Chapter Fourteen
My head sinks into the pillow, the promise of sleep drifting closer as my entire mattress suddenly explodes in a burst of tremors.
I gasp, instinctively reaching for the phone I’d dropped at some point in the early hours.
Blindly smacking the screen, I somehow manage to silence it and flop back onto my stomach, groaning loudly.
“Well, good morning to you too, Amorzinha,” a voice sounds and I flinch again. Pushing up on my forearms, I shove my hair out of my face and squint at the screen lighting up my dark room. Thiago’s name flashes across the display. Leaning forward, I headbutt the phone.
“Tell me this is an emergency,” I mumble, pressing the phone to my ear and burying half my face into the pillow.
“Ahh, you’re alive,” Thiago declares in a tone that is far too cheery for my mere few hours of disturbed sleep. “Excellent. Step one is complete.”
“What's step two? I reach through the phone and wring your neck?” Thi laughs, a sound that is unfairly energetic, and I can picture him already sitting upright at his computer desk with a coffee in hand.
“Now, that’s not the right attitude for your first day of classes, that you are absolutely going to attend.
” I groan again. He’s right, of course. I can’t skip classes again, no matter how much I want to bury my head in a hole.
Huffing, I crack one eye open to find the room is swimming slightly.
The time on my phone reads 7:06 a.m., which feels like both a crime and a personal attack.
“For the record, I’m not a morning person.
” I tap the speaker button and stretch, the oversized T-shirt I slept in shifting against my aching body.
I’m stiff, my shoulders popping and calves still recovering from when I foolishly tried to take Everest one-on-one the other day.
All things that a decent night’s sleep could have helped with, but the asshole next door had other ideas.
Every time I drifted off, the bass-heavy EDM or angry guitar riffs rattled through my walls like he was trying to shake off the plaster.
By four a.m. I’d given up pretending and just lay there staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, replaying what happened in Everest’s study.
His hands, his voice, the way my body betrayed me before my brain could catch up.
I thought the past was firmly behind us, but being in that room, having him pressed against me, it was like being dragged backwards through time.
I quickly clamped down those thoughts and took to doom-scrolling until the music hammering into my skull finally let up.
“Noted,” Thiago comments, slamming me back to the present. Lowering my arms, I toy with the idea of snuggling back into the covers for another half an hour, but Thiago doesn’t have a snooze button. “Now, get up. There’s a present at your door for you.” Freezing, a lazy smile grows across my face.
“You should have started with that!” Tumbling out of bed, I throw on some pants with no consideration for matching the leggings to my tee. Thiago chuckles and waits patiently as I open my door, my heart melting at the sight waiting for me.
Contained in the safety of a cardboard box, a brown paper bag, a steaming takeaway cup and a huge bunch of flowers awaits.
The spring-filled fragrance overpowers the smell of coffee as I lift the box, retreat into my room and place it on the desk.
An array of shapes and colors look back, a closed lily beside a singular red rose, an oversized daisy next to a sun-bright gerbera, a pink tulip, a huge sunflower.
The stems crisscross at odd angles, with tiny purple statice tangled in between.
My nose lowers to smell them individually, my mind going blissfully blank.
“I, uh,” Thiago says from my speaker phone, reminding me that he’s waiting.
“I didn’t know what your favorite flower was, so I got you one of each.
” I’m glad he can’t see my responding smile, because it’s stupid, giddy and full of teary emotion that I wouldn’t want anyone to know I’m capable of.
Clearing my throat, I pick up the paper bag, if only to fill the receiver with a rustling instead of whatever whimpery noise might leave me.
“Holy crap, this croissant is the size of my arm,” I blurt out instead, ignoring the heat in my cheeks. Thiago laughs, equally as eager to get back to our usual dynamics.
“Well, make sure you eat all of it. I don’t want to hear any excuses for not attending classes today.
” Doing as I’m told, for once, I lower into my desk chair and tear my teeth into the pastry.
Flakes dust the front of my T-shirt, which I chase down with my fingertip.
“And in that vein, just know that I’ve disabled your character on Runeborn for the day.
Just so there’s nothing waiting back in your room except those flowers.
” I freeze mid-chew, eyes narrowing at the travel cup I’ve just lifted from the cardboard box.
“You better not have lost any of my loot. I’ve only just acquired the obsidian thornblade.”
“What kind of hacker do you take me for?” Thiago instantly scoffs. I can practically hear him bolting upright and rolling his eyes. “Of course you haven’t lost your thornblade, and even if you had, I’d have spent all day trolling through dungeons until it was back in your inventory.”
Nodding to myself, because yeah I do know that, I lift the takeaway cup and sip the coffee he’s gifted me.
I don’t know how or who Thiago convinced to deliver all of this to my doorstep on a random Tuesday morning, but I’m deeply appreciative of it.
He continues to keep surprising me, to keep taking care of me for whatever reason.
A comfortable silence follows until I’ve finished my breakfast and shaken myself free of crumbs.
“Okay. On the topic of today, what are you actually going to do with your time?”
“Ew no,” Thi grumbles, movement sounding through the speaker. “We’re not turning this back on me. Go get ready. Be early, be open to new experiences, and text me later.”
“What? Wait, what are you—” The phone cuts off, leaving me dazed and confused. I huff a laugh, changing and shoving the required sketchbook into my backpack. It’s going to be strange walking into a room of juniors, but I suppose that’s what I am now, too.
Armed in a pebble gray, one-shoulder sweater, dark leggings, and white Converse lace-ups, I leave with my wash bag and backpack in hand.
The hallway smells faintly like stale takeout and someone’s cologne, and when I pass the door to my right, I glare at it like I can burn a hole through the wood with just my eyes.
Further down the hall, I twist the bathroom handle and almost slam into the door as the deadlock holds strong.
Backtracking, I lean against the opposite window to wait it out.
Beyond the glass, campus is starting to wake, students spilling into the pathways that lead towards the cafeteria.
I watch them meander, some in pairs or small groups, chatting mindlessly.
Off to the left, the staff quarters are also showing signs of life, professors shouldering their bags and heading towards their designated lecture halls.
My fingers drum against the windowsill, my hip popping to the side. How long does one need in the bathroom?
After another five or so minutes, I’m thoroughly bored. Crossing back to the bathroom door, I raise my fist and rasp my knuckles on it.
“You gonna be long in here?” I call out. Silence answers me at first, broken only by the faint shuffle of movement and a shadow passing underneath the door. Then, the shower switches on, pipes groaning in protest and water thundering. I sag against the wall, my bladder threatening to burst.
Slamming a hand against the door, I stride away with a renewed strength that lasts all of three seconds before music kicks in instead, bass thudding through the thin walls as if there’s a private party being hosted in the bathroom.
It’s him. A groaned screech of irritation escapes me as I stomp down the stairs, in search of the nearest public bathroom.
In the spirit of adapting to whatever the day decides to throw at me, we’re off to a fantastic start.
Art classes are held in a building of cracked stone steps and tall windows that stream in floods of daylight.
The studios smell like paint, charcoal and turpentine, a mixture that wrinkles my nose, but I suppose I’ll get used to it.
I’m going to have to. This is my life now, majoring in applied arts and art history instead of the path my mom wanted me to go down.
After the ordeals I’ve endured, I’ll leave the psychology to her.
Stepping into my designated classroom, early as Thiago requested, I glance over the easels scattered around the room with blank canvases set up on them.
Behind a battered, chipped desk, the professor peeks up through her square glasses and beckons me to enter.
I recognize her from the information packet I was given.
“Hi, hello, Professor Walters,” I start, ready with an apology for not turning up yesterday, but she waves me off.
“Please, call me Liz. There’s no set seating plan, make yourself comfortable.
We have a little time before class starts.
” Nodding, I slip inside, taking a spot near the back where I can disappear and catch up without being noticed.
Not that I doubt my make-up skills in the smudged mirror of a public restroom, but I could use a day going under the radar.
Juniors start to trickle in, mostly in singles, reusable cups or Stanley cups in hand.
Most pay me no attention, which I’m thankful for.
Pulling out my equipment, I just start to settle as the atmosphere in the room subtly shifts.
No one else seems to notice, muttered conversations continuing whilst a prickling rolls down my spine.
Glancing toward the door, my stomach drops.