Loving Elijah McCay

Vol. 1: Thirty-Eight

     After I'd slipped the socks on, my legs returned to their previous position on the ground. Usually, whenever I was waiting around for a guy to respond, I'd have butterflies fluttering around my stomach—but as of right now, I was oddly calm.

     As though we were just a couple of friends texting back and forth.

     We talked for another few minutes, before I looked over toward my bedside table, and realized that it was now only fifteen minutes until eight o' clock. Time seemed to fly by in a sprint, whenever I was in a hurry—and it was going by even faster now.

     Spencer sent a short message that read, I'm on my way for you now. I read his message, replying that I was ready and waiting for him. I even added a couple of smiley smiles faces at the end to show him that I was actually pretty excited about tonight.

     But not for the reason that Spencer would think.

     That's what tonight was for—to try and see if maybe, just maybe I could look at Spencer, and feel something more than just a friendly flutter in my chest. Because that's what I deserved. I deserved to be with a guy who actually wanted to be with me, a guy who didn't just date me to fool around, then completely disappear for months.

     Or somebody who would only ever see me as a friend. Maybe even less.

     Pushing the intrusive thoughts down into the back of my mind, I finished dressing myself, finding a neatly fitted white button up, pairing it with a delicate pair of black pants. The waistband of the pants felt a bit flimsy, just as I fasted a plain belt into the corners of it.

     Stepping before the full-body mirror that was leaned up against my wall, covered to the brim with photos of me and my parents, and me and Rick—a few plastered on that my grandparents were in, too.

     My attention left the wall of photos, and focused on my appearance in the mirror. I slid my sweaty palms over the creases in my button-up, making sure that I hadn't misplaced any of the buttons in the wrong slots.

     I reached over for my dresser, finding the brush that sat atop of it. It ran through my messy curls a few times, taming them ever-so-slightly. But I ran a hand through them just to make it seem like I hadn't put too much work into it.

     Even though I had.

     It was now seven-fifty, only ten minutes before Spencer would knock on my door. If he would knock at all. Maybe he was the "text him that I'm here" type of guy. Not that there anything wrong with that.

     Both of my parents were gone, but they hadn't told me where. When they were walking out of the door, I stopped my father and asked if they were having another date night, in hopes that they were saving their marriage.

     But my mother had overheard, and stopped me mid-sentence. "No, we are not going out on a date," she spoke firmly, and I didn't bother responding.

     Things were still delicate when it came to my mother. We didn't speak much after she snapped at me for wondering if she and my father were staying together—and I wasn't too angry about that fact. I wasn't exactly in the biggest mood to talk to her, either.

     And I made a mental note to finally sit the two of them down, and demand some answers. If they even had any to give me. Because my father hadn't said a word about any of it.

     I groaned when I found myself overthinking yet another topic that I had no answers on, once again, forcing them away.

     Skipping out of my bedroom and into the hallway, I hopped down the staircase happily—a satisfied smile gracing my lips.