I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. All I know is that I want to get away.
Rachel had no right to say what she said. I can't really blame her, though, I had been just as mean back to her. The problem is that what she said is true. Or at least, part of the truth.
We're still paying off the medical bills. Insurance only covers so much and I know Mom and Dad fought about it a lot there at the beginning.
I force myself to stop, I'm in a hallway somewhere, and I realize that what I want most is to be alone. Next to me is a door that is slightly open. Hoping it's not a room, I slide through the door. It's some sort of supply closet, with shelves of cleaning supplies, a wall covered in mops and brooms, and another shelf with folded, white towels. I lean against the shelf, closing my eyes.
I take deep breaths, trying to stop the stubborn tears, telling myself it isn't worth getting so worked up. Rachel has no idea. She spoke out of ignorance and pettiness.
A few more deep breaths and the anger is gone, replaced by guilt. I started that little cat fight. So I need to be the one to apologize.
Something about seeing her simper over Warren got me worked up.
Just admit you were jealous and move on, girl.
I really hate my own common sense sometimes. Because it had been jealousy.
"That was out of line, little bug."
I groan. Think of the devil and he shall appear. Warren is the last person I want to talk to.
"Go away, Warren," I mutter halfheartedly, "I don't want to deal with you right now."
I open one eye. He's inside the closet, taking up the little space that's left and crossing his arms in a mock pose to mine.
"Now hold on," He says, "Rachel was out of line too. She should not have said that stuff about your mom."
I release a breath and his next words surprise me, "How did she... uh..."
I look at him, "Pass away?" I can't look at him while I say, "It was brain cancer. Dad thought she was having a stroke, but when we got to the hospital, they told us she had a malignant brain tumor. They removed the tumor, but the chances of it growing back were very high. It started growing again six weeks later. They told us that if we were lucky, she'd live for two years. She died almost exactly eight months after she was diagnosed."
The memories, still so fresh, wash over me. The personality change in my mom, her loosing hair from chemo, how thin she became. How dependent she became on Dad. The wariness of taking care of her. On her better days, when she was more aware, she worried about Dad and I. And then there in the end, Dad couldn't take care of her anymore. We had to put her in a hospice care facility.
"Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." My voice cracks. It's been three years, but pain doesn't fade easily.
I jump a little when I feel the rough pad of a finger swipe across my cheek, brushing away the dampness there, "I can't imagine."
The vulnerability in his face is enough to take my breath away. For a moment, I want to bury my face in his chest, let myself cry. But in that same moment, his hand is gone from my face and I see him shut down again.
I breathe in deeply, drag my palms across my cheeks, and say, "Anyways. I try not to think about it." I cross my arms to give myself any kind of distance from him, "Hang on, why did you come after me in the first place?"
He shrugs, leaning back against his area of shelf, "Mom was worried you might get lost, so she told me to go after you."
Of course Charlotte would be worried. I smile at the thought. She really is the nicest lady I've ever met.
"Well, I'm fine, so you can go back to the table." I tell him, "I just need... a minute."
He doesn't say anything. I just need a bit to gather myself together, to go back out there and face Rachel.
"Fine." He finally says, turning around and grabbing the handle of the door.
That's when disaster strikes.
The knob jiggles, but does not unlock. Warren tries again, with more force, again no luck.
"It's probably jammed." I say a little on the hysterical side. I go over and try the knob myself.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
This can't be happening.
I'm starting to panic a bit. I wiggle the lock furiously. Still nothing. I can not be stuck in this stupid, tiny closet with Warren.
"Cassie, Cassie!" He grabs my hand and yanks me away. But he uses way more force than necessary and I go careening into him. He loses his balance and falls against the shelf with an oof.
"It's-locked-" He wheezes out since my full weight is smooshed up against him.
I pull myself away from him and step as far away as I can, "No. No, no, no, no."
Warren groans, running his fingers through his hair, and says, "You don't happen to have your phone on you, do you?"
I shake my head quickly, my breathing kicking up, "N-no, I left it in my purse at the table."
I have never liked enclosed spaces. It makes my heart beat faster, my palms go sweaty, and my stomach queasy. It's always easier to be in small spaces when I know there is a direct exit. This, however, is completely different. There is no exit. And that makes me feel sick with anxiety.
"I don't have mine either." I can vaguely hear Warren over the blood rushing in my ears. It's increasingly hard to breathe.
"Cas? Cassie, look at me."
I can't stand it. The air is too stuffy. The walls too close. It feels like I'm in one of those trash compactors. I need out. I have to get out. I close my eyes, gasping for breath now, and curl into myself.
Is this what a panic attack feels like?? Thanks, but I hate it.
"Cas, breathe, you're gasping like a fish." I hear Warren's voice.
I can't, though. My lungs won't expand to take in the air they need. I shake my head quickly.
"Cassie, you have to listen to me. Take a deep breath." His voice is steady and I feel him take my arms, "Do it with me. Inhale, count to ten, then release."
I hear him inhale deeply, wait a second, then exhale. I try to follow his instructions. At first I can only manage shallow breaths, but he doesn't stop doing it with me, and I finally get in a good, deep breath.
When I can breathe normally again, I open my eyes. He's looking at me intently. My face starts to burn a bit with embarrassment.
"S-sorry." I whisper shakily, "Small spaces. T-they're not my friend."
He nods, "I get it. But why did you come in here in the first place?"
I glare at him, "Well I knew the door wasn't going to be closed." I tell him, "It's different when I have an exit."
He lets go of my arms and I'm not sure if I imagine him hesitating for a second or not. I breathe deeply and deliberately so I don't get myself into a panic again.
"We're just gonna have to wait here until our parents figure out we're still gone or someone opens the door." Warren says through a sigh.
How long will that take? I run my fingers through my hair, focusing on how soft and smooth it is to keep my mind occupied. It's always had a slight curl, not even really curl just wavy, but I like my hair. It's long and silly and the color of warm caramel.
We're silent for a spell. I can't even tell if it's only been thirty minutes or only five minutes. The silence makes me jumpy.
"Say something." I finally blurt out, "Just... anything. I can't stand the silence, it makes me think."
Warren snorts at me, but he says, "Fine, I guess. Thank you for covering for me this morning. And last night."
Oh yeah, that's right. Was it really only just this morning he was sneaking out of my room with a killer headache?
"How's your head?"
"It's alright. I took medicine and eating food helped." He crosses his arms and settles into a more comfortable position, "I don't normally drink that much."
"Do you remember anything from last night?" I'm curious to see if he remembers what happened when he came back in.
"Not really."
There's more hesitation. I'm not sure if I entirely believe him. Is there something about today that's making Warren act so strange??
"Oh."
We both go quiet again. The silence makes me go crazy. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and it feels like I'm breathing way too loud. Warren refuses to meet my eyes although I don't know why.
"Why did you pick a fight with Rachel?"
I'm surprised by the question. How in the world can I answer that? It's not like I can just tell him it was because I had gotten a little jealous. Over my dead body.
I avoid his gaze as I sigh once, then say, "Honestly, I don't know. Girls like Rachel get on my nerves." The lie slides off my tongue easily.
Maybe too easy. Am I becoming like Warren? Ew.
Warren rolls his eyes, "You shouldn't let her get on your nerves." He picks at a white towel across the shelf from him.
"Why?"
"Because you're way out of her league."
My heart skips a little. What does that mean?!
"How long have you been playing the violin?" I'm still trying to process his last statement that it takes me second to realize he's changed the subject.
I swallow, hoping he can't tell that my heart is pounding, "Since I was little. Mom was a violinist, a pretty famous one, and I got the same talent. She started teaching me when I was six and by the time I was nine, I could play the same level difficulty as her. That's how I got the scholarship at Clearwater."
"No wonder you carry it around with you all the time."
I laugh a little, "Well, yeah, my violin is pretty much my life. I have this big showcase and audition at the end of the year for prospective performing art schools. If I don't get a full ride, I won't really be able to afford to college. And I want to be a professional violinist, play in a orchestra, maybe even write music of my own, so getting in is important."
"At least you know what you want." I think I hear a hint of respect in his voice.
"You don't?"
His eyes are fixed on the spot to the right of my head, "I have plenty of options. I just..."
And suddenly, I understand Warren better than I ever did before.
"Have a lot of expectations." I finish, confident I understand what he's saying, "So many people expect so many things from you."
He frowns and I know I've struck the truth, "And I just don't know what I want. I have everything. Baseball and swimming and good grades and popular friends. Even my family is perfect." There's bitterness in his voice.
I shrug, "Well, what do you like?"
"What?"
"What do you like?" I repeat, "Playing the violin, it's what I like doing. It's what I love doing. I do it for myself, not because my mom wanted me to. What do you love? What makes you happy?"
He's silent and I can tell he's thinking about my words. This is the first time we've had a real conversation, not just squabbling at each other, but actually talking.
It's a nice change.
"I want... I want to help people." Warren says so quietly I'm not sure I hear him correctly.
I think about all the times I watched him from the background, how he helped people under the radar. I never understood why he had to do it quietly, but now, talking to him, I think I understand him better than I did.
"My dad... he expects me to take over the business. Expects a lot of things. So does my mom."
And I can see him starting to close down, shutting me out again.
Our heads jerk around when we hear a key jiggling the lock.
Oh thank God!
The door opens and a very surprised looking maid stares at the two of us. She says something in Spanish that I don't understand.
Warren rushes out the door, me right behind him, and I feel like I can breathe properly again. I struggle to keep up with him as he heads towards what I hope is the front desk. It's been thirty minutes since we've been trapped in that closet, I find out from a clock we pass.
Thirty minutes?!
Warren's family and my dad are at the front desk. Dad is arguing with the receptionist, John and Thomas Fox are getting to the point of an argument, and Sawyer is the first one to spot us.
"There they are! I told you they'd be back!"
Everyone turns to stare at Warren and Me as we hurry across the marble floor. I feel my face starting to heat up. It really doesn't look good, does it, Warren and I disappearing for thirty minutes, then showing up together?
"Warren, where have you been?" Charlotte demands.
Dad gives me a look like, what the heck, kid? I bite my lip and shrug a little.
Warren explains calmly to everyone circling around us. How he found me and how we accidentally got locked in a supply closet. It is short and simple and leaves no room for more detailed questions.
Everyone accepts his explanation without question. John and Thomas Fox step off for a moment to speak together in low voices. There's a lot of hand waving and head shaking. I hope we haven't ruined this opportunity for John, I would just feel worse about the whole thing.
"C'mon, bug," Dad whispers in my ear, hands on my shoulders, "Let's head home and talk."
I gulp.