A Barrel of Ones

Brendon Boyd Urie dated perfect girls.

He dated the girls that had long, elegant legs and gorgeous smiles. Their hair was perfectly styled; their faces were perfectly made.

Time and time again he picked the girl that every other girl wanted to be and that every guy wanted to have.

Time and time again they broke his heart.

The girls may have been perfect on the outside, but they were rotten to the core. And it seemed that everyone except for Brendon could see that.

And no one could see it anymore clearly than Kara Parker.

Kara wasn’t the perfect girl.

Kara was awkward.

Kara was clumsy.

Kara couldn’t style her hair perfectly and she couldn’t make up her face perfectly.

Kara could barely make it through a sentence without tripping over her own tongue.

Time and time again Kara was passed over; over looked by Brendon because she wasn’t the perfect girl.

And time and time again Kara had to comfort the man who broke her heart every time he broke his.

“Brendon,” Kara soothed. It was two in the morning. It was a Wednesday and Kara had work in a few hours. She didn’t mind the hours. She didn’t mind the fact that Brendon only seemed to come to her. She didn’t mind any of it, not really. But she hated the pain. She hated his pain and she hated her own. She cradled his head softly as he let out a shaky breath.

“Kara, why do I pick the girls who want to break me?”

Kara’s fingers wound through his hair, feeling each lock carefully with over eager fingertips. Every touch made her skin tingle and prickle. Her heart beat picked up a little, then dropped at the look on his face.

“You’re just…” Kara couldn’t explain it. “You’re just too trusting to see it.”

“Too shallow, you mean,” he scoffed, drawing back from her to face her. His brown eyes were smothered in red.

“You have a refined taste. Everyone has a type, Brendon.”

“What’s your type? I never see you with guys.”

“Bren…”

“Please, Kara? Maybe if I know what the good girls look for, I can start to recognise the bad girls.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “I like the artsy type,” Kara muttered, blushing bright pink. “Musicians, writers, painters… Dark hair, eyes… I like a sense of humour, too. And the ability to pick up when something’s wrong with me. The ability to understand that I’m not perfect and that I don’t try to be and that they’re okay with that.” She licked her lips, trying to formulate a sentence without hinting that he was her type. She picked at the cushion laid across her lap.

“Ryan’s your type?” Brendon asked, staring at Kara incredulously. Something had shifted in his demeanour. Something had shifted in the way that he looked at her. She frowned.

“No.”

“But-”

“No.” She laughed a little. “Ryan’s not my type.”

“Then…who?”

“It’s just a type. I don’t know who it’s meant to be! That’s why it’s a type and not a person.”

“It’s pretty specific.”

Kara frowned, “Forget it, okay? You wanted to know my type; that’s my type.”

Brendon sighed and shifted back to his earlier position. His eyes were down cast, his features a little saddened at the edges. He placed his head against the pillow in Kara’s lap and sighed. “Okay.”

“I need to find a girl like you, Kar. I’m sick of being treated like an ATM or like a ticket to parties.” He stared up at her, dark eyed.

“What if you found a girl like me?” she asked, barely daring to breathe. She couldn’t look at him. What the hell was she doing? “What if she was sitting in front of you all of this time just waiting for you to realise?”

“Kar…” Brendon was looking at her differently again.

“I’m not perfect, Brendon,” she told the look. Brendon smiled. Maybe she wasn’t perfect, at least not in the material sense. He smiled a little more.

“That’s okay. Perfect’s not my type.”