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Because my eyes land on his backpack and his clothes from last night. They are lying in a heap at the foot of his bed.
Without volition, I move toward them.
The backpack’s black and it’s open. Going to my knees, I widen the gap and look inside. His clothes smell of fresh laundry but they are all wrinkled up and shoved inside, as if in haste. Kind of like how I’d do it, sloppily and messily.
In the next compartment, I find his wallet, keys, some toiletries and a book.
A book?
I pull it out without thought.
Zach isn’t into reading and stuff like that. Nope. He’s not the kind of asshole where he’s all tough on the outside but secretly harbors love for the written word.
I’ve seen him tearing out pages from a textbook and making planes out of them, sitting on bleachers. One time he tore a book in two because a teacher asked him about homework. Granted, I only heard about that but I believe it.
So why would he have a book inside his bag? A book about the stars. Written in the Stars.
I forgot that you could see the stars up here.
I flick through the pages. There are constellations, described and drawn, along with their origin and the stories behind them. It’s clean and crisp. Almost untouched, but somehow, I have a feeling that it’s not. Not really.
Zach has touched these pages. But that doesn’t make sense.
I always thought that stargazing and watching the sky is something that poets and philosophers do. People who have depth.
Zachariah Prince is no poet nor a thinker. He has no depth. All he is is a rich, bored guy who amuses himself by tormenting others, namely me.
But then, I come to the end of the book and all my thoughts get channeled into the fact that it’s a library book. It’s overdue and it’s from New York. NYPL: New York Public Library.
I was right.
He wasn’t in the UK, going to Oxford. I don’t know how but I can say for sure that he’s been in New York for the past three years.
I glance at him. He’s still sleeping heavily, probably dreamlessly too. I wish that I could ask him about the city, about all the places he’s seen.
But I can’t because I hate him and he thinks I’m a plaything.
Such a fucking waste.
I quickly look through the rest of his stuff and a good thing too. Because I hit the jackpot with the pack of cigarettes. A double pack, at that.
His stash, maybe?
Staring at the Marlboros, I smirk. He has no idea what’s coming.
I clutch it in my hands and stand up, ready to get out of here. But then, I hear a sound. The worst sound in the world. Worse than a bomb blast.
A grunt.
Then, a groan.
“Fuck.”
Another grunt.
“Jesus Christ.”
My mind has completely shut down. I watch his back on the bed and there’s movement, rustling.
He’s waking up.
Oh my God, he’s waking up.
He couldn’t have kept sleeping for five more seconds? Because five more seconds and I would’ve been out of here.
I stand frozen in the middle of his room as I lose my ability to think.
What the fuck do I do now?
Suddenly, my legs move. But instead of taking me to the door, they take me into his bathroom and before I can even comprehend what’s happening, I hop into the bathtub off to the side, and I pull the shower curtain shut.
It’s one of those opaque ones that completely hides you and thank God for that. Then, I plaster myself against the wall and press my free hand over my mouth. In the other hand, I have the double pack of Marlboros that I stole.
I hear bare footsteps and a couple more grunts. To my horror, those sounds are walking closer.
Oh God.
He’s coming toward the bathroom.
Toward me.
Why the fuck did I think it would be a good idea to hide inside his bathtub? I wasn’t doing anything illegal – well, if you don’t count stealing his cancer sticks and going through his stuff. I could’ve easily gone away through the door.
Now, everything is way, way worse than it needed to be.
Apparently, not worse enough because there comes a hiss. A distinct sound of something – a thick stream – hitting the ceramic, followed by a sigh.
I take it back. This is the worst sound in the world. Zach, peeing.
Why? Why is this happening to me?
Hysterically I think, if he’s sleepy and his aim isn’t on point and if he gets something out of the bowl, I’m not cleaning it up.
No.
Nuh-huh. I’ll quit my job before I… do that.
An eternity later, I hear the flush of the toilet and the rush of the tap opening. Oh, thank God. He’s done.
What are the chances that he’ll go away now? And go back to sleep like before, no less?
