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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「 II 」 ONE.
for three days, Marguerite knew only Morrison.
she lived in his clothes. didn't miss her own. tried edibles for the first time with the perfect boy and the talented band from the house show at the guitarist's house. Tyler called her Presley again. she didn't correct him because she didn't see a need to. exchanged high kisses with the dark-haired boy. went to jolene's and listened to Morrison's guitar-playing. told him she'd rather not play anything on their old pianos. he asked her why not. she couldn't answer.
Ryan's parents were back in town, so they shacked up with Tyler instead. Morrison's friends were accommodating because they all had their own skeletons and didn't want to be the reason for anyone else's broken bones.
broken. she had never been more broken.
she had never felt more whole.
because Morrison didn't ask her about her parents, about the cursed piano, about the ghosts looming in her house. it wasn't that he knew so much. it was that he didn't need to know so much.
and this was what she found relieving when she sat down on the couch next to Morrison, svedka in her small hands. she needed two hands to hold on to it. Tyler sat on the other side of Morrison, and shot glasses lined the coffee table.
"round one," Tyler said, pouring each glass in careful—albeit unwanted—sobriety.
three shots later for Marguerite, five for Tyler, and a destructive eight for Morrison, everyone was on about the same level.
"so how'd such an ugly boy happen upon you, Presley?" Tyler finally asked.
and Marguerite, or Presley, or whoever she was, thought to remind Tyler that between her and Morrison, the latter was much prettier, had deeper eyes, had softer skin, outshined her in every way.
even drunk, though, she knew better than to get sappy around the two of them.
so she just laughed.
and Morrison took over with some half-assed story about the street he'd found her on, saying it was the boldest move he'd made to date and he had probably come on too strong, but he simply didn't realize how perfect it was for her in that moment.
they were barely downstairs fifteen more minutes when Morrison said he was tired and Presley, come upstairs with me?
needless to say, it wasn't the smoothest.
Tyler laughed a loud, drunken, beautiful laugh, saying, "real fucking convincing, man. i know what the hell that means."
so Morrison laughed too, and everything was so funny, but Presley—no Marguerite, her heart rate was picking up when he stood up and grabbed her hand to tug her off the couch.
she stumbled forward. almost fell.
"see you in the morning, Tyler, and thanks for everything." it was awfully sincere for something Morrison would say.
of course, he was so much more loose-lipped drunk.
so he led her up the stairs, the two of them slaloming over unsteady feet, each step another mountain to climb.
and maybe it was just the vodka getting to her, but anticipation was setting in like she couldn't believe, and
she was so unsure. didn't know what to expect.
and for the first time in too long, she couldn't stop smiling.
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