#&wbb.

the first thought: ‘ sayre ’.  the second: ‘ fuck ’.

bea hated the dress she had found so pretty just a few hours ago when she was in her bedroom, looking into her mirror and turning so she could see the place where the fabric’s slit met bare skin. in a crowd, it was too high, the straps too thin, easy to snap, her top dipping too low. she was barely holding it together when she slid off the stool she’d stolen within five minutes of reaching the top step. sayre. fuck. “ sayre, wait. can i talk to you ? ” 

those were ominous words. she would have hated them if someone else had said them to her. but beatriz had been called a hypocrite so many times lately it had sunk into her skin and settled in her blood. the way she saw it, there were two things that could happen: she could tell sayre everything now, or she would never get to. she wanted to tell sayre everything. maybe because she knew what would happen if sayre knew everything. maybe because she wasn’t thinking. 

in the fray of the party, even if there was a live feed, even if they all ostensibly had camera men, if her voice was low enough bea couldn’t be heard. she reached out for sayre’s arm. her words were an unintentional flood, once she made herself say them, and she stumbled over them.

“ i know what i did didn’t make any sense to you. to anyone. and people got hurt anyway. but i wanted you to know what i was — i was supposed to — i was told to — i didn’t want to do to rhett what he did to me. please tell me you understand that, at least. ”