astra ✴︎

you had a hard rule for yourself; no mixing wine and vodka. nothing good had ever, or would ever, come of it. but your girlfriends had been practically feeding you glasses of wine all night, coaxing you out of your “slump” as they called it, and eventually you’d developed a dangerous craving for a little something more. rosé turned to vodka sodas, and cathartic conversation turned to grinding against the only blonde you could find in the entire bar. his hair was more brown, really, but close enough. you could ignore the way his hands weren’t calloused from holding a racket, the way he tasted more like beer than the cinnamon gum you’d grown used to throwing away before a match. everyone feels the same in the dark, your best friend had told you. you’d just have to find out for yourself.

you took him home, this half replacement, let him kiss you more stiffly than you preferred, let him finish without even attempting to get you there, something art never would have done. you let him pass out before you, tainting your pretty satin sheets, and willed your head to stop spinning as you all but glared at him, this personification of all your loneliness. you finally lost the war with yourself after an hour of trying, and failing, to get some sleep. you stumbled out of bed, phone and throw blanket in hand, curling onto the couch and dialing his number before you could stop yourself. it was 2am, and part of you was sure he wouldn’t pick up, or worse, his girlfriend could answer the obnoxious ringing. you were just about to hang up when you heard the shuffling sound of him answering, his sleepy voice coming through your speaker. “are you okay?” it was the first thing he’d said to you in months. you tried to ignore the way it sent a shiver down your spine.

“i’m fine,” a lie. you scrambled for a reason to be calling him, anything other than the truth, that you were a tipsy mess, “i, uhm, i was just wondering if you had my t shirt from school, the one with my grad gear on it? i haven’t seen it since you moved out, and-“ “sweetheart,” he let out a low, raspy laugh, “are you drunk?” “no!” it was quick, defensive, “don’t call me that, art.” “alright, alright,” you knew he didn’t believe you, could hear it in his amused tone, “i don’t have your shirt, no.” you knew it was true- you’d seen it at the bottom of a hamper weeks prior. “okay,” you shifted, suddenly so close to crying, you could feel it in your throat, bubbling up, “i shouldn’t have called.”

“hey,” you heard what sounded like a breeze, distant traffic, “what’s going on? are you sure you’re okay?” “i just- i had too much to drink, i guess, i don’t know why i called,” you wiped your face roughly, “are you outside?” “yeah, on the balcony,” he sounded almost embarrassed, “tashi’s asleep in the hotel room.” “right,” the name simmered in your veins, hot and humiliating, “sorry i’m keeping you up.” “don’t worry,” you could picture his signature easy, reassuring smile, “do you want to facetime?” it was a horrible idea, dangerous and tempting, but your fingers were pressing the camera button before you could help yourself, hoping you didn’t look too repulsive.

moments later, his face appeared on your screen, familiar and beautiful, terrible and distant. “there she is,” he smiled, brows knit like he was concerned, “you’re crying.” “no i’m not,” another lie, “my mascara is just smeared from earlier.” “you’re a bad liar,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. it was shorter than you remembered, the curls cropped close to his forehead, not wild like they used to be. “where are you?” you pulled your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them, watching the lights dance off his face. “atlanta at the moment,” he flipped his camera briefly so you could see the city skyline, “i have a tournament in the morning.” “oh,” you remembered the long nights before matches, the way he’d pace, ringing his hands like it was the end of the world if he lost, “are you nervous?”

“always,” there was his laugh, warm and rich, “coach is really on me about this one.” “you’re calling her coach now?” the idea was laughable, calling his girlfriend coach as if he hadn’t said her name only minutes prior. “that’s what she is,” it was slightly defensive, rigid, “you know that.” “right,” you rolled your eyes, the alcohol in your system making you a bit more careless than usual, “that’s gotta be some sort of rule violation.” “its all up to code, don’t worry,” the edge was gone, replaced by an easy lilt, “you didn’t call me to talk about her.” “i called because i miss you,” well, there it was, “i hate myself for it, but i do, and i feel like you don’t even- like you don’t think about me at all.” “you know that’s not true,” you wiped your eyes again, swallowed, “i think about you every single day. sometimes i wish she was you.”

“you shouldn’t have left, then,” you nearly choked around the words. “you know that’s not what happened, come on,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, an old, exasperated habit, “you said you couldn’t handle the strain she was putting on us, the long days and the travel, the intensity of having a new coach.” “no, art, i couldn’t handle the idea of your coach being your ex girlfriend,” you rolled your eyes to force back the tears, “don’t twist it around.” “i was willing to make it work,” he said quickly, “i told you i would tell her nevermind. you told me it would be good for me, not to worry about you.” “yeah, and you really took that to heart,” you snapped, “you’re certainly not worried about me now.” “oh, bullshit,” it was not a tone he took with you often, “you forced me away because you were scared and didn’t trust me.” “and now you’re fucking her, so looks like i was right not to.” it hung in the air, and you swallowed back another swell of tears, eyes stinging.

just then, as if by some divine, comical timing, the blonde boy you suddenly couldn’t remember the name of strode out of your bedroom, clumsily dressed and clutching his head like he was already feeling the hangover. “i’m out of here,” he said, and you bristled at art’s expression as he registered the voice, “my numbers on the nightstand, though. text me.” he didn’t even wait for you to respond, and you were sure he’d heard your conversation before he entered the room. you just watched as he walked out the front door, deeply, harshly humiliated. “so,” art’s voice startled you, “is that what’s really wrong?” “what?” you blinked back at the screen, “what do you mean?” “is that your boyfriend?” you nearly laughed. “no, god no,” you shook your head, “i don’t remember his name, this is so fucking embarrassing but i just brought him back from the bar, i don’t know.” “it’s not embarrassing,” he had that jealous air about him that you knew so well, “i just don’t understand why you’d call me and show off like that.” “show off? that was hardly showing off, art, i didn’t expect that at all.”

“whatever you say,” he had a tense tick in his jaw, “me and tashi don’t fuck, by the way. since you sounded so concerned about that. we haven’t had sex in weeks.” “wow,” it gave you a strange, lingering satisfaction, “thanks for gracing me with that information.” “i’m trying to talk to you,” you were so drained, the soft tone he took nearly felt like comfort, “i’m telling you she’s not you. i look at her, and i- i mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a great woman, but she’s not you.” “you could’ve come back, then,” you buried your face in the blanket covering your knees, “i miss you.” “i miss you too, sweet girl,” the nickname had you reeling, dizzy, “hey, look at me.” you looked up at your dim phone screen, undoubtedly a mess of smeared makeup and red eyes, but he looked at you like you were a prize. “you’re so beautiful,” it went all over you, filled your head and made your hairs stand on end, “you know that? so fucking beautiful.”

“i miss you so much,” you hated it, the way the vulnerability poured out of you, the way he’d reduced you to tears and a wobbling bottom lips so easily, “it hasn’t gotten any easier. my friends keep saying they know what i’m going through, but they don’t get it. things keep happening and i just want to talk to you, but i can’t.” it was all bubbling over, all the months of resisting the urge to call, all the times you’d reached to text him but locked your phone instead. “i know,” it was so painfully, torturously gentle, “let it out, it’s okay. i’m right here.” you couldn’t help it anymore. you sobbed, openly and pathetically, telling him all the things you’d ached to, listening to his occasional hum of soothing remarks. when you were exhausted, eyes swollen, you laid back on the couch, too tired to move to the bed. “it’s gonna be okay, baby,” you let yourself believe it, let your eyes close and his voice fill your senses, “i’m so sorry i hurt you. it’s gonna be okay, i promise you.”