I Might Be Holding Your Hand, but I'm Holding It Loose.

Today is the personal doomsday. Brendon checks out of his crappy motel because he couldn’t stay there any longer. He wanted to read something before he slept last night, so opened the bedside drawer to find a Bible. He’d flicked through the first few pages, and up to page thirty-two, some blasphemous jackass had crossed out words and replaced them with dirty ones, so the Bible was like a smut fiction. He wanted to start at page thirty-three and continue this masterminds work.

Instead; he jacked off until his skin was so sensitive he cried.

The metro smells worse than per usual and everyone is too chirpy. He snaps at someone who brushes past him, then swallows any further words as he sees it was only a little girl. She looks like she’s going to sob so he runs away and darts into a mini-mart, feeling a little bit better as the transvestite behind the counter winks at him. He really does love Vegas.

He doesn’t really know how, but he’s suddenly in-front of the right door.

It feels painful but he knows it’s the right thing to do, as he taps on the panelled door, twisting the handle and walking in anyway, despite having knocked. He has a small amount of supplies in his backpack and he feels stupid because it’s the one he had in high school. He feels stupid because his jeans have a hole in them because he tore them when skating. He feels stupid because he’s dressed like he was nineteen again. He feels especially stupid as he’s clutching one rose and there’s two girls on Emma’s sofa.

“Oh, Brendon!” she cries, jumping up and pulling him into a tight, awkward hug, slipping the rose out of his hand forcefully.
“Rebecca,” he mumbles, patting her back lightly, confused. “Hey, you.”
“Where the hell have you been? Three days and no contact! What’s wrong with you?”

She continues to scream at him but he doesn’t notice. He simply smiles at Emma, biting his bottom lip and blushing. Her hair is tied back and she hasn’t got make-up on. She’s wearing a Rage Against the Machine shirt and she looks like such a beautiful nerd. She knows, oh, she knows.

He waddled when he came in here. Those jeans either don’t fit him anymore or something has been filling his ass. But Rebecca wouldn’t notice this.
The rose was for Emma and he’s dressed like the day he found out he wasn’t going to be a dad. Same as Emma when she found out she’d lost their baby. But Rebecca wouldn’t notice this.

“Rebecca,” he soothed softly, picking up her left hand and kissing it, pressing gentle kisses to her ring, moist. Just moist enough so he can slip off her ring and walk into the kitchen to find the blender already set out and plugged in. He knew it would be, because on this day four years ago, it was. He knows this because Emma knows this.

He puts in the ring and presses pulse, so glad she still has the blender from the Smoothie Hut he used to work at. That shit could blend bricks.

“Brendon!” she screamed in horror. “How could you do that to me? My ring...” she gasped, more sad that she won’t have anything to gawp at anymore, not at what it signifies.
“I figured you wouldn’t need it anymore.” he shrugged.

She screams more at Brendon and then at Emma and then at the both of them in turn, but they don’t notice. They’re both smiling at each other and wondering when the fuck did their life ever have to resort to blending engagement rings just to get them to smile?

“Is that your way of saying you’re breaking up with me?” she scoffed, one hand on her hip, expecting.
“Yes, I suppose it is.” he chuckled softly. This is so fucking stupid.
“How... how could you do this to me?” she repeated, trying to build up the crocodile tears so they flow easily. “Baby, you’re not thinking straight. Have you taken something? Your eyes look awfully wide.”

His eyes are wide because they do that when he’s happy. Brendon knows this because Emma knows this.

“Three days, I was gone,” he nodded. “The first day I flew back and packed your shit up. I never realized how much of my apartment was filled with your shit. Nothing ours. A little bit of mine.”
“Brend-”
“Hey, let me speak,” he frowned. “Second day, I took it all to your parents house, changed the locks, flew back and checked out of the hotel. Third day, oh, this was by far the best one. I got laid.” he grinned proudly. “I got laid, and my ass still hurts now, and I really don’t care what you have to say Rebecca, because I’m bisexual whether you like it or not. These lips,” he leaned forward to kiss her once. “Have been wrapped around the most magnificent cock.”

She can’t say anything, so she doesn’t. She hits him and hits him and it really has never felt so good before because it’s a huge reminder that this is all fucking real. His backpack is still strapped to his back, tightly and in a nerdy fashion because honestly that’s just how he likes it.

She leaves. She has left.

“Brendon,” she chuckles from the sofa, laughing happily to herself. “That was quite the show you put on there.”
He smiles and readjusts his wonky glasses, walking over to the couch and sitting down opposite her. His mind races and his heart beats at a million miles an hour and he can’t believe he forgot how good this used to feel.
“That’s not the end of her, you know.” she says, matter-of-factly.
“She’ll try grovelling sometime. I’ll tape it so we can enjoy it together,” he giggles, and blushes as a little snort escapes his mouth. He tries to brush past it and slumps his backpack in front of them, unzipping it and pulling out two juice cartons.
“The purple ones with the dinosaur,” he grins, passing her one. They ‘cheers’ with the boxes and sip merrily from the green straw.
“You remembered, I take it,” she says quietly, tilting her head to one side.
“Why else would I be dressed like this?” he responds, cocking his head to the other side. He wants to smash his face into hers but refrains.
“Because you like looking like a freak?”
“Hey,” he chuckled. “I happen to think I look particularly hot like this. You should have seen the stares I got, I felt violated. Besides, look at you!” he laughs softly, squeezing any last remains of the juice out. “Big, band shirt and guys boxers. I’m pretty sure you’re not wearing a bra, either,”
“Neither are you.”
“Touché,” he smirks, and he feels about twelve again, when he first learned what that word meant. He thought people were just saying toupee wrong.
“Hey, Bren?”
“Yeah?” he says, looking up at her with wide eyes.
“Stephanie and I broke up,”
He nods because he’d figured as much.
“Want to know why?” He nods again. “Because she doesn’t have sperm.”
His eyebrows twist in confusion and his lips purse. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s how she figured out I cheated, B. I’m pretty sure girl sex doesn’t produce the baby in my womb,”
“You’re shitting me,” he whispers, eyes dilating. “You’re pregnant? Who the hell is the father?”
She smiles softly, holding his hand. “You, silly.”