Chapter 19
“ H ello?” I groggily answer the phone.
“Nova, honey .” There’s that warmth of motherly affection. “How are you?” She sounds relieved, breathless, and grateful all in one.
Whispering “ Ma ,” I turn to make sure Hina hasn’t woken up before quietly lifting the blanket off of me and heading onto the balcony. “I’m good.”
“Did I wake you?”
“It’s two in the morning.” Hoping that’ll answer her question. “Is everything okay?”
“Does there need to be something wrong in order for me to call my daughter?”
“No,” a cool breeze brushes through my silk pyjamas. “Of course not.”
Awkward silence.
I rub a finger to get rid of any eye boogers. “How’s Tatay ?” Not that I know much of dad or what he’s been up to, I ask because there’s no other conversation for us to have .
It’s been like this since I was ten and he got released from prison. It’s not that I didn’t have a relationship with him, but we aren’t close. Tatay and I are the product of familiarity but there’s no connection between us.
Ma started paying more attention to me afterwards, but it was too late by then. Puberty hit me with a personal grudge, and Nadine and Rosa had already taken up the gaping role of my parents by then.
“He’s been wanting you to visit us. Ever since you moved to Toronto, you never come home.” Without Ate and Rosa, it isn’t home.
“After I return from Switzerland, I’ll see if I can.” I won’t, but it’s better than telling her that. It never fails to get me a lecture.
Lucerne is extremely quiet right now. Not a pin drop of noise, other than leaves shuffling in the wind and the sound of water tugging beneath the bridge. I drop my elbows onto the ledge.
“Oh!” Papers shuffle in the background. “Before I forget to tell you. We got a visit from Mr?—”
“Ma, it’s getting late.”
Quietly, “Oh, right. Of course. I’ll let you go,” the initial cheeriness in mom’s voice disappears. I try not to feel like a terrible person, but it isn’t working.
“I love you, Nova honey.” She says it with ease like she’s spent my whole life saying those words and never taking them back. But I haven’t forgotten the rejection, the pain, or the loneliness of being loved but never feeling it.
“We’ll talk soon,” I promise before hanging up.
My thumb hovers over her contact information. Debating whether I should let her keep calling me or...
Mute messages and calls.
We can talk when I’m home.
Hair curtains around my face when I lean forward, resting my elbows on the ledge, forehead in my palms.
Grow up , I can hear Rosa in the background . Stop moping over the past when they’re trying to make an effort .
They don’t understand that while I’ve grown up, parts of my brain stopped developing when they weren’t understood.
Those parts of me reach out to others in hopes of making a connection. If I understand people, side with them, know their side, they’d see that— see me. I’d never have to experience the initial presence of loneliness again.
Except, when a single teardrop falls from my eyes and slips down my wrist towards my elbow, I’m not entirely sure if any of this is true.
The ringing gets louder, and the throb becomes stronger.
Pain in the ear is another kind altogether. It’s hot, burns from the inside, feels like it’s bruising with blood. Every sound ticks into my eardrum and scoops a place out for excruciation.
The buzz from a phone charger hisses. Curtains brushing against the glass door scrapes closer to insanity.
At home, I easily stay inside and bask in darkness.
But I’m not home.
It’ll be fine.
Gathering whatever remnant of energy left, I rip the blankets off and push myself to get up.
If I don’t die in the process.
It takes me fifteen minutes to brush my teeth, another ten to wash my face (excluding the time I sat in front of the toilet waiting for the rush of nausea to escape my body), and a solid twenty to put myself in a decent outfit.
I leave my hair down, unbrushed, because even my fingers touching my scalp hurts .
And when I get to the stairs, feel the wooden steps beneath my feet, and the air from the vent rushing onto my skin—I want to get back in bed.
Last pill of mine, you shall be used.
Dark, blurry lines shadow around my peripheral vision.
Somehow I make it down while holding the railing, walls, and the remaining pieces of my sanity.
Hina’s talking about something, she’s not necessarily loud but right now, whispering and yelling are on the same wavelength.
“You look like shit,” despite the insulting comment, Kat sounds worried. It makes me smile—or well whatever forced expression I’m pulling right now.
The attention swerves on me. “I’m okay,” giving a sad excuse of a thumbs up. “Truly. Honestly, just feeling a bit down.” The words hit my tongue like gravel.
Rhys is there, invading my space, and holding my arms to help me.
I should be grateful, but it’s grating. I don’t like the touch and I’m overstimulated. Usually, my senses take turns malfunctioning. Right now, sound and touch are nails on a chalkboard.
“Thanks,” I say instead. Because I’m a damn people pleaser even when I’m in pain.
“You should go back to bed,” he says. Concern etches his brows. “Do you want me to help you back?”
“No,” I shake my head with a smile. “If I wasn’t okay,” a pang of ache bangs onto the back of my head, near my neck. Pressing my lips together, “I would’ve stayed upstairs.”
Rhys looks like he wants to argue.
“You know,” Shaan pitches in after Rhys has no choice but to help me sit down. “My mother gives me warm milk and honey when I’m feeling down. I must say that it feels very magical and rejuvenating. You should have it too.”
Not even an offer to make it. “Thanks, Shaan. I’ll make sure to check it out if I feel worse.”
If I can get up and do something for myself, that is.
Everyone has said something but?—
Dean’s looking right at me. A rim of dark green around his dilated pupils. Gaze as intense as the pulsating tension in my chest. It should be overwhelming, but it’s not.
My shoulders sag, my temperature eases, and I swear even the muscles in my neck rest. All I feel is relief.
Despite disliking his choice to lie to me, Dean is the closest I have to home here. And a part of him, even the ones I don’t like, feels comforting. Familiar.
There’s a dent between his brows, a wrinkle beneath his eyes shaded in worry, but he stays largely quiet.
I wish he’d say something, anything . Even though I’m mad at him and would give him a taste of my pettiness until he says sorry, I want him to ask me how I am, to approach me in front of the cameras and simply take care of me.
His silence irks me the heck out.
Which is honestly fine because it gives me something else to focus on instead of the pain.
Dean doesn’t glance away, not even for a moment. He watches me, analyzes me, and carefully tears me apart. There’s knowingness in those eyes of his, something cathartic, catastrophically abnormal to my soul.
It bleeds into my lungs and renews me.
Everyone else melts away as we stare at each other. He’s sitting in the corner furthest away from everyone, harbouring a scowl, and making the armchair uncomfortable with his large frame.
A wave of warmth travels south and all I can do is stare back, because if I look away he’ll know, and I’ve given him enough power of knowing me.
I’ve never been good at staring back. I’ve always wandered, looking at the ground and talking, looking past a person, channelling one of my multiple personalities to communicate with someone.
But right now? Here, at this moment? I’m me.
And it’s unnerving .
Another zing of pain caresses my neck. Squeezing my eyes shut, I push against the pain with my palm. Pressure or whatever, something that never works but I do anyways in hopes of it suddenly having a hundred percent success rate.
When I open up to the world again, Dean’s hardened expression is swallowed by overflowing softness. He speaks in silence, his gaze the screen, his breath the sound, his body the language. And I understand it. All of it .
Multiple buzzes vibrate beneath my butt, including my own suffering my deathly grip.
“We got a text,” Kat’s already typing away.
“For what?” I ask because I haven’t opened the chat yet.
“Next date,” Hina stuffs her face with a croissant—not even sure when she got it. “Today. Message. ASAP.”
Turning to look back at Dean, he’s the only one who isn’t looking at his phone. He lounges against the chair. He doesn’t plan on opening the chat.
There’s a hint of challenge in his cheek, the subtle smile that I shouldn’t notice in my state, but I do because it’s him. How did I go from barely noticing Dean to suddenly being hyperaware of him?
“We don’t have to do anything today if you’re not up for it,” Rhys moves from his spot beside Hina to me. His thigh brushes against mine, a hand back on my arm.
Dean’s eyes narrow at the touch. His jaw clenches and shoulders stiffen with a look that could make birds stop chirping and crickets go extinct.
Who is he to behave like this? Acting like anyone showing interest in me isn’t allowed when he didn’t choose me.
Firmly, “No,” I say to Rhys but not looking away from Dean. Let him see that merely looking at me doesn’t solve the hurt . “It’s nothing popping an Advil can’t fix. Plus,” Rhys turns to face me when my voice goes up an octave. “I’d like to spend the day with you.”
It’s petty, I know it is. But I don’t care.
My mind is blurry, my heart is racing, and I’m pissed .
Silence becomes a weapon when Dean gets up. The armchair noisily scrapes against the hardwood floors and backs into a wall. His shoulders hunched back, I catch him running a hand through his hair before turning a corner towards the kitchen.
“If he wasn’t sexy, I’d be scared.” Hina mutters.
“You went on a date with him,” I say to Kat. “Does he talk?” Did he talk to you the way he talks to me?
“Honestly? No. The most I got out of him was his favourite flower.”
“Odd for a guy,” Rhys scoffs.