I don’t know where Ryan lives, only that he, too, is in LA, and even though  everyone who is anyone lives in this city, it’s not where I expected him to put down roots. Knowing him back then, he was just as intoxicated by the band’s taste of fame as I was, it was a dream of his to be up there on stage every night. Be recognised. Have fans. But none of it came from any kind of genuine, personal desire for that kind of romanticised lifestyle- because that isn’t and never was the kind of life he could lead for very long, comfortably, as private as he was, as personal as his lyrics were. It was more of a passing fantasy, not ever truly meant to be fulfilled, something he stumbled into by accident and that was brought on stronger by the first sensual brush with stardom. It all escalated so quickly and we were so young and the lyrics he had written really were not meant for the world to hear, and yet he let me sing them, every night, just as I continued to do years after the band split. Whatever desperate obsession he had with the materialistic parts of success dissipated years ago into a more genuine ‘I want to make music’- if the very none-commercial album that he made after forming his own band was anything to go off.

I’m not sure why this all disconnects Ryan, in my head, from Los Angeles. There are plenty of places you can live in this city, plenty of small houses and private places he could hide away in, away from anyone’s eyes. It’s like part of me didn’t want him here, in this big city that can seem so impossibly small sometimes, because the idea of a piece of my past being so close made me feel cagey and trapped, the same exact feeling that reared up whenever I had seen him over the past ten years- apart from at Gabe’s party, where I’d willingly shut myself in a vehicle with him. For no good reason other than curiosity, a lingering sense of connection that turned out to be artificial because that kiss we shared was nothing like the fantastical part of my brain had imagined- it wasn’t prolonged or personal or passionate, it was just. A kiss. And yet, part of me wants to do it again; just in case we hadn’t done it right.

Maybe not a good thing to be thinking about when I’m about to get in his stupid car [i]again.[/i]

Going home from Gabe’s party that night... despite the detachment of the kiss in the back of his car, I felt electric as soon as I stepped out of it, my nerves fired up and my skin static like I’d been truly plugged in for the first time in forever. Despite this sudden rejuvenation and desire to go back into the vehicle, I forced myself to leave him sat there, and immediately called an Uber and went home because I was [i]not[/i] sticking around. Standing out on my balcony that evening, everything became a little more clear, even in the sticky, tacky heat that still stuck to my skin, the remainder of sunshine from the scorching LA afternoon. Clarity wasn’t a refreshing feeling, it washed over me like icy water, a cruel kick in the gut, as I came to the resigned conclusion that I was kidding myself if I said that I hadn’t ever wished things were different between he and I. I realise that I have unknowingly wished upon thousands of stars over the last decade that the unnamed and frustrated feelings I developed for him in our younger years would fade. I’ve subconsciously written his existence into too many songs and lyrics for this to be a normal breed of nostalgia for an old passion.

How was I to know this, though, how was I to explore this, with how uncommonly I thought of him? Part of me wishes I’d just not attended that stupid birthday party a week ago, because I [i]had[/i] moved on. My life was good and I had always been capable of forming romantic relationships with all of his presence gone. We hadn’t even ever [i]dated.[/i] Meeting him again this evening shouldn’t be making me this nervous, I shouldn’t be overthinking what I’m wearing this much- just a faded blue shirt and black trousers, the shirt I changed about three times, cycling through a red t shirt, a patterned button up, just something black, before resting on this practically unworn thing I found in the back of my wardrobe. Before I could stop myself I was styling my too-long hair, too, shaving as well. Like this is some sort of date.

It’s sundown and I haven’t heard from him and I am nervous, apprehensive, excited in some adolescent way to see him again. If he turns up, that is- I check my phone obsessively, almost twice consecutively just in case my eyes tricked me into seeing a blank screen, instead of the ‘Ryan’ I have him saved as. Anxiety makes me stand up, pace around the room, restless- unable to sit still at the best of times, my nervous energy has me wired and spring-loaded more than usual, running my hands through my hair and ruining it before I’ve even stepped outside. Turns out that trying to look good was a pointless endeavour when I will predictably ruin it all anyway.

I look outside and the sky is golden, pink, purple, streaked with clouds. Turning away from the window and considering getting some sort of alcoholic drink to calm my nerves, I’m interrupted by a message tone. My breath comes up short, cutting off abruptly as I look down. It’s not Ryan. It’s fucking Gabriel. Before I read what he has said, there’s a knock at the door that makes me jump, and then a voice- [i]Bren, if you’re in there, give me a sign.[/i] 

I almost trip over myself rushing to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open, hanging on to the hinges, my absolutely now-ruined hair hanging over my eyes as I smile at Ryan, the wind knocked out of me from my impulse bolt to the door. I run my hand through my hair to push it away from my face, let go of the doorframe I was clinging on to with my other hand and straighten up, conscious of his height in comparison to mine. [b]“Hi.”[/b] I say, intelligently, completely ruining my intentions of playing it cool with some sort of indifferent, effortless, cool greeting. [b]“You certainly took your time,”[/b] I say, and it hits me then that he called me ‘Bren’ and I’m still smiling, meet his eyes- [b]“Ry.”[/b] There’s a pause and I wonder if I should go for a handshake, but don’t. Something about that would be too formal. I step out of my doorway and close it behind me, turning to fish my keys from my pocket. I feel his eyes on on the back of my head and take the time I have where he cannot read my expression to swallow nervously. [b]“Where are we going, then?”[/b]