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“I’ll take it.”
Winter
I need to have a chat with whoever said that time heals all. That’s the conclusion I came to while lying awake in Tom’s guest bedroom at three in the morning last night.
You’d think I’d be used to this reality by now. After all, it’s been a month. Well, five and a half weeks to be exact, but I’m not sure that’s enough time for the famous quote to be effective.
It feels like I’ve been locked inside the IKEA penthouse for years. Kendrick spends every day playing video games while I read or watch Friends. That’s all I do: read, watch my favorite shows, think about Mr. I-Say-I-Love-You-and-Go-to-Another-Girl-the-Next-Day, take online classes, and eat.
It’d be slightly better if I could explore the city, but my leg disagrees. Not to mention, we’re supposed to be undercover, and “going out to play tourist” doesn’t come close to fitting the word’s description. Although, that doesn’t seem to stop the boys from going out to get food every chance they get.
I lie awake in the oversized bed that’s become my best friend in the past few weeks. Distant voices fill my ears. Today is Saturday, and Will and Alex are back for the weekend. I listen to their conversation until the front door is shut closed. I assume they went out to get Chinese; it’s almost lunchtime.
I push the heavy cover off me and yawn. The only things I did today were go to the bathroom and shower, which, by the way, isn’t a piece of cake with this injury. Bright side is, my fracture has really improved since we got here. Only a week and a half before I can walk again. I’m even kind of good with my crutches now. And by good, I mean that I no longer fall on my ass every time I use them.
I get dressed and stare at the empty closet in the corner of the white bedroom. I can’t bring myself to unpack. Part of me fears that unpacking would be like accepting that this is where I’m going to be spending the last of my senior year, and I’m not quite ready for that.
So, for now, I keep my suitcase open next to my bed and pick what I need in the morning.
Oh, and needless to say, I was right. Kendrick didn’t do color matching and picked around two flattering outfits in my closet back at Maria’s. The majority of the clothes he brought scream “single with twenty-four cats.”
“There she is,” Kendrick says when I enter the room. “Slept well?”
“Maybe if I’d slept at all.” I groan, rubbing my eyes. “Where are the boys?”
“Went out to get food. Where else?” He shrugs, turning on the TV.
I nod and hop to the fridge—since hopping on one foot and holding on to furniture are now my main ways of transportation—and pour myself a glass of juice. I’m about to take a sip when a knock on the door reverberates throughout the penthouse. I turn my head to see Kendrick just as confused as I am.
“Must be the guys. They probably forgot something.” He gets up and goes to check through the peephole.
The way his face collapses when he peeks inside tells me he was wrong.
It’s not the guys.
“Who is it?” I ask.
I can practically hear the million thoughts racing in his head from where I am.
“How the fuck did he find us? You told him, didn’t you?”
“What? Who?”
“You know who.”
No.
No way.
Haze?
“He’s… he’s here?”
Kendrick nods, panic written all over his face.
Haze is here.
On the other side of the door… is the guy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the past month.
