Hitlist | h.s

Thirty-five

“You mean there’s something you haven’t told me?” He asked, laugh slowly fading out as the sentence trailed from his moist lips.

“It’s not a big deal,” I shrugged, obviously underestimating the severity of the situation I had been avoiding. His face was as serious as a church service, each feature wrinkled in concern.

“Ari…”

“Well,” I sighed, smoothing the sweatpants he let me borrow over my wobbly legs, “I’ve been getting some strange texts.”

“Strange?” He questioned, narrowing deep green eyes at me.

I nodded, retrieving my phone from my purse before handing him the scuffed up device, the suspicious conversation displayed by dark, sinister letters.

He thumbed through the conversation, looking at the lot of messages I had been sent by the unknown being. I had received more messages from them the past week when I was in solitude.

“What do these mean? Who’s sending these?” Harry fumed. The anger slathered over his face was clear as day with the ferocity of a cheetah.

“I don’t know,” my voice peeped, feeling small like a feather whisping in the wind.

“You’re just now telling me about this?”

I felt an immense guilt poison me before shamefully bobbing my head up and down in response. The boy grunted as he pinched the bridge of his nose, his breath becoming rigid with discontent.

“He keeps telling me things that like… that he’ll hurt you or me or even Luke.” I bowed forward in angst, regretting not telling Harry everything sooner. In my defense, the texter did tell me that if Harry found out about the fiasco that he would be “dead before daylight.” It sent shivers of apprehension down my spine.

“That’s okay if he hurts Duke,” he smirked, ruffing up his hair. I scolded the boy, watching him look towards the ground like he had just gotten in trouble at school.

“Luke. And I can’t figure out why he’s sending them. He never replies to any of my questions.”

“Who exactly do you think he is? What if it’s someone you’re close to?” Harry asked. He seemed to be doing some sort of arithmetic on his fingers.

“I have no clue. I don’t even know if it’s a he or a she.”

The frazzled boy abruptly stood, pacing back and forth across the slippery mahogany of his floor. None of us spoke for quite some time. I just watched the way that he walked, looking at every detail of every lurch. It put me on edge and I was about to ask the fidgety boy to stop, only for a thought to slap me across the face like a paddle.

“I have an idea.”

He looked at me with a confused stricken expression, arms folding like a lawn chair over his torso.

“We’re going on a trip.”

“A trip? Like… a holiday?” he slowly blinked, looking at me like I was the bearded lady or something.

“No, like smoking a blunt,” I sarcastically snorted, “yes, Harry. We’re going on holiday.”

His eyes were tainted with outrage.

“You really think this is a good time to leave?”

“I think this is the best time to leave. This texter is getting more threatening, we’ve both been beyond stressed the past week, and I’ve… I missed you.” I choked out the last part, knowing it was completely true and that the feelings I realized I felt towards the boy were irreversible.