Storm {A Light Novel}

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R

We've been staring at walls for the past two hours and I'm starting to go insane. I'm starting to regret not stealing more of Eli's French toast sticks while we were still at the cafe from earlier. All this walking and mental exhaustion from preparing to interview someone and waiting for them to unoccupy just for them to walk away when we finally get our chance is without a doubt straining me and my nerves.
    I tug Eli's sleeve at the elbow to grab his attention.
    "What's wrong?" He turns around and a slight frown creases his face when he sees me bent over like a haggard old woman clutching my stomach. "Are you okay? Are you feeling sick?"
    I just shake my head, not yet wanting to open my mouth until I was sure a bratty whine wouldn't follow. I was so hungry. So tired. So done with this part of the assignment already, which was ironic since it was what I was looking forward to all along (well, ever since I became aware of our topic), being an arthead and all.     What happened to working on presentation slides in a nice, cool, air-conditioned room?
    "Ryleigh, what's wrong?" I read the growing concern in Eli's eyes. I feel bad for making him worry when it's not that serious, but I just can't afford to be heard whining. I'm bigger than that.
    He looks around before leaning by my ear and lowering his voice. "Do you need the bathroom?"
    I swat at his arm pretty harshly, and he jumps back.
    "Geez! I'm just trying to help." He redirects his gaze towards the frames on the wall, and moves on to the next exhibit once the room clears of people.
    "Wait, don't leave me here!" I attempt to straighten up and drag my feet after him.

    We spend another hour or two at the first museum, Eli clicking away on our camera and me snatching a seat at the first free bench in sight in every room. I'm much more passive now, and I think he picks up on this, because he seems a lot more relaxed, and comfortable enough to go at his own pace. It'd be hard not to notice the change, I think, given my strong personality (yes, even I'm aware).
    He approaches me, his head stuck down as he scrolls through the pictures he captured moments before. "I think we have everything we need from here."
    Practically screaming my mental thanks, I scour for the exit sign.
    Gift shop, Rooftop Exhibit, Oratorium, Restrooms, ... Concessions!
    I read the directional signs pasted on the wall behind him and light up. No, we certainly do not have everything we need.
    I tug his sleeve rapidly and point, like a child begging for candy in a store. I wait for him to look there and back at me to wear my best impression of puppy eyes.
    "You want to go to the gift shop?" He asks. I shake my head.
    "The rooftop?" I shake my head more vigorously.
    "...I didn't take you for an opera kind of girl. The oratorium is pretty far, th—" I groan and stamp my foot.
    I follow with my first words spoken in ages. "No, I'm hungry, you idiot! Let's go get some food! At least something to eat!"
    He frowns, probably at being called an idiot, and sighs as I walk on ahead. I would probably care more about his current feelings if my stomach wasn't literally eating itself. Unfortunately for him, that wasn't the case.
    The concessions area resembles an IKEA cafeteria more than the snack stand I was picturing in my head due to all the concessions stands run for high school football games. The layout is scattered with red and blue metal mesh chairs at small circle tables, while abstract paintings overlook the area from high up on the walls. Funky shapes and obscure tubes cast light down from the ceiling, suspended by silvery cables on the maze of wooden tresses that decorated the ceiling. The architecture and design in this room was certainly something to be applauded, no different than the 20-something exhibits we spent the morning making our way through.
    With no thoughts of waiting for Eli, I hopped in the queue, eager to get close enough to the menu to read. It's not long before I realize most everyone in line has their phones out, and while this doesn't faze me at first, considering we do live in the 21-century, I then realize, after catching the screen of the woman in front of me, that the menu was digital.
    I pull out my own phone from my back pocket and scan the QR code framed on the glass you could watch the food being prepared through. I am in the midst of debating a soup-sandwich combo and a chicken and mashed potato plate when a call comes through from an unknown number.
    At first I disregard it as probable spam, but consider it might be a brand deal or sponsorship offer when the same number calls again.

    "Hello?"

    Except for a few crackles, maybe characteristic of a pay phone, there's nothing but silence on the other end. I repeat myself.

    "Ryleigh," a low voice rushes out from the speaker.

    My body runs cold in an instant, and my phone falls from my ear to the floor.

    I'm shaking, wobbling back and forth.

    "Ryleigh!" Eli calls, practically shouting in my face. I'm not shaking as bad as I thought. He's the one shaking me, trying to shake some sense into me by the looks of it.

    According to him, no one was on the phone by the time he reached me. In fact, apparently I wasn't as still as I thought at all, I was already halfway across the room wandering away from the lunch line.

    "Are you okay?" I didn't even know myself.

    "You don't look so good. I'm gonna see if I can go get so—"

    "No!" I burst out. "I mean— no... Don't go. Please."

    He freezes in place and nods. "Okay." Slowly, he brings me over to the closest table for two. He sits me down in one of the chairs.

    "I'm gonna get you some food, okay? I'm right here. Just ten steps away. Okay?" He backs up into the lunch line.

    Give another fifteen minutes or so of me watching him like a hawk, not wanting to pull my eyes away from my security, he was returning with two hot plates of hearty, peppered mashed potatoes and goodness.
    I don't know whether I hate the way he is watching me as I eat because it feels like he's succeeding in compelling me to talk to him or because it's just plain creepy. Regardless, I stick to the plan of ignoring him. Maybe if I ignore him, this can all pass and never have happened.

    "Hey, look, I don't know what happened earlier that you're like this, but—" Oh no. There goes that plan. "If it helps, I'm a good listener. And... you can rest assured knowing I don't have anyone else to tell, as you know... Not that I would anyway, don't get me wrong."

    He watches me again, I assume for my reaction. Well, I'm not giving. I stuff another spoonful of mashed potatoes in my mouth, effectively preventing myself from replying.

    "It's like the guy in the interview from earlier said... 'Everyone has something that no one else knows.' That's not always a bad thing, you know? Sometimes that's protecting us from something... sometimes that's creating an opportunity for need. Now that you have that kind of secret, that's inviting the opportunity for someone you can actually trust to help relieve you of it. Then you don't need to feel the burden anymore. I don't know if that even made any sense. I promise I'm not trying to BS you with rambles right now... I think everyone can relate in some way, you know?"

    Know-it-all. "What would you even know?" I dig, twisting my face.

    He doesn't respond immediately. As expected. Why talk about other people's problems as if you can relate when you know you can't. Ridiculous. It doesn't help any—

    "I'm dyslexic," he whispers.

    My mouth makes an O-shape. "What?"

    "I have dyslexia," he repeats, now avoiding my gaze, running his eyes to his lap. No, look at me.
    I'm sorry.