FicWad

“We’re soaring … Flying … There’s not a star in heaven we can’t reach” Dammit! Joe changed my ring tone again. I’d have to alter that, the song seemed to cling to me and persist; I flipped the phone open and answered in a way I knew would piss off Kate. Well, I would’ve but we were still on uneven ground and I knew that if I pissed her off too much, she’d dig a grave underneath the tiled flooring I was stood on.

“Sorry” I gave a mini victory dance, for the first time she’d apologised. I hate to think back to the last time she said that she was sorry, must have been right at the beginning of our relationship.

“For what? Darling?” I added the ‘Darling’ for good measure. It couldn’t hurt to add it in, even if it was her apologising.

“I’m sorry I shouted. I’m even sorrier that I didn’t trust you. I know that you had to work, if you want to go out with Joe tonight I don’t mind.” She seemed very mournful; I pitied her in many ways. Or rather, I pitied myself for not being able to let her down when I had the chance.

“Sure, Hun, I’ll give him a ring later. See you later. Love,” I hesitated, “you”

The phone rang dead, she hadn’t bothered with the whole ‘Goodbye, see you later, love you, be home at eight, always love me, never leave me, lets have loads of little kiddies and name them all junior’ speech that normally accompanied her farewell. At least now I’d been left with an excuse to hang out with Beth, but I might as well catch up with Joe after coffee.

I dialled Joe’s number, being careful not to make any mistakes. It rang three times before he picked up, “PattyyyyyyyyyyvCakes!

“Heyyyyyyyyyyyy Fro Joe, What Up Bitch?” I hollered.

“Why’d you do that? You can’t pull that off!” He chortled, considering himself to be more ‘gangster’ than me. The only thing Joe had allowed me to say in ‘gangster’ terms was his new nickname, yes; I was allowed to call him ‘Fro Joe’.

“I so can … Anyway, I meant to ask you … You wanna go get wasted tonight?” Putting on my ‘I’m so cool’ voice, just to play up to our friendship.

“Uh …” He didn’t sound sure, I’d have to provoke him into it.

“Just because you know I’d drink you under the table …” I left my statement hanging in the air.

“Oh it’s on … Meet me at the Barracuda at eight” The phone rang dead. I was beginning to wonder if the Suburban lifestyle would ever take me down. Ok, so I have a wife, nice house, kid on the way, car in the garage, and I’m holding down a well-paid job. But I’m going to get pissed tonight, so I’m still from the street. Word.

That’s a lie. I was never on the street; I’ve always had a sheltered upbringing. My parents have always tried to protect me, and while I love them for doing that, I wish they’d let me breathe. I wouldn’t say that I was oppressed, definitely not, but I’d call my childhood overwhelming. My parents wanted the best for me, and tended to express that in the form of stationery. My mother always, always, wanted me to be successful and after a while I adopted the same dream.

I almost gave up when my dad died, but was convinced otherwise by my mother. She told me that I had the potential to be fantastic, and that it would make my father proud. Cliché. After the advice I just gave Gerard, I’m pretty sure that I’m going to be fired or at least be wracked with guilt for the rest of my life. My horrible, worthless, suburban, baby-filled, Kate-controlled life. Oh shit.

I must’ve been out of my mind, it couldn’t really be called advice. While I know the after-effects of comas, I’m not really that clued up on what happens during. Well, that’s just not my specialty. I informed Gerard on what the after-effects were, and as he sat pondering my words, I left with the conclusion that it was in everyone’s best interests to turn off life support. Holy Fro! I just told a man to kill his gay lover.

Throughout my little interlude of drama, depression and the never-waking man, Gerard remained ensconced in the deep red arm chair meant for visitors. His mouth hardly moved, little twitches appeared as I brought him round to face a harsh reality. I’d been told, on several occasions (mainly be Dr. Pete Wentz), that Frank has little chance of a recovery and many of the other doctors feel it would be best to switch off life support.

My door slowly creaked open, the noise followed by a gentle whisper, bringing me back from my thoughts, “Hey, are you still on the phone?”

“No, its ok” I reply.

“What up Bitch?” She snorted, making fun of my lousy attempt to be part of the club. Her nose contorted, wrinkling slightly.

A sudden impulse grabbed me, seizing my entire being, directing my body into the right direction. The swarm of butterflies that were nestled in my stomach grew riled up, riotous. They danced, fluttered, hitting the edges of my belly. I moved over to Beth, swinging her around in the process. She was bent back, but only a little, there was now a gentle arch in it. Confusion was written all over her delicate face, I had to do it now, there was no going back. Our lips touched. Not a collision, nor an embrace. Merely skimming one another, for less than a second.

Had she not been in my arms, had her hair not tipped backwards with her stance, maybe I could’ve laughed the situation away with an awkward chuckle and a few avoided gazes. If those blue, sometimes grey, eyes hadn’t been as spherically beautiful as they observed me with curiosity, mingled with levity, maybe there would have been an ounce of a chance. A chance of a reprieve.

“I guess … That’s what up … Bitch” I make a sound that might have resembled an awkward laugh, had I not been so high-pitched. Instead, it reminded me of a sound I’d once heard a banshee make on a really old movie.

“Patrick …” A bit lip, preparation, closed eyes, exasperation, a tense face, compunction, “I can’t … We can’t … Sorry"

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, “I’m really sorry”

“Patrick, you’ll never know how difficult it was not to kiss you back,” If I’m being honest, it was probably more difficult for me because she didn’t kiss back, “But … You’re married”

“And I’ve got a kid on the way” A confession. I’ll never really understand why I chose that moment to tell her. She went pale, very pale. Her rosy cheeks turned an awful shade of white. Not as white as snow, this isn’t a fairy tale, but definitely made her look ill.

“That … Is … Reason … Enough … Not … To … Be … Kissing … Other … Women” I struggled to catch what she said, I’d never heard her so quiet. These were the murmurs of a woman damaged, I realised I was one of those guys that used women for their own gain.

She left the room; the files she’d been carrying had dropped to the floor when I’d spun her around so spontaneously. I guess, that somewhere in this empty integument, I always knew that she’d react like that. What I hoped, now that was a different matter, I hoped that she’d kiss back, that it would be the start of a fiery affair, that we’d elope, run away, be together on some tropical island.

Spending the rest of the afternoon playing Hearts on my computer may not have been the most productive way to spend my time. But after the afternoon I’d had, I didn’t give a shit. I’d been rejected by the only woman who had ever really mattered, I’d brought the pain of losing an entire family back when we’d had lunch, I’d told a man to give up his future, I was not having a good day. To top things off, I’d probably missed out when it came to coffee and cakes this evening.