Another Sentimental Argument

"Shit!" My skin stings from the fall. Rocks are resting in the cuts. I look down at my palms and knee, brush off as much gravel as possible, while smearing in the blood, and keep running.

I'm almost at the door and almost out of breath, when someone stops me.

"Logan?"

Oh, it can't be him. Tell me it isn't him. "Billie!" Whatever, it is him. I thank my lucky stars silently that I'm too nervous to be scared of him and wonder how long it'll last.

"Where ya going?" He's sly. I see his impish grin glow in the streetlamp light. I think he just winked at me.

"Uh, I--Well, I was trying to make it to your show in time. But I fell asleep after work and I slept through like, three alarms apparently. And when I woke up it was already so late but I thought if I ran maybe I had a shot. Maybe I had a prayer that the show started late. But then my shoe got untied and I fell and tore up my knee. That was only a second ago. Did you hear me face plant?" I ramble and my eyes finally focus on more than just him. He's standing with Mike and a few other guys I don't recognize. They all look stoned and pretty interested in what I'm saying. The street lamp's glow is warm and I'm hoping it's hiding the bright shade of red flushing my cheeks. "Anyway, uh, you already played... Didn't you?"

He nods in response, looking so damn smug. His arms are crossed across his chest. Sweat gleams off his skin and his muscles look swollen. I swallow hard.

"Am I amusing you, Armstrong?" I push his chest lightly. We're both growing wicked smirks. "What's so goddamn interesting?"

Billie's eyes gaze at his shoes briefly before bringing them back up to mine. More serious now. "It just means a lot to me that you came out..." I want to kiss him. "Even if you did miss it," he laughs and puts an unlit cigarette between his lips. His wonderful lips. My brain freezes and I forget who I am momentarily.

Another voice speaks up. Sometimes I forget Billie and I aren't the only people in the world. "Your knee is bleeding pretty bad, Logan." Mike says.

We all look down at my knee. The blood is running into my shoe. I pout.

"Do you want me to show you the bathroom to clean it up a bit?" Mike suggests, walking toward me, eyes still glued on my knee. I feel my palms start to sting too.

"Oh yeah, sure, that'd be fine." I start walking toward the building with Mike, but Billie Joe runs up behind us.

"I'll take her." Billie pipes up. He sounds boyish. Eager. I look at Mike, who's looking at Billie, who's looking at me. I think I see a knowing smirk flash from Mike, but before I can really think about it, he's already saying "okay" and walking back to the other guys in the parking lot.

Billie grabs my hand, not my wrist or my arm, and starts to guide me into the venue. This would have been heavenly under any other circumstances but the universe hates me. "Ow," I wince my hand away. He turns around and looks hurt. I smile sheepishly and show him the scrapes on my palms. "It's not personal," I offer with a shrug.

"It looks worse than I thought. I don't want it to get infected," he trails off, taking both of my hands in his, turning my palms up gingerly. He looks so concentrated I wonder if he's gonna tell me my future based on the lines on my skin. Is he in it? My body feels light at his touch and I feel like floating into space. "I'd say we pour vodka on it but they don't have any here. No alcohol at Gilman."

"Mind showing me the bathroom anyway? I can at least get some of it cleaned up."

He smiles. I love his smile. "Of course." He grabs my wrist this time and leads me inside.

A brief walk through the building and we're here. He lets me go and as I'm opening the bathroom door, he offers sheepishly, "I'll be here when you get out." Hands jammed into his pockets, looking at me through his eyelashes. The fluorescent lighting is harsh but he still manages to be wonderfully handsome. It would be a great picture, him looking at me like that, the graffiti decorating the wall behind him. I feel the smile tugging at my lips as I nod and walk in.

The lighting in here isn't as harsh, but still annoying. The light fixture above me is buzzing with its impending death. I feel my hands clam up and my brain starts to fall off the edge with worry.

So what happens now? I clean up the blood and I walk out and Billie says "Well, see you later" and I do too and then I go home? What do I expect? I missed the show. Not much left to do now. I don't have the guts to invite him over. He's probably got plans anyway.

I grab paper towels and start to clean up while I can while my mind yells at me.

C'mon, Logan, just pull it together. You can't keep doing this. Not to yourself and not to him. Make a decision. Pick an emotion other than worry. Anything, please.

I drop the paper towels in the basket and wash my hands. I look at myself in the mirror. The lighting makes me feel rather good about myself. My hair looks nice tonight. I like my outfit. If I tilt my head this way I actually look really good. Okay, stay with these thoughts. Stay with these thoughts and clear out anything else. Deep breath. Go.

"Get it all cleaned up?" He asks as soon as I swing open the door while he eyes my knees.

"Yeah I think so, as best as I could anyway. It was pretty dim in there."

Instead of walking through the entire building again, he leads me toward the back exit. "It looks better." He's opening the door for me and happy little feelings bloom in my stomach.

We walk back into the orange glow of the street lamps. The air is warm but not unwelcoming. The breeze pulls strands of hair messily into my face every now and then.

"I really do appreciate you coming out, Logan." Billie begins. "Even if you did happen to miss it." He lights a cigarette. I love the way the spark lights up his face. He is magical to me.

I mutter a "yeah, well" and rub the back of my neck, feeling shy.

"Y'know," he says before taking a long drag. His eyebrows pull together. So pensive. "No sense for you to go home now after you've come all this way. Wanna come over to my place?"

Every day for the rest of my life, yes. "You sure? Yeah, that'd be cool."

He nudges me toward the parking lot where Mike and Tre and some other guys are still hanging out. Sitting on cars and smoking cigarettes, they look like classic cool kids. Like something out of a storybook. I want to be a part of their world.

"I'll be just a second. Gotta tell Mike about my gear." I watch as Billie walks over to Mike. I feel a little naked, just standing there in the breeze. No cigarette to fidget with. Nothing to hide behind.

While I'm just standing around, I feel someone's gaze. I peer up to see Mike, watching me. What's with the smirk? Billie's back is to me while he faces Mike. I squint my eyes as to ask him why he's looking at me like that. But he just continues on, burning what feels like a hole through my skin. They soon break apart and Billie is walking back toward me, one hand tucked away in his blue jean jacket, the other pulling his cigarette from his lips. All the while, Mike feels like a hawk watching me with a grin on his face. I playfully flip him off and head out of the parking lot with Billie by my side.

"Get in," he tells me when we reach his truck. "I'll bring ya back later." He flicks his cigarette on the ground and starts the engine. He rolls his window down and I follow suit. Pulling out of the parking lot and onto the dark road, we sit in silence. As he picks up speed, the wind rushes in and messes my hair all up. I can't help but laugh. I feel so girlish. He looks over at me and my mess of hair and laughs too. It's a deep hearty laugh and one I want to hear for the rest of my days.

"We'll put some alcohol on those scrapes when we get to my place, alright?" He glances at me and then back to the road.

"Alright." I linger my gaze on him. I let the wind do what it will with my hair. I don't try to fight it anymore. I'm not gonna fight it anymore.

We come up the stairs to his apartment giggling about god knows what. We're like little kids. I tease him and poke his side for fun while he fumbles with his keys. "You better watch it," he warns with a wink. I think I've died and gone to heaven when he looks at me like that.

Inside he flips on a lamp and grabs my wrist. Twirling me once like a ballerina, he coos, "Come on, my little broken doll," while leading me to the bathroom. I'm taking him all in and forget to respond. "Up, up." Billie Joe places both hands on my waist and lifts me onto the counter. I watch helplessly as he digs through the medicine cabinet. I forgot about the scrapes and cuts along my skin ages ago. My entire body has felt on fire this whole time.

"Found it," he triumphantly brandishes the brown bottle of alcohol. He shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in a white tee shirt. I really think I'm gonna die this time. I have such a crush on him.

I observe him while he dampens a clean cloth. "Might sting a little."

"Huh?" I snap out of the trance but it's too late. "Ow!" I wince and suck the air through my teeth.

"Sorry! Didn't you hear me?"

"I wasn't paying attention."

"You're silly."

I smile.

"Just a little bit more, okay?" He's crouched down between my legs looking up at me and it's making me feel emotional.

"Okay," I barely squeak out before the sting comes back.

"Oh I know, baby, I know. Look, all done." Without getting up, he tosses the cloth in a hamper in the corner and turns his face up to look at mine.

He offers me a smile. A shy smile in return. I wonder if he can tell how much I miss everything about him. His hands, his lips, his entire body. Can he tell I'm aching for him?

He gets up and pats my leg before putting the alcohol back in the medicine cabinet. I sit still, dumbstruck.

"I'll be just a minute," I say to him.

"I'll be on the balcony."

We both nod and he shuts the bathroom door behind him.

My head falls to my hands. What am I gonna do, what am I gonna do, what am I gonna do...

Shut up already!

Before I realize it, I'm out of the bathroom and walking down the hall. I march straight through the living room but stop dead in my tracks before the glass sliding door. I see him, turned away, lighting another cigarette. Running his hand through his hair. Turning his eyes to look at the stars. Briefly, I think: I don't have to do this. But Billie Joe's already got me under his spell. He always has. Probably always will. I push aside the glass that separates me from him and speak up.

"Billie? Could we talk?"