expectations.

She takes a long drag off the cigarette before responding. “Hey, Noah.” The silence between them is thick with tension.

“You know,” he pauses, flicking the lighter with a repetitive ‘click’, “those aren’t good for you.” She gives him an incredulous look.

“Really, Noah? I haven’t seen you since you took off and you want to lecture me?”

He sighs, but just keeps flicking the lighter. “I’m sorry, Pres. I really am. I shouldn’t have-”

“No, you shouldn’t have. I was seventeen and you left me on my own. I was really fucking angry at you. Still am, actually.”

His eyes, (so like hers) pick her apart. From the resigned look on her face (it still had traces of the girl he knew) to the curled purple hair (her roots needed to be dyed again soon) to the leather jacket that clung to her shoulders (what ever happened to pink T-shirts and purple headbands?).

Instead of apologizing again, he tries to change the topic. “You’ve changed.”

She chuckles sullenly. “Yeah, I have. That tends to happen. Wanna know some major changes? I now am in a band who’s touring at fucking Warped tour. I’m dating Alan Ashby, the guitarist for Of Mice & Men. Wait, make that a was. I was dating him. A guy just made it look like I was cheating on Alan when I wasn’t, and now the one guy I love hates me. So don’t fucking talk to me about changes.”

Noah just runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs.

She shakes her head and gets up, dusting the dirt off her jeans.

“I can’t deal with this right now. Text me sometime later - my number is one of the only things that hasn’t changed.”

///

The next morning is not a very pleasant one. She had collapsed into the passenger seat in the van with her clothes still on, which meant she had welts where her too tight jeans had rubbed. Not to mention how her smeared makeup gave her the appearance of a frightened racoon. Add that to how she had a pounding headache and a taste in her mouth that could only be described as “ew”, and Presley Young was not a very happy camper.

“You look like shit.” Finley comments, one hand on the steering wheel and one on the McGriddle.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. How far are we from a truck stop? I need a shower.” He glances down at his phone for a moment.

“About twenty minutes. And here,” he digs around in the plastic bag beside him, not taking his eyes off the road. “We got you a Diet Coke. It’s still a little cold.” She takes the can and savors the sweet drink.

“Thank you, Fin.” He nods. No other words are exchanged. She stares out the window, enjoying the way the landscape blurs together.

“Did something happen between you and Alan? He seemed pretty torn up at bus call.” She lays her head in her palms, massaging her temples.

“Yeah, you could say that.” He waits patiently for her to elaborate.

“Elliott kissed me. When Alan saw Elliott twisted it around to make it seem like I came onto him. Alan wouldn’t listen to me and Bren didn’t believe me. He thought I was lying.”

Finley doesn’t respond, just nods.

“Have you tried texting Alan?” She shakes her head no.

“Then do it. If you really love him like I think you do, you won’t just give him up.”

She takes a deep breath before taking another swig of Coke.

“And there’s another thing. My brother is back.”

Finley’s eyes bug out as he glances at her with disbelief.

“Since when? And why? And how?” She shrugs. “He just came up to me last night. Well, early this morning. I don’t know why or how. I just told him I hadn’t changed my number and told him to text me later.”

Fin sighs.

“This is bound to be interesting.”

Notes