— Chapter 57 —
Different Worlds

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E L L I O T

I'd spent the last few days avoiding Noah.

It wasn't hard. Working at the convenience store by day and pulling graveyard shifts at Joe's by night, I only saw him in short instances. He'd be leaving the apartment as I'd be walking in, or I'd be sleeping while he ate dinner, or I'd be going to work as he was waking up in the morning. We hadn't shared more than ten words in the last week. And part of me felt hollow.

Most of my restless nights were spent tossing and turning in my own bed while James's words resounded in my head.

I could still remember the pitiful expression that had been on his face, the sincerity of his gentle voice, and the look in his near-ebony eyes that seemed to portray a genuine sense of care for the situation. For my heart. Like it was something precious that he didn't want broken... despite having broken it himself countless times before.

"You can pretend that he cares for you, and that his feelings for Angela have disappeared," he'd said to me, "but there'll never be a day where he'll openly embrace you in his arms. And you can deny that all you want... but I think you know it too."

I did know it, though the fears were buried somewhere deep in the rational side of my brain. Hearing James echo those fears out loud was a jolt to my system, and I'd been pensive over his words ever since.

Sleepless nights, struggling to think of ways to refute the points he'd made. That he was wrong, and that Noah cared for me more than James could ever understand. That Noah's feelings for Angela weren't there anymore. That Noah didn't care about what other people thought, and would happily take me in his arms.

He wouldn't even dance with me.

It was all just delusional thinking, wasn't it? Noah would never care for me in that regard. Not out in the open where anyone could see. He'd find it uncomfortable, surely. He'd be ashamed of it. Of me. And I'd never had those doubts with James... so part of me accepted that he knew better.

And Angela. She was a different topic altogether. The two of them had known each other since they were kids and understood each other better than they understood themselves. On again, off again, but always coming back to each other sooner or later. I was just the newest obstacle—a point of confusion for Noah, who still looked at Angela like she was his moon and stars.

"You've got hopes and dreams. Edge? He's just a Stray Dog—and he's proud of it. Someone like him will only hold you back."

It echoed over and over. Words spoken in bitter truth, the same words that left me stumped for arguments. Because he was right. I hated him for it, but he was right. I had college to attend in only a few months, in Boston or not. Either way, my life and Noah's were set on two very different paths.

I'd be focusing on my degree, trying to build myself a future away from this city and the past of mine in it. And Noah would always be here... with the Stray Dogs, living his life in peace. That wasn't going to change because of me.

We just didn't want the same things.

So in a way, James was right. Following Noah down that road would inevitably lead to heartbreak. And heartbreak was something I'd already had my fair share of in my life, so... I knew it was safer to keep my distance and move on from the stupid little fantasies. To save us from pain later on.

Perhaps this was better for both of us.

The thoughts were still vivid in my head as I was wiping down the bar counter at Joe's. It was a busy Friday night, and I'd agreed to stay back for a few more hours to help Eve with handling the chatty patrons.

My friends were here too. Nate and Lucille were sitting by the cashier with me, on the stools closest to the old TV behind the counter. Riven stood behind them with a Bud Light in his hands. They were laughing and cracking jokes about the latest news segment being played on the dusty screen, a broadcast of the Kato family's bustling charity benefit.

"Can you believe it?" Riven whined, gesturing to the TV. "That's Jay up there, shaking hands and taking photos with the love of my life. I've been betrayed."

"Tracy May? Please. As if you'd ever have a chance with someone like that," Nate grinned. "She's a solid ten, dude. You're like... a six, at best. And when I say six, it's because this goofy-ass haircut doesn't count."

Nate ruffled his friend's russet curls and laughed, getting his hand swat away by a pouty Riven.

"Speak for yourself, loser."

Lucille rolled her eyes to me—we both chuckled at their very-clear drunkenness. And while the three of them went on about the attractive celebrity caught on James's arm, I succumbed to temptation and looked at the TV again, absent-mindedly folding the blue cloth in my hands.

A reporter standing to the left of the screen, commenting on the donors and politicians who walked past on the red carpet. There were a few celebrities around too, like a cheery Tracy, who was talking with James to the reporters around them.

"While some names and faces were big talking points tonight, I think everyone can agree that Tracy and James absolutely stole the show!" The reporter chuckled, gesturing to the two behind her as they had their photos taken. "This is the first event James has attended in Boston since stepping into the music industry, and everyone's been eating up this reunion with Tracy after their collab single released late last year."

Riven sighed dreamily, "Do you think he'd give me her number if I got on my knees and begged?"

"He'd probably just kick you in the face," I admitted.

Lucille chuckled and added, "Yeah, you know, while you're down there."

Riven flipped us all off, and our collective laughter echoed through the bar.

Though the picture quality was dull and grainy, I was entranced by how well James looked on the screen. His hair, like velvet midnight, was pushed back loosely—only a single lock fell down the side of his forehead. Not even his clothes were so dark, though I found it refreshing to see he wasn't wearing a suit like the others. Instead, he wore an elegant coat that looked like it cost a year's worth of my paychecks, complimenting a tight-fitting turtleneck, jeans, and loafers. The only part of his outfit that wasn't black was the shimmering watch on his wrist—which I figured could pay for Joe's Bar and everything in it.

He just looked so different from the James I knew back in high school.

The broadcast cut to James and his parents. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they smiled and chatted with the cameras, playing the act of an ordinary family. Even James, who usually never smiled. But they weren't an ordinary family—especially not to him.

"You emancipated yourself from your father six years ago and haven't been present at any of his functions since," a reporter somewhere in the crowd brought up. "Why have you decided to support him now?"

Riven, Nate, Lucille and I were hung onto every word of James's reply.

"My emancipation had nothing to do with my father," he said, though nothing about his voice conveyed any warmth. The footage seemed to cut out some of his answer. "I've been making music with quite a few artists over the years, so I haven't had much time. My father's got this city's best interests at heart. Tonight is an opportunity to give back. And I'm proud to be here... supporting my father."

"Jesus, that's gotta feel like a kick in the guts," Nate sighed for his friend, looking bitterly at the screen. "Those assholes got rid of him the first chance they got and now they're up there making him play pretend. Makes me sick."

The feelings sympathy extended past Nate, too. I knew this was Hell for James—the thoughts running through his head, I couldn't even imagine.

Another reporter inquired, "Why did you get emancipated from him?"

Riven scoffed, muttering something along the lines of, "What kind of fucking question is that?"

I could spot the subtleties of James's reaction to the question. Adjusting his cuffs, tensing his shoulders, a paleness to his cheeks—but to anyone else, nothing. He just looked like another celebrity face.

"I'd always wanted to be financially independent," her replied to the reporter, hiding his hands behind his back. He always used to do that when he was nervous—they tended to get clammy. "I made that choice for myself when I was young. Like I said, it had nothing to do with my father—I'm truly very proud of my family."

"Screw that family!" Riven shouted at the screen, clumsily waving around his beer. "Hateful, manipulative pricks! I oughta go up there and—"

Lucille hushed him and pulled the Bud Light out of his hands. "Riv, you're going to make a mess."

While the three of them laughed amongst each other, the TV screen changed to show James shaking his father's hand, really rubbing in the familial love for everyone watching. I couldn't help but feel for him.

The footage cut again as the reporter spoke on the screen. Images of James's playing the piano at the benefit, photos of his outfit and his meetings with other memorable faces, and of course photos of him with his family. Then, more questions being thrown at him on the red carpet.

His rich, mellow voice sent shivers down my spine as I listened to every word that came from his lips. He was so charismatic, charming—I just couldn't look away.

A reporter asked jovially, "You've been making waves in the music industry lately! To whom do you owe your success?"

For the first time since the broadcast had aired on the TV, a genuine smile spread on James's face. It was small, hidden behind all the microphones in his face, but I caught onto it before it disappeared. On the screen above my head, he pushed the reporter's mic away so he could speak clearly and looked right to the camera.

Compassion warmed his words.

"He knows who he is."

Lucille and Riven wiggled their brows my way the second his answer got through the speakers. Nate nudged my shoulder and the group roared with laughter. My cheeks burned with crimson heat and I tried not to smile at the obsidian eyes that seemed to stare right back at me on the screen.

"Ugh, young love," Nate cringed to the rest of the group.  "You hate to see it."

I still love you.

I shook James' voice out of my head as the broadcast went to covering the rest of the event. Leaving my friends to chatter amongst themselves, I took to clearing empty booths, wiping down tables, and collecting empty bottles of beer. I found myself at Noah's table—he, Chief and Shooter were playing a round of poker. Shooter appeared to be winning somehow, despite his terrible poker face.

"I'll take the bottles," I told them. Noah was the only one who paid attention though, suddenly losing all his interest in the cards. Picking the empty beers off their table, I stacked them on the metal tray in my hands, struggling to balance the half dozen I had already.

He offered, "Here, I'll help—"

"I got it."

The words were snapped at him by accident, but it was too late to apologize. Carrying the stable tray of bottles in my hand, and holding the remaining few under my arms, I headed away from his table—only Noah didn't plan on letting me go so easy. I caught him mutter to the other bikers, "Fold."

Stepping out of his booth to follow me, I drew in a shaky breath and ignored him as I placed the empty beers safely on the counter.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, demanding my attention. "Why?"

"I'm busy," I murmured. "Not avoiding you."

"You've hardly spoken to me since the party. Did I say something to you while I was high? Is that it? I don't remember. If I did, I'm sorry."

"You didn't say anything."

"But I did something," he deciphered, reading between the lines. After a pause, he met my eyes and asked softly, "Is it... because of what happened in the truck?"

"No."

What happened in the truck was the happiest I've felt in far too long, was what I wished I'd said, though. The happiest.

"Look, I'm new to... this," he mumbled, gesturing to the space between us. I knew what he wanted to tell me—that he was still getting used to a relationship like ours. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say, but I'm trying, so can you just... not walk away?"

My heart clenched at his words. It sucked, because I was usually on his end when it came to conversations like this. I was usually the one who got hurt, and now I was the one inflicting the pain.

"Like I said," I spoke, trying to soften the situation as best I could. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"So you plan on ignoring me for good?"

Some kind of invisible weight was sitting heavy on my chest— it hurt. I could feel a lump forming in my throat. "I'm tired, Noah. That's all. So just... forget it."

Noah furrowed his brows and gripped the edge of the counter. "Forget it? How can you expect me to forget something like that? Elliot, I don't understand."

I didn't answer, scrubbing hard at a smudge on the counter in an effort to avoid the question.

Noah looked between me and James, whose interview was still playing on the screen. And just like that, some kind of conclusion slapped Noah across the face.

"James. That stuck-up fuck said something to you, didn't he?"

My lip quivered. "You're reaching."

But Noah disagreed. "I know when you're lying, Elliot," he reminded me, still gripping the edge of the counter. "So please stop lying to me, because I'm not stupid."

Elliot.

I loved the sound of my name in his mouth, and I hated the sound of my name in his mouth more than I'd ever hated anything in my life. Because he never called me by my name. He called me by his name, the name he came up for me—Alley Cat. It was stupid and childish, but it was mine. And it felt like it was being taken away.

Elliot, Elliot, Elliot.

Sick of it, I snapped in frustration, "Stop it."

Noah's eyes glossed over with concern. "Stop what?"

I met his gaze, breath hitching in my throat.

"No. Nothing." I shook my head rapidly. "Look, don't worry about it, alright? You got your own things going on, and I've got mine, and... you don't have to keep sticking your neck out for me anymore. We just... we come from different worlds."

Noah's face fell slowly as I was speaking, from confusion to frustration, and even a flash of pity. I wished I could read his mind—it might've been a nice relief from the silence he gave me instead.

And by the time he finally opened his mouth to say something, the doors to Joe's Bar opened. Angela walked in with Noah's leather jacket folded over her arm.

Noah caught me walking away and sighed. "Elliot, wait—"

But I was already gone.

It was better like this. No more meddling in Noah's affairs, or being an unnecessary burden that he could do without. It was easier if I just pushed him away. Noah would be happy with one less person to stress over.

It's just... better this way.

===

N O A H

My gaze lingered on Elliot for a few moments too long as he walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers.

"Good, you're here already."

I turned to face Angela. She had her taupe lips slightly upturned, a kind greeting, approaching with my jacket in her arms and her shiny brunette ringlets cascading down her back.

"Forgot you were coming," I muttered absently.

"We were literally on the phone together two hours ago?" She phrased it like a question.

"Don't take it personally," I sighed, rubbing my eyelids. Sometimes I think I'd forget my own name if Elliot didn't like saying it.

Moving on, Angela stuck the jacket out for me to take. I felt the softness of its inner fabric and the flowery scent of her delicate perfume invading my space. "Here," she said. "I washed it for you. Thanks for letting me wear it."

"Yeah. Next time you decide to strip down for a dare, don't lose your goddamn shirt. I won't give this to you again."

"Ouch," she breathed, running her hands through her hair. "What crawled up your ass this morning?"

"I've got a lot of shit on my mind."

She tilted her gaze to the bartender at the other end of the counter, who was way out of earshot. "Does any of it have to do with Elliot? The poor thing looks totally pale. You weren't being a dick, were you?" She shook her head and sighed. "I'm sure the Stray Dogs give him enough bullshit to deal with."

My tone was bitter. "Why don't you go use those keen skills of observation somewhere else?"

"Wow," she laughed lightly. "Whatever's up your ass is dead, for sure."

Shooter materialized out of the goddamn wall in time to invade the conversation. "Angela. Nice to see you're fully clothed this evening."

"Shooter," she greeted. "Nice to see that big mouth of yours still doesn't shut. I could stitch your lips together if you'd like."

He paused, eyes widening slowly. "You scare me."

Angela offered up a smile, a glimmer of amusement crossing the young nurse's chocolate eyes. "That's a first."

I turned to Shooter, just about ready to get out of the conversation. "You're his usual partner in crime—where did Chains go?"

"Fuck knows. Probably puffing coke with the first girl he could find."

"Great." I pulled the jacket over my shoulders and gave them a simple glance. "You guys enjoy yourselves. I'm going out for a smoke."

"Is that a 'feel free to join me' smoke?" asked Shooter as I headed for the front doors. "Or a 'stressed and depressed' smoke?"

I sighed, "Fuck right off."

His laughter echoed in the distance as the doors to Joe's Bar shut behind me.

Thin layers of snow cracked beneath my boots while I walked out into the parking lot. Two or three bikers were mobbed around someone who was revving their motorcycle, their raucous chatter drowned out by the noise of the engine. Beer bottles and cigarette butts littered the ground by their feet.

I grumbled under my breath. Who's got the patience to think over all that fucking noise?

Out of eyeshot, I leaned against the wooden frame of the building and let its shadows submerge me in darkness.

I felt around for my cigarettes—a red and white box of Marlboros, crumpled in my jacket pocket. By the time I put a cigarette to my lips, my metal lighter was already in hand, rusty bearings making a piss-poor attempt to produce a flame. Cupping it with my hand and burning up the stick's end finally got a puff of smoke in my lungs.

Exhaling debris into the air, my focus caught on the lighter in my hands. It didn't take any effort to twirl it around, the metal cap catching on my fingers and lighting a flame just before clamping shut again.

I did it about a dozen times, and every time it stopped, I caught that one little word etched into its side: Serendipity.

Part of me wondered if it had ever meant something to somebody.

I tucked it into my pocket with a sigh, wreaths of grey smoke flurrying in the breeze.

We come from different worlds.

Five words that I couldn't get out of my head. Five words that hurt more than they should have. A single sentence that was so right and yet so wrong... with five little words forming an itch I just couldn't scratch.

Just forget it.

Three more words. And a dozen more. And just like that, something in me felt broken. That missing puzzle piece I'd been looking for was out of reach again, and I didn't know how to get it back. How could we belong to different worlds when his was the only place I'd ever found home?

Damn it, Elliot.

I smoked through the cigarette and stood against that building for a while longer. Until the thoughts in my head died down and the dread in my stomach suffocated—enough for me to breathe again.

Baby sat idle in the distance, glossy paint shining under the moonlight. I planned to go for a ride, but as I stomped the butt of my cigarette down in the snow, everything went dark.

My breath hitched in my throat.

Someone tugged black fabric over my head. A sack of some kind, being tightened by my throat as the attacker dragged me back into the alleyway.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," was all I managed to get out.

I struggled against the restraints. I elbowed the guy in the side, kicked down on his toes, butted my head against his nose. It dawned too late that he was massively bigger in size. I could feel his heavy arm folding around my neck.

I wheezed, "What the fuck are you doing? Get off me. I swear to God—"

He held me there in his grip, muscles digging into my throat. I couldn't breathe. Cloudy spots soiled my vision. Every passing second drained the energy out of my flailing limbs. My lungs burned for air. At some point the poor bastard was just dragging my dead weight through the snow.

Too panicked to keep it in my grasp, I discarded my jacket somewhere in the snow beneath my feet. I kicked out, I squirmed in the stranger's grasp, I tried to elbow him in the side—all to no avail.

Oh, my therapist is going to have a field day with this one. I tried to tug on his hair. Man, I'm so sick of this shit.

The voice of a third party echoed somewhere in the distance, but the ringing in my ears made it all sound like radio static.

"Get him in the van. Hurry up."

The attacker's grip had finally begun to render me unconscious. And as the world around me evaporated into nothing, the last thing I registered was being thrown into the metal frame of their vehicle, the coarse voice of a familiar redhead resonating in the distance.

"Lights out, motherfucker."