Page 66 of Sorry, We're Closed

“First of all, thank you, for everything. Secondly, how much did you tell him, talk to him about, or is there anything I need to know about?”

Gwen pulls away and rolls her eyes in my direction before singing, “Just go talk to him!”

I nod to Gwen as I hug them both again and wave them off.

“Wait, sweet! You forgot an umbrella! It’s pouring out!”

I couldn’t care less.

Thirty

Avory

“Have I got everything?” Marcus mumbles to himself as he darts around the flat, frantically shoving his phone and keys into a satchel bag with one hand, and spritzing his neck and shirt with a salty, oak cologne with the other. “Hey A, do you think I look alright?”

I force myself to rise from my slumped state on the sofa, my notepad and pen falling and rolling across the floor. I reach under the sofa to save them, just to add them to the ever-growing stack of unused lyrics flurried across the coffee table.

I need a distraction from him. I miss him so goddamn much.

He stretches his arms out and spins on the ball of his foot as I eye him from foot to head. Black, scuffed boots to match his black skinny jeans with rips across the knees, a khaki green shirt buttoned enough to tease his built chest, one ofmysilver chains around his neck. I fold my arms and begin to tut, because if anything is going to somehow correct my mood, it’ll be poking fun at a flustered Marcus since he saw how gorgeous our manager is.

I meet his clean shaven and moisturised face, his eyes appearing bright, and his hair slicked back.

“Handsome as all hell.”

“Now you know where you get it from.” He winks at me as I roll my eyes, and I can’t help but hug him. He wraps his big arms around me as he speaks. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with? It might do you some good to get out of the house.”

I consider it. I really do. I just know that being with the person who is finally making our dream a reality, will serve as a constant reminder of him, the amazing man who I’m leaving behind. I shake my head into his shoulder.

“You don’t need this mope tarnishing the Bright Lights image, I’ll meet her soon. Besides, who brings their kid on a date?”

I teasingly pull myself away, which quickly changes into throwing myself over the back of the sofa and bouncing off the cushions as Marcus is determined for some form of payback. His hand ends up landing in my hair and ruffling it side to side, turning my already manic waves into an entire tsunami of hair.

“It’s not a date; it’s a business meeting! However, I can’t guarantee what time I’ll be home since this business meeting apparently include pub crawls.”

As I laugh and sink back against the sofa arm, my knees tucked to my chest, Marcus’ hand lands on my shoulder.

“Seriously Avory, consider my offer from earlier. You seriously care about him, he seriously cares about you, and Rae said she could make it work.”

I nod as Marcus kisses the top of my head before waving goodbye for the evening. The click of our front door forces me to face something I have been trying my hardest to avoid. It is only me, my burrowing thoughts of Sawyer, Gwen’s visit, Marcus’ offer, and the lashing rain which pelts against the windows.

No, I don’t need to face it if I distract myself. Once we’re out of this town, I won’t be reminded of him all the time. If I distract myself, I won’t close my eyes, roll my head back and think about the last time my lips connected with his. I won’t imagine the tone of his voice which always reminds me of a cabin fireplace, so warm and comforting. I won’t imagine his constellation of freckles scattered across his caramel skin which I continuously dream of counting and kissing.

How much further can I spiral into this denial, I wonder.

My palms wipe across my face as I force myself to sit up and take hold of my guitar. As I sift through the papers and notebooks scattered, my abundance of random lyrics and phrases, I find something I don’t even remember writing.

If your heart ever were to break, I’d smash mine along these concrete cobbles in the hopes that my shards of crimson glass could somehow piece yours back together. If yours continues to beat its harmonious tune which provides me a reason to wake up each day, then I will tread amongst my shards while baring my pale flesh. The shards cause me no pain when I know that you are awaiting me on the other side.

These aren’t lyrics, because apparently, I thought I was a poet for a day, but I can do something with this. I begin to strum, the holding of chords bringing a tension to my fingers and giving me something else to focus on. As I begin to transition from chord to chord, I discover a tune which screams hopelessly in love, and I can’t do anything about it. My hands jump from the strings to my pen as I begin to scribble down the chords, and once the rhythm becomes natural to my hands, I attempt to pair it with some lyrics. Within minutes, a symphony of grunts followed by curses bounce off the walls since I cannot get these goddamn lyrics to fit with these goddamn chords and it’s all too goddamn much. How this guitar is still in my hands and not halfway across the room, I’ll never know. Slowly, I begin to strum again, the rhythm feeling natural again as I pinch my pick between my fingers.

Knock, knock, knock.

A distant beat emerges, and it somehow fits perfectly with the tune I’m strumming. I begin to tap my foot with the same tempo as the previous knocking from wherever, and somehow, the knocking responds. Can someone hear me? I lay my guitar on the coffee table and wait in silence, awaiting the knocking to appear once more. Instead, the deep knocking changes itself into some sort of grating, high pitched tapping, coming from the living room window. It keeps appearing, no rhythm at all this time, the clinking against the glass filling the flat. As I approach the window, piles of stones have collected themselves on the window ledge. I unlock the window and lean out, the hammering rain already beginning to dampen my face,

“Avory! Hey! I hope I haven’t damaged your window!”

I know that voice. A cabin’s fireplace. Suddenly, the rain is no longer freezing as my eyes land on him. Even from this distance, I can see the rain dripping through his brunette curls, over his glasses, from his chin. His clothes cling to his slim frame as they soak even further from the pelting rain, which slowly makes it harder and harder to see him. I’m not losing him again.

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