White Lies

Chapter 2

"It's not that I don't feel it—it's that I've gotten too good at pretending I don't."

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The sun currently blinding me wasn't what bothered me—no. What really bothered me was Elena's forty-something alarms blaring two doors down from my bedroom. And somehow, she still wasn't waking up. Why on earth would someone set forty-something alarms just to ignore them? I'll tell you why: because my best friend sleeps like the dead.

I dragged my half-asleep body out of bed. As I passed the mirror, my reflection looked like it could wake the actual dead. My black silk pants had somehow become shorts, and my hair looked like I'd chewed on a power line. Ignoring the horror show staring back at me, I stomped toward Elena's room. Fine, she set an alarm to wake up now. Then by all that is holy, she will wake up now.

Stampeding down the hallway, brushing past my poor, trembling plants, I approached her door. It was covered in stickers and photos—an innocent facade now standing between me and righteous pillow violence. Am I going to knock? Absolutely not. She will face the full pain of my wrath. It's Sunday. Sunday is a day of rest. So why, in all that is sacred, is she not resting?

I slowly and quietly opened the door. Her room was pitch black, thanks to the blackout curtains I got her last year—purple, obviously, because I know her. I stalked in like a predator. She was the zebra, and I was the lion, coming to maim and kill. (Not actually kill her. Just beat her senseless—with a pillow.)

As I reached her bedside, I grabbed the nearest pillow, yanked it from under her head, and went to town. She jerked awake, shielding her face and giggling through screams.

"Nooo!" she whined, flailing.

"Turn off your alarms!" I roared, still landing dramatic, vengeful hits.

"Stop setting alarms on rest days!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

Her laugh continued to float through the room. My hits slowed until I was just holding the pillow limply against her chest.

"Good morning," she breathed through a laugh.

I looked at her—her red hair sprawled over her pillows in a bloody mess. Her brown eyes still had a glint of sleep in them.

"No, a good morning would be me still in bed. Damn, El, it's a Sunday. Let me rest." We still lived together not because we couldn't afford rent alone—no, but because we had never lived alone. From living with our parents, we'd moved in together for university. That ended, and we just never decided to go our separate ways.

After her ex—ugh—a shiver of disgust ran down my back. I never want her to go through that again.

After a moment of silence, we just sat there, looking at each other.

"Breakfast?" I laid the question gently in front of her.

Her whole body lit up with excitement. She loved my cooking—which was good, because I loved her to death, but she could not cook to save her life. She made a few things well, but only a handful. And I'm not being rude—this is someone who eats toast with jam, mayo, and tuna. So maybe her palate isn't exactly... refined.

"Crêpes?" Her voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I smiled and nodded. That did sound good. We wandered into the kitchen. I walked to the cupboard to grab my ingredients. Over my shoulder, I saw Elena already busy making us hot cocoa.

We worked in silence. I was finishing the sauce while El started setting the plates. The smell of sweet crêpes and warm chocolate drifted through the air like a lazy swan gliding across still water. We sat side by side, dishing up food and stealing sips from our steaming mugs of cocoa.