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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 7 months

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Don't You Forget About Me

Part One

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

Description: Sometimes the most unlikely encounters with people have an immeasurable effect on your life. For Bradley Bradshaw, life at 22 right after graduating from college is far different than he ever thought it would be. It kind of seems like his whole life hasn't gone according to plan. No parents, no support system, just one man and his dad's old Bronco against the world. A chance meeting with a blond-haired teenage menace in Texas may just change everything, shaping his future in a way he never would have expected. Disclaimer: This is a Hangster story -> What you see is what you get, folks. Slight mention of homophobic/ lgbtq+ phobic family members. Word Count: 3624 Author's Note: Hiya! I wrote this fic for @roosterforme's Top Gun Rocktober Event based on the song Don't You Forget About Me by the Simple Minds. Everything about it just screamed Hangster when I listened to it again. As anybody who knows me or has read my works can surmise... I can be quite long-winded so what was supposed to be a quick blurb turned into a short two-part series. I hope you all love this fic! (Also I'm self conscious about this one because I do not write in first person. It's surprisingly hard so I'd love any feedback if you've got it!)

It's dark and smoky and loud in here and I can't believe that I let Jessica and David drag me to this party. They've long since disappeared into the crush and left me on the under-stuffed chintz armchair in some frat house’s living room. It doesn't help that I haven't been to Texas in years and I feel even more like I’m out of my depths because of it. My mom grew up here, and most of her family is still here. But she's not. In the years since I graduated from high school, I've turned hundreds of times, looking for her sweet smile, searching for her to take solace in. But she's not exactly on this mortal plane anymore. Neither of my parents are. And the closest thing I've ever had to a dad fucked off after destroying my dreams.

It fills me with an unreasonable rage every time I think about it. I know Virginia, I've lived in Virginia for years, putting myself through school in Charlottesville while working single-mindedly to get into the US Navy. I’m so close to flight school that I can taste it. I just need to get through Officer Candidate School in Rhode Island now that I’ve graduated. One final summer of building my savings by working odd jobs and I’d be free. Or so I thought.

Then, I received a notice telling me my apartment building needed to be tented for termites. My lease was only valid until I left for OCS, anyway. I debated living out of my dad's car, now mine, until I had to be in Rhode Island. That’s when I received a letter from Stephanie Williams, my mom’s cousin, inviting me to spend the summer in Texas. Driving to Texas is far from convenient, but I haven't spent any time around my family, no matter how distant they may be, in so long. And, I’m kind of homesick - homesick for the sense of camaraderie, of walking into the house after baseball practice or school and hearing anyone in the house besides myself.

Jessica and David, Stephanie’s kids, are as nice as their mom. They both attend the University of Texas, but it still feels like there is a distance between us. They can't understand the drive burning in me about the Navy, how I need to do well at OCS, how I need to become an aviator, how I need to be better than anyone else. Aunt Steph doesn't really get it either if the way she practically pushed me out the door when Jess and David mentioned the party is any indication.

It doesn't help that I'm only a week from reporting to OCS, either. I know it’s not flight school, not yet, but I know I need to study more than I need to be in this stupid little ramshackle frat house on Greek Row. The beer’s watered down and warm, tasting like piss in my mouth. Normally, I’d be right in the center of the makeshift dance floor grinding up against the scantily clad girls in sight, most of them wearing bikinis, but not tonight.

I just want to go home again, but that’s not possible. It hasn't been for years. I leave the mostly full beer behind and search for Jess and David. There are hundreds of drunk kids in the house, and it doesn’t matter at all that I’m taller than most of them, not when people are dancing on the tables and licking alcohol off of each other. I feel like I’m suffocating. The entire house stinks of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and sweat. It takes fifteen minutes to look for either of them in the basement. When I’m halfway up the stairs, I’m tempted to leave them here and drive by in the morning to get them. But Aunt Steph would hate that.

The first floor is even worse than the basement. There may not be anybody dancing on the tables, but there is far more clothing being thrown about. It looks like there’s a drunken orgy happening in the living room on the floor. The carpet isn’t all that clean, to begin with, and add bodily fluids to it, and I nearly hurl on the spot.

If this is what I’ve missed out on in the traditional college experience, well, I don’t want it, not at all. Thankfully, I don’t have to see either of my cousins naked and that eliminates the kitchen and living area entirely. All I have left are the bedrooms above. Just walking up the stairs, I can hear the creaking of bedsprings and lusty moans. It sounds like a contagious disease waiting to happen, and I don’t make it past the top step.

That’s it. I can’t search for Jess or David anymore and I fight my way to the front door while trying to ignore the tits that seem to get shoved into my face every few steps. As I open the door, a body slams right into me. It’s a kid, gangly and blond, knobby shoulders protruding sharply through the fabric of the worn t-shirt he’s wearing.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” I can’t help the chuckle pouring out of my mouth. I’ve got at least 8 inches in height on him and I could easily break him into two if I wanted to. He must be ninety pounds soaking wet and his indignation is about as intimidating as an angry chihuahua. But I’m not looking for a fight, so I just move out of the way. Something about his angry green eyes and how they glow in the fresh night air is oddly captivating. I’m honestly not expecting to see him again, but just as I reach the Bronco and open the door, I see the same person get bodily chucked out of the house.

He’s shouting expletives into the night air, and when his anger runs out, he hunches his shoulders and stomps in my direction. Of course, a snarl rips out of his mouth the moment he sees me.

“What, asshole? Haven’t you seen someone get kicked out of a party by a bunch of dicks before?”

“I have, kid. But I wanted to know if you were okay. Your knuckles look rough.” It’s true. His knuckles are bloody and bruised like he’s been punching something hard with no control. Those are going to sting like a bitch in the morning.

He snorts and must see something unassuming in my face because he uncrosses his arms and says, “I’m not a kid, I'm seventeen.” He’s a little young to be running around the UT campus and getting thrown out of parties, but I have the feeling if I say anything, he’ll probably just jump down my throat again. “I’m Jake.”

“Bradley.” I grin back. “Get in.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t get into cars with strangers.” He’s quick-witted, that’s for sure.

“No.” If my eyes roll as I look at Jake, that’s just between him and me. He must feel like shit if he hasn’t called me out for it yet. “I have a first aid kit in the glove box. I wanted to look at your knuckles before they scab over.” Jake looks shocked. I can almost see the gears grinding in his head as he thinks my words over.

“Move over.” I have to hide my grin until he’s safely in the passenger seat. I don’t know why it feels like such a victory, having this stranger accept my help. I leave the door open and lean in. He smells coffee and spice with an undertone of musk, sitting in my passenger seat with his eyes looking far too green in the low light.

“You don’t go to UT, do you?” Instead of responding, I just pop open the glove compartment and tug out the med kit.

“So what is this, Bradley?” He sounds disgruntled. “No answers without you taking care of my hands?”

I just hold my hand out until he puts his into mine. It’s a long-fingered hand, thin and bony. No well-fed eighteen-year-old boy has hands that look like this. Hands that look like they’ve been working every day of their life. I want to know why Jake’s got such a big chip on his shoulder and why someone so young has hands that look so worn.

“I’m really alright, you know?” I’m as gentle as I can be, patting at scraped knuckles with an isopropyl alcohol soaked cotton ball. Jake may talk a big game, but he’s wincing with each word.

“Who’d you punch to fuck up your knuckles so badly?”

“My asshole ex-boyfriend. He was cheating on me with one of his teammates. And I just found out today.” Jake’s voice chokes on a sob, and I can’t help the twinge of sympathy that goes through me at his words. Maybe I’m too quiet, because there’s a sharp tug on my sleeve.

“D’you have a problem with that?” Jake’s glaring at me, and it takes me longer than it usually would for me to figure out why.

“About the fact that you had a boyfriend?” He nods, the movement jerky and sharp. “Why would I care about that? You love who you love, that’s it.”

He looks blown away by my immediate acceptance of who he is. But Jake seems uncomfortable at the same time, uncomfortable enough that he changes the subject. “You never answered me earlier. You don’t go to school at UT.”

“No, I don’t.” I collect the trash into a small ball and put the kit away again. It feels weird to stand out in the night and talk when I have a perfectly good driver’s seat right on the other side of the car. I can already see a hundred questions on the tip of Jake’s tongue, so I hold one hand up and point to the trash bin nearby. I can feel every bit of his gaze on my back as I lope to the can and back, opting this time to get into the driver’s seat. Of course, no sooner am I buckled in, Jake’s looking right at me.

“Why are you here, then? Why were you at that party tonight?” I can hear the naked curiosity in his tone.

“I’m staying with some of my mom’s family over the summer. A couple of my relatives go to UT for school and invited me to the party. I just graduated from college and I’m joining the Navy in a week.” It sounds so real as I say the words. They sound equally real, it looks like, to Jake.

“Why the Navy?" I haven't felt like I'm the focus of another person in a long time. I feel flayed open, horribly, uncomfortably, seen.

My voice is quiet, a little rough, a little raw as I say, "My dad was in the Navy."

"What did he do?" I blink a little, not expecting this question so soon. Normally people want to know why my dad was in the Navy, in the past tense. They want to know what happened to him. They never want to know what he did or anything else about him.

"He was a Naval Aviator, a Radar Intercept Officer, to be specific." It makes me smile, like always, remembering my dad.

"What does a Radar Intercept Whatsit do?" Jake's nearly open-mouthed in the passenger seat, body turned my way in a jumble of limbs that looks nearly too cramped to be comfortable, beat up sneakers on the floor and wholly fascinated by every word pouring out of my mouth. That's unique too. I've never felt this rush, this instant connection before with anybody.

"A Radar Intercept Officer," I repeat, earning myself an eye roll, "is the person sitting behind the pilot. They're responsible for enabling communications with ships and other jets, navigating and monitoring the radar. Pilots fly the plane, but RIOs do everything else."

"Sounds boring." I have to chuckle at that, because when he's not angrily grumbling, Jake's actually handsome. And that's not a realization I ever wanted to have about a seventeen-year-old I just met. Forget the place, there's the matter of how this is all the wrong time, too. I can't afford any distractions, not even cute little twinks with more attitude than sense. I'm joining the military for fuck's sake. Don't Ask, Don't Tell is still very strongly enforced and Jake seems like the type to bulldoze his way on base one day just for the hell of it. Better stick to talking about flying, that's all. And that’s if we manage to stay in touch until he’s actually legal, too.

"Do you want to become a RIO too?" His voice is hesitant as he sounds out the acronym.

"Nah, I've always wanted to become a pilot. Actually fly the planes, y'know?" I swear I can see literal fighter jets flying around Jake's head, he's so enraptured by the idea.

"Is it hard?"

I have to shrug at that, because maybe I just have flying in my blood. "Not any harder than learning how to drive or ride a bike - at least that's what it was like for me."

I can see Jake think of a few hundred more questions, but stop him with one of my own. "What’s a seventeen year old doing at a UT frat party?"

His nose crinkles, "Who said I’m not a student at UT?"

"Nobody. But something about you tells me that you aren’t a UT Student, even though seventeen-year-olds join universities as freshmen all the time." I’m almost afraid to see that look on his face. But instead, Jake seems to be feeling the same awe that I was earlier - horribly, uncomfortably, seen.

“Nah. I work at one of the coffee shops on campus.” No wonder he smells like cinnamon and coffee.

"But you don't want to, do you?"

His nod is sheepishly affirmative. "My uncle says I should get out of the house and do something with myself over the summer. If he had his way, when I graduate in a year I’ll be doing the same thing. But I want to do something exciting, not farm work or work in a factory or hell, even be a barista anymore. I think the Navy might be just the thing."

I have to grin at his enthusiasm. But a part of me can’t help wondering if the reason why Jake is so interested in escaping Austin is because of something else. But I’m not quite sure how to broach the topic. It’s silent and still in the car for a little bit. Jake looks like he’s thinking of what to say, and I’m struck by the halo the streetlight we’re under makes around his hair. He’s pretty, indescribably so, even with a purplish bruise rising on his cheekbone. His long lashes shine golden against the freckles dotting his cheekbones. I reach for the polaroid I always keep in the car and snap a couple of quick pictures. I hand one to Jake, but just as he’s about to ask me why I did that, I see red and blue lights in the rear view mirror and hear sirens blaring our way.

“Shit! C’mon, Bradley! Drive the car!” It takes me a few seconds to process what he’s saying but when I do, I put the car in drive and drive sedately down the street.

“What the fuck, Brad!” I haven’t heard anyone call me Brad in years. That’s what my mom called me, what Mav did too. “Drive a little bit faster, why don’t you?! You keep driving like a fucking turtle and the cops will catch us in no time flat!”

“I’m driving at the speed limit.” I chuckle at the way Jake grumbles under his breath. “The police won’t pull us over if we’re doing everything right. You probably don’t want them calling your folks to tell them you were at a party, underage where alcohol was being served and an orgy was happening on the living room floor, now do you?”

We’re thankfully able to leave the scene without any trouble, and I let Jake direct me through the late night Austin streets. It’s quiet, and in the half-light I can’t help noticing how incredibly small and delicate Jake is at this moment. He has me pull over a few blocks away.

“Do you make a habit of running from the cops?” He laughs at that, a genuine belly aching infectious cackle bursting out of his mouth.

“No, I don’t.” Something dark glows over his eyes just as easily as the laugh. “My uncle wouldn’t have been happy at all if he had gotten that call.”

I really don’t know what to say to that, so I just wait.

“My mom always says that she doesn’t know who my dad was, and well, I don’t know if you know much about conservative Texans, but that was a no-go for most of my family. She’s out of state, working in a library in North Carolina, I think? And I’m with my aunt and uncle until I turn 18.”

“I’m sure the minute that happens, I’m going to get kicked out. They didn’t approve of me just because I was born out of wedlock. They hated me even more when they found out I wasn’t exactly only into girls. My mom doesn’t know how bad it is for me here. And I’m not going to tell her either. I just don't know what to do.” He sniffles, sitting in the passenger seat, cheeks pinking in the glow of the streetlights. “I don’t really know why I’m telling you this either. But it feels like the universe wanted us to meet tonight. It feels like I can trust you.”

I’m struck dumb by those words and the butterflies swarming in my stomach. I’m flattered by his trust. It has me spilling all of my biggest secrets. I tell him more about my dad, about mom, about Mav. I tell him about my biggest victories and darkest regrets. We talk for hours, taking turns baring our souls until the sky turns gray at the edges. It's the small hours of the morning, that small section of the twilight zone where everything feels extra still. My throat is scratchy and my eyes are dry. Jake’s not much better.

The sleepy drawl in his voice makes shivers trail up and down my spine and it’s still so foreign feeling like this for someone I’ve just met. It’s a little terrifying, too. Far too soon, we’re pulling up in front of the party house.

"I should get going." A part of me wants to stop him, offer to give him a ride, anything to stay in his presence just a bit longer. But the more rational part, the one chanting US Navy and Top Gun is screaming just as vehemently no.

"Do you need a ride?" My voice is nearly too loud for this time of night.

"Nah, Bradley. I live right around the corner." Jake gives me a two-fingered salute and begins to walk away, his shoulders bowed and looking incredibly small. It's a surprise when he stops, turns back around and jogs back to the car. He flings the door open, and I'm surprised to see the two spots of pink high up on his cheeks.

"Can we stay in touch? I'd love to pick your brain about the Navy, sometime?"

I'm nodding before my common sense can speak, ignoring the insidious little voice that says, "No you won't ever see him again. You're joining the Navy."

I hand Jake a pen and a scrap of paper I found in my pockets. What I get back is his first name and a phone number. "This is my landline. See you around, Bradley?"

My reply is too quiet as I roll the syllables of his name over my tongue. By the time Jessica and David have staggered their way out to the car, I'm sure Jake was just a figment of my imagination. Two weeks later, when it's my first turn with the phones on base, I call that number. I get a message telling me that the phone number I'm calling has been disconnected. I never get rid of that note though. It's almost like something's screaming at me to remember Jake. Maybe one day I'll find him again. And who knows? Maybe he's a lot closer than I think he is.

Nine Years Later

It’s been a long road getting to Top Gun. Walking through the halls it feels like everything I’ve worked and struggled for has finally paid off. I’m a pilot, I’m talented, if I do say so myself, and there is nothing I want to do more than finally put the Bradshaw name on that trophy. Walking into the classroom that first morning, I feel like this is the start of something great. Until the first hop later that week. There’s a blond in class with an ego that cashes checks for money he doesn’t have. But he has the skill to back up his words.

“Rooster, Rooster, Rooster. Are you ever going to get off your perch?” Hangman. Even his callsign fills me with rage. I’ve never met a more annoying person in my life. But there is something about him which seems familiar. Why does Hangman of all people seem so familiar? It’s a puzzle I can’t devote any time to solving. Not when I have to knock a blond idiot down a few pegs. I wonder what the Jake I met all those years ago would think about Hangman. I hope he’s doing well, wherever he is.

Taglist:

@chaoticassidy @kmc1989 @shanimallina87 @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @cassiemitchell @dakotakazansky @roosterforme @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mak-32 @beyondthesefourwalls @sarahsmi13s @horseshoegirl

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

#star writes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #don't you forget about me #top gun rocktober #jake hangman seresin x bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x jake hangman seresin #hangman x rooster #rooster x hangman #jake seresin x bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x jake seresin #hangster #sereshaw #this is a two parter #happening both before the boys are navy and after the Uranium Mission in TGM

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hero-israel · 6 months

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i know i'm stating the obvious but:

the thing that gets me is that. erasing jews' indigenity to the levant and casually claiming israel is committing genocide and apartheid… it's all untrue and completely wrong and horrible. and obviously that needs to be recognized.

but at this point there is a part of me that is like "it doesn't even matter whether or not israelis are Colonizers."

because even if it WAS true, even if israel was doing every horrible thing some of these people claim, NONE of that justifies celebrating rape, mass murder of civilians, child murder, and harassing and committing violence against jews globally.

i don't know how to talk to anyone who thinks labeling people "an oppressor" means you can justify anything to them, even war crimes and the worst kinds of human rights violations. i thought it was obvious that was unacceptable, at the very least among people who purport to care deeply about human rights.

i suppose it's naive of me, but it truly was a shocker to find out how much of the Left's commitment to human rights was a complete lie. i expected antisemitic responses in the form of "whataboutism," in downplaying what happened, and even denial, but not this. i thought there would be some people acting like hamas were oppressed freedom fighters and denying their atrocious tactics... i didn't expect SO MANY people to outright celebrate the horror.

i guess it's just making me realize how many of these people don't actually give a damn about human rights, about human suffering and justice, they care about being Right, and finding righteous targets to hate and attack. i always knew that existed, but i assumed that was a small, vocal minority mainly online. the rot goes so much deeper than i realized, and i have no idea what to do about it.

While it certainly does matter that the "colonizer" frame is a complete lie, you raise a good point about the significance of a supermassive surge in leftist advocacy for the death penalty and corrective rape. These are often the same people who want prisons and police abolished, but it turns out they held far more enthusiastic lust for gory revenge than your average Texas governor. They increasingly talk like abortion clinic bombers.

They have no principles, only a vocab list. Every woman Donald Trump grabbed was a colonizer, as were all the protestors Kyle Rittenhouse shot in Waukesha or James Fields rammed with his car in Charlottesville. John Wayne Gacy preferred targeting white males. It would take perhaps 3-6 words to make them into left-idpol heroes. What happens when a school shooter figures out to say "colonizer"? No, really. The man who beat Sarah Halimi to death in her Paris apartment said he saw Hebrew writing on her walls and it made him feel persecuted and oppressed.

#Leftist antisemitism

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innuendostudios · 2 years

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The first new Alt-Right Playbook since just after the pandemic began. This video was started two and a half years ago, and languished in various states of production through a severe back injury, an ADHD diagnosis, a case of COVID, and the general stress of living in ongoing crises of health and democracy. With the help of guest artist Micael Schuenker Alves and script consultant Isabelle Felix, The Cost of Doing Business is now, finally, public.

My Patreon has taken a hit in the last few years, so, if like this work and can spare some money to keep it coming, please back me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, there’s this… call him a “provocateur.” A conservative who makes his living off of being a public figure, saying scandalously evil things in public because controversy = attention and attention = brand recognition. He gets his writing gigs and interviews and guest spots sometimes because people agree with the awful things he says. More often, it’s because he gets views. His economy runs on engagement, and hate-clicks are still clicks.

One revenue stream is speaking engagements. The college campus circuit. Fans at, let’s say, UC Emeryville invite him as a guest lecturer. But UCE is, broadly, a progressive campus, which means his presence would likely provoke a lot of outrage, maybe even a protest.

And a protest would be pretty flippin’ sweet.

Protest means local news coverage. Maybe more than local. Hell, the conservative media machine loves taking stories like this and blowing them up to national importance. If he plays his cards right, he could get his words in front of millions of people instead of just the student body of UC Emeryville. Of course he’s gonna take that gig.

But the progressive students at UCE are wise to his tricks. They’ve seen him pull this stunt at other UC’s - Stockton, Bakersfield, Vacaville - so they make the decision, “We’re not gonna protest. We’re just gonna let him speak. Let the boy stamp his feet. And, in a month, no one will even remember he was here.”

As the date approaches, and the provocateur sees he’s not getting the response he wants, he starts hinting things on social media, trying to bait a reaction: “Psst, psst. Hey. I’m gonna make jokes about the Holocaust. I’m gonna say Americans treated their slaves well.” Nothing. So he ups the ante. Makes it personal. “I’m gonna put up pre-transition photos of your trans students. I’m gonna out the queer students I’ve seen on Grindr. I’m gonna name which of your students I think are illegal immigrants.”

Student body’s like, “Bro, do your worst. Nobody’s falling for it.” Until one student’s like, “Hold up… he’s gonna dox immigrants in front of his audience of white nationalist gun nuts… and we’re just gonna let him? You know some of his fans were in Charlottesville, right?”

What we’re seeing here is a game of chicken between one group of white conservative reactionaries and one group of - let’s be honest - mostly white liberals, for whom the stakes are who gets paid attention to. The provocateur doesn’t have the ammunition nor the optics to attack privileged liberals directly, so he pokes and prods at various social minorities whom privileged liberals are supposed to care about until he gets a reaction. Going after people of color is a pure Xanatos gambit for his fans - either they get a protest and a national audience hears their reactionary rhetoric, or there’s no protest and they get to fuck with some immigrants. And, because white liberals are largely ignorant to the threat posed to those immigrants, white liberals are not great at assessing the full scope of the danger. Often enough, this remains, to them, an argument about ideas and principles. To them, they are but words. (Until someone gets hit by a car or shot and then it’s “who could have predicted?”)

The provocateur’s animating force is not hatred of people of color, it’s hatred of white liberals, just as white liberals’ animating force is less advocacy for people of color than moral victory over conservatives. Neither side acknowledges people of color as entities in this fight; they’re viewed as tools for getting white people what they want, and their suffering is viewed as an “acceptable” byproduct. You’ve maybe heard the phrase, “In the game of patriarchy, women are not the opposing team, they are the ball.” Well, in the game of imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, minorities are not the opposing team, they are the cars, store windows, and newspaper kiosks that get wrecked when the home team loses. Or when the home team wins. It’s the Eagles Fan view of oppression.

And, make no mistake: weaponizing or disregarding students of color is still racism. But it’s racism of a kind most white people have trouble recognizing - or, to speak with a sharper edge, that white people often refuse to acknowledge. From the white provocateur who does not hate minorities directly but is willing to utilize the hatred of others to get what he wants from some white people - who says “I will hurt them a lot just to hurt you a little” - to the white liberal who does mental gymnastics to not come out and say “that is a Black and Brown sacrifice I’m willing to make,” racism is not always a passion. But it is tolerable. Usable. Easy to disregard.

In a white supremacist world, it is the cost of doing business.

Let me make it clear: nothing about this is okay.

Now, the weaponizing of minority suffering is employed against many minoritized groups - I could be making this video about transphobia or homophobia, and, while many details would differ… I wouldn't even have to change my intro. Samuel R. Delany (yeah, yeah, take a shot) argues that misogyny is the oldest bigotry, and, therefore, the model on which all other bigotries are based. I’m focusing on institutional racism as my chief example, first, because this is America and the cup runneth over; second, because, in the 2016 election, the greatest indicator a person was going to vote Republican, more strongly correlated than being registered as a Republican, was racist sentiments; and, third, because racism is a fundamental building block of fascism and a primary means of sowing discord on the Left, but we’ll get to that.

I am going to curb my reflex to try and make every Alt-Right Playbook some kind of definitive statement; I do not have the last word on American racism. If you want to hear about American racism from the people who experience it, here’s a book. Here’s five books. What I bring to the table is: I have, at this point, several decades’ experience being white. And, in trying to explicate white supremacy, it is sometimes worthwhile to look at it from the inside. So my focus will be: What does whiteness mean to white people?

American racial discourse has four principle (white) characters.

On the far right end, you’ve got the guy white people picture when they hear the word “racist”: your klansman, your neo-Nazi skinhead, your suit-and-tie ethnonationalist. This guy knows he’s a racist and he’s proud of it.

Next to the white supremacist, you’ve got the white collaborator; the politician, public figure, or businessman who does not agree with the white supremacist “on paper” but will seek out their votes, attention, or money.

Next to the collaborator, you’ve got the white moderate: people who ostensibly believe in racial justice as an end goal, and are somewhat committed to bringing it about, but only with the cooperation of the white collaborator. It wouldn’t be fair to do it without their consent, you see, and thus the white moderate spends a lot less time opposing collaborators than “appealing to their better natures.” They tend to operate on behalf of people of color rather than with them.

Plainly put, the “Cost of Doing Business” maneuver is this group [collaborators] using this group [racists] to attack this group [moderates] using people of color as their weapon of choice. It is white supremacy in the form of three groups of white people fighting amongst themselves.

Finally, on the far opposite end, you’ve got the honest-to-goodness anti-racist. Where the racist will support white supremacy, and the collaborator uphold white supremacy, and the moderate seek to reform white supremacy, only the anti-racist is trying to get rid of it. And even they are not free from racial bias! And, if you tell one of them “you are not free from racial bias,” it’s not guaranteed they will react well! It’s just, if you’re trying to fight white supremacy, they’re the white folks you have the best odds with.

Now, this little chorus line is not how white people typically frame the situation. We usually think of racism as binary: there are racists, and there are non-racists. In that framing, the provocateur is someone whose allegiance we get to debate. He willingly sacrifices people of color without personally hating them; does that count as #racism? This “debate” lasts approximately the rest of your goddamn life, which should be evidence enough that the frame is wanting.

In today’s framing, there are several shades of racism and there is anti-racism. There is no “non-.”

Now, before we map the choreography of how these four types interact, first a quick note on how most white people think about whiteness. Short answer: whenever possible, they prefer not to.

Whiteness in America: is it vanilla? No, it’s fior di latte. Nothing but milk and sugar. Where non-whites are flavors, we are the base. In the same way one does not hear one’s own accent; British people have accents, but we speak English "normal-like." If you haven’t built your whole identity around being white, you probably don’t think about your whiteness very often, and perhaps even feel uncomfortable when one points it out. For it is the white experience to passively, unconsciously conceive of oneself as a kind of raceless default.

This is privilege. Indeed, this is part of what makes privilege privilege: it’s the identity that’s treated as a norm. The one you don’t have to think about. A movie with an all-white cast is widely perceived as being no way about race. But that’s not true of one with an all-Black cast.

Identities being treated as defaults makes institutional racism difficult to understand, even for well-meaning white people. “How can I be racist if I don’t identify as a racist? How could I be part of a group I never opted into?” It sounds like racism without racists. But let us reflect a moment: would “a group one never opted into” not describe a minority? People don’t choose to be gay. And, while people also don’t choose to be straight, being straight is “normal.” People don’t “come out” as straight, or have complex codes for signalling heterosexuality (that they’ll admit to, at least); in lieu of other evidence, straightness is presumed. But if people clock you as gay - or even think they’ve clocked you as gay - then you stand out from the background. It makes you more visible, where the appearance of straightness makes you less so. Makes you “the everyman.”

Of the many identities one may have, at any given time on any given axis there is typically only one default, whose rules operate differently to the rest. The more of these “normal” identities one has, the more accustomed one is to being the default. The idea is foreign that people might group one not by how one thinks of oneself, but by how one is perceived and by how one impacts others. It gets hard to fathom that, any more than whether or not a light-skinned Mexican gets to be white is up to them, whether or not you fit the definition of racist isn’t up to you. The boundaries are not policed from the inside.

So! Okay. Going again from right to left: this is where we find the titular Alt-Right. What’s novel about the suit-and-tie ethnonationalist is how they break from the iconography of racism. Their goal, like that of many racist people, is to attack and oppress people of color, but in such a way that the white establishment will let them get away with it. The average white person’s shorthand for a racist is still primarily the klansman and the neo-Nazi; respectively, a rural, working-class white nationalism and an urban, working class white nationalism. The Alt-Right is the gentrification of white nationalism. Their pocket squares and MBAs and $90 haircuts short out the white moderate’s brain because they still associate white supremacy with white trash. Racism is worse than evil, it’s common. It’s why they insist reactionary conservatism is propped up by the white working class in flyover states despite all evidence to the contrary. The Alt-Right can’t be as bad as everyone says, because who ever heard of a racist going to Harvard? (Harvard.)

The Alt-Right bridges the gap between white nationalism and the rest of white culture, using class signifiers to gain access to the political and social capital of the more mainstream collaborator and getting the moderate to treat them not as someone to be ignored but someone to bargain with in good faith.

The collaborator finds value in this relationship because, regardless of one’s position on it, racism works. A police officer may not be personally racist, but, when it’s the end of the month and they need to hand out a few more tickets to make quota, it’s safest to do so in a low-income neighborhood where the average driver can’t make their life hell by hiring a lawyer, and, due to decades of racist redlining, most low-income neighborhoods are disproportionately Black and Latine, sooo… And a prison warden may not be personally racist, but racist white people are approved by jury selection more often than people who think the justice system is racist, so Black and Latine people are the easiest to jail and private prisons get more funding when they’re full, sooo… And a conservative politician may not be personally racist, but Black and Latine people predominantly vote Democrat, and, since they’re disproportionately imprisoned, if the politician denies convicts the right to vote, they are more likely to get reelected, sooo…

Now, these people frequently are self-identified, card-carrying racists. My point is, for this system of incentives and rewards to operate, they don’t have to be. Any of them may, but none of them must. Racism exists and it’s efficient. And, in a capitalist society, where cops are competing for promotions, private prisons are competing for contracts, and politicians are competing for votes, if an unethical behavior sees a higher return than the alternative… then ethics are a luxury. There are hundreds of examples of businesses that claim, in periods of prosperity, that they prefer to do what is right over what is profitable. But what tune do they play when prosperity ends? Every boom has a bust - since 1900, the US has spent one out of every four years in recession. And, in the lean season, not using this generations-old system built by white people to advantage their descendents is a liability. A values-based business typically goes one of three ways: compromising their values to stay competitive, getting bought by someone who compromised their values to stay competitive, or sticking to their guns and facing a higher risk of going out of business. Many choose to do the right thing, and some even survive. But that’s beating the odds. The market trends toward the optimal strategy.

No one ever went broke appealing to the ignorance of white people.

The collaborator treating nonwhite suffering as the cost of doing business also works rhetorically. The average conservative citizen doesn’t know anything about the Syrian Civil War, but they know the refugee crisis is something the Left seems to care about. So demonizing refugees is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to rally their base by spiting liberals and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Arabs. The average conservative citizen doesn’t understand epidemiology, but they don’t want to blame their own party for letting a million die of COVID. So calling it “the Chinese virus” is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to deflect blame onto a foreign nation and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Asians.

Yet, despite their blatancy in collaborating with white supremacists, and having eerily similar goals to white supremacists, the collaborator maintains that they are, themself, “non-racist.” Their decades of opposing affirmative action, right to assembly, police reform, fair voting efforts, redistricting, funding for public schools, prisoner’s rights, religious tolerance, shutting down Guantanamo, accessibility for non-English speakers, immigration, investment in low-income neighborhoods, decolonizing school curricula, Indigenous People’s Day, putting Harriet Tubman on the twenty, kneeling, ending the drug war, or withdrawing from the Middle East are framed as problems of implementation. “We agree with the aim of closing the racial wealth gap, just not like this. We agree with the aim of Latin-Americans entering the country, just not like this. We agree with the aim of peaceful protest, just not like this.”

And, if we on the Left are to ask, how exactly are we supposed to get this without this, oh, coming up with that solution? That’s our job. And, if it’s not getting done? It’s because we haven’t come up with a solution they like yet. And probably what they don’t like about our solutions is that we implied the problem was racism. “Yes, white people are over-represented in dozens of industries nationwide, but have you considered that it’s a fluke? Pitch me a solution for it being a fluke.” The Collaborator’s white supremacy exists in the negative space. They agree racism exists, they agree we should oppose it, but they disagree that any individual thing you’re talking about is an example of it. Getting a Republican to identify an actual incident of systemic racism is like trying to point at your shadow with a flashlight.

And it’s reasonable to ask, Jesus, how far can these guys push the envelope before the rest of the establishment calls them what they are? But, if you’re waiting for the moment a white moderate agrees mainstream conservatism has done something unacceptably and unequivocally racist, you’re underestimating how long white people can equivocate.

There’s a lot to say about the white moderate. And I’m about to be that lefty who expends as many words complaining about liberals as he does fascists, but, look: as much as this series is about the tactics of the Far Right, it is at least as much about how the Center Left is susceptible to them… and complicit.

So, okay. When Democrats lose an election, what happens with the white, liberal, pundit class? Well, there’s suddenly a lot of chatter about how to talk to your racist uncle over Thanksgiving, about how liberals in red states can contact their representatives, about the value of debate. “This is our fault,” they say. “We let this happen because we didn’t have enough conversations with white conservatives.” You hear a lot more of that than talk about how the gutting of the Voting Rights Act cost a lot of the Left the right to vote, and what could be done to guarantee their representation in the next election. In fact, you hear more about how that kind of talk is alienating to the white conservatives who supported gutting the Voting Rights Act, about how reaching across the aisle is gonna mean easing off race talk, at least for now. POC representation is quickly reframed as a critical long-term goal, but, in the present moment, while we are competing for elected office, guaranteeing the minority vote is a luxury.

What’s prioritized is that the people who suppressed the Black vote in order to win elections not be made to feel that they are racist.

Because, I mean, what if they genuinely believe the Voting Rights Act unfairly targets Southern states? Or even if - and I’m saying if here - they did do it to suppress votes, if hurting Black people isn’t their goal, and they’re just trying to win elections, is that really “racist?”

Moderates are very cagey about breaking out the R-word for a fellow white person.

See, there’s this other definition of racism that most white people learn in grade school: racism is when you say mean things to other kids about skin color and it hurts their feelings; racism is about cruelty. And harm done by white people, therefore, isn't racism if isn’t cruel; it’s merely ignorant. Or apathetic. But ignorance and apathy can be reasoned with; you just gotta sit down and hash it out. As long as it takes. Real white supremacy is about emotional distress or interpersonal violence; it’s uncommon, it’s unpopular, and it’s a hearts and minds issue.

What this definition leaves out is any notion that white supremacy is about power. That white people who disavow racism still live longer, get paid better, get arrested less often, and are typically in position to negotiate with whomever’s in power. That this society was built for The Everyman, and being The Everyman confers power upon you.

When children of white moderates get older and first brush up against this definition, wherein white supremacy is not small but all-encompassing, where it can be cruel, but is at least as often indifferent, and where every white person in the country is bound up in it and privileged by it whether they want to be or not, and will never, ever experience it themselves - where it’s not about feelings but power - how often do they say, “oh, maybe the definition I grew up with was simplified for 9-year-olds”?; or, “oh, maybe the definition given to me by white grown-ups was less complete than the one a Black grown-up might’ve given”? And how often do they say, “you can’t just redefine racism?”

Right out the gate, the white moderate is possessive not just of their whiteness but of the very definition of racism.

In the definition they know, racism exists only over here. And the white collaborator is a compatriot who shares their ultimate vision for the future, but has simply gone off course somewhere. And they don’t see themselves as flawed individuals with a long way still to go; they’ve already arrived! They’re the destination everyone else needs to get to! Living proof that white supremacy can be easily and painlessly opted out of. They can’t see collaborators as opponents because there is no definition of white supremacy that includes collaborators and doesn’t also include them.

And this is critically important: they don’t want to start thinking of themselves as white. They don’t want the constant awareness of one’s race or how one’s race is perceived – you know, the things the rest of humanity deals with. And who would want that? I’ll tell you who wants that: Nazis and klansmen want that. They’re the only ones who like thinking about whiteness every day. So, white moderates cling to the other definition, the comfortable one. They may be more or less willing to collaborate with people of color, but mostly in ways that don’t foreground their whiteness. White-as-default is one concession that can never be made, in part because it’s the one that can’t be spoken.

Their ideal is a kind of Big-Tent Antiracism, where victory comes by winning over reactionary conservatives. This might strike you as odd, given that reactionary conservatives have seen many victories in the last twenty years, none of which came by winning over us. White supremacists bolster their numbers by finding little, disgruntled pockets of America that have not, heretofore, engaged much in politics and radicalizing them to the cause, and then pitching themselves to white collaborators as a demographic now large enough to sway a narrow election. If moderates wanted to counter this strategy, they might look at who out there is sympathetic to progressive causes but isn’t voting, maybe because they don’t feel liberal candidates represent them, or maybe because someone just happened to shut down all the polling locations in their neighborhood. And, you know, mathematically, there’s probably a lot more disenfranchised people of color who match that description than racist white people who aren’t already Republicans.

But that strategy would mean doubling down on anti-racist talking points instead of easing off of them. It would mean a willingness to alienate some white people. It’s… giving up on them. It’s admitting a significant percentage of American whiteness is not on the side of racial equity. It means there’s a definition of racism where it isn’t fringe, but common and pervasive, and where addressing it requires thinking about their place in it. It means asking why they feel more affinity for white people who oppose them than people of color they claim to agree with. Why the votes of the former have to be earned but the latter are expected. And, since all that seems intolerable, they fixate on the kinds of gestures that feel like moving in the right direction but run very little risk of arriving anywhere. “How about, instead of defunding the police, we give them more money than any Administration in years, but, also, Juneteenth is a national holiday now. Something for everyone!”

The Left has the numbers to leave behind white centrists who slow down anti-racist efforts, and it doesn’t because white moderates don’t want to. They and the white collaborators are supposed to be in this together, and they are… just not in the way they think.

The irony is that the Right feels no affinity for white moderates whatsoever. They hate - and I mean haaaaate - white moderates. Smug pricks always talking about unity whenever they win an election. “Reach across the aisle?” That's what you say when you’ve lost and you want the other guys to make concessions they don’t have to make—you don’t do it when you’re in power! Are they trying to humiliate us, or did we really lose to a bunch of clowns who don’t even know how to win right? Debasing themselves in front of minorities just to get their votes when they clearly aren’t going to do anything real for them. Christ, at least white supremacists are honest!

The Right will threaten POC sometimes just to call the white moderates’ bluff.

Racism must be understood as more than a set of individual beliefs and feelings, but as a tool for achieving political ends, first and foremost because claiming otherwise is both factually and morally wrong. But also, without this understanding, white culture can’t recognize the stakes.

Fascism exists in a state of permanent conflict. Things like declaring an indefinite state of martial law, suspending elections, or executing members of government, are justified on the grounds that the people are in danger and need to be protected and mobilized. This isn’t unique to fascism: between the Cold War, the War on Drugs, and the War on Terror, the US has been in some form of ongoing conflict for the last three generations, but: you’ll note the Cold War didn’t end on a battlefield, it ended when the Soviet Union collapsed in on itself. Communism, terrorism, and drug dealing are patterns of behavior, and they wax and wane, often for reasons outside our control. Geopolitics may someday shift such that terrorism becomes less prevalent, or that lowers the demand for drugs.

Communism can be fought with diplomacy and economic sanctions because communists can choose not to be communists anymore. And fascists have no use for soft power. To justify a military dictatorship, they need an opponent that won’t just go away on its own one day. It always come back to identity politics because Black people can’t stop being Black; theirs is a number that will not be reduced without the hard power of violence and displacement.

Fascism begins by stealing populist targets from the Left: they focus on elites, corrupt businessmen, weak-willed politicians, subtly shifting focus away from leftist critique of systems to types of people. But, sooner or later, they settle on something unchangeable: race, gender, ethnicity, religious background. The bigotry is localized to the region’s existing prejudices: in Nazi Germany, it was Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Roma, Slavs, Black people, queer people, and people with disabilities; in fascist Italy, it was Slovenes until Mussolini invaded Libya and Ethiopia and so demonized their citizens as well; in the US, the Klan and the American Nazi Party targeted African-Americans, Jews, and Catholics, queer people, and immigrants; Spain under Franco tried to determine the exact racial makeup of the Spanish people so they could cast out those with the “wrong mixture of bloods.”

This is why the Far Right has gone all in on transphobia of late, by the way. It has joined Islamophobia on the outer rim of acceptable bigotries. On some level they know trans folks aren’t just cis people in disguise, that desistance is rare and conversion therapy doesn’t work, because it trans people could just stop being trans… they never would have picked them for an enemy.

This is where it starts. This is why you should have no patience for anyone saying “wokeness is dividing the Left, we should focus on class.” They’re not attacking us on class. They’re trying to sell themselves as better on class than we are. Where do you think that fairy tale about “blue-collar whites” comes from? They want you to believe that they, and not the socialists, are the path forward for the downtrodden. There’s a reason fascism started popping up all over Europe right after the Russian Revolution; Mussolini got his start beating up socialists in the Po Valley, on the grounds that he was defending not wealthy elites but struggling rural farmers who didn’t like the socialist takeover of their industry during the biennio rosso. The fascist goal is to harness and redirect class resentment towards a scapegoat. They come at us on identity. It always comes down to the shape of the human skull.

When a provocateur shows up on a college campus to talk about “ideas,” it’s not a debate. There’s no special sequence of words that will defeat them [expecto patronum gif]. This is a show of dominance. They are presenting themselves as white compatriots to be reasoned with rather than agents of white supremacy to be opposed. In that framing, the stakes are attention, the weapons are words, and people of color are not players but tokens on the game board. And they are checking whether you will submit to that structure.

They don’t care about ideas. They care about power.

And power is what beats them. They tell you four hundred people showing up in protest is just free news coverage. But when four thousand show up? They cancel. That’s power. And, in absolute numbers, most events they can’t rustle up four thousand supporters, but we can, provided cishet non-disabled white dude lefties (like myself) haven’t told all the Right’s biggest targets their struggles don’t matter. (And, it’s worth mentioning, cops fuck with protesters less when some of them are white.)

(It’s also worth mentioning racism affects 58% of the working poor, so there can be no class solidarity that doesn’t address it.)

This [white moderate] isn’t who needs to win. This [POC] is who needs to win, and, if you’re white, you need to be over here [antiracist]. I’ve collected as many resources as I can find by POC on what they need and want from white allies, and put them in the down-there part. There’s a plurality of opinions on this, so I recommend reading more than one. It may not always be a four-thousand-strong protest; every direct action is unique, and must be strategized in concert with the people most affected.

But what I can tell you is, when business gets done, white folks need to split the check. A movement cannot be antifascist if it isn’t antiracist.

#video essay #alt-right playbook #Youtube

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pimpseries · 5 months

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#rg #classic cars #muscle cars #vintage cars #american classic #vintage #cars #american cars #cars of Charlottesville #alleyway #ford fairlaine #ford

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cock-holliday · 6 months

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I’ve said it before and I will continue to say it that every single administration from top to bottom who conflates pro-Palestinian stances with being akin to nazis has done fuck all about nazis for the past ten years. (And much longer.)

I got into antifascist research in the early 2010s, and in 2015 had watched everyone insist that concerns about white supremacist and nazi escalation was “fear-mongering,” “unfounded” and used “too-strong” of language. Anyone who existed in early 2000s spaces familiar with words like feminazi can point out how ludicrous it is to suggest that the rapid appearance of nazi iconography moving from early 2000s “ironic” usage to being used with intent—recruiting, propaganda, manifestos—is a misuse of the word “nazi.”

It was “the far right” “the alt right” “ultra-conservative.” Everything to avoid calling it what it was.

*I* was late to the party and still Unite The Right was everything we had been raising the alarm about. Charlottesville was the first big thing that for me said, oh shit, we really really were right—I wish we weren’t right.

And STILL after Unite The Right, it was suppression! “Free Speech Rallies” hosting genocide deniers, ethnic cleansing advocates, sonnenrad-carrying, wolfsangel-tattoed, swastika-armband-wearing NAZIS! And it was “well, technically—“

Nazis fired guns at people in Charlottesville too. Nazis jumped people in car parks. The rise of the Proud Boys—now calling themselves in telegram circles The Proud Goys (hello??? Hello???? Is this thing on???) are still just “fringe extremists” at best and still “alt-right” at worst.

*I* have been screaming about this for a decade, *I* was one of the newest members of my groups for years—I AM LATE TO THE PARTY!

And then to watch the rapid mobilization of everyone who wouldn’t lift a fucking finger to google nazi student applicants, who refused to cancel nazi speakers, who went after students protecting themselves from nazis, who framed any info campaigns about student nazis as “harassment”, who allowed nazi marches, who protected nazis and wined and dined with nazis…and then insist going after Palestinian student groups is to protect Jews?

Fuck yourselves.

“We Protect Us” is a battle cry because administrators have never been on our side when it came to protecting communities from nazis. The audacity of these people to now pretend to care is appalling, but I am imploring people who don’t know any better to wake the fuck up, we have been saying and saying and saying that they do not care. Do not suck your college’s dick, or the president’s dick, or your favorite mayor who sent cops after us’s dick—they are not on our side about this.

#90% of antifash research is history and compiling things other people already said #then 10% is where are they now #all MY work is built off countless people who said it before I did #and YEARS afer I put out my stuff people are still like ‘this is news to me’#this is what I’m telling you!#so much effort goes into preserving a legacy of fighting that is continuously being suppressed and erased!#the level of safety we enjoy from nazis NOW is not because they haven’t been here #it’s because people have been keeping them at bay #no thanks to colleges and politicians and orgs

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ereardon · 1 year

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Come Back [Chapter 6][Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x OC]

Summary: Eight years ago, Bradley Bradshaw was just a college boyfriend who broke your heart. Now, he’s back in your life after a coincidental reunion, and he’s adamant about starting up a friendship. Will it be possible to be just friends with Bradley, or is he inevitably going to end up ruining everything you’ve spent the better part of a decade rebuilding?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x OC [Nurse Maggie Brooms]

WC: 3.7K

Warnings: Cursing, angst, fighting

Series masterlist

Bradley was different in California.

You were used to the dense woods and Southern tendencies of Charlottesville.

But Bradley, despite loving UVA, always seemed a little out of place. At the bar wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he stuck out compared to every other guy in there, all clones wearing a Vineyard Vines button down and Chubbies with a pair of loafers just ratty enough to show their generational wealth status.

So when he invited you to California for spring break of your senior year, you leapt at the opportunity. Not only did it mean a week away from campus and the looming threat of graduation.

But it would be a chance to see Bradley in his comfort zone.

Your mother insisted on getting you a hotel right on the beach, and a rental car, despite the fact that Bradley’s childhood home was in San Diego. She wanted to control where you stayed, and as always, you let her. Bradley stayed with you at the hotel, saying he didn’t want it to go to waste. A part of you knew that he wasn’t ready to share his memories yet. You respected that.

Bradley looked happy. At peace. Driving with the top down of your convertible rental, you watched as he let one hand fly out the side, whipping down the freeway over the bridge toward the beach.

Later, at dinner, saw the easy way he smiled and joked with the waitress, how he didn’t even squirm when you reached for the check and dropped your Amex gold on the table.

He felt like a different person. You could literally see the stress lift off of him.

It made you wonder — what did that mean for the future?

You had two months. Neither of you had talked extensively about what your plans were after graduation. But you really only had a few options. Move home, find a husband, get married, be a housewife. Your mother’s preferred option. Or yours: find a job you loved and strike out on your own. Leave the South and its unspoken rules and formality.

But Bradley. You didn’t know where his head was at. And you were terrified to ask.

You loved the way the ocean lapped against the sand, and how one morning Bradley woke you up to watch the sunrise with him, his hand gripped tightly in your own, his hoodie soft and baggy over your swimsuit, the way he held you in his lap on the Adirondack chair on the hotel patio..

You loved the way the air smelled fresh and salty and how everyone seemed to take their time. It wasn’t like back East where everyone was in a rush, for no reason at all.

Slowly, over the course of the week, you understood why Bradley felt like a different person in California. You did, too. You were more casual, more fun, more carefree. The weight of expectations had fallen off somewhere on the flight over.

You were left to rebuild yourself. And you wanted that so desperately.

“I love it here,” you whispered to Bradley on the last night of the trip. The two of you were laying in bed, his arm wrapped around you while you traced a finger up and down his bare abdomen.

“Yeah?”

You looked up at him. “I think I want to move here after graduation.”

“Leave Virginia?” he asked, shocked. You had never lived anywhere else. Your family was generations deep in Richmond. It was almost unheard of that you would move somewhere else.

You nodded. “It’s time to get away. Get out from under my parents.” You skimmed a finger over his jaw. “What if we move in together?” It came out in a whisper.

Bradley shifted and you sat up, crossing your legs on the bed and facing him. “Here?” he asked, sweeping his arm out, gesturing toward California as a whole.

“Why not? You love it here, that’s obvious. I need a fresh start.” You leaned forward and took his hands in yours. “I love you, Bradley. I want to make this work.”

“Don’t you think we’re too young?” he asked.

“I’m not saying let’s get married,” you replied, frowning. “I’m saying let’s move in together. Start a life somewhere. Together.”

“You’d move here for me?” he asked quietly.

You tipped your head, placed your hand on his knee. “Bradley, I don’t think you understand. I’d go anywhere for you. With you. I love you. That’s a permanent thing in my book.”

Bradley pulled you into his arms, gently turning you until you were lying on the bed and he was hovering above you. He peppered kisses along your neck up to your ear, and finally pressed his lips against yours, one hand coming out and brushing the hair off of your face while his other arm kept him supported on the bed. “Let’s do it,” he said quietly. “Let’s move here after graduation. I don’t care if we don’t have jobs or things planned out. I just need you.”

You wrapped one arm around his neck, pulling him in closer. “You have me. Nothing is going to change that.”

Bradley leaned in and pressed his lips back against yours. You felt him pull the sheet away, press himself against you. You opened your legs, an invitation.

You had decided a lot that night.

That Bradley was your future. And that you were his.

You had expected that decision, that night, to change everything.

And it did.

***

Despite your better instincts, you checked in on Bradley a few days after his twenty-four hour flu. Maybe it was the nurse in you. More likely, it was the part of you that for some reason refused to give up on Bradley Bradshaw.

Either way, that’s how you found yourself out to dinner with the exact people you had embarrassed yourself in front of at the bar a few weeks earlier.

You had dressed more modestly this time in a simple sweater and midi skirt and a pair of sandals. Taking a deep breath, you entered the restaurant to find that everyone else had already arrived. Bob spotted you first and blushed and you had to smile through the discomfort of remembering the last time you had seen him, your hands all over him in your sloppy state.

Bradley spotted you next, jumping up from his seat and meeting you halfway.

“Hey,” he whispered, kissing your cheek lightly and you let him. He put his hand on your low back and steered you toward the rest of the team. “You guys remember Maggie.”

You blushed and took the empty seat next to him, which unfortunately was also next to Jake, or Hangman as the team called him.

Jake flashed you a brilliant grin. “Hey there,” he said, Texas drawl on full display. “How are you sweetheart?”

You went to roll your eyes but realized you still needed to get back in the good graces of Bradley’s friends. Why, you weren’t sure, but a part of you craved their acceptance.

“Fine,” you said, snapping open the menu. “How are you?”

He laughed and tossed an arm over the back of your seat. “You’re an uptight little thing, aren’t you?”

Bradley shot him a death look. “Hangman,” he said and his voice came with a warning.

Jake lifted his hands up, palms facing you. “Sorry. I’ll just be over here, minding my own business.”

You looked down at the menu like you hadn’t already scoured it at home and picked out your top options. You would wait and see what everyone else ordered before you made your final decision.

“So, Maggie, we heard you pulled a Clara Barton and nursed Rooster here back to health.”

You looked up and squinted. “Rooster?”

The table erupted in laughter and Bradley leaned over, sliding his hand easily over the back of your chair and whispering in your ear. “It’s my callsign. Kind of like a nickname for pilots.”

You nodded. That explained the weird names. Phoenix, Fanboy, Hangman. Your eyes floated over to Bob. “What’s your callsign?” you asked.

He blushed and hung his head. “Bob.”

“Bob is your callsign?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He looked so sweet and nervous you wanted to wrap him up in a blanket. “I like that,” you said and he perked up, tips of his ears turning pink as he smiled beneath the wire glasses. “At least you don’t sound like a barnyard animal.” Bradley and Jake howled and you shot Bob a small smile.

A waitress came by to take orders and you watched how easily Bradley pulled you into conversation with his friends. His hand remained on the back of your chair, fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder, but you never asked him to move it.

What you didn’t notice was the rest of the team silently taking in your body language with Bradley. How you stared at him for a moment too long after he told a joke. The way his eyes followed you when you told a story, so focused that he didn’t even flinch when the waitress dropped an empty tray a few feet behind your chair.

By the end of the meal, you had gotten over the embarrassment of getting absolutely smashed and having to be carried out of the bar. They were a genuinely nice group and you could see why Bradley was willing to be friends with them outside of work.

“So we never did hear why you two broke up,” Jake said, signing the check. The group had decided it was his turn to pay, something about a pool game bet gone awry.

You froze and could feel Bradley stiffen next to you. Across the table, Phoenix raised her eyebrows in intrigue.

There was a silent beat before you opened your mouth.

“Just didn’t work out,” you said finally. “Senior year of college, you know how it goes. We had different paths.”

You turned to look at Bradley. There was a pensive look across his tan face. The moment his eyes locked onto yours, you felt the room shift. There was an apology there, without any words passing between you.

No matter how many times he said he was sorry, it still hurt.

“Yeah,” Bradley said after a moment. “We were young.”

You swung back around. The rest of the table was quiet. Jake had his head cocked to the side, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I should go to the bathroom before we leave,” Coyote said, smacking his hands on the table and pushing his chair back. You nodded and stood as well.

“Same here.”

In the bathroom, you splashed cold water on your wrists before lifting your gaze to the mirror. Sometimes you avoided staring into the mirror for too long. It was too easy to pick at your flaws.

As you pushed open the door, you spotted Jake leaning against the wall, toothpick clamped between his lips. He raised a hand, grabbing it before giving you a smile.

“Hey there cupcake,” he said and you groaned, forcing a laugh out of him. “God, you’re sassy. I see why Bradshaw likes you so much.”

“I think the men’s room is that way,” you said, hooking your thumb over your shoulder. “If you’re lost.”

He shook his head, inching nearer. You were dwarfed in a cloud of his cologne, it was borderline overpowering. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For asking about you and Bradshaw. Your history. I could tell by the way y’all tensed up that it’s still a touchy subject.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, drawing Jake’s eyes to your breasts momentarily before he shifted back up to look at you. “It was a long time ago,” you said. “Nobody likes to talk about breakups, so not sure why you would ask in the first place.”

He smiled. “You keep saying it was a long time ago, that it’s in the past. But it isn’t really for you, is it?” “What do you mean?”

He reached out and brushed some hair behind your ear. “I can see it in the way you look at him. You still care.”

Jake’s green eyes centered on yours. “I loved him once,” you said quietly. “We needed each other. It's hard to forget something like that.”

Jake dropped his arm, turning halfway to let you past him. You spotted Bradley standing at the table beyond Jake’s shoulder, his back still to you but you could tell he was laughing at something someone else said. “I think you still love him,” he replied and you looked up with shock. “And I think he loves you, too.”

With that, Jake centered the toothpick back between his lips, taking off toward the bathroom.

Back at the table, you grabbed your purse and Bradley put his hand on your arm. “Do you want to get a drink?” he asked softly. “We could go out, or my place. Up to you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

You followed him in your car back to the bungalow with the blue door. It was a lot cleaner than the last time you had been there. No clothes on the ground or stray dishes on the coffee table. Bradley headed toward the kitchen and you followed on his heels.

“Wine?” he asked. “Vodka. Gin. Diet Coke. I got it all.”

“Wine,” you said, watching him select a bottle of red from a shelf and uncork it seamlessly. “Do you remember that dinner I took you to with my parents? Family weekend, junior year.”

“How could I forget?” he asked, pouring you a glass and sliding it over. You turned the bottle in your hands. Leonetti Cellar 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon from Walla Walla Valley. You raised your eyebrows. That was a really nice bottle. He had come a long way from scoffing at the taste of a pinot noir.

“I see your taste for wine has changed,” you murmured and he smiled.

“Yeah, one of the Admirals got me into it. Although I can’t say it was worth what I paid.”

“Well, I like it.” He took a sip of his glass. “Then it’s worth it.” Bradley turned his gaze on you and you felt like you were sitting in a spotlight at a comedy show. He could be so intense and say so little at the same time. “That’s not the only thing I remember from that night,” he whispered.

“Oh yeah?”

He walked around the counter until you were only a few inches apart. Your hand was shaky on the stem of your wineglass and you placed your hands in your lap. “I still think about it, Mags.”

“What, the sex?”

He laughed softly, putting his glass down next to yours and running one hand down the side of your face. “That, too.”

“I’ve had better,” you quipped and his eyes widened. “You can’t seriously think you were the best fuck I ever had. After all this time?”

He dipped his head and you let out a laugh.

“Oh my God, you really do have an ego.”

He shook his head. “No, I know that I was young and inexperienced and didn’t know what it took to really please you.”

“You had slept with half a dozen girls by then, minimum.”

“But I didn’t care about any of them the way I cared about you,” he said and it made your breath catch in your throat. “Maggie, I have never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You caught the grammatical slip, but you were worried that it wasn’t an error. “Bradley,” you whispered softly.

“Let me finish, please,” he said and you nodded. “You telling me you loved me that night meant more than anything in my life up until that point.” He paused. “Even now, it’s still the singular best day of my life. I don’t think you understand how much it meant to have you say that.” Bradley ran a finger through his hair and took in a deep breath. He was so close you could almost feel his heartbeat in his chest. “You’re the only person in my life who has ever seen me for who I am and loved me despite it all, Mags. I should have spent my entire life dedicated to loving you. I should have spent every minute figuring out how to make you feel a fraction of the amount of love that you gave me that night.”

You looked up at him. “So why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t realize what I had,” he whispered, pressing one large thumb to your cheek, “until you were gone.”

You turned your face away, sucking in a deep breath, but Bradley’s hands came out to cup your neck, pulling you back to face him.

“I lost you before,” he whispered. “And it was my fault, it was all my fault. I hurt you, and I’ve spent years trying to atone for the way I treated you. But you’re here, now. And I don’t want to fuck this up.”

You closed your eyes briefly, felt the wet tears start to roll down your cheeks, over Bradley’s fingers where he held your face tightly. “Back then I thought you would be the guy who would never hurt me.”

You watched the pain flicker over Bradley’s face as your words sunk in.

“And I hated to learn how wrong I was.”

The flood gates had opened. You tilted your head down, letting the tears spill across your cheeks and Bradley’s fingers. He let go of your neck, pulling you into his chest, winding his arms around you. You folded into him easily, molded to his embrace. It was so familiar and intoxicating and you were mad that it felt so comfortable to touch him again.

“Baby,” he whispered, pulling back and wiping at the tears below your lash line.

“Don’t call me that,” you said, standing up from the stool and walking across the room, putting distance between yourself and Bradley. As if that would solve all of your issues.

“Maggie,” he begged, stepping closer. “I still love you. For eight years I’ve never once stopped loving you.”

“Stop,” you said, putting out a hand to block him. “Just stop, Bradley. We can’t do this. We’re not twenty-two anymore. We have lives. We’ve moved on.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” he said, exasperated. “I haven’t moved on, Maggie. I have thought about you every day for eight years. I don’t care about anyone else, I don’t want anyone else. I just want you.”

“You had me!” you screamed and it stopped him dead in his tracks. “You fucking had all of me. I was ready to give my entire life to you. And you wasted it on some slut.”

“Maggie.” His voice was a strained whisper. It was the same tone as the day you saw the text on his phone while he was in the shower and confronted him. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t fucking call me pet names,” you yelled. “You lost the right to love me eight years ago.”

He shook his head. “It was a mistake. I was wasted and I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“That’s it? You regretted it?” You put your hands on your thighs and tried to catch your breath. “Bradley, you walked out of my life that day and I never even got a reason.”

“There was no reason!” he yelled and the magnitude of his voice shook the house. You looked up in shock. You had never seen Bradley like this. Like he was overcome with anger and fear all wrapped into one. “I was fucking wasted and she was there and in the blink of an eye I ruined everything I had ever let myself want, Maggie. I thought I didn’t deserve you. That’s why I left and never looked back. I didn't deserve you. And you fucking deserved better than me.”

Bradley leaned both hands on the wall, hanging his head, before pushing back and smacking the wall with an open palm. You heard the slap as it echoed around the small living room. His palm was pink with exertion, but when he looked up all you could focus on was his face. How drawn his features were, the tears flooding his lash line, the anguish that somehow etched its way into every inch of his skin.

“Maybe I did it because I wanted better for you,” he roared. “Because I knew that you should have more than I could give you.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” you bit back. “You did it because you’re a selfish asshole. You wanted someone new. Someone sexier. Someone smarter.” You sniffled. “You did it because you wanted to ruin things for us so you didn’t have to go through the fucking hassle of breaking up with me.”

“Maggie,” he begged, taking a step forward and you moved back instinctively. He dragged his palms over his face. “Why would I break up with you? You were my whole fucking world.”

“I knew you didn’t want to move to California with me,” you sobbed. “I saw your face when I suggested it. You didn’t want me here. You were desperate to graduate and make me just a part of your past.”

“No,” he said, crossing the room so quickly you didn’t have time to react. His hands burned where they touched your arms, his voice shaky. “Baby, no. The only thing I ever wanted was a life with you. Was I terrified? Yes, absolutely. But I never for a fucking second doubted how much I wanted you.”

“You’re the one who left, Bradley,” you whispered. “The one who never looked back. Not as I lay there on the floor, sobbing for you. Begging you to stay. Desperate to make it work. You just stood there and watched me collapse and did nothing to explain yourself.” “Maggie,” he choked out.

“What about that showed that you loved me?” you asked. “What about you letting me find out that you cheated on me by reading some girl’s message on your phone screen was you declaring that you wanted to spend your life with me? What kind of man just walks out on his pregnant girlfriend without a care in the world?”

Bradley’s eyes flashed and his fingers dug into the tops of your arms. “What do you mean pregnant girlfriend?”

“I was two months pregnant when you left, Bradley,” you said quietly.

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