#i’m not going to be sentimental about sharing this space with you in hockey! you’ve heard it all before! i just hope you all know how much | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

miracleonice87 · 4 years

Text

Make You Feel My Love with Nathan MacKinnon

a Nathan MacKinnon song fic

a/n: season outcome, timing, and stats = totally fake. based on Nate’s public mentions in past interviews of seeing a sports psychologist, which is really inspiring to me. seeking professional advice is a GOOOOD thing! also, wasn’t originally intended to be a song fic, but Adele’s version of Make You Feel My Love (originally by Bob Dylan) came on while I was finishing it up, so I went with it! last note: pretending Tyson never got traded to the Leafs is the best part of writing hockey fanfiction. 🥺

summary: Angry/Sad Nate loses in the playoffs and takes his frustrations out on his girlfriend Sam, who gets comfort and advice from his teammates and friends.

warnings: swearing; isolated, individual outbursts of anger but NO physical violence; mentions of counseling/therapy and the practice of sports psychology (obviously, like I mentioned, this is a good thing but just something to know); crying Nate (I feel like that deserves a warning)

_____

Deflated, I sat in a bulky black chair in the team family room deep in the recesses of the Pepsi Center for several minutes after leaving the wives and girlfriends suite, needing a moment away from prying eyes and cameras to process what had just occurred.

The Avalanche had been one of the highly favored teams in the West all season long, yet had just been swept in the second round of the playoffs. My boyfriend, Nathan MacKinnon, widely regarded as one of the best players in the NHL, had totaled only one point in the 11 playoff games the team had played this year, earning a single assist on a Mikko Rantanen goal.

Needless to say, that hadn’t been sitting right with Nate.

He’d been short with me since the first few games of the postseason; even shorter than he typically got when he was in a drought. I had tried to give him space, but he snapped about the smallest questions I asked or requests I made of him: what he wanted for dinner, or to be sure he called to wish his sister Sarah a happy birthday. He sometimes mumbled an apology in my general direction, but more often than not, he simply left the room in a huff. I tried my best to be patient — to give him space.

It was abundantly clear that the pressure that always loomed heavy over Nathan like a thick, dark cloud had now intensified. I knew, without him ever verbalizing it, that he felt more burdened than ever before to live up to the hype — to the expectations he had for himself, and to those placed on him, either explicitly or implicitly, by the entire hockey community and the media.

When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love

I sat still with my head in my hands for what seemed like forever, until sweet Mel Landeskog, whom I had become so close with over the last four seasons of watching our significant others play together, came and rubbed my back gently through the custom Avs denim jacket that hung on my shoulders. I lifted my head to look at her, a sympathetic smile etched on her beautiful features.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Mel offered. “I know he’s gonna be so hard on himself. But he had such a great season — he needs to be proud of that,” she reasoned. I nodded.

Mel was right. He had had a truly remarkable regular season — he had scored 95 points in 82 games after a enduring a considerable slump for much of the previous year. This year stood in stark contrast to last. He had been riding high for many weeks; that is, until playoffs hit.

I stood to wrap Mel in a hug, appreciative of her gesture of support but unwilling to reflect on Nate’s play right now. “Thank you, Mel,” I told her as I squeezed her tightly. “I’m gonna miss you so much this summer,” I added, gesturing to the car seat on the floor beside her. “And Nate and I will both miss that little one, too,” I said as I blew Linnea a kiss, making her giggle, a welcome sound after a heartbreaking display on the ice. Mel glanced down at her baby daughter, beaming.

“I know, honey. We’ll miss you too. But it won’t be long until we’re all back here together, plus we’ll see each other for a couple of these bachelorette parties and summer weddings and get-togethers, yeah?” she said with a nudge.

“Yeah, that’ll be nice. Until then, you guys be safe,” I told her. With one last hug and quick kisses to each other’s cheeks, Mel picked up Linnea in her seat and exited the room. I realized that she and I had been the last two wives or girlfriends to leave, with most of us having exchanged quiet goodbyes in the suite before making hasty escapes to the parking area to console our respective sad hockey players.

With a groan at the depressing thought, I pulled my jean jacket tighter to my torso and walked slowly out the open door.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear

And there is no one there to dry your tears

I could hold you for a million years

To make you feel my love

The locker room doors stood maybe ten yards down the hall. The usual rambunctious ruckus that so often echoed off the cinderblock walls was tonight exchanged for a thick silence. It seemed that most of the guys had already left, and those who remained were noiseless. I softly greeted a few of the familiar men who made their way out the doors, offering only a sad smile and a few words of comfort to each, knowing that they weren’t in the mood to engage. They were, however, still polite, with several of the players embracing me briefly or kissing my cheek as they left the building.

Gabe Landeskog was among the very last to leave the room, unsurprisingly, as he was ever the responsible and respectable captain. He spotted me immediately and enveloped me in his strong grasp.

“Hi, friend,” I whispered into his shoulder, worried that my voice would break. “Hi, söt flicka,” (sweet girl) he countered.

“I’m sorry, Cap,” I told him quietly. He pulled back and shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Wasn’t our year,” he replied with a shrug. “As you can imagine, Nate is taking it pretty hard...” his voice trailed off. “I just want you to be prepared,” he finally added, carefully.

My stomach knotted. I tucked some of my hair behind my ear and swiftly licked my lips, feeling anxiety pool in my gut.

Gabe placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “Just remember it’s not you he’s upset with. It’s himself,” he said softly. I quickly glanced up at him and nodded. “Thank you,” I choked out. “Now you better get going. You’ve got two beautiful girls waiting for you,” I told him, feigning a bright grin. He tried to mirror my expression, but fell short. It was unnatural to see such sadness in his normally joyful visage. He squeezed my upper arm.

“That I do,” Gabe agreed. “We’ll see you soon, Sam.”

“Okay,” I whispered. “Bye, Cap.” He gave a solemn nod and disappeared down the hallway.

My unease only multiplied after my exchange with Gabe. I began to pace slowly in a circle. I jumped a few moments later when the door flew open with a screech, Nate emerging from behind it, a bitter, dark expression on his face.

I greeted him softly, tentatively, reaching a hand toward him.

“Nate, baby, I —“

My boyfriend brushed past me in a flash, causing a literal draft of air to hit me as he held up his hand, never even making eye contact with me as he practically stomped down the corridor.

My blood ran hot — how dare he not acknowledge my presence after I had attended how many home games, and even road games, supporting him and cheering him on, no matter what? And that was just this season — what about the three prior? Why was he shutting me out? My heart thumped against my ribcage.

“Nathan,” I called, my voice firm this time, whipping around to face his back and then fumbling with the chain of my Louis Vuitton bag as it fell from my shoulder. Discombobulated, I threaded it back over my arm clumsily and took two hurried steps in Nate’s direction, but he was already out of sight.

Just then, I noticed our close friend Tyson Barrie standing a few feet behind me. I could infer from the way he was approaching me gingerly, which was highly unlike him, that he had witnessed our exchange, or the lack thereof. I sighed and pressed a hand to my forehead, his hand coming to grip my other elbow.

“Sam, sweetheart... you okay?” Tyson asked softly. Hot tears pricked my eyelids, but I refused to let them fall, blinking them back with a sniffle. My hand fell back to my side — I was shaking now.

“I knew he would be mad...” I began. “But what the fuck, Tys?” My voice wavered.

Tyson instinctively pulled my waist to his side, giving me a quick, protective kiss to the temple, before pulling away and offering me his hand.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” he volunteered. With another sniff, I shook my head. “No, it’s okay, Tys. I drove, thank god,” I spat. “Besides, you’re dealing with the same disappointment. You need to go home with Em and unwind,” I insisted, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket. His head dropped and he offered a weak nod.

“I guess. But listen, if he’s still not acting right, call me, okay? You know you can come over. You’re always welcome, especially when he’s being such an ass,” Tyson said, the end of his sentence turning into a growl. We both sighed; I nodded.

“Thanks, Tys. I’ll let you know. And listen, I’m sorry... about tonight. I know it hurts,” I told him, hugging his neck with one arm. He spread his fingers over my back and gave me a squeeze before stepping back to look into my eyes.

“It’s just hockey,” he said quietly. I smiled weakly and nodded once. “Bye, Sam. See you soon,” he said, rubbing one hand over my shoulder as he turned and made his way down the hall to find Emma.

If only Nathan shared his friend’s logic and sentiment.

I dropped my head back at the thought, tears once again collecting in my eyes. I forced them closed in an attempt to stay composed. With another sigh, I slowly started toward the private parking garage where my vehicle waited.

Unsurprisingly, as I stepped through the glass door and into the garage where I spotted my Audi, the spot next to me where Nate’s Porsche had been was empty. I unlocked my car, tossed my bag and scarf into the passenger side, and slammed my door shut before giving the steering wheel two firm bangs with the palm of my hand. My body still hadn’t stopped trembling.

I'd go hungry; I'd go black and blue

I'd go crawling down the avenue

No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do

To make you feel my love

I rested my forehead against the leather steering wheel for a moment before drawing a breath and finally backing out of my spot and exiting the garage, apprehensive of the scene I might find at the condo Nathan and I shared.

_____

I stepped through the front door tentatively, chewing on the inside of my lip. I was careful not to make a sound, walking on tiptoes to avoid clicking my heeled boots on the white tile floor. I dropped my purse onto the table in the entryway and reached to hang up my keys on the rack by the closet when I heard the distinct sound of glass — a lot of glass — shattering.

I froze.

The plans I had formulated in my head during my drive to confront Nate as soon as I arrived home suddenly seemed too unnerving to carry out.

My knees were nearly knocking together as I zipped through the living room and tucked myself behind the wet bar in one corner of the room. I hid myself in a partially-enclosed area where the wine and beer fridge stood, then felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I fumbled to answer it, not wanting to make too much noise.

Sidney Crosby, the onscreen caller ID read. I tapped the green button.

“Hello?” I was caught off guard by how frightened my own voice sounded as I answered.

“Sam, hi. Are you home?” Sid’s usually calm and collected tone was now bathed in concern.

“Hi, Sid. Yeah, I just got home. He’s, uh... it’s not good,” I said quietly, glancing at the staircase as I heard another thud upstairs, this time what sounded like a pair of shoes against Nate’s closet wall. On the other end of the call, Sid heaved a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, I figured,” he said tensely. “I tried calling him thinking I might catch him on his way home and talk him down a bit, but he ignored my call. I’m sorry, Sam. Are you alright?”

I glanced down at my free hand which rested on the oak wood of the bar. I was still trembling, my fears of coming home to chaos having been realized.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I choked out, lying through my teeth. “It’s just hard to watch.”

A deep hum of understanding came from Sid’s throat. “I bet. Have you talked to him?”

I shook my head, despite the fact that Sid was nowhere nearby to see the gesture. “No,” I vocalized weakly. “He uh... he kinda... he didn’t wanna talk to me at the arena... I don’t think.” I fiddled with my promise ring on my left hand as I made the admission. It didn’t even sound like Sid was breathing on the other end of the line.

“You’re telling me he blew you off?” he asked gruffly. I could envision Sidney running a hand over his face before gripping his neat curls atop his dark hair, as he often did when frustrated. I opened my mouth to confirm, but couldn’t actually bring myself to do so, knowing what his reaction would be. I also didn’t want to confess to the commotion I had just heard upstairs, knowing that it would further upset my concerned friend, on my behalf. Instead, I let my silence do the talking.

“Goddammit, Sam,” he growled. “I’m so sorry. He’s young. He- he... I used to do this shit, too,” Sidney admitted with a quick breath. “It’s bullshit. He’s just angry with himself and he’s taking it out on you and it’s not fair. I had hoped I had set a better example about how to deal with these things when they happen... but apparently not.”

A couple of hot tears fell to my face as I responded. “This isn’t your fault, Sid.” He retorted immediately, “Well, it’s sure as hell not yours, either.”

We both sat in contemplation for several moments, neither sure of the next step to take. Then, Sid decided.

“I won’t call him again because he needs to talk to you first. But I am going to text him and urge him that he needs to let you in,” Sid insisted. “He needs to let somebody in,” he repeated. “And it needs to be you first.”

More tears were falling now, and I glanced up at the chandelier overhead and pulled my phone from my ear for a beat to try and settle myself. I wiped at my face with the bottom of my thumb.

“Okay,” I finally whispered. I hadn’t ever really cried around Sid, and while he was one of the nicest and most genuine human beings on the planet, I knew he wasn’t quite accustomed to emotional encounters like this one, and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by letting him hear the sobs that were bubbling up in my chest.

“It might not feel like it right now,” Sid broached, speaking in a soothing tone reminiscent of my father’s or brother’s when trying to console me. “But you’re right where you need to be. So is he. He needs you, Sam.”

I've known it from the moment that we met

No doubt in my mind where you belong

“Sam?” Nate suddenly called out from the balcony above me, his voice not sounding heated, but doleful instead. From where he stood upstairs, he couldn’t see me.

“Was that him?” Sid asked. “Yeah,” I said softly, somewhat in response to both men. “Good. He’s coming around. Trust me. I’ll let you go. Text me later, eh?” Sid requested, sounding slightly relieved. “Yeah, I will. Promise. Thank you. Bye,” I said hurriedly before ending the call.

“Sam?” Nate’s voice echoed off the walls once more, sounding desperate this time. My pulse quickened.

“Yeah. I’m coming,” I said softly. I stuffed my phone back into my pocket, took a steadying breath, and turned to walk upstairs and face him.

By the time I arrived on the second floor only a handful of moments later, Nate was already back in our bedroom, seated in the oversized Queen Anne chair near the center of the room, elbows on his knees, chin almost to his chest. I was shocked to hear small sobs escaping his lips. He glanced in my general direction, not meeting my eyes, and cried harder.

“I can’t even look at you right now,” Nate finally spoke, somewhat coarsely. My heart seemed to shatter right then, and I felt my body steel in self-defense, preparing for war.

“I can’t even believe how I treated you back there. I’m such an awful fucking human. I’m a monster. I’m so sorry,” Nate added tearfully, catching me off guard.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea

And on the highway of regret

The winds of change are blowing wild and free

You ain't seen nothing like me yet

I immediately let out three sobs that seemed to have been lodged in my throat for almost an hour now and, in an instant, closed the gap between us. I dropped to my knees in front of him and laid my head in his lap, hugging his calves. Never before had we shared such an intensely emotional moment. Above me, he covered his eyes with his hands and drew shallow, gasping breaths in an unsuccessful attempt to calm himself.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he cried, not touching me of his own accord. “I’m so sorry.” I picked up my head and looked at him, urgency coursing through my veins. I needed him to come back to me.

“Nathan, baby, hey,” I coaxed, rubbing his big thigh with my hand, which looked so small in comparison. “Look at me. Please? I need you to.”

After a beat, Nate finally lifted his head from his hands, his pale skin slightly splotchy and tinted red, blue eyes shimmering behind more tears that threatened to fall.

“There’s my handsome man,” I said softly, combing my fingers through the neat hair near his ears, watching him slowly return to me.

“Hey, I want you to listen to me, okay? Tonight you’re allowed to cry it out, or punch our pillows, or run on the treadmill all night to blow off some steam. And then I’ll give you a couple more days to swallow this. But after that? We’re gonna check in with Dr. Butler, both of us, so she can give us some ways to cope with this.”

Nate’s shuddering breaths had finally started to slow as I spoke, referencing one of his most trusted allies, the Denver-based sports psychologist he had been seeing now for a few seasons to help him deal with not only hockey-related challenges and mental blocks, but also general anxiety, in order to boost his mental health. I was careful not to allow my tone to come across as if I were babying him, but instead offering comfort and, more importantly, suggesting help. “Because tonight? These last couple weeks? This can’t be it. We can’t deal with things this way. I don’t want you shutting me out, or Sid, or your family, okay? You wouldn’t let me do that — I’m not gonna let you,” I added.

Nate nodded quickly. “Absolutely, babe. I was just gonna say, as soon as I heard you on the phone downstairs, it really just hit me. I realized I needed to text her and set up an appointment,” he told me, his voice no longer shaky. “And that I needed to apologize to you,” he added softly. I nodded, and he grabbed my hands, pulling me to my feet and then back down to lie in his lap. I threw my legs over one arm of the chair and settled against his chest.

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to find comfort in Nate’s heartbeat for a moment, as he pressed soft kisses into my hair, before I looked around the room, assessing the damage. I noticed that his suit coat lay crumpled in the middle of his closet floor, his shoes having bounced off the wall there as I suspected, and they sat out of place atop his neatly assembled collection of footwear. Across from us, I noticed the source of the shattered glass — a shadow box display from Nate’s unforgettable rookie season hung just slightly crooked on the wall, the glass in the front completely broken out, save for the shards along the inner edge of the frame.

Nate followed my gaze to the mess and sighed. “I’m really sorry about that, Sam,” he said, shame creeping into his tone. I nodded knowingly. “What did you throw?” I asked. “That puck they gave me from the last game of the regular season. It was on my dresser when I set my wallet down and it just set me off,” he admitted sheepishly. “It was stupid.”

“Yes, it was stupid to break something that’s valuable to you, but it’s not stupid, what you’re feeling,” I told him firmly. “Besides, we’ll get a new glass panel and it’ll be good as new.” His grip around me tightened, appreciative of my response. “Thank you,” Nate whispered into my ear. I turned to kiss his lips slowly and deeply. He finally pulled back, only to murmur, “I don’t deserve you. I’m so grateful I have you.” I smoothed my thumb across his cheekbone. “I’m always going to be here for you, Nate,” I promised. He gave me one more solemn kiss.

“Listen, I’m gonna carry you into the bathroom so you don’t even get close to any shards of glass, and I’ll clean all this up while you run us a bath,” Nate told me. “I’ll join you soon. I think it’ll be good for both of us, eh?” I nodded, wrapping my arms around his neck as he easily picked me up bridal-style and headed toward the en suite.

Things were far from perfect, but I was prepared to do everything in my power to get us as close as possible. From the change in his demeanor, I knew Nate was, too.

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true

Nothing that I wouldn't do

Go to the ends of the Earth for you

To make you feel my love

149 notes · View notes

jvdes · 3 years

Text

RISE AND SHINE - we’re in hell.

tw : death, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide(?)

how many times has jude had that same dream before the plane went down for real? waking up with the sound of metal on metal in her ears, the sound of somebody screaming? she used to think it was about her mom, and yeah, maybe it is, but now, as she wades in the cold water, salt in her wounds, she thinks maybe it was like a premonition.

maybe it’s irony, or just that same old phrase: like mother, like daughter. because she’s so like her mom, right? that’s what everyone says, even her uncle david, creased face late at night after too many scotches, “god, jude, you know you’ve got your mothers eyes.”

not that they know where her mother’s eyes are now. and she’s dead, yeah, but if you want to get really technical about it, delilah bright is missing, presumed dead, because no, they didn’t find the body. the body. and, yeah, maybe it makes jude shudder a little bit to think that that’s what her mom is, now: i’m sorry. we couldn’t find the body.

like that’s all that’s left now. the woman who sang jude to sleep and loved stevie nicks and talked a mile a minute is gone, replaced by the concrete idea of the body, and she’s missing, presumed dead, has been since the second the plane went down.

and jude doesn’t remember her own plane going down - no, it’s all noise and screaming and flickering lights, then it’s just sand in her mouth and salt in her hair, that gap in her mind like anesthetic, something really, really missing. but it went down. and they couldn’t find her mom’s body, just like they haven’t found jude’s, just like they probably won’t ever find jude’s.

and maybe that’s it, and since the minute the plane went down (what was that minute like?), she wasn’t jude bright anymore, motormouth fuck-up and hockey extraordinaire. yeah, maybe she’s just the body. and it should feel good, except the plane went down, and she’s still fucking here, right?

still fucking things up and freaking people out in this island-shaped echo chamber. god, how bad it feels to be her, and why has she never learned how to keep her goddamn mouth shut? and, yeah, she knows her uncle is right: everything is a fucking fight with her.

the thought makes her feel sick, like seriously, physically ill, and she vomits right there in the ocean. she’s had fuck-all to eat for nearly two weeks, so, no, probably not great for her nourishment or whatever, but what’s she gonna do? she wades away from it, deeper into the ocean. yeah, her uncle was right.

and, then again, she feels like a whiny little cunt even as she thinks it - like, yeah, jude, things suck: newsflash! how long are you going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself? like, yeah. everyone thinks you’re an obnoxious piece of shit - totally fair of them - and what else is new? and if you’re wishing you were at home in your bed, well, join the fucking club, kid. when’s the last time you got something you really wanted?

yeah, okay. maybe she wishes the plane had done a nose dive into the ocean and taken her with it. maybe she’s pretty jealous of jill right about now. everybody’s fucking sick of her, can barely tolerate her at best, and she can tell they’re all wishing they were stuck with anybody fucking else. (maybe it’s a shared sentiment, but whatever).

and, like, they’re doing all of this fighting to stay alive, and fighting to feel alive, and at some point, it’s like... nobody’s coming. and here jude is, not a fucking thing to live for even at home besides - what? friday night hockey games? saturday night hookups? is that fucking pathetic? so here she is, taking up space and eating the food they get and drinking the water they have, surrounded by people who hate her guts and would probably fucking eat her if given half the chance.

so what’s she even trying to live for? and how much happier would everyone be if she just didn’t fucking bother coming back to shore, herself included? she ducks her head under the water, eyes stinging but open, a murky haze of green wavering in front of her. you can’t cry underwater, right?

god, bright, you are such a fucking pussy.

she can hold her breath for a really long time, you know. the longest she ever got was two minutes, fourteen seconds, and that had been long enough for spots to swim in front of her vision as she felt her consciousness start to slip away. now, she makes it maybe a minute and a half before she’s dragging her heavy body to where the water meets the air, gasping, lungs filling with water on the way there, chest heaving.

“i am such a fucking drama queen,” she hears her wavering voice say, almost disembodied. she gives a watery laugh, feeling like an idiot even as she does. like she knows she’s not that fucking brave.

and, sure, she could stay alive purely as a way to spite everyone who can’t fucking stand her. except... it’s day eleven. she hasn’t slept in, like, three days. she hasn’t had a substantial meal in more. and isn’t that it? isn’t she so fucking tired of fighting? fighting everyone else, fighting for herself, being her own best friend? isn’t it way too much to expect her to keep going?

yeah, maybe. but, like... what the fuck else is she gonna do?

god, how fucking depressing.

#／ JUDE . ABOUT !#sad girl vibes peace sign

5 notes · View notes

pucksnsticksnhockeyboys · 4 years

Text

spilled secrets

request(s): 65 .Are you okay? I heard a scream?” with Morgan Rielly Please / 70“I need you.” with Morgan Rielly / Prompt 67 Don’t tell anyone. Please.” with Morgan Rielly Please

prompt(s): “Are you okay? I heard a scream?” & “Don’t tell anyone. Please.” & “I need you.” / numbers 65, 67, & 70 off of this list with Morgan Rielly.

summary: you can’t help but tell Morgan just exactly how you feel one night.

warnings: none

word count: 1.7k

Some nights, you regretted sharing an apartment with a professional hockey player. They’d party on weekends and come home from road trips late at night. But, when you moved to Toronto on your own following your dream job, your childhood friend Morgan Rielly offered you his spare room. It was in a nicer neighborhood than you were looking for apartments in and definitely a nicer building than you would’ve been able to afford.

It should have been easy for you to agree to move in with him, and if any other person had asked you would’ve jumped on the offer, but it was Morgan. The same Morgan you'd been hopelessly in love with since before he even started his professional hockey career. Still, the idea of reduced rent was too appetizing to pass up, and two weeks later he was helping you carry boxes into your new room.

Which was how you found yourself in your current situation. You were in your own room searching for sleep, but the wooden door wasn’t doing much to stop the rowdy hockey players in the living room from keeping you up.

So, instead of having Morgan ask his teammates to keep it down a bit, you suffered silently in your room. You were never a confrontational person, and after the successful road trip the boys had just gotten back from the day before, they deserved to celebrate. You put on a movie a friend had recently recommended, not caring in the moment that it was a horror film, considering you were only putting it on in order to block out the laughter on not only your best friend and roommate, but his teammates as well.

Except, the movie was extremely interesting, because you couldn't tear you eyes away from the screen. Half an hour later you tugged the blankets up over your shoulders, hiding underneath when the tension in the movie grew too much for you to handle.

You were so into the movie, in fact, that you didn’t even realize you screamed until after the jump scare on the screen changed to the next scene. You winced, pausing the movie and hoping that no one heard you, but you had no such luck when only moments later there was a knock on your door.

“Are you okay? I heard a scream?” Morgan asked, poking his head in the room. Once he realized you were fine, a grin grew on his face as shut your door behind him.

“Just a scary movie.” You brushed him off, watching as he crossed the room to climb onto the empty side of your bed. As far as you could tell, his teammates were still out in the living room, and you figured that as soon as he knew you were fine he would head back out to them. “Aren’t the boys still here?”

“They can let themselves out.” Morgan shrugged, making himself comfortable under your covers. You wanted to question him on why he was in there with you, and not out with his friends, but he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side, your back on his chest as he propped himself up slightly on your headboard. Any words you had died on your lips as Morgan adjusted the blanket around you, knowing how you liked it pulled up to your chin when watching scary movies.

You could only hope that he couldn't feel how rapidly your heart was beating in your chest as you pressed play on the movie once more.

Living with Morgan was a constant reminder of what you couldn't have but desperately wanted. You wanted nothing more than to be able to wrap your arms around him from behind and kiss the muscle between his shoulder blades as he washed the dishes in the kitchen, or be able to go to sleep every night in his bed, with very little space between the two of you due to his koala-like tendencies to cling to you whenever you cuddled on the couch.

But for now, you would settle for getting to come home from work to see him dancing like no one was watching, a pot of boiling water on the stove. The music he was playing was so loud he didn't hear you come in, and he definitely couldn't hear your giggles, because when he spun around and saw you standing in the doorway fo the kitchen his eyes went wide and jaw fell slack. He scrambled to turn off the music and any composure you had left disappeared as you doubled over in laughter.

“Don’t tell anyone. Please.” He begged, the seriousness of his tone not matching the situation at all. You shook your head, unable to catch your breath from coming home to find Morgan dancing in the middle of the kitchen.

“Oh, absolutely not, Rielly. If you think that I won’t tell Mitch exactly what I saw next time I see him, you don’t know me at all.” You teased, sliding onto one of the barstools sitting at the kitchen island. Morgan just shook his head, a soft smile evident on his face as he turned back to stirring whatever he was cooking on the stove.

“How was your day?” He asked. You were thankful his back was to you, because you could feel your smile drop from one of amusement to one of longing. It felt too domestic all at once, like living with him had been building to this moment. Him asking that simple question was the proverbial stare that broke the camel’s back.

You weren’t sure what caused him to turn back around when he did, whether it be because he always seemed to know when you were having an internal crisis or just the fact that you hadn’t responded yet. He called your name softly, the sound seemed to snap you back to reality and you looked up to him with furrowed brows. You shouldn't be the one who looked so confused, but Morgan was simply looking at you with a raised brow, waiting for you to come to your senses.

“Do you need something?” He asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he tried to gauge your reaction. It was so typical of him to try and make you feel better by cracking a joke, but in this situation it did nothing to stop the words from tumbling past your lips next.

“I need you.”

Neither of you knew how to react to what you said. Your eyes were wide and so were his, and he had gone stiff as he tried to process. You couldn’t hear the scrape of the stool as you stood up over the pounding of your heart.

“I’m sorry. I’m shouldn't have—sorry. Fuck.” You mumbled, keeping your head down as you left the room. You couldn’t force yourself to stay in the kitchen, feeling embarrassed for having confessed how you felt like that. It wasn't even an actual admission, but you gave a strong enough hint and he wasn't stupid, he knew what you meant.

So you locked yourself in your room, shutting the door not only on the rest of the silent apartment, but also years of close friendship crumbling because you couldn't keep it together. You paced your room for a moment, unable to keep your thoughts in check, until a gentle knock made you freeze in your steps.

“Can I come in?” Morgan asked, and you stayed silent. You didn't want to face him, especially not after what you had just done, but he deserved an explanation. Still not speaking, you open the door for him but instead of waiting for him to answer, you sat on the edge of your bed. “So are we going to talk about what just happened?”

“I’m not in the mood for your teasing, Morgan.” You hissed, dropping your head into your hands as you popped your elbows on your knees. From your position, you couldn’t see Morgan cross your room, until you felt your bed dip beside you.

“I’m not teasing.” He stated, and you sat up a little straighter. The way the length of his thigh pressed against yours made your heart race and you body feel warm, but then again, he’d been having that effect on you since you were teenagers. “If you meant what I think you did, then I need you too.”

“What do you think I meant?” You danced around the subject, not wanting to read too much into things and make a fool of yourself again.

“That you’ve had feelings for me, but not as long as I’ve had feelings for you.” Morgan said casually, and when your head snapped towards him in confusion, you saw the grin on his face. Part of you wanted to convinced yourself that he was just messing with you, that he didn't actually mean the things that he was saying. But the other part of you knew better. That was the part you listened to, the one that knew him as well as you did and could tell by the tone of his voice that he was being completely serious.

“How do you know that you’ve had feelings longer?” You let yourself tease back, the rush of adrenaline fueling your bold statement.

“Probably because I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you.”

“I was twelve when we met, Morgan. No way you loved me back then, I was a mess.” You deflected his cheesy sentiment, cheeks heating up when you heard him confess his love. He’s told you he's loved you thousand and one times before, but now it held an entirely different meaning. “It took me three years after we met for you to win me over, but I love you too.”

You were snickering at your own joke, but Morgan just cupped your jaw in his hand and connected your lips in a searing kiss. It was one you had been waiting for what seemed like your whole life for, and the sheer intensity made it all worth it. Morgan would always be worth it.

You pulled away first, needing a break to catch your breath. You didn't separate far though, foreheads rested together and nose pressed into his cheek. He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and you were certain that you looked similar to him.

“Now that we got that out of the way, I’ve got to finish dinner for us.”

#morgan rielly #Morgan Rielly imagine #Morgan Rielly imagines #Morgan Rielly x reader #toronto maple leafs #toronto maple leafs imagine #Toronto Maple Leafs fanfic #hockey #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #nhl #nhl imagine #NHL imagines

167 notes · View notes

radstronaut · 5 years

Text

Take a Breath | Teuvo Teräväinen

warnings: n/a word count: 1730 note: hi yes i more or less created this blog to post this fic specifically so here we are, this is pretty much for @lulucanwrite who i love dearly, and also technically beta’ed this fic so ♡

Why you agreed to stand in the heat and watch a group of unruly boys in their twenties swing pieces of metal at plastic-covered rubber balls would be completely beyond you if you weren’t completely smitten with Teuvo Teravainen. It’s nearly ninety degrees--this is North Carolina after all--and despite your magical sweat-wicking shorts and tank top, you’re definitely sweating through your clothes. If Petr weren’t the sweatiest human you knew, this would probably embarrass you. Coupled with Martin bouncily seeking approval for everything he did and Teuvo and Sebastian’s banter with each other, you were okay with just about anything-- your complete inability to play golf included.

It was hard to say why the group had invited you along. Maybe because you took great photos they could share on Instagram, or because you were known as “the person who always brought bomb food to parties”, or maybe just because you were easy to get along with. You’d spent so much of your life feeling like you were weird and unlikeable, but somehow you’d found solace in a group of professional hockey players from Europe.

Ha. Just thinking that sentence makes you snort a little to yourself.

“Are you laughing at Sebastian?” Teuvo asks, peering over your shoulder. You’ve got your phone clutched in hand, a boomerang of Sebastian swinging back and forth looping on your screen.

“Nah, just thinking about how weird I am,” you reply, hitting ‘post’ and clicking your phone off.

“Why won’t you take one of me?” he asks, a pout on his face.

“Because,” you answer, voice breezy and light, “You’re not my favorite.”

Your response sends Teuvo into a spiral of “whats” and “buts” that secretly gives you life force. You float away, sashaying up to Martin and Petr, who are talking about clothes of all things, and look at you like you’ve just interrupted the single most important conversation in the entire world.

“Please tell me you don’t think this is cute, too,” Petr says, shoving his phone in your face.

It’s a non-offensive, baby-blue suit, and you’re not sure what to say, other than, “I think it’s fine?” To which Martin grins gleefully, waving his arms around to show off his little victory.

“You cannot be serious,” says Petr, like it’s the most obvious thing. “It’s ugly! Who wears suits this color?”

“I would!” Martin exclaims, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Light blue is totally cool.”

“Maybe for a springtime pinterest Easter wedding in Alabama,” Petr says.

There are a lot of references here to popular American culture going on here that you weren’t even sure he knew, but you laugh nonetheless.

These dorky, soft boys always made you laugh. You look up, watching Teuvo as he winds up and swings his club. It makes the satisfying sound that metal swung fast makes, and you watch as the golf ball flies through the air for what seems like forever. Even for somebody who knows nothing about golf, you can tell he’s got an amazing swing. Every muscle in his body moves with intent; his follow through is gorgeous. He even has the cute little golf foot thing at the end, something you are sure has a proper name, but you’re ignorant of it.

“Careful, you’re drooling,” Petr says, squeezing your shoulder.

You all but jump where you’re standing, and raise a hand as if you’re about to play-swat him. You’re flustered, and it shows on your face as you try to play it off. “Come on,” you hiss, making a face. “I’m not drooling.”

Petr shrugs as Teuvo makes his way back to his bag to retire his driver. You watch, crossing your arms over your chest almost in defense.

“Your turn!” Teuvo calls, and Sebastian snickers from where he’s sat in the one square foot of shade that the golf cart provides. He turns and points at him, frowning, “You better stop laughing!”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, and hands you the driver that he’s been holding since his turn. You don’t own a set of clubs, so Sebastian graciously agreed to share his with you. “You know how to do this, right?” he asks you with a cheeky smile.

“Shut up.”

All eyes are on you as you stroll up to the tee and set down the golf ball. They’re hungry for your failure. You can feel it. It’s like the four of them have gathered here exclusively to watch you wind up and whiff so they can have a laugh and get back to actually playing golf after their comedy break. You take the club in hand, holding it just like you were shown one time forever ago, with your thumb and fingers interlocked, and steady your position.

It’s not that hard, you remind yourself, trying to calm yourself down. You know that making it out to be a big deal will only make you more nervous, so you take a deep breath in as you wind up, and exhale as you swing--

And stop right before you hit the ball. Ugh. Getting nervous is honestly worse than whiffing, you think, and so you decide to set yourself up again. You spread your feel the right distance apart and try and settle in place. You’re just about to hype yourself up again when you feel a hand rest warmly on your shoulder, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.

It’s Teuvo, who looks at you with gentle eyes and a calm smile. “Let me help you.”

Normally you’d be way too prideful to admit you needed help from any of these clowns, but it’s Teuvo, and he looks so genuine that you don’t really mind. “Okay,” you breathe as he stands behind you, resting his hands over yours.

Your heart jumps into your throat as he steadies your grip. His chin hovers right above your shoulder, his face so close you can feel the breath on your neck.

“You’re so tense,” he says, voice light and private. “Relax your shoulders.”

How you’re supposed to relax with his body practically pressed flush against yours evades you. You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“Good,” Teuvo says gently, but with authority. “Swing your arms back and forth and let the club’s weight lead.”

You listen.

“Now,” he says, “When you feel ready, wind that back a bit more, keep your eyes on the ball, and swing.”

You’re having a hard time focusing on feeling ready when his hands leave your hands and he takes a step back, making the air touching your arms feel even more empty than it had before he was there. Your skin misses his immediately. You sigh softly to yourself.

Then, you wind up and swing.

The driver hits the golf ball with a satisfying sound and you watch as it seems to float through the air and land across the course-- much further back than your friends, but still, further than you thought it would go.

You turn back, seeking Teuvo’s approval, but he’s already clapping his hands and grinning from ear to ear. “That’s really good!” He cheers. “That’s really really good!”

You beam with pride.

“It’s going to be your turn again,” Sebastian teases from his seat, “Since you barely hit it at all.”

“Come on, Sepe, let it go!” Teuvo defends, waving his hand in front of Sebastian’s face.

“You just want an excuse to get all up in Y/N’s space again.”

He doesn’t protest, but rather hands you a club from Sebastian’s bag and, with a hand on the small of your back, ushers you out to where your ball has just landed.

This is very forward of Teuvo-- very, very forward. He typically wasn’t so outwardly flirtatious, but maybe it’s Sebastian’s comments that embolden him as you make your way down the green.

“Is this okay?” He asks after a moment, dropping his hand from your back to make eye contact with you. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You smile simply, grabbing his hand and placing it on your back again. “It’s perfectly fine,” you say.

Once you arrive, Teuvo hands you the club and looks at you. “Do you want my help again?”

“Please?” You ask coyly, practically batting your eyes at him. Whoah. Maybe you’re feeling emboldened by his flirtatious energy as well.

With a grin, Teuvo steps behind you, chest against your back, and rests his hands atop yours again. This time, you relax into it-- you feel less nervous, more loose this time, feeling much more confident than before. His lips brush your ear as he leans forward, and reminds you to keep your eye on the ball, and not to worry how far it goes. The hairs on your arm stand up.

You’re about to pull back and swing when you hear the golf cart whir past you, and from the driver’s seat, Petr yells with a shit eating grin: “kiss her!”

Sebastian and Martin echo the sentiment with a chorus of “kiss her! kiss her!”

Pink creeps across your cheeks, and you tilt your head to look at Teuvo over your shoulder. Time completely stops. The humid air hangs still and heavy between you with heat and energy, and you feel his lips inches away from yours. You aren’t sure how long you stand there, moments away from each other, thinking about what it would feel like to close that distance and feel his lips against yours.

And then it happens. Teuvo’s arms wrap around your waist, and he twirls you around, pulling your chest flush against his and kissing you, hard, all in one fell swoop. You feel your entire body tense up and then relax, your heart racing as you melt into him, kissing him back with the same fervor. His arms wrap around your waist, and yours twist around his neck, fingers grazing the sweat-damp hair on the nape of his neck.

The boys are cheering behind you. Cries of “yes!” and “finally!” fill the air as Martin whoops and hollers, and Sebastian even gives the little golf cart horn a celebratory toot as you both smile into your kiss, toothy and wide-grinned.

“Finally,” Teuvo breathes against your lips, and you can’t help yourself from bursting into laughter, leaning your forehead against his. “Finally,” you agree, giggly smile splayed across your face.

He leans in and kisses you again.

#teuvo teravainen #teuvo teräväinen #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #teuvo teravainen imagine #teuvo teravainen imagines #reader x teuvo teravainen #hockey fic #hockey imagine #carolina hurricanes imagine #carolina hurricanes imagines #welp here it is #i whole entire wrote this #so what's good #aaaaa

102 notes · View notes

amortm · 5 years

Text

* 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐔𝐏 , pretty kitties ! i'm terribly sorry abt my absence on the dash alongside you angels , & trust that i’m fully embarrassed of my slow ass , but i finally typed this baby out , & i can’t wait for y’all to meet my love , 𝒋𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔 !

* ╰ it’s an absolute dishonour to meet you , julianna / jules . at twenty - one , you’ve disgraced the peralta family name & failed to carry on their legacy as an elite . as a result , they’ve requested that we at the academy do our best to rid you of your venality , & seeing as though they’re worth 86m , we dutifully obliged . while your pleonastic & inexorable attributes have always promised failure , it’s your spar with pride & ghosting your breakout acting role after you found out your daddy secured it for you that got you committed . before we take possession of you , it’s imperative that we know that you are a cisfem who prefers she & her pronouns , & you resemble diana silvers . your birthday is on april 26th , making you a recalcitrant taurus , & you were transported to us all the way from vail , co . at the present time , you work off campus at seaside florist . go ahead & purchase that extra large suitcase , disgrace . you’re going to need it .

your name / age / pronouns / timezone / etc .

hiya loves ! i go by blue & she / her pronouns , i’m 9teen , & i’m a pst baby ! i’m one of the six lovely admins @ #unholy , & they’re all superstars , so imagine my daily awe ! anyway , i’m beyond excited to finally get the ball rolling , & share the dash with you babes !

muse inspo .

noora sætre , the goldfinch , ella of frell , neil perry , charlie dalton , claire saffitz , monica geller , carla lalli music , mia thermopolis , adam parrish , blue sargent , anna ou !

character details :

💐 : sweetly judgmental , adoringly vindictive / vindictively adoring , witty ‘n gritty , bitingly tender , expressively stubborn , softly feral !

😈 : hershey’s chocolate , brooklyn pizza , baguettes , collector edition copies of wuthering heights , selfies , her mom , richard siken anthologies , twilight ( #teamedward ) , crowded movie theaters , english gardens , the air in new york , the air in vail , snowboarding , her hair , hot chocolate ( no whipped cream , half a bag of mini marshmallows dumped atop ) , andrew garfield , her discover weekly playlist , german shepherds , harry potter , lord of the rings , comedies , horror movies , nude lipstick , chocolate chip toffee cookies with sea salt drizzled on top , mamma mia franchise , dissertations , driving , any typa jacket / coat , being the big spoon , her father , coca cola , lilies , disney t - shirts , her father’s films , take out , farms , italy ( every single crevice of it ) , the plaza hotel , mint chip ice cream , hats , trains , monthly horoscopes , ancient history , greenwich village , maggie rogers , mating ritual , vampire weekend , mitski , the wombats , magic bronson , jade bird , hockey , pretending to be a fairy / witch / mermaid as a child , naruto , avatar the last airbender , stepping over state / country lines , hot water with honey , amazon prime !

👿 : the marvel franchise except for the captain america & thor trilogies , coffee & tea , shorts , sweet potatoes , layovers of any length , socks , soy milk , her arms , chihuahuas , a song of fire & ice novels , super fudgy / rich cake & brownies , cooking for herself , being told what to do , being wrong & having everyone know it , people who are rude to employees , bad tipping , margaret atwood , her first grade teacher , plastic coke bottles , too much pepper in a dish !

upbringing & family life , life before the academy , etc .

julianna rachel peralta was born to a beauty - charmed family of three , with a new yorker mother & italian father birthing the healthiest & happiest girl parents can dream for . her mother , susanna ‘ susie ’ peters , was coined the model that pioneered 90′s fashion , a la kate moss , & met julianna’s father , elio peralta ( think the francis ford coppola of this verse ) , whilst she was briefly on set for jack to see friend fran drescher . their love stemmed from there , after she made a mocking comment & he overhead & mocked her in return for it , & the whirlwind romance that captivated their world for the next few years led to miss jules being born . neither of her parents desired marriage from each other , rather believing that their love knew no bounds , even those of matrimony , but never did it dim the bond held between the small family of three . once jules was in their arms , they relocated from new york to colorado , into the quaint town of vail , surrounded by pristine mountains & crystalline air , where susie & elio found a pocket of indisputable peace after a small winter trip in their first year of romance .

it was there that jules grew up , & there that the love of her parents faltered . her mother missed the world of fashion , the rhythms & rhymes of the space she knew as well as in maintaining the fame that spotlighted her so , while elio’s passions for turning out film after film dwindled . & when the offer from vogue came in , waxing poetic about a fresh position as a fashion editor , both she & elio knew that their paths would veer . their love was no less , but integral factors of their relationship were now fractured , & they each desired after different things . this was all said to julianna , in soft tones & with assuring words . yet , never was it promised that everything would be the same as it was , for the truth was in something unsaid . susie moved to new york , while elio & jules stayed in that mansion in the mountains , & all was as fair & well as it could be , with julianna staying with her mom during the fall season & discovering every little piece of italy in the summers . christmases & hanukkahs were always shared in vail , & susie tagged along european dives when her schedule allowed for it . it was as if their relationship & subsequent uncoupling were trivial details no one could bother to account for , until , in the worst spot she’s ever seen her mother , it came out that elio peralta found a new woman to share a life with , & that their new life together would be housed in the same home that susie & elio specially chose & , in emotional terms , truly built themselves & carved their family in its foundations . it was a betrayal of the deepest caliber , & from there the small peace that still was at the core of their little family was forever severed , & it became obvious to jules that those few years were lucky .

she was thirteen when famed actress lily taylor ( aka jennifer connely lmao ) moved into her family home , bringing her adopted eleven - year - old twins with her . in a sense of loyalty to her mother & her own hurt over the despair that her father caused their original trio , jules was heartily & positively prepared to hate the new additions to her family with a vindictive fidelity . her plan was promptly overturned , however , when she spent day upon day with her new fam & steadily allowed them into her heart . this , of course , was paired with doubtless guilt , spurred on by her own mind whenever she flew to nyc to see her mother , but soon enough this was caught by each of her parents , & susie was insistent in her assurance that whatever frigidness she still held for elio & his new beau ( which julianna didn’t bother to correct with wife ) , it in no way extends nor should be mimicked by her . elio , in turn , was quick to promise to jules that his love for her mother flamed in his heart to this day , but each of them are happier living their lives in the lifestyles they’ve chosen , with the people they’ve chosen .

there really wasn’t anything to do but swallow their words , & live by the sentiments they expressed . jules was both a mama’s & daddy’s girl in one , so to take their words as fact was an ignorance she allowed herself , even when the hurt look on her mother’s faced inevitably shone through in hidden moments .

but when jules turned seventeen , susie fell in love with a musician / designer named tommy lever she met while interviewing his collection for vogue , & the two fell deep , far enough to sway susie into moving to brazil during the spring season , away from her beloved manhattan loft , to be with him in his home ( the link is crucial to his characterization lmao , as lenny kravitz is essentially tommy lever ) . when she can , jules visits as often as she’s allowed ( always ) & has gained a room herself .

after that , however , the cycle between her various homes continued , well into her slipping teendom , & when the prospect of college crunched down on her , the choice seemed inevitable . nyu gained a classics & theater major for its class of 2019 ( she skipped the third grade , a fact she didn’t stop bragging about at that age ) , but in her senior year of university , the walls came crashing down .

what sin are they categorized under ? why ?

jules belongs to the sin of #pride through & through . after all , if there was one damning trait to send her straight into the pits of burning infernos , her prideful sense of self would be it . that’s not to say she’s arrogant ( nor am i saying she isn’t ) , but it’s more that she can’t take being undermined or allow the supposed undermining to go unpunished . she has a great deal of #pride in her own self worth & capabilities , though she’s usually loathe to make it known in plain terms , & if she feels attacked in that manner , she’ll completely close up . this often , as you’ll surely be able to tell , beckons problematic shit .

what got them sent to the academy ?

during jules’ senior year at nyu , she was contacted by her agent ( shared with her father ) & offered an audition for a leading role in a major hollywood studio film . throughout the years , she dabbled in theater & attracted a starring role or two along the way , especially in school productions , but the plan for success was always envisioned after college . when she got the call , however , she handled it with a happy - go - lucky fuck it sort of approach , & a week later , when she received the good - bearing call , there was no backing out , or so she thought . tentatively dropping out of the semester in which she would graduate , jules modeled the next few months of her life around the film , happily doing so .

yet , the first week into rehearsals brought down a cloud so dark she thought she’d choke under it . she overheard a few producers on their lunch break , talking about this - & - that - esque bullshit , but just as she was passing , one of them made a comment about the peralta girl , & how hollywood legacies are the roaches of the industry . how directors from the middle ages should just stick to ruining things behind the camera , not forcing a disaster in front of it .

that day , jules walked out of set & never took a step back in . effectively ruining her future career in the process , she ghosted all contact from the production & even went as far to jet off to brazil to regenerate with her mom as an escape . she couldn’t even pick up where she left off during the semester , & simply had to sit back & witness her classmates of four years graduate without her . her parents were furious , but the only thing she gave in return was a steely silence , refusing even turn a glare to her father . now , she’s been shoved into the hands of the academy , biding the days until she could return to nyu in the fall .

what do you think they’ll struggle with the most at the academy ?

tbh , the biggest issue for jules is the resentment curling at her core . at her father , the film , the academy , herself . right now she’s just in a foul mood & sick at being forced into glitterati rehab , but her #pride won’t allow her to fail , even if she wishes to do it just to spite everyone . she is a people person , however , & will almost definitely warm up , even if it’s just for appearances sake .

extra details : links you’d like to incorporate , wanted connections , literally anything else you want to include , etc .

wanted connections will be coming soon ! for now , please enjoy this authentic video of jules chillin in her fav corner of the world , aka italia , taken by her bff eli 😔✌️

#unholyintro #icb how LATE my ass is w this gd intro #cue y'all throwing the torches and pitchforks @ me JDJKSDJSKDJDSKJDSDS #⋆ ╰ ` 𝒹𝒾𝒶𝓂ℴ𝓃𝒹 ╱ 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 ╱ 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 . : dev .

23 notes · View notes

insecure-hbo-recaps · 7 years

Text

hella questions

Previously on Insecure: A bunch of bad dates, missing Lawrence, trifling Lawrence, failed "get my ex back" party, Molly is way underpaid. And two minutes of ex sex.

"Y'all fucked?" is the incredulity that welcomes us to the second episode of the season. I can't decide if I love or hate that Issa has one of those old school ugly wooden entertainment center things that I'm sure we ALL had growing up.

Issa is also wearing a hoodie with Harriet Tubman on it... though I can't figure out what the two pictures on her wall are. Molly wants to know who initiated the sex and whether they've spoken since. They aren't really in any better place, and Molly doesn't find this encouraging. Issa is grasping at straws. Molly asks whether it was a getting back together fuck or a "fuck you" fuck. Hmmm. As someone who recently had sex with her ex that she's still in love with... it was definitely neither lol. It was... well, actually, it was a “I put up this picture of me kissing another dude as my facebook profile pic so that everyone could stop feeling sorry for me for being single, but you think I moved on and am dating someone else and don't love your trifling ass anymore and you got the nerve to have a jealous streak" kind of a fuck. This fool asked me like four times "so what's new with you?" As if I would tell if it WAS true, lol. Anyway, the sex between Lawrence and Issa would fall in a similar category - dudes being in their insecure ass feelings but STILL not trying to give you the respect you deserve.

Issa calls the sex "nebulous." Nebulous: unclear, vague, or ill defined. Molly is wary of drawing any conclusions based on this murky outcome, but Issa brightly tries to convince herself the sex means something good. Idk, girl. I don't feel like that. I'm not even going to delude myself that way.

Lawrence is in the gym, because in case you haven't noticed, he ain't a capn crunch eating white socks scrub no more. He starts to text Issa that he made things weird and didn't plan for it to happen, but thinks better of it and deletes it.

Meanwhile, Molly did stick with her therapist and is at a second session. Far from how close mouthed she had been before, she is ranting energetically about her stronger work ethic and going above and beyond but still being underpaid. Honestly, this is why I just solve this issue by half assing everything at work. I'm never going above and beyond. I will ALWAYS be a solid 3/4 at annual performance review time. Fuck your five star review. This job don't give a fuck about me and I don't give a fuck about y'all. And when the pay stops being enough, my resume makes it easy for me to bounce and renegotiate a new salary. But Molly is not interested in conceding defeat and can't understand why she can't figure out a way to get into the all boy's club. The therapist points out that Molly is "shoulding" all over herself. And if you watch this show, you've seen Sex and the City, so we don't need to break down the logistics of this.

The therapist tries to tell Molly she's living in the reality she thinks she should have, not the one she does have. Molly, naturally, doesn't understand what she's saying. The therapist tells her that there are certain standards levied at black women - and let's take the time to point out the difference here... in the past, the standards of a black woman were to singlehandedly manage a household and all of its financial and functional needs, put yourself aside and be a supporting force for everyone else in your life, and maybe you might find a man but how can you expect that, and you shouldn't, because it's too hard, and well, if you can't find one, maybe nice Willie the janitor will be there for you and don't be thinking bout no law degree. That shit ain't the move no more. These days the perfect standards of being a black woman are all about getting your 2013 self titled album Beyonce on - fulfilled in yourself and your life choices and not subscribing to any ideology that says you can't be enough or what you have to offer isn't valuable... with a slice of "even if no one else can see my value, I know it far exceeds that of many of those around me." Later for settling. Later for accepting scraps. But now that opens the door to a battle that's twice as hard, choosing to except the ways in which you are exceptional, in a world that is not willing to agree with you purely because... you are a black woman.

The therapist asks Molly if she would be open to a life that doesn't look like the one she thinks she "should" have. Molly isn't ready to grapple with that idea, and demurs on scheduling the next session. See what I'm saying? Bitches afraid to look at themselves.

Gallery opening. Which, again, is a little too close to Sex and the City for me, but I don't know what y'all be doing in California or New York. Gallery openings ain't a thing in Chicago. The four of them are talking about Issa's party. Tiffany is being annoyingly bougie as usual, Kelli is only mildly extra. I don't... I don't know what to say about these outfits.

I fully respect everything Insecure is doing. But I'd be a damn lie if I said... it was very... right, I suppose. It wouldn't be the route I'd take if it were my show, I guess is what I'd say. They are trying to decide plans for the weekend but Issa doesn't want to go out clubbing - she thinks sleeping with Lawrene means a reunion is imminent so she can't really be going out anymore. Tiffany decides to empathize and shares that her gay husband lived in a hotel for basically half a year while they were going through something. "The point is, even perfect couples have problems," Tiffany says, and I'm not looking forward to the season where they try to humanize Tiffany by showing she hides behind all this "perfect" bullshit to cover up the fact that she is miserably depressed and hates herself. I accidentally paused at a moment that captures this sentiment:

Issa thinks she just needs to give Lawrence time to forgive her; he can't just walk away from five years like that. Every single time I've thought I offered something so incredibly unique to a man he'd be stupid to walk away from it, I was patently, 100% wrong. Kelli points out that for 2 of those years his bum ass mooched off on her couch and Issa should move on. Issa wants to work it out. But... really? Why would Issa want to still be with Lawrence? She wasn't happy with him, that's why she cheated in the first place. And I'm not buying that she saw the error of her ways and truly wants the life they had together in the end. More like being single is shit, especially when you've had someone as your counterpart for a significant chunk of time, and rather than adjusting to something new it's easier and more comfortable to want back what you had.

Kelli lets it slip that Lawrence is with someone knew, which Tiffany was also aware of. They know who she is and everything, but Issa claims she doesn't want to know. In the two seconds it takes to decry that claim, Molly finds Tasha's instagram profile. Tiffany offers some friendly shit-talking ("why does she only speak in emojis?") and Kelli says she looks like a stripper. Issa pretends like she doesn't want to know who she is.

Gallery bathroom. While Issa is doing her "go high or go low?" mirror freestyle, I am just mesmerized by her crown-mimicking braidout. Like. I wouldn't wear it because I couldn't pull it off, but it is fascinating on her. She decides going the high road is overrated, and when Molly comes to check on her, Issa snaps, "pull that bitch up!" The soundtrack that kicks in at that moment - bass heavy intoning "fuck that nigga" - pulls all of us back on the thrones we sometimes forget but need always to occupy.

The next day. For reasons that are unclear, Issa stops by Chad's apartment looking for Lawrence. Chad remarks on her glow up approvingly, which Issa awkwardly plays off. They have awkward small tight for a bit before Issa asks for Lawrence. Chad doesn't want to say where he really is, and if I had the skills/patience to make gifs, I'd insert one here now of the coy way he then slups on the straw of his beet juice. As it is, Issa concedes defeat and decides to leave.

It turns out Lawrence is at Tasha's, watching Defamation. I know that's not the name of their in-series show, but I can't be bothered to find out what it was, so I'm just going to call it the same as DWP's. Tasha is into it while Lawrence is aloof, and the thing that makes *me* most uncomfortable about Tasha - as stated, I do not buy into the thotty because she is traditional narrative - is her liking Real Housewives-y television and occupying that "black women in Atlanta" sort of social space. I do fully approve of her around the way girl oversized gold hoops.

Lawrence says he has things on his mind and Tasha, again refreshingly casually, asks whether he wants to talk about it. She gets a text from her mom, informing her about a family barbecue. She takes a moment and hints about whether or not Lawrence would like to come. Rather than pretend to be oblivious, Lawrence actually makes a noise like he acknowledges this time that he knows this would mean something, and Tasha, sensing his hesitation, immediately walks the invitation back. Lawrence decides to just drop that he slept with his ex. He tries to explain why it happens and says he just wants to be honest, and doesn't know what it means. Hmm. I don't know at this point in their relationship how big a deal this should be, so Tasha's measured response of "I think you need to go" is about level and appropriate. Oh MAYNE, she got that black glass and gold accented vanity mirror that I'm sure was a pattern we ALL had in our moms' bedrooms at some point.

Dunes. Issa is getting ready for bed, trying to resist looking up Tasha. Of course she isn't able to manage it, and pulls up Tasha's instagram.

Law firm. Molly rolls up on the front desk lady and they exchange pleasantries and niceties. Molly wants to know about a hockey game the bosses are going to. She is planning to shoot her shot and try to ingratiate herself into the "boy's club." "I'm scared of you," the front desk lady says neutrally, grinning and turning back to her computer.

Issa's boring after school job. The principle is prejudiced against latinos, Frieda doesn't like it, Issa is tone deaf. Blah blah blah.

So how do we feel about Chad's suit? Apparently he had to wait outside for Lawrence to express his disbelief that Lawrence told Tasha about Issa. Uh, how did he find out about that? lol. Lawrence says he couldn't lie about it because he's "not dirty like that." Chad, and all of us:

Seriously, what's up with Lawrence? He is delusional about his capacity for being a good dude. Which, to be perfectly frank with you, is not very surprising to me for a guy who could mooch off his girlfriend for two years and then be totally blindsided with her being dissatisfied and unhappy in the relationship. Lawrence can't believe he slept with Issa, thinking he was once step out the door away. Chad is overall not surprised that Lawrence went back to being a "John Legend ass nigga."

Apparently they are going to check out a new apartment for Lawrence. Why does Chad need to be there for that? Chad mentions that Issa came by looking for him, acknowledging her glow up: "did she always look like that?"

The broker is a black woman in an off white pantsuit. You know how sometimes you'll be watching white tv and you never see any black people until you need a bus driver or a maid or a nurse or some other menial service person? Insecure does this in reverse where most of the roles of businesspeople in the community are held by black women, which is truer to life. Anyway, she's Patty from ABG. The apartment seems to have disturbingly pale sea green walls which I would not be happy with. I'd feel like my entire apartment is a bloody bathroom from a scary movie. That's the exact same shade of sea foam green blue.

They like the apartment. It's pretty big. I know nothing about Los Angeles real estate but I assume it's extremely expensive. Lawrence is hesitant to commit, possibly because he wants an invite back to the Dunes. Who knows, the scene doesn't elaborate.

High School. Frieda is mad about Principal Gaines not caring about the latino students. She calls it a "racist joke" he made. Issa doesn't care, and Frieda's Clueless White Person rambling doesn't help. They arrive to the after school program to find it full of students. Gaines hooked them up with kids. Issa is thrilled but Frieda is concerned about the lack of latino students.

Molly is riding an escalator somewhere. Where ya going, Molly? Ooooh... eeeee... she's making the bold but fairly ill considered decision to try to rub elbows with the boys club in the box seats for a hockey game.

I don't begrudge Molly attempting to shoot her shot, but there have got to be more... shall we say organic ways for her to attempt it. We look like assholes popping up in entirely the wrong context like this. Now I'm having a flashback to an ill advised friendship with an overweight white woman who, time would reveal, primarily wanted to use me to get an in into black spaces where she could meet black men. But never fear, her black female friends were just as corny and thirsty: her black counterpart was this overweight chick who went out of her way to assure all of us how much she loved hockey and when she talked about basketball she made sure to only talk about the two or three white players on our home team. The thirst was real and it went in both directions, and that is tonight's anecdote on why I make very little effort to make female friends as an adult.

Back at the Dunes, Issa cannot resist the allure of her phone, holding the secrets as it does to Tasha's insta. Of course she eventually caves and we are treated to this snap filtered gem:

Doing the most. But followed up by this:

Loving the wig. Issa throws the phone down pretending she doesn't care, going back to her book.

Back at the hockey game, Molly's attempts to bond with middle aged white men is typically embarrassing. They're drinking shitty beer, Stella Artois as far as I can tell? Molly takes a moment then decides to shoot her shot, socially approaching her boss. He's wearing a ridiculous suit. They make small talk about lobster rolls, but Molly misses the timbre of the humor and her "women are clueless about sports" bit doesn't quite land. Which I'm going to go ahead and chalk up to a racial barrier because let's just admit it. It's not believable to pretend a black woman gives a fuck about hockey. I have sat around with white dudes and tried to watch hockey games. That shit is boring. They score once every fifteen minutes. Let us submit a blanket moratorium on black women appeasing whites by pretending to like hockey.

The next morning at work, Molly tries to maintain cordial commentary with her boss but it's awkward and they both wish it had never happened. She walks away from the break room while her boss and a random white man look awkwardly after her before going back to their conversation.

Hey. Don't you fucking hate that we have to do this shit?

Chad's. Lawrence is on his air mattress, looking pensive. Dune's. Issa is on her mac still stalking. She has progressed to facebook. Then she swaps to Twitter. Then she swaps to the LinkedIn. I have amazing internet stalking skills. I once found posts from a message board someone posted on anonymously in high school. I knew an ex of mine had gotten married like six months after I dumped him and I wanted to know who the wife was - that took licensed private investigator levels of digging because he had zero online footprint and a super generic name. I once found someone's professional license, which listed their contact number, saved the number to my phone, and used it to find their instagram page. Fuck with me dog. No one has shit on my internet stalking game. I'm not crazy just nosy as fuck.

Letsmovealong... Tasha's social media is meant, I'm thinking, to paint her as slightly basic. She has Beyonce quotes in the Beyonce font, she's wearing an uncomfortable suit in her linkedin pic. She takes pics eating jalepeno poppers in ecstasy. And, to be fair, I think that's the characterization we are meant to take away from Tasha. She isn't quirky like Issa. She's just "regular black." And I know that's a thing that people have had negative reactions to, so I don't mind telling you I aggressively defend "regular black." I live on the northside of my city, which is white neighborhoods. Every man I date has no less than a college degree and often a graduate or professional degree, as, having one myself, this only makes sense for finding someone with compatible values. So my ability to occupy a quirky, upwardly mobile black space must take responsibility for blackness as a whole, in the sense that it would be shameful for me to shun "regular blackness." Whenever I'm wearing curly 30 inch remy in my sew in and I meet randoms who ALWAYS ask me whether I'm latina I make SURE to put them in their place. Asking me whether I'm mixed. That's not a compliment, y'all. Don't be on the okcupids and the tinders talking about you're "other" race. I used to block men on sight with bedebees talking about some "Mixed race, other." Don't side with the oppressors. Don't shun regular blackness. (I have seen many, many black people do this, both male and female, and it is incredibly disheartening and disappointing. It's not just men. Women do it too. All of y'all need to stop.)

Issa realizes that Tasha works at the bank Lawrence goes to. So the next morning she takes it upon herself to take a visit, taking note of the Best Buy right next door. Issa goes inside and gets in Tasha's line. "I'd like to make a deposit," she says, and then cold-cocks Tasha. This, of course, is yet another fantasy.

But in real life, Molly is having a cup of espresso on some campus somewhere. Lawrence spots her and decides he's not petty enough to not say hi. I'm loving the linen denim blue button up, less endeared by the flat hipster leather backpack, but I don't mind the attempt. They hug with Molly surprised to see him - she was there for some meeting or other. Lawrence says it's "Meridian" which I know as a health insurer, but probably means something different as it's where he works. Molly's wear a midi dress and heels which... I remember those cut out shoulder cut out things from a time far far in the past, guys.

They make small talk about Lawrence's new job and how they're both "good." Lawrence makes to walk away but Molly, steeling herself, calls him back. She wants to talk about Issa, who she tells him is "still torn up." "And?" Lawrence says, rudely. Yeah, Lawrence has no concept of the fact that their relationship was garbage. Maybe it wasn't always, but where they were when we met them, their relationship was trash.

Molly champions Issa and asks whether he hates her. He says he doesn't, so Molly asks if he'd ever take her back. We don't get to see Lawrence's response as we swap to Issa in her car. She's still outside of the bank when Tasha walks past, talking to a friend. Issa drops the recline on her seat all the way back to hide. Molly calls at this moment, walking away from her conversation with Lawrence and carrying a fabulous pale tan attache case. She makes it clear to us that she was only there as a plant, to run into Lawrence so she could ask him about Issa. This is the new age adult version of the secret three way call.

Issa asks what Lawrence said about her. Molly apologizes, and breaks the bad news that Lawrence says he's done. He ended up taking the new apartment, so he's not coming back. Issa digests this in silence. Molly offers to come by but Issa tells her she's fine. She reclines in her car a bit longer into an annoying security guard comes by and tells her she can't sleep there.

Nighttime. Molly's still at work, skyping with Hannah, the lawyer who recently transferred to the Chicago office. They're both working late. My ambitions and skillset and also personal passions would seem to dictate that I should have been a lawyer. But even when I was much younger and just starting to think about what I wanted my life to look like, I never wanted to give more of a fuck about work than anything else in my life. Like, this being at the office at nighttime shit? No thank you. ....I kinda regret that now. You know? Maybe in the go-go 90s I took the trope of the serious businesswoman who doesn't have time for a man and a life and a family too seriously. I don't know.

Molly makes professional good with Hannah, offering to help with her workload - and this is kind of what I mean - in kind of like "I'm a workhorse, use me." Hannah is touched by the offer, and agrees to throw some work Molly's way, perhaps recognizing the ploy Molly is extending. So that one, at least, went over well.

Somewhere in LA. While Molly's in her office, Lawrence has stopped by Tasha's house. She comes out to meet him where he is waiting by his car. She's wearing ripped jeans and very clunky sneakers. When Lawrence says hi, she regards him coldly. He launches into an apology, telling Tasha she didn't deserve that. Tasha, still playing "cool girl" who doesn't make a big deal about the fucked up shit you're dealing, plays understanding, that she gets why he was still messing with his ex. She knows their relationship wasn't exclusive.

She's giving him an out. But Lawrence muddies this by saying his thing with Issa was over. Tasha tried to let him keep things casual, but his response signals that casual behavior isn't ok while they are seeing each other. Recognizing this, Tasha makes an excuse for why she has to go back inside.

But, at the last minute she just can't help it, and caves, asking him whether or not he wants to come in for dinner. Lawrence, who was walking away, stops and takes her up on it. Damnit, Tasha. You almost made it.

Dunes. Issa, in her hairscarf and tshirt again (this has been a dry week for Issa right?) is putting away her laundry. She is suddenly annoyed about hanging all of her clothes on one side of the closet. Lawrence's shit is gone. She angrily shelves her shit on the opposite side, and, in bed, pulls her pillow in the middle, grappling with the reality that Lawrence is really not coming back.

Swiper more swiping helps blunt some of the pain as Issa pulls up Tinder again, trying, still trying.

#insecure hbo #issa rae #hella questions

2 notes · View notes

insecure-hbo-the-recaps · 7 years

Text

hella questions

Previously on Insecure: A bunch of bad dates, missing Lawrence, trifling Lawrence, failed “get my ex back” party, Molly is way underpaid. And two minutes of ex sex.

“Y'all fucked?” is the incredulity that welcomes us to the second episode of the season. I can’t decide if I love or hate that Issa has one of those old school ugly wooden entertainment center things that I’m sure we ALL had growing up.

Issa is also wearing a hoodie with Harriet Tubman on it… though I can’t figure out what the two pictures on her wall are. Molly wants to know who initiated the sex and whether they’ve spoken since. They aren’t really in any better place, and Molly doesn’t find this encouraging. Issa is grasping at straws. Molly asks whether it was a getting back together fuck or a “fuck you” fuck. Hmmm. As someone who recently had sex with her ex that she’s still in love with… it was definitely neither lol. It was… well, actually, it was a “I put up this picture of me kissing another dude as my facebook profile pic so that everyone could stop feeling sorry for me for being single, but you think I moved on and am dating someone else and don’t love your trifling ass anymore and you got the nerve to have a jealous streak" kind of a fuck. This fool asked me like four times “so what’s new with you?” As if I would tell if it WAS true, lol. Anyway, the sex between Lawrence and Issa would fall in a similar category - dudes being in their insecure ass feelings but STILL not trying to give you the respect you deserve.

Issa calls the sex “nebulous.” Nebulous: unclear, vague, or ill defined. Molly is wary of drawing any conclusions based on this murky outcome, but Issa brightly tries to convince herself the sex means something good. Idk, girl. I don’t feel like that. I’m not even going to delude myself that way.

Lawrence is in the gym, because in case you haven’t noticed, he ain’t a capn crunch eating white socks scrub no more. He starts to text Issa that he made things weird and didn’t plan for it to happen, but thinks better of it and deletes it.

Meanwhile, Molly did stick with her therapist and is at a second session. Far from how close mouthed she had been before, she is ranting energetically about her stronger work ethic and going above and beyond but still being underpaid. Honestly, this is why I just solve this issue by half assing everything at work. I’m never going above and beyond. I will ALWAYS be a solid ¾ at annual performance review time. Fuck your five star review. This job don’t give a fuck about me and I don’t give a fuck about y'all. And when the pay stops being enough, my resume makes it easy for me to bounce and renegotiate a new salary. But Molly is not interested in conceding defeat and can’t understand why she can’t figure out a way to get into the all boy’s club. The therapist points out that Molly is “shoulding” all over herself. And if you watch this show, you’ve seen Sex and the City, so we don’t need to break down the logistics of this.

The therapist tries to tell Molly she’s living in the reality she thinks she should have, not the one she does have. Molly, naturally, doesn’t understand what she’s saying. The therapist tells her that there are certain standards levied at black women - and let’s take the time to point out the difference here… in the past, the standards of a black woman were to singlehandedly manage a household and all of its financial and functional needs, put yourself aside and be a supporting force for everyone else in your life, and maybe you might find a man but how can you expect that, and you shouldn’t, because it’s too hard, and well, if you can’t find one, maybe nice Willie the janitor will be there for you and don’t be thinking bout no law degree. That shit ain’t the move no more. These days the perfect standards of being a black woman are all about getting your 2013 self titled album Beyonce on - fulfilled in yourself and your life choices and not subscribing to any ideology that says you can’t be enough or what you have to offer isn’t valuable… with a slice of “even if no one else can see my value, I know it far exceeds that of many of those around me.” Later for settling. Later for accepting scraps. But now that opens the door to a battle that’s twice as hard, choosing to except the ways in which you are exceptional, in a world that is not willing to agree with you purely because… you are a black woman.

The therapist asks Molly if she would be open to a life that doesn’t look like the one she thinks she “should” have. Molly isn’t ready to grapple with that idea, and demurs on scheduling the next session. See what I’m saying? Bitches afraid to look at themselves.

Gallery opening. Which, again, is a little too close to Sex and the City for me, but I don’t know what y'all be doing in California or New York. Gallery openings ain’t a thing in Chicago. The four of them are talking about Issa’s party. Tiffany is being annoyingly bougie as usual, Kelli is only mildly extra. I don’t… I don’t know what to say about these outfits.

I fully respect everything Insecure is doing. But I’d be a damn lie if I said… it was very… right, I suppose. It wouldn’t be the route I’d take if it were my show, I guess is what I’d say. They are trying to decide plans for the weekend but Issa doesn’t want to go out clubbing - she thinks sleeping with Lawrene means a reunion is imminent so she can’t really be going out anymore. Tiffany decides to empathize and shares that her gay husband lived in a hotel for basically half a year while they were going through something. “The point is, even perfect couples have problems,” Tiffany says, and I’m not looking forward to the season where they try to humanize Tiffany by showing she hides behind all this “perfect” bullshit to cover up the fact that she is miserably depressed and hates herself. I accidentally paused at a moment that captures this sentiment:

Issa thinks she just needs to give Lawrence time to forgive her; he can’t just walk away from five years like that. Every single time I’ve thought I offered something so incredibly unique to a man he’d be stupid to walk away from it, I was patently, 100% wrong. Kelli points out that for 2 of those years his bum ass mooched off on her couch and Issa should move on. Issa wants to work it out. But… really? Why would Issa want to still be with Lawrence? She wasn’t happy with him, that’s why she cheated in the first place. And I’m not buying that she saw the error of her ways and truly wants the life they had together in the end. More like being single is shit, especially when you’ve had someone as your counterpart for a significant chunk of time, and rather than adjusting to something new it’s easier and more comfortable to want back what you had.

Kelli lets it slip that Lawrence is with someone knew, which Tiffany was also aware of. They know who she is and everything, but Issa claims she doesn’t want to know. In the two seconds it takes to decry that claim, Molly finds Tasha’s instagram profile. Tiffany offers some friendly shit-talking (“why does she only speak in emojis?”) and Kelli says she looks like a stripper. Issa pretends like she doesn’t want to know who she is.

Gallery bathroom. While Issa is doing her “go high or go low?” mirror freestyle, I am just mesmerized by her crown-mimicking braidout. Like. I wouldn’t wear it because I couldn’t pull it off, but it is fascinating on her. She decides going the high road is overrated, and when Molly comes to check on her, Issa snaps, “pull that bitch up!” The soundtrack that kicks in at that moment - bass heavy intoning “fuck that nigga” - pulls all of us back on the thrones we sometimes forget but need always to occupy.

The next day. For reasons that are unclear, Issa stops by Chad’s apartment looking for Lawrence. Chad remarks on her glow up approvingly, which Issa awkwardly plays off. They have awkward small tight for a bit before Issa asks for Lawrence. Chad doesn’t want to say where he really is, and if I had the skills/patience to make gifs, I’d insert one here now of the coy way he then slups on the straw of his beet juice. As it is, Issa concedes defeat and decides to leave.

It turns out Lawrence is at Tasha’s, watching Defamation. I know that’s not the name of their in-series show, but I can’t be bothered to find out what it was, so I’m just going to call it the same as DWP’s. Tasha is into it while Lawrence is aloof, and the thing that makes *me* most uncomfortable about Tasha - as stated, I do not buy into the thotty because she is traditional narrative - is her liking Real Housewives-y television and occupying that “black women in Atlanta” sort of social space. I do fully approve of her around the way girl oversized gold hoops.

Lawrence says he has things on his mind and Tasha, again refreshingly casually, asks whether he wants to talk about it. She gets a text from her mom, informing her about a family barbecue. She takes a moment and hints about whether or not Lawrence would like to come. Rather than pretend to be oblivious, Lawrence actually makes a noise like he acknowledges this time that he knows this would mean something, and Tasha, sensing his hesitation, immediately walks the invitation back. Lawrence decides to just drop that he slept with his ex. He tries to explain why it happens and says he just wants to be honest, and doesn’t know what it means. Hmm. I don’t know at this point in their relationship how big a deal this should be, so Tasha’s measured response of “I think you need to go” is about level and appropriate. Oh MAYNE, she got that black glass and gold accented vanity mirror that I’m sure was a pattern we ALL had in our moms’ bedrooms at some point.

Dunes. Issa is getting ready for bed, trying to resist looking up Tasha. Of course she isn’t able to manage it, and pulls up Tasha’s instagram.

Law firm. Molly rolls up on the front desk lady and they exchange pleasantries and niceties. Molly wants to know about a hockey game the bosses are going to. She is planning to shoot her shot and try to ingratiate herself into the “boy’s club.” “I’m scared of you,” the front desk lady says neutrally, grinning and turning back to her computer.

Issa’s boring after school job. The principle is prejudiced against latinos, Frieda doesn’t like it, Issa is tone deaf. Blah blah blah.

So how do we feel about Chad’s suit? Apparently he had to wait outside for Lawrence to express his disbelief that Lawrence told Tasha about Issa. Uh, how did he find out about that? lol. Lawrence says he couldn’t lie about it because he’s “not dirty like that.” Chad, and all of us:

Seriously, what’s up with Lawrence? He is delusional about his capacity for being a good dude. Which, to be perfectly frank with you, is not very surprising to me for a guy who could mooch off his girlfriend for two years and then be totally blindsided with her being dissatisfied and unhappy in the relationship. Lawrence can’t believe he slept with Issa, thinking he was once step out the door away. Chad is overall not surprised that Lawrence went back to being a “John Legend ass nigga.”

The broker is a black woman in an off white pantsuit. You know how sometimes you’ll be watching white tv and you never see any black people until you need a bus driver or a maid or a nurse or some other menial service person? Insecure does this in reverse where most of the roles of businesspeople in the community are held by black women, which is truer to life. Anyway, she’s Patty from ABG. The apartment seems to have disturbingly pale sea green walls which I would not be happy with. I’d feel like my entire apartment is a bloody bathroom from a scary movie. That’s the exact same shade of sea foam green blue.

They like the apartment. It’s pretty big. I know nothing about Los Angeles real estate but I assume it’s extremely expensive. Lawrence is hesitant to commit, possibly because he wants an invite back to the Dunes. Who knows, the scene doesn’t elaborate.

High School. Frieda is mad about Principal Gaines not caring about the latino students. She calls it a “racist joke” he made. Issa doesn’t care, and Frieda’s Clueless White Person rambling doesn’t help. They arrive to the after school program to find it full of students. Gaines hooked them up with kids. Issa is thrilled but Frieda is concerned about the lack of latino students.

Molly is riding an escalator somewhere. Where ya going, Molly? Ooooh… eeeee… she’s making the bold but fairly ill considered decision to try to rub elbows with the boys club in the box seats for a hockey game.

I don’t begrudge Molly attempting to shoot her shot, but there have got to be more… shall we say organic ways for her to attempt it. We look like assholes popping up in entirely the wrong context like this. Now I’m having a flashback to an ill advised friendship with an overweight white woman who, time would reveal, primarily wanted to use me to get an in into black spaces where she could meet black men. But never fear, her black female friends were just as corny and thirsty: her black counterpart was this overweight chick who went out of her way to assure all of us how much she loved hockey and when she talked about basketball she made sure to only talk about the two or three white players on our home team. The thirst was real and it went in both directions, and that is tonight’s anecdote on why I make very little effort to make female friends as an adult.

Back at the Dunes, Issa cannot resist the allure of her phone, holding the secrets as it does to Tasha’s insta. Of course she eventually caves and we are treated to this snap filtered gem:

Doing the most. But followed up by this:

Loving the wig. Issa throws the phone down pretending she doesn’t care, going back to her book.

Back at the hockey game, Molly’s attempts to bond with middle aged white men is typically embarrassing. They’re drinking shitty beer, Stella Artois as far as I can tell? Molly takes a moment then decides to shoot her shot, socially approaching her boss. He’s wearing a ridiculous suit. They make small talk about lobster rolls, but Molly misses the timbre of the humor and her “women are clueless about sports” bit doesn’t quite land. Which I’m going to go ahead and chalk up to a racial barrier because let’s just admit it. It’s not believable to pretend a black woman gives a fuck about hockey. I have sat around with white dudes and tried to watch hockey games. That shit is boring. They score once every fifteen minutes. Let us submit a blanket moratorium on black women appeasing whites by pretending to like hockey.

The next morning at work, Molly tries to maintain cordial commentary with her boss but it’s awkward and they both wish it had never happened. She walks away from the break room while her boss and a random white man look awkwardly after her before going back to their conversation.

Hey. Don’t you fucking hate that we have to do this shit?

Chad’s. Lawrence is on his air mattress, looking pensive. Dune’s. Issa is on her mac still stalking. She has progressed to facebook. Then she swaps to Twitter. Then she swaps to the LinkedIn. I have amazing internet stalking skills. I once found posts from a message board someone posted on anonymously in high school. I knew an ex of mine had gotten married like six months after I dumped him and I wanted to know who the wife was - that took licensed private investigator levels of digging because he had zero online footprint and a super generic name. I once found someone’s professional license, which listed their contact number, saved the number to my phone, and used it to find their instagram page. Fuck with me dog. No one has shit on my internet stalking game. I’m not crazy just nosy as fuck.

Letsmovealong… Tasha’s social media is meant, I’m thinking, to paint her as slightly basic. She has Beyonce quotes in the Beyonce font, she’s wearing an uncomfortable suit in her linkedin pic. She takes pics eating jalepeno poppers in ecstasy. And, to be fair, I think that’s the characterization we are meant to take away from Tasha. She isn’t quirky like Issa. She’s just “regular black.” And I know that’s a thing that people have had negative reactions to, so I don’t mind telling you I aggressively defend “regular black.” I live on the northside of my city, which is white neighborhoods. Every man I date has no less than a college degree and often a graduate or professional degree, as, having one myself, this only makes sense for finding someone with compatible values. So my ability to occupy a quirky, upwardly mobile black space must take responsibility for blackness as a whole, in the sense that it would be shameful for me to shun “regular blackness.” Whenever I’m wearing curly 30 inch remy in my sew in and I meet randoms who ALWAYS ask me whether I’m latina I make SURE to put them in their place. Asking me whether I’m mixed. That’s not a compliment, y'all. Don’t be on the okcupids and the tinders talking about you’re “other” race. I used to block men on sight with bedebees talking about some “Mixed race, other.” Don’t side with the oppressors. Don’t shun regular blackness. (I have seen many, many black people do this, both male and female, and it is incredibly disheartening and disappointing. It’s not just men. Women do it too. All of y'all need to stop.)

Issa realizes that Tasha works at the bank Lawrence goes to. So the next morning she takes it upon herself to take a visit, taking note of the Best Buy right next door. Issa goes inside and gets in Tasha’s line. “I’d like to make a deposit,” she says, and then cold-cocks Tasha. This, of course, is yet another fantasy.

But in real life, Molly is having a cup of espresso on some campus somewhere. Lawrence spots her and decides he’s not petty enough to not say hi. I’m loving the linen denim blue button up, less endeared by the flat hipster leather backpack, but I don’t mind the attempt. They hug with Molly surprised to see him - she was there for some meeting or other. Lawrence says it’s “Meridian” which I know as a health insurer, but probably means something different as it’s where he works. Molly’s wear a midi dress and heels which… I remember those cut out shoulder cut out things from a time far far in the past, guys.

They make small talk about Lawrence’s new job and how they’re both “good.” Lawrence makes to walk away but Molly, steeling herself, calls him back. She wants to talk about Issa, who she tells him is “still torn up.” “And?” Lawrence says, rudely. Yeah, Lawrence has no concept of the fact that their relationship was garbage. Maybe it wasn’t always, but where they were when we met them, their relationship was trash.

Molly champions Issa and asks whether he hates her. He says he doesn’t, so Molly asks if he’d ever take her back. We don’t get to see Lawrence’s response as we swap to Issa in her car. She’s still outside of the bank when Tasha walks past, talking to a friend. Issa drops the recline on her seat all the way back to hide. Molly calls at this moment, walking away from her conversation with Lawrence and carrying a fabulous pale tan attache case. She makes it clear to us that she was only there as a plant, to run into Lawrence so she could ask him about Issa. This is the new age adult version of the secret three way call.

Issa asks what Lawrence said about her. Molly apologizes, and breaks the bad news that Lawrence says he’s done. He ended up taking the new apartment, so he’s not coming back. Issa digests this in silence. Molly offers to come by but Issa tells her she’s fine. She reclines in her car a bit longer into an annoying security guard comes by and tells her she can’t sleep there.

Nighttime. Molly’s still at work, skyping with Hannah, the lawyer who recently transferred to the Chicago office. They’re both working late. My ambitions and skillset and also personal passions would seem to dictate that I should have been a lawyer. But even when I was much younger and just starting to think about what I wanted my life to look like, I never wanted to give more of a fuck about work than anything else in my life. Like, this being at the office at nighttime shit? No thank you. ….I kinda regret that now. You know? Maybe in the go-go 90s I took the trope of the serious businesswoman who doesn’t have time for a man and a life and a family too seriously. I don’t know.

Molly makes professional good with Hannah, offering to help with her workload - and this is kind of what I mean - in kind of like “I’m a workhorse, use me.” Hannah is touched by the offer, and agrees to throw some work Molly’s way, perhaps recognizing the ploy Molly is extending. So that one, at least, went over well.

Somewhere in LA. While Molly’s in her office, Lawrence has stopped by Tasha’s house. She comes out to meet him where he is waiting by his car. She’s wearing ripped jeans and very clunky sneakers. When Lawrence says hi, she regards him coldly. He launches into an apology, telling Tasha she didn’t deserve that. Tasha, still playing “cool girl” who doesn’t make a big deal about the fucked up shit you’re dealing, plays understanding, that she gets why he was still messing with his ex. She knows their relationship wasn’t exclusive.

She’s giving him an out. But Lawrence muddies this by saying his thing with Issa was over. Tasha tried to let him keep things casual, but his response signals that casual behavior isn’t ok while they are seeing each other. Recognizing this, Tasha makes an excuse for why she has to go back inside.

But, at the last minute she just can’t help it, and caves, asking him whether or not he wants to come in for dinner. Lawrence, who was walking away, stops and takes her up on it. Damnit, Tasha. You almost made it.

Dunes. Issa, in her hairscarf and tshirt again (this has been a dry week for Issa right?) is putting away her laundry. She is suddenly annoyed about hanging all of her clothes on one side of the closet. Lawrence’s shit is gone. She angrily shelves her shit on the opposite side, and, in bed, pulls her pillow in the middle, grappling with the reality that Lawrence is really not coming back.

Swiper more swiping helps blunt some of the pain as Issa pulls up Tinder again, trying, still trying.

0 notes

themomsandthecity · 7 years

Text

A Letter to My Unborn Baby: Here's What I Promise You

Dear Baby, There are still a few months until we meet, but already I'm busy writing you letters. (This is probably just one of a million times you'll be reminded that your mom's a writer - a sentimental one. You've been warned.) I started writing things down because I honestly couldn't stop thinking about you, and because even though I've only been carrying you for a matter of months, it already feels like there's so much to share. It's all in a tiny journal on my nightstand, one I'll give you someday when you're a bit older. There's a letter about how your dad and I met, another about the day you became a reality, plus others about your grandpa and your grandma and some of the special people who already love you. See? I told you: a sentimental writer. In all these letters, I find myself imagining the mom I hope to be when you arrive. That mom I picture, she's a tall order, but although there's a whole lot I can't plan for, there are also some promises I vow to keep . . . I promise to begin and end your days with the reminder that I adore you. At night, you'll hear "I love you" loud and clear, and I promise to wake you up each morning with a soft voice and an open smile, just the way my mom did with me. That might seem like a small thing, but trust me: it makes for a pleasant start to the day, and when you're a teenager, you'll be really, really grateful that I'm not shoving the curtains open and yelling for you to get up. When you try new things, I promise not to show you that I'm a tiny bit (or, more likely, very) scared. Deep down I might be worried or anxious or slightly terrified of what might happen if it doesn't work out for you, but I won't let my fears slow you down. I'll tell you to take chances, to go for it, to trust yourself. I promise to trust you. I promise to make your birthday a big damn deal. Whether you're turning 1 or 35, I promise balloons and streamers and surprise parties and the cakes of your choice. Some years you might love that, and other years it might feel sort of cheesy, but when you look back on birthdays past, I promise you'll know that you were celebrated by the people who cared about you most. If you mess up in a small way, I promise to acknowledge it, help you, then let it go. And whenever you mess up in a big way, I promise to feel the weight of it and push you to do the same. I promise to let you make those tough mistakes, to address them when I need to, and to keep on loving you all the same. I promise to build you one hell of a library . . . or, at least, to bring you to one. I'll help you learn to read and then I'll share with you all the stories, true and imagined, that have made me who I am. I promise to stand by, thrilled, as you discover the Harry Potter world for yourself, and to give you all the Roald Dahl books that swept me away when I was small, and to offer you my collection of heavily underlined novels just as soon as you're able to love them too. I promise you a life filled with words and books and imagination and the space to be as creative as you want to be. I promise to be active - to set that example and inspire you to keep moving. There will be after-dinner walks and Sunday morning runs and sunny hikes along the beach. Oh, I promise you sports, too. Plenty of them. Your dad will teach you how to throw a football, how to nail free throws, and I'll show you the ins and outs of soccer. Swimming, too. All of it or none of it, I promise that can be up to you. Golf, basketball, volleyball, dance - I promise to let you try whatever grabs you and to let you quit when you don't love it anymore. I promise to surround you with art of all kinds. To share my love for pop culture, for movies and music and Broadway and Hollywood. I'll show you the good stuff and the cheesy stuff, the Oscar winners and the terrible comedies, the Beatles and the '90s pop that makes most people cringe. (You'll notice, of course, that I won't cringe. And you'll quickly learn that when it comes down to it, our family is Team *NSYNC, not Backstreet Boys.) Over the years I promise to bring you to museums and concerts and plays, and I'll totally get it when you transform into an all-out crazy fan of something, or someone. If you swear you won't make fun of me, I might even show you my homemade Justin Timberlake poster from 2001. Like I said: Team *NSYNC, OK? When you have a bad day, I promise to listen. Or give you room to breathe, whatever seems best at the time. And when you get upset or angry or really, in-your-bones mad at me, I promise that I'll try to understand. I'll practice patience; I'll try, anyway. Year after year, I promise to carve out all kinds of special time for just you and your dad. From day one I'll do everything I can to support that relationship and to let it be as special as the one I share with my dad. Together you two will take camping trips, go to football games, road trip along the California coast. He'll introduce you to his reggae favorites and way, way more 49ers trivia than you'll ever care to know. On weekends, he'll bring you along for Sunday drives, and over the Summer, he'll let you tag along to watch Giants games from the bleacher seats. Hockey games, though - you'll save those for me. I promise to be honest with you, even when it's hard, but I also promise to protect you. When there's something you need to know, I'll tell it to you straight, and if it might do more harm than good, I'll keep it to myself. I promise that I'll try to recognize the difference. Speaking of difference, I promise to celebrate what makes you different. I promise to let your weirdness shine. I promise to mark the major moments as they come, to take pictures and fill out scrapbooks and document the biggest milestones of your life. It's important to acknowledge the little things, too, so I'll do what my mom did, and at night, I'll ask you what you're grateful for. It'll give you perspective and a sense of calm. Hope, too. Mostly, sweet baby, I promise to show you love in all its best forms. I'll love you and your dad and our friends and our families. With words and with actions I'll say it and I'll show it, and if just one of my promises can be kept, let it be this: that you'll feel it. A love so big that it fills you up, that it makes you feel safe. I can't wait to meet you. Love you already, Mom http://bit.ly/2pljraM

#Personal Essay #Parenting

0 notes