A Yet to Be Titled Short Story

This is rather longish... Alright, it's long. So, don't feel bad for not reading if you don't want to. I would get intimidated by a War and Peace sorta post like this, trust me. ;)

I don't write very much fiction, but this is something I stayed up late one night typing up, and I don't even know why. It's far from being perfect, and I still think I feel more in my comfort zone with non-fiction, but it was nicely refreshing to come up with otherwise unknown characters who were so raw that their story told itself. 

He didn't ask before he brought her in for a hug and as she gasped for breath she couldn't help but let her stern face melt into the smile that she had been fighting off. Andrew had been Tawny's best friend for the past two years, and she had been in love with him for a year and a half. She couldn't help but let a laugh escape as he held his strong, tan arms tightly around her; as if he had won a prize that he was too conceited to put down. She laughed because he wasn't even close to knowing how much she cared. That's the way she wanted it. 

 She had always been the one to be picked on since she was a tiny girl in pigtails and had an a orange-stained Popsicle face. Anything and everything about her appearance had been put down for over the years by the girls she grew up with, who called her their "friend". She was reminded how she needed to lose weight, cover her acne scars, update her wardrobe, and everything else all in the name of friendship. One day she let it all in and let them go. Without anyone to talk to and crying in the classics section of a bookstore is how Andrew found her. He was the football star at his college, voted the most charismatic, was model good-looking,and also the campus mission leader. It was all too much for the little book nerd girl in glasses to take in while they traded life stories in the bookstore floor, sitting Indian-style across from each other. She didn't have great accomplishments to be proud of. She wasn't attending college, she couldn't afford it yet. All she had to her name was being a freelance writer, for tiny, local magazines. She led such a small life in comparison.

 Looking down at the ground, she could not even begin to imagine that he would stick around, but he did. He asked for her number. But that day they made it clear to each other that they were only friends and that was always enough. As long as he was close enough so she could hear his laugh, she was alright. It was amazing to her though when he started to became attached. She was the one he called in the middle of the night when his girlfriend broke his heart. She was the one who held his hand when his grandmother passed away. She was also the one who prayed with him when his parents were talking about separating. And here she was in his arms. She wanted him to never let her go; all the while she also knew it had to end, but it was one of those moments that don't happen often; the ones that come around only a handful of times, when you would take away twenty years of your life to just live in it for another twenty seconds. She loved the one who held her with a broken heart that had been glued back together and she didn't tell him because she trembled at the thought that it may fall apart again. He had promised he'd be at her very first piano recital but he missed it and it hurt. It more than anything reminded her how ridiculous she had been to let herself get so close to a boy who didn't love her, but the second she saw his face he was forgiven.

 He didn't believe it though, so he just kept holding onto her until all was right. It terrified him at the idea of losing the best friend he had and so as he let her go he hoped she had somehow forgotten how he had broken a promise she never would have dared to. His mind ran back to the afternoon he came across a red-faced girl in black frames, quietly sobbing over a cardboard coffee cup, looking down at the ground where he could see nothing of interest other than ink stains where some child had drawn a smiley face that looked to have been there for years. All he was doing was searching for a copy of Jane Eyre for his literature class. He had no intention of having a heart to heart with a helpless, wet-eyed girl. At first it was uneasy; comforting females in distress wasn't exactly his specialty after all. But with a rub of his forehead he made a giant, brisk step in front of her that made the poor thing jump back at least a foot. His deep blue eyes sparkled and mouth crinkled up, thinking back on it. All of his life he'd been popular, but never had he met anyone who he would even dare let get close to him. For some reason he changed his mind with her and never did regret it. She didn't have enough carelessness in her to let him down, no matter how many times he did. She put up with his obnoxious friends, immature humor and insensitivity. Sure she rolled her eyes and made dry remarks back, but that was Tawny and he loved her for it.

 Suddenly she looked up from her feet to see a face that was drained and white as snow. "A-a-andrew... what's wrong?" She stuttered out of fear with what her eyes saw before her. His hands started shaking. She had never seen him like that, and right as she was about to walk him over to sit down, he grabbed up both of her hands in his. "Tawny, I--I don't know how to begin." "It's alright, whatever you have to tell me, I'll understand. You know me, so don't be scared." She said, trying her best to make eye contact, while his head was bobbing around, purposely looking at everything but her. He was nervous. She had seen him near to the point of tears, so mad he broke one of his high school football trophies, but never had she seen him nervous and it worried her more than she was letting on. "You're never going to forgive me. I'm your best friend, your only friend. You thought you could count on me, and I've let you down." He choked out almost in a whisper. "Is that it? You're so crazy, Andy! I've forgiven you. You couldn't make it to the recital. It's done, you goof ball. Forget about it." She smiled away the concern that was still nagging at her. "It's not that, Tawny. I wish it was that. It's happened, what I promised wouldn't happen to us when we first met that day in the bookstore." "What's that?" She rushed, almost cutting him off. "I, well... I've fallen for you. And I'm so mad, I could punch myself right in the mouth. I'm so sorry. I know this has made everything confusing when we wanted it to be simple. You needed a friend and my feelings had to get tangled up. I've known it for longer than I've admitted to myself, and now I just don't know what to do. I can't-- I can't find anyone else now because I love you. And when you get a boyfriend I'm going to be so jealous, I know probably pull out that old baseball bat of mine. I can't do this to you, I can't make you deal with having to see me upset every time we meet up. If there was a way to fix this, I would. I know you're probably furious right now, you probably want to slap me down. You counted on me, and I've let you down in much more than by missing that recital last night. What can I do to make it right?" He started rubbing his forehead just like the day they met and she noticed a tear trail down his five o'clock shadow. Her head slanted to one side; her crooked mouth formed an O shape, which she was completely oblivious of. Wiping his tear off, she threw both arms around his neck. It jolted him back and took him a few seconds to process what had happened. His mouth crinkled again, he looked down, took her head in his, pulled it back from his chest, and before he could lean down to kiss her, through blinking damp eyes and thick glasses, she nearly sung out an "I love you.", that to this day he promises sounded like the bridge to his favorite song.

 They held hands a lot that day, were planning their future by the next Monday, and a year later he snatched her hand, dragging her through to the classics section, right in front of where they sale Jane Eyre. Her crooked mouth formed that same O. His voice faltered, cracking into brokenness; his hands started shaking. He had no idea what to say--always being the one to speak clearly in front of crowds, he found himself speechless every time he worked on a single syllable that day. Looking to the floor to where the ink stain was still forming a smiley face, he eased down onto his knee. 

Thinking back, neither one remembers if any vocal words were actually spoken in those few moments, but to this story that doesn't matter so much after all.