TRIS POV
My head pounding is the thing that stirs me awake.
Moaning, I crack open my eyes to see my dim room with one beam of light peaking out from behind the curtains. Thank God for blackout curtains.
After taking a migraine pill from my bedside drawer, I rack my brain for a memory of what happened last night. The throbbing in my side reminds me of the three attackers that jumped us, and I remember Four stitching me up, and I remember...
Oh. My face turns bright red, even though nobody is in the room with me or can hear my thoughts.
I remember having a nightmare, which led to Four somehow falling asleep next to me. He probably thought I was sleeping when he kissed the top of my head, but little did he know, I was wide awake after that.
That answers my speculations, then. Four does like me.
And those words alone make me smile to myself under my covers.
I find myself climbing out of my bed to go look for him. My side aches with each step, so I do a quick check to make sure that I haven't popped any stitches. Sure enough, the bandage over my midsection is a plain white. No blood.
I look in Four's room, the living room, the kitchen. There is no sign of him, though my mother is standing in the kitchen, making breakfast. She does this on occasion when she feels like it, or when she wants to give the maids a break.
"Good morning, sweetie," she greets me.
The aroma of pancakes coaxes me to my seat. "Mom," I say with a grin as I practically haul myself onto one of the barstools under the counter. I'm too short. Four is able to sit down on them with no trouble. Wait, why am I thinking about him right now? I need to focus. "You're back."
"I am. I would love to take a moment to relax, but your father and I invited some guests over." She chuckles tiredly and fills up the glass in front of me with orange juice.
"Can't you just take a break?" I ask. "I mean...you and Dad work hard all the time. I think the public would be fine if you disappeared for a week or so."
She shakes her head. "It's more than that. We have responsibilities that you will understand one day, Beatrice. When you become a politician."
I frown. She says it so convincingly, like she is positive that I will go into that field.
In truth, I haven't even decided what I want to do with my life, though I know that I will steer clear of politics. My parents are good people and good examples, but I do not want to follow in their footsteps in that way. I do not want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life for speaking my opinion, or work all day and all night and get no time for myself or my family.
If anything, I want to be a stay-at-home mom, at least until my future kids are old enough to go to school. I am quite certain that I want kids, that I want a family, but the problem is that I haven't exactly had the best history with guys. I just want to find someone who will treat me with respect. He doesn't have to be perfect or anything; he just has to see me as an equal instead of someone he can take advantage of, like Peter has done.
It may sound strange that I am hoping for a family this young, but I am confident that this is what I want. I want a sense of belonging that I haven't gotten in my rich family of politicians.
I have never really noticed how stifled I always feel until now. The atmosphere of this house alone makes me feel like a caged animal; I need to escape from the clutches of my parents' high standards and the impression of wealth.
This is not me.
"So," my mother starts, breaking me out of my reverie. "How was the party last night?"
This feels awkward. I didn't think that talking to my mom would ever be an uncomfortable situation for me, but when I don't speak to her for days or sometimes weeks on end, and when she seems to be more concerned with everything except me, well...
I shrug nonchalantly. "Fine..." Deciding that I don't want to get into details and mention my stab wound, I only bring up, "Four and I got attacked last night though."
Mom gasps and nearly drops the pan she is holding. After making sure to set it down on the stove, she rushes over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders and scanning my body frantically to find an injury. Wow, if only I had known that getting hurt would catch her attention. Although I should have figured that out the first time I was attacked, when my parents set everything aside for me for once.
"Oh, Beatrice!" she exclaims. "Are you hurt?!"
I laugh softly. "I'm okay. Four saved me."
She sighs in relief and kisses my forehead. And then I can't help but think of Four, and how he kissed me in the same place last night.
Where is he, anyway?
I wait for Mom to go back to her cooking before nonchalantly asking, "Hey, do you know where Four is?"
She turns back to me and hums thoughtfully. "I think your father let him go out for an hour or so," she answers. "To visit his mother or something."
"Oh."
Now I can't stop thinking about him. Even as I eat my breakfast and chat with my mom, his dark eyes somehow invade my mind, making me wish I was talking to him instead of her—and I see him a lot more often. This little "crush" I have had has turned into more than that, more like an obsession.
I want him to know that I like him, but I don't know how to approach him. He already admitted that he thought I was some hoe when he met me, and I need to prove to him that I am not like that. I need to be subtle and meaningful.
But God, every time I even cast a simple glance at him, I lose all thought and get caught up in ideas that are completely irrelevant to any given situation.
"What's on your mind, Beatrice?"
I snap out of my Four fantasies and shake my head dismissively before continuing to eat my pancakes, making sure to drown them in syrup. Washing it all down with orange juice, I say, "I want to ask you something."
Mom raises her eyebrows. "This sounds serious. Should I be nervous?"
Giggling mischievously, I shrug. "It's kind of serious. I just wanted to know something, for a hypothetical situation."
"Okay. Go on."
"Right. So..." I don't know how to really ask this, so I trail off and trace the rim of my glass while I think. Lately, I have been dreaming about this idea of having a relationship with Four, but I don't really know what that is like, or how I know I really feel something. Like sure, it was as if I was on top of the world to be with Peter for the first couple weeks, but now I don't know if I genuinely felt something there in the first place; I didn't really have a hard time leaving him in the end despite all the fun we had together.
I know that you don't automatically fall in love; I just don't know how to describe how I feel at the moment. Since my parents turned out fine—although I don't know if I would consider their relationship to be healthy because they only talk about politics to each other—I figure I will ask how they got together. They have more experience than me in relationships, after all. Plus, they must have had some sort of connection at first, so it shouldn't hurt to ask what that was like to determine if what I feel for Four is real or not.
Clearing my throat after the momentary pause, I continue, "How did you and Dad get together?"
Mom throws her head back with a laugh. "Oh, Beatrice..." It annoys me a little because it seems like she is laughing at me, not taking me seriously. After calming down, she sighs dreamily as she recalls her past. "Well, we met in college through mutual friends. We automatically clicked and decided spend time with each other—"
"Yeah, but like, what was it like falling in love?"
She stops at my interruption, looking at me incredulously. "Is there something you need to tell me?"
Quickly, I shut the idea down, even though it is true that I have a boy in mind. "Oh, it's for a friend. Guy trouble."
"Ah." She doesn't seem to believe me, but she doesn't push it. Instead, she gets hyper at the memories of her own teenage romance. "Well...falling in love doesn't happen all of the sudden. It starts out as an infatuation, or even just a simple appreciation for a person. You feel like it is slow approaching, and you might think you are waiting for a long time for something to happen. Then, something triggers your emotions or maybe nothing really at all, and you realize, 'Oh. I'm in love.' At least, that's how it happened for me. Your father and I..."
But I am no longer listening. I am preoccupied with the idea of actually getting far enough to knowing Four so well that I could decide how deeply I felt.
And it sounds rude, but I didn't talk to my mom about this subject to know about her history with Dad. If anything, I don't want to hear about it; it would only make me sad.
My parents have lost the spark that they used to have. It is like an ember that has died out over time, day by day as their love slipped away. And I feel bad, I really do. I wish they would not have gotten involved in politics this consumingly because maybe they would still be infatuated with each other if they chose a different path.
I don't want a relationship like theirs. I don't want my future with whatever man I end up loving to be like living with a coworker. I want the passion that they don't have, and I want to drag it out until the end of time.
And for some reason, I feel like Four will be that person for me.
We have spent almost every minute of every day together for two months. He has become the person I rely on, who I trust with my life, and not just because my parents are paying him to be that way. He offers me security and kindness without me having to drag it out of him. He is always there for me, and I never had to ask him to be.
And best of all, he likes me, judging by that kiss on my forehead.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings, interrupting my mom who was still rambling about the old days. It must be her and Dad's guests.
"I'm going back to bed," I say, hopping down from my chair. Mostly I am just excusing myself because I don't want to have to be confronted by a bunch of people I have been introduced to before, whose names and faces I don't remember. Also, it couldn't hurt to get an extra hour or two of rest after the eventful night. "Thanks for talking to me."
"Anytime, honey." Yeah, right.
I don't go directly back to bed. Something drives me past my room and to wander down the hallway. Eventually I end up at Four's bedroom door, and I pause with my hand on the door handle.
He isn't home, and I'm curious. I have never been in his room. This is the perfect opportunity to find out things about him without pressuring him.
Pressing a hand to my forehead, I shove the door open and step inside carefully, as if an alarm is going to go off or something. Oh, God. Am I really doing this?
Four's room is exactly the same as I thought it would be. Everything is neat and clean, not a stray article of clothing or item lying around. If I didn't know he was living here, I would assume that nobody slept in here. The covers of his bed are pulled taut and evenly up to the top, and I know I'm right when I assume that the maids didn't make his bed; he did. Always a perfectionist.
For a minute or so, I stay rooted in my place leaning against the closed door. I don't know where to start looking for secrets.
The nightstand drawer is the first place I check. It is nearly empty, only containing a phone charger and earbuds. Boring.
I scan the room, check the closet, check the bathroom. Nothing of importance.
But then the other nightstand on the other side of the bed catches my eye. There are not many places to conceal things in this room, so there has to be something in that drawer. It is more likely too, with it being farther away from the door.
When I yank open the drawer, a rattling sound startles me. I relax when I notice that the noise only came from an orange pill bottle.
I furrow my eyebrows, confused. What could Four need medication for?
Picking it up, I twist the bottle in my hands until I can see the name printed clearly on the label. It has a long name that I do not understand.
I'm running out of time. He could be back any moment.
Making a mental note of the only semi-coherent word on the bottle, which is "Zoloft," I set the pills back in the drawer, right on top of a file folder.
This is bad, I think as I pull out the file. I should not be doing this.
But I have to find out more.
My hands are bordering on trembling when I open it. My eyes widen when I actually register what is on the page.
My picture is in the top left hand corner.
That is all I see before I hear footsteps approaching the room. Hastily, I set the file back right where I found it, shut the drawer, and rush to the other side of the bed, pretending to look in the other nightstand.
"Tris?" Four says in an admonishing tone. I freeze and turn to face him completely. He looks more confused than angry as he steps closer. "What are you doing in here?"
"I, uh..." Shit, come on, think of something. "I couldn't find my phone. I thought maybe you would have it. You know, like if you accidentally kept it last night."
I know for a fact that he doesn't have my phone, that it is on my nightstand—the guys who attacked us last night didn't think to check my bra for anything valuable, luckily, so it survived. This isn't a good excuse, but it will work to get me out of trouble.
He cocks an eyebrow at me and crosses his arms in a way that makes his biceps look bigger. Damn.
"Uh huh," he replies disbelievingly.
"Yep," I confirm, emphasizing the "p."
Attempting to walk past him and out of the bedroom, I sigh when he grabs my arm so that I can't go any further. I am afraid he is going to interrogate me some more about why I was snooping around in his room, but I am pleasantly surprised when he doesn't. "How is your side?"
Sometimes when Four looks naturally grumpy or brooding, like he did when he caught me just now, I tend to forget how tender he can be. I think I assume things too much when it comes to him, and one of my assumptions is his wavering moods. I am not frightened by him, just wary on occasion, but in reality I don't have to be.
I can trust him.
"I'm fine," I mumble, though my wound has been throbbing all morning. It is painful, yet bearable.
His eyes soften, and he lets go of my arm. "Tris, you don't have to be so tough around me all the time. You don't have to lie."
I scoff. "Like you should talk." Then I realize how rude that sounded, and I amend, "I'm sorry. It's just that...it seems like we know each other, but then again we only know the little things. Or at least I do." I'm not making any sense. "The point is, I feel like you know me, but I don't know you. It's hard sometimes, Four, when I try to be your friend and you don't open up."
I want to know about his family. I want to know about his childhood. I want to know about his time in the military. I want to know—
"I know," he states. Then after a brief pause, he adds, "I've spent a long time keeping everything to myself, and I know it's unfair, but that's just how I am."
As hard as I try to understand that there are things he is unable to tell me, it still hurts. I never meant to seem like someone he couldn't trust.
Apparently he sees my indifference because he assures me with a shy smile, "One day."
One day he will tell me everything. One day I will fully know who Four is. I don't know when that day will be, but the thought of it makes my heart race with excitement.
However, that is not the only thing that triggers my reaction. Next thing I know, he is stepping even closer to me and kissing right between my eyebrows.
I don't know what to do, but I don't want him to think I am rejecting him by just standing here motionless. So I wrap my arms around his waist, close my eyes, and hold him there for as long as he will let me.
We stay together with his lips pressed to my forehead for what seems like forever before he finally pulls back. He stares down at me, seemingly searching for some sort of regret or hesitance in my eyes, but I am sure he finds none. I have never wanted to be so close to someone in my life, and even now, I feel a pang in my chest as I back away from him.
I have to tell him the truth. After all, I need to show him that he can share secrets with me, and maybe he will feel that way if I do the same to him.
"I really like you, Four," I admit. It feels relieving to get it off my chest.
"I like you too." He scratches the back of his neck nervously and ducks his head. "What are we going to do though? This is unprofessional, we're not supposed to—"
I cut him off before he tries to talk himself out of this. "Screw the whole bodyguard thing. You're only two years older than me; we're both young, it's not like it would be weird in any other circumstance. It shouldn't be in this one either."
He bites his lip. "I don't know, Tris." I groan in annoyance, but he just chuckles softly and grabs my arm again when I try to leave. "Tell you what. Now that we know, let's just wait a while, take it slow. Let me think about it. Okay?"
I can't help but smile along with him. "Okay."
And I leave it at that, walking back to my bedroom with his eyes following me out. As soon as I close my door behind me, I remember.
The pills. The file.
I am perplexed about the file. I have no idea how he got it, why he has it, what it says. But I am too giddy after our confrontation to care. I will worry about it later.
Grabbing my phone off my nightstand, I search the internet for "Zoloft," once I am able to recall the strange word. I am heartbroken when I find out the meaning.
Four takes antidepressants.
xXxXx
Ok so I just wanted to clarify something: it probably sounds like I am being dumb or not taking this story or the writing seriously when I say things like "hoe," but just know that I am doing it purposely. Tris is a young adult—still a teenager, even—and she would most likely be using slang like that. I didn't want to portray her as juvenile necessarily, but I did want to show that part of her character in the modern day culture. And no, I'm not saying that if you say things like "hoe" that you're stupid. I say hoe a lot, trust me.😂😂