#technically its called something else but its basically a fucked up shitty bird thing

[irondeficientf3r0ck]

WE UP POSY POSTING RAHH

ponynatural Harper I have big plans for you

Okok the Ghoul is bigger than it should be compared to Sam but I will scale later lmao

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 29: a one-night thing and a date debate

(hey hi hello, in the interest of clarity, there’s a new POV toward the end of this chapter. hope you enjoy!)

Tuesday, November 13th, 1990

“What?? I didn’t think it was that bad.“ 

It’s rude to gawk at her. I know it’s rude. Yet gawk I shall, when her hair looks like THAT and she’s got the unmitigated audacity to keep eating clementines standing over her kitchen sink like it’s a normal Tuesday evening. It’s been hacked off unceremoniously to several non-conforming lengths, all of which fall somewhere above her shoulders, and the ends are all sticking out sideways, free from the tyranny of the length that used to weigh them down. I never knew her hair could be this … how do I put this charitably… voluminous… she looks like she stuck her finger in a socket… 

"Not that bad?? What’d you, cut it with a bowl on your head?" 

"Hey, no need to be shitty!" 

"No, you’re right, that’s an insult to the bowl community." 

"Jesus, Lucy!” she exclaims, choking and looking deeply wounded, although whether at my snide remarks or the food lodged in her throat, I can’t be sure.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay, you just… you don’t even look like you." 

Cora beams at me. "Thanks!”

Maybe if I flatten my face into my palm hard enough, I’ll just pass out. Nope, no luck. And now my face hurts. “Okay, I get it, it’s the stereotypical post-breakup reinvention –" 

"Huh? This has nothing to do with… that." 

”– sure, right, and a cat might have her kittens in an oven but that doesn’t make them… I don’t know… biscuits or something… shit, I’m hungry, I skipped dinner…" 

Cora’s eyebrows draw together and we share a moment of silence for the metaphor that got away before we burst out laughing. I join her in the kitchen and she hands me an orange before picking another one for herself. She peels it straight into the sink, on top of a large existing pile of peels, and I follow her lead. 

“Okay, okay, you just wanted to look different. I get it." 

"Thank you.”

“And you succeeded,” I crane my neck to get a better view of the back of her hair, where the disparate lengths of the sides meet in one jagged scissor swipe. At its shortest, it’s a bit above her shoulders. I can work with that. It’ll actually be a cute length on her, if I can even it out… and get the ends to lie flat… and fix whatever those short pieces in the front were supposed to be… “but I’m contractually obligated as your best friend to ask you this whenever you do anything crazy: are you okay? Like, really okay?”

She nods, sending random pieces of hair bobbing wildly.

“I don’t have to take you into the shop for a tune-up, right? Because this little stunt, this kinda feels like a ‘check engine’ light… " 

"I swear, Luce, I’m fine. I just… I needed something different.”

“…because?” I ask, as carefully as I can. She takes her time answering, becoming overwhelmingly interested in removing every last string of pith from her fruit. 

“…because Alex called." 

Ah ha. Now we’re getting somewhere. Also, that bastard! "What’d you guys talk about?”

“We didn’t. He left a message.” I’m already making a beeline for her answering machine when she adds, “I erased it, don’t bother." 

"Okay, and that wasn’t cathartic enough, so you had to erase your hair too?" 

"I… I don’t know, he said he thought he spotted me at the store the other day –" 

”– creepyyyy –“

”– yeah. And suddenly I just didn’t want to be spottable anymore, you know? I mean, I didn’t change my hair one bit the entire time we dated, it always looked the same. And I just felt like I could make myself a little less recognizable to him, or maybe just make myself feel less like the person he recognized as his girlfriend, or… I don’t know, none of that probably makes any sense.“ 

"No, it makes perfect sense. How are you feeling now?" 

She downs the last wedge of her orange and reaches for another. "Fine. Scurvy-free, at the very least." 

"No, I mean about Alex… did he say anything else?" 

"Not really. I mean, he left me his new number. Well, her number, I guess. He’s at her place,” she wrinkles her nose at a distaste unrelated to clementines. The thought turns my stomach, too.

“And… are you going to call him back, or…”

“NO! Absolutely not. That’s why I fucking destroyed the tape, even hearing him in this room again felt like a violation. I just wanted to kill any trace, you know?" 

"Definitely. Definitely. Now, for the love of all that is good and holy, will you please let me fix… this for you?" 

I tug at a sideways strand of hair, maybe a little too hard. Setting aside the insanity of her actions, I admire her resolve. When Cora decides something, she really goes for it, whether it was to move across the country to start her life over, or to try to save the planet with her crazy genius brain, or to try and make things work with Alex even when any idiot could see that their relationship was already long over, or to cut him out of her life and cut off her own hair just for good measure, or even to ignore every ounce of evidence that she and Stone are perfect for each other. Smart or stupid, she really commits to her cause and sticks with it. I’m sure Jeff wishes I had the same kind of commitment capability. 

"Is it really that bad?" 

"Cora! You cut. Your hair. With kitchen shears!” I clap between words to stress the severity of her situation, but my efforts are undermined by both our cackling. “You’ve gone from a Daphne to a Velma!" 

"Hey, what’s wrong with Velma???”

“Y'know, the person we really need right about now is Patch." 

"Oh god, he’d disown me." 

"Yeah, but at least he’d be able to make you look like Molly Ringwald first. I think the best I can do is, like, Anne Shirley post-chop." 

"Hmm,” she muses, her face clouding, “no more pigtails to pull.”

“Huh?” 

“Oh… nothing…”

“Come on, Mess." 

She lets me snatch up her hand and start dragging her down to my apartment, where I have slightly more refined cosmetological implements than kitchen shears. But once we’re in the hallway she plants her feet, frowning in the direction of my boyfriend’s door like a bird dog. 

“Hey. What are you even doing here so early anyway? Weren’t you going to hang out with Jeff before the show tonight?” 

“Why don’t you ask a little louder, maybe he’ll hear you and come explain it himself?” 

Her face contorts quizzically. I tug hard on her arm. “Ow! Okay, okay! Walking now.” 

“Sorry,” I whisper once we’re in the stairs, “just… we’re still in kind of a weird place, we had a really dumb fight, and I should probably go talk to him about it, but…” I trail off, feeling even more undeserving than I usually do of someone as great as Jeff. What’s wrong with me? He’s my favorite person in the world! Why don’t I want to talk to my favorite person in the world?

“…but you needed to take a breather?" 

"Maybe? I don’t know, I just know that in the moment I needed to get away, and now I’ve probably fucked everything up." 

"Somehow I doubt that.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Well, nothing’s wrong with you, I can tell you that much.” 

“Reserve judgment until you hear the whole stupid story, woman. Bathroom. Now.” I open my door and point down the hallway. With a childish groan, she obeys, grabbing a dining room chair and stomping away. I grab the phone, tugging the cord so it’ll follow us. 

“What’s that for? Is there a hair disaster technical support line?” 

“Pretty much, yeah. I was gonna call your brother, I need reinforcements.” I steer her by the shoulders and shove her down into the chair, maybe a little too aggressively.

“Oof! Fabulous. Double the abuse, no waiting.”

“No less than you deserve,” I snicker as I glare at her until she recites his number, which I stab into the phone. “Hmph. No one’s picking up. Guess I have to fly solo on this one.” 

“Well, good, honestly, I don’t want to worry him.” 

“You should have thought of that before you hacked off your hair like a crazy person,” I scold as I start to comb it into submission and evaluate the job in front of me. 

“Enough about me, Lucy, what the fuck’s going on with you lovebirds?”

“We had our first fiiiiight,” I whine, “it was awful. And it’s stupid, and I’m stupid, and I need to just get over myself and let him win this one because I’m never going to find another person like Jeff so I’m crazy not to go along with him, and –" 

”– wait, is this still about you not wanting to move in together?“ 

"Yes! Or, no, it’s not that I don’t want to, exactly, I just don’t want to… yet, I guess. Which is dumb, right? I’m being dumb. Only the truly dumb among us would blow up an otherwise perfect relationship over something trivial like that." 

"Trivial?? Okay, (a), be nice, that’s my best friend you’re talking about, and (b), it’s not dumb or trivial, it’s how you feel, so why would that threaten anything?”

As I start trimming hair, the whole stupid story tumbles out of me. Cora listens solemnly, chewing on her lip, until I’m finally done with my tale of woe.

“It’s over, Cora,” I lament, “I just can’t imagine how he’ll still want to be with me after this, I mean, I’m basically rejecting him." 

"If he can’t handle a little rejection, he’s in the wrong business,” she sniffs. “And it’s not rejection. You love him, right?" 

"Of course!”

“So, you’re not rejecting him. If anything, you’re trying to hold onto him by not rushing into things." 

"Okay, EXACTLY!" 

"So, say that to him!" 

"I DID! But he wasn’t even listening by that point. He got all huffy because I didn’t want to take the leap or whatever. Hey, hold still, you trying to fuck up your hair even more?” I grab her head to keep her from shaking it in disbelief. 

“If he expects you of all people to carpe the freaking diem just because someone else told you to, he’s got a lot left to learn about you. And trying to guilt you about your career? That was bad, and he should feel bad about it.” She glowers at me in the mirror, stabbing the air with her index finger. “You do things in your own time and for your own reasons, because you’re a badass independent thinker, and anyone who wants to change that about you is gonna have to go through me first. He should love that about you the most, not try to overrule it.”

I have to pause what I’m doing and screw up my face to keep the tears pricking my eyes from falling. “Stop being so sweet, woman, it’s really fucking irritating." 

"Look who’s talking,” she mutters, her own eyes looking a little red around the edges. 

“I know you’re right, I’m just scared of losing this one. You know? I don’t exactly have the best luck in this department.”

“Oh, I know, when compared to Jesus freaks or fish pukers, Stinky Hat Man is a veritable dream come true." 

"His hats really aren’t that stinky, you know." 

"I’ll have to take your word for it. Anyway, uh… if we’re doing the whole ‘sharing is caring’ bit, then I have to admit that I didn’t quite tell you everything. Before.”

“About what?" 

"My answering machine. There was another message. Yesterday. From Stone.”

“Oh?” I struggle to keep my voice and face neutral. Truth be told, I’ve been feeling guilty lately about interfering and telling Stone to back off. Seems like he backed a little too far off, when all I wanted him to do was respect her mourning process and not rush her. I’m really 0 for 2 at this whole relationship thing lately.

“Yeah, it’s just… it was weird, he’s kinda been absentee lately, ever since… well, like a week, I guess… since Alex left. And it’s just a week, and it wouldn’t be a big deal if it were anyone else, I mean, we all have our own lives, but… it’s me and Stone, you know?”

“Uh huh.” Yup, confirmed, this is my fault. Shit. “Well, what did he say?" 

"Nothing special, really, he just wanted to make sure I was coming to the show…" 

Okay! Whew! A sign of life. I didn’t fuck everything up for them. "That was sweet of him." 

"Was it?” She frowns. “He probably called everyone he knows, right?" 

Is she fucking serious?? "He didn’t call me." 

"Of course he doesn’t have to call you to make sure you’ll be at their shows, you’re boning his bassist." 

"Jesus, Cora, real ladylike." 

"Ha! I love that you still blush about it, it’s been months. Look, all I’m saying is he has no reason to call you, but he probably checked in with a bunch of other people just to spread the word." 

"You’re crazy." 

She shrugs. "What other reason could he have?" 

Oh, I don’t know, he’s IN LOVE WITH YOU? But I can’t say that. I can’t interfere in their situation again. I obviously don’t know what I’m doing, not even in my own relationship, much less someone else’s. All I can do is send her to the show looking as cute and feeling as confident as humanly possible and hope Stone’s smart enough to take it from there.

"Beats me,” I sigh, tousling the ends of her hair after checking them one last time. “Well, I think I’ve officially finished working my magic. What do you think?”

***

“God damn it, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this shirt." 

"What! You look good!" 

"But we’re not even the same siiiiize,” I groan, tugging at the low neckline of the tiny borrowed black shirt to try and force it up into a more modest and familiar location. Ultimately I give up and burrow deeper into my giant cardigan as Lucy drags me into the Off-Ramp. This is my payback for the hour she spent salvaging my creative hairstyling skills, of course, but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. 

I suppose she did a fine job. Not that I particularly care whether it looks good or not. But she neatened up the ends and made it a little more even than I could manage by myself, and it’s shorter now than what I’d been going for, which is actually a plus. It hits right below my jawline, and she did her best to get the ends to lay nicely and for the shorter pieces in the front to look more natural. The problem now is that those little pieces fall in my eyes, so I’ve got them pinned over to the side rather than worry about them for tonight. There’s enough to worry about here already. Even setting aside the conundrum of Stone’s motivation for calling me, Lucy and Jeff are perfectly capable of producing enough drama for one evening. I can understand both of their perspectives, but if I’m being honest, I want to smash Jeff over the head with his own skateboard for being so self-involved. Can’t he see how much she loves him? Of course they’ll inevitably move in together and pick out china patterns and have a million beautiful little blonde babies and all that domestic bullshit, but Lucy is not a person you rush. I really admire that about her, the way she takes her time making decisions. I could stand to take a leaf from her book. So, Jeffrey, I love you and all, but get the fuck over yourself.

“Up front, right?” Lucy drops my hand and scans the already crowded room, looking for space near the stage.

“Uhm… I was thinking I was gonna hang near the back tonight… we could probably scrounge a couple of bar stools…” 

“Transparent much? Don’t act like you’re not trying to hide from Stone.“ 

"You don’t know me." 

"Come on, don’t you want to talk to him? He did call you and ask you to be here." 

"I… I don’t know, this is kind of a big night for him, I don’t want to make it about anything else… not that there’s anything else it could be, I mean, he obviously –" 

”–called everyone he knows,“ she drones in unison with me, "yeah, right. Ugh, come on, we’ll hang out over on Jeff’s side, Stone won’t even see you.”

“I figured you’d want a little distance from Jeff after today?” 

She shakes her head in disbelief. “One stupid fight doesn’t mean I’m not going to support him during something this big.” 

And as always, she’s a walking example of class and grace and bravery and being the bigger person, and I love her even more than I thought I ever could. “Okay, fair, you go be all supportive and whatnot, I’ll go keep one of those bar stools from floating away.” 

“Cora…!” 

“I swear, it’s fine, it’s not even really about avoiding Stone, I just kinda wanna… I feel like I’ll get a better feel for the whole thing back there. You know what I mean?” 

“No. Not at all.” But instead of arguing with me, my best friend pulls me into a slightly-too-rough hug and plants a peck on the side of my head before disappearing into the crowd, leaving me to hang near the edge of the darkened room and appreciate the show in my own way. 

Of course she’s right. Of course it’s about avoiding Stone. Of course I want to talk to him, but how? I still can’t figure out if the right thing to do is follow his lead and pretend we’re just friends and everything’s fine between us, or try to gently hint to him that I want to talk and see if I can get him to set aside some time, or just completely lose my mind and shake him and spill my guts and ask what the fuck is wrong with the two of us… nope, strike the last one, this is the absolute worst possible night to do something like that to him. And as the lights come up in the middle of the first song, just look at this room full of people who are here to see his new project, or to remember Andy, or just to have a good night. No matter what brought them here, tonight is clearly something special. Even if it’s just a one-night thing.

“Looks like Mr. Gossard busted himself a string,” Chris ribs after a while. He stalls for time while Stone messes with his guitar, but when he speaks again, his voice is halting and vulnerable. “This whole thing we’re doing was originally meant to be kind of a tribute for… for our buddy, Andy Wood, but… what it ended up being was fun, but this next song in particular was written about him, for him, and a tribute.” 

Just as the air in the room starts to feel too heavy in my lungs, Chris makes another 180 degree turn and teases Mike about his ridiculous blouse before finally starting the next song. I can’t remember when I’ve heard something more beautiful than the way Chris’s voice pours over the music, filling in all the cracks and broken places. Even my irritation at Jeff on Lucy’s behalf vanishes when I catch him leaning on Mike for support, and skipping over to Stone so they can play together over the end of the song. And for a while, nothing matters except how much I love these friends I’ve found and how much I wish I could keep them all safe from any more loss or pain. 

Of course, the show is absolutely amazing, and I’m embarrassed that I ever entertained the idea of staying home. I dutifully catalog every detail in my mind to tell Eddie when he gets back from San Diego, including Chris’s brief crowdsurfing stint during which I lose sight of him entirely, with the exception of his giant black boots. Maybe I don’t need to tell Eddie everything, though… he certainly doesn’t need to hear about the inconvenient heat that slides up my spine whenever I watch Stone play his guitar, or the shameless and hypnotized way I end up staring at his hands until a sharp inhale reminds me that I’ve been forgetting to breathe, or the way the light hits the angles of his face when his hair’s pulled back, although one disobedient piece keeps falling into his eyes, making him occasionally pause in strategic moments to sweep it back… but it’s more than any of that. It’s the geeky way he mouths along, not with Chris’s words but with his own chords. It’s the oddball, chattering riffs that only he would ever think up. It’s the resiliency that drove him deeper into songwriting as a coping mechanism in his grief. It’s the ethic that makes him work so hard but stay so grounded. I miss him. I miss him! What am I doing? This is bullshit!! Okay, maybe I don’t know exactly what words to say to Stone, maybe I don’t know the best way to get my point across, maybe it’s a bad night to even try, but none of that matters anymore. I just need him to know how I feel. I’ve got to talk to him as soon as I can. There’s a thrill that accompanies the resolve, like choosing to jump off a high cliff into the sea. I don’t know how I’ll fare on impact, but the inevitability floods me with excitement.

Before I can figure out my plan, their set is finished, and I watch as they step down into the crowd. Excitement turns back to panic. What am I supposed to say? How can I begin to tell him? But it’s irrelevant for the time being, because the first thing he does is shotgun a beer with a guy in the crowd. I don’t recognize the guy, except as the person who led a rousing chant of “Stoney, Stoney!” during the set. Chant Guy produces two more beer cans seemingly out of nowhere, and he and Stone disappear from my sight. Just as well. I’m still a mess of nerves. People-watching keeps me busy as I huddle up on my stool. Jeff and Lucy are absorbed in conversation on one side of the room. Mike and Selene are absorbed in each other’s faces on the other. I think I even saw Emily a little while ago, although I can’t spot her now, because there are some rowdy idiots in metal band shirts dominating the middle of the room like a bunch of territorial gorillas. One woman with curly, vivid green hair flits around them, constantly snapping pictures, just as she’d done during the set. I follow her with my eyes for a while, until a familiar sight appears behind her head: a baggily sweatshirted elbow, which is connected to a bony hand, which is fidgeting with a soft brown ponytail, which is pulled back from a handsome, angular face, which is deep in conversation with one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. 

I take rapid inventory. She’s a lot taller than me, only a few inches shorter than Stone, with perfect dark hair and a build like one of those godforsaken Baywatch women. I compress my knees deeper into my chest to try to control the roiling in my stomach as I watch her deploy the classic flirty arm touch, and to my despair, Stone rewards her with a smile. Huh. They seem to know each other pretty well. Or maybe I’m just telling myself lies because the thought of him hitting it off with anyone is anguishing, especially someone so different from me. But I need to get the fuck over myself and admit it. I spent too long denying my feelings for him, thinking of him as my twerpy, obnoxious friend, when the fact is, he’s a catch, and I missed out. He’s brilliant, he’s funny, he’s sweet and caring, he’s talented, and he’s stupidly handsome. It figures that someone else would see those qualities too. And it makes sense that this girl with a supermodel build would be more his type than… whatever the hell it is I thought I had to offer.

“You cut your hair??”  

The familiar deep bellow draws my mouth into a reflexive quirk, all I can manage by way of a smile of my own, mostly because I’m still battling my nausea. When I avert my eyes from whatever fresh horror is happening between Stone and Big Tits McGee over there, I turn to find Kim staring bug-eyed at me and wielding three freshly opened bottles of beer. 

“Yes, it is I, of the shorn locks,” I concede. “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.” 

“I’m not fuckin’ scared,” he scoffs. “Wasn’t that long ago I had short hair too.” 

“File under: things I cannot picture.” In spite of myself, Kim has me laughing, and I’m so grateful for the distraction.

“Oh yeah! No beard, Prince Valiant haircut, I had this whole respectability phase. Fuckin’ terrible. Cheers! To not giving a shit,” he hands me a beer and holds up the other two for a clink.

“Oh, no thanks, I’m teetotaling tonight. Someone’s gotta get these degenerates home safely.” 

“Yeah, but not for a while. Don’t insult my intelligence, I’ve seen how well you hold your booze.” 

I finally accept the offered bottle and his toast before glancing automatically back at the crowd. Like picking at a scab, I don’t know what I expected except for it to be painful, because Stone and the brunette are still laughing it up. 

“OH! Crazy Caitlin! This night just got awesome!” 

Kim has followed my gaze and is pointing at the two of them, glee etched all over his features. 

“Keep your voice down!“ 

"Oh, I’m sorry, are we spying?" 

There’s a question I have no desire to answer. "What do you mean, Crazy Caitlin?” 

“Stone’s ex! Haven’t seen her in a while!” 

“Is… is that good or bad?” 

“Huh? I mean, she’s a fucking nightmare, she cheated on him a whole bunch and made him miserable.”

“I don’t know, he seems pretty happy right now.”

“Oh come on! Rookie mistake! Look at the poor guy, you can smell the panic pheromones from all the way over here. He’s not smiling, he’s baring his teeth like a cornered animal." 

"Who died and made you David Attenborough?”

Kim snorts, taking an enormous pull from one of his beers. I press on, trying to sound casual, “so, she’s crazy, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s always a guarantee of interesting times. Melodrama on feet. Also, she’s dumber than a sock full of sand.” 

I hope I’m not just imagining things, but when Caitlin rubs Stone’s arm again, I think I see him tighten that side of his body ever so slightly. Is it just the lighting, or is he clenching his jaw when he smiles? 

“I can’t picture Stone with a brainless girl, how on earth did that work?” 

"Are you kidding me, did you notice her huge… tracts of land?” Kim swerves to a different vocabulary choice when I slice him with a glare. 

“Well, I declare you suitably corrupted, time to spread the happy,” he continues, clinking my bottle one more time and strolling off into the crowd without another word. I watch him clap Stone on the back and hand him the third bottle, and I’m mid-sip from my own drink when Stone’s eyes find me. The jolt makes me dribble some of the beer down my shirt. Fantastic. Even better that it’s Lucy’s stupid little shirt, and there’s not even enough fabric to mop myself up, so I’m gonna be sticky and reeking of beer for the next –

“RED!” 

Stone’s yelp gives me just enough warning to look back up before he barrels into me and wraps me in a lung-collapsing hug. After the shock wears off and he shows no signs of letting go, I allow myself to hug him back. But the longer he holds onto me, the harder it is to resist the horrifying urge to bury my face into the crook of his neck. I opt to wedge my chin up over his skinny shoulder to try to block out how good he smells.

“Mshohappierhear.” 

“What?” I relax my grip on him and he pulls far back enough to face me, but not far enough to let me go and certainly not far enough to be out of kissing range. I bite my lips in to stop them from doing anything foolish. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he slurs, radiating a lopsided grin. Oh Christ, he’s fucking wasted. So much for the idea of talking to him tonight. This isn’t right. He’s just happy to see everyone, it’s got nothing to do with me.

“Really?” 

"Of course. Called you, didn’t I?" 

"Yeah,” I force myself to laugh, “I’m impressed. You still sounded pretty genuine by the time you’d made it all the way through your Rolodex to Shaw." 

"Rolodex? Hang on, did you… do you think I called everyone I know?" 

"Didn’t you?" 

My voice is so small, it’s a wonder the words made it out of my throat to his ears. But he heard me. He drops his hands from my waist, steps back looking to the floor, and huffs out a little laugh through his nose. I could swear he gives the slightest shake of his head before looking out over his shoulder, suddenly paying attention to nothing in particular. It reminds me of the night we met, right here in almost this exact same spot, when all I knew about him was that he was Chris’s sarcastic friend who was trying too hard to seem cool by not making eye contact. Hope rekindles in my chest.

"So, you didn’t?" 

"Uh uh." 

"Not even Crazy Caitlin?" 

He looks back with a knowing smile. "You’ve been talking to Kim, huh? Nah, no way. Actually, I owe you one, you gave me an excuse to run away mid-sentence. You saved my ass, Red, how will I ever repay you?" 

Easy, I want to say. Tell me nothing’s changed. Tell me you still love me. Strike that, don’t tell me anything, just grab me and kiss me, you stupid smug little… 

“Hey, you cut your hair.” 

Damn it, can’t anyone talk to me about anything else? “Can’t get anything past you,” I mutter, but I’m no longer wishing for a change of subject when I notice how closely he’s studying me. My heart starts to pound and my brain feels like it’s been replaced with cotton balls and I could have sworn this room was full of people just a moment ago but it can’t be, because a feeling like this is so thoroughly dangerous it has no business being on display with so many witnesses… 

“I love it.” 

“That… that’s not the point,” I say weakly, willing my knees to stay locked in place and my cotton-brain to remember how to form words. His trademark smirk creeps back into place, albeit a little more crookedly than usual thanks to his level of inebriation, and I’m horrified at how cute the effect is.

“Okay, I hate it.” 

“Also not the point.” 

“Why don’t you throw a guy a bone and tell me what the point was, then?” 

“I just… I wanted something different, I guess… I got tired of being so…” I wave my hands around, like that’s going to help me become more articulate, “so… noticeable?” 

“Good luck with that,” he snorts derisively. “OH! HEY! Can I have this? Thanks!” 

In another dizzying about-face, he’s plunked his beer down on the bar and reached into my hair to remove the bobby pin holding back the shortest pieces of my hair, which now flop listlessly in front of my eyes. Before I can object, he’s already stowing it in his jeans pocket. 

“Hey…” he says slowly, "even better. You should always wear it like that. Really, I did you a favor.” 

“Uhm… much obliged.” What the hell’s gotten into him? How drunk can one idiot possibly be? Is it possible to sustain whiplash injuries from a conversation? “I’m really impressed at how shitfaced you are, Stoner, I think this is as drunk as I’ve ever seen you.” 

“Eh, people keep buying me shit, it’s rude to say no.” 

“How are you getting home?” 

He mimes holding onto handlebars and ringing a bike bell. “Ding ding.” 

“Is there a specific citation for that? Biking under the influence? Can you get a BUI?” 

“I hope not to let you know. I’m not that drunk, really.” 

“Mmhmm, sure. Anyway, you’re making me miss my bike, so shut up.” 

"Mmhmm,” he parrots, placing his hands on my shoulders and steering me a couple of steps to my right to make room for someone else who was trying to claim space at the bar. My cheeks flame as I remember that we’re in a crowd, and I shuffle to make more space, turning my back to the rest of the room. 

“Hey,” he says, his hands dropping from my shoulders to pick up my hands. 

“Hey yourself.”

“You look really pretty tonight.” 

“You… look really drunk tonight.” 

“My drunkness doesn’t negate your prettiness,” he chuckles, tugging alternately on my hands to start swinging us both slightly. 

“No, but it does make you a pretty unreliable narrator.” 

“Guess you’ve never heard of it referred to as truth serum before.” 

“Guess you’ve never heard to it referred to as beer goggles before.” 

With a groan that’s undercut by his smile, he lifts our hands up and laces his fingers in mine. “You’re really bad at accepting compliments. Like, really, appallingly bad.”

“I’m out of practice.”

“We should work on that.”

“Okay.” 

I hardly care what we’re saying. I’m busy watching our hands tangle together like they belong to someone else entirely.

“Hey, Stone?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” 

Without looking up, I can hear him smiling. “Whatever you tell me.” 

“Stop it, I’m serious.” 

“Me too. What are we doing tomorrow night?” 

Jesus, who needs beer to feel drunk? Stone asking about our plans like it’s the most obvious thing in the world is more than intoxicating enough.

"Uhm… hanging out? Talking, and stuff? With words." 

"I’m familiar with the concept, yes.”

“Shut up. I just… it’s been a while, since we… I kinda miss hanging out, without everyone else.” I feel impossibly jittery and have to pull my hands back to try and regain some composure, but when I look up at Stone, he’s beaming. 

“I’m all yours. Where? What time?" 

"M… my place? Eight?" 

“It’s a date.” 

A nervous laugh escapes me. "Haha, uh, our first date?” 

"WHAT! In no parallel reality is this our first date, Red, this is like date number twelve, minimum." 

"Twelve?! Now I know for sure you’re wasted." 

"Don’t make me embarrass you by proving you wrong in front of all these people.” He picks his bottle up off the bar top for a drink, waving aimlessly at the crowd around us that has absolutely no interest in our conversation. 

“Try me." 

"K.” His face oozes drunken overconfidence as he sets his beer back down and snatches one of my hands back up. “Okay, date number one…” he folds all my fingers down except for my index, waving it in front of my nose and fighting my efforts to fold it back in. “The basement. After our first big fight." 

"Nuh-uh, no way, not a date." 

"And your exclusion criteria are…?" 

"Well, for starters, a date is something you plan in advance. Loitering around in a basement after everyone’s ditched us hardly qualifies." 

"Even with me providing the mood music, huh?” he scoffs. “Fine. Have it your way. Date number one: ice cream." 

"You’re real slow, Stoner. We didn’t plan that either, we just ran into each other in the park." 

"Yeah, and then we planned to go get ice cream, so who’s the slow one here?" 

"But…” I cast around for objections, “but we each paid for our own, and…" 

"Okay okay okay wait,” he crows, “who foots the bill determines whether it’s a date now? It’s almost the new millennium, Red, get with the times." 

"Fine. I’ll let you have that one.” I stop trying to crane my finger back downward just as he begins to pry up another one. 

“Dirty penguin jokes are a time-honored courtship ritual, after all. Date number two: uhm… do phone calls count? Phone calls where intimate matters are discussed? Like sleepwear?" 

"NO!” A few heads turn around us, but they quickly turn back when they realize we’re both laughing.

“Alright, alright, easy. Then the next one was… dinner, your place, the robot show." 

"Denied. You just dropped by, it doesn’t pass the pre-planned test.”

“Haven’t had too many nights that ended cuddling on the couch that weren’t dates." 

"So what, first time for everything,” I wrestle my hand free long enough to flip him off before he resumes counting on my fingers. “If anything, the next night could qualify since I actually asked you over." 

"For sure. Halloween, date two. Which makes date three… that whole thing…” he eases up my ring finger and wiggles it back and forth, squinting at it thoughtfully. I hope he hasn’t noticed that my hands have started to sweat. Is it just my imagination, or is it getting louder in here?

“At… at the park, at your place, yeah." 

"So then what would number four be?" 

We both stare at my pinky finger, contemplating the options. 

"I can't… I can’t think of anything…” I lie. I can, I can think of one big thing, but we can’t talk about it right now, not when he’s wasted, not right now…

He scratches his nose with his free hand. “Yeah, I mean the whole moving day thing definitely doesn’t count…" 

Not right now, not right now… "no, definitely not…" 

"I mean, that was… that was just… anyone would have come over to help out, I just happened to be around when Lucy called…" 

I don’t know whether to cry or slap him. Would I have kissed just anyone who came over to help me? Is that what he thinks? 

"So, uhm,” he mumbles, “what about tonight, does tonight count, or…" 

But I don’t get to hear the other option, because a commotion behind me makes Stone grab my shoulders again and yank me out of the way. A few of the Aerosmith-shirt-wearing gorillas appear to have gotten into a fight with another faction of guys.  We turn around just in time to see Stone’s friend, Chant Guy, take a beer bottle to the face on the outside edge of the scuffle. 

"Oh, shit, Eric!” Stone recognizes his heavily bleeding friend and starts to head that way, “I should probably… uh…" 

"Go, yeah, go! I’ll see you tomorrow?" 

No answer comes back from him as he checks in with the group of people now surrounding Eric, inspecting his nose and debating whether he needs to go to the hospital. I duck past, spotting a glum-looking Lucy by the door. 

"You ready to get out of here?” I ask her, grabbing her arm to leave no room for argument. 

“Beyond ready.”

***

Okay. It’s official. I’m going to have to tell Marc that’s the last time I let him set me up with one of his Frisbee golf buddies. The dude had enough hairspray in his hair to single-handedly account for the hole in the ozone layer, and he was wearing a Whitesnake shirt. WHITESNAKE. I mean, kudos for letting it all hang out on the first date, but seriously? And he had the audacity to criticize MY hair?? Green is the new black, asshole. 

At least it was easy enough to lose him when people started arguing about the music. I thought the show was fantastic, but apparently Mr. W. Snake didn’t like hearing so many mellow songs in a row and started complaining loudly to anyone around us who would listen, which got everyone all fired up. On the bright side, his boorishness is my gain – I stayed long after he fled, and I think I got some really great pictures of the fight. Rowdy concert crowds and paramedics will make a nice bonus to my amateur photo collection. Like Seattle’s own little Altamont. With somewhat less stabbing, blessedly. 

I’ve just rounded a corner on my walk home when I spot another potentially interesting crime: a skinny dude kneeling on the curb, trying to pick a bike lock. Ordinarily I’d cross the street and avoid trouble, especially at this time of night, except that I recognize him as one of the guitarists from tonight’s band. The goofy-looking one. He doesn’t exactly strike me as a menacing guy. I walk right up behind him, but he doesn’t even notice. World’s worst criminal.

“Want a little help?" 

The skinny guy nearly jumps out of his skin, leaping to his feet and making an unholy racket against the bike rack. "JESUS! Oh, uh, no, my bike, it’s, uh, well, the lock’s stuck, so I was just…" 

Uh huh. "His” bike is covered in about a decade’s worth of rust, and he’s using a bobby pin to try and pick the lock. With terrible technique, I should add. And completely shitfaced. Meh. What’s it to me if he’s stealing? Whoever owned the bike originally obviously isn’t coming back for it. 

“May I offer you some constructive criticism?" 

"Uh… shoot.”

It’s a mighty struggle not to laugh. “You, uhm, you have to unfold the pin first… it’s not going to fit like that… here…" 

I crouch down and swipe the pin from his hand, going to work on the lock. "Hey, great show tonight, I love your band." 

"Oh, you were there?" 

"Yeah, my Neanderthal blind date started the battle royale." 

He laughs kind of like a mule, a weird braying noise. "Glad someone else’s date ended worse than mine.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your misfortune?”

“Nothing bad, just ended kind of abruptly. She got out of there after the fight. Well, after your Neanderthal started the fight, I guess. Been drowning my sorrows ever since.”

“You don’t say.” Chatty little fucker. Ugh.

“Anyway, I guess I probably shoulda recognized you from the show, the, uh, well, your…" 

”…my hair’s green, yeah, so I’ve been told.“ 

"It’s cool." 

"Thanks. It runs in the family.”

“Ha. You sound like someone I know." 

"And is it their bike you’re stealing?" 

"Kind of. Hey! No, I’m not stealing it, it's…" 

”…yours, right.“ I stand up and toss him the opened lock. "And you are?”

“Stone. Wow, thanks.” He drops the lock on the pavement and yanks the rusty bike loose.

“Child’s play. Well, I’m gonna do that whole 'leaving the scene of the crime’ thing, you might wanna give it a try. There’s still cops everywhere." 

I’m already putting the drunk skinny guy behind me when he calls out, "oh, yeah, hey thanks, uhm…?" 

"Tracey! Get the hell out of here, Stone!”

His stupid laughter fades as I break into a jog. Weird kid.