FicWad

It had been a month, a whole, gigantic, spaced-out and awkward month, if you could believe it, since that day in Will's office in downtown Orlando. His name still tasted bittersweet on my lips. Will's and Pete's.

After my breakdown that day, someone had taken me back to my tiny, messy, screwed-up apartment complex and took the key out of my back pocket, opened the door, and set me up on my fold-out couch. I hope to God I'd said some words of thanks, expressed feeling. Anything. I couldn't remember anything. And for a few days after that, I couldn't DO anything.

I remember staying at home for a week, watching everything and anything on TV, varying from Tattoo Stories to ABC News to documentaries on PBS, and even some soap operas - in Spanish. I remember finishing off about three cartons of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food, too (but I couldn't remember if I had actually bought them).

And the next Saturday, after the episode, I'd called Will and apologized.

"I'm really sorry," I had said over the phone, the first words I'd spoken in a week, and started to break out in tears. He'd started trying to calm me down, spitting out random phrases from nowhere, trying to make me laugh (like peanut butter covered nail polish containers falling from the skies).

"It's okay," he said back, finally making sense. We'd decided to just stay friends, to put this and everything behind us.

And then I remembered.

"Have you talked to Pete lately?"

I swore I thought the line had dropped, because it had taken an awful long time for Will to say something back to me. And when it did, it was really quiet, and I couldn't hear him.

"What?" I said. He repeated whatever he'd said, and then I said "Will, I can't hear you to save my life."

I heard him inhale and say in a huge breath, "TheboyswentbacktoChicagoonWednesday."

I remembered almost hanging up, but got ahold of myself and repeated, "They went back to Chicago?"

"Affirmative."

Neither of us said anything else about Pete, Patrick, Andy, OR Joe, until a week later, after working at Generation Mod every night. After everything had closed up that next Saturday, Will had walked over to the bar, where I still stood in my uniform, cleaning up the mess of a fight. He'd asked me if I wanted a ride home, and that's when I blurted out the words that changed my life (well, not really):

"Will, I'm quitting."

His jaw had dropped all over his Converses. "You're what now?"

"Quitting. Will, I don't think this is the job for me, and I don't want another one of your bands to come in here and I get involved in shit all over again." I took a deep breath and said "I need to quit."

"You can't," he said, shaking his head in awe.

"Why?"

"You just can't," he responded dumbly. I blinked. He sighed and kicked an empty plastic cup across the floor. "I need you here. This IS the job for you, can't you just stay?"

I smiled sadly and shook my head.

"I just can't," I'd said, taking off my uniform in front of him (he looked away as soon as I unbuttoned the skirt; we didn't care, remember?) and I changed into my jeans and a navy blue T-shirt.

"Goodnight, Will. I'll call you over the week," I promised him, jumping over the bar counter and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

And as I walked away I swear I heard him say something along the lines of "Is it serious? I don't know what to think..."