I Meant It
sadly, things just happen we can't explain.
Oh, just get it out. Realize that you've been staring at me for the past hour, just glaring at her. Just scream it out loud. You know you're two inches from pulling your hair out. Bite the inside of your cheek a little harder and you might taste blood. Pretend like you don't care. You like playing make believe, don't you? You're such a liar. Oh, sorry. Such a poet.
Fuck this. I'm not going to sit here while you just stare at me like I'm your chew toy, glare at her like she slighted you in some way. Why don't you own up? Confess your sins, Ross. It's not that hard to do what you're thinking of doing. You might even be surprised at what happens.
. . . now, that's something new. Grabbing me by the arm when I go outside to have a smoke. We're alone. You're livid. Something in your eyes is glinting, over-dark and over-bright all at the same time. You're such a cliche contradiction.
"It's not fair." And you sound like a fucking four year old when you say it. So bitter. If you weren't so beautiful you'd be such a fucking joke.
"Life's not fair." Inhale, exhale. Look up. You walked out on us, on me. You fucked around behind my back and then in front of my face. Acted all shocked when I broke up with you for cheating on me. You're not golden, Ry. Not anymore. Pete gave you that stamp anyway, not me.
"I miss you." Now you sound like a sixteen year old girl. Pathetic, sappy, dripping with all that cheesiness of a Hollywood teen flick. Pretty unlike you, Ry. You know better. Nothing about spider legs and scarecrows?
"I'm sorry." But I'm not. I'm being mean now. And I know better. This shit isn't going to solve anything. We're not going to solve anything, though, I'm pretty certain. Because you want everything to be okay, but you don't want to change anything. And I'm not going back to that place where you think you're allowed to do whatever the fuck you want when my eyes aren't glued to you. And now, after so much has changed, there's going to be even less time with me playing your God damn baby-sitter instead of your boyfriend. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of your mind games.
"Do you still love me?"
And I look at you. You're serious. Completely. You want to look away when my eyes lock, but you don't. You hold your ground. And maybe you're just stubborn enough. Maybe you're changing. Maybe you're finally growing up. Maybe there's a chance here.
"I never stopped, Ry." Frog in my throat and I clear it, take another drag off the cigarette.
"I could come back . . ." You let it linger. I let it linger longer, watching the ash drift from my cigarette butt down to the sidewalk.
"You could. We're leaving for a few months on the first though."
"After that, maybe. If we're not doing shit. Like, I could come see you." Now you're trying to sound casual. And I let you get away with it because I really don't want it to get awkward by forcing you to apologize and admit everything. I've never needed that from you. It's just enough for me to know. And I'm not certain. But if you're still here in a few months, in this same spot where you want to try, I'll be more certain. And if you follow through and keep your legs closed and mean it and fucking try, then I'll take it.
"Yeah. That'd work." I nod, put out my cigarette.
"How long have you been seeing her?" Green eyed monster, rearing it's ugly head. But you look so fucking pretty when you say it. I'd kiss you if I knew it wasn't the worst idea in the world.
"Just a couple dates."
"Her tits are fake."
"I figured." We're running out of time. I don't want to light up again and you know I'm seconds away from reaching for the door. You don't stop me. "Call me. We'll figure out when and shit."
"Okay."
I pull the sliding glass door open and you stay on the porch. You're watching me as I shut the door. It's strange to just leave you out there, but this is the way things are. We'll see how it goes. Maybe you mean it. I hope you mean it.
It'd be nice not to hate everything in the morning when I wake up and it all comes flooding back.
I meant it when I said it. I never stopped.
I hope you meant it when you said it, Ry. I really fucking do. Or I might just have to break your nose.
Fuck this. I'm not going to sit here while you just stare at me like I'm your chew toy, glare at her like she slighted you in some way. Why don't you own up? Confess your sins, Ross. It's not that hard to do what you're thinking of doing. You might even be surprised at what happens.
. . . now, that's something new. Grabbing me by the arm when I go outside to have a smoke. We're alone. You're livid. Something in your eyes is glinting, over-dark and over-bright all at the same time. You're such a cliche contradiction.
"It's not fair." And you sound like a fucking four year old when you say it. So bitter. If you weren't so beautiful you'd be such a fucking joke.
"Life's not fair." Inhale, exhale. Look up. You walked out on us, on me. You fucked around behind my back and then in front of my face. Acted all shocked when I broke up with you for cheating on me. You're not golden, Ry. Not anymore. Pete gave you that stamp anyway, not me.
"I miss you." Now you sound like a sixteen year old girl. Pathetic, sappy, dripping with all that cheesiness of a Hollywood teen flick. Pretty unlike you, Ry. You know better. Nothing about spider legs and scarecrows?
"I'm sorry." But I'm not. I'm being mean now. And I know better. This shit isn't going to solve anything. We're not going to solve anything, though, I'm pretty certain. Because you want everything to be okay, but you don't want to change anything. And I'm not going back to that place where you think you're allowed to do whatever the fuck you want when my eyes aren't glued to you. And now, after so much has changed, there's going to be even less time with me playing your God damn baby-sitter instead of your boyfriend. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of your mind games.
"Do you still love me?"
And I look at you. You're serious. Completely. You want to look away when my eyes lock, but you don't. You hold your ground. And maybe you're just stubborn enough. Maybe you're changing. Maybe you're finally growing up. Maybe there's a chance here.
"I never stopped, Ry." Frog in my throat and I clear it, take another drag off the cigarette.
"I could come back . . ." You let it linger. I let it linger longer, watching the ash drift from my cigarette butt down to the sidewalk.
"You could. We're leaving for a few months on the first though."
"After that, maybe. If we're not doing shit. Like, I could come see you." Now you're trying to sound casual. And I let you get away with it because I really don't want it to get awkward by forcing you to apologize and admit everything. I've never needed that from you. It's just enough for me to know. And I'm not certain. But if you're still here in a few months, in this same spot where you want to try, I'll be more certain. And if you follow through and keep your legs closed and mean it and fucking try, then I'll take it.
"Yeah. That'd work." I nod, put out my cigarette.
"How long have you been seeing her?" Green eyed monster, rearing it's ugly head. But you look so fucking pretty when you say it. I'd kiss you if I knew it wasn't the worst idea in the world.
"Just a couple dates."
"Her tits are fake."
"I figured." We're running out of time. I don't want to light up again and you know I'm seconds away from reaching for the door. You don't stop me. "Call me. We'll figure out when and shit."
"Okay."
I pull the sliding glass door open and you stay on the porch. You're watching me as I shut the door. It's strange to just leave you out there, but this is the way things are. We'll see how it goes. Maybe you mean it. I hope you mean it.
It'd be nice not to hate everything in the morning when I wake up and it all comes flooding back.
I meant it when I said it. I never stopped.
I hope you meant it when you said it, Ry. I really fucking do. Or I might just have to break your nose.