. The extensive decorations continued, only now with white sheer-like fabric hanging from place to place, creating somewhat of a shelter. A makeshift dancefloor was put down using wooden boards directly before a small stage for live musicians to perform throughout the night. Tables for snacks which looked as though they’d been meticulously crafted by God himself lined the back wall of the building.
“Holy crap,” you can’t help but mutter at the sight of it all.
JJ whistles lowly in wordless agreement. His fingers intertwine with yours, squeezing, and you look up to him.
“Ready for this?” he asks.
“Are you?”
He grins with that. “Baby, I was born ready to show these Kooks a good time.”
You roll your eyes, smile flowering on your features, and guide the two of you up the porch. The moment you pass Mr and Mrs Johnson, dressed in the over-the-top attire, you hear their hushed whispers. It makes your smile grow.
JJ manages to snag a couple of drinks for the two of you from the bar. You sip and lead the two of you outside, into the belly of the beast. Adults stand chatting away, gushing falsely over their lives. Did you hear the Carol got accepted into Yale? Oh, isn’t it just marvellous! You spot Charlotte fairly quickly and it brightens the night. She’s dancing with Louis, giggling like a child on Christmas morning, and he’s watching her like she hung the stars shining in the sky above.
You and JJ find a quieter spot to the side to people watch. Your leg rests against his as you perch, sipping on the champagne.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” JJ says, breaking the silence.
Looking to him, you smile. He’s the only person who can make you bashful. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I kinda forget to say earlier,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. You love when he does that. It makes you giddy to know you have that kind of effect on him.
“Well, what I think you said was ‘wow’,” you correct.
You know that’s what he said. You think the look on his face, somewhat mesmerised, and the way that the words made your heart hammer like you’d run a marathon, will be permanently etched in your memory.
JJ smiles, looking down to his shoes. You have no idea where he got them from. They’re seemingly brand-new leather loafers, starkly different to his worn-down combat boots.
“You don’t clean up too bad yourself, Maybank,” you clumsily compliment.
He shrugs, confidence somewhat boosted. Glancing down at you, he asks, “Oh really?”
“Mhm. Kinda like you in a penguin suit,” you say.
You fix his collar just for an excuse to touch him. He seems to realise this, wrapping his fingers around your wrist to hold it steady before dipping his head down. Your lips meet his in a chaste kiss that has your toes squirming.
“You wanna walk around. Show my penguin suit off to a few more people?”
You laugh quietly, nodding. “Sure.”
The peruse of the party is probably heightened by the alcohol that JJ keeps managing to sneak for the two of you. At any opportunity, you’re whispering in his ear or his in yours with jokes and jabs about people’s outfits. Rose, looking like lady liberty. Mr Dulany, here to haunt us from his grave. As the night rumbles on, you find yourself actually enjoying it. Somehow, someway, the two of you find yourselves on the dance floor. You’re letting JJ swing you around in some makeshift jive to the mini orchestra’s upbeat rhythm. His theatrics have you practically doubling over. JJ was born with two left feet and then some. You don’t care though. It’s perfect.
When the song ends, there’s a lull as the band catches their breath and sips on some water. The crowd applauses, including yourself, and JJ nods at you as if approving of the talent. It makes you laugh even more. Just as you go to make a joke about it, an all too familiar swell of violins emerges from the stage. Your lips part, head darting over, hands pausing mid-applause, because there’s no way. There is no way that they’re playing what you think they’re playing.
The melody materialises out of the melancholic chords and your heart breaks into a million pieces. Cinema Paradiso: Love Theme.
You scoff in wonderous disbelief, extending a finger dumbly to the stage as you look to JJ, mouth agape. He’s grinning, watching you like he was waiting for your reaction. It patches your heart back together in an instant.
“They’re…” you begin to say.
He nods. Leaning forward, beside your ear, he tells you, “I called in a favour.”
You pull back suddenly, meeting his gaze, checking for some sign of a lie. But he isn’t. He’s smiling, sweet and safe, and you can’t help but step towards him and wrap your arms over his shoulders, around his neck. He accepts your embrace willingly, hands finding solace around your waist. JJ holds you against him as the two of you sway. You practically hide your face in the lapel of his blazer, smiling like a drunk. He did this for you. He remembered this specific song, this specific reprise, for you. The weight of the realisation nearly brings you to tears. Nearly.
In this cocoon of JJ, it feels as though the music coils around the two of you like a snake, trapping you in the lovingly lugubrious song. It ties in perfectly with the distant sound of the ocean. That’s when you realise that you’ll never be able to hear either of those things again without thinking of the seventeen-year-old boy who busted his ass to win you over. You have no idea what you did to deserve him, or what possessed him to pursue you, but whatever it was, you’re eternally grateful.
It takes a split-second to register the hand shoving at your shoulder. It pushes you apart from JJ, making you stumble over your heels as they catch in your dress. After untangling it, you look up to find Rafe’s back facing you. Stepping around him, about to intervene, you see JJ’s face. Something about his expression stops you. He looks anxious.
No.
He looks terrified.
“Look, I didn’t pay you to take out her psycho sister just so some little punk can take out Charlotte instead.”
In that instant, JJ looks like someone who’s just found out his whole religion is a lie, and it’s his fault.
The words parse together slowly. Each syllable as it registers feels like another vice wrapping around your lungs, robbing you of air.
Pay you…
To take out…
Her psycho sister…
JJ isn’t looking at Rafe. He’s not even acknowledging that he exists. He’s staring at you. It doesn’t feel like his usual stare; the kind that makes you feel like he can see you through smog. No. It makes you feel exploited.
That’s when you finally find enough oxygen in your body to form some words.
“Nothing in it for you, huh?”
That same God-awful feeling from the other days returns but tenfold stronger. The urge to just get as far away from JJ as humanly possible. The urge to run. You turn and rush away from the dancefloor, from the crowds, from whatever chaos is bound to follow Rafe like a shadow. From JJ. From the only person you’ve ever really trusted since your mom.
Even though you’re outside, the air feels suffocating. You’re trying to navigate your way around the building, to the carpark where you can call an Uber or just walk home. Anything, anything¸ but stay here, near him.
But JJ’s persistent. You’d known that from the moment you met him. You can hear him calling for you, his voice desperate, and it makes everything hurt even more. He’s faster than you, especially when you’re wearing heels. When he catches up to you, his fingers wrap around your upper arm.
“Please! Please, just lemme explain!” JJ pleads.
“You were paid to take me out by the one person I truly hate.”
You shake him off and turn to face him. He looks guilty as sin and you can’t do it. Can’t bare it. Turning again, you continue to walk away.
“I knew this was a set up.”
The gut feeling from the porch is so horrifically ironic. You should have known. You should have known.
“It wasn’t like that!” JJ insists.
“Really?” You snap. He grabs for you again and you stop, meeting his gaze. You’re not sure how you’re not sobbing. “What was it like? A down payment now and then a bonus for sleeping with me?”
“No, look, I didn’t care about the money, alright!?” JJ desperately insists. You can’t seem to look away. His eyes hold so much feeling but it all feels so lifeless now. “I…I cared about you.”
It all feels so fake.
“I don’t believe you,” you whisper.
Shaking your head, you swallow thickly. The tears finally come, teasing at your waterline, stinging like Rafe’s words from moments ago.
“You’re so not who I thought you were.”
JJ almost physically winces. You push his hand off your arm and go to leave but he’s relentless. He takes you by the wrist with a firm grip, his other hand taking you by the jaw. Then his lips are on yours. The kiss isn’t like the others. It’s dirty and disgusting and disingenuous and desperate, and you shove him off by the shoulders. You glance over him, wet cheeked, like he didn’t cause this. But he did. He hurt you. He hurt you.
This time, when you walk away, JJ doesn’t chase you. Maybe that’s what hurts most of all.
There was a rumour that JJ was paid to take you out. That one was horrifically, painfully true.
When your mom left you cried for a week. Endlessly, morning through to night, tear after tear. It would sometimes pass, but then it would hit again, out of the blue, like a boat colliding with an iceberg in the sea in the vast darkness of night. But after a week, you didn’t have anything left. You just felt hollow and empty. Then you promised that you wouldn’t cry about her anymore.
“You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.”
You sigh and try to focus on the comforting black and white picture on your laptop. George Bailey stands beside sweet little Mary, stood in the night.
“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.”
“I’ll take it.”
The gentle knock on your door is almost a blessing. It’s hard to distract yourself from the awful pain in your chest.
“Come in,” you call out.
Charlotte creeps in, closing the door behind her. She leans against it and looks at you. You’re wallowing in your bed, tucked under a blanket, surrounded by comfort snacks that Mia brought for you and tissues.
“What’s up?” you ask her when she doesn’t speak.
She shakes her head and walks over, climbing onto the bed. She crawls around so she can lie on her back, and you wordlessly turn yourself over, rest your head on her stomach, and begin to cry for what feels like the millionth time. Her fingers lovingly stroke your hair, soothing you through your pain. Suddenly, you’re immensely thankful for your sister. You wouldn’t want her any other way than how she is, no matter how whiny and spoilt she can sometimes get.
“Charlotte?” you sniffle.
“Yeah?” she quietly asks.
It feels like another splinter cracks into your heart as the confession falls from your lips. “I really miss mom.”
She’s still a moment, and then she’s wrapping her arms around you, hugging you tight and close. For once, you don’t pull back. You let yourself be held by your little sister.
“I know,” she whispers. “I do too.”
There was a rumour that JJ regretted what he did. You weren’t sure if that one was true, but you wanted to know.
About a week after the spring ball, you finally brave the outside world. The old movie shop is your first point of call considering you made your way through all your ‘to be watched’ films in the past seven days. It’s nice knowing that you won’t run into anyone in the shop; that you can lose yourself to the world of fiction in sepia and black and white.
The brass bell chimes as you walk through the door.
“Hiya Lucy,” you say.
She glances up from the spreadsheet she’s ticking at, smiling at the sight of you. Then, as if something dawns upon her, she’s waving out her hands for you to pause. “I have something to give you!”
“Oh?”
You didn’t put anything on hold. Wandering over to the counter, you lean against it as Lucy ducks down to rummage for something under the desk. Eventually, she heaves an old typewriter onto the counter.
“What…”
“There’s a note, too,” she says, bobbing back down to search.
Whilst she looks, you reach out a finger and trace it over the iron letters. They’re cold and a little dusty, and beautifully ornate. It’s painted black with gold accents. You’ve never seen something so beautifully vintage. Maybe your dad or Charlotte put it aside for you, as a pick-me-up. You can’t imagine it to be very cheap, not with the quality it is in and the year it was made.
“Here,” Lucy sighs. She holds out a small envelope for you. You take it with a small thanks and open it up.
For you to write your movies.
JJ
The two initials printed in black ink make you pause. You stare at it, throat constricting painfully at the sight. You look to the typewriter again and then back to the note. Just like everything else with JJ, you’re overcome by a confusing concoction of emotions.
Remembering Lucy, you flash her a hopefully unbothered smile and tuck the note in your back pocket.
“Thanks, Lucy,” you say. You brace yourself and lift the typewriter with a huff.
“You got it?”
“Yep, yep,” you strain, beginning towards the door. Some nice old lady holds it open for you as you struggle out, hollering a farewell to the storeowner as you go.
The whole drive home, the typewriter watches you. It watches you as you park and it watches you fight your way up the stairs. Finally, in the quiet of your room, you sit and digest the note. It’s funny that a one sentence message has left you so stumped. But you don’t know what it means. An apology, most likely. But is that enough? An apology for lying to your face for over a month. For letting you open up to him and for letting you believe that he was doing the same, only to find out there was a paycheck at the end.
It's so frustrating that no matter how you try to, and no matter how much easier it would be if you did, you just don’t hate him. You don’t. You can’t. You can’t believe that everything that happened between you was a front. Every little anecdote and gesture, ever look and kiss, was all an act. It just can’t be. Just like you’d said to JJ on the beach, feelings aren’t mutually exclusive. ‘You can be mad at someone and still miss them.’ Is that what this was?
Pulling open your desk drawer, you turf around for some pages of plain paper. You tuck them into the typewriter and practice a few of the keys. There’s the aesthetic clack as they mark the page and the ping when the edge of the page is met. Once you feel confident in how it works, you slot a new piece of paper in the machine and sigh. And then, you begin to type.
I hate the way you talk to me
And the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car.
I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick.
It even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you’re always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh
Even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it when you’re not around
And the fact that you didn’t call.
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you.
Not even close.
Not even a little bit.
Not even at all.
You reread the poem time and time again. It feels like healing, in a strange way, almost as if you’re soothing your wounds with a homemade balm. Finally, for the first time in a week, you feel yourself give a genuine smile. Gently taking the paper from the typewriter, you deliberate what to do with it. The answer comes to you clear like the water at daybreak.
There was a rumour…
Like clockwork, you find JJ on the fishing jetty. His back is to you once more, only this time he’s wearing a loose navy-blue button shirt. Those same cargo shorts and those same combat boots adorn his lower half. His long, tousled mousy-blonde hair is out free, not buried under a cap: your favourite style on him. You make your way down the jetty slowly, giving yourself time to change your mind. There’s a nervousness in your stomach and it doubles when JJ glances over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. The moment he sees you, he leaves his rod propped and turns around fully.
“Hey,” he breaths.
You come to a stop in front of him, leaving a safe distance. “Hey.”
“What, uh…I didn’t know you were coming here,” he eventually says.
You shrug. “I didn’t know I was, ‘til now.”
He nods, uneasy, and pushes his fingers through his hair. His wonderful nervous fidget. You love that one almost as much as the neck scratch.
“The typewriter?”
“Hm?”
“The typewriter. What’s that for?”
He shrugs, gesturing out to you. “For your movies. So you can write those films that you wanna make.”
“But what’s it for?”
JJ catches your gaze and flounders. He shakes his head and glances off, inspecting a corner of the jetty. You take a step forward but he seems to think you’re going to leave, because suddenly he’s looking up at you again and talking. “I’m really sorry about how everything went down.”
You pause in place and watch him. In one of your hands is the poem, folded up into a tiny rectangle, withered at the seams from fiddling.
JJ shakes his head. “I’m not proud of it. At first, I was happy to. I mean, I was getting paid to take out some random chick. I don’t come from much and that amount of money can stretch a long way.”
“I know,” you quietly say.
“No, you don’t,” JJ says. He isn’t exactly angry; it seems he just wants to be clear. “My dad’s a deadbeat, alright? He gets fired from every gig he gets and I gotta help keep the lights on. It ain’t your fault, and I’m not blaming you, but you don’t know what it’s like living from paycheck to paycheck. You ain’t ever had to worry about going hungry, or not having gas or power for a week, or going without internet for a month. So, when Rafe offered me $50, course I said yes. I’m a scumbag who’s dirt-broke with no fucking morals.”
You can’t help but close your eyes. It hurts to hear him talk about himself like that. It hurts to hear him admit to taking the money.
“But then I actually got to know you,” JJ continues.
He’s watching you when you open your eyes. Gauging your reaction.
“And I meant everything I said to you. I didn’t make any of that shit up – the real stuff. And I meant it when I said nobody has ever understood me like you do,” JJ tells you. His voice is thick and weighty with emotion.
You purse your lips in a bid to keep from crying. “What about the movies?”
“Well, I didn’t like them all that much before I met you,” JJ admits. “But you’ve made me a fan. To be honest, they make me think of you.”
“And the typewriter?” you can’t help but ask.
JJ’s lips tease to smile. “Well, this asshole paid me a whole bunch of money to take this really cool chick out. But I messed up and I fell for her, so I had to do something useful with the money.”
Your thumb brushes over the paper of the poem. It feels like a safety blanket. You can’t tear your eyes from his and it seems he feels the same. He nods, gently, as if confirming whatever doubt you have.
“I don’t expect you to just forgive me. I know you don’t trust easy and I threw that in your face. But I don’t wanna lose you. I want you around forever, if you’d let me.”
The heaviness in your gut is gone. There’s a feeling of enlightenment that washes over you. Here, stood before you, honest and open, pockets empty and heart on a platter…You find yourself taking a chance. The pain from your mom leaving you without rhyme or reason fades behind one simple fact: all people are different people.
You no longer want to give JJ the poem. It doesn’t feel right to, at least not right now. Pocketing it, you dampen your lips and deliberate.
Eventually, you nod, “I’ll let you. It’ll take time for me to trust you again, like I did before…But I don’t want to lose you either.”
JJ’s smile slowly grows. It’s your smile, the one he saves just for you, and you feel the pain already passing just by seeing it. Stepping towards him, you make the first move to reconnect. He’s more than happy to accept, pressing his lips to yours in a tender, tired kiss.
“‘Sides,” you say, looking up at him, arms thrown around his shoulders. “Everyone knows the best movies are when the couple gets together at the very end.”
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surrealsunday · 2 years ago
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10 Things I’ll Tattoo on You
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10 Things I Hate About You AU
It’s a terrible idea from the start. Eliott knows that. But when presented with the possibility of a date with a cute boy for a generous sum of much-needed cash, could anyone blame him for taking resident-asshole-Charles-Munier up on the offer? Well, yes. Lucas Lallemant could. But there’s no need for him to find out about the arrangement. A date and it’s done. Easy enough. Or it would be... if Lucas wasn’t... Lucas. Head-strong, stubborn, cheeky, and everything Eliott didn’t know he needed. In conclusion: He’s fucked.
CHAPTER 3
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willgrahamscock · 2 years ago
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not only is Hannibal a “would you love me if I was a worm” type of girl but he also says shit like “I just feel like you’re mad at me” when Will turns away after cuddling for a bit, but it’s because he got too hot and his back hurts from being folded like a lawn chair earlier
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fanaticloser · 4 months ago
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I need a tag that says “Fake dating but one of them thinks it’s real and the one who knows it’s fake actually falls for them and there’s angst but they end up together in the end”
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yenqa · 9 months ago
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10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU — TEASER
READ HERE!
in which...
you hate heeseung. you hate his snobby little voice, his stupid little glasses that are too big for him, his nosiness, and his ability to prove anything or anyone wrong easily. you hate hate hate the way you try to avoid him, but somehow he’s always around, and he can’t see how much you hate him. you swear nothing could make you like him, but after you get caught in a sticky situation with him playing your knight in shining armor, you realize that maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
pairing — heeseung x fem!reader
genre — one sided enemies to lovers, highschool au, he falls first she falls harder, oblivious x obvious, tutor x tutoree (kind of), childhood friends (ish because the whole one sided enemies thing) to lovers, long fic
wordcount — teaser is 1005! fic est. 9k-13k words (hopefully not too ambitious)
warnings — profanity, kissing (no suggestive stuff or nsfw), miscommunication, parties/underage drinking, name calling (bitch, whore, stuff like that), food
featuring — lia of itzy, miyeon of g-idle, hyung line of enhypen (sorry maknaes too many people), ocs : sooyun + teachers
disclaimer — i am not saying this is an accurate representation of these idols or trying to sexualize them at all. this just something i do for fun.
release date — hopefully by mid march?
taglist — open! send an ask or comment to be added!
yenqa — watched the movie on the plane and i was kind of obsessed… but this does not follow the movie plot, i just thought the title fit
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YOU WATCH AS THE SNOW FALLS SLOWLY TO THE GROUND
A blanket of white has got you and the guests at your house locked in for the night. You weren’t very happy with these strangers staying at your house for the night—In fact, you had just been completely shut down by your dad when you asked him to kick them out. It was obvious why he did that, but this definitely had to be your least favorite christmas out of the eight you had been through.
You snap out of your thoughts, continuing to eat whatever you had left on your plate, hesitating when you saw the amount of vegetables still left.
“Mom! I’m full.” You try to hide your plate from her, showing her instead a pout with a hand on your stomach. 
It didn’t work—obviously, so you were stuck at the table, a frown on your face as you forced in the greens. Across from you, a boy your age, who didn’t seem to mind, he almost looked like he was enjoying it.
That’s impossible though, no one likes vegetables. Maybe he was doing it so Santa would get him an extra special gift?
You grumble when he finishes his place, showcasing his plate that had been licked clean to his mom. He stared at you for a second looking down at your—full plate then looking back at his mom, she said “Great job Heeseung!”. He returns his plate to the table with a smile. 
Stabbing your fork back into your food, you stuff it into your face, hoping that you would enjoy it as much as Heeseung did. Again, it didn’t work, and the bitter taste returned to your mouth.
After what felt like hours of groaning and complaining, you had taken the last bite of your food, a proud smirk on your face when you made eye contact with the boy from earlier, who only smiled at you in return. 
Throwing away your plastic plate, you realized that now it was present time, and Santa just had to reward you for your good deeds.
Rushing over to the tree, you spot everyone gathered around the area, opening their presents. You run to your present, recognizing the wrapping paper from last year. Looking at your mom for approval, she nods and you tear apart the paper, lifting up the box inside.
You squeal when you see the picture, you had been begging your mom for weeks for a Lego set, specifically if it was minecraft themed. And Santa had gotten you just that. You hug the box, squeezing it. You exclaim a loud “Thank you Santa!” before running up to your room to assemble the build.
Reading the directions, you start the house, quickly getting confused on how it isn’t looking like how it does in the picture. 
“I think that’s the wrong piece.” A voice says, you whip your head around to see the same boy who sat across from you.
“Who are you?” Your eyebrows furrow at the sight, confused on why those were the first words he said instead of “Hi!” or something.
“My name’s Heeseung—Um, my mom told me to come upstairs and said we should be friends. Do you want to be friends?” 
You huff, “I’m Y/n. Also no, I don’t want to be friends, you’re mean.” You force your legos together, frustrated already with the pieces. You continue to reread the directions, pushing—what you think are—the exact legos to the board. But it doesn’t seem like it’ll fit. Maybe if you push it harder?
“Oh—okay.” You jump slightly, too focused to realize how he's been watching you for the past few minutes. “Do you need some help?”
Yes, you need help. But did you want to accept his help?  . This was your christmas gift from Santa, you shouldn’t have to share.
Glancing at the picture then to the building that had looked like an abstract rendition of it, you let out a sigh. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt, right? “Yeah, I guess.”
He takes a seat on the carpet next to you, focusing hard on the directions before breaking off the wrong pieces, reassembling it so you’ll be on the right track.
“Does this go here, do you think?” “No, it goes here.”  That was a summary of what the conversation was between you, and somehow you were always the one asking the question. Sighing, you lean back, taking a short stretch break before starting again.
You’re shocked at his speed and efficiency, it almost seems like he’s always a step ahead of you. Geez does this guy ever slow down? 
The roles are quickly switched as you are sitting watching him instead. Rummaging through each box only for his eyes to lighten up one he finds the right one. You watch him for a while, getting a break that you very much needed.
You hope that he waits for you to finish it, or that he doesn’t completely do it all by himself because again,  it’s your Christmas gift, and he wouldn’t do that, right?
Not right, because apparently he’s a machine—he finishes the build. He stands up, pushes his stupid glasses up also and smiles at you, heading to the door. You think he’s going to say something else like “Sorry for taking away your present!” instead, he thanks you for sharing and happily skipping away. 
Heeseung. Even his name infuriates you. He was very unpredictable and you hated that. Why did he just do that? He’s so rude. People don’t make sense—especially boys, they have cooties.
Your head was filled with calling him the rudest things you could think of—You even said a few curse words.
Though later you realized that you probably would never see him again, you were ecstatic, so ecstatic you had disassembled your legos just to rebuild it, to completely forget about your bad experience with the boy. 
Only two weeks later were you disappointed to see that same boy, sitting across from you during dinner once again.
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ataliagold · 1 month ago
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trouble's always gonna find you baby, but so will i
For Whumptober prompt 10, I used "blow to the head" and "slurred words." Title from Western Nights by Ethel Cain.
Also on AO3.
Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson
Rating: T
W/C: 1546
Tags: post-vecna, established steddie, whump, assault, injured steve, pistol-whipped, hospital, hurt/comfort, happy ending.
Summary: Steve's found by some men looking to pass Al Munson's drug debt on to his son.
But he'll die before he gives Eddie up.
___
“You ready to talk?”
The man’s leaning close to Steve’s ear, rancid breath filling his nostrils, his fist caked in blood.
Steve’s blood.
Steve gasps for air, bats at the man’s wrist again, kicks out futilely. He receives a boot to his leg for his efforts, the second man grunting at the force he puts behind it.
His head’s swimming. Distantly, he wonders just how many concussions a person can take before their brain just sort of…leaks out their ears.
Surely he’s almost at the brain leaking stage by now.
Blood dribbles from his mouth, sticks to his teeth.
“Where’s Eddie Munson?” The first man growls.
Steve keeps his mouth shut. He’ll never give up Eddie, certainly not to these lowlifes, these associates of Al Munson looking to pass a drug debt onto the jailed man’s son.
He’ll die first.
When he says nothing, there’s the tell-tale click of a gun being cocked.
Steve really thinks he might actually die tonight.
If no one walks past this back alley, he’s toast.
Cold metal presses against his temple. Lucidity grips him for a moment, and Steve squirms in the grip of the two men, trembling all over.
“No…no, you can’t…I don’t know where he is, I don’t.” It’s a lie. It’s a fucking lie but he can’t.
“I ain’t fucking playing,” the man spits out, pressing the handgun harder against the side of Steve’s head. “You’ve got about five seconds before I decorate these walls with your brain, pretty boy.”
Steve swallows. He tastes rust and salt, coughs as it goes down. Heart hammering, ears ringing, fingers scrabbling at the hand fisted at his collar.
He’s going to die. Here, in the pitch black, in the dankest, dirtiest alleyway in Hawkins, where Jonathan had once beat him to a pulp while his friends looked on.
His tongue darts out over his lips. The barrel of the gun’s against his head still.
He thinks of Eddie.
Of cracked lips and gentle hands, long curls and pale skin that Steve loved to touch.
He’ll die before he gives him up.
In a moment of defiance, he locks eyes with his attacker.
The man curses, raises his hand, and whips the butt of the pistol across Steve’s face.
Steve’s head is slammed to the side at the force, his cheek immediately wet with blood where the skin parts.
“Last chance.” The man spits at the ground beside him, and then the gun’s lowered in front of Steve’s face again.
The world’s a blur in front of him. Steve blinks sluggishly, listens to his pulse pounding in his ears.
Eddie would be home from work by now. He’d be at the cabin by the lake, where he and Steve had been staying after…everything. They’d just wanted some peace in the wake of Vecna, away from the prying eyes of the Hawkins townsfolk, the ones that still blamed Eddie for everything that had happened to the town.
Steve was going to cook dinner for the two of them.
He’d been halfway through when he realized they didn’t have any butter, had driven back into town to buy some. It lay beside him now with the rest of the last-minute groceries he’d grabbed scattered on the filthy concrete. Even when he’d been jumped in the empty parking lot, he’d kept hold of his bag, too shocked to drop it until they’d slammed him up against the wall in the alleyway.
Eddie would be worried, he’d be wondering where Steve was, he’d come looking…
Steve hopes someone else finds him, after. Anyone but Eddie.
“Fuck you,” Steve slurs, with the last of his strength.
The man’s expression hardens.
Steve’s eyes drift close, and he waits for death.
Instead, there’s the wailing of a siren several blocks over.
The other man, the younger one who’d been sending the other nervous looks the whole time, lets go of Steve. He slumps sideways, lacking the strength to stay sitting upright.
“We gotta go,” the younger man urges.
“Nah, he’ll break,” the elder scoffs.
“That’s the fucking police.”
“They’re still a ways off. Probably doing something else.”
“I’m out, man.” The younger one backs away, turns on his heel, and runs.
The older man swears. The siren gets louder, and Steve thinks he can see red and blue lights in the distance, but maybe it’s just his injured brain firing on all cylinders.
“We’ll be back,” he hisses at Steve, kicks him one last time for good measure, and then he’s gone.
Steve sucks in a breath. Winces as everything hurts, his ribs and his stomach and his face all on fire.
He needs to move. Needs to get out to the road where someone might see him, because there’s no way he’s going to make it back to his car.
A whimper escapes from between clenched teeth as he braces against the wall.
He thinks of Eddie.
Shoves himself to his feet, one arm looped against his stomach protectively. His ribs crunch, and he knows there’s broken bone there, cracked under the onslaught of savage kicks the men had delivered to his sides.
It starts to rain.
And that, on top of everything else, has Steve almost breaking out into hysterical laughter. Because of course it’s fucking raining, just when he’d thought his night couldn’t get any worse. Rain mixes with the blood on his face, leaving watery streaks, and Steve slips and staggers his way across the concrete, past the butter turning to a damp mess, past the carton of eggs smashed across the ground.
Several times, he ends up on his knees, everything spinning.
But slowly, every inch of him screaming in agony, he makes it to the road.
There’s a patrol car up ahead, the siren cut now but the lights still flashing on the roof, reflecting off the rain falling.
Steve’s shirt is soaked through as he hobbles towards the car.
“Help,” he tries to call out, but it comes out as a croak, blood spilling out behind it.
He stumbles again, sobs, scrabbles against the concrete with ragged nails and forces himself upright again.
There’s a familiar figure in front of him, hauling some drunk guy to his feet, waving him away from a storefront.
Hopper.
Steve’s crying in relief now.
“Hop,” he rasps.
The chief turns. His eyes go wide, and he runs to Steve, catching him before he can fall again.
“Steve? What the hell happened?”
Steve’s mumbling into Hopper’s chest, he’s trying to tell him, but his tongue’s heavy in his mouth and his words are all merging together.
“In the car, come on,” Hopper’s telling him, guiding him to the passenger seat of the patrol car and easing him in.
Steve leans against the door, shivering, distantly aware of Hopper saying something, but then his eyes are falling closed and he slips into darkness.
*****
He wakes to a steady beep.
There’s a hand on his, warm and familiar.
He’d know it anywhere.
Slowly, he cracks open one eye, then the other.
Eddie’s beside him. He’s pale, bags under his eyes, his bottom lip gnawed to shit, but he perks up now.
“Stevie? Sweetheart, can you hear me?” He squeezes Steve’s hand.
Steve goes to speak, but no sound escapes his raw throat. Instead, he nods, his head feeling heavy and stuffy.
“Steve, I’m so sorry.”
Eddie’s crying.
Steve hates that he’s crying. Hates that he’s the reason for Eddie’s tears.
“Don’t cry,” Steve whispers, his throat rattling. He feels the unmistakable tug of stitches on his cheek when his mouth moves, feels tender skin stretch and flex under bruises.
Eddie only cries harder, scootching his chair closer, forehead finding Steve’s chest and resting there lightly.
“Hopper told me, he said he could barely make out what you said but he heard men, and drugs, and you said my name…Stevie, they wanted me, didn’t they?”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” Steve slurs, “promise.”
“Baby, I don’t…I don’t care about that, I’m worried about you!” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, swipes at the tears across his face, before taking Steve’s hand again. “You’ve got two broken ribs, a serious concussion, and two lots of stitches in your head. You…you could’ve died.”
Steve’s feeling…fuzzy. He recognizes the warm, soupy sensation of painkillers pumping steadily through his veins, knows without them he’d probably be feeling a whole lot worse than he is now.
He reaches a hand up, paws at the air a couple of times before it finally settles where he wants it, on the back of Eddie’s head, soothing over his curls.
“S’ok,” he mumbles, “I’m ok. Gonna…gonna make you dinner. When I’m outta here. Promise.”
Eddie splays a hand across Steve’s stomach, tears soaking into the crisp white sheet on the hospital bed.
“No, you’re not,” Eddie tells him softly. “When you’re out of here, I’m going to look after you. Gonna make you your favourite meals, I’ll fucking…spoon feed you, I’m not letting you out of bed until you’re completely healed.”
“Sounds fun,” Steve drawls, halfway to sleep because Eddie’s here, he’s warm and his voice is soothing and he’s safe.
“I love you,” Eddie whispers, “so fucking much.”
“Love you too,” Steve slurs out, and then he’s asleep again, secure in Eddie’s arms.
___
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welcometololaland · 1 month ago
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NEVER TOO LATE
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“Better once than never, for never too late." William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
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Beautiful, serious and studious Carlos Reyes has incredible college grades and a lacklustre love life. Unfortunately for his younger sister, family rules dictate that she can’t bring her boyfriend to their older sister's wedding unless Carlos brings a date.
A plan is hatched, the scene is set and strings are pulled to orchestrate a romance. However, Romeo comes in the form of TK Strand, and TK's never been particularly good at following the script of a love story.
OR
The Tarlos adaptation of 10 Things I Hate About You.
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6/9 - Updates every Sunday night AEST/AEDT (aka. Australian hours).
thank you to the multitude of people who have kept me going on this one over the years(?). it's literally been almost two years. insanity. you know who you are 😘 thank you, thank you, thank you.
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