Copyright © 2015 by roastedpiglet (of Wattpad)
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Piggy's Note:
Hi, rad peeps of the universe! How have you been? :D
It's March now, and dear Lord, I am so sorry for the late update! Thank you so much for reading 46 chapters of HTFIL! It's drawing nearer and nearer to its end, with only 4 to 5 chapters left. There's one last rock left and we're done :)
To the right is the pretty cover made by @elliptical; thank you so much, lovely! Along with it is the song entitled "Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop" by Landon Pigg, which is mere perfection.
I hope you'll like this chapter! Please tell me what you think after reading it? :)
Your #Fia Captain,
Myka
P.S. A miracle happened, which I am very thankful for: HTFIL was chosen to be part of Cadbury's 'Guilty Pleasures' reading list, which is why there's a lovely sticker on the cover. Thank you, Cadbury and Wattpad! And of course you, without whom this would not have been plausible at all. Thank you! *hugs you*
P.P.S. If you have extra time, please do me a favor? If it's okay with you, please delete HTFIL from your library and add it again, so that all of the changes I've made to rectify continuity and other errors will appear. Thank you so much!
Without further ado, now:
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c h a p t e r f o r t y - s e v e n
[ h o w t o g o b a c k t o t h e c o r n e r ]
At the mention of airports and flights, there were three things that came into mind.
1) Miles was leaving in two weeks' time. There were still so many things I wanted to do with him, as friends, and there were still several questions fluttering in my head at the mention of him; but I had no right to—and even if I did I wouldn't—tell him not to go.
2) I was going to leave in a week's time. In Birmingham, on the fourth of October, I'd be starting my life as someone with official training in writing. At this point, whether or not one of my books would be published by a known publishing company, I still wouldn't pass up an enriching creative writing programme—I'd researched on it and found it to be phenomenal—in a country I'd never been to before, two opportunities that would let me experience new things I could incorporate into my writing.
3) Finn was leaving in a couple minutes' time.
Or was he?
Once Finn braked the car at a red stoplight, I turned to him with arched eyebrows. "You're going to miss your flight?"
"Flight," he repeated, without looking at me. "A noun. In this case, refers to an airplane ride from one place crossing great distance to another."
"I know what flight means," I said, scowling at him.
He sped the car once the stoplight hit green, his lips tugging at the corners. "Are you cold?"
I furrowed my brows, startled at his arbitrary question. "Um," I started, "I guess so, yeah. Why?"
"Then I'm going to miss my flight," he said, missing the right turn that leads to the nearest airport; instead, he performed a U-turn, causing several cars to honk their horn at the sudden shift in direction.
A temporary wave of haziness corrupted my mind, but when it exited as fast as it entered, I didn't miss a beat—I turned to Finn, and asked, "Cut to the chase and save me the guessing, Finn. What on earth are you talking about?"
When he stopped at a red light, he turned to me and messed with my hair, quickly, a chuckle spilling from his lips when I shot him a sharp look. "I'm supposed to fly to Los Angeles for a reunion, but since you're here and I like you and you're cold, we're getting coffee instead."
The way he said that he liked me, so simply as though it was a mere fact like I was here with him and I felt cold, obliterated the need for coffee in my system—because just by hearing those words, I was already made warm inside.
"Is that a smile I see?" he teased, messing with my hair again before shifting his gear when the light turned green. "We're going back to the corner where I first saw you."
I racked my brain for the file containing the first time Finn and I saw each other—and I was stumped by the fact that it was felt so long ago I almost forgot how awfully he treated me that first time: which was when I was waitressing at Macy's Coffee Shop, the time I gave him his order, but it flew past the tray and landed straight on his lap, making him stand up like it scorched him (it probably did) and showed his livid (monstrous) side by disparaging me—saying how I should be fired.
So evil.
I looked at Finn now as he drove through the streets, and I wondered just how much had changed since that first time. Finn said that that day at Macy's Coffee Shop was an exponentially busy day—busy week—for him, and that I was the cherry on top when I spilled his charring coffee on him. Add on the fact that whilst I apologised, saying sorry three times, I didn't apologise "directly addressing him, eye-to-eye," thus making him feel like I hadn't been sincere enough (though I really had, but since he didn't know my character back then, he didn't know how I never insincerely apologise).
Still, that wasn't enough reason to use the pronoun "that" referring to me instead of a respective "her," and to announce that I was meant to be fired. And then I got even by sending a bug to his company's website, reverberating into a more massive issue altogether, and then for some reason we became a fake couple at Attraction. And then he was so, so evil for the third time around, and then I was sick of him, giving up on the notion that even though we were by nature's laws acquaintances if not strangers I could change him and cure him of his crude ways.
And then he had to apologise. And then he had to atone for his depravity. And then he had to, in the process, learn to like me.
What a curious world.
And a curious world it was when we reached Macy's Coffee Shop, with him parking in the designated area. After Finn turned off the engine, he and I got out of the car at the same time. And at the same time, we were stood, side by side, at the façade of the coffee shop where we first met—the corner where he first saw me, and I him.
I caught him smiling the ghost of a smile, before his hand shot out in razor-sharp precision and he pulled me flush against him, the touch of his fingers warm on my waist. His smile turning smug, he entered the coffee shop with me beside him, trying to obscure my blush with my hair.
Finn continuously did things that caused my heart to perform numerous somersaults without volition of my own; and if he kept this up, heart attack would be the closest thing that could state the time of my death.
Macy's Coffee Shop sported the same amenities it did the first time I met Finn.
Only this time, instead of me wearing an apron with the name Juliet working both behind the register and as a waitress, I was sat opposite Finn at a corner two-seat booth, with comfortable leather mattress supporting my back. The time being late in the afternoon was no reason for the coffee shop to be bereft of customers—for everywhere I looked, from the tupelo flooring to the lanes and bars and two-seat tables and to the cash registers, Macy's Coffee Shop was still bustling, like the New York City of coffee shops.
Also, this time, instead of Clifford being my boss, he was instead the waiter and, having caught sight of me, approached our booth (at myside) with wide, wide eyes.
For one, he was still wearing suspenders, red lines marking the top of his shoulders down to his waistband, providing colour to the plain white shirt he wore. I took in his styled-up hairdo, highlighting the blond features in it, his dark green eyes calculating, and the lack of wrinkles in his face giving away his age: which was approximately a couple of years more than mine.
He stared at me, then at Finn, and then at me again, his eyes asking what his lips weren't: What on the world of green and blue and piglets is happening?
Feeling playful, I merely shrugged at him with a smile on my face.
Soft spills of laughter tumbled out of Finn's lips, as though to say, Nice one, Mia. "She's working at Laurel-Tech now, if you're wondering."
Clifford turned to him, eyes Jupiter-like—as though he still couldn't believe what his eyes were perceiving. "Fi—Fi—Fi—" he stuttered, swallowing a lump in his throat, and tried again, "Finn Laurel?"
"Yeah," said Finn, looking insouciant, "that's me."
A squeal erupted from somewhere off the west section of the shop, the place I remembered as the Employees' Room where I had begged Clifford to let me stay for a night, where I had first worn my badge of Not Jobless Anymore, whipping cream like I knew nothing better. Little had I known that the only reason Clifford hired me—and not as a barista, as opposed to what he stated beforehand—was that he found me—or, rather, my social inadequacies—amusing.
Another shriek—this time of double force—enveloped the coffee shop in its jarring tone, holding everyone at stiff breath.
Clifford's hand flew to his face; then he shook his head, complaining to himself, "Megan. Always causing trouble."
The culprit of the cry sooner than later revealed herself in the form of the aforementioned girl, Megan, with an apron stating the exact same name. She came from the other side of the room, dashing across the area at the mere mention of Finn Laurel's name—which explained why at present, she was stood beside Clifford, at Finn's side of the booth, and stared at him like he was a god that fell from the skies to charm her and make demigods with her and then leave her right after. Okay, perhaps not the last part.
She released another ear-piercing, please-stop-now-or-I'll-get-an-axe-and-chop-your-freaking-tongue-off howl, making my eardrums rattle with distress. "FINN LAUREL!"
Finn shot her a polite smile, albeit looking a little too amused, kicking my foot under the table. "That I am."
I shot Finn a sour look, kicking him back and relishing the pain flashing in his expression for a nanosecond. My eyes reduced to thin slits, virtually throwing daggers at him. "You're enjoying this," I murmured accusingly, my tone bitter. And jealous.
Jealous?
Wake up, Mia! You're not even his girlfriend! WAKE UP! DRINK COFFEE! WAKE THE FUDGE UP!
Finn turned to me, swiftly, his expression softening the least bit. He shook his head. "Not possible, Mia."
But before I had time to convince myself that I could, in fact, let myself melt at the subtle sweetness of his statement, someone had to ruin the exquisite moment.
"Oh. My. G," Megan breathed in disbelief, voice a tone lower, noticing me for the first time. "Mia Lockheart?"
I flashed her a sweet smile, fast to mask whatever jealousy I might only possibly feel, and instead basked in the utter and unmitigated surprise that burned bright in her eyes. I said, with blunt prosperity, "That I am."
Megan went as far as covering her mouth with her hand, eyes wide with incredulity—as though the chances of a dinosaur eating pizza were greater than the sight of Finn and me together. For some inexplicable, despicable reason, an ever emergent urge to strangle her surged inside me.
I shook my head, ridding my system of such morbid thoughts.
Keep your cool, I said to myself. Keep. Your. Cool.
Deciding I should be friendlier, I cleared my throat and said, "Hi, Megan! Long time no see. How have you been?"
Disgust flashed in Megan's eyes, and as sharp as lightning hitting the night sky, it spread like light passing through diverging lenses, clouding her expression. "Whatever," she huffed out.
What was her problem?
I swallowed the discourtesy that was slowly but surely coming up my oesophagus from the acerbic stomach that was caused by discourtesy of her own.
"Megan," Clifford warned, a sharp tone in his voice. Firm, and unrelenting.
Megan closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and opened them again. This time, there was a smile no realer than the lacquer of cheap bracelets sold in wholesale plastered on her face, directed especially to me. Her eyes, a deep hazel brown, begged to differ—that the smile on her face wasn't a smile, but a mark of hypocrisy.
"We have our menu at the counters," said Megan, with sound civility, almost passing for a decent human being—no, not that last part. "You can go there and order what you like."
Will I order something I don't like? I bit back in my head, feeling a twinge of guilt at the animosity I was having over her. Plus, if we looked into it, there would be times when people asked for what they thought they wanted, but ended up regretting it—as in the very end, after all, it was not their heart's desire.
That was why in the grand scheme of things, it was of paramount importance to remember what one wants, and to follow that. There would be nothing wrong in listening to what others might suggest, but in the very end, when one was at the end of the road, it was his choices that led him there. And whether or not he liked where he was, he had played a herculean part in it.
The edges of my lips turned up in a smile.
"Thanks," I told Megan, before looking at her—and Clifford—pointedly, until they received the signal and left Finn and me to our own devices.
When I turned to Finn, unveiled amusement dusted the mesmerising colour of his eyes. He clocked his head, mapping my features and taking me in. "Wow," he murmured, still gazing at me. "So that's how you look like when you're being phoney with your smiles and goody-two-shoed attitude."
My jaw dropped open, entirely forgetting about how strangely unnerving his stare could get, especially when it seemed to focus on my lips. "I am not phoney," I defended, indignant, "phoney is not me!"
"Phoney," he echoed, a teasing glint in his eyes.
I kicked him under the table, but I missed, instead hitting the leg of the table, making me crumple in indubitable pain. "Ouch!" I yelped, rubbing the sore spot against the fabric of my jeans.
Finn laughed his life away, making himself a target of my laser-like glare. "You are stupid," he said in between laughs, "stupid is you!"
"Shut up," I hissed, starting to forget about being a sport in teasing games and rather quite beginning to feel irked.
"Aw," he teased again, a devious smirk on his face, "is my babe feeling bad? Do you want me to make it feel all better?"
"I am not your babe, your babe is not me, okay," I said, clarifying it to his face. "I'm not someone you can call dibs on. You don't get to call me that now. Or whenever."
All humour left his face, as he sensed that I was not enjoying it as much as he was anymore. He cleared his throat, looking apologetic now. "Sorry." When I thought that was the end of it and we could finally move on to a better topic, he leaned closer across the table, fast obliterating several inches of distance between us. Something playful glinted in his eyes, his lips pulling up at the corners. "But don't you want to be my babe, especially when I get to kiss you the way you want me to?"
I tried to cringe away—I really did—but this man in front of me had more charm than I first, or secondly, or thirdly thought—so instead, I felt a light blush powder my cheeks with its rosiness.
Finn smirked, still leaning close to me. "Your blush seems to voice out what you feel," he whispered, his breath swirling down on my cheeks. "You want to be my babe."
At this moment, I was not aware of eyes hitting us like red dots snipers aimed at targets—I was instead swept away in our own bubble, our own universe, our own little corner in this coffee shop. Finn and I. Just he and I.
Finn moved even closer, just a few inches away from me now. "You want me to call dibs on you." And he moved closer, his nose almost touching mine. "You want me to call you mine."
I snapped from his trance, blinking once. I shifted away from him, inching closer to the wall.
Finn merely released a short chuckle, leaning back in his seat. "Damn it, Mia. I was going to kiss you."
I blushed, furiously this time, and could only form the words in my head when my phone vibrated in my jeans pocket, catching my attention. I averted my gaze from Finn and took out my phone, looking at the screen.
INCOMING CALL: Mom
I swept my thumb across the screen instantaneously, putting the phone against my ear. I said, "Mom?"
"Mia!" she exclaimed, happily, making me furrow my eyebrows. Since when did my mother exclaim—happily? "I feel so accomplished today. I just made another batch of carbonara for you. Come back for dinner, all right? I'll be waiting. Meanwhile, I've put it in a plastic container, so it wouldn't get too cold. Try not to be too late so we could eat it together."
I was overwhelmed with my own happiness. "Yay!" I couldn't resist saying, regardless of how childish it sounded. "Thank you, Mom!"
She paused, creating what felt like half-a-minute silence over the call. And then, with an impalpable tone, she said, "Don't worry about it."
A smile lifted my lips. I was about to end the call, when she seemed to sense it and yelped, "Wait!"
I returned the phone to my ear. "Yes?"
There was a slight pause again, and then, "I love you, Mia."
I felt a frown form, realising how I couldn't seem to say the words back. "I—I—" I stopped, knowing that it wasn't the right time yet. Perhaps later. But most certainly not now. So I settled with, "Me too, Mom."
And then the call ended.
I put the phone back in my pocket, and saw Finn watching me with interest.
"Everything good?" he asked.
I nodded, smiling again. "Everything good."
"Good," he said, "then let's go get coffee." He then flounced his way out of the booth and offered his hand out for me to take, which I did.
Together, with our hands clasping each other's, we sauntered to the counters, staring up at the lit menu.
"I'll have Macchiato, Grande," Finn said. He turned to me, asking, "How about you?"
"Caffe Mocha, Grande," I said.
The person at the counter turned out to be Reese, the person who had assisted me in managing the cashier last time. At the sight of me, she offered me a friendly smile. Then, she turned back to Finn, and said, "That'll be seven dollars and eighty cents."
I reached out for my purse to pay, but Finn's hand shot out to Reese's, already handing her the charge needed.
"I received ten dollars," Reese said, placing them into the cashier. She handed out the charge. "Here's your change."
Finn received it, then pocketed it.
Reese handed out our number stand. "Please wait in your seats and wave the number when it's called out. Thank you. Next customer, please!"
Finn and I then returned to our booth in the corner, with him on one side and me on the other, the both of us parallel to each other. It wasn't long when our number was called out, and the waitress assigned to delivering our orders was none other than Megan; only this time, she did so without even so much as batting an eyelash at Finn, or meeting my level gaze.
Five minutes slipped away like wet soap escaping the lathered hold of its owner. It was a funny prospect, time. It does wonders every time, sneaking up on you when you least expect it; until you hold onto it and when it wants to let go, you find that you couldn't.
It was unfair in its own way.
"What're you thinking about?"
My head snapped up to look at Finn, my hand placing the cup of coffee down the table. "Just," I started, feeling the taste of the coffee simmer away, "stuff."
Understanding flickered across his eyes; he nodded. "Want to talk about it?"
I was about to protest that it didn't really bother me, what I had been thinking—which was time—when I felt my heart beat faster, momentarily alarming me.
"No thanks," I said, shaking my head. "Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about your LA reunion. Really, though, what's the deal with it?"
Finn shrugged, gesturing in front of him. "What else is there for a reunion to be? It's high school, where most of them agreed to meet up in LA. I was supposed to fly there today," he trailed off, searching my eyes with a glint of his own, "but then we met up instead. I would've missed out on much more had I flown to LA."
"So you weren't planning on going, but you used your flight to steer us into getting coffee." I stared at him. "Don't you think it would be easier if you said outright that you wanted to get coffee?"
"It wouldn't have made you blush," he replied, swiftly, "when I told you that I like you. That's a problem, since I like it when you blush."
I didn't know if it was right for me to feel, as too much vanity was fatal, but I was thoroughly flattered right now—that Finn thought on how to make me blush, as though it was a titanic thing to him.
"Thanks?" I asked more than said, but all the same, I felt grateful. "For choosing to have coffee with me than attending your reunion. And for, um, telling me that you, um, like me. I know that neither is, you know, an easy thing to do, given that I'm just me, an ordinary and—"
"It's not attractive," he cut off, his expression sharpening, "when you bring yourself down like that. You're extraordinary, Mia. Not anything otherwise."
"You really are a businessman," I told him, able to deflect his compliment this time—a miracle all on its own. "You have such a way with words."
"Thanks?" he asked right back, mimicking my tone earlier.
I slapped the top of his head, making him recoil in pain.
He nursed the spot with his hand, shooting daggers at me. "What the hell did you do that for?"
I shrugged, undeterred by his reaction. "I just felt the urge to do it."
His glowers were sharper, bringing in more ice and edge, as he said, "Wicked woman!" But then he dropped the act, dropped his hand, and even so much as gave me a small smile with a waggle of his brows.
"I'll take wicked as a compliment," I said, feeling a smile tug at my lips.
And the rest of the hour slipped away like that.
Truth was, I slapped Finn's head because I wanted to know how he would react—I was curious to see if he would feel livid, chiding me for such action, or if he would shrug it off as (plausibly painful) playfulness. It was true that Finn liked me—that I knew for certain after he'd admitted it—but I didn't have the knowledge of whether his bad temper pre-Forge (the pub wherein he apologised to me) was really as what he said—his state of being 'at his worst'—or something that was natural to him.
These were things that I needed to know now that I was considering starting a relationship with him. I hadn't had tens of partners—not even one—to mark in me certain dating rules, but I did know that one) my relationship with Finn—rather, what I'd gone through in which he was concerned—was not at all what the norm knew, thus debunking the 'initial rituals' one would usually require in dating, and that; two) now that I wanted to reconnoitre the dating realm, I wanted to do it at my own pace, because it was the pace I knew best—the path I knew would not lead me astray.
Plus, I had written numerous romance accounts—and albeit I knew writing such did not equate to me being an official love guru that knew everything there was to know about love, I had heard quite a lot of stories, fiction and non-fiction, that could aid me and give me clues.
What I did learn, through first-hand experience, was that I could learn to like someone without even realising it, and when the moment of realisation came, I had the choice of whether or not I would do something about it. In the end, it came to this: admitting that I liked someone was my choice, and I was able to make that because I knew that I could handle the consequences it was sure to bring.
And even if I thought I could handle it but couldn't, I had someone trustworthy to back me up—I had my mother.
However, my mother's advice was problematic—she wanted me not to tell Finn the truth, date him for a week, and then leave for Birmingham for my career. Perhaps she thought that since this was the first time I felt roasted piglets in my stomach stomping around after hearing something a man said to me, what I was feeling could not possibly be serious. Perhaps just an infatuation, perhaps a mere flicker of time that would pass by quickly.
I didn't tell her that it was, though. I didn't tell her that what I was feeling was indeed serious. And that was the fault I had done—I didn't assure my backer, my mother, that I was sure of what I felt, because back then, I had been too scared. So then I added my mother's advice to my list of options.
But it was just that: an option. Something I could, or could not, follow.
That was another thing about love—when I fall, I need someone to catch me: the "partner." When no one does, I need someone to help me make the right decisions: the "backer." But like I'd earlier stated, whether or not I would follow that backer's advice, it was my choice. In essence, life is just a series long of choices one makes.
And right now, I was considering whether or not I would follow my mother's advice after all—I was pondering on telling Finn soon about the bug, dating him not just for a week (but instead starting from the moment he actually formally asks me to be in a relationship with him), and not leaving for Birmingham on Friday. It was Saturday today, which meant I had a couple more days to solidify my mind and make a choice. I was moving at my own pace.
I turned my head up to look at Finn, watching him tap away on his phone in a slick, swift manner, and contemplated on when the right time to tell him about the bug was. Was it now? Would it be tomorrow? If not, would the week after tomorrow suffice?
I knew getting the timing right was principal—in love, in life, in everything. It was not an easy feat to do, but when accomplished, could lead the person to such great heights.
Time was sneaky, though, as was Fate—sometimes they become partners-in-crime and decide on what was best for you, without you knowing it. This was another truth about life—whilst it could be described as a series long of choices, it was also about unpredictability, not knowing every single thing that could come your way—be it good or bad. But the good news was that if you choose to accept that some things are out of your control, even though you would still be privy to being stunned, your system would be able to recover and function faster, than if you refused to acknowledge the truth.
All this ran in my head like electronic trains going to one station from another, as I lifted the cup and let caffeine run in my veins. By now Finn had gotten rid of his phone, and was instead dunking down the rest of his bittersweet coffee. When he finished, he looked at me and flashed me a sincere smile, one that reached his eyes. "Done with yours?" he asked, nodding to the cup I held in my hand.
I nodded, putting the cup down the table. "I'm all set."
"All right," he said, putting his hands together, "now where do you want to go next?"
And when one realises that she could go anywhere and be happy as long as she's with the one she loves, she would feel as though nothing could go wrong.
Unable to stop a smile from forming, I answered, "Anywhere."
Finn allowed a grin to spread across his face. "Want to see a movie?"
I took note of this—Finn was one of those movie date guys. And even though I hadn't experienced this before, I was certain that if I wanted to go on a date, I would want it to be in a cinema. In short—I was one of those movie date girls.
I really could not suppress the beam from my face. "Will you buy popcorn?"
"In whichever size you prefer," he said, winking at me.
I felt my cheeks burn at the innuendo. But I was quick to recover. I said, "I presume that's a yes. Will you let me choose the movie?"
The grin on his face began to fade, his lips slowly tugging down at the idea.
And to rub more salt into the wound, I said with a horrified gape to boot, "What if I choose a romantic comedy?"
Finn was rendered speechless, red bells ringing in his ears.
I couldn't help but release a few bouts of laughter, shaking my head at him. "No wonder you aren't romantic. I like romantic guys, though."
His eyes were fast to widen, alarm flickering across them. "You—you—you're definitely just kidding me, right?"
"Why, did you think you're the only one allowed to tease?" I asked, sticking my tongue out at him.
His eyes followed the action, lingering on my lips for a second too long, before settling back up my eyes. "Isn't that a bit too tacky for the girl who hasn't even given her number to her man?"
I was about to retort about his usage of the word tacky, when the latter half of his question surprised me. It was such an odd thing, having someone refer to you as his woman, and the other way around, to a person whose first time in the dating realm was this.
With a smile, I took out my phone and recited to him my number, which he tapped on his phone with ease. When I finished and was about to return my phone back in my pocket, it vibrated, signifying a call.
INCOMING CALL: 212-469-6969
I furrowed my eyebrows at the unknown number, although something about it triggered my memories, as though I'd seen it before—and then I realised that I did.
I excused myself for a moment and slid the green button to the right, putting the phone against my ear. "Hello?" I said.
As expected, it was Leonardo Dickinson, the oncologist that was in a relationship with my mother, on the other end, and I remembered the last time he called me—when he told me that my mother had breast cancer.
He asked, "Mia?"
"Yes, it's she," I confirmed. My heartbeat suddenly picked up pace as my mind registered the tone with which he spoke—distraught, wide-eyed, and close to tears. I looked to Finn, and noticing my edgy state, he asked me what was wrong.
I echoed Finn's question, asking Leonardo, "Is something the matter?"
Leonardo took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was shaky—as though he was crying. "Is someone with you?"
My heart's wildness was in full swing, pounding against my rib cage and demanding attention. "Yes," I answered, breathy as though I'd been running a mile an hour, "someone's with me."
"Good," he said, his voice cracking at the one-syllable word.
For some reason, I felt my eyes prick, my vision blurring. I managed not to let my voice crack, just like Leonardo's did, when I asked, "What did you call me for?"
"Mia," he said, his voice stronger now, as though he'd caught and composed himself, "I'm going to tell you something, but you have to promise me that you'll stay calm. All right?"
"Leonardo, you're scaring me," I said, my fingers trembling, my grip on my phone loosening.
Leonardo took a deep breath, but then he suddenly burst into tears a moment after, his sniffles muffled when he brought his phone away from his face.
No, I refused to acknowledge, shaking my head and my thoughts away. There is nothing wrong with my mother. My mother is okay.
"Your mother," he started, making me close my eyes harshly, wishing for this call to have not happened at all, "she—she was rushed to the hospital. I was supposed to fetch her and take her to an aquarium, but when I went to her apartment, I realised that couldn't happen anymore."
My other hand closed in a fist, and with my eyes closed, I could only feel Finn going over to my side and taking my hand in his, his clasp tight.
"I saw her on the couch, lying down, and I thought, I thought," Leonardo trailed off, trying so hard not to let his voice break, "I thought that she was asleep, I thought that I lost to sleep again. She always slept before we had our date. But the aquarium tickets I'd acquired were really expensive. She'd have to choose me over sleep even just this one time. So then I walked over to her side, and I tried to wake her up, but she—she just—" He coughed the urge to cry away, trying to man up, to appear strong and unaffected.
But he wasn't fooling anyone.
"Your mother, Mia, she—" he continued, making the world melt away and leave me stuck in a dark chamber of nothing but numbness, too numb to feel anything. "I couldn't feel her pulse, so I rushed her to the hospital and she—Mia, she's—she's—" He wept again, but this time, he didn't take his phone away. He cried into the line, making me hear the pain and hurt and anger in it, as he said, sounding like he was cursing the world for doing it, "She's dead on arrival."
I found myself unable to speak, unable to say anything, as I felt tears fall from my eyes, trailing warm paths down my cheeks. And I thought to myself, this was another truth about life—sometimes you love it, sometimes you're baffled by it.
And sometimes you hate it with all that you have.