Loving Elijah McCay

Vol. 1: Ten

     I curse under my breath, hoping that it isn't broken, because I know that in order to get it fixed, I'd have to face my father—who wouldn't hesitate to lecture me about taking care of my things.

I take a seat at the bench right beside me, my bottom at the edge of the seat. The watch doesn't budge, reading 7:45, instead of 3:25.

I can't help but feel disappointed in myself, as though I could've prevented this item from breaking. But I soon begin to realize that I'm not angry that the watch is broken, I'm angry because something else is.

Since the night before, I hadn't been able to get Terrance out of my head. And I'm beginning to think it's because of my enlarged distaste for him, whenever he's nearby.

As a child, I'd always been taught to spread appreciation and love, rather than anger and hate. But after what he'd said at the party, I couldn't help but want to bash his head into the nearest wall.

Just as I had been tuning the watch, a familiar car pulls into the side of the sidewalk in the courtyard, the drivers seat window rolling slowly.

I don't bother to look up, knowing that it's most likely one of teachers asking why I wasn't in practice. They all seemed to know my schedule, which I wouldn't doubt due to my father popping up into the school every few weeks.

A sharp honk of a horn causes me to jump inches into the air, a hand coming to reassure my chest as I finally pay the visitor attention.

Elijah raises an eyebrow, his dimples pulsing through his cheeks in a way that's foreign to me. "We've gotta stop meeting like this."

I try to suppress how fast my heart is beating by staying put, and tucking the watch into my pocket. "Like what?"

"With you, stranded on a sidewalk, all alone—freaking out about something." I let out a chuckle, my cheeks most definitely darkening under the evening sun.

"I'm not freaking out," I defend myself, "just a little worried."

This seems to have sparked his interest, "about what? That guy giving you trouble again?"

"No, no," this isn't a lie, because technically, Terrance hasn't said nor done anything to me, but still—I'm angry. "It's my stupid watch. It's broken."

He takes a moment to think, his fingers reaching to press the unlock button on the drivers side door. "Get in." 

     Even though I'm itching run and hop into the passenger seat, I sit back, both arms crossing across my chest. "I thought we had to stop meeting like this."

     He laughs aloud, head being thrown back into his headrest. "I swear I'll leave you here."

     I find myself laughing, too, especially when this feeling becomes familiar. As though Elijah and I have somehow—become friends.

     Once I'm settled into the passenger seat of his car, he doesn't hesitate to take off, music exhilarating seconds after.

     I lie my head on the window, Elijah reaching one hand out, me scrunching my eyebrows together in confusion. "What?"

     "Your watch—give it to me." His words hold purpose, as though he isn't joking.

     "N-No, it's okay—"

     He reaches his hand into my pocket, pulling over onto the side of the lonely street. A surprising screech leaves my lips, as I was not expecting Elijah's curious hand to brush a patch of skin.

     The silver, battered watch is pulled out of my sweaters pocket, me reaching forward for it, but him pulling it back. I let out a groan, not wanting to be judged by someone I think so highly of. Why—I'm not entirely sure, but I'm certain it has something to do with my enticing social anxiety.

     His light, flittered green eyes wander over every detail, tongue darting out to lick at his drying lips.

     "This is old, isn't it?" His eyes return to mine, eyebrow raising in question.

     I nod, "yeah, my grandmother gave it to me at my fifteenth birthday. I've kept it in my locker ever since. But today, I decided to take it out, and it was all messed up."

     He chucked once more, thumbs rubbing over the sharp and silver surface.

     "Yeah, apparently it's 8:00 pm." My fingers play with the hem of my sweater, my palms beginning to sweat heavily at how fluid our conversation seemed to be. And I am now certain that the fluidity wasn't because of how intoxicated I had been.

     Why are you being so nice to me? I want to ask. This is our second conversation and it seems like we've been friends all of our lives. And I now notice that this is the first time this has happened with someone.

     And I like it.