Chapter 17 #2
When Monday morning arrives, I spend a half hour in the bathroom, working diligently to cover up what’s left of my wounds.
The scratches are easy, but the bruising around my eye takes more time.
I’m skeptical at first, but after enough light dabbing and powder pressing and trusting the process, the pink and purple skin manages to look almost normal.
Well, normal enough to not draw curious eyes, at least, and I attend my classes without any strange looks or awkward questions being thrown my way.
By the time I make it back from a day of trudging through sidewalk sludge and dirty snow piles, my anxiety is at its peak. Less than twenty-four-hours until the speech now. And though I know it by heart at this point, I spend the evening going back and forth between practicing and deep breathing.
When I’ve had enough for the night, I tuck my notecards into my backpack, wash up, and crawl into the twin bed that’s not anywhere near as cozy as Wes’s. Or as warm.
As though alerted by my thoughts, my phone vibrates with a text from the Human Furnace himself.
Wes: Hey, you. How was your day?
Warmth floods my insides, and I can’t help but smile to myself. It’s hard for me to justify this sweaty-palm, pulse pounding elation, all over a stupid text message when I used to cringe of the prospect of being on Wes’s mind at all.
Me: I mean, I survived…How was yours?
Wes: Miserable without my bestie :(
Me: Be serious!
Wes: I am serious!
Me: Sureeee.
Wes: Scale of 1-10 how are you feeling?
Me: Are you referring to my face or the speech?
Wes: Both. An all-encompassing scale of 1-10.
Me: A 3 maybe?
Wes: A 3??? Do I need to perform a wellness check?!
Me: Lol not necessary. I’m just nervous, I guess.
I watch the blue dots dance as he types his next response.
Wes: You know this thing backward and forward, Ives. Don’t overdo the practicing tonight. You’ll psych yourself out, and you need a good night’s sleep.
Me: I know. I stopped practicing. Just got in bed. I fear it’s as good as it’s gonna get.
Wes: Which is pretty damn good. Trust me. You just need to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.
My smile falters a little, nerves encroaching despite Wes’s comforting words. I send a smiley face anyway, worried he’ll find the anxious note in whatever I type.
Wes: My couch misses you. He told me himself.
Me: I doubt he misses my snoring.
Wes: You don’t snore.
I blink at the message, a blunt reminder of the night we spent tangled together.
Me: Neither do you.
The three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. I hold my breath.
Wes: I wish I could hold you again.
I exhale sharp, my body going warm all over. I shouldn’t respond, but my fingers fly over the keypad of their own accord, de-escalating the situation before I can get myself in trouble.
Me: That was nice…except for the part where I nearly died of heatstroke.
Wes: Less clothes next time ;)
I almost drop the phone.
My stomach dips, heat flooding my cheeks at the image he painted in my head.
My thumbs hover over the screen, debating my response.
While I’m uneasy with the direction this is going, I’m also a little bit excited.
But as always, I overthink every potential reply to the point of paralysis, that crippling self-doubt overtaking me once again.
When I don’t write back after a minute, my fingers frozen with indecision, Wes sends another text, letting me off the hook.
Wes: You should get some rest. You’re gonna kick ass tomorrow.
I fall back against the pillow with a groan. My emotions are mixed, part of me relieved for the save, the other part disappointed in myself for not flirting back. For not taking a risk. It was harmless. It was innocent.
Remember what happened last time you entertained flirting from a guy?
And like that, I’ve poured cold water on the idea. My shoulders slump as I text him back.
Me: You will too. Goodnight :)
Wes: Night, Ives.
After flicking off the light, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why I can’t let myself have this—why I can’t indulge in a tiny crush.
Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? A crush.
I can admit that much, at least. So why can’t I bask in the butterflies like other people do, even just for a little while?
You know why.
But Wes isn’t like him. Wes is the opposite of him.
Wes is warmth and sunlight and humor and kindness.
And no, I’d never expect him to actually act on his flirtation with me.
I’m not dumb enough to believe the night we slept together meant something, or that his suggestive messages carry some deep desire, or that his requests to spend time with me are as anything more than a friend.
I’m not so stupid to think someone like Wes Tucker could ever be seriously interested in someone like me.
So if my expectations are nonexistent, then what is the harm?
These questions on my mind, I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable on the mattress that’s too hard, in the room that’s too empty. When sleep comes, it’s restless and wrought with stressful dreams, though surprisingly, they’re not about the speech.
Every single one of them is about Wes.
Nerves startle me awake at five a.m., and I don’t fall back asleep.
Staring at a blank spot on the wall, I recite the speech in my head, and when I’m done, I recite it again and again and again, pushing my brain to the edge of mental combustion.
Only then do I roll out of bed and stumble through a shower, standing beneath the hot water until the room fills with steam.
Towel tucked under my arms, I apply enough makeup to cover the bruising around my eye and take extra care blow-drying my hair.
Then, I spend an hour picking through my closet, eventually settling on dark jeans, my winter boots, and a loose-fitting black sweater that is certain not to show any sweat stains.
I debate eating a granola bar, but my stomach protests at the idea of food, nerves and nausea wrecking my intestines. Coffee is also out of the question. With nothing else to do, I triple check that the notecards are tucked in my bag and take off for class thirty minutes earlier than usual.
I lose track of time sitting in the quiet classroom, staring out the window at the dark sky. Zoned out, I don’t realize Wes has entered the room until he gently shakes my shoulder, making me jump a mile in the air. I slap a hand over my chest, sucking in a breath.
“You scared me,” I gasp.
He’s immediately apologetic. “Shit. I’m sorry, Ives. I said your name, like, three times.”
I wait for my heartbeat to slow, but it never does, probably because Wes’s arrival means I’m one step closer to the speech. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
His eyes roam over my face. “Get any sleep at all?”
I wince. “A little.”
“Well, you look beautiful, for what it’s worth. And your eye looks incredible. I have no idea how women do that magic.”
Before I have a chance to respond, Markham draws our attention to the front of the room. “Alright people, starting early since we have more speeches to get through.” He looks at the list on his screen. “Lia Holder, you’re up!”
I sit through five rounds of speeches, my nerves winding tighter and tighter with each new person suffering at the front of the room.
I refuse to breathe as Markham glances back at the list, and when he calls “Wes Tucker,” instead of my name, I let out a small exhale, sinking down in my seat.
“Been looking forward to this one, Mr. Tucker.”
Wes laughs, but I pick up on the nervous edge in his voice as he walks to the front of the room. Taking a calming breath, he stands up straight, and then he begins.
Wes’s speech, of course, comes across damn near professional. He’s charismatic, he commands the room, he cracks jokes and earns round after round of laughter. He even has Markham fighting back a smile. When he’s done, and the room erupts in well-earned applause, my stomach sinks.
Please don’t let me follow him up.
“Well done, Wes,” praises Markham. “See? Could have gotten that over with four years ago.”
“Fate brought me to this moment when the time was right,” Wes says seriously. “Can’t fuck with fate, Professor Markham.”
“Right. Sure. Maybe you can do your next speech on your fascinating relationship with destiny.” Wes just grins at him before heading back to his seat, eyes locked on mine as he shuffles his way through the desks. I can see the relief in them and can’t wait until I experience it myself.
“You were amazing,” I whisper.
He reaches out and affectionately squeezes my arm. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I doubt that, but I don’t have the chance to say so before Markham’s looking back at his list. “Alright, let’s see who’s next…Ivy Combs? You’re up.”
The smile wipes clean off my face as the world tilts on its axis. I feel lightheaded, like I’m having an out of body experience, floating above myself and watching my life unravel from the ceiling.
“You can do this, Ivy,” Wes murmurs. “You’ve got it in the bag.”
I think I nod. Or maybe grimace. I don’t remember getting out of my seat or walking to the front of the room or showing Markham my bulleted notecards to prove I’m not cheating.
Blood whooshes in my ears, drowning out the sound of my heartbeat.
My fingers shake, hands struggling to hold my note cards straight, and my knees knock together.
I feel my control slipping away, those perfectly practiced words alluding me, hovering just out of reach.
This is it. This is my biggest fear.
I’m going to have an anxiety attack in front of the entire classroom.