Spinning

Chapter 31: Stone's bullsh*t, part II

Fucking Eddie. He's sitting on the ground in the corner, his head hung lowly and his hair forming a curtain around his face, his knees bent and his arms resting on his knees. Fuck. Has he seen me? Can I tiptoe out in peace?

I sneak back to the door but his voice stops me.

"Jordan."

Shit. Shitake shitting Cyclops. I'm caught. My body is numb, but somehow I mechanically turn and face his crumpled form. His head is still bent over. How does he know it's me?

"I was just leaving."

But I don't move. I can't move. There's some feeling in my chest that I can't identify. Pity? Longing? Eddie doesn't respond so I bust through my frozen joints and continue towards the door. It's closed. Did I close it? I turn the handle but it won't move. It's locked. How? I don't see any locking mechanism...

Goddamn Stone, that sly bastard. He set this up. He set me up. He sent me in here knowing Eddie would be in here. Is Eddie in on this too? What the hell? Why does he want us to talk? Is this the fifth circle of hell? How do I approach this? What do I say? Visions of the morning he left suddenly block the room...

I've always been a light sleeper, so I wasn't surprised when I felt the bed shift next to me. It was early in the morning; I could tell by the way the sun hit my face. I refused to open my eyes but I knew. I knew Eddie was leaving. Of course he was leaving, I asked him to be gone by the time I woke up. What was I thinking? I heard him slowly walk around my bed, and the slight creak of the window seat told me where he sat down. I tried to keep my face neutral, peaceful, to convince Eddie I was still asleep and not fixating on his presence. I don't know how long he sat in that seat. It seemed like hours, eons maybe, but probably no more than 20 minutes. I don't know what he was doing. I couldn't hear the scratch of his pen or the whispers of his voice when he talks to himself. He appeared to just be... sitting. Thinking, probably, knowing Eddie. I gently shifted a couple times to maintain my sleeping façade.

Finally, just as I convinced myself I needed to wake up and kiss him one last time, hold him one last time, maybe beg for him to stay awhile longer, the window seat creaked again and I heard the two steps he took to close the distance between himself and the bed. I know he's standing over me because the sun no longer hit my face. He must be close. He was close, because suddenly his warm breath was at my neck, and his lips at my ears.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice was barely a whisper. I'm quite sure I imagined it; it was so low, so deep. And in another instant, he was gone. The room was still, the birds were chirping in the cold wind, unaware of my pain. I didn't open my eyes again until the sun was low in the sky for a second time. I wanted to sear his low voice into my memory, forever.

But now I can't remember his voice. It's been replaced by the way his husky "Jordan" resonated through this room. The room I'm locked in, with Eddie.

And Eddie still hasn't moved. I would be convinced he was asleep if he hadn't said my name. I don't even see him breathing. Is he still drunk? Yes, that must be it. I hesitantly walk over to his corner and slowly drop to my knees, leaning against the wall, facing him, unsure of my actions.

My eyes travel over the broad shoulders I've so dearly missed. The neck of his shirt is slightly stretched out, exposing some of his muscles and scratches from the fury of the crowd. My heartbeat increases involuntarily. And what is that? A bit a yarn or string hangs around his neck. Whatever it's carrying is hidden under his shirt. Something of Angela's?

I follow the impression of his muscles over his shoulder, down his arm, pausing at my beloved biceps, to his tense forearms, and finally to his hands. His right hand is covered in a bandage. Was that there during the concert? I move my gaze to his wrist, and I notice the hair tie I gave him on my birthday still lingering there. Why?