16 of 50 Songs and Chapters Dedicated to the Friend I Lost Too Soon

I've seen this man's colored-clothing schedule three times through at minimum and for those 21 or so days, I didn't move from Jewee's office chair in his room unless I absolutely had to, like the stubborn person that I am. That folder he left the publishing agency with didn't concern me in the least, until I saw that he locked it away in a cabinet behind his desk, and that he keeps the key on him at all times. Once I saw that, I couldn't stop my curiosity from running wild.

It's not terms and conditions that stand out to me. I don't care about regulations and rules. It's secrets that I care about and like cracking knuckles is for me, it became a pet peeve of his that I cared for the things that were supposedly not my business.

His presence darkened the room rather than lightened it when he entered it. This isn't a love story. It's one of hate and of despise, so it only makes sense. Not one murmur escapes his mind, and in this second I don't believe that there's any thoughts in it either. He's just standing there at the doorway, omitting a shadow on me. His foot is tapping the floor, but in my head it's much slower and louder than how he's doing it.

He needs into the cabinet, and with me sitting here like this, he can't without a bad conscience.

It's his way of telling me I'm on thin ice, sitting here in his way for days. It's his way of giving me my final warning. A final warning that will not and cannot control me. I'll make sure of it.

"Oh sorry." I announced it loudly, nothing out of it a true apology. It was quite the opposite, actually. I was rubbing it in, that I was breaking every rule he wanted me to follow. I wanted him to know that I would do zero in accordance to his pathway, and that I wouldn't regret it for a second. That I did all of this on purpose. "Hey, Kyler. How are you doing? Sorry I'm in your way. I didn't know you came in."

"You didn't know I came in to my room?" He emphasized the possessive particles, making sure he spelled it out for me how I irritated him, but he knew he screwed up when he did that. That's what give me the motivation to continue being this stubborn. Upon finishing his sentence, he shook his head, as if that could erase what he said aloud, and instead, he acknowledged me with gesture -- pursed lips and his eyebrows raising.

He wished that he didn't say a word to me. He wished his sass laid only in his eyebrows and in his lips. He wished that I'd be boiling in anger, believing that he wasn't bothered by me -- but one mistake and I already knew I've bothered him, and it made me thrive. It made me happy. He gave me exactly what I longed for.

A wave of silence came, and this one, he couldn't take. He couldn't live if his anger didn't resonate into words, even if he knew better that it's what I wanted to hear. Jewee lacks self control, and even though his goal of making my life miserable is strong, his lacking in that criteria is far stronger.

Neither of them are things to be proud of, are they? How embarrassing it is to live in his world, sometimes, and it's mostly because of me. Quite the accomplishment, if I do say so myself.

"Are you ever gonna leave? I have stuff to do and I've put it off for three weeks because you insist on sitting in that stupid chair and you have to watch every little thing I do. I could've been done with it by now, but no -- like everyday, you have to be in my way."

Jewee's impatience shined brighter than a disco ball. His coldness showed in how antsy he was becoming, which was understandable. That's what deadlines do to you. A deadline that could be risked as long as my existence didn't figure out what it was about.

"By all means," I lulled my speech, leaning back into the chair I sat in. "You can take whatever you need."

He gave me that stare -- the stare that yelled for me to listen to what I was saying, near to begging me. The stare that wanted me to hear myself think. The stare that made him I want slap sense into me if he could but that didn't solve his problem. The thing was this: I've heard everything I've said, what I've thought, and I have sense. Our perspectives just weren't connecting the way he wanted them to.

"Sure I could," he said sarcastically, his feet clacking the floor to let me know he was coming closer. He set his cup of coffee onto his desk, an extra one than usual that didn't follow his usual schedule, and he did it obnoxiously too, it nearly let his loud sigh slip by. It wasn't quite there though, and it's that attitude that lit me on fire.

None of that was a good sign.

I almost thought about apologizing. I thought about backing down. I thought about chasing his forgiveness, because over time the satisfaction and contentment I got from this was lasting for a shorter period of time each time, and I didn't know what to do with that. The tiring out was increasing and it was making me debate whether or not it was worth it.

But I couldn't get myself to. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. After all, if we weren't enemies, that what else could we possibly be? Why is the thought of that so disturbing? Why would I rather be his enemy than be nothing?

Am I even reading myself right?

It can't be like that, can it?

"Jeez, what's your problem? It's that big of a deal to hide crap from me that you'd let yourself fall three weeks behind? Would you even be capable of catching up in time if you didn't have help? Could you pull it off all by yourself?" I kept up with what I thought would never end until I ended. Hating might not be as fulfilling as it once was, but it was the easiest -- so normalized and I'm addicted. I don't know life without it. Like every adjustment that comes, it's too hard to change. Once habits stick, it's not easy to get rid of them.

"First of all, we're not a fricking married couple Jaiva Shyne. I'm not required to tell you anything, especially if there's a chance you can, you know -- ruin my life or get me in trouble. Are you even capable of keeping secrets? Second, it doesn't concern you because -- and trying to say this in the nicest way possible -- you don't know anything about it or how to get it done. You wouldn't be able to help."

I watched him, blankly. It sounded like a challenge to me, though he likely didn't mean it in that way. He wouldn't try to challenge me because he knew better than to do that. I'd bite for that, and he doesn't want me to. "But can you pull off everything you need to get done before the deadline? That's what I actually want to know," I repeated.

Jewee hesitated to answer, his hands fidgety. "No. I guess I can't," he admitted, but he wasn't going to leave the situation open like that. "But you wouldn't be helpful if you did anything. You'd just get in the way."

"Two minds are better than one."

"Not with this, it's not."

"Try me, Jewee Gray Kyler. Try me."

His long exhale was evidence of how hard it was for him to agree, but the long inhale was what became backbone to his desperation, and thus his agreement.

"Fine," he murmured, already mentally facepalming for what he was allowing himself to get into.

But an agreement is an agreement, isn't it, and sometimes, stubbornness is the key to getting it.

Trust me. Obviously, I would know.

~

The contents of the mystery folder didn't look like much fun at first glance, and very quickly this nausea I pretty much asked for wiped through my body when I looked at it. It was a lot, and I was having flashbacks to my high school days when I got way behind on homework and schoolwork that I'd feel like crying to see it all set out before me.

That's how Jewee was feeling too, likely to a much further degree, because this would be on his name, not mine. Helping was the only way I could peer into his business, and that means I had to hold onto that burden as well, but who cares? While he has the entire world to decipher, I don't really have anything to do. That's what happens when the world loves you versus the world having no idea who the heck you are. You get expectations. Why do we wish for success when that only means we have to reach the expectations of someone else's standards?

Why did I want any of this?

There are so many codes that need cracking that are on my plate right now. That one, and the base to why I hate this Jewee so much. I know what I've said this entire time, that he's a liar, and I've been contented believing that that was every reason I had to dislike the man -- really dislike him. I have to re-evaluate it all. Everything. I need more than that, from the little things.

How he said my name. How he'd stretch his fingers before he started to draw, or mid-draw at times. How he'd balance his head on his hand, and his elbow on the table. When I looked at those artifacts and several more, what is it that really made me unable to stand him? Why couldn't I stand him, even in the times he's was brilliant, intelligent, and pleasant toward me? Why does it always end in irritation when it comes to him?

I've learned the man is shy, a bit hesitant contrary to his chaotic energy, and while I've always thought that it's that energy that hides his shyness, I've started to feel for some reason, that his shyness is hiding something too that's not as innocent as it presents itself to be. There has to be something within his layers that holds the justification to my anger.

He wants me to see him as trustworthy -- that's what awkwardness does, and it's not just me either. It's everyone he comes across. People tend to fall weak when it comes to a person like that. They don't think they have the ability to do anything wrong to them, but I think -- I think that yes, it's his shyness that's hiding a real part of him, and it's that that makes him a liar.

It's a lot deeper than it seems. It's gotta be, right? I have reason to hate him. I have reason to long to be his enemy, and it's not simple and shallow.

"What it all this about?" I mumbled out, like my thoughts were clean. I was observing the paperwork he had been keeping from me, more intently. This was the third problem on my plate, that I've asked to share in. Stupid, isn't it?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"This is the process of a -- not confirmed -- book to movie adaptation," Jewee was spreading the stack of paper apart, so he could see more of the information at one time. He didn't look to want to continue, but my confusion dragged him along. He didn't like having to see that. All it did was put pressure on him. "It's been proposed that your book One Hundred Goodbyes be adapted into a movie, Jaiva Shyne, but don't get too excited yet. There's still a lot to consider and besides, we still have to worry about the book signing ahead of all of this."

My heart thumped faster. I had so many questions. There were so many ways I was guessing this would go, but this was not one of them. Part of me was ready for something bad to happen, but this wasn't bad. This was good. Too good to comprehend in my little mediocre mind.

"Whose--," I began. I wondered if I was even able to ask questions, but I decided to, rather than let myself be cut off. If I wasn't allowed to ask them, then he'd surely let me know. "Who would play Aiden?"

"Me," he answered quietly, like I would despise the word coming off his lips. "They're thinking of giving me the role, if this gets anywhere. I might possibly help out with directing too."

If I wrote that book without any emotional attachment, and only had to consider what a terrible experience I've had to put up with since I got to this place in Las Vegas, I would've started cackling, but that wasn't the case. I had crazy emotional attachment to this creation of mine, because this was a farewell. It was going to a new chapter without someone I cherished, and as for Aiden, he would've loved for Jewee to play his character. That's what he would've wanted.

I went with it for his sake. For Aiden.

"Okay. That'd be nice. How about me? Who would play me?"

"It's still being discussed." He shuffled through some more of the papers, taking a pen from the pocket on his shirt. It dangled in his hand as he found himself in deep thinking. "But like I was saying, we're not even that far yet. All of that should still be considered a rumor, hence why you weren't supposed to know yet. We don't even know how we want to portray the story or honestly, we don't know anything at all. Not even square one. What we're still going over is--,"

"Options, fundraising, funding, crowdfunding, contracts, screenplays, structure, character portrayal, summary, and all of that icky, super un-fun stuff, right? If you're gonna have anything to do with directing, then that would mean you need to look into the entire cast, crew, locations and so on. There's rehearsals and performances you would have to take care of. And I'd assume, because I wrote the book you would eventually need my permission in writing. Am I wrong?"

The man's jaw dropped. Jewee wasn't that focused on me until I said anything about it, but now that I did, his head whipped around so fast to find my eye contact. "How do you even know anything about that? I mean, yeah, it could be very common sense that anything like that would have to happen, but I've never experienced anyone without experience be so upfront and confident about things when they're talking to me. They only know the final product -- the movie that's released, and that's all they care to know."

I was irritated by his choice of vocabulary. Sure, he had a lot of experience in the world of directing, acting and film, but that didn't mean that I couldn't know anything about it. He talked like I was too small and inadequate to know anything about his life and his passions when the truth is, I think that it's one of the only places our worlds kindly collide. We create. We want to make people's lives better -- or okay at least, for a little while.

He's not the only one on this planet capable of doing that and who has such a goal.

I cleared my throat. I decided to let him off easy. To not make his life too incredibly difficult, just for right now. I gave him a break, and secretly I needed a break too.

"I know my way around that criteria a little," I admitted in an undertone. "I couldn't afford college. I wanted to go -- I thought it'd open up my opportunities, but I couldn't take the risk of student loans. So, I lived with my parents longer than anyone of my classmates did. I worked retail, did a lot of writing workshops in my spare time. I learned some about screenwriting, and that brought me to classes about film every so often. It wasn't my first choice, you know, but it was incredibly beautiful to bring words to life even if no one ever heard what I wanted to say. I never learned anything fancy like you did. I did what was mandatory, but it was a fun journey to go on."

"You might be a little bit more help than I thought you would be," he chuckled. He didn't sound like he had rude intentions, but I didn't allow myself to think he was being genuine, and I'm glad that I didn't. He wasn't done. "I'm deciding to trust you. I don't really have a choice if I want to get anywhere with this. If there's something you don't understand, just holler. I'll translate the big words to easy ones."

Of course, his cockiness doesn't leave him. I heavily doubt that I need him to help me, and I was a second to telling him that, but I bit it back. "Thanks," I told him. "Let's get to it then."

I still sighed out of annoyance. That, I couldn't hide, and it humored him, making me regret it instantly. Head down and hair falling into my face, I studied the documents out in front of me, writing in the things that were common sense and skipping over anything that would need to go through him or would need his input or signature.

The man was smart. He didn't show it all the time, especially he's the one who trips over everything and who people would say is destined for the dumb character in a comedy, but his intelligent roles weren't entirely a part he was playing. He had that in him too, and when he felt like displaying it, he would. It was tiring, I must say, to see that side of him. Once he clicked into that mode, he was this beast that couldn't be caught up with and he was ahead of everyone, and I think he thought that way himself.

But I couldn't help but to question myself in the moment all we could hear is pens scribbling against our papers. Maybe it was possible that this wasn't about him, but about me. Maybe it really was me who couldn't stand to see him succeed and me who didn't want to have to reply to him. It could be that I was trying to prove this entire time that though I practically used my dying breath for his help, that I didn't want people to think that I needed him for my success.

Reading myself is hard, ever since I got here to Vegas. Is it something in the air here that Colorado doesn't have?

"Okay, hold up," Jewee scoffed, shaking his head. He dropped the pen in his hand hard enough that it clattered on his desk. "Why the change in how you're treating me? What do you want? If you're not planning to get me in bad trouble, then why are you helping me?"

I glared at him, offended. Of course he thinks that I'd pull something off after the bond we created being totally off balance, and I understood that. I wasn't really offended, but I found it better that he thought I was. That way, he'd would take me seriously. If I come in peace, then can things be temporarily peaceful?

"Nothing, I'm just tired of being the bad guy. That's it," I insisted. Pretending to be nice and non-irritated was just as hard as yelling. Lesson learned; playing pretend and holding genuine anger are the most bone-rotting things of them all. The thing about playing pretend is eventually it could possibly be real.

Probably not in this case.

He looked surprised, but unbelieving. He wanted to play it safe.

"Alright," he said. "If you're gonna be nice to me, then I should at least say something sorta kindly."

That held my attention. I didn't even dare interrupt.

"The book signing coming up -- don't worry too much about it. It's hard for a first timer. Heck, it's hard for me and I've done it before. Dealing with a bunch of people's questions isn't easy sometimes, but you'll do great. I believe in you."

I believe in you. I believe in you. I believe in you.

His words drowned in me the way you drink up water when you're thirsty, but it ripped through my hair on the corner of a dark night. It screamed comfort, but it screamed danger too, and I didn't know what to think of it.

I stretched my fingers and wrists, searching through the files in my mind on what do do with that. It could be a mind trick. It could be a way for him to brag about being better than me. It could be a way for him to tell me that I'll never be as good as him.

But then again, it could be the looking out for I needed.