juliette 🕯️

The white fabric sits there sharp and new, soaking up the thick pink froth that was seeping wider by the second. It wasn't 'new', not exactly, it's been in your closet for months now, but this is the first time you wore it out. Every so often you'd pause in front of it as you skimmed through your closet, fingers hovering above the hanger. And then you'd push past it again, waiting for a better time. You had spent weeks protecting it from life, only to choose the exact wrong moment to finally let it live.

"Napkins, napkins,” Sarah says under her breath, moving before she finishes standing.

Seconds later, she materializes beside Nikki, who’s now skillfully moving your hair out of the way and behind your shoulders. Thin cocktail napkins are swiftly slapped onto your shirt, and the two girls work together while you watch, momentarily stunned into silence. Rubbing hard only makes the red syrup sink deeper into the fabric, spreading through the threads and dyeing the silver sequins. It's no use.

Across the table, Ian’s seat groans when he sinks lower. Bent at the waist now, arms locked tight around his middle, his laughter devolves into gasps without noise, face stretched in a silent scream while his whole frame jerks like something loose has snapped. Bear just keeps coughing, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull while he attempts to rub his stinging lips with the edge of his shirt. When he finally is able to take a deep breath, his fingers stretch your way, then they freeze, afraid to make contact with the mess.

"I'm—" Bear coughs again, his eyes watering from the spice. "Holy shit, I didn't mean to… do that." He gestures wildly at his half-full glass. He didn't even taste it first, just downed half of the drink as if he had ordered it a thousand times before. "The picture made it look like a slushie! I didn't even look at the-- I didn't think it'd be straight tequila and fire. God, fuck, that was awful."

There’s a trail of red still oozing from the side of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, and his cheeks are almost the same shade as the stain on your shirt. He's rocking back and forth in his seat just slightly, and he keeps harshly squeezing his eyes shut every few seconds like it can erase the memory of the last five minutes. It’s evident that he didn’t intend to spit up like a baby all over you, but intent and innocence are two very different concepts.

You go through a million different responses in your brain.

And yet, you settle on:

"It's totally fine," you manage to say as Nikki shoves the last of the soaked napkins into her empty water cup. "No worries."

Ian finally is able to speak after several ragged inhales, swiping a tear from his eye. "That's probably the first time Bear has ever gotten someone wet—" He doubles over again, his laughter cutting through the silence of the table.

"Dude. Shut up." Bear coughs lamely a final time, his chair scraping against the ground as he stands. The wood table soaks up the remnants of his drink, leaving a crimson blob in its wake. He doesn’t look at it.

Instead, he glances at the neon-red blob that’s currently bleeding into his shirt collar, and then at the matching, much larger ruin soaking into yours. "I'm going to order another drink. A beer, or… something." Bear mutters. He shifts his weight between both legs, rubbing the back of his neck, and then pulls back when he realizes his hand is also covered in syrup. He rubs his palms on his jeans as he speaks again, “I can get more napkins, if that would… help?"

His voice fades into nothingness as he poses the question, but his eyes never meet yours. Instead, they fixate on Nikki’s, lingering for a brief moment before darting behind her, then returning to her and nervously scanning her features. He tracks her reaction, waiting for her to absolve him. There's a sharp remark somewhere in you, clawing at your throat. You swallow it down.

Nikki intercepts the pleading stare with an ease that almost makes it look like she didn't notice it at all. She looks from Bear, to you, and back to Bear.

"I… think that you've done enough." she sighs, swatting her hand towards the bar to dismiss him. As he scrambles off, she pivots to you, already tugging at the zipper of her jacket. "Here. Take my jacket. I have a tank top underneath, so it's not a big deal. We can go to the bathroom and change."

"No, no, it's fine, you don't have to—"

You don't have time to finish the sentence before she's pulling you up by the wrist and dragging you towards the restroom.

"Nope, I would be an awful friend if I let you spend the rest of the night uncomfortable." she says, pulling you toward the restrooms. "Besides, maybe if we wet the shirt before the stain sets, you'll be able to wash it out. C'mon."

You allow yourself to be pulled along, and despite you trailing behind her as if you don't want to go with her, there's a smile on your face.

"Okay, here," she shrugs off her sun-bleached bomber jacket and shoves it into your hands before you can object. It's molded to her body from use, and there's deep, soft lines where the leather bends. The elbows are faded, it's lined with scuffs and scars that could tell a story if you looked at them the right way, and there's cue chalk on the cuff of the left sleeve from the last time the group went out and played pool. "Go change. I'll stand guard here, my liege."

You don't fight her on it. You're entirely too eager to get out of your ruined top—the cold, damp fabric is clinging to your skin, chafing against you and making you want to scream. "Why, thank you, my loyal subject," you reply, slipping into a mock posh-accent as you hold the jacket up like a prize. "Do hold the perimeter, I would absolutely hate to get into another…" You trail off, searching for a suitably aristocratic word before finally settling on, "…kerfuffle?"

"Absolutely no kerfuff-ing here." Nikki promises, flashing a mock salute. "Now," she shoves you lightly into the stall behind you, "get changed. Be quick so we can try to get that stain out."

The heavy metal door clicks shut, leaving you alone in the cramped space. You hang the jacket onto the door hook, taking a moment to breathe. Above, a flickering neon sign begs, 'PLEASE DON'T DO COKE IN THE BATHROOM', and it bleeds into the dim overhead light. The stall is a masterpiece of the usual peeling band stickers, phone numbers, and scratched-out initials. The walls are an endless canvas of graffiti, some intentionally painted by the owners, but most added on over the years by patrons. You manage to maneuver yourself awkwardly out of your shirt without messing up what's left of your outfit tonight. When you set it on top of the toilet paper holder, a few small red droplets fall to the ground. You grimace, quickly scuffing them into the linoleum with the sole of your shoe. The smear on the floor, combined with the claustrophobia of the stall, brings back memories of too many late nights hunched over this exact toilet after one shot too many.

Over the thrum of 3 Doors Down crooning through the speakers, Nikki's laughter echos against the bathroom tiles. She's somehow found herself chattering away with a group of tipsy girls. You zip up the jacket, grab your shirt, and push the door open. Nikki is in deep focus, face to face with a familiar stranger from the bar. She's carefully using her pinky nail to clean up the woman's makeup, dragging the edge of the eyeliner until the cat-eye is perfectly sharp. She repeats the motion on the other side and then takes a small step back, squinting to asses the symmetry.

A satisfied nod gives way to an enthusiastic grin. "Perfect!" Nikki claps her hands together, bouncing lightly on her heels. "You look stunning!"

The woman revels in the compliment for a moment, turning to the mirror to take in her updated look. She beams, thanking Nikki profusely before she stumbles out with her friends in tow.

When the door behind her closes, Nikki turns to you. She takes in the the sight of in her jacket for a second too long before rapidly bringing her attention back to your face. "Speaking of looking good! Are you more comfortable now?"

Nodding, you smooth out non-existent wrinkles on your—well, her—jacket. "So much more comfortable. Thank you again. You're an actual lifesaver."

Stepping up to the sink, you drop the sticky top into the basin. It hits the porcelain with a heavy thwack. You reach to crank on the hot water, but Nikki's hand shoots out, catching your wrist.

"Jesus, no, you're going to make it worse!" She scolds, but there's an amused edge to her voice. "Here, let me—"

She gently nudges you with her hip to move you aside, but she stays close, making sure you’re watching. "First rule of spilled drinks," She begins, deliberately turning the faucet dial to cold water. "Never use hot water. Ever."

She flips the top inside out, positioning the back of the stains directly underneath the cold stream. "Second rule, always flush it out from the back so you don't push the dye deeper… or whatever google said last time I looked this up.”

She holds the fabric in place for a moment before pausing, standing up straighter. Her eyes dart around the room for a moment until they land on the abandoned glass of soda water one of the women from before had left. "I'm a genius. I hope you know that. A true genius."

Without missing a beat, she plucks the lime wedge off the rim.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Science," Nikki replies simply, a small, triumphant smirk on her face. She squeezes the lime directly over the red splotch. "Citric acid breaks down the fruit dye. This ain't my first rodeo."

After a few more minutes of meticulous dabbing (not scrubbing), you grab the soaking shirt and wring it out. It's not perfect, it probably never will be again, but it's the best you're going to get it.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" you praise, holding up the newly cleaned shirt in awe. "I owe you my life, I think."

Nikki waves you off, feigning nonchalance. "It's nothing. I'm just a modern day Einstein. No big deal."

You scoff. “Oh, totally. Definitely Einstein-adjacent."

With a laugh, you turn to leave, but Nikki grabs your shoulder before you can take a step.

"Hey."

The word hangs in the air, laced with something raw and all too real. She tilts her head down, closing her eyes. All the levity from seconds ago is gone, replaced with a tight, unfamiliar seriousness. Her eyes are open now, but they remained glued to the floor.

"I, um, I figure I should say this now and tell you before everyone else," she stammers. "To, you know, give you a heads up, because we're…" She releases your shoulder, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "Yeah. But… I put in my two weeks today."

You freeze. A sick sort of desperation gnaws on your chest, and you can almost feel sharp teeth sinking into your heart. Do something, your mind screams, say anything to make her stay. But the impulse is extremely selfish, and guilt paralyzes you. Besides, you know better. You're well aware that once Nikki makes up her mind, there's no convincing her otherwise.

"Oh." Is all you can say for a long while, and it feels entirely inadequate, but it’s all you can manage. The shirt suddenly feels heavy in your hands. "I wasn't expecting that." You add with a nervous chuckle. "Cassell's not cutting it for you anymore?"

Nikki lets out a huff of air that barely counts as a laugh. "I mean, not really? I mostly took this job to pass time, honestly. And then I got the fellowship I was talking about a while back to be a Writer-in-Residence, and I just…"

There's an attempt to meet your eyes that's immediately followed by her eyes darting back to the ground again. She digs the heel of her boot into the floor like she could chip through it and fall into the abyss—an easy escape from a difficult conversation.

"…A Writer-in-Residence?" You prompt, if only to fill the silence before it eats you alive. You have an idea of what it is, but now hearing her talk is something that comes with a countdown, and every moment with her is another grain of sand that falls to the bottom of the hourglass.

"It's, yeah, it's kinda like… insane, honestly. They're giving me a stipend to live on, and an apartment to live in for the next ten months. No dealing with fuck-ass customers who don't know the difference between a violin and a viola, you know?" She offers another fake laugh that falls flat, but you appreciate her trying to inject some levity into the situation. "All I have to do is sit there and write my manuscript. It's literally all I've ever wanted, I couldn't turn it down."

You shake your head. "I'd never expect you to turn something like that down, Nik. It's… wow. Where is it?"

"…Chicago. I have to leave in a little over two weeks." She admits, scrubbing a hand down her face. "Which… is the only bad part about this whole thing."

You look down at the same scrapped and dirty floor tile she's been looking at. Chicago. That's a good four hour flight from LA. A whole different timezone. The desperation that was gnawing at you seems to encompass your whole body now, fingers twitching towards her like you want to do something you're not sure of yet. You're desperately searching for a plan, something to fix this, to make it better, but there's nothing you can think of that would make it work. You can't pull her out of her orbit and into yours, you're two different people with different ambitions. You've been content with watching as she circles her needs while you circle your own.

But you can't watch her from states away, and neither of you have plans on switching trajectories.

You sneak a glance at Nikki, and she looks so utterly defeated. She shouldn't be, this is her dream. She shouldn't be worried to tell you that she just got the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Well," you start, forcing your voice steady, "We're wasting time in here, aren't we? We should be ordering shots." You nudge her foot with yours. "Celebrating your new job, and shit. If we have a timer going, I'm not wasting it in a bathroom. Come on, I'll buy the table a round of shots and we can make the most of the time we have, deal?"

Nikki perks up, the ghost of a smile forming on her face. "Deal."

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