The Casanova's Class Clown

Chap. 40: Casual

CASUAL...

Aaron always had a knack for saying things so ingeniously obvious that everyone would be left speechless once said thing would happen.

His last words to Oliver, for instance, was that he couldn't run from his problems all his life whether he liked it or he liked it very much. Oliver found this statement as an omen and started texting and calling Emma as often as he could. No luck though, for he'd either be redirected to voicemail or left with no reply.

He almost gave up hope of talking to her after his last unanswered call when Cardor had finished with him. Almost, of course, because he was face to face with her when he opened the door to go outside.

And they just stood there for what felt like forever and a day, eyes locked onto each other like he was the most shocking specimen she'd ever seen and vice versa. She looked better, that was good, and he didn't realize he was as worried as he was until he felt the relief that surfaced in his being. Being worried about someone felt like being underwater longer than one could hold their breath, and the relief was like gulping down one's first breath of air after resurfacing. Releasing.But the beads of liquid sliding down one's face symbolized the discharge of such anxiety, and yet still he wouldn't be a hundred present; he'd be breathless and cold and wishing it would never happen again.

Someone might have coughed, Oliver couldn't have been sure, but a hand definitely held him by the shoulder and pushed him aside a bit.

Only a bit. Oliver was still at the door.

Emma blinked when Oliver disappeared from her vision, as though she had just woken up from a trance, but wasn't able to say anything when two pairs of hands pushed her into the room.

If she had been more focused about her surroundings, Emma would have seen the grime painted room that looked more like an impromptu dumpsite than a lounge.

There was a single green sofa right in the middle, but unlike the other sofas in school, this one was threadbare, a gaping hole with cotton stuffing peeking out on one arm, a few spots marked by years-old stains whose shades ranged from gross green to ignored black. The floors were carpeted, but no one would know at first glance; it was filled on every inch by either stains or trash, some wrappers were strewn about all over, an empty pizza box lay limp on the corner near the window, and a few left socks whose stank were filtered out by ventilation. There was a table in front of the sofa, wiped so clean that it looked out of place. A box TV was in front of the table, laid on top a shelf that had a few empty root beer cans next to it; it wasn't on. Then there were bean bags everywhere, some looking brand new and well-kept, others practically deflated; black footprints somehow got up to the ceiling, lining the peripherals like someone circled the room wearing muddy anti-gravity boots. Then there was the incandescent light bulb that had a spider's home attached to it.

But Emma was not focused at all. In fact, the thoughts that ran the length of her mind were: Oliver looks good, at least. He's safe. He's alive. He's here. I can breathe out my relief later when my nostrils regain consciousness from the blow this room dealt it. And Ohmyglobhe'sstaringrightatme.

"Hi." Oliver finally managed to sputter out of his mouth.

"Hi." Emma had no idea how she managed to answer. Her throat felt uncharacteristically dry. She should be speechless, really.

They both seemed to realize how crazy their actions were, and for some reason or other, found themselves grinning at each other like the two best friends that they were. For a moment, she felt like she was back at Troffer's Brook, the stream and birds and bugs leaving her alone and playing a simple tune she could hum to, and that it was just her and Oliver alone together, appreciating each other's company, a simple spell that casted around them like a gust of warm mist. Yet even when they were toe-to-toe, her neck straining in the process of meeting his eyes, he seemed so far...