“I don’t feel so good,” I whisper, putting my face on her shoulder. She gasps, and her hand flies to my forehead to check my temperature.
“We can stop by a clinic, if you need to? Oh, Tommy, what if you’re sick from jumping in the lake after me? I can’t believe we didn’t get you checked out by a doctor, ugh, I’m so stupid!”
“Kira,” I stop her panic with a hug, but keep myself hidden in the curtain of her hair. “It’s just motion sickness, alright? And I’m just… tired. I didn’t sleep on the plane.”
“You didn’t sleep at all? No wonder you’re tired. We’re about half an hour from the city, and then it takes another half hour just to get through traffic to my apartment. Do you want to stop for some nausea medication? Or some food? I’m starving, and maybe it will settle you.”
She pets my back, and I almost cry. Like a big, stupid baby. “I could eat.”
“Luke?” She calls, knocking on the partition. It hums as it rolls down.
“Ma’am?” the driver asks.
“Stop by Les Étoiles, would you? We’re hungry.”
I let her handle the details, and mentally slip away. This is all just... too much.
So, I leave.
On autopilot, completely disassociated, I let my body go through the motions and try to pull myself together. Kira chats a little with me, but I can’t remember what I say, even seconds after I say it. I’m just not really here anymore.
We make jokes, I say I’m feeling better, we laugh and I tease her, and my eyes rove constantly–the only outward sign that all is not well. I play the part, like a practiced puppeteer, controlling my body from somewhere far away. Somewhere safer.
I honestly don’t remember most of tonight. We eat some food, then we get back into the car. We talk happily as we ride to her apartment.
I’m masking hard to keep up the ‘I’m fine’ facade, but it’s weighing on me. It’s getting harder with every passing minute. But I can’t process my emotions here. It isn’t safe. I can’tfeelanything right now. I need to be somewhere by myself, somewhere alone. Somewhere no one can see me.
Finally, we walk into Kira’s huge apartment, all glossy and pretty and clean. I think I ask her where I’ll be staying. She brings me to her guest suite, and gives me a mini tour before saying goodnight, yawning and happy. I pat her head, hug her, smile and wave goodnight.
When the door is shut behind her, I stand there, frozen, and listen for her footsteps. It’s hard to hear them on the ultra-soft carpet, but I press my ear to the door so I can makesureshe walks away.
Then I fall face down on the bed, and silently cry. Overwhelmed, lost, unsure, and strangely, bitterly disappointed.
Valuable; yeah, right.It’s all just a load of shit.
Chapter 11
Tommy
Waking up feels like trying to claw my way back from death. Every millimeter of gained consciousness is a struggle that I kinda don’t want to win, but eventually my bladder makes the decision for me, and I groan loudly as I roll around on the bed, pissed off that I have to get up. Stupid bladder, stupid daytime, stupid big soft bed that I could barely sleep in because I was so upset and it was so fucking quiet in this apartment.
I shuffle to the connected bathroom, bleary and grumpy, but as I pee, the pent-up pressure in my bladder being released actually makes me relax a bit. I take a second to appreciate the fact that I get to walk into a private bathroom and use it without sharing it or waiting, and it’s a big clean one with lots of light and no cracks in the floor or the sink, and the tub isn’t stained and the ceiling doesn’t leak at all. It’s a really nice bathroom, is what I’m saying.
So maybe I shouldn’t complain so much.
But fuck me, I’m so fucking tired.
I stumble through getting dressed and washing my face, but I get a bit more awake and aware as I peek out of my bedroom into the hallway. I wouldn’t say I’m in enemy territory, per se, but it sure as hell isn’t my territory. I’m not sure what the rules are; I’m not sure if I can be Tommy here, or if I have to be Tommy Claremont.
Maybe some mix of both.
The sound of voices from down the hall makes me hesitate, and I listen for a while. I can tell its Kira, and I think Lexie, but the acoustics in this place don’t allow me to understand what they’re saying from here. Out of habit–and maybe ingrainedparanoia and fear–I sneak out of the bedroom in my socks, making no sound at all on the gleaming floor. I don’t even know why I’m sneaking. Like, if someone stopped me and asked me right now what I’m doing and why, I wouldn’t even know what to say. But walking out there confidently, like no one’s ever been hidden around a corner waiting to jump me, just isn’t something I can do. Not even here, in Kira’s apartment, where I’m more likely to be jump-scared by my own damn thoughts and memories than by anything else.
I wait at the end of the hall where I can hear them better, listening in. But they’re just talking about professors and classes and stuff that doesn’t matter to me, so I end up feeling stupid for creeping around. With a sigh, I cautiously poke my head out.
Kira sees me first. She and Lexie are sitting daintily on plush stools at the giant kitchen island, their hands carefully held over some napkins on the counter, and I eye the bottles of nail polish beside them. Kira stops mid-sentence to wave and smile, and there are half empty mugs beside them and clean dishes drying on a rack by the sink.
It’s all so… domestic and normal.
