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Soon.
Tomorrow even.
Grandma gives the best advice. She'll know what to do about this. She'll know the exact steps I need to take to get from lovesick puppy to over him. She always knows.
Only soon...
No. I'm not thinking that. Not yet. I don't even know if it's true. She might have years left. A decade even.
I place my phone on the couch face down and sink into the leather.
That same page is there in my Kindle. I have no idea what it says. I don't want to. I don't want anything.
Eleven ten.
It's been nearly three hours.
Is that enough time to go back to her place?
My head fills with awful images. They're at the bar in some cozy booth. He's spreading her legs and sliding his hand between them.
They're outside, in some dark, dirty alley. He has her pressed against the wall. Her back is arched. Her skirt is at her waist. He's sliding his jeans to his knees and growling something in her ear.
They're in the backseat of his car. She's under him. There's no space. His legs are hitting the seat. Her head is pressed up against the door. But neither of them care. That's how good it is. How much they want each other.
I force my eyes to my Kindle. The words refuse to enter my brain. It's mush. Meaningless. Nothing.
Eleven fifteen.
I'm nearly due for my medication.
For bed.
&nb
sp; I need my routine. It's what keeps me together. That's why I work the same days every week. Eat the same thing every morning. Take the same post-lunch walks. Read for an hour before bed every day.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Too much is going through my head. All the things I want that I can never, ever have. Grandma being well. My parents respecting my decisions. Brendon.
A normal, healthy relationship with a normal, healthy guy. Hell, even a friendship where I don't have to hide all the ugly things in my head.
I could tell Emma. She'd understand. Maybe. Or she might run away. Or she might crumble from the burden of my problems. The ones I'm responsible for carrying. Alone.
There's something outside. Footsteps. Louder than the normal traffic—there are always people moving around in their neighborhood, even in the middle of the night.
Keys jangle in the lock.
The handle turns.
The door pulls open.
And there's Brendon, surrounded by the black of night and the shiny silver moonlight.
It bounces off his hair, his eyes, that sliver of bare skin below his chin—his neck, collarbones, chest. He's dressed the same as always. Grey jeans. Dark t-shirt. Black sneakers.
And his clothes are just as neat as before. Nothing is wrinkled or stained or inside out.
I hug my knees to my chest. Stare at my Kindle like I've been reading it all night. And not like I've spent the last few hours obsessing over his date.
