She gives me one last teasing wink, and slips out of the car, leaving me grinning like an idiot at the steering wheel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-eight
CAROLINE
I'm sprawled out on my stomach, legs bent at the knees and crossed in the air, highlighter in one hand, manuscript pages in the other.
Supposedly "working." Really? Just trying to survive the apocalypse outside my window.
Blank Spaceis screaming in my ears at full blast — pray for my eardrums — but even Tay Tay at max volume can't drown out the thunder completely.
Every boom rattles the walls like the dorm's trying to shake me out of bed. The kind of thunder that feels like it crawls under your skin and sets up camp in your bones.
So yeah, here I am, pretending I care about fixing dialogue in Act III when in reality I'm just stalling until sleep sucker-punches me. Distraction therapy, courtesy of Ms. Swift.
And no, I don't dare look toward the window.
I know what's waiting there — lightning flashing like a paparazzi camera I never agreed to pose for. I keep my eyes firmly on my manuscript and silently thank the gods of architecture that my dorm came with blackout curtains.
Call me dramatic, but thunderstorms? They're my personal horror genre.
I can deal with slasher movies, clowns, even exam weeks. But Mother Nature banging on the sky like it's a busted drum kit? Hard pass.
The clock on my desk reads 10:17 p.m. I've checked it five times in the last ten minutes. Mostly because every time thunder cracks, I jump and pretend I needed to "check the time."
I glance at the clock again, and it finally hits me how late it's gotten... and how Sam still isn't back.
She texted earlier saying she was going out with friends tonight — shocking, honestly, considering she usually spends all her free time orbiting the hockey house and mooning overElijah. But good for her, I guess. She deserves a social life that doesn't revolve around one boy with a stick.
Not that I'm one to talk.
Still... it's been pouring buckets for hours now. Two straight hours of rain pounding like the sky sprung a leak. I just hope she's safe on the drive back.
I glance at the clock again, chew my lip, and sigh. It's late. Way too late.
And Sam still isn't back.
Should I call her? Text her?
Track her down like a clingy mom withFind My iPhone? Probably.
I'm just about to grab my phone when the door creaks open, making me nearly jump out of my skin.
"Hey... was just about to call you," I blurt, tugging my headphones down around my neck.
Sam shuffles in, mumbling a flat, "Hey..." The word drags out of her mouth like she's pulling it through mud. Definitely not her usual chirpy self.
Her books and bag hit the floor right by the door with zero ceremony. Like—boom, goodbye belongings, nice knowing you. She doesn't even care if her iPad cracks in half.
Then she lumbers forward, shoulders slumped, feet barely lifting off the ground. It's less walking, more... zombie audition.
She belly-flops onto her bed face-first and, at the speed of a dying snail, claws the duvet over herself.
Uh. Okay. Something isdefinitelywrong.
I yank my headphones off and toss them onto my bed before hurrying over. "Everything okay?"
Sam doesn't even open her eyes. She just makes a noise—kind of like a "yeah," but so quiet and mangled it could also be the death rattle of a dying mouse.
