「 stray curls 」

sixteen.

「 I 」 SIXTEEN.

"you said something back at jolene's."

Marguerite was a mere three shots in, but it had become surprisingly difficult to sit up straight on the couch. or stop laughing at every word either of them said. or think at all, really.

Morrison, on the other hand, was six shots in and pleasantly drunk. she was falling apart so much more than he was. stupid, dumb lightweight. hold your alcohol just once. please.

"what'd I say?" she asked, her voice brushing lazy strokes against the air. she was becoming unfamiliar with the sound of her own voice.

it was kind of funny. h i l a r i o u s, actually.

"you said," he exaggerated, leaning towards her, "that you don't play anything of substance." and with that, he brought himself even closer to her, his breath reaching her with its tantalizing vodka aroma. "so tell me what you play, Margo."

she pouted dramatically. "i promise you it's dumb," she said almost inarticulately, and she sounded ridiculous but that was funny, too.

they were just a few inches from each other, but to her it was all too far.

"either tell me," he dared her, "or take another shot." he turned away from her and leaned against the back of the couch. no no no. too far. "and then you'd have to throw up, because you, Marguerite, aren't the best at holding your alcohol, so—"

but he had said her name again. another flame within her, ignited. and he was too far from her, so she tugged him by the wrist, pulling him close again and clumsily draping her arms around his neck. sober up. sober up.

i can't.

he didn't hesitate to get rid of the rest of that pesky space.

so his lips reached her own again, finally, and he was drunk but so was she, and the bruises from less than twenty-four hours ago were still angry so he pressed tender kisses to them, his arms finding a way around her waist to hold her

right there.

she sighed a contented sigh at the familiar unfamiliar feeling of his lips against her neck, contact she could never tire of.

he kissed her lips again, and she had to lean backwards from the pressure.

he wanted her. he really did.

she didn't know who she was anymore but his.

and so she kissed back with everything in her because it was all she had, all she could find, all she wanted.

when she had to pull away to breathe, she blurted it out drunkenly. "piano. classical piano. completely u s e l e s s."

he sat up straight again. she didn't even realize how far forward he had leaned to breathe in

more

of her.

"Ry has a piano," he murmured, seemingly to himself as if connecting his own dots.

and then he stood up and laced his fingers through her own to pull her up. "c'mon, Margo. Presley. come see."

she wanted to protest, but it was so hard to form complete sentences, complete words, and when he tugged she went forward, nearly landing on the ground.

the room was tilting back and forth.

she wished she could make it stop.

all she could do was stumble along in the direction he was tugging her until they reached it.

it was an old mahogany piano. upright. the ivories had faded to dull yellows and beiges, each key having been given special attention at some point in its life. it was almost enough to sober her up.

years ago, she had possessed a piano like this. it had meant so much to her, and her parents knew it. so they told her it was too out of tune to ever sound right, sold it, made quite a bit of money off of it, and used a small portion of that money to buy her a used keyboard. it was the electronic kind, a cheaper yamaha. they said it would help her to take music more seriously.

she hated that keyboard. didn't want to play piano anymore after that, and she wouldn't have if her parents weren't forcing her.

but here, grazing her fingers along the rough mahogany, she loved piano. was drawn to it.

she sat down at the ghost of her old piano. ran her fingers along the keys. remembered how dizzy she was.

"remember that i'm drunk and you intimidate me sometimes," she said to Morrison without turning toward him. "this probably won't sound good."

for once, he had nothing to say back.

she played some familiar piece that was ingrained in her mind. what was it called? something by chopin. she loved playing chopin. was this the nocturne or the waltz? her parents would be disappointed in her for not knowing.

her fingers fumbled over a few of the keys, and her face heated up each time on its own accord. but sitting here, with the spirit of that old piano running through this one, some vodka coursing through her and the most fascinating boy she'd ever met standing just behind her,

it was a cloud nine feeling.

when she finished, she spun around on the stool to face the perfect boy, and he approached her slowly before tugging her upwards, wrapping his arms around her waist and mumbling "beautiful" against her lips.

and nothing else measured up to the way he kissed her in that moment.

gosh.

it made no difference how much alcohol was clouding her mind.

she could never forget it.