|CHAPTER NINE|

Quinn had our celebratory summer playlist on loop while we sat side by side atop her bed, both with empty Word documents glaring at us. She had a stack of college letters between us, and a list of everything she would need to apply to each one stuck between her fingers. My head rested on her headboard, eyes staring blankly out at her tidy bedroom—particularly at her closet door, which was burdened with a plethora of pictures taped to its exterior. Everything I worked so hard for all my life now dangled just out of my reach by a college that may or may not accept me. I let out a deep groan.

“This is madness.”

Quinn laughed a few melodic notes and sat up. “Which part? The essay or the recommendations? Perhaps the list of extra-curriculars? Your GPA? The transcripts?”

I groaned again, this time louder. “The fact that I have to be so thorough about a school.”

Quinn agreed by nodding. “Well, at least you’re set, Miss 4.0. Plus, I know you’ve got an impressive list of volunteering to brag about.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I quipped.

“It’s harder for me, that’s all,” Quinn continued with a pout. “I’m a B-average at best. Thank God you dragged me along to some of your mom’s projects, otherwise I’d be screwed. The only other thing worth noting is that one year as a cheerleader and the two school productions I had minor roles in. Clubs are lame.”

“They are,” I agreed with little enthusiasm. “Where are you all applying?”

“In-state universities, mostly.” She shrugged. “What about you?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere but here.”

She rolled her eyes and rocked herself into my shoulder. “Ashwood Creek isn’t so bad.”

“You’re not the face of the biggest scandal in town,” I argued, though futilely since she always had a counter for everything. Quinn thought she was going nowhere, but I always thought she’d make a fine lawyer.

“Nobody remembers that. They see you now, and you’re a huge success,” she told me earnestly. “Gosh, you should hear the way Meredith brags about you to my mom.”

My brows furrowed. “My mother brags about me?”

Quinn nodded, smiling hugely. “Yeah, she was just over the other day all proud about you getting a letter from Yale—congrats, by the way.”

“It was just a letter of consideration,” I mumbled with a blush. “Well, she never said anything to me about it. Just told me to check the mail for something important and then disappeared. Pretty typical.”

Quinn’s eyes lowered to her lap where she took time examining her chipping nail polish. I tucked hair behind my year and settled back to gather my thoughts for an essay, but before I could type anything, Quinn spoke again.

“I know it’s none of my business,” she began a little hesitantly, remembering how our last argument ended. “But, I really think you guys need to sit down and have a heart to heart.”

I groaned at how ridiculous that sounded. My mother and I? Have a meaningful conversation? We were not so emotional.

“Oh, come on, Jovie!” She pressed upon seeing the discomfort distort my features. You’re nearly eighteen and the last time you two had a nice long hug was probably elementary school.”

“It’s...hard to talk to her,” I explained with frustration hanging in my voice. “I kind of blew up about Henry to her the other day and she ran away. We can’t talk about anything deep without getting awkward. Neither of us are open enough for that.”

“Then get open,” Quinn insists. “You’re going to leave for college and likely never come back. I know you.” She paused, waiting for me to argue, but I didn't deny her claim so she continued. “Are you really going to have a clear conscience if you leave your relationship like this? You weren’t just raised by her, you were raised by Henry too. You can get emotional, I know you can. You must be emotionally invested in this guy you’re seeing if you’re hiding him from everyone. So, woman up.”

I buried my face in my hands so that she couldn’t see the look of complete and total defeat. She was right, I knew she was. I was emotionally invested in Bash. I was devastated when I saw Henry give up on my mom. I could be that way, it’s just something I was ashamed of doing in front of my mother. She made me self-conscious about my feelings because she always pushed everyone away. I grew up thinking that’s how it had to be. I was confused because Henry was different—and she was always so critical of him. I always thought I had to suppress everything, and I was wrong. She was wrong. The problem was, after I figured that out I didn’t know how I could confront her—couldn’t imagine a single possible scenario that led us down that path.

I felt Quinn’s hand on my back and then her guiding me into her side. “Just go for it. Demand answers.”

This made me laugh a little. “You’re so confident.”

“You’re good at everything you do,” she assured me. “You’ll find a way to talk to her.”

“Maybe.”

The thought of confronting my mother about everything in our relationship from the distance we put between us to my insecurities made me nauseated. I was so nervous that every time I thought I bought myself a chance, I would immediately back out and lock myself in my room with Luis. I was definitely going to have this discussion with her, I just didn’t know when.

●════════●♥●════════●

I went to Bash’s apartment on the last day of summer so that he could proofread a few of my college essays—a task he insisted on doing even though the idea made me anxious. Just the thought of future and Bash in the same sentence made me want to bury my head in the sand much less the literal Bash holding my literal future in the literal palm of his hands. Holding onto Bash past his summer deadline was a huge deal in itself.

Never mind all of that, what really mattered about today was his roommate. I had never met his roommate before that day, but when I let myself in using the key from the hanging plant, I found him perched on the sill of an open window smoking in sweatpants and reading the back of one of Bash’s books.

He stopped mid-drag and glanced at me with a sort of suspicion that passed within the couple of seconds he took to observe me. He had thick brows that unfurrowed when he glanced down at his feet and let out a puff of smoke with a short laugh.

“You must be Jovie,” he said in a scratchy voice just loud of enough for me to hear. He held his cigarette close to his mouth as he spoke, allowing a constant stream of smoke to float near his face, and obscure his freckles.

I paused and clutched my essays close to my chest, unsure of what to do. When you spend your entire life avoiding situations like this, you sort of just freeze.

When I said nothing he continued, “Bash isn’t home, yet. I’m Greg, by the way, his roommate.”

Greg had a habit of becoming uncomfortably still when he finished talking. He always seemed to crawl back inside himself like the true introvert he wanted people to think he was.

 I realized this quickly when, after a moment, he brought his cigarette back to his lips and lifted Bash’s book back up to eyelevel, leaving me to figure out what to do with myself in a hesitant pose halfway between house and hall. The tobacco smell wafted over in my direction despite the open window, and made my head ache.

Bash was supposed to be done working at the library, and judging from what Greg said about him not being home yet made me think that he was notably later than usual.

 “He should be home soon,” Greg said suddenly, as though he could sense my hesitation. He didn’t lower the book this time, and he flicked ash into the glass dish beside him. “Might I offer you a smoke while we wait on him? He owes me dinner—probably stopped for takeout.” His detached musings caused me to raise a brow. Still, I decided to close the door and wait with him.  He seemed harmless, and Bash didn’t talk about him much, which I assumed meant he was boring.

I had never smoked a cigarette in my life nor did I intend to, so I declined his offer and entered the living space while breathing through my mouth to stop the smell from giving me a headache. When I leant up against the back of the couch, I noticed him peeking curiously at me from behind Bash’s book. 

“You’re practically a baby,” he joked after a moment with a crooked smile as he rolled his cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. “What’re you, a little high school freshman? Didn’t think Sebastian dated that young.”

“Senior, actually,” I replied boredly, though he did manage to catch my attention by using Bash’s full name. The age game was not something I liked to play—and I didn’t ask for a conversation. “And probably smarter than you,” I tacked on for the sake of my own pride because he made me feel horribly inadequate under his scrutiny.

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. Nearly everybody is.”

He got quiet again after that and stuffed Bash’s book back onto the shelf beside the window. Then, he turned away from me and stared out at the empty street. I watched him inhale and exhale smoke for a few minutes before speaking up again.  

“What’s the point?” I asked as he brought the cigarette to his lips again, the end glowing and shrinking. He shrugged and let out a slow breath, letting his hand fall away from his face and into his lap for the first time since I got there.

“There isn’t one.”

I shook my head. “That’s dumb.”

“Not every action requires meaning, ya know?” He replied and then reached into the breast pocket of his shirt for the rest of his Marlboro’s. “So, want one?”

“I don’t do things without purpose,” I declined again, patiently.

He stuffed the box back into his pocket and then snubbed out his cigarette, dropping it carelessly out the window. I rolled my eyes, trying hard to hold my tongue. He seemed to notice.

“There’s an old flower box hanging off the side of the window.” He smiled at me. “I toss everything there.” He stood and picked up a short piece of plywood from under his feet I hadn’t noticed and placed it over the flower box. “Bash’s idea. He can’t stand the smoking either, and worries too much about the birds.”

“Still reeks,” I told him.

“Leave the window open and it stops.”

“Or, stop smoking all together.”

A smile stretched across his lips. “You and Bash must get on well.”

Right at the moment, the front door jiggled and swept open, carrying not only a blast of fresh air, but Bash too. He didn’t notice me right away since, upon seeing the takeout bag in Bash’s arm, Greg jogged across the room to crowd him.

“Gluten free noodles?”

“Yes.”

“No wasabi?”

“After what happened last time?”

“So...no wasabi?”

“Definitely not.”

“Dumplings?”

“You honestly think I don’t know you.”

“Fried not steamed?”

“It’s like we’ve never done this before.”

“Oh, and Bash?”

Bash’s eyes hooded, like he was waiting for Greg to say something that would annoy him.

“Your girlfriend is here.”

I watched the surprise flash across Bash’s face and his head jerk past Greg’s silhouette to see me leaning against his living room couch. When our eyes met it was a mix of embarrassment and happiness to see me. I waved.

“Jovie, I’m so sorry for...” Bash's eyes followed Greg as he walked past me to sit down on the other side of the couch with the takeout bag. “Everything. I didn’t mean to be late.”

Smiling, I assured him, “It’s fine, really. Greg and I were just talking about the flower box.”

Bash glanced at the window and shoved his hands in his pockets a little bashfully. ”Ah, yes. The Cigarette Graveyard. The part of the house I detest the most.”

“Figures,” Greg called out. “It’s mine.”

“I like you just fine,” Bash told him, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “Went through all that trouble with the takeout, didn’t I? Could have brought home gluten, Wasabi, and steamed dumplings if I hated you.”

Greg’s head leaned back on the couch to rest just beside my hip. “Good man you picked.”

 I smiled toward Bash. “I know.”

Bash grinned and looked down with red cheeks. “Alright,” he mumbled, and then gestured toward Greg. “Hungry, Jovial?”

“We could eat.” I wasn’t hungry, but I knew Bash had just got off work. So, he led the way around the couch to sit with Greg, who was eagerly stuffing his face.

What started off as awkward slowly turned comical. Bash and Greg bantered over nothing, occasionally pulling me in to back one of them up. Both complained about the other’s quirks. I learned that Greg was a sleepwalker and left a mess where ever he went. Still, he picked on the way Bash left stick notes everywhere and corrected his grammar.

“You should see him some nights walking around here with a pipe in his mouth—”

“It’s sophisticated!” Bash argued defensively.

My eyebrows crept up my forehead at this bit of information, and I was tempted to laugh, but Bash looked genuinely mortified. It was like meeting him all over again, all flustered that I would think he was creepy for checking the registry.

Greg leaned forward to get a glimpse of me around Bash. “He writes these cute little stories while drinking liquor and not smoking a pipe,” he explained.

“I don’t do that all of the time,” Bash said quickly.

“He does it enough.”

I looked between the two—Greg with his smug smile and Bash with his closed eyes and gritted teeth.

“I didn’t know you were I writer,” was all I deemed appropriate enough to say in front of Greg. Honestly, I was more worried about the liquor. Finding that he had a drinking problem was like finding tarnish on a set of silver. It made my stomach churn.

Bash ignored my comment. “He makes it sound like I drink heavily...”

“The pipe is the more concerning part,” Greg jumped. in. “He doesn’t even light it. He just sits there with it hanging out of his mouth. It’s so weird.”

I glared at Greg for a moment and then turned my attention back to Bash. “How much do you drink, then?”

“I swear I take one shot,” Bash told me in all seriousness. His blue eyes held mine unwaveringly. “That’s it. I use it as mental lubrication to make it easier to write. Otherwise, I sit there and overthink.”

That’s...” I was lost for words. I certainly hadn’t pegged Bash as one to use alcohol as a tool, especially since he seemed to be enormously against tobacco use. Even stranger than that was the fact that he hadn’t told me he was a writer, though I could imagine he was since he spent all of his time surrounded by books. Even so, he had never been shy. But, I had my secrets, too. And I couldn’t hold this against him. It wasn't astronomically disappointing. It was understandable, even. Startled as I was, I couldn't make a fuss.

“Bizarre, right?” Greg supplied.

I let out a breath. “It’s different.”

Bash had this worried look on his face, like he was sure this secret of his had ruined everything. I smiled softly at him and grabbed his hand, lacing my fingers through his.

“You don’t drink and proofread, do you?” I teased, lifting up my college essays.

Bash chuckled lightly and tucked his chin toward his chest. “I’m completely sober for that part, I’m afraid...not that I ever get drunk.”  

“Well then, let’s get to it.” I stood up, his hand in mine, and led us to his bedroom, ready to accept his quirky little secret and live with it.

Before we could enter, however, Bash turned back toward Greg.

“You better believe I’m going to make you suffer for this,” he said coolly, just a hint of a threat detectable.

Greg snapped open a beer and held it up between us, a devilish smile gracing his face. “Cheers.”

●════════●♥●════════●

After watching Bash pull apart my essays line by line and listening to his suggestions for over an hour, I called for a break and made for the door.

I hated it, hated all of it. Bash, with his slurred voice and gentle fingers caressing my thigh as he explained sentence combining to me. It made me want to end everything right then and there. I needed air.

No, it wasn’t him correcting me. I was thankful for that. He was helping me with an essay that would assist in getting me into a college—a college far away from here, far away from him. The longer I sat there, the more I realized how impossible this was—and then he would press a kiss into my temple and a moment of irrational hope would set my heart into a sprint.

Even with his unusual drinking habits and story writing, which he told me he didn’t want to discuss when I tried to ask him about it, sitting in the back of my mind. It didn’t matter—and that’s what scared me, that I still wanted him even though he had become secretive.

He was holding my college essays being absolutely perfect the way he was and I hated him for it. I loved him, and I hated it because I didn’t know what that meant. Did that mean we should date, really date? That he should meet Meredith and Henry? That I tell Quinn how hopelessly gone I was for him?

What if we lasted? Until graduation? I would leave for college and where would that put us? I loathed long distance. I simply did not have the patience for it. I didn’t want to be the ball to his chain, and I didn’t want him being that for me, either. I couldn’t let us hold each other back like two dogs tied to the same post.

It was just so overwhelming. I wanted to procrastinate. I wanted air. I wanted something sturdy to hold onto.

I did not live life unstructured—and it was killing me because I didn't want to let Bash go. It had to end sometime. It for sure had to end by graduation, that was already decided in my mind.

I pulled open the front door and stood there, inhaling the humid summer air. But, something was off. Where it was supposed to be refreshing and crisp, there was tobacco. I opened my eyes and found Greg sitting on the worn brick steps having another smoke. When he saw me, he chuckled.

“Cigarette?” He offered as he dug in his pocket.

I closed the door behind me and sunk down beside him. “Sure,” I heard myself say.

“What’s your reason, then?” He asked, going back to the conversation we had before Bash arrived.

 “It’s my last day to do whatever the hell I want. After this...”

Greg handed me a cigarette and helped me light it. “What? After this you’ve got to get serious, or somethin’?”

“I’m always serious,” I deadpanned. I brought the cigarette to my lips and took a cautious inhale so I wouldn’t cough. “Sometimes I’m just careless,” I said around a stream of smoke. Despite my efforts, a short cough followed.

“What a bitch that is.”

 I nodded and brought the cigarette back to my mouth, my eyes staring out at nothing in particular. It was going to be a mess. All these tangled knots all done up in my brain. Something would get cut loose soon. I could feel it. Sometime in the future, maybe sooner, maybe later, the bliss I knew would be replaced—and there’s nothing worse than some great unknown horridness looming in the distance.