Status: hiatus
You Promised Me the World
Coming Home
Long drives always seemed to bring out the worst in people. If you weren’t bickering over which fast-food restaurant to eat at or which CD to put in, you were lost in your own thoughts. All you could do sometimes was think about home and what would be waiting for you once you got there.
Kennedy Brock knew what would be waiting for him, and the answer was nothing. He had his family sure, and they meant a lot to him but he would be missing something. He would be missing something, someone who had been an important part of his life. Kennedy had managed to basically throw away his girlfriend, his future the day before tour, and now at the end of it his mistake was weighing far too heavy on him.
He knew a box of his things would be sitting in his bedroom when he got there. Stuff he had given her, memories that she couldn’t handle seeing. He couldn’t blame her though; harsh reminders were something he almost lived without. He had nothing physical like a t-shirt or a stuffed animal; he had deleted every picture of them from his laptop, he just memories burned in his head, memories that would replay over and over. Sometimes those were enough to make him miss her, regret what had happened and what he had done.
As eager as Kennedy was for a break, to enjoy being at home in Arizona for a while, he was also dreading it.
So when he walked away from his band mates, bags in hand, towards the door of his parent's home and his breath caught in his throat, it didn’t surprise him.
When his family greeted him in a cautious manner, it didn’t surprise him.
When his mind thought up every excuse in the book to avoid his bedroom, it didn’t surprise him.
Kennedy had expected all of it and then some.
Finally Kennedy realized that he could no longer avoid what was waiting for him. He mounted the stairs one by one as slowly as he could, hauling his bags behind him. Taking a deep breath when he reached his bedroom door, he turned the knob and flicked on the light. The soft scent of perfume lingered in the air, but not the kind his mother wore. It was hers, the face that smiled from every corner of his room. Memories of them held tightly inside their frames, behind glass. Then he saw it, the white box with “Emma’s room” crossed out on the side. The flaps were tapped shut and it just sat perfectly in the middle of the floor.
She had been in here; she had placed this box here, not his mother or any other person living in this house. That was the only explanation in Kennedy’s mind for why the whole room smelled like her perfume, why the box was placed where it had been. She wanted it to be the first thing he saw, she wanted him to know that she had delivered it and most likely asked to bring it inside herself instead of just leaving it with whoever had answered the door. She wanted to taunt him, and she was doing a damn good job at it.
He sat in front of the box, staring at it for a while before he proceeded to peel the tape away at its ends. He wanted to delay the process as much as he could, so he neglected scissors and chose this way.
One he had peeled the clear tape away; he pulled back the flaps and stared at the contents. Inside were things he had expected, notes he had written in a lame attempt to be cute and impress her, shirts, sweaters, a stuffed bear he had won her at a fair. But when he spotted the blue velvet box, his heart seized up. He had expected all of it, all of it but that.
Kennedy didn’t know why he had expected her to keep it. Like the rest of the things he had pulled from the box it was a memory, a reminder that she most likely didn’t care to keep or one she felt she just shouldn’t.
Reaching out, Kennedy picked up the small box between his fingers and let out a shaky breath. Opening it slowly he stared at the small diamond. It had cost him a fortune, money he didn’t really have. It had sat in his drawer for almost three months before he got the balls to give it to her. Now it sat in the palm of his hand, taken out of a box of things that told the story of their entire relationship.
There was a stray piece of paper at the bottom of the box, his name scrawled across the front of it in messy handwriting. Unfolding it, all he saw were two words.
“I’m sorry,” it read, simple, unneeded. But that was her, apologetic instead of him. She had been apologizing for him since day one, and even when he had ended it she was still doing it.
Kennedy Brock knew what would be waiting for him, and the answer was nothing. He had his family sure, and they meant a lot to him but he would be missing something. He would be missing something, someone who had been an important part of his life. Kennedy had managed to basically throw away his girlfriend, his future the day before tour, and now at the end of it his mistake was weighing far too heavy on him.
He knew a box of his things would be sitting in his bedroom when he got there. Stuff he had given her, memories that she couldn’t handle seeing. He couldn’t blame her though; harsh reminders were something he almost lived without. He had nothing physical like a t-shirt or a stuffed animal; he had deleted every picture of them from his laptop, he just memories burned in his head, memories that would replay over and over. Sometimes those were enough to make him miss her, regret what had happened and what he had done.
As eager as Kennedy was for a break, to enjoy being at home in Arizona for a while, he was also dreading it.
So when he walked away from his band mates, bags in hand, towards the door of his parent's home and his breath caught in his throat, it didn’t surprise him.
When his family greeted him in a cautious manner, it didn’t surprise him.
When his mind thought up every excuse in the book to avoid his bedroom, it didn’t surprise him.
Kennedy had expected all of it and then some.
Finally Kennedy realized that he could no longer avoid what was waiting for him. He mounted the stairs one by one as slowly as he could, hauling his bags behind him. Taking a deep breath when he reached his bedroom door, he turned the knob and flicked on the light. The soft scent of perfume lingered in the air, but not the kind his mother wore. It was hers, the face that smiled from every corner of his room. Memories of them held tightly inside their frames, behind glass. Then he saw it, the white box with “Emma’s room” crossed out on the side. The flaps were tapped shut and it just sat perfectly in the middle of the floor.
She had been in here; she had placed this box here, not his mother or any other person living in this house. That was the only explanation in Kennedy’s mind for why the whole room smelled like her perfume, why the box was placed where it had been. She wanted it to be the first thing he saw, she wanted him to know that she had delivered it and most likely asked to bring it inside herself instead of just leaving it with whoever had answered the door. She wanted to taunt him, and she was doing a damn good job at it.
He sat in front of the box, staring at it for a while before he proceeded to peel the tape away at its ends. He wanted to delay the process as much as he could, so he neglected scissors and chose this way.
One he had peeled the clear tape away; he pulled back the flaps and stared at the contents. Inside were things he had expected, notes he had written in a lame attempt to be cute and impress her, shirts, sweaters, a stuffed bear he had won her at a fair. But when he spotted the blue velvet box, his heart seized up. He had expected all of it, all of it but that.
Kennedy didn’t know why he had expected her to keep it. Like the rest of the things he had pulled from the box it was a memory, a reminder that she most likely didn’t care to keep or one she felt she just shouldn’t.
Reaching out, Kennedy picked up the small box between his fingers and let out a shaky breath. Opening it slowly he stared at the small diamond. It had cost him a fortune, money he didn’t really have. It had sat in his drawer for almost three months before he got the balls to give it to her. Now it sat in the palm of his hand, taken out of a box of things that told the story of their entire relationship.
There was a stray piece of paper at the bottom of the box, his name scrawled across the front of it in messy handwriting. Unfolding it, all he saw were two words.
“I’m sorry,” it read, simple, unneeded. But that was her, apologetic instead of him. She had been apologizing for him since day one, and even when he had ended it she was still doing it.