When I get home, it's about dark. Which really just means it's five o'clock in the great American Midwest. Snow is piling up on the sides of our drive - and the drifts are only getting bigger. Josiah's mom invited me to eat supper with them, but I told her I should be getting home. Snow was coming down thickly then, and it's still worsening.
I'm seriously wishing I could park in the garage. But that's for VIPs - Very Important Parents.
As soon as I walk through the black front door and into our homey mudroom, I feel a wave of relief wash over me. I'm home. I'm home, and that's all that matters.
"Nick? Is that you?" My mom's voice rings out from the kitchen, high and clear.
The door clicks shut, allowing one last puff of cold through behind me. "Yeah, I'm here."
My dad's sat in our dank - not "cool" dank, mind you - living room, and he looks up to me when I come in, still trying to shake snowflakes out of frozen my hair. "Where've you been?" he asks, looking over his shoulder at me whilst Jeremy Wade scuba dives on the TV screen. Climactic music plays as I take off my jacket.
"Animal shelter," I tell him, sitting down next to him.
My brother, Ben, who's sat in front of the TV, doesn't even turn around. "Two-point-seven million cats are eutha-euthan-- put down - each year," he says. Ben has a habit of quoting documentaries - that kid has a head for knowledge, just like I do theatre. Or, maybe even better said, drama.
"That's awesome, my dude," I say with a slight smile, running a hand through my drenched hair and hanging up my damp jacket. "I didn't miss dinner, right?"
"Just about." My mom steps out of the kitchen, dark - almost black - hair in a horrifically messy bun. "I'm just dishing it up now. Go wash up." She doesn't sound too impressed, but I know she doesn't really care as much as she's putting on – her eye brow isn't quirked.
I head to the bathroom to wash up, i.e., stare at my reflection and pick myself apart. Maybe pop a few pimples. The usual.
There's nothing I can do with my hair - it's kind of shaggy in a way, and when it's wet, I can try and shove it out of my squinty eyes. They're a kind of 'meh' blue - not discoloured, but nothing like Josiah or freaking Elijah Wood. (I would kill to have Asa Butterfield eyes, believe it or not.)
I do wash my face, because I think I might have let kittens rub up against it. Along with every part of me, of course. Who knows - it's all a tired blur.
Dinner is basic, which is almost a little disappointing - I know Mom and Dad will be going out tomorrow for dinner, which is fine, but that means that I'll be making dinner for me and Ben, who will definitely be unbearably but adorably high on candy. The kid's actually popular, which is great - he watched a game of baseball one night, then went to school the next day and joined some game. He crushed it; the kid replicated the home run he saw the night before. Suddenly, everyone in the fourth grade wanted to be his best friend.
If only it were so easy in high school.
"I think I'm getting a girlfriend," Ben announces as he twirls his (disappointingly-basic, but thanks, Mom) spaghetti.
"Oh, really?" our mom says, smiling. She and Dad and Ben all smile the same way: this tired thing that seems almost snarky, but is easy to read as sincere (if you're not socially intelligent enough to realize when they're kidding; they're sarcasm queens, all of them). I don't share it - although I don't really smile when not forced. I don't think, at least. (Maybe I do, and I just don't have the self-awareness to realize it.)
"Yes," he says matter-of-factly. "Her name is Jenny, though she told me to call her Jerry. She plays baseball with me in the gym at recess."
"Why Jerry?" Dad leans back.
Ben shrugs, his face going red. "I don't know. She just did."
"Ben and Jerry, duh," Mom says, smiling in her odd way. "She sounds cute."
I finish off the last of my (still basic) pasta and chug the rest of my water. After pushing out my chair, I tousle Ben's hair. "Yeah, she does." My phone is heavy in my pocket. "Also, I've got crap-tonne of homework." Lie.
My bedroom is pretty clean - it's covered in posters from musicals, both ones I'm obsessed with (ahem, Be More Chill) as well as school ones (the Shrek one is slightly torn, and that makes me sad. Sadder than it probably should).
My bed is too big, which is part of the reason why I never have guys in here. (Even if they wanted to come . . . which they don't.) It just screams, "I'M PERMISCUOUS. DO STUFF ON ME. LOOK - FLUFFY BLANKET. SO DIRTY. MUCH DIRTY." The bedding is wrinkled, and I don't sleep with a top sheet, because who even needs that extra hassle?
I still love the navy blue of the walls, especially with my white book cases and tidy IKEA TV stand. It makes me feel together, if that makes any sense at all. (It probably doesn't.)
Part of me knows I should shower, but I decide I'll do it tomorrow instead.
After all, I kind of want to look nice for Secret Guy. It's not an occasion that requires my usual bedhead.
My phone is out of my pocket as I'm shutting my curtains - it's freezing in my room, and the snow is still slowly but vigorously attacking the street. It looks pretty deep already - three inches at least. Let my inner groan roar.
I mean, seriously - it'll still be Cupid Day and there's going to be a butt-load of snow? Ugh. So much ugh. Maybe this whole "secret admirer"-thing will make it more bearable. . . . Or it'll make it worse. That's just as likely.
I can't wait till tomorrow, lol.
Secret Guy, me neither.
My breathing seems unusually slow as I type, So are you just telling me now then? Bcz I'd like that a lot
Noooope. That would be breaking the ruuuuuules ;DDDDDDDD
What rules? I ask him.
.....My imaginary rules.
You're infuriating.
I think you mean adorable.
I'm going to do it. Flirt. (I think, at least.) Maybe I do. What are you going to do about it? Is this even flirting?
This is me on tired. It's not good.
I'm blushing too hard to answer....
Then, he says, I want to call you. Bad.
Then call me, I say. Desperately, as I am.
But I can't talk to you
Yes, I say, typing swiftly, you can.
I have this whole THING planned for you. seriously. I don't want to ruin it
Can you tell me about this THING?
He hesitates. I can feel it through the screen. Then, No. I'm sorry. I just....
Want me to be completely WOOD tomorrow, right?
UGH. YOU'RE SO ADORABLY INFURIATING. I REALLY LOVE IT. BUT AT THE SAME TIME, UGGGGGGGGGH. He adds, Sorry if that was forward but that's how I feel.
This is blush-worthy. Probably. More than probably, actually, because my cheeks are warm and positively radioactive at this point, I'm sure. Still, I wouldn't know - Edward never did anything to make me blush. Maybe there was some stuff that could have made me blush if I hadn't known that he had some angle.
There's almost always an angle with Edward.
Oh.
I think of the hug. And him not answering his phone when I've texted him, or how I haven't seen him listening to music the past couple of days. I thought that it was just him being salty, but what if he got a new phone or something?
What if this is just him pulling a whatever-her-name-was from Will Grayson, Will Grayson? Him faking being my online boyfriend, or whatever. Crush, boyfriend. Secret admirer. Secret admirer is what he's doing. Maybe this is completely different than what I'd originally thought - maybe Secret Guy isn't just making fun of the "Gay Guy".
Maybe he's trying to get back at the Gay Guy. Maybe he's trying to get the Gay Guy back.
Maybe he's just being his usual, venomous self.
Here's the thing: I don't usually even have a problem with Edward - it's only when he gets weird and possessive and creepy and just too much that we have issues.
It was very forward, yeah, I tell him.
I like how you dodged a response to that, lol. ;D
I play a lot of dodgeball, yeah
Oh, yeah. Yeah. Lots of yeahs. In my head, there's Josiah's smile for a split-second, before it's replaced with Edward's glower. I blink. Think of David's collarbone. That always relaxes you.
Are you mocking me?
No.... yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
That made me laugh. It's not a lie.
That made me happy. And thats the truth, he says.
I don't even have time to respond before I see him typing again, and decide to just sit back and stare at my phone's screen for a scary-long time.
Finally, he sends whatever it was that was taking him so long.
Honestly, Nick, seeing you makes me happy. I've seen you pretty much everyday for the past few years. In the halls, I want to walk you to class like some kind of weird gentleman and hold your stuff and your hand and tell you that you look lovely and just breathe you in. At lunch--this probably sounds cheesy and weird and all that jazz--I want to sit next to you and hold your hand some more. Maybe feed you grapes like it's some cheesy movie or something. (If you're into that kind of thing. Because I would definitely be if you were. But if you're not, then. . . Ew. Gross. Grapes and romance and graaapes.)
Nick, I want to go out with you. On dates. Like, ferris wheels and stuff. Actually, yes. Amusement parks. Let's do one. If you want to. But like think about it: us winning each other stuffed bears and goldfish and maybe even Justin Bieber calenders (that we can later destroy viciously if you want). (With fire. . . Ya, fire and romance and fiiiiiiire.)
I want to be kind to you, all day everyday. I want to get to know you better, and all that glorious vice versa.
I want to hold you and make you feel loved. Because yeah, I maybe don't know you enough to really "LOVE" you. Yet. But I want to. So freaking badly, you have no idea.
I find myself looking for you in everything, because I want to be close to you all. The. Time. I want to hang out with you and talk to you and do whatever you want to do.
I'm already yours
Would you be mine? (pretty pretty please?)
I stare at it. The entire thing - he had to send it in giant chunks, and my heart sped up with every line. I think I might be sweating. A lot. Like, a lot, a lot.
Jeez.
He's a romantic.
I can't say I don't like that.
I feel like I can feel him breathing on the other line, tensely, worriedly.
Maybe, I said. Just who are you?
I'm secretive, he says. That's all I can tell you. For now. And I'm sorry about it.
I turn off my phone. It's all just . . . ugh. Too. Much.
Then I turn it back on, because there's not much else for me to be doing at the moment.