FicWad

Chapter 8 - I'm every cliché, but I simply do it best



I have been listening to "Hey There Delilah" on repeat for about an hour now. But more importantly I have also spent the last couple of days reading an insightful livejournal, hosted by a dude I met about six years ago. We never really "got along", but he did tell me once that I would be easier to get along with if I didn't try to please everyone all of the time. He called me contrived and fake. I was pissed, but I'm sure I smiled back politely.

It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when you realize there are people all over the world with way more problems than you. I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm just going to put this behind me. I doubt they'll ever find him, and if they do there is nothing I can do about it but hope he rots in jail. I don't want to talk about it anymore, and I don't want to think about it. I want to start over.

It's kind of funny that a kid I regard as a complete douchebag for a little over six years put things into perspective for me. Feeling sorry for myself isn't going to make it go away, and making other peoples lives revolve around it isn't going to make it go away. To be honest, it's not ever going to go away. It's always going to be there. I can either cry every day for the rest of my life or get over it. I chose the later.

If/When I see him again I'm going to have to give him a hug or something.

After much debate with myself I have decided a couple of things.

I need to live for myself.

Who is going to yell at me if I stop smiling all the time? Who is going to be pissed when I decide to act like a normal 22 year old?

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

As I recall, about three weeks ago I was basking in the glory of finishing a movie. A movie in which I was blessed enough to work with some of the greatest people I've ever met (Minus Christian, of course)

I am going to call Brock and let him set me up with interviews.

Why? Because I'm a fucking attention whore, and maybe I can use that for good instead of evil. I love how my mind disfigures simple things into crazy talk. Bah.

I think the biggest thing is learning to be independent.

Even if it is just picking out my own clothes or flying to California by myself on an airplane and living in a basically empty three story house with the internet and sunset as my only refuge. For the first 24 hours I was here by myself I cried, but I eventually realized no one was going to come for me and I had no choice but to make myself feel better.

I am currently sitting on the back balcony (watching the sun go down over the city, realizing that this was the reason Pete bought this house. At first I thought it was because of it's size, but I was wrong) I have decided to stop intruding on everyone's lives, including (but not limited to): Mom, Patrick, Kevin, Kay, Pete, and Hemmingway. Of course, once the sun finally sets my decision may change. Right now I'm at peace, however.

She closes the notebook and takes a deep breath. The past couple of days by herself she spent trying to put her life back to normal. Everyone goes through a span in their life where they reevaluate everything, question everything. She was forcing hers, but it felt good.

Everyone called to see if she was "okay". A couple of people still didn't know about it. She wanted to feel normalcy again... she needed to feel it again.

She pulled her phone out of her back pocket.

"Hey Brendon."

"Hey Belle," He sounded slightly drowsy, but at least he answered.

"I'm feeling lonely," She meant to say more, but no other words left her mouth.

"Hence your call to me," He stated plainly.

"I'm sorry I'm a shitty friend," She replied, finding sincerity easier to come up with than a lie.

"It's okay. It kind of keeps us distant enough to not have to deal with all the heavy shit," He said as she heard him shuffling, probably to sit up.

"How true. I think I could get used to this superficial friendship," She finished with a light chuckle.

Brendon let out a light laugh."Always superficial...promise?"

She didn't hesitate to reply. "Promise,"



"Patrick?"

"Mmhhmm?" His eyes were closed and he was half asleep as he answered.

"Can I ask you something? I mean, without you feeling like I'm trying to get more out of this than I really am. God, that's not what I meant to say. I just, I'm not trying to nag," She spit it out quickly and her tone indicated her insecurity, a side of her that she had not yet shown him.

"What is it, Greta?" He asked, pulling himself up to rest his head on his hand and look at her.

"Would it really be that horrible if, well, people found out about us? I mean this is really stressful, trying to hide out from everyone,"

"I don't know if it needs to be broadcasted," He said, letting his arm give out and returning to his previous resting spot: his back.

"What's that mean?" She asked, turning her head to look at his profile. He clenched his eyes shut and let one hand come up to gently massage his forehead.

"I don't want to share this with everyone-"Greta interrupted him hastily.

"I'm quickly jumping to conclusions with this conversation, Patrick. It's hard for me to feel like you're not in this for strictly the comfort. I've just, I've never done this before, and I'm starting to feel... used," Her voice was calm and soft, as if she were trying to comfort a child. Needless to say it was strongly contradicting the words she spoke.

"I'm just going through a lot right now," He replied with a deep sigh.

"I know. And you won't tell me any of it. We don't talk like we used to, and it's only been a week since we..." She trailed off.

"Had sex," He finished slowly.

She glared at the side of his head. Was he trying to be inconsiderate? She didn't want to scold him, or push him quicker than he was willing to go, but any emotion coming from him would be better than this.

She pulled the light sheet with her as she threw her feet over the side of the bed. "I have to go," She said, wrapping the sheet around her body and reaching for her clothes.

"Wait, Greta, I just, I don't...I don't want you to go," He said, sitting up in the bed. She was facing away from him, and pulled her shirt quickly over her head.

"I get it; you think I'm using you. Trust me, I'm not smooth enough to do that even if I wanted to," He mentally slapped himself.

"What should I think, Patrick? I mean, we have this amazing thing going, and then you tell me to meet you at a fucking hotel room, which I'm dumb enough to actually do, and then you start making out with me. We haven't had a conversation in a while. Why is that? What is going on that I don't know?"

"You don't want to know everything, Greta, trust me. You don't want to know my past or my present," He said, pulling his shirt over his head.

"I'm not asking for a life story. I just want to know what you're feeling. I want to know that you feel. I need to know that you feel," She said, eyeing him as he reached for his socks.

"When I'm with you everything bad goes away. God, that's so fucking cliché," He paused, looking up at her disbelieving eyes. He grabbed her hand and she pulled it back quickly. His eyes looked up at her and she sighed, taking an uncomfortable seat at the edge of the bed.

"I just, I don't want anything to ruin this. I don't want people to think the only reason we're together is to further your career, or mine. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable with glances and questions. I just want to be with you," He finished, scooting closer to her.

She took a deep breath to compose herself. She didn't want to give in to him, but she didn't want to feel like she was pushing him either.

"I can't lie to my friends anymore, Patrick. They are our friends; we should at least let them know." He nodded his head in agreement as he pulled her down and wrapped his arms around her. She trailed a finger up his arm and relaxed into his body.

The ringtone coming from his pants pocket on the floor interrupted his thoughts. He quickly scrambled to find them and answered it. She grabbed her pants, trying to hide her nudity as she pulled them over her legs.

"Hello?"

"Hey Patrick, is Belle with you?"

"Kevin, can I call you back in a little while-"Patrick watched as Greta gave up the battle of trying to hide her nudity, shedding the blanket and pulling her pants up to button them.

"We have a lead, we got the toxicology screening back. She was drugged with Lorazepam, Patrick."

"What in the hell is that?" Patrick was focusing solely on the phone, not noticing Greta who had stopped moving when she heard the panic in his voice.

"It's marketed as Ativan. She was given at least four milligrams, and it had to have been slipped into something she drank. But it's not water soluble, so I don't know how she wouldn't have noticed it. I kept trying to tell myself it was just some fucking sick stranger, but it's not adding up. He had to have drugged her, followed her, and...something's missing. I just don't know,"

"I'll fly out tonight. Don't call her until I get there, okay? She's going to be worried, and she's going to be frightened. Just wait and I'll call when I get there," Patrick said, grabbing for his shoes and shutting his phone.

"Are you okay?" She asked, as he opened his phone once again.

He closed it and looked at her. Before he thought about it the words were slipping out of his mouth. "Come to California with me,"





Author Note: I have not found one person who isn't in love with The Plain White T's "Hey There Delilah". Not. One.