I can’t help but laugh a little at his expression. “Because. There are things I need at my apartment. And it will be nice to crash in my own bed tonight.”
The crease between his brows deepens. “Was mine not comfortable?”
His question makes my cheeks grow warm, and I can’t stop my brain from recalling the way we slept tangled together, heat and limbs intermingling. I clear my throat. “It was very, um, comfortable.”
That wipes away the frown. He grins at my blush, looking a little bit smug. “I told you it would be.”
Before I know it, we pull into the parking lot, and he cuts the engine with a forlorn sigh. He seems genuinely upset that I’m going home, and once again, I can’t figure out why. Shouldn’t he be thrilled to have his room back to himself? Shouldn’t he be relieved not to have to worry about me and my eye and my speech? “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” I tell him.
“Tuesday’s far,” he pouts.
“Tuesday’s class is less than forty-eight hours away,” I point out, and then start to panic because that meansThe Speechis less than forty-eight hours away.
He instantly senses the shift in my demeanor, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “Hey. You’re going to be amazing up there. Try not to get too in your head about it, and if you start freaking out, text me.” He grins. “Or, better yet, just come over.”
“I’ll text you,” I assure, smirking at his persistence.
“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” he tells me, earning himself an eye roll.
“You’re too much sometimes.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Back at the apartment, my room feels different. Smaller, somehow. And when I spend the rest of the day by myself, I find that the silence isn’t as comforting as it was before. It’s almost as if something’s missing. No. It’s as if I’m missingsomeone,and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
Not sure at all.
When Monday morning arrives,I spend a half hour in the bathroom, working diligently to cover up what’s left of my wounds. The scratches are easy, but the bruising around my eye takes more time. I’m skeptical at first, but after enough light dabbing and powder pressing and trusting the process, the pink and purple skin manages to look almost normal. Well, normal enough to not draw curious eyes, at least, and I attend my classes without any strange looks or awkward questions being thrown my way.
By the time I make it back from a day of trudging through sidewalk sludge and dirty snow piles, my anxiety is at its peak. Less than twenty-four-hours until the speech now. And though I know it by heart at this point, I spend the evening going back and forth between practicing and deep breathing.
When I’ve had enough for the night, I tuck my notecards into my backpack, wash up, and crawl into the twin bed that’s not anywhere near as cozy as Wes’s. Or as warm.
As though alerted by my thoughts, my phone vibrates with a text from the Human Furnace himself.
Wes:Hey, you. How was your day?
Warmth floods my insides, and I can’t help but smile to myself. It’s hard for me to justify this sweaty-palm, pulse pounding elation, all over a stupid text message when I used to cringe of the prospect of being on Wes’s mind at all.
Me:I mean, I survived…How was yours?
Wes:Miserable without my bestie :(
Me:Be serious!
Wes:I am serious!
Me:Sureeee.
Wes:Scale of 1-10 how are you feeling?
Me:Are you referring to my face or the speech?
Wes:Both. An all-encompassing scale of 1-10.
Me:A 3 maybe?
Wes:A 3??? Do I need to perform a wellness check?!
