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thirteen

[warning; thefollowing chapters are going to be the suckiest of all as they are rushed. im so sorry to disappoint.]

THIRTEEN §

     I wake up. There's no arm pulling me close, or a back pressed to my chest, or a leg curled over mine. Thank god. If there were I would have had to hold my breath until I was in the bathroom, teeth brushed and all. I turn around and yawn, catch a glimpse of the clock. It's nine in the morning.

Last night--earlier--crashes into me like a wave that sweeps me off my feet and drags me some place where the oxygen must've been a lot less dense. I feel myself smile, lungs all alight, my stomach filling up with so much buzz-injected air it's sickening. I might start puking rainbows and sunlight.

This is ridiculous. 

I pinch my cheeks to tone down the smiling somehow, and when that doesn't help I curl my fingers at the sheets and look up at the underside of Liam's bed. Liam. His name tastes like honey. Like something that makes my tongue twist in the sweetest way possible. I let his name churn and roll in my mouth, blood rushing to my cheeks, and my throat feels all rubbery and smooth. 

I try not to leap on my feet as I get up (because now it seems like even my heels are made of air), and, instinctively, I peek over at Liam's bed. It's made. He's not in it. Oh. He's downstairs, probably. I get in the bathroom and brace myself under the shower, standing there for a little while longer just to rub off the effects of last night, so maybe I can look like a normal, not-smiling-so-widely-it's-creeepy human being when I'm in front of him. 

Deciding not to over-dress, I just pull on a pair of white pillow-patterned shorts and a 'Kiss Me I'm Irish' tee shirt. The air is cold and silent when I get down, the sky pale and cloudy. I slip into the living room as quietly as I could.

"Don't." 

I freeze. Liam. A slow frown rubs across my face, my stomach bubbling. Who's he talking to? For a moment, I wipe off the decision to sneak around the conversation from my mind since it's clearly private, and almost turn on my heels to leave. But curiosity gets the worst of me. I carefully pad my way across the floor and peek into the kitchen, fingers clutching at the doorframe. His tense back is turned to me with his phone pressed into his ear. 

"Stop it," he snaps. "Just . . . shut up."  There's something in his voice that makes me cringe and want to abort the mission. I feel like I'm crossing a line much thicker than a simple morning conversation. But before I can pull away, he sets the phone down on the table top and turns around. 

He catches me. My muscles stop on their own will, and I solidify into an awkward, deer-caught-in-the-headlights statue. God. Something heavy recedes from his eyes, his shoulders sagging. "What are you doing?"

I stand up-straight and shrug, as casually as I could, although my shoulders feel rusty and uneven. "Nothing. Just . . . chilling." 

"Chilling?" he repeats, his lips curling. I revel for a second how he can shift from one emotion to another so quickly. "You were listening." 

I open my mouth but the excuse--whatever it was--deflates at the back of my throat, so I close it again. I sigh. "Yeah." Lame. 

"It's okay," he says, shrugs, and I want to ask him if it really is, but I've already pried too much. I remind myself that we're not on that stage yet. On what stage are we though? Can I move closer, wrap my arms around his waist, kiss him, or would that be too much? Too pushy? His eyes are boring into mine, my lungs flaring, and I decide to just look away and head for the fridge. "He was just a friend, by the way."