I AM in such deep shit.
A deep, bottomless pit of shit that I dug for myself and happily dove in. The second I kissed her, I knew I shouldn’t have. Warning bells clanged in my head but not because I was kissing my best friend’s little sister in his kitchen. No, they sounded because I was kissing her and I couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t fucking stop.
I wouldn’t have stopped—I would’ve done it all again, somewhere private where I could’ve truly seen how wild and loud she gets when she’s not holding back—if she hadn’t ran like a bat out of hell.
It’s been over a week and she’s still running, and I let her. I gave her the rest of Thanksgiving weekend—a move partially born out of self-preservation because if Cass suspected anything amiss between us, he would’ve had my balls—and I suffered through the most stiflingly awkward car ride of my life without complaint. I allowed her the space she was clearly asking for because I know exactly why.
It’s not a big deal.
It was a shitty, inane thing to say yet that’s what came out of my mouth in a last-ditch attempt at avoiding the meltdown she was seconds away from having. I was trying to stop her from catastrophizing something that was good, so fucking good, and maybe, maybe, the goddamn horror contorting her pretty features pissed me off a little, made me say the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. I regretted it instantly but before I could backtrack, she doled it right back and fled the kitchen like it was a fucking crime scene.
So, yeah. I’ve let her evade and avoid and pretend it didn’t happen and I don’t exist for eight whole fucking days and I’m reaching the end of my tether. Like, the very, very end where ambushing Amelia after class starts to become a sound idea.
Although an ambush wasn’t my intention when I first came up with this plan, I’m not sure what else you call lurking outside a girl’s lecture hall, adamant that she’s not going anywhere until she talks to you. I tried the simpler route of calling her but she declined to answer. Twice. Showing up at her place uninvited and demanding to see her felt like a bad, slightly creepy idea, especially if two protective roommates have gotten wind of our situation and are feeling vicious.
We really need to talk and fix this hellish awkwardness because it’s pissing me off and making me feel all itchy and tight and I don’t fucking like it. So, drastic times call for drastic measures, and if those drastic measures include me making an ass of myself on a Friday morning with a peace offering disguised as a takeout coffee cup burning my palm, then so be it.
I’m leaning against the wall opposite Lecture Hall Four, mulling over what exactly I’m going to say when the bell shrilly signals the end of classes. The doors fling open and students trickle out, filling the previously silent hallway with chatter and footsteps. I straighten up, pathetically nervous as I scan the sea of oncoming people for the face I’m looking for.
I groan when I land on one I’d definitely rather avoid.
Kate looks about as happy to see me as I am to see her. My first thought; she knows and I’m about to get shanked with a pencil. But then I realize the disdain in her expression is nothing more than the usual one I’m greeted with, I clock the inquisitive narrowing of her dark eyes, and I come to the conclusion she has no idea.
I can’t tell whether that makes me feel better or worse.
With a sigh audible from a distance, Kate elbows my way. Not until she comes to a stop right in front of me do I notice the golden-skinned, dark-haired girl flush against her side, their hands intertwined. Unlike Kate, her girlfriend—I’m assuming that’s who she is, it’s my first time meeting the girl—graces me with a bright smile that completely contradicts the bland tone with which Kate asks, “What’re you doing here, Nicolas?”
I hold up the cardboard tray holding two now-lukewarm coffees. “Looking for Amelia.”
“Thought she’d finally shaken you off.”
“Kate,” her girlfriend chastises gently, bumping her hip with an entirely too cheery scowl before smiling at me again. “I’m Sydney Acharya. Kate’s girlfriend.”
“I’m-”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Sydney waves off my attempted introduction, squinting at me, tilting her head at a ninety-degree angle, and whistling too loud. “Wow, Luna described you really, really well.”
Before I can process what I think is a compliment, Kate butts in, “Amelia’s not here.”
I frown; I’m sure I remember her schedule right. She only has one class on Fridays, it’s hard to get that mixed up. “Where is she?”
“Home.”
“Is she sick?”
“Nope.”
“Are we gonna play twenty questions or are you gonna fill me in here?” When Kate rolls her eyes, I add, “I’m going over there whether you give me a heads-up on what to expect or not.”
While tight-lipped might be a characteristic of Kate’s, Sydney clearly doesn’t share that affliction. Ignoring her girlfriend’s warning stare, she admits, “Something happened with Dylan.”
“What?” Concern hits me like a tidal wave. “When? What happened? Is she okay?”
Kate only deigns to answer one of my questions, and poorly so. “She’s fine.”
Fuck me, it’s a good thing Sydney is way more generous with information because, without her, I’d be halfway to a jail sentence by now—my fists have been itching for round two with that jackass since before round one even ended. “She’s okay,” Sydney confirms, side-eying her girlfriend disapprovingly. “But she’s been holed up in the apartment all week. We don’t know what happened exactly because she won’t talk to anyone but Cass and even they had a big bust-up yesterday so she’s all on her own and I think it’s a great idea for you to go check on her.”
“Syd!”
“What?” Sydney quirks a thick brow at her protesting girlfriend. “It’s not healthy for her to only see Cass all the time.”
“You sound like Luna.”
I’m pretty sure that was supposed to be an insult but Sydney simply laughs, sticking her tongue out at Kate. “Yeah, I do, because we are both very wise.”
My head spins a little with their back and forth, and I’m not entirely clear where I stand—whether I’m going to have to kick down their apartment door to get inside or if I’m going to be welcomed with semi-open arms—until Sydney hits me with another sunny smile. “You can give us a ride back to the apartment. I’ll let Luna know we’re coming.”
It’s not an option, it’s a command, and I’m more than eager to obey. Telling Sydney roughly where I parked, she strides in that direction, releasing Kate in favor of plucking out her phone and presumably calling Luna. When I start to follow her, I’m halted by a firm palm on my chest.
“Listen, Romeo,” I would laugh at the nickname if I didn’t think Kate would bite my head off for it, “whatever this is, I don’t think today is the day for it. She’s not in a great mood.”
“I think I’ll take my chances.”
Kate kisses her teeth, distrust evident. “Don’t make it worse.”
“I won’t.” A spot in my chest aches at the accusation. “Believe it or not, Kate, I care about her. I’m not trying to make anything worse.”
Just for a second, the hardness in her expression gives way to something genuine. “I know,” she dares to admit, spitting the words as though they cause pain on their way out. “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on you.”
“Because I care about her?”
Kate crosses her arms over her chest defiantly, eyeballing me like I’m the one being confusing. “Because she obviously cares about you too, dipshit, and I don’t want her to get hurt again.”
“I’m not like Dylan.”
“I know that too.” For some reason, Kate finds that funny, a huffed laugh leaving her as she snags the coffee meant for Amelia and sips. “If you were I would’ve gotten rid of you already.”
When I knock on Amelia’s bedroom door, I’m calm. Clear-headed.
I’ve got a plan. A rough, haphazardly thrown together plan that doesn’t progress much past sitting her ass down and begging her to talk to me, but it’s a plan all the same.
However, it all goes out the window the moment I open the door.
She’s in bed, and it looks like she’s been in bed for a while. And, fuck, I always think she looks beautiful but she doesn’t look good. She doesn’t look alive. Stony-faced, she stares at me blankly, clutching a bottle of tequila like it’s a lifeline, and suddenly, I’m pissed.
I’m pissed that she’s like this and I’m pissed that I didn’t know and I’m pissed that it’s like looking in a fucking mirror and seeing an angry, freshly dad-less eighteen-year-old who suffocated his feelings instead of dealing with them. The magnitude of it threatens to choke me, drowning out any of the clarity I felt moments ago.
In a few strides, I’m looming over her and snatching the booze from her grip. “Get up.”
That pretty, pale face flushes with irritation. “Excuse me?”
Striding to her dresser, I set the bottle on top—making a mental note to pour that shit down the drain later—and yank open drawer after drawer until I find what I’m looking for. I chuck a pair of leggings and a sports bra over my shoulder, an indignant screech sounding in return. “Get up, get dressed, and let’s go.”
Amelia gets up alright, but only so she can storm towards me, small palms shoving me away from her things. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I think I’m your friend,” I snap, an acrid laugh scorching my throat. “Jury’s out on that, though, unless you often ignore your friends for a week.”
She echoes my laugh with one of her own, tangled curls falling around her face as she shakes her head. “Leave me alone, Nick. I’m not in the mood for you.”
Ignoring the painful stabbing sensation her words cause, I foil her attempt at snatching up the tequila again, body-blocking her from taking a swig. She’s not drunk—the bottle’s almost completely full, she’s tipsy at best—and I’m going to make sure it stays that way. “Whatever you’re angry about, getting drunk is not gonna fix it.” I stab a finger towards the athletic wear sprawled on her unmade bed. “Get dressed and try taking it out on a punching bag instead of alcohol.”
Amelia snorts angrily. “I let you in my pants one time and you think you’re the boss of me? Fuck off, Nick.”
I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. This isn’t the Amelia I know, my Amelia, the downright shy girl who blushes the most brilliant shade of red and can barely look me in the eye when I flirt with her. This is an angry, contorted version and I want to know what caused her so I can make her go away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me,” she lies. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You wanna act like that’s what this is about?” I can’t help but scoff. “Really? You’re Boo Radley’ing it up in here because of something that, according to you, didn’t happen?”
“Oh, don’t act like I hurt your feelings, Nicolas Silva.” I hate how she says my name, scoffs it like it has a whole other nefarious meaning. “You’re just annoyed I left before you could kick me out.”
Temper flaring, something nasty claws its way up and out of my throat before I can stop it, “I was more annoyed the favor wasn’t returned.”
It’s almost imperceptible, Amelia’s flinch. The tiniest dent in her furious bravado, a blink-and-it’s-gone reaction. “I’m sure you have plenty of girls on speed dial willing to drop their panties.”
The self-satisfied smirk I paint on hurts, makes my stomach twist and heave. “Damn right.”
“Good for you.”
“Yup,” I all but yell.
“Great,” she all but yells back.
Our words linger in the air long after they’re said, rigid and implacable, punctuated by our heavy, angry breathes. I’m glaring at her and she’s glaring right back until suddenly, she’s not.
It’s like she takes a breath and on the exhale, all the fight leaves her. Frail shoulders slump as her bottom lip trembles, and in a split second, she goes from furious to sobbing.
Merda.
“Shit, Amelia.” The onslaught of anger that hit me so suddenly fades just as fast as that first tear falls, tracking a path down a quivering cheek and damn near cracking my chest in half. I half-reach for her, my hands hovering awkwardly between us. “I’m sorry.”
Furious tremors wrack her body, making her look so terrifyingly small. She tries to say something but it’s unintelligible and her inability to speak only seems to make her cry harder and I swear to God, she’s breaking my fucking heart.
I can’t take it. Cursing quietly, I tug her towards me, and all my tension seeps away when she comes easily, burying her face in my chest and clinging to me without protest. “I’m sorry.” Dipping my chin, I press my lips to the top of her head, murmuring in her hair, “I didn’t mean any of that, I promise.”
“Neither did I.” I can barely make out the bawled words, her hot breath seeping through my now-damp t-shirt. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Shushing her gently, my hands coast the length of her back in a way meant to be soothing but it doesn’t seem to be helping because it’s not getting any better, she won’t stop crying, and I’m fucking panicking. In a move of desperation, I gather her up and carry her to the bed, settling amongst the rumpled duvet with my back against the wall and her curled in my lap, all the while silently chanting fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fuck am I doing because I don’t know how to comfort people, not like this.
“Please stop crying.” I’m begging like an asshole and I’m well aware of it but I don’t know what else to do and it doesn’t matter anyway because it doesn’t fucking work. “Tell me what to do, querida.”
She doesn’t. She doesn’t do anything other than burrow closer to me, her wet face brushing my neck and her fingers tangling in my t-shirt. I’m incapable of doing anything but letting her, guilt eating me alive as I stroke her hair and rub her back and whisper apologies because I promised I wouldn’t make it worse.
