alyssa

Nothing scares me more than the sea at night.

Dusty Springfield's heater groans as we idle in the gravel lot of the beach. I can't help but stare at the choppy ocean waves in the headlights, how they slam against the shore unrelentingly. Just over and over, again and again and again, without repent. My legs are jittery and shaking and so, so painful, so much their own now that they act of their own accord. The pain is earth-shattering, but I'm not crying. I might be used to it at this point. Who knows.

The lead-up to tailing-out has never lasted this long before. It's never hurt this much, either, but I still have control over my limbs. I'm just waiting here, waiting for it to strike. And, if it's as bad as Mom's was, bad enough to make her leave forever, then the ocean is right there.

I have preemptive goodbyes written on my phone. To Dad, to Tanner, even to Max. Elliot's is the only one I can't finish. I'm stuck in the Notes app, completely out of my element. I don't know how to give goodbyes. I only know how to take off.

Elliot. I don't know how to say this, but I'm sorry. I can't stay here. It's too much.

And that's all I have. It seems too shitty.

I keep rereading that last sentence. It's too much. Is that what Mom thought? That this was too much? Because, I keep stewing it over in my head, but ... this isn't the most terrible thing in the world. The tail. It's stressful and it's painful and I would give pretty much anything not to have to worry about it, but ... why is it making decisions for me?

I close out of the Notes app and head to Instagram.

I never followed that tea Instagram because of what they said about Tanner, but I know the handle. When I look it up, it's all there. Everything Neema told Elliot about.

My chest twists. There's a lot.

I ignore the stabbing, crawling sensations in my legs, now slowly moving up past my hips and towards my ribs, and start reading. It's ... it's terrible. A few people don't realise that the f-slur is something they don't get to say. But honestly, that might be the least offensive thing in these posts.

The fifth one from the top is the only nice one.

This is Jace Westerfeld. I don't care who knows it. All this homophobia in town needs to come to a stop. We all know who runs this account. We all know how they treat us at school. Why are we supporting this toxicity and hate??? If you get off on this, you're a terrible person. Elliot Moreno is one of the nicest people you'll meet, and you can't tell me I'm wrong. She's the first to help someone with homework and is surprisingly easy to talk to, and she believes the best in everyone. Even the girls who made this account. She also doesn't talk back, something I guess has made it easy for y'all to attack her. That's seriously fucked up. You all would rather attack a good person over who they love instead of the twisted, sadistic bitches who run this account. You should be ashamed of yourselves. I'm sorry, Elliot. You deserve better.

The caption reads: oh noooo, im so scared, hahaha. im a twisted sadistic bitch oh nooooo im crying awwwwwhhhh. shouldnt have been a fucking dyke fag slut, huh. that goes for jace too lollll. A comment says that they've both "destroyed" their reputations with their sexualities. I can't read any more threads.

I didn't realise it was this bad.

There's this anger boiling up inside me. It presses up against my lungs and burns through my veins, rushing towards my head and making me dizzy. What am I doing here? Because I was upset that Elliot was too upset to ask me what was wrong, for literally the first time ever?

She's not like Max.

I open my text messages. Nothing new from Elliot, but there's an unread text from Max from a couple of weeks ago, before they gave up trying to get in touch with me.

I hope you're okay, it reads. I really miss talking to you. Let me know if you want to catch up sometime. I miss my best friend.

We weren't as close as Elliot and I already are. Still, Max was good while they lasted, I think. Tanner was right. I do overreact. Maybe I'm like Mom in that small way—I blow things out of proportion, and I use them as an excuse.

Elliot deserves more than that. She goes out of her way to make sure I'm as comfortable as possible. She goes above and beyond what I could ever think to ask of her. She always does her best to make sure I'm comfortable and I'm respected.

She puts so much into this. Into us. Into me. She's not the Max. I am.

Dusty Springfield's engine splutters, then revs, and I whip out of the parking space in reverse, unsteady on the wet gravel. My heart booms in my chest, and even though it hurts, I push the pedal as far down as I am, the sound of Dusty rapidly speeding up mingled with the not-so-distant grumbling of thunder.

I go to her house first, but she's not there. I didn't see her car in the Cumm-n-Gitt lot when I passed, either. My next bet would be Neema's, but I don't know where she lives, so I cross my fingers and pray she's at Duncan's.

At this point, I don't care if I fish out in front of Duncan or Neema. I don't care if I fish out in front of Elliot's parents. I don't care if I fish out in front of anyone. I just need to get to Elliot, because she doesn't deserve to be alone with those horrific Instagram posts right now.

My right leg seizes up, and I coast through a puddle while I use one hand to shift it out of the way. Fuck. It's so raw, so tender, that the contact makes me want to scream. It feels like using a knife to electrocute a bruise. It jolts all the way up to my hip, up my lower back, fizzling out right beneath my shoulder blades. I shudder and arch my back. All I want is to cry. I can feel scales starting to press up beneath my skin. Fighting this is fucking hell.

With shaking hands, I awkwardly tug my left leg over to the gas pedal and continue the rest of the short block to Duncan's house.

The street looks different beneath the starless, stormy night sky. Earlier, it was that comfortable kind of summer muggy, the type that summer-set movies feel made of. Now, it just feels inhospitable and foreboding. I'm not welcome here.

My heart sinks when I realise that Elliot's car isn't there—and then I spot the giant, lanky figure rush out into the middle of the street. I slam on the breaks. It hurts so much that I bite my own tongue and taste blood, and a few hot tears roll down my cheeks.

The figure races up to my hood and slams their hands down, and all I can think is that Elliot is here. Elliot is here.

I fumble with my seatbelt. My fingers don't want to bend, so I have to angle my thumb just right to unbuckle. The door's handle is easier. But when I scooch out of the van, I have to hop down onto the flooded asphalt, and my legs don't have the strength to support me.

The burning pain of what was likely me splitting my knees and palms open dissipates after a few seconds—partly due to it immediately mingling with and fading in with every other wretched sensation rampaging through my treacherous body right now, but also because there's no other option. It's either stew here in the street, or go to her.

Strong hands grip my shoulders tight, so tight that I whimper. "Alyssa?" says a voice that's not Elliot's.

I squint up through the rain. "Duncan?" My voice cracks. "Where's Elliot?"

"She-she just took off that way. God! Fuck! Okay. Maybe we can catch up to her. Okay. Shit. Can you stand?"

No, I want to say. Instead, I croak, "Just help me to the backseat. You can drive."

Without another word, Duncan bends down and scoops me up, carrying me in the same bridal style that Elliot deferred to. My head lolls side to side of its own accord.

Duncan tries to situate me in the back, but there's not much he can do. I tell him to start driving, and I do my best to get comfortable stretched out across the seats.

My legs are suddenly close together, and I feel it start. I find myself biting down on the sleeve of Elliot's sweatshirt. I need to get undressed. Oh my fucking God, I need to get undressed. I manage to regain enough control of my head to glance down and see scales popping up along my shins, glinting menacingly in the light provided by a massive, spindalling bolt of lightning.

I can't move my arms. Or my legs. Duncan is zooming far above the speed limit, so I don't think he'd notice if I suddenly got undressed in the back seats. But, I. Can't. Move.

He doesn't notice my sniffling as I try again and again. This isn't some battle of wills to be won. I can't do it. I seriously cannot do it.

I shimmy my shoulders and get myself flat on my back. My left leg drops off the fabric seats, and I cry out, but it should tide me over. For a few minutes, at least.

"Are you okay?" Duncan asks from the front seat. It sounds like a demand. The windshield wipers are working full force, and Dusty's bright headlights reveal a wall of water, yellow and shining and unrelenting.

I am so obviously not fine. "I'll be okay," I manage between grit teeth. "Please find Elliot."

"I'm trying," he says. "I'm really trying. I'm just so fucking mad. She came to me, and I wasn't enough to help her, and it's such fucking SHIT that she even needs help in the first place, because those assholes can't leave her alone. It's so unfair. She doesn't deserve this."

I might manage to shift my legs a little farther. The scales are still there, but I don't feel any new ones trying to shred me apart from the inside. "She doesn't. No one does."

"She told me I couldn't understand it." Duncan turns too sharp of a corner. Dusty Springfield makes a screeching noise. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Let go of the gas!"

"I did! Fuck, sorry, fuck, sorry. We hydroplaned. Sorry."

"Yeah. I know." I suck in a breath and try to see if I can manage any more separation.

"I know I can't understand everything you guys go through. But it's so frustrating"—he takes this next corner slower—"to know that I can't, like, be everything you need me to be. I know I'm about as privileged as it gets. But, fuck, can't I be there?"

"You're racing through the rain right now," I say. Thank goodness the radio is off. I'm way too quiet. "You're breaking at least six laws right now with your driving. You're a good friend."

"She's worth it," he says. "Elliot is ... she's one of my favorite people."

My eyes sting. "Mine, too."

"She just loves. So much."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. And she makes it feel so easy, loving back."

I can't wipe any tears away, and I can't turn my head, so I just stare up at Dusty's ceiling in the dark. "She really does."

A/N - it's 3:43 AM, and instead of working on my new WIP, I rewrote chapters 31 and 32 because I reaaaally did not like my climax.

I was talking to heidi_merriman, though, and I realised where I needed to take this. FINALLY. (Also, give her a follow; she rocks hehehe.) (She literally gave me this awesome keyboard so I could write this summer, because I am laptopless. INEFFABLE HUSBANDS BLESS YOU!)

So like, it's now 3:45 AM? And I think I'm going to keep writing?

Ironically, I'm listening to "Insomniac" by DREAMERS right now.

I've missed you guys! I hope you enjoy the oncoming clusterfuck of queer angst.