Chapter 17
“ H ello?” I call out as I lurk anxiously toward the living room, praying Eli is still asleep.
I still have absolutely zero clue what I’m going to say to him after what went down last night, let alone how I’m ever going to look him in the eye again. I keep picturing the look on his face when he realized what a mistake he had made kissing me, and reliving the pit I felt in my stomach when he walked away. I hate the way I’m so distraught over him, like I haven’t only known him for a week. I shouldn’t care that he clearly doesn’t want me—so why do I feel so crushed?
Fortunately, it seems he’s nowhere to be found. I thank my lucky stars before plopping myself down on the couch with my laptop and opening up my article. There’s no way I’m risking waking him up by going upstairs to my room to write, so this is my best option short of hiding out in the bathroom.
I read over my article, then read it again, and three more times until the words turn to meaningless black shapes on a white screen. I make minor edits here and there that, to be honest, add nothing to the quality, until I realize I’m rewriting the same sentences over and over again. I’m pretty sure I’m actually making it worse at this point, and half an hour later, I’ve completely lost all hope.
It’s garbage.
Short of a conclusion, I’ve got nothing else to add. I’ve done the best I can do with the subject I was given, and I’m starting to realize that there’s no last-minute stroke of genius coming to revolutionize what I wrote. This is it, this is what I’ve got, and I’m scared shitless to send it to Amani.
The sudden sound of movement coming from upstairs snaps me out of my downward spiral and into an Eli-driven panic. My mind starts swirling as I hear him make his way down the stairs, thinking of all the ways the next thirty seconds could go horribly wrong.
Maybe he’ll blame the liquor and say he was never interested in me.
Maybe he’ll completely ignore me.
Maybe he’ll say he’s leaving because it’s just too awkward to be around me.
“Morning,” he announces once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, giving me an easy smile before heading down the hall.
Or, maybe he’ll act like nothing happened at all.
I sit there, stunned at his complete indifference, as he pours himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Does he not remember what happened last night? Was he really that drunk that he forgot we kissed? Or does that kind of blackout-amnesia only happen in the movies?
He strolls into the living room, two cups of coffee in hand, and sits down next to me on the couch. He looks mildly hungover, sporting some barely-noticeable bags under his golden brown eyes, but otherwise looks just as put-together as ever.
“Here,” he says, handing me one of the cups.
All I can do is stare back at him in silence as I accept the coffee, feeling thrown for a loop. Why is he acting like it’s just any other day? Did I make the whole kiss up in my head? I mean, I know I’ve had a few dreams about him before, but that kiss was pretty freaking vivid. I don’t think I could have imagined the pure euphoria of his lips scraping across my chest if I tried.
“How you feeling today?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s serious.
‘Morning’? ‘How you feeling’?
I can’t believe the casualness of the words coming out of his mouth. I feel like saying “ I’m confused, crushed, and deeply hungover. I’d like an explanation, and it better be a damn good one, ” but because I’m a wimp, instead all I say is, “Not so great.”
He snickers and sips his coffee, sitting back into his seat.
Is he seriously not going to bring it up?
“How are you feeling?” I prompt, trying to gauge what the hell is going on.
“I’ve been worse.”
A scoff escapes my lips at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation we’re having after the events of last night, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Either he doesn’t sense how irritated I am, or he doesn’t care.
“How’d your meeting go?”
What’s his end game here?
It feels like he’s toying with me for fun, like we’re playing a mind game that I wasn’t given the rules to. I don’t know what’s worse: either he likes to lead people on for fun, or our kiss was so inconsequential to him it didn’t even make an impression. Anger mixes with confusion while I try to come up with an appropriate response to his rudeness, until it hits me.
He’s doing me a favor.
He’s trying to spare me the humiliation of reliving his rejection. Of course he is, he knows that talking about it would only make it uncomfortable for both of us, so it’s probably best to pretend it never happened. Because we’re just friends. We said so yesterday, and there’s no point in ruining a perfectly good friendship with feelings.
That, or he really was that drunk that he forgot.
Either way, I start to think that maybe I should take this out; be grateful for the chance to start fresh and avoid an awkward conversation. After all, we have to live together for another six whole days until Gigi and Tobias get back, or until he’s let back into his dorm. We can choose to make those days horribly unpleasant, or go back to the way things were before.
“It sucked,” I mumble, deciding to go with the latter. I don’t care if our friendship is disingenuous at this point, I just need someone to rant to. “Amani wants me to send her my article but I’m not done yet and I’m freaking out.”
He takes another sip of his coffee before smiling warmly at me, like he’s actually trying to comfort me. “You have nothing to worry about, I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“You haven’t even read it, for all you know it’s crap.”
“Fine then, let me read it and I’ll tell you if it sucks ass.”
I scoff. “In your dreams.”
It’s nowhere near ready for anyone to see it, let alone Eli.
“I’m serious, people are going to read it eventually,” he insists, something akin to sincerity in his eyes. “Why not me, right now? ”
“Because it’s not done yet.”
Amongst other reasons.
“C’mon, you have to let me read something. Just one paragraph? Please?”
I huff and rub my temples, my lingering headache from this morning growing. I suppose after all the help he gave me, I should let him read it. He’s earned that much, at the very least.
But the truth is, if he’s going to read something I wrote for the first time ever, I’d rather it be something finished. At least then he’d be judging something I was proud of instead of whatever shit storm this article’s turning out to be.
I weigh my available options: I could let him read something less important to quell his curiosity, or I could keep having this back-and-forth with him. Given that he’s got a lot more energy than me at the moment and could probably argue his case until the end of time, I decide to let him win this one. My migraine begs me to.
“You can read one of my short stories,” I concede after a beat. “Final offer.”
“I’ll take it.”
He smiles wide as I pull one up on my laptop and place it into his eager hands. “Just go easy on me, okay?”
He waves me off while his eyes start scanning the screen, and I have to look away. This story is the first one I ever wrote, so it’s extra special to me. It’s about a little girl who finds a locket on the ground one day as she’s walking home from school, and soon discovers that every time she opens it, time freezes around her.
At first she’s obsessed with the locket; spending hours, days, and even weeks stopping time and going on one wild adventure after another. But she soon finds that the more she uses the locket, the lonelier she becomes. She eventually realizes that all the adventures in the world aren’t worth doing if she has to do them alone, so she leaves the locket back where she found it and never looks back.
I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Eli’s face if he doesn’t like my story, so I start searching for something to distract myself with. I inspect my nail beds like they’re the most fascinating things in the world, watch the clouds pass outside through the balcony windows, chug the rest of my coffee, and finally start counting the tiles around the built-in fireplace across from us. I get up to number fifty-nine before Eli finishes reading and blows out a breath, setting the laptop down in front of him.
Well that can’t be good.
“I know, I know… I was sixteen when I wrote that one, so you have to cut me some slack,” I explain, trying to get ahead of any criticisms he may have. At the time I thought the story was some super deep metaphor for the happiness and stability I was yearning for in my own life, but maybe it’s actually just cringey and unoriginal.
“No, Gemma—it’s good. Really good.”
“It is?” I splutter.
“Have you ever tried publishing this?”
My singular snort in response is enough to convey that I have not.
“I’m serious, you should do something with this. You know Parker works for a literacy agency, he might be able to get someone to take a look at your work.”
I can barely believe what I’m hearing. Not only does Eli like my story, but he thinks it’s good enough to get published? And he’s willing to leverage one his friends to help me do it ?
“Oh, I—I don’t know…” I hesitate.
The little voice of reason in my head—the one who’s nearly on her deathbed from an abundance of neglect—says What are you doing? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and you’re turning it down?!
But I ignore her. I’m not sure which is holding me back more: the fear of being a bother to Parker by asking this of him, or the fear that it won’t work out and I’ll have gotten my hopes up for nothing. Either way, I can’t bring myself to accept his offer.
“Just think about it, okay?” he says, picking up our now empty mugs and heading back down the hall.
I nod and take back my laptop, an unprecedented optimism coursing through me. Maybe I do have what it takes to be a writer after all. Maybe my dreams aren’t totally out of reach, despite what my insecurities (and Kira) might think.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds, shooting me a look over his shoulder. “If your article is anything like what I just read, it’s going to be amazing.”
My heart swells at his words, and I realize what I have to do. I can’t be a scaredy cat anymore, and there’s no putting it off any longer. It’s now or never.
I open up a new email as Eli heads back to the kitchen, attach my article draft, and type in Amani’s address as the recipient. My finger hovers over the keypad for a moment as I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut before I hit Send .