This Is Me Trying

His time in Sweden was minimal, but it at least afforded him a comfortable bed with 500 thread-count bed sheets. Jolie’s couch, on the other hand, seemed made out of stone. Then again, it was easier to lay blame on a piece of furniture than his own anxieties. Since arriving in L.A., it’s felt as if he was biding his time. Caught in a state of flux, never quite announcing his return or looking for anywhere permanent to stay. The in-between has been a comfortable sanctuary for a year now, and Elliott finds the prospect of leaving it daunting. Then again, just by showing up at Jolie’s doorstep, he’s taken a step in that direction. Who else would knock him back to reality, than the woman who’s been his pace car since childhood? 

As if she could hear the internal complaint, he lifts his head from the edge of the couch. A mildly irritated, but mostly appreciative look on his face.

“How many top singles do you have again?” He asks rhetorically, before gesturing to the couch. “You’d think you can afford a half-decent couch.” He grunts, straightening his back and flinching only slightly at the stark sunlight beaming into the room. Even so, there’s something comforting about seeing Jolie like this. They hadn’t always kept the same pace in life, and as is expected, Jolie is ahead of him even in sobriety. A picture of what Elliott might expect to be, if he manages through his return unscathed. He likes the look of her like this - alert, endearing, alive. Despite himself, he allows for a sentimental smile. “In case I haven’t said it yet. You’re looking a lot better these days.” A truth that comes from someone who’s seen her in all facets, and prefers this the best. “Now what’s for breakfast?”

The last month had felt like she was living on borrowed time. Brie knew better than to think that Elliott wouldn’t show back up after she’d gotten that call from his assistant – It was only a matter of time before she showed up on her doorstep. Or, her Ferris Wheel carriage. She’d spent an entire year without him, having the seams of her life unraveled overnight without warning. It was a devastating blow, one that still leaves her stuck between wishing he’d come home and wishing he’d never come back.

She’d cried her tears and numbed her heartache, forced herself to stick it into a box and put it on a shelf to gather dust. Brie liked to believe she was moving on, that she’d glued herself back together and had returned to being the woman she once was – She put on a good front, with a stiff upper lip and her held high every time someone was brave enough to bring up her husband leaving, ask where he’d gone. It got easier with time to pretend she was alright, beginning to feel like she was reading rehearsed lines and following script instead of letting herself succumb to the new reality she’d unwillingly entered.

Ferris Wheels had always been a favorite, but the one at the Santa Monica Pier was by far the best. Heights weren’t ideal, but the view was a masterpiece – Especially as the sunset. Admittedly, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Elliott as she got in line. Once upon a time they’d do this together, she’d be curled under his arm and they’d watch the sunset from the top of the Ferris Wheel. It had always been romantic, something she looked forward to each time they came to the pier. It felt strange to be going alone, but Brie was determined to not let him take anything else from her.

And yet.

She gets into the carriage alone, turning and looking down so that she can dig her phone out of her purse – The sunset was picturesque, and she wasn’t going to pass up the chance to get a shot of it. The feeling of the carriage shifting is what pulls her attention, brows furrowed as she lifts her head, prepared to snap at whoever was trying to interrupt her moment alone. Whatever quip she’d come up with dies on her tongue, finding herself momentarily frozen in place at the sight of Elliott Jonsson taking the seat across from her. Only seconds have passed but it feels like hours, the feeling of the Ferris Wheel starting it’s rotation pulling her back to reality.

Her first instinct is to try and get out – Brie moves to stand but is knocked back into her seat as the carriage sways and they move. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She answers him with a scoff, reluctantly sitting back in her seat. Crossing on leg over the other, she crosses her arms as well, knowing she can’t do anything but accept her fate. It was a clever idea to corner her here, Elliott knew her well. Had the circumstances been different, she would have admired the move – There was nowhere for her to run off to, no way for her to slap him and stomp off. Just the two of them, alone. Private enough, though if either began to yell – It’d be easier to hear.

Brie didn’t like the feeling of being trapped, that he had gotten the upper-hand on her. Because that’s what they did, right? It was all a game of who could push the other, who would be the first to bend. There’s a beat that passes between them, tension settling into the air around them. “What is this, Elliott, hmm?” Brie questions plainly, her nails digging into her arms as she speaks. The anger she’d been bottling up is quickly threatening to boil over, now that this conversation isn’t just her imagining what she’d say if given the chance. “Now you want to talk?” A bitter laugh and an eyeroll follow her words. “You’re a fucking coward.”

Brie and Elliott

There’s a chasm that forms in any marriage. A cumulation of white lies, petty grievances, and ugly resentment. Some were better than others, some far worse. But his and Brie’s? The extent of it is masked by the worst parts of themselves; Brie’s perfectionism and Elliott’s ego. Years of momentous arguments and mind games were, in fact, shallow misgivings. Because the fact was, that the worst parts of their marriage were beneath the tip of the iceberg. How easy it was, to ignore the very real signs. Maybe if Brie hadn’t gotten pregnant, they could go on ignoring the signs. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and they loved each other more than enough to keep at this forever.

But unlike the ferris wheel, going round and round on a continuous loop, Elliott threw their life off course. He obliterated his marriage, his family, and his favorite person, all to get off the ride. In the many days, weeks, and months that followed. He had his doubts. Sitting there now, beneath the bright LA lights, he has them again. How could he not, staring back at Brie Barlow Jonsson like that? (He could only assume her name on legal papers haven’t changed... But Brie was a stickler for detail) She looks as she’d always looked - devastatingly breathtaking and simultaneously thoughtful. There’s a visceral reaction, equal parts guilt and longing. One fighting over the other, as he stares back at her.

Brie’s vitriol manages to cut through his thoughts like a knife. A just rage that is even more terrifying than Elliott’s imagination. But he has imagined this. He’s played this moment out; in the shower, in front of the mirror, every night before bed. There was a speech, wasn’t there? A detailed-yet-straightforward breakdown of where, when, and why. It’s only in the sight of his very real emotions, that he can’t remember a word of it. 

“I couldn’t talk before.” It’s a pitiful answer, and Elliott nearly braces himself for a right slap on the face. But it’s the truth. He couldn’t talk before, not about the baby or the drugs or the way their marriage made him feel. He swallows the lump in his throat, both hands placed on either side of the bench across from Brie. There was no turning back, not for the next fifteen minutes.

“I know you wouldn’t listen to me unless I cornered you. And I know you don’t owe me shit, but I-” He sighs, clenching his jaw. “I owe you the truth, at the very least.” Elliott sucks in a breath, glancing down at his hands, the slight tan of where his wedding ring once was bright under the cacophony of lights. “It wasn’t a girl, or another family, or because I’d fucked off to the Cayman Islands after a shitty business deal.” All realities of wealthy men with too much of everything. “I went back to Sweden. I -” He shrugs, flipping his eyes back at her. “I was in rehab.”

She’d long since ditched the wine cooler she’d gotten when she first arrived and traded it in for a basket of fries, walking aimlessly around the designated area. There was sand in her Keds, the ocean breeze was sneaking in through the holes of her knitted caridgan, and Kirby was sure that there was a headache waiting to break through from the back of her head. The group that she’d come with had long since dissembled, each of them finding their own corner while the brunette stood taking in the little attractions all around. A photo booth immediately caught her attention. The voice of her part-time manager rang in her ear ⏤ ‘get some cute shots for a feed post’ and suddenly, she was sliding in a five dollar bill and pulling back the black curtain.

What she wasn’t expecting was Elliott Jönsson sliding in next to her, taking up the other half of the bench. She hadn’t even pressed the start button yet. Of course she remembered him, her traitorous lips still tingled a bit as he smiled at her. There was guilt there but also a feeling of familiarity, of warmth, the fallout of a conversation with someone who, in the span of a night, knew some of her more depressing secrets. “It’s gonna be awkward regardless, considering this was meant to be a session for one. These definitely aren’t going on my feed now.” She reached over and pressed the green start button with a smirk. “Who are you again?” She asked, jokingly.

Kirby and Elliott

A changed man, that’s what he likes to call himself. A self-congratulating statement that keeps him on the straight and narrow. He was clean, clear-headed, and though his actions were cowardly - everything after refused to be so. And yet... Elliott is still himself, at the end of the day. And so he can’t help but reflect back at Kirby’s smile, with its warmth and trust, and feel a small swell of relief. When was the last time anyone looked at him, without all of the history and weight of his previous actions? His shoulders slump forward, loose despite the cramped nature of the photobooth. 

“Not unless you want it to end up in the LA Times... Or Tik Tok.” Although he says it with a humorous flair, there’a a seriousness to the context of it. Kirby knew enough about him from the night prior, to have an idea of his life. A highly publicized and spectacled affair, any eagle-eyed reporter or spectator could take the photo and blow it out of proportion. Then again, by the way he manages a smile, maybe there was a lack of innocence to the whole thing that was true. “Tonight? I’m trying my best to play the part of a high-achieving, and unbothered executive.” And yet he shrugs, glancing at the camera, then back at Kirby. “Though I’m not sure how well that’s going.” He glances around the booth,  before landing back at Kirby. “And you? Who are you?” Of course he knew, but the bit manages to be easy, and he likes the ease of conversation with her. 

where: end of the trail festival

who: @elliottjxo​

There were rumors that the big name record label owner was back in Los Angeles but rumors were rumors and she had yet to see the industry giant with her own two eyes. While Ren loved to pass along a good rumor, she was not one to fall for them unless it was confirmed in some way. Tabloids were shitty resources at best and the game of telephone among the L.A. elite was even worse. She stopped by the V.I.P. tent for some water or sanitizing wipes to finish cleaning off the mess on her legs from the rude attendee who nearly destroyed her one of a kind designer boots. That attendee being Brie Barlow and another reminder of the ire that woman caused her. It was there she spotted Elliott and confirmed for herself, that he was in fact, back in town. Wheels turning in her head already, she started to wonder what his take on everything going on with his estranged wife was. Or were they divorced now? She couldn’t remember the latest scoop, but they were rocky and that was all she needed for ammunition to potentially stir the pot. Possibly even get him to fire her loser of an ex-boyfriend who started all her problems to begin with.

“Elliott, darling, I thought that was you,” she greeted as she schmoozed on over to him. First things first, she had to take in what he was wearing. It was always the best ice breaker. “I love that top on you, subtle and chic just like you Mr. Mysterious.” Ren scrunched her nose and gave him a little smile. She wasn’t going to go overboard, she knew people on their level could smell a fake from a mile away and this friendly chat had an underlying purpose. “Anyways, how have you been? I was really sad to hear about you and Brie, by the way. It must be hard to see her out with someone new, like I know you two were on a break or whatever it was, but I mean that’s understandable with how much of a handful she can be.” Renata put her hand to her chest and jutted her lip out in a small pout. “It’s always a sad, sad day when true love dies.” 

Renata and Elliott

There was nothing comfortable about the festival. Amidst the many people he’s wronged and abandoned, and the ever-abundant supply of temptation. Elliott can feel every light perspiration or too-loud noise. A natural consequence of leaving sleepy old Sweden, for the theatrics of his hometown. Yet despite the very real discomfort, he couldn’t help but feel alive. How long had it been since he’d been to a festival, or even listened to his label’s top musicians? The music hits his ear different, and it’s a saving grace amidst the speculation. But it only lasts so long, and in the reprieve between sets, his beeline towards the sparkling water is interrupted by a familiar purr. 

Of course, he knew Renata Cortes. His circle may be rich with influencers and models, but Renata had the unlucky talent of getting under his wife’s skin (if he could still call her that). How many nights did Elliott spend uttering grunts and murmurs of acknowledgement, while Brie aired her grievances about Renata fucking Cortes. Yet for the life of him, he can’t sum their dislike up to anything beyond a love for a fight. “In the flesh.” He agrees simply, with an uncharacteristic shrug. There was a time when Elliott marveled at the attention. A right alpha, preening at his ego being stroked. But there’s a heavy dose of shame and embarrassment, that makes chatter with an acquaintance at best difficult. “From you? A compliment.” Though he’s certain Brie had picked his shirt out years ago, and that the very knowledge would have Renata disavowing it out of spite. 

“It’s been an adjustment, but it’s good to be home.” He answers diplomatically, with a steady voice that intends to keep a friendly distance. Yet Renata manages to clobber the chances of that, in that innocent tone that goes unnoticed by Elliott’s own attention. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Elliott furrows his brow, now turning to Renata with full attention. “She’s been seen with someone new?” He had assumed there’d be someone, not because Brie was disloyal, but because how could he expect her to wait? it’s the public nature of it all. Whatever it was his wife was doing, she had no qualms letting the likes of Renata know about it. “How do you even know this?”

The energy of the crowds, the heightened heart rate from each song, and the sensory explosion of each performance. There’s a magic to music festivals that’s familiar to Elliott’s bones. A natural euphoria that he’s forgotten, on what’s felt like a three year bender of narcotics and vice. But it isn’t easy, and he feels the twitch of temptation with every offered bump and cold bottle of vodka. Fortunately, Maroon Studio’s line-up was getting prepped and mic’d to perform on stage. The end result has Elliott stepping outside the velvet rope, and through the rows of general admission. In between cotton candy carts and carnival games, he finds a very different type of temptation. Except instead of the usual heart-racing danger his exploits often evoke, it’s an almost uncharacteristic sense of calm.

How could that be, when the most he knows about Kirby is one evening’s worth of divulgence?

She looks just as he’d remembered, in that hazy mellow toned light. Long black hair and warm, inviting eyes that’s unfailingly wholesome. It’s like the sound of whimsical romance Elliott’s always trying to find in his music. If he were more cynical, he’d think it’s a marketing plot he’s developed himself. But she’s real, flesh and bone. And for all that Elliott’s tried to avoid attention, he can’t help but walk towards the photobooth.

He’s quick on his feet, jumping into the booth and quickly sliding over the curtain. His shoulder bumps against hers, and Elliott can’t help but smile at his own foolishness. How strange it was, to have a slight break from the overwhelming guilt of it all. “If you don’t remember me, this photobooth is gonna be sufficiently awkward.”

He jumps right into the deep end of the L.A. social scene, without so much as a breath or moment of pause. It’s unwise, given just how tentative his newfound peace is. But Elliott likes to to believe himself stronger now, than before. The whirlwind of work, play, and social pressure that a music festival carried (especially for the illustrious head producer at Maroon Sound Studios) would’ve been a powder keg of temptation. In fact, in years past, he had distinct memories of leaving the event in a euphoric haze. But he’s kept his wits about him so far, waving off credit-card lined powder from his contingent of artists. He jumps into the work, and manages to minimize the amount of run-ins (most, if not all, on camp “Brie Barlow”). 

He can weather the rainfall of criticism and curiosity from friends, family, and acquaintances like. But not before he talks to Brie. Somehow, getting started on putting his life back together has to start with her. As with everything in his life, it always started with her.

There was a time when that was a comfort, rather than a burden.

His wife is equal parts fearless and fierce. A combination that made certain Elliott was always at arm’s length. Whatever attempt was made; at their old house, at her office, or at her sister’s house, was quickly dismantled. All without putting a hair out of place or a scuff on Brie’s designer pumps. Yet he knows her, still. He knows the temptation that lays at the ferris wheel, on a perfect Spring night eclipsed in bright light. He remembers how she’d gravitate to it, even before they had gone steady, and well into their marriage. 

It’s a matter of time, and he slips the conductor a thousand bucks (old pocket change for all cash expenses to feed his habit, not used for something good). Waiting in the wings, well out of sight, he waits until Brie is the last to get into a carriage. No companions for her, as per Elliott’s instruction. It’s not until the conductor passes him a nod, that Elliott walks fast-footed. A jump into the carriage, and a quick clip of the safety lock. Before she can utter a word, the carriage rocks, and the wheel turns.

“It was this, or rushing you onto a yacht. And I don’t think we’re at criminal offenses yet.” Though if looks could kill, perhaps they were there already.