Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, once Isaac had reluctantly stalked off to lacrosse training, I crept downstairs and crawled into bed with Esme, two coffees and a bag of gummy worms I found in the cupboard in tow (the pinnacle of a nutritional breakfast).
When I’d first gotten into running, I’d tried to keep track of my macros because that was what you were supposed to do.
But after a week and a half, I’d had to face the stark reality that my diet mostly consisted of cereal, instant ramen, and the same brand of gummy worms held between my teeth.
I slid underneath the covers and huddled up to my friend, who looked up at me with wide, grateful eyes as I handed her a coffee.
Esme’s room was well-sized with a stunning velvet-framed bed, one that was covered in more blankets and pillows than necessary.
She had also amassed a small collection of soft, stuffed animals that had been circulating on social media.
(If there was ever another worldwide flood, we wouldn’t need a guy called Noah, just Esme and her bed).
She had a small vintage white vanity in the corner of her room, which she justified buying by saying it would double as a desk. But by the sheer volume of beauty products now stacked up on it, it was a wonder she managed to ace any of her classes at all.
“Do I even bother asking how you’re feeling?” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. Esme had already placed her mug down and slipped under the covers because the light filtering through her dainty curtains was making it feel like someone had shoved her head in a blender.
I could just about make out her muffled complaints from where she was hiding, before patting the lump I assumed was her body and grabbing the remote.
I turned on the TV which was mounted on the other side of the room and started flicking through all the old movies.
Thank god for streaming platforms and their digitally remastered copies of my favourite films.
“What are you putting on?” a muffled squeak echoed out from below the duvet before blonde, wispy stands emerged from below.
“I was thinking Pretty in Pink?” A nod and a slight dip of the mattress later, and we were sitting together, sipping our coffee and watching Molly Ringwald kill it in yet another movie.
Like everything else in my fucking life, the older a movie was, the better.
And it really did get extra points if it was directed by John Hughes or starred Molly herself.
There was something about his films that just made my insides feel warm.
Although I felt quite strongly, in this particular instance, that Andie should have ended up with Duckie, and the fact that she didn’t felt like a slight to all the oddballs and weirdos out there.
I mean, he really was perfect for her. He understood her, saw her for exactly what she was, and loved her anyway. The way love should always be.
“Ugh, I love this part,” Esme chimed in from beside me before mimicking the film. “‘Did he have strong lips? Did you feel it in your knees?’”
“I felt it everywhere.” I laughed without missing a beat. God, how long had it been since I’d felt like that? Some questions were better left unanswered.
Once the movie ended, I let out a long, exasperated sigh. “They should have ended the film with Duckie and Andie reuniting at prom. Honestly, what was John thinking?”
“John? What was John thinking?” Esme cackled, looking over at me before rolling her eyes. We’d only had this conversation a hundred times before. “Hmm, Quince, I don’t know. World-renowned writer and producer that you seem to be on a first-name basis with. What was he thinking?”
I scowled at her. “I mean, come on, the way they ran into each other’s arms. The way he stumbled over his words when he told her she was breathtaking.
And his clothes, ugh, he’s so cool.” I threw up my arms in indignation.
“Why don’t guys like that actually exist?
” I asked myself the question as if that was the kind of guy I wanted.
But since the moment he’d walked into the kitchen yesterday, demon-costume boy was the only thing I could fucking think about.
“I think we have answered the age-old question of why Quincey Sterling never dates.”
She descended into a fit of giggles as I grabbed a pillow and hit her with it. Despite her hangover, she put up a decent fight, and by the end, we both looked like we’d stuck metal knives into live sockets.
“Your type is ‘dresses like a grandpa’ and fictional.”
“Exactly.”
And was that really so much to ask for? Why should I have to settle?
I wanted the love I saw in my favourite films. I wanted a love that was easy.
One that pulled the butterflies from my belly in fits of laughter.
I wanted a love that made my cheeks hurt and my heart warm.
I wanted someone to stand outside my bedroom with a boom box.
I wanted to ride off into the sunset on the back of a lawnmower.
I wanted to be the best friend like Watts in ‘Some Kind of Wonderful.’ I only wanted love if it was worth it.
But I just wasn’t sure if it existed in real life. Not for people like me anyway.
“Don’t you want to be in love, Quincey?” Esme said seriously, once she’d managed to stop laughing. Her voice was gentle and soft, and I knew it came from that kind place deep inside her.
And as the mature adult that I was, I made an exaggerated gagging sound in response before looking up at her. “Love? Love? The number one cause of divorce. The thing that killed Jack in The Titanic. The leading indicator that someone may one day suffer a broken heart?”
Esme rolled her eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself. “If love could be mass produced like alcohol, it would come with a warning label.” I held my hands up, facing her, and slowly pulled them apart as if unveiling something important. “WARNING: May cause sudden death.”
“God, you’re so weird,” she said, hitting me with a pillow before pulling me into a hug. I tried to resist and squirm away, but she held firm.
“Jesus, have you been going to the gym? Why are you so strong?”
“If you won’t let anyone else love you, at least let me.”
“Fine,” I said, acquiescing and leaning into her embrace.
For the most part, I was okay. Sure, school was hard, and I had a professor who hated me.
My grandmother was ill and deteriorating at a rapid rate.
But I was fine… At least I thought I was.
I suppose I’d gotten so used to the stress, it was difficult to know how I truly felt.
But one thing was for certain: love wasn’t going to solve my issues.
I have a better chance of getting three wishes from a hypothetical demon.
I stumbled back into my apartment in the early afternoon, letting my duffel drop to the floor.
After pulling off my shoes, I ambled over to the sink to fill up two pint-sized glasses of water.
Calling my minuscule home an apartment was probably a stretch.
For all intents and purposes, it was an apartment; it was just fucking tiny.
Two rooms and an ensuite bathroom to be precise.
My bedroom was hardly bigger than the bed that currently occupied it.
I could only blame myself, though, opting to go for a bigger king-size bed simply because a bigger bed sounded more comfortable.
There was an old wooden desk in the corner of the room, but unlike Esme’s (which looked more like a beauty store counter), mine was more closely aligned with that of a witch’s apothecary table.
It overflowed with half-burnt candles and mismatched jars holding flowers that had since withered away into something crispier and browner than decorative.
In an ode to Hugh and his Oddity Vault, every surface of my apartment was scattered with junk and trinkets I probably didn’t need.
I had old vintage paintings and photographs dotted along my walls, mostly to hide the peeling paint, but they made my room feel homier, nonetheless.
On top of my bed, this round of washing, leaving me with beautiful, quilted terracotta bedsheets, was an array of mismatched pillows.
Some floral, some patchwork, and one larger-than-average-sized sock monkey I’d had since I was little.
At the foot of my bed sat a dark green knitted blanket, which was folded neatly in stark contrast to the rest of my space that felt more than a little chaotic.
The blanket had been obscenely expensive but necessary given Darling’s terribly cold winters and my broken heating, which my landlord would get around to fixing any day now.
A tiny bathroom jutted off from my bedroom. There wasn’t much decorating I could do in there, given how small it was, but I’d placed a number of hanging plants that enjoyed more humid temperatures in there as a requisite for making the room feel less depressing.
I slowly made my way around my apartment, watering the endless array of plants I had that littered every corner of my home.
Some hung from woven macramé hangers, whilst others sat in pots.
Ivy drew across the walls, and I had a large monstera that was verging on legendary proportions, positioned in the corner of my living room in front of a large window.
I was limited on space, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it, the monster of a plant that it was.
“Mortimer?” I called out, stalking around the apartment.
“Are you here?” Mortimer was a stray cat that liked to come and go from my apartment, especially in the wintertime when the weather was colder and all he wanted to do was curl up under a blanket.
I’d found him meowing on the fire escape that doubled as a balcony and instantly fallen in love.
And like all my other expectations of love, my feelings in this relationship had been unrequited until I’d started offering up food.