Flipping Coins

It was Wednesday. Three days had passed since I last met with Brendon. I hadn’t called Brendon yet.

Was that bad? Never mind, don’t answer that. I already knew that it was bad. Beyond bad, to be fair.

But, it was not entirely based on the fact that I was clueless on what I should do. I had to return to work on Monday, so I couldn’t really find it in my schedule to call Brendon up or meet with him. Well, maybe there were a couple of free chances that passed by.

Truth be told, I was scared. Scared to let him back in, especially so easily. He seemed so sincere, but would he stick to his word? Would he really never hurt me again? Could I really take that chance?

This thought rebounded in my burden-clogged mind as my finger remotely exhorted more force onto the rubber button. My vision gradually became hazy and unclear, my very eyes losing hydration and focusing undauntedly on the flashing screen. When I realized that I hadn’t blinked in over two minutes, I quickly shut my eyes for a few minutes.

This happened very often lately, too often, perhaps. I just became so fixated in my mental reasoning that I would forget to do the simple things, such as blinking. One could only guess what I was thinking about so frequently.

Brendon. Sweet, fun-loving, carefree, handsome Brendon. I’d give anything to be with him, wherever he was, but that was merely a figure of speech. Could I really give him acceptance to hurt me yet again?

My sight was beginning to flourish obscure once more as I dwindle on my thoughts, when suddenly something flashed onto the television screen. Or, rather, someone….

“Hello, my name is Jon Walker.”

What was Jon doing on the television? I thought to myself stupidly. For a split second, I had completely forgotten that my best friends were incredibly famous rock stars of a mainstream music band. How I had found a way to be so forgetful of this fact was beyond me.

I examined my close friend smiling inside the refulgent television screen. Same old Jon. Five o’clock shadow, solid-colored t-shirt, bright smile and all.

With another shy grin, Jon continued, “As you may know, I am the bassist of this one incredibly awesome band called Panic at the Disco.” I snorted. Oh boy did I know.

“Now, I have a favor to ask of you all. You see, Panic is going on a tour in two weeks, but we’ve got a problem. We need a mascot. Whatever you can think of: butterfly, lion, dragon, liger, whatever. If you could help us out, then that would be great. Just email your creations to this address--”

Another gimmick, but I was used to seeing these kinds of things with Panic. Mostly it was for a good cause, at least that’s what Ryan told me. Usually the money that came out of whatever new persuasive bait they laid out went to some program like Invisible Children or To Write Love on Her Arms or something of that sort.

But I wasn’t really thinking about charity or what possible mascot they would choose or even the fact that the 30-second commercial was nearing the end. I was trying to wrap my mind around the sad truth that Panic was going on tour in two weeks.

That left me 14 days to fix this up with Brendon. That left me 336 hours to spend every last minute with those boys. That left me 20,160 precious minutes until they would say farewell to me for days, weeks, months….

Contemplating this, I suddenly blinked and studied my surroundings. My apartment was an absolute train wreck, filled with blankets and pillows and remainders of junk food that I was too lazy to discard of properly. I was lounging lazily on the single loveseat in my tiny living room, clutching a lukewarm Dr. Thunder can like I actually planned on chugging it down. My moth-bitten, gigantic t-shirt overlapped my pale thighs, which were hardly covered with the short-shorts I hardly ever wore unless my laundry was running short (which was exactly the case.)

I was being ridiculous. I had absolutely nothing to do but occupy myself by switching through T.V channels and acting like I was actually consuming something healthy. Suddenly, it became evident that my so-called fortress was, in fact, a hideout.

“What am I doing?” I asked myself out loud.

Leaping to my feet, I kicked away the bulks of trash leading to my bedroom and found a pair of jeans through a mound of dispatched clothing. My hoodie was conveniently hanging off my room’s doorknob, so within a minute, I was out of there.

I decided to walk, which was nothing new. As you could probably tell, I wasn’t exactly the car type of girl. Besides, walking would burn some of that fat I had built up within the week.

Brendon’s apartment wasn’t too far away. 8 or 9 blocks, if you used the few shortcuts I had picked up over the years. Brendon refused to live in some fancy, upper-class penthouse, despite the fact that he could probably afford owning a whole chain of them. Instead, he lived in an apartment slightly less pricey than a penthouse or mansion, but several added bonuses away from my own apartment's rank.

Brendon had a roommate named Trent, but I hardly ever saw him. He works for some widely-known sports magazine, and he’s on the brink of marriage with his girlfriend, whom I have yet to meet. Trent was Brendon’s good friend in highschool, but they weren’t as close now, even if they did live in the same household. Brendon was always away on tours, and if he wasn’t, Trent was off at some big city getting the story on an important sporting event.

I wondered what I would say and who would answer the door this time as I stepped onto the classy elevator. I felt eyes lingering on me, most likely because I wasn’t wearing the most appeasing outfit. My over-large, holey t-shirt was still draped over my upper body, peeking out from underneath my crimson hoodie. I had pinned my greasy hair up into a messy ponytail, and my make-up was oily and fading. I was no supermodel.

But I ignored their sharp gazes as the sleek doors slipped closed and patiently waited until I hit the fifth floor. With a few short steps, I found myself at Brendon’s doorstep.

I knocked boldly, loud enough so that the elderly couple across the hallway would even know of my presence. Lamely, I tried to fix myself up a bit in the reflection of the doorknocker, smoothing down loose strands of hair and wiping away excess mascara.

Abruptly, the door swung back, and out stepped an astoundingly beautiful girl with striking orange hair and acute, sharp emerald eyes. Her skin was as pale as that of a vampire, and her full pink lips spread over perfected teeth. She looked like a surreal hologram.

“Hello,” she greeted with a hospitable voice that would make some psychiatrists blend green with envy. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Rapidly getting over my shock, I smiled back and said, “Yes, I am looking for Brendon. Is he here?”

The girl’s angelic smile grew with warmth, and she gave a slight nod, causing her straight, bright hair to jolt forward in a string of swift motions. “He sure is. Would you like to come in and wait for him? He’s on the phone, but he should be done in a few minutes."

“That would be great,” I answered, earning another radiant smile from the beautiful girl. After an exchange of nods, I followed her into Brendon's apartment, shutting the door behind me.

Surprisingly, his apartment was everything opposite of trashed or unkempt. There was no stray trash lying about, the floor was visible and shiny, and there wasn’t a trace of any strange or foreign scents reeking up the atmosphere besides the sweet aroma of vanilla and brown sugar.

“Wow,” I murmured to myself at the sight.

The girl, who must also have sharp ears, caught my astounded comment and giggled, “It is shocking, isn’t it? It’s weird to not have to worry about Oscar the Grouch randomly popping up out a rotting pile of garbage.”

I joined in her laughter, instantly making the connection that she comes here regularly. She must be Trent’s girlfriend, the one I’ve never met. Trent wasn’t all that good looking, so he must have one hell of a personality to be able to bag this one.

After our chortles changed to small sighs, I asked, “So you must be Trent’s girlfriend, right?”

The girl went in a fit of laughter, gripping her chest and rocking back and forth while I stared at her with confusion. She shook her head several times before she was able to gasp out, “No, no! Definitely not his girlfriend! I am Trent’s sister.”

“Oh!” I shouted before we both chorused with laughter again.

Once we both settled down, the girl seemed to have thought of something else to add on and shrieked, “Oh!”

I peered up and met her uniquely narrow green eyes just as she asked, “Did I mention that I’m also Brendon’s girlfriend?"