The hotel is a run down looking place with only two or three letters on the sign still glowing, sitting between two dilapidated buildings. I've never been down this way, and I have no clue where we even are anymore, but Vince seemed to know where he was going.
He pulls up, and I look at Thomas. He's been filling me in on some things I should know—when we're not being silent or I'm not having bad anxiety, that is—during the drive. Things like how Vince got stuff from my room that he thought I'd need, and even checked out some of my things that they keep in the nurse's station. I said that it would give Vince away immediately, but they swear they've got it covered.
"Is this place even safe?" I ask.
"Better than TIMI, that's for sure," Thomas says, before leaning forward towards the front seat. "Thanks again, Vince."
"Don't thank me yet, I'm throwing you under the bus if I get in trouble for this," Vince says.
Thomas surprisingly laughs at this, despite the serious tone Vince had. "Keep in touch, right?"
"Yeah," Vince nods. Thomas gets out of the car before Vince even finishes the word, and he turns to me when I speak.
"Wait, you're not coming with us?" I ask.
Vince shakes his head. "No way, this is as far as I agreed to go. Besides, I have work to do from the inside. You kids are on your own from here."
For some reason, his words scare me. It's one thing to have a nurse with you, but to be completely alone in a scary looking neighborhood without even knowing the plan?
My door opens, startling me, and Thomas is standing there. "Newt, pass me your wheelchair if you can," he says. He sounds so nonchalant, like he does this every day. Every second I feel like he'll snap for sure, but he doesn't.
I help him get the chair out of the car, then he helps me into it, holding my hand tight so I keep my balance. At two steps, I'm in, and he waits for me to finish the round of ten as he closes the door. Once I do, he wheels me to the back of the car and opens the trunk, grabbing two big suitcases.
"I can hold them," I offer.
Thomas frowns. "I think I can do it," he says, closing the trunk. Both of us watch as the car drives away, leaving the two of us alone in a parking lot at nearly three in the morning.
I look at my lap while I hear Thomas fuss with the suitcases for a minute, before he eventually stops.
"Give up?" I ask, my fingers playing with the bottom of my hoodie to try to distract myself.
"Just this once," Thomas says, handing me my suitcase. I lay it across my lap, and reach for the other one, but Thomas shakes his head. "I'm only letting you hold yours, mine has a handle."
The handle proves itself useless about thirty seconds later when he starts pushing me and all I hear is the sound of plastic wheels skidding and a lot of fumbling.
"Done yet?" I ask, not being able to help the small smile that appears on my lips. Maybe it's just my nerves, but his stubbornness is a welcome distraction from freaking out.
"I'll only let you hold it because you're insisting," Thomas says, handing me his bag. It comes so far up that I can rest my chin on top of it as Thomas continues on towards the entrance.
The inside isn't exactly what I thought it would be. It's a lot cleaner than expected, and while I wouldn't describe it as particularly nice, it doesn't feel like if I stay here I won't survive to see tomorrow. That's definitely better than nothing.
Thomas wheels us to the front desk, then steps next to me, addressing the bored and tired looking man standing behind it. "Hello, Sir, I'm here to check in," he says with a kind smile. I almost laugh at his manners; it all seems so ridiculous considering we just broke out of a mental institution.
"Did you book ahead of time?" the man asks.
"Yes, actually. My name is Ned," he says.
Now I let out a small laugh that I have to fight to conceal, burying my face behind Thomas' luggage. It's absolutely insane to be laughing, but it's super late and I'm nervous and apparently I can't help it. I'm worried for a moment that Thomas will notice and be angry that I could be blowing his cover, but he looks down at me and his smile changes. Not to something bad, but something different. More sincere.
"You have the money?" the man asks.
Thomas reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few bills, handing them to the man. I want to ask where he got the money, but now is definitely not the ideal time to do so.
The man gives Thomas keys, and he nods a thank you before getting back behind the wheelchair and pushing me to the right, down a hallway. Then, we turn left and go down another, and after a few doors he stops, taking the key and opening room thirty four.
He wheels me in, closes the door behind us, and then walks back in front of me.
"Thanks, Ned," I say deadpanned. But when Thomas starts laughing, I break into a grin.
"I totally look like a Ned," Thomas says, taking the suitcases off my lap as I laugh.
"You so don't look like a Ned," I say. "Where'd you even get that from?"
"It's what I always use," Thomas says, shrugging. "This isn't my first rodeo, you know."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
Thomas walks over to the bed—wait, he got a room with only one bed? He sits down on the edge of it as it hits me. I look around. One bed, something I assume is a bathroom, and a small television that looks like it hasn't been new in twenty years. There's also a lamp, a nightstand, and fuzzy carpeting straight out of the seventies. Needless to say, it's not magnificent.
He chuckles, grabbing my attention. "Sorry I couldn't afford a nicer room, I'm not entirely sure how long we're staying."
"Have you done this before?" I ask after a moment. If I'm going to trust him, he has to be completely straight with me.
He looks at me, and for the first time I see him hesitate, the smile disappearing. "It's a lot to explain."
"I'm pretty sure it's just a yes or no question," I say. "Look around us, you don't have the right to keep anything from me anymore."
He takes a deep breath. "Do you want to sit on the bed?"
Maybe he's stalling, but I am kinda tired of this chair. "Yeah."
Thomas gets up and walks over to my wheelchair, bringing me over to the bed. He helps me up, and I count it as two steps, so he sits back on the bed, seemingly zoned out as I complete my ten steps then sit on the bed next to him. As I snap my fingers, he talks.
"They didn't know what medication I should be on, it was a long time ago. So I wasn't really in the best condition, and one day I saw an opportunity and I took it. I didn't get far, but I definitely learned from my mistakes. It landed me in solitary for a while, and that's how I met—"
"Vince," I complete for him. Thomas nods. The story Vince told me about meeting Thomas makes a lot of sense now, but the amount of time he's supposedly spent there... it's horrible.
"Exactly," Thomas says. "He was the nicest person there, so I started talking to him about my theories. I'd even get myself into solitary just to talk to him."
"Hold on," I say. "When you freaked out in group, was that to talk to Vince?"
Thomas' smile appears again. "Bingo."
I let myself process the information. He's been thinking about this for a while now. That night in the bathroom, when he said he would get me out, this must have been what he meant.
"So what're we going to do?" I ask.
"Like I said, we're going to see Winston's mother. She needs to know what we know," Thomas says. "Ava Paige needs to be exposed for what she is. I'm not letting anything happen to anyone else."
As crazy as all of this is, he's right. I'm not usually one to stir the pot—mostly I'm the one that stops the stirring. But if people's lives are at stake, how could I sit and watch? This is bigger than me now, and something about that is electrifying.
"Okay," I say. "I'm in."
It would have gone without saying, especially since I don't necessarily have a way not to be in. But still, it makes Thomas' eyes light up.
"We're doing something important, you know," Thomas says. "You won't regret it."
"I certainly hope not," I say, only partially teasing.
Thomas looks to the nightstand, then picks up the small black remote sitting on top of it, inspecting it before turning back to me. "Wanna watch something?"
There's a clock on the nightstand too, showing me that it's ten past three now. I'm not used to staying up, I'm usually asleep before midnight. The only thing that's been keeping me awake is adrenaline, despite the sleeping pill I take. I should probably get to sleep, but my brain is still going a mile a minute, and I still have questions.
"Not yet," I say. "You said you're better than Janson, right? That you can fix me? Because if there was ever a time for that, it's now."
"I thought you said you don't believe it's psychological," Thomas says with a smirk.
I give him a halfhearted glare. "I don't, but if you said you've figured it out, why wouldn't I listen?"
"Fair point." Thomas nods.
"So?" I ask. "Why did you ask me to tell you about Alby?"
Thomas' expression gets serious, but there's something in his eyes that makes his face look forced. Like the seriousness is an act, and whatever he's truly feeling is being masked. He shifts his body towards me, and we're back to that soul-reaching eye contact.
"Are you sure you want to talk about this now?" he asks.
"I've waited long enough," I say, almost laughing out of nerves again. "You kinda left me hanging."
"Alright..." Thomas trails off. "How you felt when Alby was with Teresa, did it scare you?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" I ask quickly.
Thomas doesn't look surprised at my snippiness. "Just hear me out. Did you feel in any way... envious?"
"What? Do you think I like Teresa? No, I didn't, I wasn't jealous," I say. If this is his whole theory, then maybe he's not as smart as he thinks he is after all. He wouldn't be the first to think he's gotten me figured out.
"That's not what I mean, Newt," Thomas says, shaking his head. "You've made it clear you don't like Teresa. But you were upset, right? It's normal to be upset about potentially losing a friend, but the way you reacted... didn't it feel different?"
"What're you saying?" I ask, worriedly furrowing my eyebrows. My heart is hammering in my chest.
"What if you and Alby viewed your relationship differently?" Thomas asks.
"What're you saying?" I repeat, almost overlapping Thomas. My face is on fire, and the anxiety comes on so hard that I can feel myself shaking all over. I ask, but I don't know if I want him to continue.
"I'm saying that maybe your feelings for Alby were deeper than you thought," Thomas says. "I'm saying that maybe you saw him as more than a friend."
I don't let myself hear his last words. They're drowned out in the ringing in my ears. I get up and my subconscious counts for me, my breathing getting heavier for every limping step I take towards the door.
"Newt," Thomas calls out, but I don't want to hear him right now. I don't want to see him right now.
I pass my wheelchair and make it to the door in eight steps, opening it and using my last two steps to leave, then close it. As I snap my fingers, I feel my eyes stinging, my hands feeling too numb to carry out their actions.
He didn't need to say anymore. I know what Thomas was implying.
I can't seem to catch my breath, and everything feels wrong. I feel exposed, like I'm on display for the world to see. I don't want to be here, I don't want to be anywhere.
The worst part is that I have no idea why I'm reacting this way. If Thomas is wrong, couldn't I have just said he was wrong? Why couldn't I tell him he was wrong? Why won't I let myself even think about what he's suggesting?
Alby's face is in my mind, and it makes me feel even sicker than before. It's not like that. It's like he's screaming the words to me. Only now, they take on a different meaning.
A tear falls, and I shake my head ten times, trying to shake away the thoughts, the fear; all of it. This can't be happening. I have enough happening, this can't be added on. I can't deal with this.
I don't let myself think about the possibilities. What if he's right? How would my parents react? Why would it be such a big deal?
No. I can't go down that road, not now. Logic doesn't have any place in my anxiety. I want to march back in the room. I want to tell Thomas that he's got me all wrong, that there's nothing to his theory. He doesn't know me at all.
I turn to do that as the door opens. Thomas looks at me, and I wipe my tears away on the back of my hand quickly, fully knowing that it's too late and he already saw.
His is expression no longer the almost fake one from before. He looks genuine this time, but genuinely what, I don't know.
"I don't—" I cut myself off, not having even thought of anything to say yet. You're wrong. You're wrong.
"Newt..." Thomas says, taking another step to me. I don't move.
And then he kisses me.
One of his hands is on my waist and the other on my cheek, but I can barely feel them. My eyes squeeze close.
Nothing in me protests for more than a split second. A split second where shock goes through my body, and I can't respond. Just a split second.
Thomas asked me once if I'd have to kiss someone ten times or for ten minutes. But right now, my tens are the furthest thing from my mind.
I don't know how I feel—I don't know how this feels. It doesn't feel bad. The amount it doesn't feel bad scares me, but the scariness melts away into Thomas. Every thought I just had seems to vanish into thin air, like they were never there.
Am I even doing this right? I've never done this before, but... it feels like I'm doing it right. It feels like he's doing this right. This is right, this feels right.
This feels right. This feels right. This feels right.
Thomas' hand slides to the back of my neck, bringing my face closer and tilting my head. I let him. Everything is soft and new. My hand comes up to to his chest, and I almost expect myself to push him off of me. But I don't.
Just a few moments. Those mere seconds. Everything had shifted to a different gear, and nothing needed to be figured out.
Then he pulls away. I keep my eyes closed a little longer. When they open, the sight of him keeps me there for a moment.
"You didn't push me away," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
It's a simple observation; one I already knew—and yet it brings everything crashing back down.
He must see my change in expression, because he opens the door and guides me back in, my tens coming back into main focus.
When I'm on the bed, I can't bring myself to look at him as I snap my fingers shakily. He doesn't sit next to me again, instead standing a couple feet away.
"Talk to me when you're ready," Thomas says.
"Why?" I start, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Why would that help me? Why would that cure my OCD, why would that help my anxiety, what would that have to do with anything?"
"Because, Newt, repressing things isn't good for you," Thomas says.
"How do you know you're even right?" I snap, looking up at him. "How do you know this is something I was repressing?"
"Newt, when you found Alby and Teresa on your bed, how did you feel?" Thomas asks, raising his eyebrows.
"I-I don't... I don't know anymore," I say, the franticness in my tone wavering.
"Well, think about it," Thomas says. "That was the first time you got that bad. You just didn't know why."
"So you're saying what? That I was—" I can't bring myself to say it. The words physically do not want to leave my mouth. I have to close my eyes to voice them. It doesn't feel like my voice. It doesn't feel like my words. "That I liked Alby?"
"That's what I think," Thomas says. "I think it scared you, and you didn't want to feel it. But you can't control that, so you controlled other things."
"Why wouldn't I have realized that?" I ask, the words coming out as I try to let his sink in.
"I think subconsciously you did, but since Alby was your best friend, you wrote it off as just caring for him really strongly in a platonic way. You didn't need to give it a label, because you already had him. Am I right?" Thomas asks. Everything he says feels like the emotional equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Everything hits too close.
And there it is again. That look on his face, the mask. This time I can recognize the emotion behind it. Giddiness.
"So I'm just a bloody game, then?" I ask. "You just wanted to figure me out before Janson could?"
Those few words, and the glint of happiness in his expression diminishes into hurt.
"Can I sit down?" Thomas asks. I don't answer him, so he sits on the bed next to me, putting as much distance between us as the mattress will allow. "You're not a game, Newt."
"Oh really?" I ask. The strength has mostly gone from my voice. "It seems like that's what everyone else is, too. You just want to see if you can figure out what's wrong with us."
After a moment of silence, Thomas speaks. "I told you that I wanted to help you figure out what was going on in your head, but you're not a game to me."
"How's that not a game?" I ask.
"Because I like seeing you. I like hearing what you have to say, I like knowing you. I like helping you, and I want to see you happy because I know you can get there, and you being happy would make me happy too," Thomas says. I can't find an ounce of insincerity in his voice.
"Why did you..." I really don't want to ask the question, but I know I have to. "Why did you kiss me?"
"To help you figure out if I was right or not," Thomas says. "And because I wanted to."
There it is again, that feeling of floating above myself.
"You did?" I say, forcing my mouth to catch up with my brain.
"I did," Thomas says.
This is too much information to process. I can't take all of this in at once, so I change the topic. "How will this help my OCD?"
"We'll take it one step at a time," Thomas says, my breath hitching when he says we. "But first you need to know that it's okay. It's okay to be who you are, and there's nothing wrong with it."
My anxiety comes back kicking. I know that there would be nothing wrong with it. But at the same time, the reality scares me.
"Are your parents accepting?" Thomas asks. I don't know the answer. I want to say 'yes', I want to say 'maybe', but I don't know. My mother probably would be, but I don't know about my father. Not that it makes a difference anymore. He hates me anyway. "You know what? Forget I asked that."
My parents are getting divorced because of me. Now what? On top of being depressed, anxious and having OCD, I have this to tell them?
"So you're saying that I'm gay?"
It doesn't even feel real saying those words. I can't tell if it feels like a revelation or something I'm afraid of.
"Well, do you like girls?" Thomas asks. A simple question, but I don't know if I have an answer.
I had crushes on girls growing up, but none recently. Girls were just never my main focus, dating in general wasn't something I thought about. I think about Teresa. She's a beautiful girl. Could I ever see myself kissing her? Marrying her?
The answer is on the tip of my tongue before I even know it. "No," I say. I take a shaky breath before adding, "I don't think so."
"Okay, then," Thomas says, a small smile appearing. "It's as simple as that, really. I like guys and girls. When I discovered that, it didn't change who I am. I just understood it more."
That makes sense to me, but this is still terrifying. I want to say that kissing him felt right and ask him what that means. But I think I already know.
"I'm scared, Tommy," I say softly, because it's true and because I can't think of anything else to say.
"I know," Thomas says. "We'll figure it out together, okay?"
"Okay," I agree. Thomas smiles.
Each of us take turns in the bathroom—me going second because I take the ten minutes to wash my hands—and we look through our suitcases. Vince packed a lot of my clothes, plus some of the other smaller things I'd brought there, including my phone. I turn it on to find no new texts, but Thomas gives me his and Vince's numbers. My journal is also in the suitcase, along with my mental institution approved pen.
While I was in the bathroom, I realized that I still have Thomas' hoodie on. For some reason, it feels completely different now. But I keep it on.
When we get into bed, he offers to sleep on the floor and I tell him not to. He lets me pick a side of the bed, and I pick the side closest to the door and the bathroom.
It's not exactly a small bed, but it seems small when the both of us are in it. No matter how I shift, I feel like I might as well just be on top of him. He doesn't seem as conscious as I do, but I can tell he's trying not to get too close.
I don't know what will come of tomorrow. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know what I'm even doing. Everything has changed in the span of one night, and there's absolutely no coming back from it.
And because I wanted to. Those are the last words that ring through my head before I fall asleep.