Busted Lips and Lust-Bruised Hips

"Here," a voice said as a cup was pushed across the table.

Amaya raised her jasper eyes from her lap and smiled at one of her workmates as she sat across the table. "Thanks, Marianne," she replied, reaching out to pull the coffee towards her. "Has it gone quiet out there now?" she asked, scouring her colleague's expression.

"It's been quiet for hours now," Marianne replied, taking a draught of her drink. Amaya smiled sadly before glancing down at her phone on the table, taking in its blank screen with disappointment. Stifling her sigh against the rim of her cup, she kept an impatient eye on it in hopes of just a hint of contact.

"He still not texted you?" Marianne asked gently, breaking into Amaya's vigil.

"Who?" Amaya answered calmly, keeping her cup raised as a barrier against any unintentional words.

"That bassist you're so hung up on," Marianne replied.

"I'm not hung up on him," Amaya responded, her eyes drooping to the table with the lie.

"Sure you're not. That's why you've developed an emotional attachment to your phone recently. Because you don't actually give a damn whether he calls or not," Marianne retorted. As the waitress expected, Amaya raised her head sharply at her words, her eyes dilated with surprise. Pursing her lips, Marianne sunk back against her seat to survey the younger girl. "Thought so."

"God," Amaya groaned, swinging her head onto her hands, "I've been such a damn fool. I should be focussing on Sean not some glammed-up celebrity."

Marianne rolled her eyes over her coffee cup. "Yeah, because Sean is such a better boyfriend," she said.

Amaya fixed her colleague with a silencing glance and pressed her lips tight together. "You don't understand," she murmured.

"No, honey, it's you that doesn't understand - or chooses not to." Softening her glance, Marianne leant towards Amaya while holding the girl steadily in her gaze. "He's no good for you. Someone who throws more punches than he tells you he loves you is not a boyfriend. You know that, everyone does. You just won't let it sink in."

"It's complicated," Amaya said, "It's been so long."

"And that's why it has to stop. It's why I'm so grateful this other guy has shown up. He's showing you what there is out there, what you really deserves, not what some fist thinks you do."

Amaya shook her head. "But he has someone," she argued.

"And that's a strong enough reason to stop your heart hoping? Sweetheart, I've seen you when you've talked to him. You've never looked happier - or more beautiful in that case - and you need that. You need it more than you could ever know."

"You know the funny thing?" Amaya asked in a distant voice, "He turns to me because he thinks I've gotten it all figured out but I'm just as lost and hopeless as he is."

"Do you want to know what I think?" Marianne asked, taking Amaya's hand, "You two are like a modern day Romeo and Juliet; so desperately meant for one another but kept apart...Mind you," Marianne continued with a smile, "I never read what happened in the end. I could never focus in school."

Amaya swallowed. "They kill themselves...over each other."

Marianne's gaze suddenly became serious as she regarded the younger girl and the colour that gradually dripped from her cheeks. "Then, for God's sake, Amaya," she said, "Re-write the ending."

Amaya sat scrunched around her phone, numb with indecision and still dressed in her work uniform four hours after she'd got home. Unable to move from the weight of Marianne's words, she'd curled up on her bed and refused to see the possibilities that her colleague had painted with such precision in arm's reach of her. She tried to convince her hope it was a useless effort to hold onto something that was clearly not meant for her, but the see-saw between her thoughts and Marianne's words left her off balance and every switch of perspective changed her mind about calling Pete. Her fingers traced along the edge of the keypad, almost daring her to add that extra pressure which would relieve her of her frustration - but she couldn't. Letting her hand fall to the mattress, Amaya thought back to Pete, wondering what continent he was gracing this week, what was crossing his mind as he was crossing hers, whether Jeanae was sat beside him at that moment, her hand clasped in his.

"Fuck," Amaya cursed, pushing her phone away from herself in frustration, "Who am I kidding? I'm no Juliet. I'm just a shitty waitress stuck in some dead-end city. He doesn't deserve this. He deserves her. She can fit inside hotels and tour dates that he lives in. I can't." Succumbing to her reasoning, Amaya released a deep breath that encased the last of the hope she had been harbouring inside it. She couldn't even remember why she had even tried so hard to fit inside his life in the first place when this was the one she was apparantely meant to be in. There had just been this sliver of a possibility in the back of her mind which he had kindled that told her she could be one of the regular people to escape the monotony but, nearly a year on, she'd only been promoted to a monthly escape. She knew her only hope of maintaining what was left of her strength was by letting any chance of release die and she spent every lost second she had left on doing just that. By the time Sean stumbled in drunk again, she had forgotten that she had ever lived outside those four walls at all.

Pete lay restlessly beside Jeanae, watching her from a distance as she slept. With every peaceful breath she drew in, Pete exhaled a curse at himself for having insomnia. It was nights like this when he hated having to watch the world sleeping without being able to join in. Aggravated, Pete drew back the blankets and gently pulled himself out of bed, careful not to wake Jeanae as he did. He wandered across the bedroom, pausing at the doorway as he did to glance back at the bed. Jeanae lay puddled in the light from the open door, the blankets tucked tight under her chin, with the calmest expression on her face and an affectionate smile fell on Pete's lips at her sleeping form. Turning away slowly, he shut the bedroom door behind him and made his way downstairs through the darkness.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hemingway predicatably waited for Pete after hearing footsteps approaching and knowing the owner instinctively. Pete smiled down at the bulldog, bending to smooth him as he walked past. He led the dog into the living room and slumped heavily onto the sofa while Hemingway began nudging his knee for attention. As the bassist traced a hand over his back, he glanced across to the table in the centre of the room and his eye landed on the phone that he had left there earlier. Leaning over the dog, he grabbed at the phone and scrolled through the countless messages from executives and friends. By the time he had reached the end, a frown had settled across his face and he dropped the phone to his side. It had been two and a half weeks and he still hadn't heard from Amaya. He thought back to the last time that he had seen her; the declaration that was thick on his lips and the girl that had stolen it away in a kiss. He thought back to the last words that had passed from her lips and how the conviction in them had rung out like a threat. He didn't doubt that she would detach herself from his life just for the sake of keeping the peace in an already turbulent relationship. He just didn't think she'd actually do it at the time.

"What do you reckon, Hemingway?" Pete asked quietly, "Was that a permanent goodbye?" The dog blinked up at its owner, a gleam in his eyes that shone almost like sympathy. Pete ruffled his coat and glanced down at the phone again. "I don't even know if I should be bothered," he confessed, "I mean, things are going great again with Jeanae, but I just feel like there's this something missing. She helped me sort out so much and now I'm stumbling through all this alone." Leaning closer, Pete gently cupped Hemingway's head. "Am I being greedy for needing them both?" he asked his companion, "Because, sometimes, I sure as hell think I am." Throwing himself suddenly against the back of the sofa, Pete glanced up at the ceiling and the shadows scrawled across it, watching his display in morbid silence. "I should phone her," Pete told himself, "I should just call her and tell her that it shouldn't be goodbye. Things worked out fine before, why can't they now?" He glanced down indecisively at Hemingway. "What do you reckon?" he asked and watched as Hemingway yawned in response. Smiling slightly, Pete smoothed the dog once more, "Thanks, buddy," he said as he picked up his phone.

Yet, despite his determination to call Amaya, Pete was overcome with a strange paranoia that caused his thumbs to freeze on the keypad, unable to call or withdraw. He analysed the back of his tensed hand and the rigid muscles beneath it in confusion. He hadn't realised how awkward the distance had made everything until that moment, how difficult it was to scrounge through his mind for the words he needed to say. Through his sudden nervousness, Jeanae's words inched across his mind as stealthily as suspicion, "She's more than a friend to you, Pete. Inches more than a friend." Shaking his head, he tried to rid himself of the suggestion while reassuring himself that it was only the apologies that stuck in the back of his throat which prevented him from speaking, the fear of rejection that filmed his palm in sweat. Regaining his reasoning, Pete raised his phone from his lap once more and started dialling Amaya's number.

"Pete?" Jeanae called.

The bassist jumped in surprise, twisting around in his seat to see her in the doorway. "Hey," he greeted.

"What you doing up?" Jeanae asked, rubbing her eyes vigorously to erase the last of the sleep from her eyes.

"Insomnia kicked in," Pete explained. He watched as Jeanae nodded her understanding and smiled softly across the room at her. "I'll be up now," he reassured, "Give me a second." Jeanae smiled her reply before heading back up to the bedroom. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, Pete glanced down at his phone with a sad resignation. "I meant to," he told it, "I really meant to call."