There are ways of dying that do not end with a funeral. Types of deaths you can't see, feel or smell. Because death, just like love, has a mind of its own and some things can't be prevented.
What started as an innocent high school quest in search o...
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She's been avoiding me every chance she got up until now, not doing much except looking at me pitifully whenever she caught me looking at her during those two days this week that I had to go to school, in person, to settle everything with my teachers and collect study materials and assignments for my self-paced classwork (before the additional summer school) that the school agreed on; or ignoring me completely, acting like I'm not even there, pretty much glued to Timothy's side.
And now. . .
"You want to . . . drive me home?" I repeat again, pretty sure I sound like a moron but somehow, what she just told me isn't adding up. She just offered to take me home completely out of blue, without me even asking her or giving her the impression to.
There's an unmistakable sense of nervousness enveloping her as she steps from one foot to the other, pressing her lips tightly together while looking at the ground. "Yeah," she clears her throat, not able to look me in the eye for some reason now that Connor got up and left us out here all alone.
"What gives you the impression I'm about to go home already?" Before, going home seemed like a salvation because this party—even though it's my supposed late birthday party or whatever— kind of sucks and not even the liquor in my system has the power to change my mind about that. So it's not that I don't want to leave with her because, God, I do. It's just that it's not fully clicking why she wants to drive me all of a sudden after keeping her distance. And honestly, it's not even that. I don't trust myself to be alone with her because I'm bound to say something I definitely shouldn't in this raw, unfiltered substance-induced state.
And now I'm thinking about the sex that we never even had in real life. Fucking great, coma. How more twisted can my dysfunctional brain get?
She's looking at me as if there was an answer to that question written on my face. I wish there was. "Why are you being like this?"
I draw back a little. "Like what?"
A frustrated sigh escapes her mouth, "Difficult. I'm trying to tell you something here but you're not listening."
I honestly don't get what she wants from me. "I've been listening the whole time, Aspen."
She doesn't break the eye contact for a while. Then she's shaking her head. "Forget it." And turning to go back inside the house.
I pinch my eye-lids closed, sighing. "Wait," I push off the chair, a little too fast from the looks of it, because the entire world seems to sway with me.
She notices but doesn't reach out to steady me. I don't need her though. I got it. I support myself against the glass with one hand, taking a step toward her. I'm past the point of believing there's a chance for us now that she's clearly tangled up with Timothy but somewhere, deep inside, there's a part of me that would regret letting her walk away when there's clearly a reason she offered in the first place. "Okay," I give in.
