Chapter 27 #2
He hesitates, then leans on me, his arm heavy across my shoulders. “All right but go slow. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“We’ll take it easy,” I promise, starting to walk. “One step at a time.”
We make slow progress down the rocky path. His weight presses down on me, but it’s manageable.
Misha tries to lighten the mood. “Wow, you’re stronger than you look.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I huff, focusing on each careful step. The uneven ground makes it challenging, but we find a rhythm, pausing every so often to rest.
After what feels like an eternity, we finally reach the car. I make him stand beside it so he can lean on it to open his backpack and retrieve the key, opening the car. I put our backpacks away and change into my sneakers.
Misha sits in the driver’s seat, his face contorting in pain as he tries to move his injured ankle.
“Fuck, I don’t think I can drive like this,” he grits out, frustration evident in his voice. The Tesla is an automatic, but he’s hurt his right ankle. “Do you have a license?”
“Uh, yeah, I have a driver’s license,” I murmur. “But I didn’t drive much back home. And when I did, it was on the other side of the road. You know, London and all.”
After August helped me get my license, I may have driven twice in my life.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course, British. Well, you’ll have to do it anyway. I can’t move my ankle.”
“I have no idea how to drive a Tesla.”
He laughs again, the sound light despite the situation. “You’ll figure it out. It’s just a car, after all.”
Yeah, and I know so much about cars in general.
I take a deep breath and help him out and around the hood so he can sit in the passenger seat before I slide behind the wheel. The interior feels futuristic, and I fumble with the controls for a moment before managing to start the car.
We pull onto the empty road, and I do my best to keep the car steady, though it’s clear I’m not very skilled at it.
“See, you’re doing fine,” Misha teases, his voice playful. “Just don’t crash us.”
“Very reassuring,” I mutter, but a smile tugs at my lips. The road stays mercifully empty, and I start to relax a bit, getting the hang of the smooth, silent ride.
We drive slowly down a road lined with vibrant flowers and tall grass swaying in the breeze.
Misha lowers his window, letting in the cool air, which is a welcome relief from the heat of the sun beating down on us.
I follow suit, lowering my window as well, and the fresh scent of grass and air wafts into the car.
As we drive, Misha lets his fingers glide over the tops of the tall grass, closing his eyes and looking so peaceful. It makes me happy to see him like that.
I hated the pain in his features.
As we approach a deserted crossroads, I bring the car to a halt, even though there isn’t another vehicle in sight.
Better safe than sorry.
Misha leans out his window and plucks a single yellow wildflower from the side of the road. Turning to me with a grin, he carefully tucks it behind my ear.
“There,” he says, his eyes sparkling as he admires his handiwork. “Perfect.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I laugh, playfully swatting his arm.
He grins, rubbing his arm dramatically. “Hey, watch it! I’m injured, remember?”
I shake my head, smiling. “Oh, you poor thing. How ever will you survive?”
“With you around, I think I’ll manage.”
My heart.
I start to drive again, and he doesn’t say anything for a long while, but I feel his eyes lingering on me. I glance over at him, a blush creeping up my cheeks for the hundredth time today. “What? What is it?”
Instead of answering, he fiddles with the car’s touchscreen, and the familiar synth notes of “Midnight City” by M83 fill the car.
“Every time I see something special, something that makes me grateful to be alive, I hear this song in my head.”
I smile at him.
He makes me grateful to be alive too.
We drive on, the flowers and tall grass blurring into a beautiful backdrop. The song continues, and the car feels like a bubble of our own little world, where everything is easy and wonderful. I glance at Misha just as he reaches across the console and intertwines his fingers with mine.
He rests our hands on the console, leans back against his headrest, and sleeps for the entire two-hour drive back to Seattle.
As we get onto busier streets, I gently slip my hand from his to better grip the steering wheel. He stirs slightly but remains asleep, resting peacefully until we reach the garage.
When I put the car in park, he stirs, rubbing his eyes and slowly sitting up. “Are we home already?” he asks, his voice quiet and groggy.
“Yep, we made it,” I reply, smiling at him.
He stretches, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he looks around, taking in the familiar surroundings. “Look at that. You didn’t kill us,” he teases, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
I snicker gently. “And even if I did, you wouldn’t have noticed, sleepyhead.”
We both unbuckle but make no move to exit. The car’s interior feels suddenly too small, too intimate.
I turn to Misha, my smile lingering as I try to keep the mood light, though my heart is starting to race. “This was a lot of fun,” I say, the words carrying more weight than they should. “Thank you.”
He meets my gaze, his expression soft, his eyes still a little heavy with sleep. There’s something different in the way he looks at me, something that makes my heart skip a beat. “I love happy Amelia,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “She’s pretty.”
His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there just a moment too long, and I feel the pull between us, the magnetic force drawing me closer. My heart pounds in my chest, and before I can think it through, I lean in, closing the distance between us, my breath catching as our lips almost touch.
But then, just as we’re about to meet, he raises his hand, pressing it gently against my lips, creating a barrier that stops me cold. The suddenness of it shatters the fragile illusion, leaving me frozen in place.
“Fuck…” he whispers, his fingertips still resting against my lips, as if he can’t quite bring himself to pull away. His voice is strained, almost pained. “I’m so sorry, Bug. I can’t do that.”
The warmth that had filled the car just moments ago evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I pull back, mortified, my face flushing with embarrassment.
Oh God.
“Sorry… I-I shouldn’t have done that,” I stammer, my hands trembling. “I thought you would—”
“I would.” He cuts me off, his face contorted with something like regret. “It’s not you, Amelia. I just… can’t… and it’s not my place to tell you why.”
His words barely register as the embarrassment floods my system, shooting icy adrenaline through my veins.
My ears fill with a roaring white noise, and my cheeks burn with humiliation.
I can’t bring myself to meet the pity in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, the words barely escaping my lips. “Forget it happened, please.”
“Bug, no, I’m sorry, please…” he starts, reaching out as if to stop me, but I’m already out of the car, desperate to escape. My legs move on their own, carrying me quickly toward the elevator, my vision blurring with unshed tears.
Behind me, I hear him curse under his breath as he tries to follow, his injured ankle no doubt protesting under the sudden weight. “Amelia, wait!” he calls out, his voice filled with urgency, but I ignore him, stepping into the elevator just as the doors begin to close.
My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else as I watch him try to take another step, his face contorted in agony before the doors shut between us.
This is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.
The thought loops in my mind over and over, each repetition sinking deeper.
He doesn’t want me.
I’m so dumb.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
I just ruined everything.
When I’m at my apartment door, guilt gnaws at me for leaving Misha like that, so I pull out my phone and type a quick message to the group chat with the guys.
Please help Misha up from the garage. He hurt his ankle.
I put my phone back in my pocket and resist the urge to look at it as messages start coming in. Closing the door behind me with a heavy sigh, I lean against it, my mind racing.
What just happened?
“Amelia, are you all right?” Jamie asks, a hint of concern in his voice.
“Standby,” I command, forcing myself to kick off my sneakers and move away from the door, trying to shake off the feelings.
Heading to the kitchen, I fill a glass of water in the hopes it might help calm me down.
As I drink, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and my fingers brush against the flower.
I take it off and look at it, feeling my chest tighten.
It hurts like my heart just broke.
Because it probably did.
“Amelia, what happened? Are you okay?” Jamie asks again, his voice unusually demanding, which makes something snap inside me.
“I said standby, pause all actions until I say otherwise!” I burst out, way sharper than I intended.
The silence that follows is deafening, making me feel even sicker.
Perfect, now the heartbreak mingles with guilt over snapping at an OS.
Desperate to dispel all of it, I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower, setting it to as cold as it will go. Stepping out of my hiking clothes, I realize that I’ve left my backpack in the back of the car. I curse myself for it while I get under the icy stream.
The shock is immediate, but it does nothing to numb the ache in my chest. I stand there, shivering, trying to will the tears away.
Leaning my forehead against the cool tile, my hands tremble as they press against the wall.
The sound of the water is deafening, drowning out everything except the relentless pounding of my heart.
It still works. It just feels shattered.
I bite my lip, trying so hard to hold back the sobs that threaten to break free.
Stanleys don’t cry.
The Steinway looms in the center of the room with its perfectly polished surface.
I sit on the bench, my legs dangling, unable to reach the pedals.
Father stands behind me, his presence towering and oppressive, while my piano teacher, Ms. Harding, stands to my right, her face a mask of stern disapproval.
“Begin,” she commands, and I place my trembling fingers on the keys and start to play, the notes hesitant and uneven.
I rehearsed the piece for hours every day last week, but this is only my third piano lesson, and so far, I’m not good at it. The room’s silence amplifies every mistake, and every wrong note echoes.
“No, no, no!” Ms. Harding snaps. She grabs the ruler from the piano top and strikes my fingers with a swift, sharp crack. The pain is immediate, a burning sting that makes my eyes water. “Do it again, and do it correctly this time.”
I glance up at Father, hoping for a shred of compassion, but his face is a mask of disapproval, his eyes cold.
“Stanleys don’t cry,” he declares in a low voice when he sees the tears that threaten to spill over. “Crying is a sign of weakness. Are you weak, Amelia Charlotte?”
I shake my head. My hands tremble as I reposition them on the keys and start to play again. The melody is still flawed, and Ms. Harding’s ruler strikes again, harder this time, the pain searing through my hands.
“Pathetic,” she mutters. “You’re not even trying.”
Father’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, his tight grip anything but comforting. “Failure is unacceptable,” he hisses in my ear. “If you want to be weak, if you want to be a failure, then you don’t belong in this family.”
The weight of his words crushes me, and the tears come despite my efforts to hold them back, streaming down my cheeks in hot, silent trails. I choke back a sob, my breath hitching in my chest.
“Stop crying!” he roars, his voice a thunderclap of anger. “Weakness will not be tolerated. You will practice until you get it right, or you will face the consequences.”
Ms. Harding nods at him, an approving smile on her face. “Again,” she demands, her voice devoid of any empathy. “From the beginning.”