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FDTS - Pt. 1, Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

As relieved as I was that Scott didn't have round two with Joey and Martin that night, in retrospect I almost wish they had hashed out their differences then and there. It's up for debate whether or not that would have changed what happened next, but so long as the possibility exists, it's something I'll constantly wonder about.

Two months went by; the leaves changed color as fall found its way into our corner of North Carolina. The weather turned colder, although on the day I found myself sprinting to my car – shooting occasional glances at my watch – autumn displayed how fickle-minded Southern seasons can be while slapping me with a gust of unseasonably warm air. A sweat broke out on my face and my eyes lifted to the sky while I dug into my pocket for my car keys. Shit. I left the office late and needed to hurry if I was going to make it home in time.

Earlier that week, Scott and Melissa invited me to go out bowling with them – an invitation I only accepted because my nights out had been few and far between amidst work and job hunting. A game of pool and a beer were rarities in my world, but something else was becoming even more rare in the apartment I shared with Scott Reilly. Melissa's presence.

As I mentioned before, Scott and Mel were often two ships passing in the night, but by the point this outing had been arranged, Scott'd been seeing her less and less; something that was a matter of great concern to him. He dealt with it silently, as was his way, but broken dates littered the past two months and left Scott standing in the wake of perpetual highs and lows.

Because of this, Scott looked forward to the night out and though I muscled my way through Raleigh-Durham traffic with every ounce of horsepower I could pump into my dilapidated Camry, the clock on my car stereo mocked me each time I looked at it. Seven o'clock encroached upon me before I knew it, and it was well past seven-thirty by the time I finally raced up the stairs and arrived at the door to our apartment.

Something peculiar struck me as I fumbled through my keys for the one belonging to the apartment, though. Loud music thumping from the other side of the door which usually only meant one thing.

Scott was practicing his Karate exercises.

I glanced at my watch again, furrowing my brow before working on unlocking the door again. Granted, I was ten minutes past when we said we'd leave, but it wasn't like Scott to mess himself up doing something intensely physical when he'd normally be working on looking suave and preppy. The music became louder when I opened the door and I couldn't help but to mentally examine my schedule. I had the right day, didn't I?

Scott didn't say anything to me as I paused by the doorway into the living room and lowered my laptop onto the ground. He was too focused, his face contorted into a high form of determination as he spun his bo staff quickly, shifting it from one hand to the other. He thrust it forward, stepped and kicked, then spun around and thrust it forward one more time, letting out a shout as he did.

Then he stopped. Out of breath, he remained still while staring out the sliding glass door to the balcony. His chest rose and fell, but not another part of his body moved for an interminable pause.

I wondered if I was supposed to start clapping.

“Hi, Andy,” he said, relaxing his position. He tucked his staff underneath his arm, sweat pouring from his face as he looked at me. Clad only in a black t-shirt and the black pants belonging to a Karate uniform, Scott looked nowhere near ready for a night out on the town. “You're late.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, defensiveness already bubbling into the back of my throat like a poorly-timed case of indigestion. Scott walked over to his stereo system and switched off the music, leaving us in deafening silence. I perked an eyebrow at him while mentally feeling out just what the hell was going on. “Aren't we all going out tonight? Or do I have my days mixed up again?”

Scott frowned. I saw a flicker of aggravation pass in his eyes as he scoffed and tossed his staff onto the couch. “I don't know, Andy. Are we?”

“That's. . . what I thought you said. Thursday night, you'd finish work early; the three of us would go out bowling. I recall some promise of Melissa maybe grabbing her roommate to tag along as well.” I cleared my throat and scratched the back of my neck. “Was I. . . um. . . mistaken?”

Scott stretched his arms out behind his back and chuckled, but the laugh wasn't comical. As he turned to face the sliding glass door again, he launched into a kick-and-punch sequence and seemed to get more frustrated the longer he spoke. “Yes, that's what we had planned isn't it? I work my ass off for that weasel-faced bastard, Mark Gustafson, and try to sneak away from a mound of paperwork to get home early. We meet Mel and Paula and have a few drinks, play a game of bowling and maybe shoot a game of pool. Nothing rocket science about the concept, right?”

“Look, Scott. . .” I walked fully into the living room, interlacing my fingers with strands of my hair as I struggled to remember the last time I'd pissed him off like this. “I'm sorry I was late. All I needed to do was change clothes and splash a little water on my face and I would have been ready to go.”

Scott stopped kicking thin air and turned to face me, an eyebrow perked. “What are you talking about?”

“You being pissed with me. I know you've been tense lately, but criminy.” I frowned. “I can only do what I can do, man. I have a boss, too, and traffic was murder.”

His hands still being balled in fists did nothing to make me feel any easier about the safety of my neck, but when he lowered them and relaxed them by his side, I noticed the frustration dissipate and breathed a sigh of relief. “No, Andy,” he said. His eyes shifted away from mine. “I'm not mad at you.”

Maybe there was a God after all. Tempted to make a sarcastic comment about fearing for my life, I watched instead as my best friend walked over to the black, leather chair and sat. There was a moment's hesitation where it seemed Scott was lost somewhere in thought, leaving me only the ticking of the clock as the soundtrack to our stalemate, him mute and me too stupid to ask what was wrong. It came out anyway. “Melissa called,” he finally said.

I should have known. “She did?” I asked, in an effort to prod him along.

Scott's eyes turned solemn. He studied the floorboards. “Yeah.”

“I take it she didn't have good news.”

“You could say that.”

“I just did. Saying it again would be redundant.”

The joke didn't even generate a slight curl of the lip. Uh oh. Walking over to the matching couch, I sat slowly and knitted my hands together on my lap. “What is it, man?” I asked.

He shook his head, lifting it to afford him better scenery – if the wall behind the television could be considered that. “She's preoccupied,” he said as he slicked back loose strands of his auburn hair. “Said she had a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Oh.” This time, I was the one who hesitated. I cleared my throat as a few scattered thoughts formed in my head, but it didn't seem like my place to insert commentary on this whole situation, even if it was quickly degrading into the realm of fubar. My mother had a favored expression – don't deposit two cents when you don't have the change to spare – and it rang within my mind while I scolded myself with the knowledge that I'd never been in the same spot Scott occupied.

Still, the air hung tense between us. Scott's eyes finally shifted over to me and remained there even when I looked away. “Please say it,” he muttered.

I glanced at him quickly, then decided to take my turn counting the cracks in the wall. “Say what?”

“What you're thinking.”

“I don't make a habit of thinking; it's bad for the neurons. Wears them out faster.”

“Andy. . .”

I sighed, rubbing my face with my hand before plopping it back onto my lap. My eyes finally dared themselves to look at Scott again and when I complied, my mouth followed suit. “I'm just wondering how long you're going to play this game with yourself, Scott.”

Scott furrowed his brow. “What game?”

“You know what game I'm talking about.” Once the wave of words started, they couldn't seem to stop. I shifted in my seat enough to face him better. “Man, you know I think you and Mel are like carrots and peas – or however the hell that expression goes – and I'd love nothing more for you than for some insulin shock inducing lovefest to commence between you guys that attached you both at the hip. Because I know that's what you want. You want her here and even though you denied it, I know you proposed to her in an effort to draw her closer to you.”

Scott looked away and didn't answer.

I continued. “It's not going to happen that way, though. You might get the Norman Rockwell life replete with white picket fence and two-point-five children, but she's her own girl and has always been. It just makes me wonder. . .” I trailed off.

He glanced back at me. “Wonder what?” he asked.

I sighed again. “Are you sure you want to get married to her?”

“What in the world makes you ask that?”

“Come on, look at this.” I pointed my hand at Scott. “Look at you. You're pissed. Now, I'm not saying you don't have a reason to be, but this isn't the first time I've seen you ready to punch a wall in the past couple of months.”

Scott didn't answer right away. He looked down at his hands, then took a deep breath and shook his head. “Andy, I love her,” he says.

“I know you do, but it's obvious she has a different place for you in her life than you do for her.” I hated to say it that way, but visions of helping him pick up the pieces of a failed marriage five years down the road seemed more of a possibility these days than it had when they walked through the doors of Boston Pete's, reflecting the afterglow of their proposal. I'd not seen the glow since then. I'd seen a very frustrated friend and an increasingly distant woman. And Scott was not adjusting accordingly. “You have to come to grips with the fact that she might not love you the same way you love her.”

He still didn't look at me, even when I stopped talking and watched him intently, waiting for a reaction. “She's complex, Andy,” he said. “It's hard to understand.”

I didn't have a chance to respond; Scott stood and smoothed back his unruly bangs again while walking toward the kitchen. “It's just as well,” he said. “I have to prepare for court tomorrow and could stand to review the paperwork again before the morning.” I watched him walk into the kitchen, catching the glow of florescent lights being flicked on as they spilled out into the hallway. The reaction generated a frown, but I didn't stand up and walk over to him. Instead, I listened to him add, “We're having lunch. She says she wants to talk wedding plans, so everything's going to be okay.”

I nodded and decided against responding, but Scott emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of water and leaned against the door frame while downing a hearty gulp. He looked at me and sighed. “I know she loves me,” he said, as though he had something to prove. “Stupid stuff like this isn't worth calling off an entire wedding. I think I'm just letting myself get too upset about who she's spending time with these days.”

Pictures of Joey and Martin flashed through my mind. “Yeah, I can understand that,” I muttered.

Scott nodded and disappeared down the hallway, secluding himself inside his bedroom while I went about foraging for food. The rest of the evening was uneventful and when I came back from a run to the local pizzeria, I coaxed Scott out with a couple of slices and a mellow conversation bereft of Melissa talk.

Over the course of the next week, however, things started getting weird.

It began with lunch the next day.



Story Beginning | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
More Andy! :dance:

Tried working a few things around in this chapter segment to make it flow better. Will be doing some massive rewrites in the next portion, so let me know if something's not working. It's like messing with a painting too much. Hard to find the line between making it better and screwing everything up. :dohtwo: Hopefully I'm doing the former here.

Thanks, as always, for reading. :hug:
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ZomaS-M's avatar
Oh yes!

Typo.

"The joke didn't even generate a slight curl of the lip. Ut oh."