29
Valentina
Huxley parks his truck in an alleyway beside the bar he’s performing at. It’s not a big show, but I’ve always enjoyed his more intimate performances.
A cold wind blows my hair back, pulling my thoughts with it.
We’re good. We’re okay.
I wait at the back of Huxley’s truck while he grabs his guitar. “You excited?” I ask. “Or is this just second nature at this point?”
He shrugs and takes my hand, pulling me toward the end of the alley.
“There’s enjoyment, sure. But these smaller crowds don’t offer much excitement.”
“That’s true. You’re yet to crowd surf during a smaller performance.”
“I don’t crowd surf,” he says dryly.
“You never know. One day, you could look out at a crowd and say ‘Fuck it’ and just take a running jump onto them.”
“Knowing my luck, they’d be so shocked, and I’d fall on the floor and break my face.”
I gasp. “Not the face.”
He rolls his eyes while I laugh.
“You know,” he glances down at me, “I wouldn’t mind if you got up there with me.” He smirks, but my eyes go wide, my laughter completely fading into horror.
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re so good, Valentine. And this crowd is small. It would be great practice for you.”
I know he’s trying to assure me, but I’m very much not assured.
“You’re my audience of one, remember?” I try to say that with a smile, but it doesn’t feel genuine.
Huxley stops us in front of the door, looking down at me with pleading eyes. “You should be up there. People should hear your voice.”
“I’m not a singer, Huxley.” He tries to say something, so I step closer, gripping his shirt. “You are. You deserve to be up there.”
“So you don’t think you deserve it?”
“No, that’s…”
Maybe that is what I think. Maybe I know deep down that someone like me shouldn’t be up on a stage. Or maybe I can’t shake the fact that Morgan never really got a chance. And it just doesn’t feel right being in the place she wanted to be.
Huxley grips my hand tighter, pulling my attention back to him. “You deserve good things, Valentina,” he tells me deeply, filling my lungs with a deep breath. His eyes roam my face, taking me in as he says, “You deserve everything great in the world.”
I want to believe that. I want to believe every word he says. But it’s times like these when I really remember our deal. And I can’t help but wonder how much of what he says he actually believes and how much is just to make me feel better.
The door to the bar slams into my back, sending me into Huxley.
“Get out of the way, lady,” some guy growls in annoyance as he leaves.
“I’m sorry,” I say meekly. We shouldn’t have stopped right in front of the door. I look up at Huxley to tell him exactly that, but he’s glaring at the guy leaving.
God, this is the Viking incident all over again. Except it was sort of their fault for running into me. This guy was just trying to leave.
I reach up to touch Huxley’s face. He looks back down at me, and his expression softens, a smile spreading as he pulls me closer.
“You don’t have to sing tonight, Love.” He rubs my back where the door slammed into me, liquifying my legs at his gentleness. “But please think about it.”
I take a deep breath and nod. This isn’t something I necessarily see myself doing, but if Huxley thought I was bad, he wouldn’t have sung with me on our date. I have to believe that.
“Valentina,” he softly warns, not fully believing me.
“I mean it. I will. I promise.”
My smile crosses his face as he leans down to kiss my forehead.
We head inside to a nearly crowded room. Huxley tries to keep walking towards the front, but I pull his hand to hold him back.
He looks at me in question before he realizes what’s going on.
“Come on. You won’t even sit in the front?”
“Why break tradition?” He pouts, but I just smile at him. “That won’t work.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I guess I’ll just have to stare at you from a distance.”
“Oh, what a shame.”
His smile grows as he kisses my forehead again before he heads for the stage, and my body is already begging for him to come back.
I’ve grown comfortable with having him near, even in this short amount of time. But if I can’t have him close to me, at least I get to watch him do what he loves the most.
I find a seat in the back and glance around the room at all the people here. Many of them are college students, but a few older people are either here for Huxley or this is their normal bar of choice.
As Huxley begins setting up for his set, a group of girls moves closer to the stage. He looks up when one of them says his name, and he smiles.
My spine straightens, and my legs cross and uncross.
That looked like my smile.
Did he use my smile on them?
He’s not yours.
The thought hits me quickly, making me slump back in my chair, and my legs stop fidgeting.
I look at the girls who are still watching Huxley’s every move.
Two of them have the most mesmerizing smiles I’ve ever seen, one of them could give a Victoria’s Secret model's body a run for its money, and the other one, I swear, isn’t real.
If one of her friends touched her shoulder, I’m convinced she’d disappear.
Their beauty hits all of my insecurities, and his smile is the final blow, knocking me out and proving that I never should have put up a fight in the first place.
There’s always going to be someone better than me out there, and honestly, I don’t deserve to be in the presence of Huxley Adams. His happiness is a reminder that he has dreams and goals that he can achieve in an instant.
A reminder of how dark my mind can get. And how I never want to put out his light.
Fuck.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and will the burning in my eyes to subside. I need to try harder to not have these thoughts. The last thing I want is for Huxley to see me in that place. A place I never want to be again. Because if I ever get to that place again, he’ll leave. I know he will.
My eyes snap back to the stage when I hear music begin, and all my worries melt away. Huxley blends seamlessly with the rest of the band while still standing out as a frontman.
I wonder how many times they’ve worked together. I’ve seen these guys at some of his other performances, so he must have some sort of standing arrangement with them. Maybe they’ll be the ones he takes with him when he becomes famous and starts a band.
When he leaves you behind, part of my brain says, while the other part says, He wasn’t yours to keep.
I try to focus on the music instead of the racing thoughts going through my mind. I love watching Huxley perform, and that’s what I need to focus on. Before I know it, Huxley is leaning down to the mic, introducing the last song.
“Before we play this last song, I’d like to thank everyone who came here tonight. Even if you didn’t come for me, I still appreciate you sticking around.”
We all clap for him as he begins the last song. Right when he’s about to sing, he looks back at me.
The bar isn’t that big of a room, so I know he’s actually looking at me. This isn’t like the Senior party when I thought he was when he wasn’t. But right now, I’m sure, and I can’t look away.
I’ll never get over how Huxley performs. He knows how to command an audience, engage with a crowd, and tell a story through his features. All the things I know I could never do.
This isn’t my place. It’s only his.
As the song comes to an end, I clap a little bit harder than I did before.
A surge of calm rises in me, telling me we’ll be okay. He sang to me across a room full of people, and he’s still smiling at me. I smile back wider, my face hurting, but my heart accepts the pain.
We’re okay. We’re finally okay.
Huxley thanks the audience, and the band starts to clear the stage for the next act to go on. I wait for him to gather his things before I stand to leave. But as he walks off the stage, one of the girls grabs his arm, freezing me in place.
He turns to her, and she starts gushing about his performance. I’m not surprised one of them spoke to him. He did amazing, and it only makes sense for them to compliment him. That’s what I’m going to do, also.
He sits down at their table.
I wait for a moment. Either for him to look toward me and tell me to come up there with him, or for him to thank them and leave. But he doesn’t do either. He stays sitting, getting more immersed in a conversation with the girls at the table, laughing and carrying on.
I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait until the clock reads an hour since the show ended. The other performer who went on after him finished their whole set, and he’s still sitting there. He’s still with them when I’m sitting right here.
He’s choosing them over me.
I grab my purse and head out the door.
How did I let this happen? How did I let myself believe that we were okay? That he was going to ignore the other girls. That he was going to stay with me. Did he forget I was there? Or were they just more interesting than me?
I quickly wipe a tear that falls.
Stop crying. You don’t deserve to be upset over him finding someone better than you.
I’m just about to turn the corner when someone grabs my arm, turning me around and bringing me face to face with Huxley.
“You’re leaving?” He sounds confused. He sounds hurt.
I scoff. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“Jesus.” He turns away from me like this is all my fault.
It probably is.
I take a deep breath so my thoughts don’t completely crumble me. “What?” I ask, still too quiet for my liking.
He looks at me like I’m the one who spent an hour talking to someone else. “How are you still pissed about this? None of them touched me.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You think that’s all it takes?”
He shrugs. “You could have come up to the table and joined us.”
“You didn’t even look at me,” I point out. “You acted like I wasn’t even there.”
“So now I can’t even talk to other girls?” Annoyance coats every word he says, and they slice into me, cutting me down into an even more insecure, pathetic human being.
“You don’t get it,” I say quietly, losing my strength by the second.
And yet somehow his anger grows. “What don’t I get?” he bites.
“It’s the fact that you ignored me. That’s what makes this so bad.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You ignored me this past week, so what’s the difference?”
Keep fighting, my brain tells me. If you slip, he’s gone for good.
But I don’t want to keep fighting. I don’t want to be angry with him every time we go somewhere or do something together. That isn’t a relationship.
Is this…
Are we in a toxic situation?
We keep fighting over things that either shouldn’t matter or should be dealt with differently. And yet I feel like we’re constantly here, back and forth with each other over stupid shit. Like his anger and my jealousy due to insecurities.
No one wants an insecure girl. No one daydreams about a girl who doesn’t like anything about herself. So why is Huxley still here?
Then again, why am I?
Tears burn in my eyes, but I turn away before he can see them. “I’m not doing this.”
“Valentine.” His voice softens as he reaches for me, but I don’t let him get close.
“Don’t touch me.” I shove him away, quickly wiping my tears, hating that they came through. “I’m going home.”
“At least let me drive you.” His voice has taken a complete 180 on me.
This is a mess. We’re a mess. And I really don’t want to be around him right now.
“Why don’t you ask one of your new friends?” I snap. “I’m sure they’ll happily take up the offer.”
I turn away and pray he doesn’t follow me. Because right now, nothing he says will make me feel better.
My feet don’t stop until I’m outside my apartment. Safe and sound, away from my boyfriend. My fake boyfriend.
I press my forehead into the door, letting regret fill me to the brim.
Why do I keep doing this? Why do I keep trying? Why does Huxley?
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I say to no one but myself.
Who makes a deal with a guy to be her first boyfriend? Her first kiss? Her first time? None of this is really going to mean anything in the end.
But the worst part is, I still want to do this. I still want to experience these things with him, fake or not.
Because you’re pathetic and have no sense of self-worth.
I rub my forehead into the door harder, putting off going inside so I can drown in this pain some more.
Shouldn’t all of this feel special? Shouldn’t I be happy?
Or…maybe not? Maybe I don’t deserve to have any special experiences. Maybe that’s why all my firsts have to be semi-fake.
Maybe…fuck. Maybe I should end this.
With a deeper breath, I open the door to my apartment and try my hardest not to think about ending more than just this relationship.