To Hell With Your New Shit

The thing about Kennedy Brock was that he couldn’t hate anyone, and no one could ever possibly hate him. He was far too mellow to hold grudges, and too incredibly kind to be on anyone’s bad side. He was also impeccable at weaseling information out of his friends.

“Here you go,” he said, making his way to the table we’d chosen by the window and placing a steaming cup in front of me. “Coffee with cream and two sugars.” I smiled appreciatively at him as he sat across from me, his own beverage cupped between his two hands.

“Thanks, Kenny,” I told him. “You really didn’t have to pay for that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured me with a smile. I picked up my coffee and blew over the top of it, trying to cool it down, before taking a tentative sip. “So, what have you been doing for the past three years?”

Without hesitation, I began pouring information like I had been itching to tell someone about my life. I spilled everything about the northeastern weather, school, my classes, my friends in New York, and my job. Kennedy sat and listened attentively, smiling and nodding along to my stories. I started to realize that it was nice to do this, to gush about my life on the East coast to someone from home.

“Is it weird to be back in Arizona?” he asked suddenly during a slight lull in our conversation. I blinked a couple of times and shrugged as I took a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

“I suppose it is,” I told him truthfully. “Putting off my return only seemed to make it more awkward and strange.”

I paused, not sure of what to say next. Kennedy stared down at his now-empty coffee cup and fiddled his thumbs. He looked as though he was about to open his mouth to say something, so I interjected before I could let him bring up John.

“How have you been, though?” I asked quickly. “I mean, how’s the band and all?” At this, he seemed to drop whatever he was planning on saying and his face brightened.

“Great! It’s really great,” he enthused. “I mean, right after high school we were just getting started and we sucked, but now we’re headlining a tour this summer. It’s all been so surreal, but so incredible.”

My eyes widened as soon as he uttered the word “headlining.” When I had left after graduation, they were still piling into a crappy van, jumping on small tours with equally as unknown bands. And now, after I’d missed three years, after I’d missed everything, apparently, they were taking over.

“That’s…” I sputtered, “That’s… Wow, Kennedy, that’s really, really awesome. I’m so happy for you guys.” He grinned and mumbled a shy thanks.

“We made it out to New York a few times, you know,” he spoke suddenly, but cautiously, as if I didn’t want to hear it, which I didn’t. “I just… I think you should know that John always hoped you would be there, that you would show up, or something. I’m sure he figured you wouldn’t, and he definitely didn’t tell us he was watching for you, but no one missed it. If we were walking around the streets, he’d keep his eyes peeled for anyone that even resembled you. Whenever he got on stage, you could see him searching the audience, practically staring down every girl in the crowd until he was sure they weren’t you. It was heart-breaking, Lindsay.”

He looked up at me as he quietly spoke the last bit, nervously anticipating my reaction. If he saw the tears brimming in my eyes, he didn’t mention it. We just sat there, staring at each other, he as if he was trying to say, “Look what you’ve done,” and me as though I was trying to tell him that I didn’t give a damn, even though I did. We were quiet, and I didn’t break my gaze until I felt a tear slip down my cheek. I looked away and focused my attention at the street outside.

“Linds, I didn’t mean to blame you for anything,” he started. I looked up wearily to let him finish, but before he could open his mouth again, the bell above the coffee shop’s door rang and a familiar laugh echoed into the store.

We both turned our heads towards the counter to get a better look, where we saw John standing, sunglasses perched on his nose, arm around a petite blonde girl, ordering for the two of them.

“I should have known,” Kennedy muttered under his breath as he shook his head.

“Should have known what?” I hissed across the table, glancing up every few seconds to make sure they weren’t approaching us.

“I sort of, maybe, kind of told John I was meeting you for coffee today,” he admitted quietly, hanging his head.

“That was stupid, Kennedy,” I groaned. “He’s going to go and get all hot-headed for no reason now and – “

“Hey guys!” a chipper, squeaky voice erupted. The sound of heels on the worn, wooden floor grew louder until they stopped and I looked up to see impossibly white-toothed, blue-eyed Molly Warner standing not two feet away from me. She turned and reached out to grab John’s hand as he approached slowly. “Look, Johnny, what a coincidence! Kennedy and Lindsay are here, too!”

I barely had time to notice his expression as ‘Johnny’ left her mouth before I jerked my eyes away from him.

“Hey, Molly,” Kennedy offered finally, standing up. What was he doing? I thought desperately to myself. He couldn’t leave me, not then! “I actually need to talk to you about, uhm… About that thing for John’s birthday, yeah…”

I glared daggers at Kennedy. He had planned this. He had completely, totally, 100% planned for John to show up at the same coffee shop, at the same time that were there. Molly looked at him, confused, but gave John a peck on the cheek before following Kennedy outside. I didn’t dare look up at John as he stood there, one hand grasped around a Styrofoam cup, the other shoved in the pocket of his jeans.

“Can I sit?” he asked quietly. I still refused to look at him.

“I don’t know,” I said with an apathetic shrug. “Can you?” He rolled his eyes and stepped forward.

“I’m sorry, Miss Grammar Police. May I sit down?”

I shrugged once more, which he apparently took as a yes, because I heard the scuffle of a chair and looked up to see him sitting across from me. We sat in silence for a few moments, trying to avoid one another’s gazes.

“I didn’t want to come,” he blurted suddenly. “Kennedy made me.”

“You’re a big boy,” I snorted, “I don’t think Kennedy needs to make all of your decisions for you.” The table creaked as John rested his forearms in front of him. His hands were now more than halfway across the tiny table, so very, very close to my own. I retracted my fists and placed them gently in my lap.

“I mean, he convinced me to come,” John rephrased. I began picking at the nail on my thumb, trying as best I could not to show interest.

“Oh? And how did he do that?” I asked airily.

“He told me I should talk to you,” he stated simply with a shrug. I looked at him and leaned forward slightly in my chair.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, John, but we,” I told him sternly, waving my index finger between the two of us, “are no good at talking anymore.”

“Then what is it, exactly, that we’re doing?” he questioned.

“Well I, for one,” I stated, grabbing my purse and empty coffee cup, “am leaving.”

I chucked the cup into the garbage on the way out and pushed through the glass door into the heat. As soon as I pulled my sunglasses down to cover my eyes, I looked around for any sign of Kennedy. He had picked me up on the way to the coffee shop and, as far as I was concerned, was my only way home. I stalked away from the door as I heard the bell jingle and sat on a bench, crossing my arms. I watched curiously out of the corner of my eye as John approached his truck, where a piece of paper was flapping under one of the windshield wipers. He picked it up, read it, crumpled it into a ball, then turned to face me.

“You need a ride,” he called to me, as a statement, rather than a questioning offer. I didn’t say anything, just sat facing forward with my arms crossed. Kennedy wouldn’t leave me here, and he certainly wouldn’t force me to ride home with John. I heard his footsteps come closer and then they stopped, and I could see the tips of his shoes on the pavement in front of me.

“Lindsay, come on,” he insisted. “We don’t even have to talk. Let me just drive you home.”

“I’d rather walk, thank you very much,” I told him.

“You are not going to walk all the way home,” he argued.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!” I exclaimed.

“Lindsay, the note on my windshield was from Kennedy. He’s not coming to pick you up because he wants me to have to drive you home.”

“Well, that’s just too bad for Kennedy, because his stupid little plan isn’t going to work,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Lindsay?” John questioned after a few moments of quiet. I grumbled and looked up at him, squinting at the sun behind him, even through the shades of my sunglasses.

“What?” I asked tersely.

“Get in the truck.”