They all tried to warn him, told him to watch out, told him be careful, Billyâs damaged. Well, unhinged had been the word Nancy used, but she always had been a little dramatic (always had a bigger vocabulary, too).
Thing is, everyone said that Billy would snap. So Steve shouldnât have been surprised when he arrived at Billyâs house and everything was too quiet, too empty. Shouldnât have been surprised when he followed the trail of broken plates and shattered glass into the backyard. Shouldnât have been surprised to find Billy with a knife in his hands, a body in the shape of Neil Hargrove dead on the dirt at his feet.
And maybe, if he really let himself think about it, he wasnât surprised. Not by the fact that Billy finally had snapped, and not by the fact that Steve liked it.
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She was a sea, deep in a way I could never grasp slipping through my hands constantly over and over and over. Desperate to love her in anyway I could I swam in her warmth every chance sheâd allow, but I always left never able to stay in her magnitude and forced to retreat to what I thought was the only safe ground for me. Her tides always rose back for me, reached out for me, but even her vastness couldnât stand me after a time it seems.
I reached out last time and her tide rolled back, rolled back, rolled back and I sit here somehow still waiting for the return of a sea Taylor made for me. Low tide canât last forever can it?
I venture closer, I walk the ground that used to belong to her with a sureness that only came with age, but her waters are long gone. But the sea controls something deep in me and unsatisfied I tread further and further, looking for even a drop of her to satisfy this need.
Time rolls and passion transforms and what was once a desire to be all consumed, flooded full and deep has transformed into a consistent hum of desperation for just a drink.
Iâd happily sail aboard a friendly ship, if I could only climb out of this deep kel and find the sea.
There once was a girl who was hated and loved, mostly by herself but also by others. And truthfully neither were her fault, but isnât that how it always goes? The things we laude and the things we shame in others rarely have anything to do with their conscious choices at all. And the things we twist in shame over for ourselves so often fall out of our control. The things we love? Those are almost always accidents of birth, fates, blessings, or pure dumb luck as youâd call it.
Thatâs how it was for her. She was lucky in both hate and loveâ if you can call it luck when even the worst part about you was so unlikely to happen. Really, what were the odds sheâd be so unfailingly magnetic, pulling you in making you want to know her.. be her? Sheâs girl-next-door-pretty, where even on her worst day she looks better than you. Except you almost convince yourself she doesnât know sheâs pretty, because the callous formed from a life of getting your way didnât exist for her like the other pretty girls. She is exceedingly, unfailingly kind. What are the odds someone who hit the jackpot of personalities and looks would also be the subject of despise due to no fault of her own? It would be easy to assume sheâs hated because sheâs lovable, and maybe seeing someone so lucky does make you want to roll your eyes. However, mere jealousy doesnât compare to the way people hate her. This kind of hate seethes. It causes whispers across town. It oozes out of people if you stand too close, souring your mood and your opinion of her right along with them.
But you know I guess it makes sense really, all magnets have two poles. North. South. Good. Bad. Loved. Hated. The source of loving her is easy to understand if youâve known her for more than five minutes. The hate? Now thatâs gonna take a whole book to explain.
I made my way to the counter, the same girl behind it, same name tag (labeled: Jenny), and same toothy grin shining. She recognizes me; my tinted grey suit, brief case in hand and black messy hair flowing over my eyes. She greets me with a soft âGood afternoon, Philâ and I nod in response and order my usual. She promises me itâll be ready in a few and I leave to sit at my usual place; diagonal from where youâre sitting, far from the window but close to the entrance.
Itâs been like this for 2 weeks. I arrive here for my break, youâre already sat in your normal spot when I enter. We sit diagonal from each other, myself throwing occasional glances in your direction and you not noticing my presence.
 -
November 1st. The day our routine changed. You didnât arrive before me. I entered the shop, like usual, and did my normal routine. You were running late, I suppose. You walked into the entrance with rosy cheeks and hair all over the place. You glanced in my direction, catching my gaze and your cheeks turning a darker shade of red. You turn to sit in your spot but someone already took the empty booth. I watch as you run your hand through your brown, curly hair and you glance at me again. You strolled to the vacant chair across from me. I look down at my half-cold coffee while you clear your throat and say,
âUm, is anyone sitting here?â
I shake my head and you settle in the not-so-comfortable-like-your-usual-spot chair. We sat in awkward silence until my break was over and I coughed out an âI need to go, see ya!â and rushed out. I had noticed you didnât once write in the journal, like you usually do. And I couldnât help but notice the flicker of disappointed written on your face when I left.
 -
I donât go to coffee shop for a week. My boss flooded me with paperwork and I couldnât really say no. The next time I make a stop for coffee, youâre there, in the seat across from mine. Youâre drinking coffee with shaky hands and youâre constantly looking around, almost like youâre looking for someone, or waiting. I enter, hearing the familiar ding above me, and you turn your head in my direction. You smile and I settle in my usual seat, now across from you. We donât really say anything, you glance over my features while I place my case on the floor. Youâre the first to break the silence.
âHavenât seen you in a few days.â
I stared at you, have you been coming here every day, waiting for me? I run my hand through my hair, attempting to fix it, but mostly to cover the pink shade rising on my cheeks. I decide to not answer your statement, thereâs no way youâve been waiting for me, for Phil, the nerdy kid who works in a quiet corner at his job and actually likes doing paperwork. Or Phil, who, up until 11th grade, thought making out was where you just touch tongues, not mouths and tongues.
You awkwardly cleared your throat and gulped your coffee down so fast, it probably burned your tongue but you didnât show any emotion.
âDo you talk?â
You sighed, placing your empty coffee cup on the table and rummaging through your bag for something. I was nervous, should I talk? Was I being a jerk for not responding? You took out the journal I would normally see you writing in. You wrote a few digits down, tearing it out and handing it to me.
âHereâs my number. I like you.â
You smiled, which caused your dimples to appear. Iâve never seen your dimples before, well Iâve never seen you smile properly. I slowly took the sheet and folded it, tucking it into my pant pocket. Iâm not going to lie, you was gorgeous and you had liked me. You checked your phone and your grin disappeared. I watched you stand, grabbing your bag and turning towards me,
âCall me, okay?â
You smile slightly and exit the shop. I watched as you strolled down the pavement, a small grin on your face.
 -
I did call you but I got nervous so I hung up before it got to the second ring. I mentally kicked myself, a cute boy wants to get to know me and Iâm being so stupid. Call him. Call him. Call him, Phil.
I called again and after three rings, you answered. âHello?â My throat closed up and it felt like someone was choking me. I couldnât breathe.
âHello?â You repeated.
I brought my hand up to my ear and tugged, a habit Iâve always had since I was a child. My mum told me I always tugged on my ear when I was nervous or scared. â...Hi.â I could basically hear the smile in your voice when you said, âYouâre the cute boy from the coffee shop, right?â
I nodded but remembered weâre on the phone, ââŚYes?â It sounded more like a question, there were cuter boys there, and you couldâve given your number to any of them as well.
âWell, whatâs your name, cutie? Iâm Dan. Sorry I didnât introduce myself sooner, I was a bit nervous.â
Dan. I like it, it suits you. I like Dan. âMy nameâs Phil.â
âWell, Phil, youâre really cute and Iâve been watching you for the past few weeks and I hope that doesnât sound creepy- oh god, it sounded creepy, I wasnât watching you in that way- you just caught my eye and I wanted to meet so I waited but you didnât come so I was disappointed but I do want to continue seeing you- I donât even know what Iâm saying. Youâre really fucking gorgeous, okay?â
I giggled silently and the pink shade appeared on my cheeks again. âOh, um, I have to go but weâre going to meet at the usual place, right?â I grinned and basically screamed âyesâ and we said our goodbyes. Â
-
I entered the familiar coffee shop but this time you were waiting for me with a wide grin on your face, two coffees already on the table, and a little sticky-note on your cup, and it wrote: âYou and Phil make a cute coupleâ. Yeah, I think so to.
