Post by SomethingAboutTheStars on Feb 3, 2012 0:25:27 GMT -5
Thank you, greysonluvsme13, greysongal97, and Shinichi17CP for commenting on the last chapter. And please, excuse this huge long chapter. Uhm, well, i guess if i don't post often, that having a long chapter is okay, right?
Well...also, have you checked out my friend WalktheRainbows's story, Hanging By a Thread? If you have answered no, SHAME ON YOU! She's a fantastic writer and could use more comments! <3 Chapter 1: thegreysonchanceforum.com/index.cgi?board=hanging&action=display&thread=831 Enjoy!
Thanks for reading and I hope you like it! Please comment!
“Please!” I’m following Barney around the store again.
“My goodness, Greyson. You are a little stalker,” Barney says. He’s walking around the upper level, trying to lose me. It’s not a very smart move on his part. The store is big, but it’s not like it’s flooded with people that we could get lost in. The only hope of getting lost is in the labyrinth of aisles, but Barney and I know the way around like the backs of our hands.
“It’s not like she knows! And you said you give it to me,” I tell him.
“After you put away the CDs,” he reminds me.
“I did put away the CDs. And the used records. And the DVDs. And the stinking VHS tapes!” I protest.
“I guess that’s true,” Barney says with false thoughtfulness.
“You are taking advantage of me,” I say sternly.
“Your phone is ringing,” he repeats in my same tone.
“It is not,” I carry the sentence like a tune, keeping it the same.
“Yes it is,” Barney follows my example.
I hear Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” playing. I smile with embarrassment.
“I think it’s time you get a new ringtone,” Barney suggests.
“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” I laugh and press the talk button. “Hey, this is Greyson.”
“Greyson?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure I know what my name is…Anyways, who’s this?” I feel my eyebrows rise.
“It’s Lorence.”
I turn to Barney, trying to keep my mouth closed. He’s laughing silently, pointing at me. Then he grabs his phone from his pocket and snaps a picture of me. I wave my hand at him with annoyance.
“Shut up,” I mouth.
“I’m not talking,” he mouths back.
I roll my eyes, then turn back to my sort of conversation.
“Hey, sorry about that,” I apologize.
“No problem.” She’s talking so stiffly.
“So, what’s going on?” I say. I want to ask her if she’d like to a movie. And where she got my number, but she doesn’t seem like she’s in the mood.
“I um,” she pauses, “I’m not sure.”
I wait. There’s not really a reply to that.
“So, Greyson…do you know what’s going on?”
I shake my head, and then remember that I’m talking on a phone. “No, I don’t.”
“Well….I kind of got your number off a puzzle…”
“A puzzle?! What puzzle?” My voice rises. But then I remember that I don’t need to worry about that now.
“Calm down. I think it’s exclusively mine,” she says.
“So, why was my number on your puzzle?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
There’s not really a reply to that either. “Well, why don’t we talk this over a cup of coffee?”
I hear the smile in her voice. “Sure. We can talk it over a cup of tea.”
I’m pacing back and forth, unable to sit still. Sweat is pooling in my hands and the café is too hot inside, so I walk back and forth right outside the building. Stephen is back inside, but I know he’s watching me. I kick the chunks of brown snow into the street, listening as tires crush them. What am I doing?
Does he even know anything?
That’s what bothers me.
The fear that haunts me all the time, everyday. What if I didn’t decode it right?
I want to explode but something that somehow still has kept its sanity is telling me I have to keep my cool. The snow is melting on my head and the cold water is trickling down my back. I huff, watching as my breath clouds in the air.
Why is it that I panic myself and go to a meeting spot hours earlier so I freak out in public? Why can’t I freak out in the solitude of my apartment?
There’s sweat on my hands. It’s starting to cool and my palms are getting cold. I wipe them on my stiff jacket, but it does little to absorb the perspiration. I hear the quiet tap grow louder as my feet hit the sidewalk faster and louder.
He is coming. He has to.
My hands go to my hair and I grab at the strands, twisting them through my fingers. I’m probably doing nothing that’s beneficial to it, but I’m way beyond caring now. It doesn’t matter that I spent what seemed like hours on it to make it fall the way I wanted it to. The only thing that matters is Greyson coming.
“Aren’t you cold?” someone asks from behind me. I turn around. There’s a young man standing there. (Well, he is about my age but I don’t call myself a girl and I don’t want to call him a boy, it doesn’t seem like the right word.) His hair is dark brown, nearly black, like mine. It’s short and he’s spiked it up in the front, not too much that it looks greasy, but not too little that it falls back over. His eyes are a gorgeous, dark brown; it reminds me of coffee shop mornings. There’s a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, from one tip of his smiling mouth to the other.
“Greyson,” I greeted.
“Hi, Lorence,” he smiled even more. “Why don’t we talk inside? You look like an icicle.”
I nod. He leads me inside by my cold, sweaty palms. When we’re in the hot smells of coffee and dough fills my nose as usual, and it’s strangely comforting. I brush the invisible snow from my hair, combing it flat after I’ve taken off my hat.
“Would you like a coffee?” Greyson offers politely.
I shake my head. “No thank you.”
Greyson orders some old fashioned tea. It smells amazing. He rips a packet of sugar open and I watch as the white crystals disappear—defenseless against the hot tea.
“So,” he says, setting his mug back down after taking a sip. “You have a puzzle with my number on it.”
“Yes,” I reply simply. My fingers busy themselves by tearing at a napkin.
“How’d you get it?” Greyson tears another packet of sugar open and pours it into his tea. He uses a spoon to stir it in. I watch the liquid swirl around like a whirl pool. Then my eyes dart up to meet his. I see that his cheeks are blushing red from the cold outside.
“It’s a really long story,” I tell him, looking away after I feel my face heating. A simple glance. I’m acting like a school girl. It was a simple, simple, glance and I’m blushing.
“I have all the time in the world,” Greyson smiles and leans forward. He rests his arms on the table and stares at me. His sincere look shatters after a moment. “Well, almost all the time. I need to work again tomorrow, but…”
I smile at him. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
And starting slowly and quietly, the whole story falls from my lips.
“There was a time when I felt like I was on top of the world. I had fans, so many believed in me. It’s true, celebrities seem like they’re immortal. I felt immortal. Like I could never die. But I did. Metaphorically, of course,” I add. Greyson smiles, a gentle grin playing on his sweet lips.
“I started dying—metaphorically—when he got sick. My manager. He had some heart issue, and it tore away at him slowly. It was awful. He came to work looking sicker and sicker, weaker and weaker until he collapsed one day. And that was the end. Or so I thought.
“He left me a box. It was small, like a cigar box. Inside, it held two necklaces, a charm bracelet with one charm, and a note. The note, has sort of, led me to you.”
Greyson looks at me. I don’t know if he believes me. The tale does seem far-fetched, I will agree. I’m hoping he knows I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I’d know that. Then he takes his tea, sips it and smiles. For some reason, in this conversation that is not at all charming, I’m charmed by him. I like that he can’t seem to stop smiling, that he wants to joke endlessly, that his eyes are so full of life. It makes me want to smile.
“That wasn’t as long a story as I imagined,” he says. “And I get it—“ he adds as I start to protest. “Thanks for clearing it up.”
I nod, unable to do much more. I want to ask if he can help me, but I feel that would be awkward and sounding like a needy, whiny girl. Greyson sips more tea and then stares at me with those brown eyes.
“Hey, Lorence, would you like to go have dinner?”
My face lights up without permission. Greyson finishes his tea, stands up, takes my hand, and plants a kiss on it. His lips are soft and gentle.
“Meet me at the Spotlight at six thirty?” he suggests hopefully.
I can’t move. My mouth is malfunctioning.
He smiles and then he’s gone.
Well...also, have you checked out my friend WalktheRainbows's story, Hanging By a Thread? If you have answered no, SHAME ON YOU! She's a fantastic writer and could use more comments! <3 Chapter 1: thegreysonchanceforum.com/index.cgi?board=hanging&action=display&thread=831 Enjoy!
Thanks for reading and I hope you like it! Please comment!
Chapter 12
Greyson
“Please!” I’m following Barney around the store again.
“My goodness, Greyson. You are a little stalker,” Barney says. He’s walking around the upper level, trying to lose me. It’s not a very smart move on his part. The store is big, but it’s not like it’s flooded with people that we could get lost in. The only hope of getting lost is in the labyrinth of aisles, but Barney and I know the way around like the backs of our hands.
“It’s not like she knows! And you said you give it to me,” I tell him.
“After you put away the CDs,” he reminds me.
“I did put away the CDs. And the used records. And the DVDs. And the stinking VHS tapes!” I protest.
“I guess that’s true,” Barney says with false thoughtfulness.
“You are taking advantage of me,” I say sternly.
“Your phone is ringing,” he repeats in my same tone.
“It is not,” I carry the sentence like a tune, keeping it the same.
“Yes it is,” Barney follows my example.
I hear Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” playing. I smile with embarrassment.
“I think it’s time you get a new ringtone,” Barney suggests.
“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” I laugh and press the talk button. “Hey, this is Greyson.”
“Greyson?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure I know what my name is…Anyways, who’s this?” I feel my eyebrows rise.
“It’s Lorence.”
I turn to Barney, trying to keep my mouth closed. He’s laughing silently, pointing at me. Then he grabs his phone from his pocket and snaps a picture of me. I wave my hand at him with annoyance.
“Shut up,” I mouth.
“I’m not talking,” he mouths back.
I roll my eyes, then turn back to my sort of conversation.
“Hey, sorry about that,” I apologize.
“No problem.” She’s talking so stiffly.
“So, what’s going on?” I say. I want to ask her if she’d like to a movie. And where she got my number, but she doesn’t seem like she’s in the mood.
“I um,” she pauses, “I’m not sure.”
I wait. There’s not really a reply to that.
“So, Greyson…do you know what’s going on?”
I shake my head, and then remember that I’m talking on a phone. “No, I don’t.”
“Well….I kind of got your number off a puzzle…”
“A puzzle?! What puzzle?” My voice rises. But then I remember that I don’t need to worry about that now.
“Calm down. I think it’s exclusively mine,” she says.
“So, why was my number on your puzzle?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
There’s not really a reply to that either. “Well, why don’t we talk this over a cup of coffee?”
I hear the smile in her voice. “Sure. We can talk it over a cup of tea.”
Lorence
I’m pacing back and forth, unable to sit still. Sweat is pooling in my hands and the café is too hot inside, so I walk back and forth right outside the building. Stephen is back inside, but I know he’s watching me. I kick the chunks of brown snow into the street, listening as tires crush them. What am I doing?
Does he even know anything?
That’s what bothers me.
The fear that haunts me all the time, everyday. What if I didn’t decode it right?
I want to explode but something that somehow still has kept its sanity is telling me I have to keep my cool. The snow is melting on my head and the cold water is trickling down my back. I huff, watching as my breath clouds in the air.
Why is it that I panic myself and go to a meeting spot hours earlier so I freak out in public? Why can’t I freak out in the solitude of my apartment?
There’s sweat on my hands. It’s starting to cool and my palms are getting cold. I wipe them on my stiff jacket, but it does little to absorb the perspiration. I hear the quiet tap grow louder as my feet hit the sidewalk faster and louder.
He is coming. He has to.
My hands go to my hair and I grab at the strands, twisting them through my fingers. I’m probably doing nothing that’s beneficial to it, but I’m way beyond caring now. It doesn’t matter that I spent what seemed like hours on it to make it fall the way I wanted it to. The only thing that matters is Greyson coming.
“Aren’t you cold?” someone asks from behind me. I turn around. There’s a young man standing there. (Well, he is about my age but I don’t call myself a girl and I don’t want to call him a boy, it doesn’t seem like the right word.) His hair is dark brown, nearly black, like mine. It’s short and he’s spiked it up in the front, not too much that it looks greasy, but not too little that it falls back over. His eyes are a gorgeous, dark brown; it reminds me of coffee shop mornings. There’s a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, from one tip of his smiling mouth to the other.
“Greyson,” I greeted.
“Hi, Lorence,” he smiled even more. “Why don’t we talk inside? You look like an icicle.”
I nod. He leads me inside by my cold, sweaty palms. When we’re in the hot smells of coffee and dough fills my nose as usual, and it’s strangely comforting. I brush the invisible snow from my hair, combing it flat after I’ve taken off my hat.
“Would you like a coffee?” Greyson offers politely.
I shake my head. “No thank you.”
Greyson orders some old fashioned tea. It smells amazing. He rips a packet of sugar open and I watch as the white crystals disappear—defenseless against the hot tea.
“So,” he says, setting his mug back down after taking a sip. “You have a puzzle with my number on it.”
“Yes,” I reply simply. My fingers busy themselves by tearing at a napkin.
“How’d you get it?” Greyson tears another packet of sugar open and pours it into his tea. He uses a spoon to stir it in. I watch the liquid swirl around like a whirl pool. Then my eyes dart up to meet his. I see that his cheeks are blushing red from the cold outside.
“It’s a really long story,” I tell him, looking away after I feel my face heating. A simple glance. I’m acting like a school girl. It was a simple, simple, glance and I’m blushing.
“I have all the time in the world,” Greyson smiles and leans forward. He rests his arms on the table and stares at me. His sincere look shatters after a moment. “Well, almost all the time. I need to work again tomorrow, but…”
I smile at him. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
And starting slowly and quietly, the whole story falls from my lips.
“There was a time when I felt like I was on top of the world. I had fans, so many believed in me. It’s true, celebrities seem like they’re immortal. I felt immortal. Like I could never die. But I did. Metaphorically, of course,” I add. Greyson smiles, a gentle grin playing on his sweet lips.
“I started dying—metaphorically—when he got sick. My manager. He had some heart issue, and it tore away at him slowly. It was awful. He came to work looking sicker and sicker, weaker and weaker until he collapsed one day. And that was the end. Or so I thought.
“He left me a box. It was small, like a cigar box. Inside, it held two necklaces, a charm bracelet with one charm, and a note. The note, has sort of, led me to you.”
Greyson looks at me. I don’t know if he believes me. The tale does seem far-fetched, I will agree. I’m hoping he knows I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I’d know that. Then he takes his tea, sips it and smiles. For some reason, in this conversation that is not at all charming, I’m charmed by him. I like that he can’t seem to stop smiling, that he wants to joke endlessly, that his eyes are so full of life. It makes me want to smile.
“That wasn’t as long a story as I imagined,” he says. “And I get it—“ he adds as I start to protest. “Thanks for clearing it up.”
I nod, unable to do much more. I want to ask if he can help me, but I feel that would be awkward and sounding like a needy, whiny girl. Greyson sips more tea and then stares at me with those brown eyes.
“Hey, Lorence, would you like to go have dinner?”
My face lights up without permission. Greyson finishes his tea, stands up, takes my hand, and plants a kiss on it. His lips are soft and gentle.
“Meet me at the Spotlight at six thirty?” he suggests hopefully.
I can’t move. My mouth is malfunctioning.
He smiles and then he’s gone.