Like Fire & Gasoline

Bridgette flew through the oak door and up the familiar staircase, her eyes blinded with crystal tears. Her footsteps echoed through the house, and as she swung her bedroom door shut, the walls shook subtly. Her golden ringlets clung to the salty moisture rolling down her cheeks, and her button nose was a blotchy red. As she paced back and forth, she could feel her heart pounding against her chest.

She flung herself on her bed, unable to fight the frustration bubbling within. It had been a stupid idea, dating an actor. It was especially stupid to date one so incredibly good looking. Why did he have to be so damn hot?

She screamed into her pillow before tossing it across the room. Boys were idiots. Then again, so was she, for falling for his stupid charm. She wanted to blame Olivia, for pushing her to go out with him, but couldn’t. In the end, it was all her.

There was a pounding on her door, and her head shot up from the mound of blankets. She took a deep breath, pushing her curls out of her face. If she turned the knob and it were her parents, they would want to talk about why she looked like such a mess. Quite frankly, she didn’t want to have that conversation, especially looking like depressed clowns attacked her face. If it were Olivia, she’d go on about how hot James was, and then she’d get all confused about why she was upset; opening the door for Olivia was out. Then, there was the possibility it was James… she didn’t even want to think about him, let alone see him.

“Go away!” she demanded, her mind made up. No one behind the oak structure could have anything to say that would appeal to her, so she decided on her other option: not open the door.

“Bridgette, it’s me,” James’s melodic voice announced slowly. Bridgette snorted, sitting up on her bed.

“Yeah, that’s going to make me open the door,” she retorted, grabbing another pillow and hitting the door dead on. “Leave!”

“Please, open up. I want to talk to you,” he pleaded. The brass handle rattled as he tried to twist it open, but to no avail. Bridgette had locked it in her blind rage.

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you. And since it takes two people to have a conversation, you’re out of luck!” she snapped. She returned to her feet, pacing around again, trying to get rid of the nerves bundling in her stomach.

“Fine, you don’t have to say a word to me. But I’m going to talk, and I’d really like it if you listened,” he said softly.

“And I’d really like it if you would leave, but I guess neither of us are gonna get what we want.”

“Bridgette, the only thing I want is you.” Vulnerability seeped into every single word, and Bridgette stumbled over her feet. Shock etched itself across her features, but she quickly tried to wipe it away.

“Yeah? What about all those other girls you wanted?” Her voice wavered, and she cursed at herself. She meant to sound strong, but instead, her own hurt was voicing its opinion.

“Wanted, as in past tense. When I met you, any other girls disappeared from my mind. You’re the only girl I think about, Bridgette.”

“How am I supposed to know that? You said it yourself, when you met me, I was just another one of your conquests!” She walked toward the door, placing her hands on the smooth tawny grain. In a way, she was glad it was there. It was easier to think clearly when his eyes weren’t gazing at her.

“Yeah, that’s how it started. But the more time I spent with you, the more I realized how different you were. I realized how much I want you to be a part of my life.”

“Really?” Her voice was barely audible to herself, and she wasn’t sure whether or not he heard it. The two syllables seemed so simple, but there was so much curiosity, hope, and confusion lining them.

“Honestly. Plus, you made me realize that my ego had grown and flooded the whole Los Angeles area,” he joked, and Bridgette found the corners of her lips twitching into a smile.

She swung the door open, glancing up cautiously at him through her eyelashes. Her face was red and splotchy from the tears shed, her makeup staining her cheeks ebony. Her hair was disheveled from running her hands through it, and her eyes were a puffy crimson. Yet, James couldn’t recall seeing a person more beautiful.

“You’re ego was really inflated,” Bridgette mumbled, and James’s face broke into a relieved grin. He swooped her into his arms, holding him close. Her arms tangled around his torso automatically, and she rested her face on the soft material of his shirt. It didn’t stay there long; James cupped it in his hands, tilting it so he was looking directly into her eyes.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like just another random girl, some random fling. Bridgette, you are so much more than that. I’m sorry I’m such an idiot. Can you forgive me?” His words ran together in his ramblings, and his face was a mess of sincerity.

Bridgette smiled, going up on her tiptoes, crashing her lips against his. His hands found their way to her hips as he staggered back, dumbfounded. She smirked into it, her lips brushing against his one last time before she pulled away. Before returning to her normal stance, she moved her lips to his ear, warm breath tickling his skin.

“Consider yourself forgiven,” she whispered, and James pulled her closer, kissing her bird’s nest of curls.

“You’re absolutely perfect, Bridgette Thomas. You’re perfect for me.”

The words brushed against her hair, and she turned to him, dazed. Her clear eyes watered for the umpteenth time that afternoon, but this time, not because of anger or sorrow. Her thoughts swam in her head, and she tried her best to struggle for a response. She couldn’t find one, however, so did the next best thing. She grasped his shoulders and molded their lips into one.