Wishes Washed Away
nine.
I tell Brendon to sit at the table. He takes a seat and stares at me. "We're going to set some ground rules." Brendon opens his mouth to protest, but I put out an index finger. "I am in-charge, here."
"You're under my roof, so I think I--"
"Yeah, yeah. Like that matters." I wave my hand. "Anyway, let's move on with my list of things for you to do." I take in a deep breath as he glowers at me. "Rule one: You don't touch me. Ever."
"Not even a congratulatory hand touch?" He frowns.
"You ripped that off some television show." Brendon Urie could never be that witty. Ever. "Don't plagiarize."
"Yes, mother." He rolls his eyes.
"Rule two: You don't speak to me unless I speak to you."
"What if I have to tell you you're going in the wrong direction? You have a very poor sense of direction." Though he may be right, I don't appreciate it when I'm not in power.
I hold up three fingers. "You don't walk beside me. Walk in front of me or behind me--I don't care which one. Just don't get in my way."
"Why are you telling me all these things for?"
"Because I don't want you to fuck up in front of the flipping paparazzi again and have them believe we're a couple, dip shit." I slam my hands on the white, round breakfast table. "Look. I'm not a fan of you and me being together, and I'm sure you aren't either. So let's just get this straight: You and I are not a couple. Edward Norton and I are not a couple. I am single. You are single. Even Edward Norton is fucking single."
"That was so long, it could've been considered a dramatic monologue." My left eye twitches, and I imagine his face half-burned by the 1970's gas stove conveniently located behind him. "Maggie, this is real life, not your acting job. Most people don't say stuff like that." Brendon stands up. "Now, I'm going to watch some quality television." That means cartoon violence.
"Don't forget about those rules!" I shout as he reaches for the remote.
"Nah. I want to see you suffer."
Give me anger.
Flash.
Give me "bitch".
Flash.
Give me "I hate my life".
Flash.
> >
The next night, as I mess around with my sidekick, Brendon enters my temporary room. "Dress in something nice. We're going out to dinner."
I narrow my eyes. "What kind of dinner?"
"A dinner with my parents and an older sibling." Brendon points to the closet. "Keltie gave me something else a couple days ago. It looks decent." Brennie's starting to sound like a fashionista. "I'm just glad it doesn't show too much thigh."
"Don't you have a thing for men?" I dig through the closet and find a Kelsea silk tank dress by Ralph Lauren. Almost down to my knees, one-inch straps, very conservative. Looks like the paparazzi won't be after me tonight. I shoo him away in order for me to get ready for our "outing". I have to be pleasant today.
As I'm misting Clinique Happy around my neck, Brendon knocks on the door. "Are you finished yet?" He taps the glass on his Mickey Mouse watch. I can hear it from inside my room. "We have to leave in the next couple of minutes."
I grab my white Louis Vuitton pochette accessoires with monogram multicolore canvas and reach for the doorknob. I exit, and daintily waltz down the steps in my black, Eley Kishimoto SH127 heels.
"Let's go."
> >
After spending half an hour listening to the Beatles, I'm thankful for the silence when we get inside the nice Parisian restaurant. Brendon pulls out my seat for me, and I quietly thank him. His lips part into a smirk. Oh darling, you think you've tamed me. That's cute.
"So, are you excited to meet my parents?"
"Do you really believe I'm the 'take-home' type?"
"Can I be honest?"
"No, you can't. We live in Communist China."
"Yes, I believe you are." He puts a hand on my chair. "Do you know why? Because I think even though you try to act big and bad...you're really a good person at heart."
That was deep. You could be a real Mahatma Gandhi, Brendon.
An older couple smile at us as they approach our table. The woman's dressed in a glamorous, floor-length red dress with a nice pearl necklace while her husband stuck to the traditional black and white suit. "Oh, Brendon, she's gorgeous!"
"Oh, Mrs. Urie...you're too kind." I bat my mascara-enhanced eyelashes. "You look absolutely fabulous tonight. Is it Chanel?"
"Oh, why yes. Yes, it is. I got it for a bargain," she says, hand on the side of her mouth. We both giggle as the men roll their eyes. "Your dress is absolutely adorable. And is that...?" She points to my bag.
"Yes. And it's real." I hold out my purse to her. "Online shopping really is a gift from the heavens."
"Oh, honey, you and I are on the same page." I went to a store in France to buy that bag. It was fresh out of the factory. "But can you believe those designer lookalikes? They really do look like the real thing! It's crazy. I don't know how those people do it."
"It's an acquired skill, I guess." No matter what it looks like, it'll never be like the real thing. "Mrs. Urie, I love that necklace. It's beautiful."
"Oh, I thank Mr. Urie for that." She wraps her hands around his arm, and he grins pleasantly.
And this is how our dinner with Brendon's parents began.
"You're under my roof, so I think I--"
"Yeah, yeah. Like that matters." I wave my hand. "Anyway, let's move on with my list of things for you to do." I take in a deep breath as he glowers at me. "Rule one: You don't touch me. Ever."
"Not even a congratulatory hand touch?" He frowns.
"You ripped that off some television show." Brendon Urie could never be that witty. Ever. "Don't plagiarize."
"Yes, mother." He rolls his eyes.
"Rule two: You don't speak to me unless I speak to you."
"What if I have to tell you you're going in the wrong direction? You have a very poor sense of direction." Though he may be right, I don't appreciate it when I'm not in power.
I hold up three fingers. "You don't walk beside me. Walk in front of me or behind me--I don't care which one. Just don't get in my way."
"Why are you telling me all these things for?"
"Because I don't want you to fuck up in front of the flipping paparazzi again and have them believe we're a couple, dip shit." I slam my hands on the white, round breakfast table. "Look. I'm not a fan of you and me being together, and I'm sure you aren't either. So let's just get this straight: You and I are not a couple. Edward Norton and I are not a couple. I am single. You are single. Even Edward Norton is fucking single."
"That was so long, it could've been considered a dramatic monologue." My left eye twitches, and I imagine his face half-burned by the 1970's gas stove conveniently located behind him. "Maggie, this is real life, not your acting job. Most people don't say stuff like that." Brendon stands up. "Now, I'm going to watch some quality television." That means cartoon violence.
"Don't forget about those rules!" I shout as he reaches for the remote.
"Nah. I want to see you suffer."
Give me anger.
Flash.
Give me "bitch".
Flash.
Give me "I hate my life".
Flash.
> >
The next night, as I mess around with my sidekick, Brendon enters my temporary room. "Dress in something nice. We're going out to dinner."
I narrow my eyes. "What kind of dinner?"
"A dinner with my parents and an older sibling." Brendon points to the closet. "Keltie gave me something else a couple days ago. It looks decent." Brennie's starting to sound like a fashionista. "I'm just glad it doesn't show too much thigh."
"Don't you have a thing for men?" I dig through the closet and find a Kelsea silk tank dress by Ralph Lauren. Almost down to my knees, one-inch straps, very conservative. Looks like the paparazzi won't be after me tonight. I shoo him away in order for me to get ready for our "outing". I have to be pleasant today.
As I'm misting Clinique Happy around my neck, Brendon knocks on the door. "Are you finished yet?" He taps the glass on his Mickey Mouse watch. I can hear it from inside my room. "We have to leave in the next couple of minutes."
I grab my white Louis Vuitton pochette accessoires with monogram multicolore canvas and reach for the doorknob. I exit, and daintily waltz down the steps in my black, Eley Kishimoto SH127 heels.
"Let's go."
> >
After spending half an hour listening to the Beatles, I'm thankful for the silence when we get inside the nice Parisian restaurant. Brendon pulls out my seat for me, and I quietly thank him. His lips part into a smirk. Oh darling, you think you've tamed me. That's cute.
"So, are you excited to meet my parents?"
"Do you really believe I'm the 'take-home' type?"
"Can I be honest?"
"No, you can't. We live in Communist China."
"Yes, I believe you are." He puts a hand on my chair. "Do you know why? Because I think even though you try to act big and bad...you're really a good person at heart."
That was deep. You could be a real Mahatma Gandhi, Brendon.
An older couple smile at us as they approach our table. The woman's dressed in a glamorous, floor-length red dress with a nice pearl necklace while her husband stuck to the traditional black and white suit. "Oh, Brendon, she's gorgeous!"
"Oh, Mrs. Urie...you're too kind." I bat my mascara-enhanced eyelashes. "You look absolutely fabulous tonight. Is it Chanel?"
"Oh, why yes. Yes, it is. I got it for a bargain," she says, hand on the side of her mouth. We both giggle as the men roll their eyes. "Your dress is absolutely adorable. And is that...?" She points to my bag.
"Yes. And it's real." I hold out my purse to her. "Online shopping really is a gift from the heavens."
"Oh, honey, you and I are on the same page." I went to a store in France to buy that bag. It was fresh out of the factory. "But can you believe those designer lookalikes? They really do look like the real thing! It's crazy. I don't know how those people do it."
"It's an acquired skill, I guess." No matter what it looks like, it'll never be like the real thing. "Mrs. Urie, I love that necklace. It's beautiful."
"Oh, I thank Mr. Urie for that." She wraps her hands around his arm, and he grins pleasantly.
And this is how our dinner with Brendon's parents began.