‹ Prequel: Best Thing In Town

Another Sentimental Argument

Two

"No on'e stopping you. You know where the door is." The words fall dully off my lips. I do not face him because he is taking too long to get out of my apartment and looking at his face would make my skin crawl.

I think his face is stupid. His eyes are this unsettling mix between blue and green—it's hardly pretty. His nose is sort of wide and so is his smile. But not in a charming way: in a really stupid way and everything about him is stupid.

"Logan—" He starts but I cut him off so quickly, I even startle myself, but hold whatever composure I have.

"Really, just leave. It's useless." I say, referring to the begging that is bound to ensue. I keep my head looking out of the small window above my messy sink. Although I am standing inside, I can almost feel the harsh blow of the winds from outside. My finger trudges along the empty wine glass that I'm waiting to fill as soon as I hear the door shut, signalling the slimeball's dismissal. He needs to leave because I'm a shitty human being and him being there is reminding me too much of that.

He is another nameless guy in my apartment after a night that consisted of a lot of fake smiles and a lot of awful kissing. I'm not really a good person.

I hear his mouth smack a little, as if preparing to protest again, but suddenly, it's dead quiet and the door to my apartment creaks shut.

I breathe a sigh of relief and immediately open the bottle of wine because I have about three minutes of sober left before I start thinking and hating myself beyond acceptable levels. I chug the wine uncontrollably and slide down until my back is pressed against the cabinets. Between refills, I trace my fingertip along the rim of the glass—slowly and sadly. I am getting drunk, but I don't really feel any better.

As two hours come and go, I am standing on my balcony. I have no jacket because my brain thinks the alcohol in my blood is enough to keep me warm. The cracked sidewalks below are a little blurrier than usual and the streetlamps are a little hazier than usual and I'm a little sadder than usual. I ran out of wine a little while ago and now I am drinking beer. And I hate it because it reminds me so much of when I was in high school—when I was sitting in a boy's lap with his frequent alcohol kisses fresh on my cheek, making my head spin. But now I am just alone, drunker than high school, without any kisses, and my head still spinning.

With another guesstimated hour passing, I am still on my balcony. However, instead of standing, I am sitting—slouching against a rail, my legs dangling drunkenly in between. The street below has been quiet with no activity for as long as I have been out there, but suddenly, a chill comes over me. It's not the wind.

There's a knock at my door.

"What the hell..."

I shuffle through the sliding glass door, stubbing my toe, cursing for the millionth time all before finally reaching the door. My toes lift and I put all of my body against it, looking through the tiny peep hole. I see a disoriented head of blonde hair with dark roots. I see a forehead and a little bit of eyebrows, but after that things are far too blurry.

Because I am stupid and inebriated, I unlock the door and pull it open.

"Even if I was a psychotic murderer coming here to kill you, I think I would give up right now because you've made it far too easy." His voice is huskier than I remember. And I remember a lot.

I step back as he allows himself into my apartment, crossing the threshold nonchalantly. As he pulls the door shut behind him, his eyes are watching me and I just stand there without protest. I am swallowing frequently in attempts to keep the sickening feeling down, but seeing Billie Joe Armstrong in front of me right now is making that task a little more difficult than usual.

"You got some alcohol left for me?" I say nothing. My watery eyes watch him as he strides into my kitchen and peers into the fridge. His back is arched as his hand rests against the counter to give him support. I can see the muscles in his arm, covered in tattoos I've never seen before and I begin to feel sicker.

After a disappointing look into my might-as-well-be-empty refrigerator, he purses his lips lightly before they stretch into a crooked, unsure smile.

"This is a nice place you've got."

My palms are beginning to sweat more than before, my skin twice as warm, and my insides twice as shaky. I thought I was drunk before, but looking at him now made me fall into a new level of intoxication entirely.

"A lot nicer than the place I'm staying." He notes as his eyes travel around the room. The light from the kitchen is hitting him beautifully and his eyes are a little bloodshot, but I'm sure my eyes have his beat in that category. As his eyes finish their tour, they fall back to mine. I watch as he bites his lip subtly—not for me to see—and looks through me.

My stomach is starting to throb and I feel like it's about to explode. And then drunkenly for a moment, I start thinking that I wish it would explode because then I wouldn't be in this situation. I never claimed to be over him, but I also never claimed to like him. I start seeing flashbacks of the high school girl I used to be when I first met him. I used to think she was long gone, but here she is again standing inside of me.

"You don't look so good."

And I guess I really didn't, because as soon as the words float away from his lips, I am tripping my way into the bathroom where I start getting really sick for a good amount of time. All the while, Billie Joe is standing in the doorway.

When I am sure there's nothing left in my body to come out, I slide my back against the bottom of the bathtub and sink real low toward the floor because that's how I feel. It is such a chore to lift my eyes to him, but I do it anyway. For the first time, it looks like Billie has nothing to say. So now that I am a filled a little less with alcohol and puke, I say to him what I have been thinking the entire time.

"It's been two years and you didn't even say hello."

"I feel like 'hello' is overused."

"Ha." I add grimly.

"I wish you weren't so drunk." He speaks up after a few seconds of crushing silence.

"Ha ha." My voice is flat, tinged with cruel.

"I wanted to see you because," He starts, not looking at me anymore. "I met this girl after our show tonight--and she was really laying it on me. You know, flirting and all that." He is speaking really fast as if there is a point to what he is saying and I am getting angrier as he goes on. "So we're back at her place and I'm kissing her and just as she's about to—"

"Are you serious right now." I attempt to sound angry and bold, but I sound like a hurt child who is choking back tears. "You came to see me for what? Thought your night was going so well you might get lucky twice in a row?"

He looked appalled. "God, no. What the hell, Logan? That's not what I was getting at."

"Oh, so you didn't sleep with her and now you're feeling rejected so," I try my hardest to look angry, "you come knocking on my door?"

"That is fucking ridiculous." His eyes narrow and I feel small beneath them. "You're being fucking ridiculous."

"It's my fucking apartment to be fucking ridiculous in." I retort quickly. Then, with an embarrassing amount of effort, I push myself up and wobble for a matter of seconds until I am standing in front of him. Being this close to him makes me feel as drunk as I felt three hours ago.

"Forget it," his words hit me and he is walking toward the door. He presses his hand on the handle and before walking through the way he came, he turns around to look at me.

I wish he hadn't, because I didn't think he was going to look back at me so I had already let tears start falling from my eyes.

Briefly, his face softens and his anger melts into a mix between sympathy and confusion. I do not want him staring at me like that anymore because it is making me go crazy so I say to him, "I wish you'd leave already."

He looks hurt and I feel dumb because he shouldn't be hurt by a teary eyed girl muttering off words she doesn't even mean. I didn't mean those words but I said them anyway.

I see his head move slightly in what may be a nod and then he is gone.

I lean my head against the threshold of the bathroom door and my mouth is mumbling, "it's been two years and you didn't even say goodbye."