Page 30 of Fall From Grace
A smile threatens to appear on my face, but I don’t let it. I don’t even know why I want to smile; it isn’t like she said anything funny. She’s… I don’t know what she is. Everything is confusing when I’m near her, and I feel like a constant contradiction.
I want to be close to her. I want to push her away. I want to know more about her, but at the same time I don’t. It’s confusing, it’s shitty, it’s everything I never felt before. I’m used to getting what I want and then being satisfied, knowing I never wanted more. I used to numb myself. Never have I ever given myself the opportunity to feel like this.
It fucking sucks. I hate it. I honestly don’t know how the average boring ass person does it.
We walk side by side in silence for a while, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about. Is she thinking about me, or are her thoughts still back at that house, where her ex was? I wonder who he is. I know what he did to her, and I know why. My comments to her about the subject were… let’s just say not very nice, and at the time I meant them.
Now? I don’t know. Now I think I just hate that fucking guy, whoever he is.
I could probably find out who he is. Search her social media. If I went to friend and follow her, would she allow it, or would she immediately block me? Hmm. But then what would I do with the information? It isn’t like I care enough to track him down on campus and beat the shit out of him.
Or maybe I do.
Knowing she used to sing… fuck. It’s something we have in common. Something small, but at the same time, somethinghuge. I don’t know what makes me break the silence between us, but I do as I ask, “What’s your favorite song?”
“My favorite song?” Wren echoes, as if she didn’t hear me right. “Why do you care?”
“I’m curious.”
She seems to think about it. “Don’t make fun of me, but I kind of dig the nineties.”
“Okay, what’s your favorite nineties song?”
“Tornby Natalie Imbruglia,” she rattles off quickly, so quickly I know she’s not lying. “What about you?”
I have to resist my urge to shut the conversation down, especially since I was the one who brought it up to begin with. Anytime anything remotely close to music is brought up, I’d rather fucking not. “I’m a huge fan of Linkin Park, Breaking Benjamin, Sleep Token. No way can I pick a single favorite song.” I have to be careful; she might not know who Black Sacrament is, but with the masks and body paint, my old band is close to the last one I brought up.
Can’t forget how big Black Sacrament blew up after bringing in that girl. They went fucking viral, and now anytime they do shows, clips spread like wildfire. As much as I hate to admit it—and I really fucking hate it—more people know about them now than they did back when I was its frontrunner.
“Is that the kind of stuff you like to sing?” she asks.
“I don’t really want to talk about that.”
“Maybe if you did, it wouldn’t be such a sore subject.”
“And maybe if you confronted your ex and told him what a shitty person he is, seeing him wouldn’t make you run away.” I come off sounding like a little bitch, but once the words are out, I can’t take them back.
“I don’t need to confront him. I already told him we were done when I caught him in bed with my ex-best friend. Whatmore is there to say?” The pain must be too real still, if the hurt in her voice means anything.
“There’s always more to say, like ‘fuck you.’”
Wren shoots a dirty look my way. “Some of us don’t swear.”
“Why not? You think you’re a better person or some shit just because you don’t swear?” I mean, she is a better person than me, but that’s not hard to do, and it has nothing to do with swearing.
“I just don’t see the point. Anything you need to say, you can say using other words. You don’t need to swear to make your point—”
“Yeah, true, but swearing is just fucking fun.” When she groans at that, I smirk.
To my surprise, her place isn’t too far away. It’s maybe a ten-minute walk. She lives in a house directly across from the east side of campus. Not that I plan on coming here again, but it is information I file away for later.
We walk to her front door, and she pulls out a key from the small clutch she has strung over her shoulder. Before she sticks that key into the lock, she turns to me. There aren’t any lights on on the outside of the house, no lights on inside either, so there isn’t much to illuminate her, but my eyes are adjusted to the darkness well enough.
She stares up at me from beneath those eyelashes and whispers, “Thank you for walking with me… even though I didn’t want you to.” She bites her bottom lip in a gesture that makes me want to bend down and take that lip between my teeth and give it a nibble myself. “You’re not so bad sometimes.”
Not so bad.It’s not exactly a compliment, but at the same time, it might just be the nicest thing someone has ever said to me—to me, Logan Crew, and not Pope of Black Sacrament. It was definitely the most real anyone’s been with me.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I reply, unable to look away. Once again, that look she’s giving me is pinning me in place. I’m a foot away from her, but it feels like a mile. She’s too far away. I want to step closer to her, put my hands on her, pull her in and…
