Poison oak, some boyhood bravery. When a telephone was a tin can on a string.
Jimmy was leaned up against the window, peering into the back lawn with a despondent transcendence. He tipped the bottle back, taking another long swig to work to offset his sober regret. But with every swallow of the fiery burn, the brunette plaguing his thoughts would resurface.
A thudding snapped him from his daze, but he made absolutely no effort to acknowledge the intruding guitarist as he waltzed into the living room.
And I fell asleep with you still talking to me. You said you weren't afraid to die.
“Bright Eyes again, huh?” Brian sighed, setting two plastic bags down onto the coffee table.
Jimmy nodded absently, tipping another mouthful of liquid back.
“We’ve missed you at the studio this week, buddy,” Brian tried weakly. “You alright?”
The drummer dangled the glass bottle of vodka into the air, “I’m great.”
Brian exhaled deeply, sinking down into the grey sofa next to his best friend, “Dude, it’s been seven weeks…Are we going to talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?” Jimmy challenged. “She’s gone and it’s my fault.”
There weren’t enough words in the English language to accurately sum up Jimmy’s guilt and grief. He’d pushed away the one person in the entire world that added any light to his life. The one woman he was sure he could settle into forever…and he’d let her go. He’d pushed her to go.
He’d neglected her upon her return.
“What happened, man?” Brian pressed lightly. “You’ve gotta tell me…Because this…this isn’t healthy. This isn’t helping.”
Jimmy sighed, drowning his thoughts in another swirl, “She came back…and I did nothing. I told her to go…and then I let her.”
Brian’s lips fell into a frown, “Have you tried talking to her?”
“No,” Jimmy shrugged. “She called once…Couldn’t bring myself to pick up.”
Brian had kept in contact with the artist—who, admittedly, didn’t seem to be in much better shape than the drummer. Their conversations were polite and short, usually interluded by text messages about nothing. He was worried for them both.
“I really fucked it up, dude,” Jimmy frowned.
In Polaroids you were dressed in women's clothes. Were you made ashamed, why'd you lock them in the drawer?
“Oh my god!” Joanna burst, flying through the bedroom door with a fury. “Enough with the fucking Bright Eyes already!”
Peyton stared blankly at her friend, the pencil in her hand paused midair from the intrusion.
“Seriously,” Joanna continued on her whining tirade. “I’m going to slit my wrists open! This stuff is so depressing!”
The brunette half-laughed, offering a shrug by way of reply.
“I know you’re pining and stuff,” Joanna sighed. “But can we maybe pick a new band to cry to?”
“How very sensitive of you,” Peyton teased.
Joanna frowned, seating herself on the edge of the bed, “Pey, you need to get out of this room. Get out of this apartment.”
“I have,” Peyton informed her. “Remember that business I own? The one I’ve practically lived at the last month?”
Peyton had been wildly impressed when she’d come home to find her shop still thriving. Hannah had taken utmost care of her baby in the artist’s absence. The books were still full, the clients all perpetually satisfied. There wasn’t a single complaint to lodge against the way Hannah had handled things. Peyton was relieved. It made easing back into her daily routine that much simpler.
And after a few weeks, Peyton’s business was back to it’s hectic standard. She kept herself so busy that she almost didn’t have time to think of California…or of Jimmy.
But the night would creep in and bring his voice crawling along the shadows. And in that whispering clutter, Peyton danced the line of despair nightly.
Well I don't think that I ever loved you more than when you turned away. When you slammed the door, when you stole the car drove towards Mexico. And you wrote bad checks just to fill your arm, I was young enough, I still believed in war.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Joanna retorted. “You’ve been sulking for like…seven years.”
Peyton raised a brow.
“Why don’t you just call him?” she pressed. “I know you miss him. It’s obvious that’s why you’re exceptionally broody lately.”
The brunette sighed, setting her pencil down atop the latest mandala she was fashioning into her book, “I tried…He didn’t pick up…Didn’t call back.”
Joanna pouted, “He’s probably embarrassed with how he handled it. I’d be embarrassed if I were him…”
“Or,” Peyton challenged. “He just wants to go back to his life before I came and fucked it all up for him. I’m going to let him have his space…That’s obviously what he wants.”
Joanna narrowed her eyes, “But you love him, Pey…Don’t you think that’s worth fighting for?”
She shook her head, “I’m not going to force myself into his life, Jo. Maybe it’ll smooth itself out in time…I’m not going looking for another rejection though. I think once was enough.”
“Are you sure?” Joanna pried sadly.
Peyton nodded, “I’m sure.”
Well, let the poets cry themselves to sleep.
“Jimmy,” Brian stated firmly. “You need to stop with the pity party, man. If you want her, go and fucking get her.”
The drummer shook his head, “It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is,” Brian laughed. “She’s Lexi, remember?”
“She’s not,” Jimmy argued, sinking his teeth into the bottle.
Brian groaned, “Whatever you think happened, you’re an idiot. Peyton didn’t fucking ruin anything, man. Whatever happened between me and her, that’s history. It’s not fucking important. It was a mistake and I think we all know that.”
Jimmy’s icy blues settled on his best friend.
And all their tearful words would turn back into steam.
“And you fucked up your relationship with Natalie all on your own, big guy,” Brian continued. “We’re all fucking glad you did. Natalie wasn’t good for you, Jim…But you know who is good for you? Peyton.”
Jimmy’s heart fluttered and sank in an abysmal attempt to liven itself.
He’d spent every day in Peyton’s absence trying and failing to occupy his time. He’d dove into recording only to find it lonesome and exhausting. He’d moved into the house Peyton had chosen and he’d filled it with new things—some purchased and some borrowed. And every night, as he stumbled through his lonely home in a drunken stupor, he’d linger over the back bedroom and picture Peyton busying herself in her art.
But me, I'm a single cell on a serpent’s tongue. There's a muddy field where a garden was. And I'm glad you got away…
“So, instead of sitting alone in your fucking house, getting drunk at two in the afternoon,” Brian scolded lightly. “Go and fucking do something about it. Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her—for the love of god tell her—that you love her.”
“What does it matter?” Jimmy sighed, setting the bottle down atop the coffee table.
Brian shrugged with his entire body, “Because it means everything, Jim…Go get her.”
But I'm still stuck out here…My clothes are soaking wet from your brothers’ tears.
Peyton and Joanna engaged in a silent battle of the wits. Both stubborn and unmoving in their conviction to what they felt was the best course of action. But Peyton couldn’t shake the horrific sting that Jimmy’s rejection had caused. The pain had engraved itself like a terrible tattoo, ugly and disproportionate.
“Fine,” Joanna conceded, fixating her attention on the black and white cat that had jumped up into her lap. “But we’re getting you out of this apartment sooner rather than later, Peyton. I mean it. All this pining is bad for your kidneys or something.”
The artist laughed, nodding her head before spinning around to continue scribbling out her latest commissioned draft. Joanna’s eyes wandered along the room to the shelf that housed Peyton’s endless series of sketchbooks. On top, no surprise, was the one full to the brim with Jimmy’s essence. Joanna was deeply saddened for her friend—she only wished there was a way to solve her life’s problems for her.
And then a lightbulb went off. Joanna scanned the room with interest, squinting over every detail as she tried and failed to find Peyton’s phone. When she finally discovered it, she was gravely disappointed to find it seated next to Peyton’s hand. There was no way she could secretly poach it without Peyton flying off the deep end.
And I never thought this life was possible. You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for.
“Call her,” Brian encouraged, sensing he might finally be getting through.
It wasn’t as if no one had tried. They’d all taken shifts trying to persuade Jimmy to give up his stubborn exterior and give into the very real possibility that he’d been wrong. But Jimmy had soured in his heartbreak and had detached himself from those that loved him most.
For whatever reason, though, today seemed to be the day. Jimmy finally seemed to be listening.
“She won’t answer,” Jimmy argued weakly. “If I know her at all, she’ll think she’s doing me a favor by ignoring me at this point.”
Brian’s face screwed itself up, “What? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jimmy half-laughed, giving his head an awkward nod, “That’s Lexi.”
“Well then what’re you going to do, man?” Brian asked feebly. “Tell me you’re going to do something.”
The end of paralysis, I was a statuette. Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench.
Jimmy half-heartedly considered his options before settling on the obvious. He wasn’t sure Brian would like it, but it was the only thing idea he was willing to entertain for the moment. To go in after a corpse was a daunting feat; one Jimmy wasn’t sure he was willing to rally for.
“I don’t know,” he lied. “I gotta go.”
“What? Where?” Brian laughed, scratching his head as Jimmy bolted up from the couch and snatched his keys off the table.
Jimmy smirked, “Don’t worry about it, dude.”
And when I press the keys it all gets reversed.
Joanna sighed, rubbing at Zeke’s fur as she studied Peyton’s strength. Sometimes you couldn’t tell Peyton was a shell of a human; she hid it well—but no so well that Joanna didn’t know that the artist was all but dead inside. Something died the night they’d fled California and Peyton had yet to revive herself.
Sometimes Joanna thought Peyton didn’t want to revive her life. She was content to cuddle with the rotting corpse of her brief life spent by Jimmy’s side, adorned in the flowers of memory of their childhood spent together. If only Joanna could muster up some strength of her own, she may just flex her muscles and push her best friend back across the state line.
Joanna was sure Peyton belonged there.
“Hey, Pey,” Joanna thought aloud, determined to attempt a second round at any cost.
Peyton groaned quietly, pausing her art to turn and face the blonde once more.
“I just think—” her thoughts were cut short by the loud chiming of her cellphone.
The vibrations scared the cat away, leaving Joanna free to take the call without awkward arm movements. She gestured for Peyton to give her one minute.
“Talk to me!” Joanna smiled into the phone.
Peyton rolled her eyes, letting Joanna’s ridiculousness help to ease the pain that had crept in while her mind wasn’t distracted. Everything felt somehow lesser than it had before she’d left for California. This life used to satisfy her; she was sure it had. But now…now, everything felt lifeless and dull.
All she had left now were the memories, which worked to both sooth and destroy her.
“I can totally do that,” Joanna grinned, nodding her blonde head.
As she flipped her phone closed, she climbed to her feet. Peyton eyed her friend with confusion and curiosity.
“We will pick this up again later,” Joanna declared. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Go where?” Peyton laughed.
Joanna shrugged, “I’ve got something to do. But when I get back, missy, you and I are going to have a long chat about your feelings.”
Peyton groaned playfully, “Can’t wait.”
The second Joanna was gone, the overwhelming loneliness moved its way back in. It crept along the walls, its fingers clawing out for Peyton in a venomous cloud. She sighed, reaching over to crank the volume to help drown out her thoughts. And then she sank back into her work.
The sound of loneliness makes me happier.

Notes

Pellivan </3

xx