maybe if she had been called beautiful before with so much drive, she wouldn't have been so
stuck
on the one drunk boy from the street.
but he had meant it in such a way―
she was doomed right from the start.
༻❁༺
―on a girl with bad days, the first b...
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「 I 」 SEVEN.
she wasn't waiting by the phone. it wasn't who she was. that wasn't Marguerite.
but she was acutely aware that somewhere, who knows where, maybe on the other side of town, maybe halfway around the planet, her phone number was scrawled messily across a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy's arm.
she wondered how shaky the numbers appeared, whether they were even legible. she could hardly breathe when she had written it, and her vision had begun to blur by the time she had finished writing it.
it had been their close proximity that had gotten her.
but she wasn't waiting by the phone. Marguerite Clark didn't wait by the phone. she should've been reading or practicing stupid classical piano or...
something that Marguerite would do.
and yet.
every time that dreaded phone of hers lit up, her heart leapt into her eardrums. ready. willing.
but it wasn't him.
of course.
the limbo lasted twenty-six hours.
to say she thought about much else besides jolene and her music store, the modern-slash-fifties-style diner, the bar he had first stumbled out of to adore her so so long ago, would be wishful thinking. because he was e v e r y t h i n g about those twenty-six hours.
she had never encountered anyone nor anything like the boy who called himself Morrison through the span of her cookie-cutter life.
so the twenty-six hours felt like a return to misery. the usual. father and mother sighing in disappointment that she hadn't prepared to leave for college already even though her last summer had only just begun. the two figures, who should've played key roles in her life but instead glared at her from a distance like an oncoming storm, only glancing at one another to communicate their mutual disdain for their faraway daughter. twenty-six hours spent almost exclusively in her room, alone, staring at all the material things she'd have to leave behind when she left. in the background, soft alternative music, which her parents would say was killing her last few brain cells, swirled through the air within her humble space. everything was old and new. she was the scratch in her own broken record.
there was, of course, one new factor. she had someone to think of.
sure, she was leaving a handful of friends behind to go to her "fancy east coast college," but they couldn't have minded too much; so far that summer, she had come across tons of social media photos of them at parties she hadn't heard of hosted by people she barely knew. progress up the social ladder; even in their final months together, it was all that mattered, right?
they had never been too crazy about Marguerite.
so even though Morrison intimidated her, to say the least, eyes being windows to the soul and his being dark dark dark, he was something for her to believe in.
he was a beautiful mistake she was simply d y i n g to make.
of course, because she had never been one for bad decision-making, there were not one but a thousand things inside her whispering that he was a bad idea, but it didn't matter because her heart was s c r e a m i n g,
please.
give me someone.
so she had to oblige.
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