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“Good afternoon,” he says, obviously sensing me, before flipping through a page.
“Did I sleep through the whole period?” I quickly ask.
“Well, there’s still five minutes left, so almost,” he answers, keeping his head down.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I exclaim. He doesn’t react, continuing to read the book.
“Because you were tired. I told you that you needed rest. You wouldn’t have woken up even if I had tried,” he points out. I roll my eyes.
“You still should’ve tried to wake me up.”
“You looked too comfortable. I could never,” he teases, a grin bursting on his face. My body feels lighter, and more energy runs through my blood. No matter how much I deny it, I needed that rest. I couldn’t have gone by without it. But I really should have at least done it somewhere other than his shoulder. This is the second time it’s happened.
My stomach twists at the thought. I’ve been resting on his shoulder for almost an hour. I was so close to him. I realize how close I still am and slide further away. My skin heats up. “You’re an idiot,” I mutter, crossing my arms as I look away from him.
“I know, but I’d rather be an idiot than you be dead for the rest of the day,” he replies.
I really need to avoid being tired around him. Tired me does dumb things, things I can’t afford to do around him. I still need to keep myself hidden. The weight in my chest increases.
What is wrong with me? Why do I keep having these weird feelings? I mean, I had an hour of rest, that should be enough. I need to sleep more when I get home. Then these random feelings will go away. This is out of exhaustion. I’ve been deprived of sleep for so long that it’s doing things to me.
But an urge still picks at me.
“Thank you. For not waking me up even though I told you. For not pushing me off and letting me fall to the floor.” I shrug, his short chuckle following my words. The sound of the book closing is low.
“It was nothing. And I wouldn’t have pushed you to the floor no matter what.” Even his voice sounds like it’s smiling. I glance toward him, and he’s looking at me now. Something flutters in my stomach at his gaze. His soft lips curled into a grin.
The bell rings suddenly, breaking the tension. I drop my head and stare at my legs, my breathing heavier than I thought. I hear Elias push off the ground and stand up.
“I better go to class. You should too, this class actually has a teacher. See you tomorrow,” he says before walking off, and I pick up my belongings which are scattered around me.
When he’s finally gone, I look up. My hand rises up to touch my neck, the warmth a contrast to the cold of my hands. He’s right, I need to get to class. The same way I need to get these feelings are out of my head. This isn’t like me. Having all these weird sensations. Am I getting sick? I don’t normally get sick, but it could be a possibility. It would explain everything.
I really hope I’m not getting sick, though. The last thing I need right now is one of my horrible one-day sicknesses. I just need to get some sleep, and I’m sure I’ll be back to normal. This is nothing. Nothing important, right?
My head spins on the walk home, as I try to make sense of all these thoughts and feelings that I keep having. I don’t just feel these things. Not out of nowhere. I don’t have unusual feelings in general unless something is going on. And something is going onwith me. Maybe I really am sick. Maybe I drank something bad. Has the café finally decided to drug me or poison me?
This scares me. I don’t like not knowing what’s wrong with me. Not knowing what’s going on. The unknown scares me because it can mean so much things. Maybe I’ve been drugged. Or worse. Maybe I should talk to my mom about this. She’d know what’s going on.
A car then stops by my side, and the window rolls down. Lorenzo sits in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on the open window frame. “Hey. I didn’t see you after break, and you seemed pretty tired then. Are you okay?” he asks. I nod my head.
“Yes, I was able to rest through the reading session,” I explain.
“Thank God. Now come on, I’ll drive you home.” He gestures his head to the other side.
“I can walk,” I tell him.
“I thought you had a lot of work to get to?” he points out, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes and walk to the other side of the car. The car door opens, and I slide inside onto the leather seat. He hits the gas pedal again and continues driving down the road. “So, what time did you end up sleeping yesterday?” he asks.
I laugh at his question before answering. “Funny you think I’ll tell you.”
I catch a glimpse of his frown. I get that he cares about me but telling him will only cause him to worry. He doesn’t understand how much I need this career and that I need to keep going. Not for money, but for me. It’s my distraction, my runaway from everything else. Even if I have to work to the point my hands hurt, I will take it over my past life any day.
Lorenzo thinks this career is my healing process, from all of it. Tristan, Portland, and even before that. But it’s nothing close.It’s just something that stops the pain. I need time to fully heal, but for now this, my singing career, is the only thing keeping me going. When it stops, everything else will come back and haunt me. I think the only person who understands that is my mom, because she saw what happened herself.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not telling you. I personally don’t want a call from Oliver at three in the morning saying there’s someone haunting him at his door,” I add.
“I won’t haunt him. But you should let me talk to him.”
