#santa barbara umbrella

[michaelburham]

Transitional Bedroom - Guest

Bedroom: large transitional guest bedroom idea without a fireplace and with white walls

[brashearsinsurance]

General Liability Insurance in Honolulu

When it comes to finding reliable General Liability Insurance in Honolulu, look no further than Brashears & Newendorp Insurance Agency. Our highly skilled agents will closely cooperate with you to fully understand your unique risks and develop a customized insurance plan that provides strong protection for your business.

[risriswrites]

Mary's Song

summary: bradley bradshaw is in love with his best friend and it takes them years to figure out how to tell each other how they feel. loosely based on taylor swift's song "mary's song (oh my my my)"

pairing: best friend reader x bradley bradshaw, fem reader

author's note: so this is my first time writing a fanfic and actually posting it anywhere. i'm actually really proud of it so if anyone reads it and actually likes it feel free to like and reblog :)

word count: 7.8k words

She said, "I was seven and you were nine"

I looked at you like the stars that shine

In the sky, the pretty lights

And our daddies used to joke about the two of us

Growing up and falling in love

And our mamas smiled and rolled their eyes

And said, "Oh my, my, my"

It was a sunny summer day in Santa Barbara, California. Carole wasn’t sure if it was going to be a good beach day with the temperature being in the mid 70’s. A subtle breeze could easily take that seemingly beach friendly weather and turn it into a frigid nightmare.

In the end the absence of clouds made her commit to packing up her beach bag, loading up the car, and dragging her only son to the beach to soak up some much-needed sun.

Their lives had changed since losing Nick. Even though five years had passed, the loss still impacted them every day. Thankfully, having Mav around softened the heartache a little.

Pete had given Carole a call earlier that week letting her know he would be in town on his “completely unnecessary” vacation. And after humoring him with some back-and-forth banter and mild guilt tripping, she was able to convince him to come to Santa Barbara for the week.

Carole had never known Mav to have a sister, so when he shows up with a seven-year-old girl in tow claiming it’s his niece, she’s a little flabbergasted.

“It’s just so hard for me to wrap my head around that I’ve known you for years, and never knew you had a sister! Let alone a niece.” Carole squints at him accusingly.

Maverick, who had decided to take full advantage of the California sun, was laying out on an old lawn chair Carole had brought out for him. Peering over his aviators at her he smirked, “I’ve gotta keep some secrets to myself, don’t ya think? Besides, my sister and I weren’t close until a couple of years ago, so there wasn’t much to tell anyway.” He deflected. He wasn’t going to tell Carole the reason behind the reconnection of the two siblings being the death of her late husband.

“Still, when you first brought her out here, I thought you had finally found someone to settle down with and had a kid. Albeit I would have been offended for not getting an invite to your wedding if you had decided to have one, but I digress.” Carole brought the bottle of water she packed up to her lips gingerly, sipping at the refreshing liquid. Turns out she had left the umbrella at home and the sun had taken no pity upon her mishap.

“Definitely not the case. You know how I feel about settling down and it hasn’t really changed since Charlie.” Maverick let out, breathing out a laugh in the process.

Carole rolled her eyes, pushing her sunglasses further up the bridge of her nose, “It’ll happen one day when you least expect it to Mav, I can guarantee you that. Can’t be the heartbreaker forever.” She huffed, glancing over to the two children currently chasing each other on the beach.

Pete followed her gaze and focused on the scene playing out in front of him; hoping to derail Carole from lecturing him about his past lovers.

“She’s gonna have him wrapped around her little finger before the week’s over. I can see it now” he smiled, nodding his head in the direction of the two kids. Mav watched on as his niece looked up at Bradley with a small pout forming on her face, seemingly disgruntled with the game after playing it for so long and is now trying to convince him to partake in something else.

With a soft smile and another roll of her eyes Carole leaned further back in her chair letting her eyes flutter shut, knowing her son was safe with Mav’s own eyes on him.

“I mean seriously Carole, they’re gonna grow up and end up disgustingly in love with each other. Mark my words.” His gaze never leaving the two kids who had stopped chasing each other; after Maverick’s niece had successfully changed Bradley’s mind.

Now instead, opting to dig a tunnel from the water to a little pit they had made further up the beach. Mav had overheard his niece calling it a “hot tub” but he’s certain that whatever they were making had no resemblance to one in the slightest. Bradley didn’t seem to mind though and had gone along with the small build anyway, glancing over to the seven year-old girl every now-and-then to see how she liked it.

Carole didn’t even bother with glancing up at the two when replying to Mav with a very sarcastic “sure Pete” and allowing herself to slip back into brief relaxation.

Oh My My My

*Nine years later*

I was sixteen when suddenly

I wasn't that little girl you used to see

But your eyes still shined like pretty lights

“Relax sunshine, you’re gonna be fine.”

“Bradley, I swear if you tell me I’m going to be fine one more time I’m going to throw the nearest object to me at your head.” You growled.

Bradley glanced at the scene in front of him, his best friend of nine years (and counting) sitting on the floor of her bedroom currently pouting angrily down at her latest grade, with the closest object to her being an old textbook. Cute.

You have terrible aim; he’ll take his chances.

“Sunshine” he breathes out. “I’ve told you before Mr. Greenwood is just a hard-ass who likes knowing his class is one of the most difficult to pass in all of high school.” Bradley sighed.

You let out another huff of frustration swiping a lock of hair out of your face, “I know, I know, it’s just so annoying. I’ve spent weeks preparing for this exam and the most I can show for it is a B-.”

“You’ve only got a month left and you’ll be out of there, don’t stress about it, you’re passing and that’s what matters.” Bradley reassures.

“Easy for you to say, you’re graduating in three weeks, leaving me behind at this poor excuse of a school. Who knows when I’ll see you again! You’ll probably move to another country to become a hippie, learn to speak a different language, and change your name to something obscene like Holden” you sputter out waving your hands around in the process.

Bradley scrunches his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose at the obscene set of words that just left your lips, “I’ll have you know I would not become a hippie.” He pauses briefly before continuing, “I’d be a musician, thank you very much.” Bradley mocks offence.

You finally glance up at him from your spot on the floor, almost instantly regretting that decision. He looks too attractive laid out on your bed like that, it’s almost unfair.

Bradley had filled out a little over the summer, rambling on and on about how he wants to be in top physical condition for when he starts training to become a naval pilot -like his dad had been and consequentially like Uncle Mav. Last time you looked over to him a mere two minutes ago he was laid out on your bed looking up towards the ceiling like it was some humongous puzzle piece.

Now as you look at him, he’s propped himself up onto his forearm; his bicep muscle making itself very apparent; supporting his body weight on it, while simultaneously leaning his head on his fist, gazing softly down at you. Stop looking at me like that or I swear I’m going to fall in love with you.

You visibly swallowed before casting your eyes back down at your paper lying on the floor beneath you.

“I like that you’re more offended by the job title than the name change,” she scoffs.

“Also, there’s no way you’d become a musician, I refuse to believe you possess such a talent.” You threw back, giving your head a shake.

Bradley scoffed before jumping into a spiel of how he’s “like a magician” when he’s on the piano. Lecturing about his many talents and capabilities in an attempt to pull you away from staring at that stupid piece of paper any longer.

A smile pulls from your lips before you let out a few giggles regarding his exaggerated so called “talents”.

Bradley perks up at this and fixes you with a teasing glare, “What are you laughing at? I’m serious! I'm one of the best pianists of all time! I even give Beethoven a run for his money.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do, given that Beethoven has been dead for over a hundred years.” You chortle, tossing your head back in another round of laughs.

Bradley raises his eyebrows in offence, “Oh now you’re in for it.”

You look up between your fits of laughter only to see an eighteen-year-old Bradley Bradshaw launching himself off your bed and tackling you to the ground.

Bradley immediately starts wriggling his fingers up and down the sides of your ribcage, knowing that you’re extremely ticklish, sending you into an uncontrollable amount of laughter. You push away Bradley’s hands a few times in futile attempts to get him away from you; throwing yourself around in the process, before abandoning that plan and instead trying to push at his chest.

You manage to hook your leg over one of his and give his chest a hefty push using all your weight to send him over your shoulder. He grabs ahold of your arm in the process, bringing you with him. Both teenagers now laughing uncontrollably.

Bradley is currently holding both of your arms captive against his chest, laughing at your adorable attempt to try and tickle him. And you joining in because, why did you think you were going to be able to out-muscle him?

You look down at Bradley, stopping your assault and just enjoying the moment. His head is tossed back on the hard-wood floor, eyebrows scrunched while his eyes remain tightly closed pinching at the sides, his mouth is open letting out little breaths of laughter. He’s so beautiful. Your laughs have stopped now, just staring down at him with a soft smile.

Bradley notices your laughs have stopped and chooses that moment to look up. Oh. You’re peering down at him with a smile on your lips and a look he can’t quite decipher in your eyes. Your eyes are so pretty. He gives you a sheepish smile back. It’s too quiet now, and when did his hands move to your waist?

At that moment a loud, shrill pinging rings in the pair’s ears throughout the room. Making both teens scramble away from each other in a mess of “Oh I’m sorry” and “Shit” as your limbs get caught up in your hurriedness to get away from a moment neither of you know what to do with.

Bradley crosses the room in a few long, hurried strides successfully turning the obnoxious alarm off.

He huffs out a breath in mild relief. With the alarm off, your room is once again blanketed in quiet, which funnily enough he’s not sure if he prefers the silence or the pinging of his alarm. He turns to look at you and decides then that he definitely prefers the alarm over the silence. You’re standing at the opposite end of the room; your hair is a bit of a mess and you’ve got a subtle blush to your cheeks making your skin glow a little differently. Fuck.

He swallows, deciding to break the silence “I gotta go. Gotta be up for school tomorrow.”

You nod your head peering down at the floor afraid to look into his eyes, “Yeah” you breathe out. A beat passes, “Yeah of course. It’s late, I’ll walk you out.” You ramble out, before running a hand through your hair, hoping to compose yourself quickly and pray he doesn’t pick up on the massive crush you have on him.

You’re swinging your bedroom door open and stepping out hurriedly before Bradley can even grab his keys and wallet. He takes a breath once he’s got everything and forces himself to follow you out of the room.

You didn’t make it far without him, just a few steps down the hallway of your room before he’s right behind you again.

Before he knows it, you’ve made it to your front door and you’re swinging the cream colored door open for him. “See you tomorrow?” you ask as nonchalantly as you can, throwing him a tight smile as if it were a bone.

He steps over the threshold of your home, putting a little space between the two of you. Something’s different. He glances up at you, eyes wandering over your facial features. It’s still you, but something’s different.

He gives you a soft smile shoving his hands into the pocket of his jeans deciding to let that thought go for the night, “Yeah I’ll swing by to pick you up.”

You glance over at the blue bronco currently sitting in your mom’s driveway. Your eyes quickly flitting from him to the bronco and back to him before you give him a genuine smile, “Sounds great!”

He gives a short nod before he’s pulling you away from the door into a quick hug, giving your waist a squeeze, then begrudgingly letting you go. Bradley turns away from you then, and starts walking down the gravel of your driveway.

You watch from your front door, making sure he gets into his truck safely. Leaning against the doorframe as you call out, “Let me know when you get home!”

He looks back as he opens the door smiling, shaking his head with a short breath of laughter leaving his lips, leaning his weight onto the door tilting his head up as he shouts back to you, “I’ll call you!”

And then he’s climbing into the driver’s seat, starting the car, reversing out of your driveway and speeding down the road to get home to his mom, who no doubt is wondering when her son will be home; he said he’d be back by ten and it’s almost twelve in the morning.

You watch him speed off before deciding you should really close the door and stop watching after him like he’s going to turn around and come back.

With that thought in mind, you grip the door and shut it softly. Leaning against it in hopes to not wake your mom; at least that’s what you’re telling yourself, who’s got a shift at the hospital in a few hours.

“Bradley leave?”

You nearly jump out of your own skin at the sound of your mom’s voice. “Jesus don’t scare me like that! At least make a noise or something before talking, I swear I almost shit myself.” you huff. “But yes, he just left, and I really need to get ready for bed sooo… goodnight.” And with that, you’re quickly making your way back to your room to start your night routine.

Your mom watches you make a quick escape before rolling her eyes and laughing softly to herself.

Oh My My My

*Nine years later*

“I’m just saying, there’s no way you guys didn’t date back then.” Jessie emphasizes, punctuating her statement by pointing an accusing finger in your direction, slurping her strawberry milkshake obnoxiously.

You roll your eyes, glancing away from your friend to look through the window at the traffic piling up outside of the small diner. “Nothing happened Jessie” you huff, mumbling an “unfortunately” under your breath. Jessie doesn’t notice, thankfully.

“Well, you guys had everyone else fooled in school then. I’m pretty sure Kimmy was going to blow a gasket when she asked Bradley to go on a date and he shot her down because of you.” She smirks, swirling a fry into her milkshake before biting into it.

You huff in annoyance, “Okay that was like nine years ago first of all. Second of all, I had nothing to do with that! He could’ve easily gone on that date. He knows I would’ve been fine with rescheduling our weekly movie night.” you follow your statement quickly by sipping from your own milkshake, trying to avoid having this conversation with Jessie for what seems like the billionth time.

“That’s my entire point! He could’ve if he wanted to! But instead, he turned her down to spend time with YOU!” she all but shouts.

You tuck into yourself, scanning the diner to see if anyone was paying attention to Jessie’s loud proclamation. No one’s looking; to your relief, so you quickly return your gaze to her. “Look, Bradley and I have been best friends since we were seven. I’m pretty sure if he had any romantic feelings for me, he would’ve acted on them by now.”

“Where is your loverboy anyway?” Jessie asks, quirking a perfectly arched brow.

Another frustrated huff leaves your lips, Jessie was never the type of friend to let something go. You grab at a fry from your own plate and casually dip it into the pool of ketchup before tossing it into your mouth, “I think he has training today.” You punctuate your guess with a shrug of your shoulders, “I don’t really know, I’m not his keeper.” That’s exactly where he is. He texted you this morning saying so himself.

“Why? Do you want to go on a date with him?” you tease.

“God no! He’s not my type, you know that.” Jessie scoffs.

“Mhm, sure he’s not.” He’s not. You’re just tired of Jessie trying to make something out of nothing. False hope sucks, so reversing the accusations onto Jessie allows you to have the upper hand.

Jessie flicks a strand of wavy black hair out of her face, takes her last sip from her milkshake, then fixes you with a pointed look, “I know you want me to drop it so I will. But please just think about it. There’s something there, and I’m ninety-five percent sure if you were to kiss Bradshaw the next time you saw him, he wouldn’t pull away.”

And with that, Jessie scoots from her side of the booth, grabs her check, and proceeds to walk up to the cash register to pay for her meal, and to flirt with the cashier of course.

With a small smile and a shake of your head, you grab your own check and start to scoot out of the old booth.

Once Jessie has secured the cashier’s number you pay for your meal and you both exit the diner pausing outside to give each other a brief hug before parting ways to your respective vehicles.

Once inside of your car you immediately lock the doors and glance briefly down at your phone. A new message from Bradley has popped up.

Bradley: “Hey sunshine, I’m going to be finishing up here in two hours, do you want to meet up at the hard deck for some drinks?”

Your heart jumps at the idea of seeing Bradley later. Fucking traitor.

You: “Hey!”

You: “Yeah I’m down for that! What time are you thinking?”

You put your phone down in the cupholder of your car and pull out of the diner’s parking lot. Halfway back to your apartment your phone vibrates inside of the cupholder. Knowing that it’s probably Bradley has you going a little over the speed limit to hurry home.

Once you’re safely parked in your designated spot, you grab at your phone, unlocking it to see what he’s said.

Bradley: “7:15?”

You quickly send a quick “that sounds good” text before hopping out of your car and making the trek up to your space.

By the time you’ve ascended the elevator to your room and locked the door behind you, your phone has vibrated again.

Bradley: “Perfect, I’ll come pick you up.”

With a few hours to kill you kick off your sneakers and jeans, throwing on one of your favorite oversized shirts and make yourself comfortable on the couch.

A power nap is just what you need in order to liven yourself up to go out to the bar with Bradley. So, with that thought in mind you set an alarm for an hour and click your phone off, slipping under your old throw blanket and drift off to sleep.

Only to be awakened by the blaring noises of said alarm, what feels like only seconds later.

Sure enough, it’s been an hour. You huff in annoyance throwing the blanket off your face and take a few deep breaths before forcing yourself to sit up from the couch and make your way to your bedroom to pick out an outfit for tonight.

The little yellow sundress you bought a few months ago peeks out from your closet and you quickly pull it from its hanger before you can talk yourself out of it. Discarding your oversized shirt onto your chair you slip the sundress over your head and pull it down to settle at your midthigh.

Glancing at your reflection in the mirror you decide a touch up of your makeup and fluffing of the hair should be enough for tonight.

Once you’re finished, you glance over at your phone to check the time, pressing on the screen making it come to life. There’s a text from Bradley telling you he’ll be at your place in five minutes – four minutes ago. Your eyes go wide, and a panic runs down your spine before you’re scrambling around your room for a pair of shoes to go with your dress and where the fuck did you put your purse?

A few knocks land on your door moments later and you curse under your breath deciding to just go answer the door and forego searching for your purse. Only to see it sittin pretty on your kitchen island.

Swiping the forsaken piece of faux leather off the counter you stride towards the door, opening it in one swift motion.

And there he is.

Bradley Bradshaw in all of his sun kissed glory, hands in his jean pockets looking down your hall before he’s turning to look at you.

He sucks in a quick breath, barely audible, but you heard it.

Fuck, stop looking at me like that.

“Hey” he breathes out.

“Hi” you smile.

A second passes by, both of you just looking at each other before you come out of your daze and decide you’ve been staring for too long.

You breathe out a laugh and step out into the hallway, “ready to go?” you ask.

He takes a small step back from you as you turn to lock your door, giving his head a shake before fixing his gaze. Once you’ve turned yourself back to face him he has an easy smile on his face grabbing your hand in his, leading the way down the hallway, “Just waiting on you sunshine.”

You roll your eyes, he can’t see it, but he knows you’ve done it as soon as you quip out, “Coming from the guy who sets aside time to groom his barely-there pornstache I’ll take as much time as I please, thank you very much.”

He hits the “down” button for the elevator before turning to you and settles his hands on your hips pulling you a little closer to him. Your breath hitches at the action and your eyes widen for a second before you’re forcing yourself to appear normal again, unbothered.

“So now you’re hating on my stache,” he fixes you with a questioning look.

You stick your chin up a bit in defiance, “yes.”

You say it so confidently he almost believes you.

“Oh really? Then who was the one protesting against Nat, just last week; about the ‘stache’ being one of my best features? And how I can’t shave it off,” he raises an eyebrow.

The elevator button dings allowing you a brief escape from his grasp and question. Sidestepping out of his hands into the elevator, you press the “ground floor” button before looking back at him cocking your head to the side smiling, “Wasn’t that Jessie?”

He jumps into the elevator before the doors close and scoffs out a laugh nudging his shoulder against yours, “No sunshine, pretty sure that was you.”

“I don’t recall saying that.” You hum back.

“That’s because you were too busy downing those fruity drinks of yours.”

“Okay first of all, it’s called a fuzzy naval, second of all, it’s not my fault beer is disgusting, I don’t even know why you guys drink that shit.” you scrunch your face at him.

The pair of you step out of the elevator, Bradley once again slipping his hand back into yours, “Don’t worry sunshine, I won’t judge you.”

You decide not to comment on that and just let Bradley guide you to his blue bronco. Seriously, that car just screams Bradley Bradshaw and you’re not sure if you like the car so much because of the way it looks, or if it’s just him.

“Bradshaw, you have got to let me drive her one day.”

Bradley opens his passenger door for you and keeps a hold on your hand, helping you into the bronco. Totally unnecessary but you’ll allow it. One side of his mouth quirks up in a smirk, “in your dreams baby” and then he’s shutting your door and jogging over to the driver’s side.

That’s new.

Before you know it, he’s reversing out of the guest parking space and turning onto the main road to get to the bar of choice, the Hard Deck.

He’s got his window down letting one arm lean out of it and the other has a grip on the steering wheel, looking completely relaxed and carefree. You turn to look out your own window, leaning your head back against the headrest letting the soft sound of ABBA playing through his speakers to be the only thing you focus on.

Once he’s parked, Bradley has already made his way to your side of the vehicle and is opening your door, before you can even reach for the handle. He offers his hand to you again and you take it as you step down and out from the bronco.

You smile at him mumbling out a quick “thank you” before letting his hand go again and start heading towards the entrance of the Hard Deck. He follows behind you quickly grabbing the door for the both of you and letting it swing closed behind him.

The Hard Deck is a little crowded tonight, so Bradley decides to make his way in front of you to make it easier for the both of you to head towards the bar. This time you slip your hand in his as to not lose him in the mass of people.

Bradley’s heart jumping at the feeling of you reaching for him this time.

Once you’ve reached the bar he grabs Penny’s attention, waving her over to him.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite troublemaking duo.” Penny smirks. “The usual?” she quirks a brow.

Bradley smiles before replying with a “you got it”, and Penny glances over to you for a confirmation on Bradley’s request, receiving a small smile and a nod promptly followed by a “yes please”.

Penny lets out a light laugh before heading off to get Bradley a beer and to teach one of her new girls how to make a “fuzzy naval”.

Bradley looks around the bar looking to see if he can find Nat in the sea of civilians and naval aviators. He knew that more often than not, she’d be floating around here once they’d finished up for the day. Most of the naval aviators would come here to destress after training, so it’s not much of a surprise to him when he sees her leaning against the pool table, baiting another civilian into playing a round of pool.

Once he’s spotted Nat, he makes a mental note to head over to the pool table she’s currently occupying. He knows you find comfort in Nat’s company and considering the amount of people crowding around the bar tonight, he can already see that you’re ready to make a run for it.

He slides his arm around your shoulders, trying to provide some comfort before you two can move away from the bar.

Bradley gives your shoulder a light squeeze to gain your attention before he points casually over to Nat. You smile up at him before turning back to the bar, relaxing into his side.

Finally, Penny returns with your drinks, flashing the two of you a smile and giving Bradley a knowing look before she’s turned away and rushing to the opposite end of the bar. Bradley grabs your hand pulling you towards Nat.

Natasha sees the two of you making your way over to her and the grin she had on her face widens even more seeing Bradley holding your hand.

Once the pair of you have reached her, she hits the cue ball towards the black eight ball. Easily slotting it into the pocket, shooting a hand out to the shocked civilian; who she has successfully hustled for the night. He lays a fifty-dollar bill in her hand and walks away in shame before she’s turning and looking at the two lovestruck dumbasses in front of her.

Smiling she says, “Look who decided to drag her ass away from work to make it out tonight.”

You smirk, “How’s the best naval aviator I know?”

Natasha’s smile turns into a smirk, “She’s doing great, already made fifty bucks off the civvy who’s sulking over there in the corner.” She gives her head a nod, gesturing to the man who’s now looking like a kicked puppy, chatting with his buddies.

Natasha turns back to the duo, “Head was a little big when he came over here, figured I’d help him deflate it a bit,” she shrugged.

You laugh and Bradley just looks up to the ceiling with a small shake of his head.

“Good, someone needs to do it.” You say, exasperated, sipping on your drink in the process.

Bradley just let you and Nat carry on conversing with each other, listening in on things that he deemed important, but he was mainly just looking at you. Eyes roaming over your features as you talk.

He is definitely enjoying the view. You’re giggling at something Nat had said, occasionally sipping on your drink, usually followed by flicking a strand of hair out of your face. Don’t even get him started on how the sundress is making him feel. Where did you even get that from? You never wear sundresses. The color complements your skin and makes you stick out in the sea of khaki and jeans like a sore thumb.  

He's suddenly pulled back into the conversation when Nat smugly starts talking about training earlier today.

“Oh, and you’ll never guess who finally got their callsign today” Nat laughs, exaggeratedly leaning over towards you, sneaking her eyes over to Bradley.

You whip your head over to him with widened eyes, “You didn’t tell me that you got your callsign today!”

“It’s not a big deal sunshine,” he smiles warmly at her, happy to have her attention on him instead of Nat.

That statement grants him an eyeroll from you, “sure it isn’t. It’s not like you’ve been wanting to know what your callsign would be since you were five.”

He lets out a laugh, bringing his beer up to his lips and taking a sip, eyes trained on yours.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for a second before you catch yourself and focus back on his eyes again.

He smirks and drags the bottle away from his lips setting it down on a nearby table, “they decided to pay homage to my dad” he breathes out. “So, Rooster is what they came up with,” a small smile graces his lips. “Keeping it in the bird category.”

You smile warmly at him, squeezing his arm, “I like it.”

“Definitely beats Holden by a landslide.” you scoff.

Bradley snorts and glances over to Nat, who’s watching the exchange with a knowing smile.

“Has Nat told you hers yet?” he inquires.

You shake your head before fixing Nat with a questioning stare.

Nat lets out a huff, “It’s a long story”.

“Well, how about you two talk about it while I grab us another drink.” He suggested.

With approval received by both women he quickly makes his way back over to the bar ordering two drinks and a water for himself.

He’s drumming his fingers on the bar waiting for the drinks, casually bobbing his head with the music, when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Knowing you and phoenix were in that general area he turns his head to check in on them, only to see some dick, leaning on the pool table attempting at starting up a conversation with you.

He watches as your face, once relaxed and happy, turns sour. With narrowed eyes and pursed lips, you start talking back to the stranger.

Bradley hasn’t moved yet, but the longer the guy stands there talking to his girl, the angrier he gets.

Bradley thinks he could’ve been fine with letting you and phoenix handle the dick who looks like he walked straight off the set of jersey shore. However, the second he put his hand on your wrist Bradley lost all resolve and was moving swiftly from the bar to make his way back towards you.

You scowled down at the unwanted hand on your wrist before yanking it back towards your body, “Yeah, that’s great, glad you’re having a good night, but don’t touch me.”

“Oh, come on sweetheart, I was only being friendly. Let me buy you a drink?” He reached again for your hand, prompting you to take a step back, bumping into a hard, familiar chest.

“Pretty sure she already told you to keep your hands to yourself.” An arm sneaks around your waist, “And I’d hate to have to tell you again.” Bradley’s hostile voice rings in your ears, crystal clear over the music coming from the jukebox.

The Vinny wannabe scrunches his brows at the pair, “hey man, maybe if you don’t want your girl to be approached, maybe you should tell her how to dress. You can see that ass for miles.”

Bradley clenches his jaw and starts to make his way around you when he feels his hand being pulled back. Turning to face you, he gives you a questioning look, furrowing his eyebrows in the process. You mumble out a quick “I’ve got this handled” before moving around him and slapping the greasy-haired asshole.

The sound reverberates through the bar and effectively catches Penny’s attention, and without another thought she’s wringing the bell. You don’t disrespect women or members of the navy in her bar, and from the way both Bradley and Natasha are glaring down at the man in front of them, she’s guessing he did both.

Two naval officers appear out of the sea of people and roughly grab at the guy’s arms, dragging him from standing in front of you, Bradley, and Natasha to landing in the sand outside the bar’s parking lot.

Penny locks eyes with you receiving a smile and giving one in return before directing her attention towards Bradley, who’s glare is still transfixed on the door where jersey shore was thrown to the wayside.

Penny frowns and locks eyes again with you nodding her head towards Bradley before turning her attention back to serving the crowd that has formed at the back of the bar.

You take a step towards him and grab his arm, giving it a subtle squeeze. Bradley breaks his glare from the door to meet your sparkling eyes, and just like that his anger melts away and he refocuses on getting his girl a drink. Nat had started another round of pool with a naval officer so Bradley decided to bring you with him up to the bar, finding one stool unoccupied and allowing you to sit while he stands and waits.

Not much is said between you two while you wait for their drinks, the sound of Billy Joel’s “uptown girl” muffled by the chatter that has resumed throughout the bar.

Bradley’s eyes are scanning the bar, while yours are focused on Penny who is putting the final touches on your drink. And before you know it another fuzzy naval is placed in front of you, along with a brand of Natasha’s favorite beer. With both drinks finally accounted for, Bradley grabs your hand once more and makes the journey back over to Nat.

Casual conversation ensues between the three of you for a few more hours before Penny calls out to inform you that she’s closing up for the night. Bradley closes out his tab for the night and you guys make your way out to the parking lot.

Nat is still walking towards a vehicle that has pulled into the parking lot when she turns her head lazily to face her two best friends, “well, it’s been fun troublemakers, but I need to get back to the base. Early morning and all.” She waves a hand out to them and a small smirk spreads across her face before she calls out, “Rooster, don’t forget what I told you earlier!”

Bradley gives her a mock salute before she’s hopping into the vehicle and riding out of the parking lot.

You look over to him with a goofy smile on your face (possibly from the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed in the past few hours), “what’s that all about?”

Bradley looks down at you and laughs at the ridiculous look on your face. Hooking his arm around your shoulder he leans down towards your ear and whispers, “you wanna walk the beach a little, before I bring you back to your place?” effectively avoiding your question.

Your eyes light up at the idea and you immediately b-line it past the Hard Deck and towards the pitch black sea. Bradley shakes his head before bolting after you, “Hang-on speed racer!”

Giggling erupts past your lips, “hurry up Roo!”

Bradley’s smile faulters for a second as his heart lurches in his chest at the new nickname.

He finally reaches you and grabs for your hand yanking you back to him. You’re all giggles and messy hair with a light flush on your cheeks, definitely from the alcohol.

You place your hands on his chest, feeling the warmth through the white t-shirt lying underneath his Hawaiian button down. Classic Bradley.

“You know my callsign for all of five hours and you’re already shortening it sunshine.”

You push your body away from him, only keeping one hand in his as you lead him further down the beach, “I like it, it’s cute.”

“That is not what callsigns are for. But I’ll let it slide just this once.”

“I don’t know, I’m quite fond of it, Roo” you smile back at him this time, clearly teasing. Teasing is always easier than admitting your feelings after all.

“Makes me think of that cute little kangaroo from ‘Winnie the pooh’. Oh! And you’re tall, and kangaroos can be tall!”

“So, what I’m hearing is, you think I’m cute and tall.” Bradley teases.

You blow out an exasperated breath, “No Bradley, I said that kangaroos are cute and tall.”

“But I remind you of a kangaroo from Winnie the pooh?”

“Yes.”

“And kangaroos are cute? And can be tall?”

“Yes.”

Bradley quirks a brow up at you, “So, by association of being nicknamed after a kangaroo. I’m cute and tall.”

You scrunch your nose up at him, “Not everything is about you Bradshaw.”

You let go of the hand you’re holding and continue your walk forward, hyper focused on the ground as you walk.

“I’m taking it as a compliment anyway.” He states, following after you.

After a few minutes of just ambling down the beach in comfortable silence Bradley decides the two of you should probably start heading back to his bronco.

He quickens his pace to reach for your hand and is once again pulling you back towards him.

Being slightly tipsy though doesn’t forebode well with trying to stay balanced and you manage to trip over your feet, falling into Bradley. He stumbles back trying to keep the both of you upright before he loses his balance as well and is falling into the sand.

“Shit” you breathe out, “Are you okay?”

Bradley has one hand on your waist and one hand cupping the back of your head.

“I’m fine sunshine, are you okay?” eyes currently wandering the expansion of your face checking for any signs of pain or visible injuries.

“Well, I was fine until you pulled me down. I was looking for seashells,” a small pout forming on your lips, Bradley’s eyes instantly falling down to them.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask if you were ready to go home.” He whispers out, afraid that whatever spell your under right now will be broken at the mere mention of leaving.

“You coulda just asked? Didn’t have to pull me to the ground to get my attention.” you mumble out.

“I don’t know about that sunshine; you were pretty focused” fingers playing with the fabric of your dress. “Besides, I think I have a great view right now.” His eyes have moved from your lips back up to your eyes.

A beat passes. Your cheeks are flushed pink and you’re painfully aware that you’ve been laying on top of him for longer than what can be considered normal, but you can’t move. He’s pinned you to where you’re at with his honey brown eyes and you’re positive you can’t move away.

You’re holding your breath above him, he’s too close. Too close for you to pretend that you only see him as your best friend. And the way he’s looking at you right now, isn’t helping.

Closing your eyes, you take a breath in, “You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that.”

And then you’re making an attempt at getting up and off of him.

Bradley’s eyebrows furrow before he’s catching your arm and pulling you back down to him. Your eyes are still closed.

“How am I looking at you?” he whispers.

“Like you can see my soul.” You suck in a breath and open your eyes; fuck it, “Like I’m the only person you want to look at for the rest of your life.”

Exhaling the breath you’d been holding you murmur, “and I can’t sit here and continue to pretend it doesn’t do anything to me when it does.” You look up and out towards the sand dunes that lead back over to the main road.

You really don’t want to hear the rejection, let alone see it.

Completely prepared to get up and off of him again you’re about to do just that, when he lets out a small chuckle.

A few tears begin to form in your eyes as you begin to whip your head down to tell him off for being a fucking asshole when you see that he’s still looking at you with the same adoration on his face.

Bradley’s bringing your face closer to his, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “sounds about right then” he whispers, lips ghosting over your own.

Five seconds is how long it takes for you to understand what he just said before he’s slotting his lips against yours.

The world feels like it’s stopped and the only thing grounding you to it is Bradley and the feeling of his lips caressing your own.

The kiss is tender and sweet, there’s no rush or clashing of teeth, it’s calm and patient. Like the love you’ve had for each other that’s been building over the years. His hand that had a hold of your arm has moved to cup the back of your neck, keeping you close, where you belong. Your body once cool from the sea breeze, now feels as though it’s on fire as you melt into Bradley; his mustache tickling your top lip.

Bradley sits up bringing you with him as the two of you explore each other’s lips for a couple more seconds, before you’re breaking the kiss to get some air. Leaning your forehead against his, you smile, eyes still closed.

Bradley has his own smile on his face as he nudges your nose with his, “Only took eighteen years of being best friends, but we got there.”

You let out a short laugh, “Speak for yourself, I was ready for you to kiss me when I was sixteen.”

Bradley lets out a chuckle, “I think we need to make up for lost time then, shouldn’t we?” he mumbles against your lips.

“Definitely” you whisper before capturing his lips with your own.

You pull away again all too soon for his liking as a groan leaves his lips, mouth chasing after yours.

You laugh, running your fingers through his soft curls and he lets out a hum, “I still wanna know what Phoenix said.”

“Calling Nat by her callsign now huh?” He pecks your lips trying to bring you into another long kiss, before sighing out an, “Okay.”

“She told me to grow a pair and ask you to be my girlfriend. Said something about how she couldn’t keep dealing with all of the sexual tension.”

“Which speaking of by the way, I love this dress on you.” his hand bunching up the material around your waist as he says it.

Giggling you lean forward again, catching his lips, letting out a hum of appreciation, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bradley leans back and looks you in the eyes again. You’re glowing brighter than the moonlight shining down on you right now, and if the sun was out he’s certain you’d be shining brighter than that too.

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” a confident look has settled across his face as he bites his lip, waiting for your answer.

You hum again, looking over his shoulder in mock contemplation. Head moving from side to side in an attempt to look like you’re weighing your options. Bradley squeezes your sides earning a squeal from you as you try to block his hands.

He stops long enough for you to catch a breath and look back over to him, “Yes” you breathe out.

His lips quirk up into a surprised smile, “yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bradley surges forward towards you again and brings you into another blinding kiss.

He breaks the kiss this time, before murmuring, “Any chance I can stay at your place tonight?” his tone hopeful.

“Keep kissing me like that and I don’t think I’ll ever let you leave.” you smile.

He grins at you, “That’s the plan, sunshine.”

Oh My My My

[thenewsart]

Another storm is coming to SoCal. Could it rain on Rose Parade?

The Los Angeles area is heading for a wet end to the year, with rain showers forecast for later this week, raising the possibility that Rose Parade attendees might need a poncho or umbrella on New Year’s Day. This week will be overcast, and a light storm is expected to arrive in San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara counties by Wednesday, dropping a quarter of an inch of rain or more, according to…

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 11: You Don’t Come Around No More]

A/N: I apologize profusely for the long wait. Thank you all so, so, so much for your support. Every single reblog, message, comment, emotional rant, and/or screech of despair makes my day, and I couldn’t do this without you. 💜 Only THREE more chapters left!!!

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “More To Life Than Baseball” by Petey. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, angsttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

Word Count: 7.5k. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​​​​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​​​​​​ @maggieroseevans​​​​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​​​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​​​​ @escabell​​​​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​​​​​ @queenlover05​​​​​ @someforeigntragedy​​​​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​​​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​​​​ @deacyblues​​​​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​​​ @brianssixpence​​​​​ @some-major-ishues​​​​ @haileymorelikestupid​​​​ @youngpastafanmug​​​​ @simonedk​

The Rain

I wish I felt empty.

I’m supposed to feel empty, right? I’m supposed to feel steeped in grey, oceanic misery; I’m supposed to dip in and out of depressive naps all day and sob delicately over creased photos and fading, wistful memories. I always envisioned heartbreak as a soft and inherently feminine sort of affliction: the hems of nightgowns and bathrobes sweeping along hardwood floors, Kleenex boxes and concave couch cushions, weepy phone calls to friends and aunts and mothers, Queen Victoria wearing black for the rest of her life after Prince Albert’s death, Mary Todd Lincoln sinking into dark and hushed obscurity. Women, hollowed out by despair, cross the history of the earth like lines of latitude.

I don’t feel empty at all. I don’t even feel sad. I feel razored by sharp, red, ceaseless anxiety. I am consumed by thoughts of what I did wrong, what I said that started the wheels of doubt spinning in his mind, if he had known how it would end from the start. I dream of white, clawed hands dragging me down through cold waves. I hear words scream to me as I toss at night in my suddenly too-spacious bed, words that now hit me like knuckles to the gut: Shhh, hey, it’s just me, don’t get up, as Joe slipped beneath the Arizonan blankets, wrapped an arm around my waist, kissed my collarbone as I tumbled back into sleep; I love you to death, as his Subaru idled in Charlie’s driveway; Baby Swan, listen to me, nothing is supposed to hurt, okay, so if anything hurts, ever, at all, you tell me and we stop, deal? as we stood in the doorway of our hotel room at the Four Seasons in Chicago. And now...and now...

And now everything fucking hurts.

It doesn’t make any sense; and yet it does. Look at him. Look at me.

The Polaroid photo from Homecoming was still taped to the top of my full-length mirror. I peeled it free like a layer of translucent, friable reptilian skin, tore it straight down the center, burned both halves over a brand new three-wicked, lemon-scented Bath And Body Works candle—a gift from Renee and Paul—and closed my eyes like a child casting a wish over her birthday cake like a spell. I wished for my memories to vanish with the photograph. I wished to get hit by a truck and wake up in the hospital with no recollection of the past two and a half months. I wanted the Lees to dissolve into distant, enigmatic mystery; I wanted to join the rest of Forks in believing that they were nothing more than bewildering and yet harmless freaks, barely worth noticing, one of those glitches of the matrix that were better off ignored like liminal seconds of déjà vu. I wished to carve out every part of myself that they had ever touched.

And Joe’s voice came rushing back from where we stood by that star-lit fountain outside the Church of Saint Lawrence, accompanied by falling raindrops and a crooked grin: I can make wishes come true.

The three tiny flames flickered in the breeze that sighed through my open window. The bright, citrusy scent of the candle reminded me of Lucy. I couldn’t fucking win. What else is new?

I turned back to the mirror. I flinched when my gaze snagged on my reflection: bloodshot-eyed, swollen-faced, utterly unbeautiful, restless like a caged animal. Look at him. Look at me.

I ripped the last memento off the mirror—Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!!—and watched the yellow square of paper catch fire, curl up around the edges, become unrecognizable, turn to ash. And I wished over and over again, like a poem, like a prayer: Let me forget, oh god please let me forget.

Charlie keeps asking if I’m okay. The answer, of course, is no; but I can’t tell him that. So I wear a serene smile like clip-on fangs, a cheap polyester cloak, crimson smudges of lipstick like trails of spilled blood down the side of my neck. Every day is Halloween for me now. I dress up as someone who isn’t haunted, who hasn’t become a ghost.

And when Charlie turns up the World Series or I’d Do Anything For Love on his geriatric, staticky kitchen radio—the same radio he’s had since my mother was the one joining him for daybreak coffee and Pop-Tarts—I choke back tears like dragonfire.

Missing In Action (Revisited)

Joe wasn’t here. Neither was Ben.

Lucy, Rami, and Scarlett were sipping cups of tea at the Lees’ usual table, their eyes downcast, their voices low and murmuring, their pristine lunches neglected. Lucy and Rami were dressed in matching charcoal grey turtleneck sweaters; Scarlett had come from Fencing Club and was wearing royal purple yoga pants and a black tank top, her duffle bag of gear on the floor by her sneakered feet. Her hair was in a long fishtail braid. Archer hadn’t mentioned her since Joe broke up with me. That either meant that it was going blissfully and he didn’t want to injure me further, or that Scarlett had ended things as well.

Since Joe broke up with me. That sounds so fucking pedestrian.

I stared at the three present Lees, almost leered, commanding them to see me, to acknowledge me, to admit that I had once meant something to them, that this hadn’t all been some transitory delusion to fill the cavernous void of losing my home, my life as I knew it in Arizona. They took no notice whatsoever.

Jess kicked me beneath the lunch table. My attention snapped back to her.

“Sorry, what?”

“You want to go shopping with me and Angela tonight?” Jessica’s hands were folded just beneath her chin, her voice gentle, her eyes large and sympathetic and watery. This was her version of being supportive. I appreciated it...in a perpetually tormented and preoccupied sort of way.

“No thanks.” I forked my cold, sauceless spaghetti listlessly. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch. I didn’t have an appetite anyway. I had deleted the GrubHub app from my iPhone and had no intention of using it ever again in my comparatively short and calamitous human life.

“You could come to temple this weekend,” Jessica pressed.

“Uh.” Mingling with a churchful of sociable, wholesome, marriage-obsessed adolescent Mormons sounded like the absolute last thing I’d want to spend my evening doing. “That’s a really generous offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Well you have to do something,” Angela said. “You can’t just sit in your bedroom alone all weekend and stare at the wall and wallow in self-pity.”

We’ll see about that. I turned to Jess. “How’s Vodka Boy from your Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class? Did he ever reappear? What’s his name again, Elmo? Ellington? El Chapo?”

“Ellsworth.” She frowned as she slurped her patron-drink-of-Mormons Sprite. “And no, he definitely failed out or overdosed or something, because he never came back.”

“Tragic,” I noted.

“But I’m pretty sure Mike’s coming over this weekend, so we’ll see if I can get some Netflix and chill action going.”

“Jess,” Angela chastised, widening her eyes and nodding to me subtly (but not quite subtly enough). No talking about getting lucky in front of the heartbroken single loser, that look said.

“I think I can be emotionally supportive without taking a goddamn vow of chastity, Angela!” Jessica hurled back.

“I gotta go.” I stood, threw on my backpack, discarded my nearly untouched lunch.

“You’ve barely eaten anything!” Angela protested. “You’ve barely eaten for a week!”

“I’ll live.” I picked my umbrella up off the slippery tile floor—peppered with muddy shoeprints and pearlescent drops of water fallen from coats and limp, sopping locks of hair—and headed out into the pouring rain. I hated the rain. I hated it. Maybe I had forgotten that for a while, but it all came hurtling back now like a hurricane, like a hand cracking across my face. I ached for the desert, for blatant and unapologetic heat, for palm trees and cacti and naked stars in the night sky. I had been researching marine biology graduate programs in the Southwest. There were good ones at UC San Diego, UC Santa Barbara, Texas A&M, the University of Southern California, UCLA. I would miss Charlie and Archer—and maybe Jessica and Angela on occasion—and absolutely nothing else about Forks. At least, that’s what I promised myself.

This is a no-giving-a-fuck-about-Lee-boys zone, I thought morosely.

Ben was brooding at our table in Professor Belvin’s classroom. It was the first time he’d shown up to Chemistry since that day Joe met me on the beach at La Push, since the place I’d once occupied in his universe had closed like a wound. I took my seat beside Ben. The window was shut today, the downpour outside torrential. Ben recoiled, just enough for me to notice; he was wearing his oversized black hoodie and practicing his Welsh, his handwriting messy and unbalanced.

“You could have warned me,” I said.

Ben didn’t glance up from his notebook. “Would that have made it any easier?”

“No,” I realized in defeat. I guess it wouldn’t have. I pulled my own notebook, my favorite pen, and a can of Diet Coke out of my backpack.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ben said. “You really need to know that. It had nothing to do with you. And none of us are happy with the current situation. None of us.”

None of them. That included Joe. “Interestingly, that didn’t stop him from creating it.”

Ben was thoughtful, debating his next words. “We’re probably going to be moving soon.”

“What?” I startled; my turquoise blue pen dropped out of my grasp and rolled across the table. Ben snatched it up and returned it to me. “Really?”    

“Yeah.”

“And what, just redo this whole college thing?”

Ben shrugged. “We’ll probably start our junior years over again. Gwil will say there was some horrible family tragedy and we needed a few semesters off. I could use the extra time to figure out Calc anyway. Parametric equations make me want to kill myself.”

I just stared at him. It didn’t make any sense. “But...why would the whole family leave Forks? Because of me? One pathetic, aggrieved human? Do you all pack up and relocate every time Joe fucks and dumps someone? That must be exhausting.”

“It’s better for everyone if we get some distance. Put more space between our world and yours.”

“But...” I tried to imagine never seeing any of them again: no Mercy humming merrily as she tossed handfuls of homegrown carrots to the alpacas, no Dr. Lee dabbing away my blood with an ageless sort of patience, no Scarlett or Lucy or Rami, no brief glimpses of Joe as he avoided me in the campus library. It’s exactly what I wanted; and yet it wasn’t. It so, so, so, so wasn’t. It keeps getting worse. How is that possible? My voice was flimsy and quivering, absolutely pitiful. Disgustingly pitiful. “Who will be my lab partner?”

Ben peered over at me with wide, confused green eyes. And then—gingerly, awkwardly, like holding an acquaintance’s baby for the first time—he laid his hand over mine. “I’ll miss you too.”

Professor Belvin lectured about coordinate covalent bonds. I didn’t absorb a word. I conjugated Italian verbs with my turquoise blue pen, sketched disordered whirlpools of ink, tried not to think about whether this was my last-ever Chemistry class with Ben, whether it was my last-ever weekend sharing Forks with the Lees. Those rageful, frantic thoughts were back. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do right? Why did he have to leave?

My nomadic gaze caught on a flier on the wall next to our misted window. I had assumed it was a leaflet for some club or protest or seasonal dance that I would definitely not attend, but it wasn’t. It was a missing poster.

Have you seen this student? the flier asked in bold, businesslike black font. It was urgent, but not quite despairing; not yet, anyway. I could hear a Dean of Student Affairs cajoling some affluent, strings-of-pearls-adorned mother over the phone: Yes ma’am, you have my full attention and I can assure you that we’re very concerned, but I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding...he’s probably gone backpacking or sailing with some friends and forgotten to call home. You know how college students can be. Beneath a large photo of a grinning blond kid—pink polo, flushed cheeks, clever crop job to nix a can of Natty Light clutched in one fist—was a name: Ellsworth Jonathan Griffin.

Ellsworth, I thought, my stomach plummeting. The guy from Jessica’s Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class. He hadn’t failed out. He was missing. Missing like a 20/20 episode or a true crime podcast, missing like the pregnant stillness before a murder is confessed in some glaringly florescent-lit interrogation room, before a distended and bloodless corpse washes up on shore.

I turned to Ben. He noticed me eventually, crinkled his brow, shrugged in that way that seemed so petulant if you didn’t know him well enough to not be offended.

I pointed to the flier and raised my eyebrows. Ben twisted around in his chair to look. Then he sighed, scribbled a sentence in the corner of a piece of notebook paper, tore it free, and slid it across the table.

Ben’s note read, in atrocious penmanship: Are you seriously asking me if I ate that guy?

Maybe, I wrote back after a moment’s hesitation. Maybe that wasn’t exactly what I was asking; maybe I just wondered if he knew anything about it.

In either case, Ben’s reply was swift and resounding, and underlined three times: No.

Sorry, I wrote, abruptly remorseful. I am a jerk. And I added a frowny face for good measure. Ben chuckled when he saw it, shook his head, gave me a drawn little smirk. His words tiptoed around in my skull, leaving searing imprints like footprints in the sand. I’ll miss you too.

I have to forget about them. I drummed my turquoise blue pen against my notebook as Professor Belvin drew families of molecules on the whiteboard with squealing dry erase markers. I have to find a way to make myself forget.

Jessica was waiting for me in the hallway after class. It was part of her convince-Baby-Swan-not-to-jump-off-a-cliff initiative. “Hey.”

“Okay,” I told her with steely resolve. “I’m ready for you to set me up with one of those guys from your church or temple or whatever. I’m ready to be a nice wholesome wife, pop out like six kids, learn how to scrapbook, give up caffeine and horror movies, do the whole white picket fence thing. Sign me up.”

Jessica blinked at me. There were flecks of fallen mascara on her cheekbones like ashes. “What?”

“You’re a Mormon, right?”

“Girl, I’m not a Mormon,” Jessica said, puzzled. “I’m a witch.”

Lucille

I found Joe where he usually was these days: sprawled on the sofa, engulfed in the same blue Snuggie he’d been wearing for thirty-six uninterrupted hours, gazing catatonically at the big-screen tv. A 90 Day Fiancé marathon was on. Some rodentish guy named Colt was apologizing to his gorgeous, aspiring-green-card-holding Brazilian love interest for calling the cops on her during their last screaming match. He was also apologizing for the fact that they lived in a two-bedroom apartment with his mother. I didn’t need clairvoyance to see where their future was headed.

“Hey,” Ben said when he spotted me. He was sitting next to Joe and occasionally tried to shove pieces of popcorn into his mouth, which Joe accepted passively like coins plinked into a gumball machine. Ben had been his shadow for the past week; he was perhaps the best equipped of us to understand this degree of melancholy, of hopelessness.  

“Ciao.” And then, to Joe: “How are you?”

“Terrible,” he replied, not tearing his eyes from the tv.

“I figured.” I squeezed between them on the couch, curled up next to Joe, rested my chin on his shoulder. He ignored me completely. I could hear Mercy tapping at her laptop keyboard out in the dining room; she was browsing through Zillow listings in Portland, Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Cleveland. Dear god, please don’t let us end up in fucking Cleveland. “Guess what.”

Joe stared at the tv for a long time before he answered. “What.”

“I had a vision of you. Just now, as I was doing laundry. Crystal clear and very scenic too, I might add.”

“Fascinating,” Joe said flatly.

“What happened in this vision?” Ben asked, far more invested, which I was thankful for.

“It was pretty far away, maybe a year from now. I saw you in the desert at night, under a full moon. There were cacti everywhere. The shadow of the Milky Way was threaded through the sky, and the stars were very bright. I could make out the constellations Pegasus and Cassiopeia. You were filling up a tiny glass bottle with dirt.”

“That’s remarkably helpful,” Joe said.

“It is, a little bit,” I insisted. “It means you get through this. That you have a future. I get nervous when I go too long without a vision of someone in the family. But now I know you’re going to be okay.”

The reflections of the feuding 90 Day Fiancé couples danced in his glassy eyes. “Being alive doesn’t mean you’re okay.”

“That’s dark,” Ben said. “Even I think that’s too dark.” He pushed a handful of popcorn into Joe’s mouth. “Are you gonna hunt at some point or what?”

“No.”

“You’re just gonna sit on this couch and waste away?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to bring you anything? Grizzly bear? Brown bear? Fuck it, I’ll get you a polar bear if that’s what you want. There’s probably some on the black market. Rami would know.”

“He what?” Mercy called from the kitchen. Her typing had stopped.

“Nothing, Mom!” I shot back.

“I don’t want anything,” Joe said. That was a lie, of course. We all knew what he wanted. Rami couldn’t stand to be around him; the thoughts were relentless, smothering.

I linked my arms around Joe’s neck, laid my head against his chest, sighed deeply and mournfully. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I’m so, so sorry. And I’ll help however I can. We all will.”

And I had accepted that Joe wasn’t going to respond at all when he finally whispered: “I just wish I could forget.”

Cato

My rolling suitcase snagged on the cobblestone driveway. The tiny spinning wheels bashed against concrete as I scaled the front steps. As the taxi pulled away, I dug around in my suit pocket for my keys, found them, unlocked the enormous front door, stepped inside the palace as my suitcase trolled along the marble floor.

“Cato’s back!” Charity announced as she breezed down the nearest staircase, beaming and embracing me. She was a lovely, innately warm woman from Pointe-Noire, Congo; she still wore the silver cross necklace her mother had once given her around her neck. “Did you have a nice flight? Wait, let me check.” She pressed the fingertips of her right hand to my cheek. I felt the memories rush up like blood to a flushed face: the bite of sipped champagne against my tongue, the thin semi-transparent newspaper pages gliding between my fingers, the husky voice of the bearded, bearish naval officer who sat in the seat beside me, the misted silhouette of Vladivostok as it rose up out of the Pacific Ocean. “Uneventful, but pleasant enough. You flew commercial?”

“The jets were otherwise occupied, apparently.” Charity could see things with the predictability and precision that Lucy so often lacked, but only the past. I pushed her hand away. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re not mad,” Charity declared, confident, impish, helping me shed my suit jacket and draping it over her arm. “You’re never mad.”

She was very nearly correct. “Where are the rest of the kids?”

“In the kitchen. Go say hello, they’ve missed you dreadfully.”

“I know the feeling.” I kicked off my Berlutis, ran a palm over the wiry fur of the Irish Wolfhounds that appeared to greet me before they resumed padding watchfully around the palace, and went to the kitchen, my black socks slipping a bit on the marble floors.

I could hear their voices before I reached the door: laughter, teasing, complaints, requests. The scents of pancakes and cold butter and maple syrup were thick in the air. Charity was one of our four newest recruits, and they all still had that energetic lightness of being human, a youthful enthusiasm, a relative normalness. I spent quite a lot of time with them. It was my job—to help with the transition, to keep them happy, to facilitate the welding of their individual parts into the beastly machine that was the Draghi—but oftentimes it felt more like a reprieve. Some would stay close to me as they matured, others would grow in different directions, like ambitious vines climbing the skeleton of a garden trellis. I usually missed them when they ‘grew up,’ so to speak...although there were exceptions. I had never liked Liesl. I had always liked Ben. I opened the door.

“Ah, you are home!” Ksenia cried from where she stood over the stove, a spatula in her right hand, bouncing excitedly in place on her small bare feet.

“Hey!” Max and Austin called together. They were both sitting with their shoes propped up on the unglamorous kitchen table. There was a massive formal dining room that could accommodate up to twenty-five guests, but we rarely used it.

“Good morning,” I said, aware that I was smiling for the first time in days.

Max groaned as he scrolled through his Google search results on a burner phone. “What the fuck. My name is one of the top five dog names again. I think I’m gonna have to change it.”

I ruffled his long blond hair, stealing a piece of bacon from his plate. Max had grown up a trust fund kid in Perth, Australia. His mother was old money; his father was a professional surfer. “Your name is fine.”

“Really, Kato Kaelin? Is it really? How am I supposed to intimidate people when I have a fucking dog name?”

“So make them call you Maximilian,” offered Ksenia in a heavy Ukrainian accent. She’d only been with us for eight months, but her English was coming along swimmingly. She flipped a massive A-shaped pancake on the sizzling griddle. That one was for Austin.

“Seriously?” Max said. “That is just way too many syllables. They’ll be halfway down the block by the time I’m done introducing myself. ‘Hey, come back mate, I haven’t killed ya yet.’”

“At least you aren’t stuck with a basic-white-boy-circa-1992 name for all of eternity,” said Austin Tyler McInerny, originally of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He was chomping on a multicolored Fruit Roll-Up, which swung from his mouth like a lizard’s tongue. He’d been working at an ailing skatepark when Larkin found him. He still enjoyed showing off his kickflips, and kept insisting that he was going to teach me how to ollie. I didn’t have the faintest idea what an ollie was.

“Do you want a pancake, Cato?” Ksenia asked, passing Austin his plate and wiping her hands on her pink apron. Her black hair was tied in a high ponytail with a matching rose-colored ribbon. She looked so young. She was so young, actually. Nineteen. And she would be forever.

“No, thank you dear. I’m alright.”

“I like Alaric,” Max decided. “First king of the Visigoths. Alaric is a name fit for a vampire. Creepy, yet dignified. Or maybe Silas. Or Draco.”

Austin shook his head as he swirled a river of viscous maple syrup over his A-shaped pancake. “Definitely not Draco.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the Harry Potter connection is unfortunate. People will hear Draco and think of that obnoxious white-haired kid from the evil snake-people house or whatever.”

“Oh, right,” Max sighed. “Like I said. Alaric would work.”

“So many A-shaped pancakes!” Ksenia poured a K on the griddle for herself.

“It’s good for you,” Austin replied, pointing at her with his fork. “We’re practicing English.”

“Alaric Luther,” Max mused, scrolling through his phone. I didn’t think he’d find that on any list of trendy dog names. “Alaric Lothaire...Alaric Lucian...”

“I like your name, Max,” Larkin said from the doorway. None of us had heard him arrive. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing a deep maroon suit and a ring on every finger, grinning hugely. He was exactly as I remembered him: stunning, captivating, terrifying. The kitchen fell quiet. I could smell Ksenia’s pancake beginning to burn.

At last Max chuckled nervously, pushing soggy pancake hunks around on his plate with his fork, averting his gaze. “Guess I’ll keep it then.”

“I thought I heard you come in,” Larkin told me.

“It’s always a pleasure to be home.”

He nodded out towards the hallway. “Come. Regale me with the stories of your travels.” Then his eyes flicked down to my socks, and he grimaced—slightly, briefly—before turning away. “And find your shoes.”

I followed him through the hallway, the living room, the grand front foyer with the crystal chandelier, into the elevator. Larkin did not speak, but he hummed as we ascended: House Of The Rising Sun.

It hadn’t always been like this. It was difficult for me to pick out the details of what had changed—the tone of his voice, the proportion of wonder and gratitude I associated with him versus fear, the way this palace (or the one in Reykjavik, or Juneau, or Ivalo, or Murmansk, or any of the others) felt when I stepped inside it—but I knew something had. It had begun before Ben left. It was much worse now. Older vampires, in my fairly learned opinion, are something like the stars. They mellow as they age, temper their character flaws, grow wise and patient like Nikolai or Honora or Gwilym Lee; or they rage until they burn away every last atom of humanity, until they destroy themselves and take entire solar systems down with them. Increasingly, I harbored fears that Larkin was a vampire of the latter variety. And we were all his planets.

In his study, Larkin dropped into the chair behind his desk, brought a hand to his forehead, surveyed a disarrayed flurry of papers: letters, notices, deeds and titles, meticulously managed accounts of finances and disciplinary actions. Larkin had a laptop and burner phone, of course, as we all did; but he liked to work in paper as much as possible. That’s how he’d done things for centuries, since long before the name of the inventor of the internet (or harnessed electricity, for that matter) was a whisper on his parents’ lips. The sky outside was clouded and seeping soft rain.

“Things have been busy?” I ventured.

He frowned, gesturing to the cluttered desk. “I’m in purgatory.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Can I help?”

“The Lancaster coven says they’ll need an extension for their dues. That’s the second year in a row, now it’s not just an exception, it’s a precedent. If you let one coven bend the rules, others will follow. So something will have to be done. Then there’s Stockholm. Anders’ coven has eaten a few too many locals—including the mayor’s favorite niece—and now the city is launching an investigation. Fucking idiots. They’ll probably all have to relocate. There’s some new territory dispute in Lima between Alejandro’s coven and a group of strangers that just came out of the Andes. We’ll have to make their acquaintance, of course. And as if all that weren’t enough, Rigel accidentally fed on a heroin addict and he’s currently detoxing in a cell in the basement. Would you check on him for me? I’m sure your presence will be a...” He waved his hand distractedly, almost dismissively, searching for the words. “A comfort to him.”

“Of course.”

“How are the Lees?”

“Fine. Typical. Gwil’s putting in a lot of hours at the hospital. Rami’s planning to get another law degree. Ben is, uh, adjusting. Slowly, very slowly. He’s not particularly content. But he hasn’t murdered anyone that I’m aware of.”

“How nice.” Now his eyes darted up to catch mine: focused, luminous, unreadable. “Nothing new at all?”

And instantly, I wanted to tell him everything. I forgot why I had ever planned to blunt the girl’s existence, to conceal her talent entirely; I felt her name rising in my throat. And then I remembered again. I’m doing this for Gwil, for Ben.

I pretended to ponder Larkin’s question, as if it was so difficult to remember, as if there was nothing left to sift through but a trunkful of mundane details from the trip like a grandfather’s tattered correspondence and tarnished war relics. That was something an average family might have squirreled away in their attic, I assumed; I’d never met my own grandfather, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have had anything to leave me if I had. “Joe’s got some new girlfriend, but I don’t think it’s serious. I doubt she’ll be around long. You know how Joe is. Scarlett’s seeing someone too, actually. A Quileute kid.”

“Poor boy.” And Larkin grinned like a shark beneath burning eyes. “He’s in for a lifetime of disappointment. Who will ever be able to hold a candle to those memories?”

Larkin had a moderate preoccupation with Scarlett’s beauty, her...tenacity. Her lack of talent was a great disappointment to him, a somehow more egregious fault than Joe or Gwil or Mercy’s. What a shame, Larkin often said. And I believed I knew what came after in his mind, although never aloud: What a partner she could have been.

He was still grinning at me. His expression was hollow, vacuous. A shiver clawed down my spine. He was waiting for something. No, he was searching. I stared back, and I willed for that intangible, contagious harmony I carried around like a wedding ring to hit him like carbon monoxide or bromine: undetected and yet inexorable, knocking him off his path of inquisition.

What does he suspect? What does he already know?

“Anyway,” Larkin continued abruptly, turning his attention back to his paperwork. “I’m glad there’s nothing to worry about in Forks. Liesl will be back in the next few days, Rigel will be ready to work again, I’ll come up with a plan to handle all this and my mood will improve tremendously.”

And where has Liesl been? I almost asked; and then I didn’t. It was a good sign that she was coming home. I had looked for her once while I was in Forks. When I made up my mind to find someone—when that switch flipped in my skull or in the tangle of nerves of my solar plexus or wherever it lived—it wasn’t like poking around on Google Earth: zooming in here, scrolling over there. A goldish trail lit up on the floor, a ‘Yellow Brick Road’ Honora and I sometimes joked, and I followed it. And I had no way of knowing how far that trail might lead. A route heading dead east from the palace might stop in the next town over or continue across the Pacific Ocean; my search might last one day or a hundred. In Forks—as I perched in a soaring western hemlock tree in the forest outside the Lee residence on a cool October evening—Liesl’s trail had led north. North to Vancouver, to Victoria, to Dawson, to Alaska? Who the fuck knew. I was just relieved it hadn’t led to the tree next to mine.

“Well, as always, I’m happy to assist however I can,” I told Larkin. “Just let me know and I’ll be on the next flight out of Vladivostok.”

“I appreciate that, Cato.” He smiled, paternally this time. And then he spun his chair around to peer out the window into the episodic flares of lightning that illuminated great dark clouds like neurons in a celestial brain. I hate thunderstorms. They remind me of South Carolina. “But I think you’ve earned a rest.”

After checking in on Rigel—irritable, frenetic, pacing, and yet predictably pacified somewhat by my visit—I trotted up the main staircase to the second floor of the palace. I found her in our bedroom: sitting at her easel, a paintbrush held in one graceful hand, an image like a photograph on the canvas. I promptly pried off my Berlutis for the second time today and tossed them into the closet.

“Ciao, amore,” I said.

“Ciao!” Honora replied, beaming. Her curly brunette hair was pinned up and away from her face; wayward tendrils spiraled down to brush her bare shoulder blades, the back of her neck. “Just give me five minutes...I have to finish the shadow of this tree...”

There weren’t many in the Draghi who survived the transition from Nikolai’s leadership to Larkin’s, but Honora had. She was gentle to a fault, a hopeless warrior, turned into an immortal on her forty-fourth birthday when Rome was still an empire; and she was without any talents whatsoever, except for one which was useless in combat. Her paintings, drawings, and sculptures adorned every palace the Draghi owned. Each year, Larkin would ask her to paint all of us together, incorporating any new faces, erasing the memories of those who had proven themselves unworthy. One such portrait, I knew, hung in Gwilym Lee’s home office.

I went to the woman I called my wife, laid my palms on her shoulders, leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Take your time, love.”

“Everything’s alright?” Honora asked, looking hopefully up at me with large, wide-set jade eyes. No, not just hopefully. Trustingly.

“Everything’s alright,” I agreed, not knowing if I believed it.

Shadows And Spells

“He just...just...disappeared?!” Jessica sputtered, scandalized, gaping at me as she held a Styrofoam cup of spiked apple cider in her clasped hands.

We were on a quilt near the outskirts of the sea of beach towels and blankets that circled the bonfire. Women—wearing flowing dresses or robes or tunics or not very much at all—flounced around the flames banging tambourines and reciting chants that I didn’t know the words to. Some carried torches, beacons of heat and light in the darkness. Jessica was wearing a short black shirt, fishnet tights, and a black crop-top turtleneck sweater; I had opted for a bohemian blue dress patterned with stars, an old thrift shop find and the closest thing I owned to Wiccan festivities apparel. I had a cup of hot apple cider as well, enhanced with a generous splash of Captain Morgan, but hadn’t quite conjured up the rebelliousness to drink it yet.

I suddenly recalled Mercy bringing me an endless supply of virgin autumnal sangrias as Joe and I swam in the hot tub on the Lees’ back porch. As soon as you turn twenty-one, you can have the real thing. I frowned, shuddered, took a bitter and burning sip.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He told his roommate he was going to a frat party or something and never showed up and never made it back home either. The parents are blaming the university, the university is insisting he must be off with a girlfriend or on some hipster soul-searching nature adventure or whatever, it’s a mess.”

“Jesus,” she murmured. “What does your dad say?”

“He’s been helping the state police with the investigation. There’s really no evidence of anything. No witnesses, no footprints, no surveillance footage, no handy anonymous tips...”

“No body,” Jessica finished.

“That’s morbid.” I downed the rest of my cider. Was the world already beginning to list like a ship on choppy waves, or was that just my imagination? I guess it would be possible. I’d barely eaten all day.

“You were thinking it.”

“Well, one’s mind does tend to wander towards homicide under such circumstances.”

“It is the season of the dead.” She grinned wickedly, then took my empty cup. “He’s probably fine. I bet he wants to drop out to become a weed farmer and hasn’t worked up the guts to tell his parents yet. You want another?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.” Jess rose to balance on black boots with five-inch heels and staggered off to the foldable table piled high with cans and bottles and snacks. I was getting the impression that her Wiccanism was more of a novelty than a spiritual commitment.

The season of the dead. Now that’s VERY morbid.

There were some guys laughing, smoking home-rolled cigarettes, and toasting glasses of red wine on a nearby mandala blanket, bespectacled intellectual types who were probably getting PhDs in Anthropology or Medieval Studies at the University of Washington. One of them—curly-haired, pale-eyed, wearing a sweater vest and a cautious smile—raised his wine glass in my direction. I waved back without much enthusiasm.

“He’s cute, right?” Jessica asked, plopping back down onto our quilt and shoving a full cup of spiked cider into my grasp. She motioned for me to drink. I did. “That’s Sebastian, but he likes to be called Bash. He’s twenty-three and speaks fluent German.”

“Charming.”

“He’s very...uh...gifted. I’m not saying I know from personal experience, but I’ve heard it from a very reliable source. And his parents own a beach house in Monterey. You could go skinny-dipping.”  

“In the ocean?” The world was definitely wobbling now. I was warm all over, numbed, fuzzy; it was becoming difficult to picture Joe’s face, to hear his voice. This was good. I kept drinking. “No thanks. Too many sharks. They have great whites down there.”

Jess tossed her long, loose hair and sighed impatiently. “I’m just saying that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. So you should pursue that.”

“I’ll totally consider it.” I lied. I would not consider it.

She smiled, sympathetically, fondly. “I can’t believe you thought I was a Mormon.”

“I can’t believe I’m out in the Washington wilderness commemorating the Gaelic festival of Samhain, but here we all are.”

Jess glanced over my shoulder. “Oh my god. He’s coming over here.”

“Ugh.” I craned my neck to see. Sebastian—whoops, my mistake, Bash—was approaching. “Please distract him. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Also I’m pretty sure I’m getting drunk and I don’t want to do anything humiliating, like sob uncontrollably about how much I miss my ex-boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry. I gotchu, Baby Swan.”

“Hey Jess,” Bash said, but he was looking at me. He pitched his cigarette off into the trees. What the fuck, who does that?

“Only you can prevent forest fires,” I told him in a woozy, mock-Smokey Bear voice.

“What?” he asked, baffled.

“Ignore her, she’s drunk,” Jess said quickly. “So what’s up? Come on, sit with me. Keep me toasty. Teach me some German...”

As they chatted and giggled and snuggled closer together—I’m starting to think that Jessica might have been her own reliable source—I studied the forest, watching to make sure the cigarette didn’t begin to smolder in the damp brush. The voices and crackling of the bonfire and sharp ringing of the tambourines faded into one muted, uniform drone. The trees reeled in the haze of the spiked cider; the cool wind moaned through them. And then, for only a second: a glimpse of something impossibly quick, something silvery and reedy and sunless.

What was that?

I blinked. It was gone. I blinked again, staring penetratingly. The swarming heat from the cider evaporated from my skin, my blood. There were goosebumps rising all over me.

What the hell was that?

I remembered how Calawah University students sometimes reacted to Ben: flinching, withdrawing, autonomically fearing him on some primal, evolutionary level. They knew he was a predator. They knew they were prey. It was chillingly similar to what I was feeling now.

I have to get out of here. I have to go home.

I shot to my feet. Oh, wrong move, that was too quick. I swayed, and Jessica reached up to steady me. “Are you—?!”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I gotta go home now.”

“What?! We just got here! Look, chill out, let me get you some vegan samosas or something—”

“No, seriously, I have to go.”

“Okay, okay,” Jessica conceded. “I’ll finish my drink and we’ll call an Uber, alright?”

“Really?” Bash asked, crestfallen.

“I’ll call an Uber,” I told Jess. “You stay, I’ll go.” Maybe she shouldn’t stay, I thought foggily, irrationally. Maybe it’s not safe.

“I can’t let you go alone. I got you drunk and now you’re a mess and if you end up murdered it would be my fault. There are unsolved mysteries going around, you know.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Girl, there’s no way I’m gonna—”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get in the Uber and I’ll stay on until I’m physically inside my house, okay?”

Jessica considered this. Bash leaned in to nibble her ear. I could smell the red wine and nicotine and animalistic lust sweating out of his pores. And unexpectedly, agonizingly: a biting flare, a muscle memory, Joe’s fingertips skimming down the small of my back and his scent like winter nights saturating the capillary beds of my lungs. Stop, stop, stop. “Okay,” Jess agreed at last.

“Awesome.” I was already opening the Uber app on my iPhone.

My driver was a Pacific Northwestern version of Santa Claus: wild grey beard, red flannel, L.L.Bean boots, rambling about his upcoming trip to hunt caribou in British Columbia. I honored my promise to Jessica and kept her on speakerphone for the duration of the twenty-minute drive. I rested my whirling head against the seat, let my eyes dip closed, watched the intermittent streetlights appear and disappear through my eyelids. I let myself into Charlie’s house when I arrived, wished Jessica goodnight (and reminded her not to get pregnant), and meandered clumsily into the kitchen for a glass of water and a cookie dough Pop-Tart to ward off a possible hangover. Charlie was snoring quietly on the living room couch. I watched him for a while, smiling and achingly grateful, before heading upstairs to my bedroom.

My window was wide open; that’s the first thing I noticed. I didn’t remember leaving it that way. I was always neglecting to lock the window, sure—I kept forgetting that there was no one to leave it unlocked for anymore—but I hadn’t left it open when I went to meet Jessica this evening. Icy night air flooded in. The stars were bright and furious in an uncommonly clear sky.

“You trying to give me pneumonia, old man?” I muttered, thinking of Charlie. I tossed my iPhone down onto my bed and crossed the room to close the window. And as it creaked and collided with the sill, I heard my closet door open behind me.

Someone’s here. Someone’s in this room with me.

I turned, very slowly; it felt like it took a lifetime. She was standing in the doorway of my closet, sinuous and white-haired, wearing black leather pants and stiletto heels and a long-sleeved lace blouse the color of blood, the color of her eyes. And she was harrowingly beautiful; not like Lucy or Mercy, not like Scarlett. She was beautiful like a prehistoric jawbone, like a serrated crescent moon, like a blade.

The owl. The goddamn albino owl.

I recognized her immediately. I heard Joe’s words as he introduced each vampire in the immense painting hanging in Dr. Lee’s upstairs office to me, though I desperately didn’t want to: She’s literally Satan, only blonder.

Her name tumbled from my trembling lips. “Liesl.”

“Wonderful, we can skip the introductions.” Her voice was like windchimes, cutting and brisk, with a hint of an Austrian accent like a shadow. Now she was at my bedside and picking up my phone, scrolling through it with lightning-quick and dexterous thumbs. “Hm. No texts from any of the Lees in the past week. So we don’t have to worry about them dropping by, I suppose. Joe got bored with you already, huh?”

“Evidently.” My own voice was brittle, anemic, weak; just like my ineffectual human body.

“That’s quick, even for him. How sad.” She sighed, tucking my iPhone into her red Chanel purse. “There’s a private jet waiting at the Forks Airport. Pack a bag. You have five minutes.”

“Please don’t hurt my dad,” I whispered, scalding tears brimming in my eyes.

“Of course not,” Liesl replied with a savage, saccharine smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

[kerwritesthings]

Dance Your Way Into My Heart

Summary: It’s more than just that feeling of love, it’s the actions, and the talk of forever

Word Count: just a little over 2.6k

Warnings: more soft, squishy, lovely words with a side of wedding fluff

Author Notes: So, this is my 10th ‘full-length’ one shot in this verse which boggles my mind since it’s ONLY been about a month (a day or two off actually – I first posted late the night of Jan 18!) since I started writing around this fool heart. I think he, and this place, the people and the creativity, really came to me when I’ve needed it the most. Sooo, now that the emotional nonsense has been blithered out. Here’s a little something for that…

Funny enough that this all hit me the Wednesday/Thursday before any of Josiah’s wedding stuff hit. Another pretty photo reblog from @rainbowshawn​ that set me on a spiral of ohhh shit I can see him singing at a super casual wedding like this and then the next thing you know I’ve busted out 500ish words on my Notes app on my phone while at a bar waiting for my friend before seeing Moulin Rouge on Broadway that night, total aside THE SHOW IS AMAZING – listen to the OBC album cause it’s bomb, however I digress. 

As always, these can be read as stand-alone one shots, but they all fall under the umbrella of this verse of mine. Reading the previous would provide some context. Masterlist can be found here!

As soon as she asks, Shawn immediately said yes. He's such a sucker for love and weddings and basically anything to make you happy. So, when your best friend asks you if you’d think he would be willing to sing at her wedding, you mention she would need to talk to him and ask. So, she flies up for a weekend under the onus of coming to hang out with you. However, she takes him to lunch one afternoon just the two of them, his favorite place downtown, nervous and anxious. However, you understood it was a shoe in. It was sweet though she wants to go the extra mile with him.

“You knew?” he asks, flopping down on the couch next to you, head immediately falling in your lap as soon as he gets back home. 

“Mmhmm,” you mutter, hands automatically winding through his hair. “Told her she needed to talk to you though. Maid of honor duties only go so far you know. What did you say?”

“Yes, duh. Of course, yes,” he replies, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into your touch. “Didi is your best friend, she’s the closest thing you have to a sister. Of course, I’m going to sing for her for her wedding. Plus, it’s going to be so super chill and laid back. I told her to give me a few things she and Tomas like and I’ll work around with that. I also told her I want first dance duty. No wedding band or DJ should have your bestie’s special moment.”

“You’re something else and I love you. Thank you, sweetheart. It means a lot to her. And even more to me,” you whisper, leaning down to dust a kiss to his forehead, another to his nose before reaching his lips.

Didi can’t stop raving, gushing and thanking you and him. The key smash texts are adorable and you both appreciate the lovely case of rosé champagne she sends over. Tomas, separately, takes him for a boys night at Maple Leafs game next time he’s in town as a personal show of thanks for helping his future wife. Shawn takes his role seriously, copious notes and hours locked away in his studio practicing or grumbling some days. It’s heartwarming to see how much care he took in this. “At some point, she’s practically going to be my sister-in-law, so yeah,” he blushes, after explaining the latest iteration of songs he’s going through. “Plus, it’s her wedding day. Needs to be epic and as perfect as possible. I’m going to make sure it’s that.”

He says it so nonchalant, so matter of fact, and without hesitation: At some point, she’s practically going to be my sister-in-law. It hits you square in the gut. You both know how deep your feelings run for each other, and you’ve had a few abstract talks, a few serious ones too, along with a more pointed talk specifically about the future. But you’ve never heard him speak of it with such assured conviction. Like it’s happening soon. You just look at him, jaw slightly dropped and eyes wide. 

“You’re gonna catch flies like that my dear,” he smirks, tapping his pointer finger up under your chin to close your mouth. Before you can reply, he leans in to kiss you sweetly, slowly and thoroughly. 

“You know you’re my forever,” he sighs against your lips, just a hair away from yours. He presses a soft, quick peck to both corners of your mouth before one squarely against you. “I’ve thought about it a lot more lately. Since Santa Barbara and our breakfast by the pool, really. Of us doing this ourselves and what our wedding would be. I know the new album and the tour, and all that shit is a thing happening, but I also know you mean everything so…”

You don’t know what to say, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. You just look at him, hand coming up to cup his cheek. 

“This is not going there now, because this would be a lame as fuck as a story to tell on how I proposed to you, but just know. I’m thinking about it. Really and truly,” he reveals through a bright smile. “I love you, so, so much baby.”

You can’t help but shift your arms around him, face nuzzling into the side of his neck. This boy of yours. He’s something extraordinary. 

At the rehearsal dinner, you spy him and Didi in deep conversation before you’re all due to sit down for dessert. 

“He won’t tell me what they decided on, Didi either,” you explain to Didi’s sister Renee, as you head towards your table. “They’re being sneaky little shits, but you know Dee.”

Renee laughs, “Are you really surprised? After you’ve been friends for this long? It’s sweet of your man to be willing to do all this for them. I’ve already warned all cousins and the brothers’ idiot dates they are not to fawn over him, that he’s beyond happily taken by the maid of honor, and that if I see cell phones obnoxiously in the way at any point this weekend, I’m breaking them in some way.”

You hear his laugh before you feel his arm wrap about your waist. “This is why Renee is the best. She won’t take anyone’s shit. Even from her own family. Thanks girl. Appreciate you having my back,” he smiles, fist bumping Renee. “I owe you one.”

“Holding you to that, Mendes,” she grins widely. “Just make sure this one doesn’t lose her shit this weekend taking care of my sister. But I will gladly use that marker, especially next time your hot friends are around. Speaking of, I should go check on my parents, make sure my brothers haven’t done anything stupid.”

“Is Didi driving you batty?” he asks, guiding you into your chair. “She seems okay tonight.”

“Crowd around, her parents, Tomas’ family, she’s holding her own but there was some stupid family shit earlier,” you exhale, grabbing a hold of his hand to lace through yours, before tipping your head against his shoulder. “It’s nothing that I didn’t expect to deal with this weekend. She’s nervous, worried, second and fifth guessing things. I get it, this is a lot. She just wants to be married already.”

Shawn dusts a kiss to your temple, “You’re such a good friend. You’re lucky to have each other. Tomorrow’s going to be great. Worse case, steal my flask and get her a little saucy before she walks down the aisle.”

You elbow him with a giggle, “You would suggest that, but you may be onto something. Thank you though.”

The next morning is a whirlwind of champagne, bobby pins and lip gloss with a soundtrack full of laughter and a lot of fighting back tears. You also may have sung along to your boyfriend’s last album, dancing around like you would do in her room when you were kids to your favorite songs. Didi’s suite is a buzz with her sister holding down the fort, cousins popping in and out, along with her mother and her future mother-in-law. At one point, after the glam team is gone, you finally have a moment alone with your best friend while her mom and sister go to grab her dress.

“I am so happy you’re deliriously happy,” you whisper, hugging Didi tightly before more folks come in. “You two are good together and I’m glad you found him.”

Didi sniffs, “Thank you, I know I’ve been insane, and you’ve been a saint. Your boyfriend too. Shawn has put up with me changing my mind on stuff like 17 times and he’s just rolled with it. You’re a lucky one too. He’s so fucking over the moon for you girly. Soon roles will be reversed, and you’ll be able to pay me back with your own crazy.”

You both scurry about to get into your dresses. With the wedding taking place at the botanical gardens, Didi decided she didn’t want fussy for anything around the ceremony. Her dress is a stunning V-neck sheath of flowy creamy, buttery chiffon, tiny flowers woven through her hair in place of a veil. Tomas’ grandmother’s necklace, a vintage diamond and pearl strand, lays just at her collarbones. You try not to cry but think back of the two little five-year-old girls who would play wedding in your grandparents’ back yard. “Oh Dee,” you sniff. “Tomas isn’t going to know what hit him.”

She smiles, her eyes just as wet, and reaches for your hands. “I couldn’t be up there without you, bestie.” You hear the flicker of a camera, knowing the photographer is back catching your moment and you’re grateful. “Your boy either. I know you hemmed and hawed about black for a wedding, but this dress is great.”

You’re the only one standing up with her, she didn’t want anyone up there with her other than you. Renee understood and was happy she didn’t have to wrangle a groomsman. She picked a black maxi, swirled with larger flowers in shades of pink and white. Your hair was up, a flower like the ones in your dress tucked in the mass of curls her stylist pinned about. Your bouquet is in a similar palate, while Didi’s has some purple, her favorite color, woven through. 

“Let’s go get you married,” you say handing off her bouquet and tucking her arm under yours. 

“Hey pretty girl, funny seeing you here,” he quips, his lips dusting against your bare shoulder, before tracing a finger across your back. You’re all outside the courtyard waiting to enter for the start of the ceremony. You turn to face him. He’s a vision, because of course he is when isn’t he, in black floral-patterned button down, similar to your dress, along with dark pants. What’s more interesting is that his beloved acoustic strung across his chest.

“I may have told Didi I would play all her walk-in music too,” he nods bashfully. “I wasn’t going to let them use Apple Music or Spotify or even worse some awful wedding singer.”

“You are something else, Shawn,” you reply, squeezing his hand tightly. “Really want to kiss you but I can’t mess up the gloss.”

He places a whisper of a kiss on your forehead, “Love you. I need to go get into place. Atmosphere music. Think I may sneak in one of my own in there before the processional stuff.”

You laugh, pushing him towards the archway of greenery, “Go be wonderful.”

He’s set up at the back of the courtyard, seats all set in front of him. He’s weaving melodies, no singing, just soft rhythms from his guitar. The space is perfect, green and lush and smelling lovely, a swath of flowers at the end of the path where Tomas waits. You make your way down and turn to watch for your best friend. However, before she arrives you take a moment to appreciate Shawn. He catches your eye, smiles and winks, mouthing love you before he sees the wedding coordinator waiving over at him. 

He starts in on “Marry Me” when Didi arrives at the back of the aisle with her Dad. Your breath catches in your throat, the combination of seeing your best friend and hearing your boyfriend hits you hard. She starts making her way down when he begins on the chorus. You see Tomas out of the corner of your eye, and he’s got a hand over his mouth, eyes brimming over with tears. The ceremony is the perfect balance of exactly what Didi and Tomas are. Their vows are intrinsically them. They look every way that a couple getting married should. Glowing, in love and only eyes for each other. It’s hard not to let a tear or two out. 

The reception is in the atrium of the gardens, under a massive domed stained-glass skylight, still lush with flowers and greens. Everything has been exactly as Didi has hoped. Meanwhile, your boyfriend is mysteriously missing. You’re sipping champagne with Renee and her boyfriend of the moment, while looking about for him. 

“Last I saw him he was setting his guitar up before the rest of the musicians came in, don’t worry,” Renee starts, clinking glasses with you. “He’ll be back.”

He makes his way back into the atrium, and surprisingly he’s changed, a little dressier now in deliciously fitting black suit pants and a white button down, the glint of his silver chain obvious even from where you are. You excuse yourself from the group and steal Shawn away before he needs to soundcheck for their dance. You just want to have a moment with him before everything gets crazy, heading out to the patio just off the atrium, which is blissfully quiet. You wrap your arms around his waist and just hold him. 

“You okay baby?” he asks, as he starts to sway with you, shifting your arms around his neck so he can pull you closer. 

You nod, smiling, “I just needed you for a minute without all that is all.”

“You can have all the minutes you ever want or need,” he says, kissing you lightly. 

“Sorry to break this up, please believe me I am, but my sister has decided she wants to get a move on,” Renee calls from the doorway. 

“Duty calls for both of us,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him once more. “Save me a dance or two?”

“All the slow ones at least,” he agrees, rubbing his nose against yours. “I’ll see you out there.”

Didi didn’t want a whole production with entrances, she wanted a few bars of song then for her and Tomas to start dancing straightaway. So, poised at the edge of what they have set up as the dance floor, with a good angle to see them once they walk in, as well as your boyfriend, you wait. Shawn starts playing, something floaty that that doesn’t sound familiar to you. The pair make their way in and as soon as they hit the center of the floor, he begins. 

“Not talkin' 'bout a year, no not three or four. I don't want that kind of forever in my life anymore,” he sings gently. “Forever always seems to be around when it begins, but forever never seems to be around when it ends. So, give me your forever, please your forever. Not a day less will do, from you.”

The song is beautiful, he sounds amazing, Didi and Tomas as just love personified as they dance. He fades out slowly at the end, a light strum to close out. 

“Thank you for letting me be such a special part of your day. That was Ben Harper’s Forever. Didi, Tomas, congratulations and love to you both,” he expresses, blowing a kiss to the two of them with his hands, you can see his emotions clear across his face. He heads back, as the band starts up, packing away his guitar before making his way over to you, now at your table.

“Wow,” you sigh, hand coming to the nape of his neck to sink into his curls. “That was something else, my dear. Didi fucking owes you.”

He blushes, ducking his head bashfully. “I’m just happy I could give them that moment. First dances are something really special. They deserved to have the best moment possible. Plus, that’s an awesome first dance song, not the usual. Makes it even better.”

“My hopeless romantic,” you muse, tracing haphazard patterns over the top of his hand that rests on your knee. 

“Just you wait,” he smiles, kissing you. “Now, I’m on good authority the next song is a slow one, so may I have this dance?”

He stands, holding his hand out for you. 

“You can have every single one, all of them from now on.”

TAG LIST: @whenidance​, @parkerdavis​, @sinplisticshawn​, @hollandraul​, @fallinallincurls​, @itrocksmysocks​, @rainbowshawn​, @lasingphomustra​, @illumecherry​

*Always feel free to ask to be added to the tag list! 

[batteredshoes]

While we are lost...

together, alone in the starless night, consider this my unreleased track, my handmade mask, my dj set. My offering shared here in our digital panic room for these, our dark, dark days of spring...

Starless and Bible-Black

(with apologies to Dylan Thomas)

“You never take me anywhere”, she says. She says things like this. We are a too young married couple and all we know of marriage is what we’ve learned from TV. Specifically, 60’s and 70’s TV, which only adds to the confusion and writes the dialog. It is a shared vow that we wish not to model the behaviors of our parents. “I want to go to Santa Barbara”, she says. “I want to drive up the coast”. She wants and I understand. She wants and I want too. Two months of marriage and it’s already no honeymoon. In fact, we didn’t have a honeymoon. There is no honey on the moon. Tonight, there is no moon. Our unclosed eyes see the black and we are in the red and I think about the money dance in her grandmother’s backyard that netted about $150 dollars and I hear the chapel bells chime and we are going to Santa Barbara.

Clothes are put into paper shopping bags. Toothbrushes, sunglasses, sneakers. We stop at the Mobil station that is next to our apartment building and I fill the tank with unleaded altar wine and dreams of another California. I check the oil, the transmission fluid, the brake fluid and the air in the tires because I am young, and the car is old. She checks the map. It’s 11:30 PM and the hushed town is barely breathing. We are moving in silence on 101 somewhere in the valley when she says, “No, the coast”. It’s late and I think to myself that the coast is a bad idea and that the car is old. But I reason that we are young, and I never take her anywhere and I take the Topanga Canyon off ramp and ask the old car to climb into the sky for her.

When we do reach the ocean, it is black. Black like the road that will snake between the mountains and sand and take us north and away. It begins to rain, and I wish we were still at the Mobil station and I was buying wiper blades for a trip we did not take. But we are going to Santa Barbara where my parents first took me on a tour of the California Missions that we never quite completed. She grew up a Methodist and no longer believes in God. I believe prayer is useful and should be kept close at hand when you are driving after midnight on a winding coastal road on a moonless night in the rain. And it is then that the right rear tire pops like a cork on an old brown bottle of bad omens.

There’s a jack and spare and I’ve been here before and I struggle to open the faulty latch on the trunk. She gets out the car and asks if she can help me. But we have no umbrella or poncho or reason to be out here in the first place. I tell her that while I appreciate the offer, it makes no sense that we should both get wet and suggest she gets back inside the car to monitor the radio for possible reports of lone highway killers that might be loose in the general vicinity of Point Mugu. I say things like this because I can do the right thing but say the wrong thing.

I tighten the lug nuts with a cross of iron, a cross of my fingers and one Hail, Holy Queen and again we go dumbly, blindly, royally winding through the night. I am soaked to the skin now and back inside the car, sitting on the beach towel that lines the front bench seats. We have the old road all to ourselves and she is drifting away to a better world that has been promised her on television and I am trying to stay awake. We drift into a folded town that is slow and sleeping and still until the flickering glow of red neon cuts through the darkness. The vacancy sign on the Tides Motel, cautiously but magnetically slows the car to a stop. I walk up to the night window where a bumper sticker is affixed to the glass that reads, “Oxnard is for Lovers” and I think that this cannot be true. The man at the counter sticks a Q-tip between the pages of his Ross MacDonald paperback and grumbles through the bulletproof glass. $35 dollars passes between us and I have the key to Room 5. It is 3AM.

Back in the car I softly nudge her awake. The headlights shine on the red door to the room. Stepping inside, I feel around in the dark for the light switch. It gives life to a lamp in the corner of the room that must hold a 5-watt bulb, if that. The room is completely mirrored, the ceiling included. Wall-to-wall 12” x 12” mirror tiles surround us and we look our reflections through the gold veins in the glass. She looks at me incredulously and asks in a low voice, “What is this place?”. It is then that I notice there is a pole, padded and wrapped in black leather in the middle of the room. We are still victims of our young naiveté when I step on the remote, that was haphazardly left on the floor. The small TV mounted from the ceiling in the corner of the room comes on blaring and the fuzzy video on the small screen removes all confusion about the décor choices that have been made here. You could say that the TV really pulled the room together. I shut off the TV and writhing bodies fade to black and moaning voices go mute. Behind me, I hear her say, “No…no”. But we have to sleep, I plead and after a brief but tense negotiation, I go to the front desk and ask for towels. Four towels, five towels, as many as he’ll give me. More money is exchanged. When I return, she is standing in the same spot where I left her, frozen, as though she were surrounded by a mote of desperate, hungry creatures, born of unbridled lust and all the bad breaks in life. She greets my return with a stare that borders between relief and contempt. I tell her that we’ll laugh about this one day. I say things like that. “Today is not that day”, she says, and I blanket the bed’s thin red velvet-like cover with the clean towels, creating an island of white terrycloth in a crimson polyester sea. We lie down, fully clothed, for a few bare restless hours in the silent, black bandaged night.

At 7, we are awake with the sun and gather ourselves to leave. The nightstand drawer is slightly open, revealing a pair of handcuffs inside. She glares me as if I had time to put them there like some sort of exclamation point to a bad joke. We walk outside into the light and I look back into Room 5, tossing the key on the bed and closing the door behind me. We drive wordlessly through the rolling hills and eucalyptus trees that will soon connect us back with 101. We find a place for breakfast just off the highway near Ventura and the coffee cuts the chill and makes us closer. “The leather pole?” she questions, shaking her head, as the waitress walks away from our table. We both laugh, and I don’t think we quite understand why. A month before we married, her former hippie now District Attorney Mother bought us a copy of “The Joy of Sex”. Birdsong at Morning and all that business. Maybe joy is just around the corner for us, I think to myself. Maybe we should just keep driving. I never take her anywhere. 

I show her the Mission this day. She’s never been. We go to the zoo in the afternoon and then to down to the beach at dusk and for a moment, I think that I can hear her dreams in the crash of the surf. We eat dinner in town at a place we can’t afford. When evening comes we can hear the invisible starfall. I find a Motel 6, just outside of town and we get a room there for the night. There are two full size beds, just like Lucy and Ricky had. I lie down on the one closest to the door and put a quarter in the Magic Fingers machine. The mattress begins to loudly shutter and shake. She sits down on the other bed and opens the nightstand drawer to reveal a Gideon’s Bible. “Thank God”, she says, closing it shut.

[thetaoofbetty]

10 songs

tagged by the umbrella in my cocktail @indiebughead

(are we making comments on the songs, now, maria? because if we are, then yes, i am going to burden all of us with the why to my madness. if there is any) 

1. girl crush -the harry styles cover (starting off strong with a song i just like the sound of, ha, and it’s one of those things that almost seems rite of passagey while dealing with heart pangs) 

2. the man -taylor swift (i’m in a mood about some things)

3. joey -concrete blonde (fic-spiration. it’s got the vibe i want to feel for the moment) 

4. the boys of summer -don henley (fic-spiration again) 

5. if you leave -omd (this is legit just my absolute favorite song from the entire 80′s, i never get tired of it, i want to dance to it right now) 

6. heart-shaped box -nirvana (what? i wore nirvana band shirts as a kid, i was decently emo without the eyeliner, what can i say? i spent my weekends driving to hollywood to see bands play on sunset, i drove to santa barbara to see a perfect circle like a pretentious little shit, i wore a grumpy bear carebear hoodie, there was a vibe, okay? and yes, pls make fun of me for it, 17 year old me has it coming) 

7. to be with you -mr. big (fic-spiration, the dawson’s creek au specifically)

8. if i could turn back time -cher (does not need an explanation and if you think cher needs an explanation, i’m going to make you watch moonstruck with me on repeat until you see my side of things)

9. d’yer mak’er -led zeppelin (i just love this song, i’ve even named a fic after it, i make no apologies and will continue to make no apologies) 

10. adore you -harry styles (it’s just catchy, she says quietly with a shrug)

tagging: @melimelrockswell1204, @soupershipper, @anchor-bird-94, @geekspen, @mistressofmalplaquet, @mrscolesprouse and anyone else who wants to! 

[tabloidtoc]

People, August 31

Cover: Brandy -- what really happened to me 

Page 3: Chatter -- Cardi B on her drive, Orlando Bloom on taking a break from acting to raise his son Flynn, Sterling K. Brown on his son’s reaction to his two 2020 Emmy nominations, Rob Lowe on his two adult sons moving back in with him and his wife during quarantine, Maya Rudolph on Kamala Harris whom she impersonates on SNL running for Vice President, Jamie Lee Curtis on her obsession with acquiring toilet paper early in the pandemic 

Page 4: 5 Things We’re Talking About This Week -- The Crown casts a new Princess Diana, Patrick Star lands his own series, The Fresh Prince scores a reboot, the last Blockbuster becomes an Airbnb, Dennis Quaid adopts a cat named Dennis Quaid 

Page 7: Contents 

Page 8: StarTracks -- stars get back in the game -- Serena Williams at the Top Seed Open in Kentucky, her husband Alexis Ohanian and their daughter Olympia cheer her on at an earlier match 

Page 9: Rob Gronkowski and Tom Brady hit the practice field during the Tampa Bay Buccaneers training camp in Florida, Los Angeles Lakers players LeBron James and Anthony Davis celebrated their win over the Denver Nuggets 

Page 10: Black-ish actor Anthony Anderson celebrated his 50th birthday with a socially distanced drive-by party, pregnant Gabby Barrett and husband Cade Foehner, Prince Charles and Camilla Duchess of Cornwall attended a memorial service marking the 75th anniversary of V-J Day 

Page 11: Stars in the Sun -- Andy Cohen and son Benjamin on the beach, Gavin Rossdale went for a shirtless stroll on the beach in Santa Monica, Alessandra Ambrosio plays volleyball, Simon Baker caught some waves while vacationing in Sydney 

Page 12: Armie Hammer and Gal Gadot in Death on the Nile, a bearded Adam Sandler worked up a sweat playing basketball, Kevin Hart with pregnant wife Eniko and kids Kenzo and Heaven and Hendrix 

Page 13: Stars’ Best Friends -- Lenny Kravitz and his dogs Leroy and JoJo Dancer, Patrick Dempsey snuggled with his pup, Reese Witherspoon and her dog Lou, Liev Schreiber and girlfriend Taylor Neisen walk their dogs on the beach in the Hamptons, PLEASE ADOPT, DON’T SHOP 

Page 15: Scoop -- Chrissy Teigen and John Legend surprise baby news 

Page 16: Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s new divorce dispute 

Page 18: Heart Monitor -- Ben Affleck and Ana de Armas birthday bliss, Kendall Jenner and Devin Booker new couple?, Becca Kufrin and Garrett Yrigoyen breakup buzz, Madonna and Ahlamalik Williams going strong 

Page 19: Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s move to Santa Barbara -- celeb neighbors include Oprah Winfrey and Rob Lowe and Katy Perry 

Page 20: How Miley Cyrus is moving on from her split with Cody Simpson 

Page 21: Bindi Irwin’s pregnancy joy, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau life after Game of Thrones 

Page 23: Passages, Why I Care -- Chance the Rapper created an organization to help give back to the youth in his hometown of Chicago 

Page 25: Stories to Make You Smile! 

Page 27: People Picks -- The Vow 

Page 28: Project Power, Love in the Time of Corona, Tim McGraw -- Here on Earth 

Page 29: The One and Only Ivan, Tesla, Pure 

Page 31: Books 

Page 32: Cover Story -- Brandy’s rhythm and blues -- back with new music after nearly eight years the onetime teen sensation opens up about success and struggles and how depression nearly took her life 

Page 38: Joe Biden and Kamala Harris -- this is who we are and this is America -- the Democratic running mates open up about the audacity of their partnership and the modern family ethos they’ll bring to the White House and the 4-letter word they’ve both banned at home 

Page 42: Russell Crowe -- the highs and lows of fame -- 20 years after Gladiator the star reflects on what he’s learned and why he’s happiest on his farm in Australia

Page 46: Matt Mauser -- mourning after a tragic crash -- he lost his wife in the helicopter accident that killed Kobe Bryant and now the musician is raising their three kids and honoring her memory 

Page 50: A Rise in Hate Crimes -- murdered for being transgender -- statistics show an alarming increase in violent deaths among transgender women -- inside 6 of the chilling cases 

Page 54: Gloria Estefan -- what I know now -- the queen of Latin pop reflects on her historic career and her 41-year marriage and the near-death experience that changed her life

Page 58: August Alsina -- All I can do is tell the truth -- eager to move on from his entanglement with Jada Pinkett Smith the R&B singer opens up about healing after loss and addiction 

Page 60: Holland Taylor -- I’ve been really lucky -- the Emmy nominee is busier than ever but all she’s feeling is gratitude for her life and her relationship and her maturity 

Page 64: Joe Manganiello -- this is the real me -- he’s known for his sexy roles but beneath the rugged exterior beats the heart of a Dungeons & Dragons nerd 

Page 66: Raising 10 children with 6 adopted with fetal alcohol spectrum disorders Alicia and Josh Dougherty rely on patience and faith and the healing power of family -- they all bring so much joy 

Page 70: Suze Orman --this was a journey to hell and back -- the personal-finance guru undergoes emergency spinal surgery and learns a powerful lesson about prioritizing her health 

Page 73: Kate Walsh -- what my life’s really like -- her vacation turned into a move to Australia and the Umbrella Academy star shares how she’s staying connected down under 

Page 75: The search for a COVID-19 vaccine -- Dr. Tom Frieden one of the nation’s top infectious-disease experts answers your questions about the race to stop the coronavirus 

Page 77: Beauty -- New Products You’ll Love -- 25 best Fall buys for $25 or less -- Catherine Zeta-Jones 

Page 78: Skin-care essentials -- Rihanna

Page 81: Healthy hair finds -- Tracee Ellis Ross

Page 87: Second Look -- Jonathan Majors and Jurnee Smollett in Lovecraft Country 

Page 88: One Last Thing -- Tim McGraw 

[sanikori]

So, i forced myself to watch Leaving Neverland...

And i swear, i've never hated some stangers in my life to the point where i want them dead. I felt my oxygen leave me and i was choking on my fucking tears from all the lies. I felt so sick, that i puked 5 times. But now i've recomposed myself so that i can expose these liars. I didn't want to go back in time and know how in feels to be a moonwalker in 1993. I wanted people to still talk about Michael, but not like this, never like this.

First things first, as Michael Williams, stated on Twitter, Michael has been investigated from the FBI for 13 fucking years.

Here we see 72 officers and 50 FBI agents in the Neverland Ranch in Santa Barbara. They searched every angle and interviewed everyone to find evidence and guess what? They found nothing. 

He's been proved innocent at not 1 but 2 trials. To this day, there's still no valid proof that Michael did any of those things.

Even Michael’s fucking bodyguard stepped in to defended him and expose Wade.

Here's some of the bullshit they said in that documentary, Let's start with James Safetruck: James: "I've spent Thanksgiving in 1987 with him at his home" Wrong, Michael was in Australia as a part of the Bad Tour in November 24 1987 James: "Michael didn't want us spending any time with women and cut contact with me after puberty"

Really James? then how come we see you AFTER puberty holding an umbrella for Michael while Michael's ex wife, Lisa Marie Presley, was there with the both of you. James: "I was abused by Michael in New York in 1989 after he performed at the Grammys" Fake. The Grammys were in Los Angeles and Michael didn't perform at the Grammys in 1989. Now let's go with Wade Robson Wade: "I was molested by Michael between ages 7 and 14" Wade is now 36 so it happened from 1989 till 1996. So you're telling me that these "rapes" happend DURING the Chandler investigation and DURING Michael's marriage to Lisa Marie Presley as well? and the FBI found nothing? really? bitch please.

Here comes my favourite lie Then there's the MANIPOLATED footage of Michael begin honoured at the Regent Hotel and he apparently recorded a message for Wade "on his birthday" where Michael "says" "Hello Wade, today is your birthday"

The video at the Regent Hotel was recorded on the 20th February in 1990 while Wade's birthday in on the 7th of September and the original video was meant for Elizabeth Taylor.

Also Wade and James didn't even really grew up with Michael, they didn't even know Michael that well... they BEGGED to have Michael's attention and since Michael is an angel, they got it. Also i'd like to tell you that it’s the same Wade that DEFENDED Michael not only once, but 3 mother fucking times.

If you two are saying that Michael raped you both, then how come that Macaulay Culkin (the kid from the "Home Alone" movie) the one who literally grew up with Michael by his side, who basically lived at Neverland and was a child like the both of you, said that nothing happened between him and Michael and is still defending him to this day?

They change their stories every fucking second too. Wade has changed his story 4 times and James 2 times. Wade's first version of the story: Michael threatened and manipulated him that they'll go to jail if he says anything Wade's second version of the story: He didn't "realize" he's been abused Wade's third version of the story: He felt shame Wade's fourth version of the story: He ALWAYS knew what Michael did but he didn't realize it was bad (because who doesn't have anal sex with kids, right?) Then there's James: James's first version of the story: Michael and his people were threatening him to keep quiet and James refused to testify but he and his mom knew he had been abused James's second version of the story: He didn't realize he was abused till 2014. They're so worthless that they don't even know how to lie. If you gotta lie about a dead man to earn money, do it properly. It's also funny how they don't mention that Michael was around little girls as well and not only boys, whenever it was on the streets or in Neverland. Meanwhile Oprah just said "Fuck you" to 3 generations of Jacksons by backstabbing the man who welcomed her in his house by siding with these little shits. Not only Oprah knew, but she provited the “victims”. Also the reason why Oprah promoted "Leaving Neverland" is because at the Sundance, it was also a documentary about Harvey Weinstein, who is an actual pedophile and has been found guilty. But since he's Oprah’s best friend (yes, you heard that right) they just diverted the attention in media to Michael instead of Weinstein But Wade is the one i hate the most because not only he is a liar but he's also the REAL pedophile... his reputation was so bad that kids at jumpdance called him "Uncle Perv" and the mothers wanted them to stay away from him. Like, there's literally a photo of him side hugging a girl and his left hand is close to her breast while he has his right hand on his fucking dick. 

He cheated on Michael's niece, Brandi Jackson (the two have been in a relationship for 8 years) with Britney Spears which resulted in Justin Timberlake's "Cry Me A River" song and he did hard drugs. Not to mention that he made out with his SISTER ON STAGE! and this bastard has a son which i really feel sorry for... but most of all, he's a crazy ass bitch. Paris Jackson (Michael's daughter) and Taj Jackson (Michael's nephew) are both REAL victims of sexual abuse, stop to think how these two feel about this. Also Taj found texts with Wade in 2009 where Wade is thanking Taj for letting him go to Michael's memorial 

Also Taj recently stated in an inteview that Michael's third son, Bigi (Blanket) Jackson is not talking anymore. And the teachers are worried about him. He literally won't speak, at all.

In conclusion: Michael Jackson is innocent. He’s the real victim.

Please, tell what would lead him to do such a thing? 

You're just gonna forget all the money he gave to charity? the many lives he saved? how he considered his fans as part of his family?

I've been a fan of him since i was 4 and i'll love and defend him till i die. This man saved me with his music in my darkest times, i feel protected whenever i see or hear anything related to him, he's my inspiration, my everything and if i could make a dead celebrity come back to life, it would be him... i was meant to go to his "This Is It" concert in July, meeting him for the first time but... it never happened... because he left... i've been called a pedophile supporter just for defending him... do you know how much this hurts? I've seen "moonwalkers" turning their back on Michael like it was nothing... i've been told that i need to accept the fact that my hero is in reality a bad guy, that i'm protecting him just cause i'm a fan.

They made you belive that he bleached his skin when in reality he suffered from Vitiligo and wasn't confident enough to show it to the entire world.

They made you belive that he changed because he had too much plastic surgery when in reality he suffered from Lupus. But even if the did have too much plastic surgery, why should it matter since half of the celebrities have plastic surgery?

They made you belive that he was gay when in reality he has been married to Debbie Rowe, who gifted him with Prince and Paris, and Lisa Marie Presley, he crushed on Diana Ross and Brooke Shields, was kissed on stage by Taitana Thumbtzen aka the girl in TWYMMF (The Way You Make Me Feel) and how to forget his infamous In The Closet song with Naomi Campbell? but even if he was, he’s still Michael.

They made you belive that he was a Junkie when in reality he had many medical illnesses that needed medication and a lot of painkillers.

But most of all, they made you belive that he was a pedophile when in reality he wanted to create the childhood he never had in his adulthood and there's nothing wrong with that, he couldn’t trust adults because instead of seeing him as a human with emotions, they saw him as a cash machine. If it wasn't for the kids, he would have already killed himself, he wouldn’t care to live and he said that he would rather slit his wrists instead of hurting a child.

It's not about defending my idol just cause i'm one of his countless fans, it's about giving a voice to a man who's no longer here to defend himself.

How am i going to belive them since they're accusing Michael Joseph Jackson, the same Michael that didn't want to step on a bug and called his bodyguard to take it while saying "Don't kill it!" while he was performing on stage? the same Michael that would have died for a squirrel?

This man is dead 

Attacking a dead man isn't brave.

James Gunn is still alive and he signed with a major studio

Where in everyone in the media?

They are a bunch of pathetic cowards.

So guys please, don't watch this so called documentary cause they are calling:

His ex wives liars

His friends liars

The people who worked for him for over 20 years liars

His fans liars

His FAMILY liars

But they want you to just belive the word of two proven liars.

It’s been almost 10 years since we lost him. 

Wake the fuck up.

Can’t belive we’re in 2019 and you decide now that he’s guilty for something he never did. Evan Chandler forced his son, Jordan Chandler, to accuse Michael for money. Then when Michael died, Evan regretted it so much that he hanged himself. I'm waiting for Wade, James, Oprah, Martin, Connrad and everyone who belives them to do the same thing since they're all nothing but a waste of air. But don't you worry cause Taj is making a TRUE documentary that proves Michael's innocence and once it's released, they will watch their lifes crumble into tiny pieces with their own eyes and i will be there, smiling while eating pocorns. Anyone who’s a brain washed moron who don’t belive that Michael is innocent or even thinks of calling me a pedophile supporter needs to fuck off right fucking now because you will be attacked visciously, blocked and reported so DO NOT BOTHER ME

In case you didn’t understand, i’ll gladly repeat in a more vulgar way since it’s the only way you can all communicate with other people

DUMBASS BITCHES DO NOT INTERACT WITH ME! STAY THE FUCK BACK!

You guys don’t bother to do your research, you should hear both sides of the story to come to a conclusion instead of going along with everything they say. You all eat their plate of lies just like you eat your mother’s food at lunch time. You don’t ask yourself “Are they lying to me?” no, you just go along with every single fucking thing they say cause you’re dependent from the Media.

Face it, we are in the right and we’re going to win this battle. Also, these people without Michael in their lifes, would have been nothing. PS: Someone needs to tell Wade that fantazing about having Michael's dick in his mouth at age 11 in not normal.

Now i want you all to blast at all volume the songs Money, Tabloid Junkie, Morphine and Leave Me Alone in honour of these good for nothing liars as you read this post of them begin exposed from head to toe by me

[pouroneandone]

Handlebar Coffee

Santa Barbara Ca,

(Basic diary entry)

Cafe design fits into the city well. Has a little bakery/market feel. Very busy as this place seems to prepare the best quality coffee in town. Covid related distancing and lack of available cafe seating created a congregational effect resembling an umbrella fanned all the way across the street to the museum. The macchiato was delicious, well balanced flavor that worked with the lactose perfectly. I was a bit disappointed however that a pour over option was not on the menu, disallowing me the opportunity to evaluate the coffee at a deeper level.

[thecollegefootballguy]

The Real Cal State Champs

Hey folks, welcome back. Since I’ve got no idea what’s going on with the regular season I thought I’d start up with this project again.

If you’re new, check out these previous posts for a bit of context: Florida Cup, Commander-in-Chief’s Trophy, Beehive Boot, Michigan MAC Trophy, Big Ten West, and the Kings of California.

Following up on the Kings of California in particular, I thought it’d be fun to check out the lower division in the Golden State. The Mountain West has finally brought back the three California State University programs that compete at the FBS level under one banner. Which of the three holds the rightful title as the real champs of the Cal State system?

Honestly it seems obvious to me to create a real three-way trophy for the rivalries between Fresno State, San Diego State, and San Jose State. Hopefully the real movers and shakers will get to work on that. For the time being we’ll have to deal in hypotheticals.

I’m laying out some simple rules similar to other three-way rivalry series we’ve seen. To be named champion you have to beat the other two schools, or at the very least have the best record among the contestants. Three-way ties will simply leave the trophy in the hands of the current owner. Easy enough.

I won’t be going into as much detail as I have with past installments, it’s just easier to write these posts this way and *if* the season really is getting underway soon I’ve gotta wrap up this project quickly. So let’s dive right in!

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The Early Days: 1921-1932

The California State University system was in its infancy in the 1920′s. There were various Normal Schools and Teaching Colleges interspersed around the state but they weren’t yet gathered under one umbrella. However, when these teams began playing football they all began to play each other, albeit inconsistently.

California State Normal School (the future San Jose State) first fielded a football team back in 1892, playing regional Bay Area and Northern California opponents for the most part. The team was disbanded following the 1900 season and wouldn’t return until 1921, when the school had been renamed State Teachers College at San Jose. Serendipitously, Fresno State Normal College and San Diego State Teachers College both fielded their first ever gridiron teams in 1921 as well.

In their first season back, the State Teachers at San Jose beat Fresno Normal 14-2 for their only win of the season. It fittingly kicked off the most played rivalry game for both schools, though the pair wouldn’t play again for another three seasons.

In 1922 both State Teachers College and Fresno State Normal School joined the newly founded California Coast Conference, which included both two and four year institutions at the time.

In 1923, San Diego State Teachers College hosted Fresno State Normal, and beat the Bulldogs 12-2. The game would develop into a rivalry in its own right down the road, but for now the SDSC and Fresno State still played rather infrequently.

Fresno State Normal School left the California Coast Conference after only three years of membership, joining the newly founded Far Western Conference in 1925. The Far West was a much more competitive league that now only featured four year institutions. State Teachers College at San Jose would join in 1929.

Similarly, San Diego State Teachers College would upgrade themselves around the same time. The newly renamed Aztecs moved up from the Southern California Junior College Conference to the Southern California Intercollegiate Athletic Conference where they would face other four year schools.

Cal State Cup Record

Fresno State: 5 San Diego State: 3 San Jose State: 2

It’s rather hard to glean much from these early years. The Fresno-San Jose game was nearly an annual affair already, but it would be a while before a true rivalry developed. Meanwhile, the NorCal-SoCal divide meant that Fresno and San Diego played infrequently, and San Diego and San Jose still had yet to meet.

Despite getting off on the wrong foot against both opponents, the Bulldogs got the better of both State Teachers College at San Jose and San Diego State Teachers College. 

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San Jose State Comes Into Their Own (The CCAA Era): 1933-1954

The California State University System really began to grow in the interwar years as the population of the state boomed. Athletics picked up as a high tide raised all boats. In 1935, the California State Normal Schools began to consolidate into the California State University system. State Teachers College at San Jose was renamed San Jose State College and San Diego State Teachers College became San Diego State College.

That same year, San Jose State decided to leave the Far Western Conference and go independent. The move didn’t last long, as San Jose State founded the California Collegiate Athletic Association in 1939 with San Diego State, Fresno State Normal School, and Santa Barbara State College (the future UC Santa Barbara).

The CCAA finally brought all three of our future rivals together to compete on the gridiron. The league would eventually encompass most of the Cal State System at one point or another, but in its initial years it was a battleground between Fresno State Normal College, SDSC, and SJSC.

The first game between the Aztecs and Spartans took place in 1935, a 24-9 victory for San Jose State, who were on their way to becoming the top team in the conference. The Spartans won the first three conference championships from 1939 to 1941, and then won three of four from 1946 to 1949 when play resumed after the War.

Following the ‘49 season, SJSC actually left the CCAA for football independence once again after outgrowing their old league, giving San Diego State and Fresno State (and Cal Poly) a chance at glory.

Cal State Cup Record

San Jose State: 19 San Diego State: 7 Fresno State: 6

San Jose State really took a big lead from the 30′s to the 50′s. The Spartans were a force to be reckoned with in the CCAA and more or less outgrew the league which was at the time the equivalent of D-II. San Diego State had a few good years but for the most part this period belongs to SJSC.

The Spartans zoomed from last place to first during this time and held a commanding lead in the all-time standings.

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Fresno State vs San Diego State Part I (CCAA to PCAA): 1955-1979

With San Jose State out of the CCAA, the Spartans began to play San Diego State rather infrequently. SJSC’s rivalry with Fresno State College lasted them through this disruption, as the game began to be seen as a real rivalry between both programs.

However, San Jose State’s time as the top CSU was already over. Fresno State reversed their fortunes against the Spartans in 1955. The Bulldogs beat their rivals in six of the next eight years and won the CCAA in seven of eight years from 1954 to 1961. In 1961, Fresno State finished 3rd in the NCAA College Division poll.

If the Bulldogs were the team of the 50′s then San Diego State was easily the team of the 60′s and 70′s. The Aztecs wrested power away from Fresno in 1962 under new head coach Don Coryell. Coryell was one of the game’s sharpest innovators, and his Air Coryell offense was a precursor to both the West Coast Offense and the Air Raid.

SDSC won their first CCAA title in over a decade in 1962. For the next four seasons, the Aztecs were in a fierce dogfight with Los Angeles State and Long Beach State atop the league standings, with the winner usually finishing in the top 5 in the College Division poll. In 1966 San Diego State exploded, going 11-0 and claiming a D-II National Championship. The following year, SDSC went 10-1, their only loss was to the University Division level Utah State Aggies, and were once again voted the top team in the College Division. The Aztecs made it a three-peat in 1968 with a 9-0-1 campaign in their last year in the lower level.

In 1969, Fresno State, San Diego State, and San Jose State were once again reunited in the newly formed Pacific Coast Athletic Association. The PCAA was in the University Division, the future D-I, a step up in competition for all three schools so there wouldn’t be another national championship among the group.

The Aztecs continued to dominate even after Don Coryell left for the NFL following the 1972 season. SDSC would continue their winning ways throughout the 70′s and parlayed their success into the WAC in 1979.

Cal State Cup Record

San Jose State: 23 San Diego State: 19 Fresno State: 15

San Diego State’s dominance during the 60′s and 70′s brings the Aztecs to nearly the head of the pack in our all-time standings. San Jose State barely managed to hang on to the lead, though two of their wins came in years where they didn’t play SDSU. Fresno State had streaks in the late 50′s and late 70′s which kept them competitive.

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Fresno State vs San Jose State I (The Big West Years): 1980-1991

With San Diego State out of the picture once the Aztecs left for the WAC, the three-way series was now only contested by Fresno State and SJSU. Both the Bulldogs and the Spartans were experiencing renaissances.

Fresno State was quickly transforming into the powerhouse of the Big West. Under head coach Jim Sweeney, the Bulldogs won the conference in 1977, 1982, 1985, 1988-89, and 1991. San Jose State won several league titles as well in 1975-76, 1978, 1981, 1986-87, and 1990-91. As you can imagine, the Fresno-San Jose rivalry game decided several conference championships in this time.

Cal State Cup Record

San Jose State: 30 Fresno State: 20 San Diego State: 19

With San Diego State out struggling against fierce competition in the WAC, San Jose State was able to extend their lead in the all-time standings while Fresno was able to dig themselves out of last place. Is it fair? Not really. But the Aztecs took themselves out of the running by not playing their rivals.

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A Brief Overlap in the WAC: 1992-1998

In 1992, Fresno State left the Big West for the far more competitive WAC and were reunited with San Diego State for the first time in two decades. The Bulldogs immediately found success in their new home, winning the conference title in 1992 and 1993.

San Jose State, desperate to escape the Big West, also jumped ship to the greatly expanding WAC in 1996. For three glorious years, the three surviving Cal State Universities remaining in FBS were once again reunited.

Cal State Cup Record

San Jose State: 30 Fresno State: 23 San Diego State: 23

Fresno State and San Diego State end up in a tie for second place towards the end of the century. The Bulldogs carried the day until Jim Sweeney’s final few seasons. The Aztecs experienced a brief renaissance thanks to Marshall Faulk and won all three seasons in which the three CSU’s were all in the WAC.

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Fresno State vs San Jose State II (The WAC Years): 1999-2010

As the WAC expanded, older members were growing sick of the watered down league. 8 of the oldest WAC programs, including San Diego State, left to form the Mountain West Conference in 1999. Once again, Fresno State and San Jose State would spend more than a decade playing each other but not the Aztecs.

By the 2000′s, the Spartans were entrenched near the bottom of the standings. SJSU was well past its heyday as a regional powerhouse, but Fresno State was still coming into their own. Following Jim Sweeney’s retirement, Pat Hill took over the Bulldogs and turned them into a giant killer.

Fresno State won 8 or more games in six of seven years from 1999 to 2005, and went 11-3 in 2001. The Bulldogs only won the WAC once in 1999 during this span, which can be pinned on Boise State dominating the conference.

Meanwhile, San Diego State once again struggled to compete in the Mountain West. The Aztecs couldn’t face up to stronger, more established programs like BYU and Utah, and TCU.

Cal State Cup Record

Fresno State: 34 San Jose State: 31 San Diego State: 23

Fresno State comes out a big winner here. The Buldogs were able to run roughshod over their rivals for the Valley Cup. San Diego State was an absolute non-factor because the Aztecs were usually never even in the running. If SDSU was eligible they’d still have had a tough time beating Fresno.

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Fresno State vs San Diego State Part II (The MWC Years): 2011-2019

The shifting winds of conference realignment once again brought all three Cal State Universities back together again. Fresno State jumped to the Mountain West in 2012. San Jose State was able to flee the dying WAC the following year.

With all three schools once again in the same conference, their rivalry games were once again able to develop. In particular, the once dormant rivalry between Fresno State and San Diego State flared back up. The Aztecs rose out of the ashes in the 2010′s to become one of the most competitive teams in the league. The Bulldogs similarly saw their fortunes fade for a time following the retirement of Pat Hill.

Since the split into divisions, Fresno State and SDSU have spent most of the past decade battling for the West Division. The Bulldogs and Aztecs represented the West in the first six title games, with Fresno State and San Diego State each winning two conference titles.

Cal State Cup Record

Fresno State: 40 San Jose State: 31 San Diego State: 26

Fresno State was able to sneak away with more wins than they perhaps deserved in this past decade, but those are the tiebreaker rules. The Bulldogs and Aztecs ran the Mountain West’s West Division in this time. San Jose State has sadly remained a non-factor in the 2010′s.

-

More than most of these hypothetical trophy games I’ve been outlining here, I really think there should be another three-way trophy for these California State University schools.

I’m glad they’re all playing together again, it’s good for the game and fun to watch as a San Diego State fan.

Fresno State ends up with the most Cups. The Bulldogs proved themselves significantly better than San Jose State beyond the 80′s, which more or less nabbed them the top spot. The Spartans’ hot start in the early decades of the rivalry gradually eroded until they were supplanted by their rivals in the 2000′s.

The Aztecs really got the short end of the stick here. Because they almost never played Fresno State or SJSU from the 1980′s onwards they pretty much couldn’t win the Cup ever. They’d arguably be in first place if they were given a chance to compete, but we won’t know because those games weren’t played.

For the record, in years where every team played each other, San Diego State did lead the standings.

Cal State Cup Record

San Diego State: 14 San Jose State: 10 Fresno State: 7

Just saying.

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Hey everybody, thanks for reading! Like I said, I’m gonna keep doing things like this until games actually start being played. Stay tuned for more offseason content!

[brashearsinsurance]

Understanding General Liability Insurance as Essential Coverage for Small Businesses

When operating a business in Santa Barbara, it is crucial to have the right insurance coverage to protect your investments and confirm seamless operations. General liability insurance is one of the most important types of insurance for business owners to consider. This article will give you an overview of what general liability insurance is, explain its importance for businesses in Santa Barbara, and guide you through obtaining coverage. For more details read our article now

[yahoonewsphotos]

'Mexico Between Life and Death' — photographs by Harvey Stein

"I go as a wanderer, photographing in a country often strange to me. I hear words not known, see things I don't understand, view acts of kindness and violence, smell new odors and taste new foods; I walk down small, unfamiliar cobblestone streets. I react and photograph intuitively. When in Mexico, I am dizzy with new experiences and free to go anywhere and to do anything. The feeling is of endless possibilities. My limitations are my only restraint."  — Harvey Stein

*****

Renowned American photographer Harvey Stein's fascination with Mexico began when he was a teenager. Compared to the mundane surroundings of his youth in Pittsburgh, Mexico seemed a mysterious and ambiguous place that was nearby, yet so far away. As a child, Stein was haunted by the notion of death and that someday he would no longer exist. He discovered by reading books about Mexico that the Mexican people viewed death as a natural part of life that should be celebrated. This made Mexico very comforting and special to him.

When he became a professional photographer, Stein knew that his photography was the perfect way to immerse himself in Mexico — to partake in ceremonies, meet the people, and express his interest and love of the country. During 14 trips between 1993 and 2010, Stein photographed in Mexico, primarily in small towns and villages, and mostly during festivals (Day of the Dead, Easter, Independence Day) that highlight the country's unique relationship to death, myth, ritual and religion.

"Mexico: Between Life and Death" shows fragments of what Mexico is — a country of incredible contrasts and contradictions. Mexico is about piercing light and deep shadow, of stillness and quick explosiveness, of massive tradition and creeping progress, of great religious belief but with corruption as a way of life. It is a land of ritual and legend, of vibrant life and dancing skeletons, and where old age is revered despite the fact that half of the population is under 20 years old.

Although Stein has always lived in the U.S., his emotional life and mind have been oriented toward Mexico for most of his life, and that relationship continues to this day. He says: "The images reflect my personal, passionate and intimate feelings about Mexico. So if the images are dark, intense, not all so lovely, so be it. It is only one person's vision. As Eugene Smith, probably the greatest photojournalist of the 20th century, once said of photographing Pittsburgh, 'It's only a rumor of the place.'"

Stein is a professional photographer, teacher, author and curator based in New York City. He teaches at the International Center of Photography and is the director of photography at the Umbrella Arts gallery in the East Village in Manhattan. He has been a member of the faculty of the School of Visual Arts, the New School and the Rochester Institute of Technology, among other institutions. He is a recipient of a Creative Arts Public Service (CAPS) fellowship and numerous artist-in-residency grants, and "Mexico: Between Life and Death" (Kehrer Verlag) is his eighth photo book. Others include: "Parallels: A Look at Twins," E.P. Dutton (1978); "Coney Island," W.W. Norton, Inc. (1998); "Coney Island: 40 Years, 1970-2010," Schiffer (2011); "Harlem Street Portraits," Schiffer (2013); and "Briefly Seen: New York Street Life," Schiffer (2015). Stein's photographs have been published in major periodicals worldwide, including the New Yorker, Time, Esquire, Smithsonian, the New York Times, Harper's Magazine, ARTnews, New York Magazine and Der Spiegel, to name a few, and in the major photo magazines, including Black & White magazine (cover), Shutterbug, Popular Photography, American Photo, PDN, Rangefinder Magazine, Photo Metro and fotoMAGAZIN (Germany).

Stein's photographs have been widely exhibited in the United States and Europe — 83 one-person and over 165 group shows to date.  His photographs are in more than 57 permanent collections, including the George Eastman Museum, the Bibliothèque nationale de France, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, the Brooklyn Museum, the New Orleans Museum of Art, the International Center of Photography, the Carnegie Museum of Art (Pittsburgh), the Portland (Ore.) Art Museum, the Denver Art Museum, the Museum of the City of New York, Musée de la photographie à Charleroi (Belgium), the Corcoran Gallery of Art, the American Museum of Natural History, the Santa Barbara Museum of Art and the New-York Historical Society, among others. His work is in many corporate collections, including those of Johnson & Johnson, Hewlett-Packard, Barclays and Credit Suisse. He is represented by Sous Les Etoiles Gallery, New York City.

"Mexico: Between Life and Death," by Harvey Stein (Kehrer Verlag), book talk and signing Oct. 3, 2018, 6 p.m. to 8:00 p.m., here.

See more photos of 'Mexico Between Life and Death' by Harvey Stein and our other slideshows on Yahoo News.

Follow us on Twitter.

[jasonstiff]

Last month #licenseplate: #Snowshoes won't be needed in #SantaBarbara #California tonight and Sunday, but #galoshes and an #umbrella will be... #SNOSHOO #licenseplates @licenseplateparty69 @badlicenseplates #car #suv (at Santa Barbara, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtrZL1-A8sG/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1orpf6qod8s9a

[yoori-ya]

2

I had forgotten that beaches get crowded in the summer. Bodies cooked red from the sun surged around us as we made our way towards our ultimate goal: cold beers. It was supposed to be an easy 20 minute stroll, but the heat and crowd transformed it into more of a trek than I had intended.

We passed an especially dense section, umbrellas, canopies, and towels all vying for every square inch of sand. I squinted against the harsh sun and the glittering waves, the breeze thick with the smell of suntan lotion, shrieks and laugher peppering the ocean's constant roar.

The waves were mellow that day, great swathes of blue and green rolling slow and languid past the pier's blackened legs, the bodies in the water gently rising and falling as the swell pushed towards the shore. A few kites hung frozen against the skies, their strings tight in the wind. I blinked, and the moment yanked me back to my childhood and the weekends I spent in Santa Barbara, the same sights and smells crashing upon four-year-old-me, who at the time, couldn't make any sense of it. I blinked again, and most of me snapped back to the present, but a small corner had snagged itself on the past, stuck.

"I feel weird," I said.

"What?"

"Nothing."

And we moved on.