Someone New

Chapter Seven

I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling while my legs dangle over the side. A bottle of bubbly Barefoot wine dangles from my fingertips, and a smile attempts to creep onto my face as I think back to the last time I felt so pathetic. That's the night I met Misha.

At the thought of the tall boy with blue eyes, I drink again from the bottle. The past three days have been hell, and for some reason, the only person I wanted to talk to about it was him. Cassidy is out of town this week for a post-Thanksgiving vacation with her family - a perk of not attending college - and I'm stuck here, with nobody to listen to me rant about my week.

I don't want to think about Misha anymore. I haven't heard from him since Monday night, and today is Thursday. I refuse to acknowledge that my horrible week has anything to do with that; I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind. Instead, I think about the other disasters I've been facing. My hours have been cut at work, which sucks. I'm not too worried about the money part. My dad usually helps me out if I'm struggling. What frustrates me is that it's all because of a snotty coworker who has it out for me, for reasons unbeknownst to me. She knows the office manager on a personal basis, and I get the feeling she just enjoys ruining people's lives as a hobby.

After the work fiasco, I received a speeding ticket, because apparently 47 in a 45 is a horrible betrayal of the law on a a seldom-used side street. My bank account overdrafted because I bought groceries before depositing my paycheck from last weekend, and on top of that, my landlord decided today would be the perfect day for a surprise inspection. Of course it would be today. This morning I had finally worked up the motivation to sort and start my laundry, which resulted in piles of dirty clothes all over the living room, awaiting their turn in the washing machine. My landlord found this unsanitary, and tacked a $50 fine onto next month's rent. I'm not even sure if he can do that, but at this point, I've stopped caring.

And then there's the problem that is Misha Morozov.

I lift the bottle of wine to my lips to take another sip, but nothing comes out. Figures - I didn't even notice drinking the last of it. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but combined with the events of this week, it becomes the tipping point. I do my best to blink back tears that are rapidly forming, and roll onto my side. Maybe I should just go to bed. Maybe things will seem better in the morning. Just as my eyes begin to flutter shut, I hear a knock at my door.

I groan and force myself out of bed, running my fingers through my tangled hair. I make my way to the front door, mentally preparing a speech for the solicitor about how their products are as unwanted as a root canal. I pause before opening the door. Maybe it's Girl Scout cookies? I shake my head. Girl Scout cookies don't start until February - just when I thought I couldn't be any more disappointed with this week.

I pull open the door, and stare at the figure standing outside. He's facing away from me, leaning against the railing and looking out over the parking lot. At the sound of the door, he turns to face me.

He has a beanie pulled low over his ears, and his black coat is zipped mostly up to shield him from the late November chill. His blue eyes stare into mine and every last thought flies out of my head. Before my mind can register what's happening, I'm flying through the doorway and into his arms. He smells like cypress and cigarette smoke, and I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe in deeply. His arms encircle me, holding me tightly as his head buries into my neck.

I have no clue how long we stand here like this; all I know is that it feels like home. After a while, when my nose starts burning from the cold, I pull back. My eyes find his, and I whisper, "What are you doing here?"

He offers me a smile small, and grips my hands in his. "Isn't it proper etiquette to wait three days before pursuing the girl you're interested in?"