12. Chapter Twelve #2
I take on the weekend like I usually do.
That night, I do yoga with candlelight, I make delicious chicken and asparagus, and my lights are out by ten.
The next day is Saturday, and I stay strict on my routine.
Pilates, high-protein breakfast, shower, and then my sketchpad.
I stare at my trinkets on my bookshelf next to my Architectural Design magazines.
Every trinket represents a trip I took with my family.
We traveled a lot when I was in high school.
The second my father learned I had good taste in architecture, we traveled just for that.
And I collected little things that cost a tiny fortune.
It looks good on display in here. I cherish them every time I look at them.
When Sunday comes around, I finish my homework assignments. Ivory is gone for most of the day. I take the time to bake banana bread. And for dessert, I cut up organic strawberries and add them to my yogurt bowl.
And by midnight, I’m still not asleep. Ivory came home hours ago and went straight to bed after commenting about how nice my baking smelled.
My mind keeps turning back to Chicago. There’s a date on it now.
A job is secured for me there, and it should be a dream come true.
But I keep landing on distaste. I don’t know how to say I don’t want it without sounding ungrateful or entitled.
The whole thing makes me feel sick to my stomach.
This is amazing for me. It’s a really good opportunity with great experience. I should want it.
I pick up my phone.
Me: Are you awake?
I stare at the screen and wait.
Nothing for two minutes.
Nothing for five, and I set the phone aside.
At the eight-minute mark, I grab the phone again. At eleven minutes in, I check that the message was sent. It was sent, and I put the phone on the far side of the bed and lie flat and look at the ceiling.
He doesn’t sleep. Apparently, so he’s awake right now, wherever he is, with a book, in a cold house. The book must be good. He usually answers me within seconds or minutes without fail, which means he might be ignoring me.
At fifteen minutes, I think I know what’s going on. He’s finally sleeping, and I’m the fool who assumed he wouldn’t be. Or Tuesday night was a thing he regrets, telling me about the not-sleeping, opening a door two inches, and he’s quietly pulling it shut. And that’s fine if he does.
I decide, coolly, lying on my back in the dark, that I will not do this again.
At twenty-two minutes, the phone lights up.
Percy: Yeah.
Then, before I can even feel the relief, he texts me again.
Percy: Are you okay?
I stare at that until my eyes dry. Nobody in my life asks me that. My mother asks whether I signed. Oliver asks about my semester and knows the answer already. Ivory asks where I go. No one ever asks me if I’m okay. They always assume I am no matter the circumstance. Percy doesn’t judge –– clearly.
Me: Yeah. Are you?
Percy: Away game. Bus just got back.
Percy: We won.
I turn over in bed. I have never heard of the term, but I can put the two together and understand that he was out of town for a hockey game.
I know absolutely nothing about hockey, and we don’t talk about it.
Maybe I should ask. I think I have a lot to ask him, actually.
I don’t like to dig or pry or ask a hundred and one questions.
And right now, I can’t tell whether it’s out of kindness or something selfish.
Me: Do you want to come over?
I hit send before I can overthink it. He writes back in two seconds.
Percy: Yeah.
I look around my room for anything out of place. My trench coat is lopsided on the hanger, and the pile of sketchbooks are not aligned. I walk out and grab a few of my magazines in case he doesn’t come with a book.
After twenty minutes, I realize that he’s walking.
Now I feel bad. It’s February, after midnight, and it takes him twenty-five minutes to get here.
He texts me when he’s close. When the elevator opens, he’s standing there with snow melting in his blonde hair and his hands red, no gloves.
He says my name like it’s the whole greeting.
“Penelope.”
He steps into the elevator, and I smell the clean scent of soap on his clothes.
“Ivory is asleep, so we have to be quiet.”
He nods as we walk out.
When we step into my apartment, he gently pulls off his boots and carries them through the house, following after me. I grab a towel and fold it near my bedroom door. He places his boots on it as I quietly shut the door.
He stands in the middle of my room, and even for a room this size, he takes up a lot of space. The snow on his hair has melted. He shakes his head like a shaggy dog.
I squeal, not expecting the cold drops to land on me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs quietly.
I wipe my skin where the droplets landed.
He walks to my desk and looks at the collage I have pinned to a large corkboard. I have pages of magazines, my own drawings, and inspirational quotes. I feel a bit exposed, but his eyes quickly divert to the chair where he takes a seat.
“You walked?” I ask.
He nods, looking up at me.
I walk to the desk, careful not to enter his personal space. “I brought these in here for you to read.”
He looks at the magazines. “And you’ll draw?”
I reach for my sketchpad. “Yeah.”
I take my sketchpad to my bed, and he opens one of the magazines.
For a long while, the silence in the bedroom is fine. He’s reading a magazine front to back, and I’m sketching something unimportant.