Chapter 4
Luca
“Dude, where’s your head at?” Matt yells from the other side of the net.
We’re halfway through volleyball practice, and for the third time in a row, I completely missed the ball. I just stand there like a malfunctioning traffic light while everyone is staring at me.
“I’m just tired.”
Lie.
“S orry,” I look at Matt sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. Then I turn to our coach. “Can we take five?”
He nods, clearly over it.
Matt catches up with me, sweat dripping down his temple. “You sure you’re okay, man? You’re playing as if you’ve never seen a volleyball before.”
I give him a tired half-smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep great.”
Ok, maybe it isn’t a total lie. I haven’t slept. But not because of school or stress.
Actually, I don’t know why. It’s like my brain is not working properly. I keep getting unwanted thoughts about unwanted topics, and it’s gotten to the point where I take at least two showers every night since the waterpark day.
Ever since the waterpark, something in my brain flipped like a switch I didn’t ask to be turned on. I couldn’t stop thinking about a certain someone — the way they laugh, and the way they tease me. I have known the person for years.
I’ve never thought about them like that before. And now I couldn’t not .
I put my head in my hands.
Matt’s voice snaps me back into reality. “If you’re sure…”
He gives me the kind of look that says I don’t buy it, but I’ll let you dwell in pain without questions.
I look at him and grin. “I’m fine.”
I’m not.
In fact, I am on the opposite spectrum, because I’m so panicked that it’s affecting my game, and that never happens.
***
That evening, I lay on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. Technically, I’m scrolling, but at this point, I would be lying if I said that, because I couldn’t tell you anything about the videos I watched in the past hour.
That’s kind of the point of doomscrolling, though.
Tilly walks in and sits on the couch, forcing me to get up.
“No, no. Lay back down.”
I look where she’s pointing, then I look back at her in displeasure.
“Lie. Down.” This time, I lie my head down on her lap because I have been through a fair share of Tilly being mad, and I am not in the mood for that version right now.
She runs her fingers through my hair while I just look at her.
She sighs, “Can we talk?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones in the apartment right now, because Matt is on a run with Yana, somehow , and Zara is on a painting walk.
She looks at me disappointed, and it makes my chest ache. I hate that look on her.
Tilly is the kind of person who is always smiling. Her eyes are always shining with mischief, and she has a bounce in her steps. When that smile leaves her face, she is not herself. It’s almost like an alter ego.
I hate that alter ego with my whole being.
I would do anything to get that smile back in place.
It hurts even more that I’m the reason it’s gone.
She takes a deep breath before she starts. “You’ve been acting weird lately. I don’t know why, Luca, but it almost feels like you’re pulling away.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just tired.”
She momentarily stops her hands, then continues running her fingers through my hair.
I know I’m making everything worse, but I lost control over my mind long ago.
“You always say that when you’re not fine.”
I look away, but I can feel her eyes on me, and I look back at her. She searches my eyes like she’s looking for the version of me that jokes around and annoys her just for fun.
She won’t find him.
“You’ve been off practice, you barely talk to anyone, and–” she hesitates. “I keep thinking I did something wrong.
Crap.
I sit up and take her face in my hand, guilt burning in my throat. “No, T. You didn’t.” I look at her, making sure she hears every word. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what is it?” she says quietly. “You can tell me, Luca. You always do.”
“I will,” I lie, and I have never felt sicker. “Just not right now.” I try to smile, but I have already done the damage.
I don’t lie, especially to The Apartment.
She studies me for a second, then nods slowly, disappointment flickering in her expression like a dimming light. “Okay.” She lies her head on my chest, and I can only hope she doesn’t hear my heart crack. “I just hope you know you can trust me.”
“I do,” I whisper.
We sit in silence for some time, my turn to stroke her head. I match my breathing with hers and look at the wall.
She gets up and hesitates in the doorway like she wants to say something else. She doesn’t; instead, she just walks out.
And when she does, I feel hollow.
I go to the kitchen and start cooking.
It’s not my turn, but I need some sort of release, and mixing ingredients to make different flavors gives me exactly that.
Seeing the tomatoes slowly turn into a liquid in the pan satisfies the part of me that needs a repetitive constant.
Nothing stays the same; everything disappoints you at one point.
Cooking never does.
No matter what, putting pepper and salt in a mix of tomatoes and basil and mixing it in a pan will always give you the same result.
No matter what, putting penne in boiling water will always make the pasta soften.
It’s a secure bet, and something I find peace in.
Like a safe space in a storm.
A repetitive constant, something my grandfather taught me, and it stuck with me.
It’s funny how he found it in volleyball, and I find it in cooking.
I almost feel the disappointment in his eyes when I think it, which is a word, so I decide not to think about him.
Which makes me feel even more guilty, but I don’t think my grandfather would want me to drown in self-pity, especially when it comes to me-
“Need help?”
Tilly’s voice breaks whatever spiral that was, and I have never been more grateful.
I expected it, because she hates being alone unless she’s reading, and she can’t sit still for longer than an hour.
“No, thanks. I kinda need to be alone right now.”
She teases, her voice slightly lighter now, “Are you saying that because you mean it, or because you don’t trust me not to burn dinner again?”
“I mean it.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I hate myself for it.
Her face drops.
Amazing .
“What the hell, Luca? I’m literally trying to be nice, and you shut me down?”
I turn the heat down and sigh. “That’s not what I meant–”
“Then what did you mean?” she snaps, voice cracking halfway through. “You’ve been cold to me for days! I thought maybe I said something, but now—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “You know what? Forget it. Until you tell me what’s wrong, I’m done trying.”
She walks out — again — leaving me there with boiling sauce and burning guilt.
By the time the others come back, the food is ready, and I convince myself I can just sit in silence before I mess up again.
“Wow, smells amazing!” Yana says, dropping into her seat.
“It’s just penne, don’t get too excited. I was–”
“Busy, we know,” Matt and Zara say at the same time.
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
I start eating, but I barely taste the food.
It’s almost like I’m in this black hole where all happiness is gone.
Everything seems to be painted in a gray tone, and the gray is slowly getting to me.
We sit in silence, every one of us painfully aware of the current situation.
Halfway through dinner, Matt’s phone buzzes. “Hey, my parents need me home tonight. Nothing major.” He looks at me.
“Why are you asking me ?” I tell him, annoyed. “You’re an adult.”
He smiles. “Just being polite. Anyway, don’t wait up.” He gets up, puts his mess in the sink, and starts packing his leftovers in a plastic container, probably for his family.
I love his parents so much. Matt is so lucky his family moved with him to Australia. He’s from Poland, and I respect that so much.
“Leave some for Tilly. She hasn’t eaten yet.”
“She hasn’t?” Zara asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No.”
Yana looks at me unimpressed, and Zara is looking in a way that tells me to spill.
Now.
“We fought,” I admit.
Yana sighs. “I’ll go talk to her.”
Zara gets up and starts cleaning.
“Need help?”
“No,” when she says that, I start for the doorway, but she stops me. “ But, ” she glares at me, “if you need to talk, I’m around.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, heading for my room.
I get on my bed, phone in hand, staring at the empty chat with Matt. If I can’t say it out loud, maybe I can text it.
It being I don’t know what, but I need to put my thoughts into words so I can make it make sense.
I start typing — and deleting — and typing again. A whole paragraph spills out. About how I’ve been off, how I can’t focus, how my brain won’t shut up about..
Tilly.
Oh hell no.
That conclusion is not good, and I am aware how not good it is.
I lie down and stare at my ceiling, and I’m convinced I can see all our memories play on it, except not the way I remember them.
For instance, that time when all of us went to volunteer at the camp we met last year, and instead of remembering how we laughed at one child that reminded Yana of Matt when he was younger, I remember how Tilly played with him.
Or that one time we went for ice cream, all I can think of is the happy jumps she did when she found out they had her favorite flavor.
It’s like I’m suddenly coming to my senses. Suddenly, my mind finally catches on to what I was actually focusing on.
I don’t know what is happening.
I feel dazed, almost as if I were drunk. My vision is hazy, and I don’t feel myself.
I reread the message once.
Twice.
I hit send before I can stop myself and possibly trap myself again.
I try to feel regret, but for the first time in days, I feel lighter.
I set the phone down, lie back down, and drift off into a proper nap, but I am horrified about all of this.
It’s probably not even real.
I’m probably overreacting.
How could this be real?
It doesn’t feel real because I am not used to whatever is affecting me. My mind feels against me, but my heart warms at my thoughts, and something weird spreads in my stomach, but it feels nice.
When I wake up, the sun is low, and my room is painted a deep orange hue.
I get up and grab my phone.
Matt probably hasn’t checked his phone yet, but I check my messages.
The message is opened. Blue ticks.
But not by Matt.
I feel faint when the name on the top of my screen shows Tilly.