“Sloane would hitchhike, is the thing.” Her shoulders softly tremble and she finally pulls away.
“Jean would, too,” she says on a sigh.
I take her hand and lead her out into the night, wishing I could bottle up this feeling. Save it for when this is over.
14
Gen
It’s nearly eleven o’clock at night when my phone’s vibrations startle me from sleep. The blue hue of its glow seems to highlight every dark corner of my room. It’s been years since the night Lily died but few things pull me back into that panicked state like receiving a call in the middle of the night. I can still hear the shuddering breath Ben took at the end of the line when I asked if everything was okay. My entire body was charged with that almost static like electricity, the one that fills the air the moment right before things are about to change, the one seeming to suffocate me now.
I squint at the name on the screen hoping it’s Jean, calling to tell me he and Ian broke up again or Sloane, wanting to rant about a rogue hookup. Instead, I have two missed calls and a text notification.
Will.
I quickly type in my passcode.
Will
Are you up?
My jaw tenses. A large part of me wants to ignore him, roll back over and fall asleep. But what if something is seriously wrong? My memory is plagued by visions of Will in the aftermath of Lily’s death; every time I spoke to him it felt like someone was challenging me to walk through a football field of eggshells, each one I broke symbolizing another irrevocable crack in who he used to be. Sometimes I wonder if all that’s left of him are those cracks, little pieces of himself working to hold each other up and if one comes down, they all will. Even though my mind knows it’s irrational to be this worried I can’t seem to untangle myself from the visceral reaction I have to him needing me.
Are you okay?
Will
Can you come over?
I know it’s late but
I really need to see you
Adrenaline unwittingly rushes against the backs of my eyes and my joints begin to throb with worry.
Yeah of course. I’ll be there soon.
I throw on the first sweatshirt hung in my closet, which just so happens to be one of Will’s. It’s old; the cuffs are slightly weathered, the vinyl indicating Will’s high school number faded. It’s heather gray, and when I slip it on my nostrils fill with a scent more familiar than my own, the smell of the first boy I ever loved. Nostalgia and guilt pelt me from both sides as I try to comprehend how I can both want to run to and away from him. Theanxiety welling in the base of my stomach does a good job of reminding me I don’t actually have much of a choice.
I don’t bother to change out of my sleep shorts, immediately turning the heat up once I’m in my car. The drive to Will’s apartment is less than a mile and I’m parked before I have time to mentally prepare for whatever state Will might be in. I rush into the lobby and am in and out of the elevator in no time, fervently rapping my closed fist against his door while I huddle into myself.
“Why didn’t you change?” Will asks, opening his door and quickly pulling me inside.
“I was just trying to get here as soon as possible.” I suck in a breath. You wouldn’t know there was anything wrong by the look of him, and I’m kicking myself for rushing over here.
He leans back against his counter, a sheepish grin on his boyishly handsome face. Golden strands fall into his eyes as he looks me over and it’s hard to separate this version of Will from the one I grew up with. Especially when it’s just us and he’s looking at me the way he is now.
“I did always like you in my clothes.” He’s coy and self assured, so blatantly flirting with me in the safety of his home, and I immediately feel annoyed that I let myself think something was wrong. That I ran to him like I always do.
“Why am I here, Will?” I grit out between my teeth, my arms crossed tight against my chest. “What could possibly be so wrong that you needed me right now?”
His throat bobs as he glances away. “Want something to drink?”
He rounds the corner, leaning down to grab one from the fridge.
“Nope, I’m good.” I’m still standing by the door, waiting for an answer.
“You coming in?” he asks, ignoring my previous question, his back to me as he walks down the corridor that leads to his room. I trudge my way down the same barren hallway, following him across the concrete floor, plopping myself down on my preferred spot of his bed before he can engulf the entire surface with his athlete sized body. Taking note of my small declaration, he suppresses a smirk and sets himself up in the far corner of his bed against the wall, nursing a beer in one hand as he runs the other through that perfectly tousled hair.
