Page 34 of Ticket to the Stars: Part One

“It’s fine,” I muttered, slow to pull my gaze off her and walk into the kitchen. My favorite late-night snack was a Hot Pocket, and that’s what I pulled out of the freezer and popped into the microwave for myself.

I tried to ignore her, but for some reason, I couldn’t get the thought of her in that stupidly oversized hoodie out of my head. It had a school’s name on it, I think, and that told me it was something she’d brought with her—and it was something she could never wear outside.

Pushing her out of my mind, I got myself a bottled water and a plate. Try as I might, something in me made me glance at her, and even from across the room, I could see the expression on her face—it wasn’t a good one. Angel was slouched over, her lips puckered. She almost looked sick, or in pain, or something.

My Hot Pocket still had a minute left to cook. I found myself asking, “What are you doing up?” Not once, other than that first night, had she ever been up and about this late. She had the most normal sleep schedule out of all of us.

Angel glanced in my direction. “I couldn’t sleep. I don’t, um, feel that good.” Quickly, she added, “I’m not sick. I just… I just feel bleh. My stomach hurts. It’s, uh—” She coughed and quieted. “—a girl problem.”

Fuck. A girl problem? My face must’ve told her what I was thinking, because Angel went on, “Anytime I don’t feel good, I always sit on the couch and watch TV. Something about the couch makes me sleepy… usually. At home it does. It’s not really working tonight.”

My Hot Pocket was nearly done, but I found myself pulling away from the microwave all the same. I said not a word more to Angel as I walked down the hall.

Don’t ask me what I was doing. I mean, I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t knowwhyI was doing it. I shouldn’t care if she was in pain or having girl issues or anything. It wasn’t my problem. She wasn’t my problem.

I went to my room, headed straight to my nightstand, and pulled open the tiny top drawer. Even in the dark, I found what I was looking for. My fingers curled around the bottle, and I picked it up and shut the drawer. Returning to her, I offered it to her.

“Would this help?” I asked quietly, watching as she divided her stare between the bottle in my outstretched hand and my face. The way those blue eyes stared up at me, you’d think I’d just offered her the world.

It was just Advil. Nothing special about it. My stash of Advil for hangovers that needed an extra kick to put down. It really wasn’t a big deal.

“Maybe,” Angel whispered. She lifted a hand, slow to bring it toward mine. Her fingers curled around the bottle, grazing my palm accidentally.

Holy shit, her fingertips were soft.

“Thank you. I don’t have any of my own.” She brought the bottle to her lap. “I guess I should get some.”

“Yeah, well. Whatever.” I took a step back from her. “I’ll get another one. You keep that one.”

Her blue stare was on me once again. “Thank you, Deacon.” Her voice was soft and gentle, and it made me wonder what it’d sound like saying my real name.

All I said to that was, “Okay.” I gave my back to her, slow to return to the kitchen to fetch my Hot Pocket out of the microwave. I slipped it out of its cardboard-like tube—that was supposed to help it get harder in the microwave, but I didn’t think it actually helped—and onto the plate. I grabbed the water bottle and the plate and wandered to the island, about to slip onto a stool.

I didn’t like bringing food into my room. I knew myself by now to know that I never cleaned. If I got crumbs everywhere, those crumbs would stay until the end of time. So, because I didn’t clean, I tried not to make a mess in the first place.

It made sense if you didn’t think about it too hard.

I heard Angel fumbling with the lid to the bottle, and I stopped seconds before sitting on a bar stool. My head turned in her direction, and I waged an inner battle with myself as I listened to her try to open the Advil bottle like she was a child and the lid was childproof.

All you had to do was push down and turn the lid a certain way. As a girl, shouldn’t she be used to that by now? How helpless was she?

I heaved a sigh to myself. Unless I wanted to listen to pills rattling around while I was eating, I better just go over there and do it for her.

I abandoned my water and my Hot Pocket, walking over to her. “Here,” I mumbled, “give it to me. I’ll open it for you.”

“I can do it,” she whispered as she laid her whole palm against the lid to push it down, like she really needed to use elbow grease or something. She then turned her palm, and the lid followed suit. “See? I got it. I—”

The moment she tried to pull the lid off the bottle, she found she did not actually have it. The damned thing was still locked. She offered it to me as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Childproof and Angel-proof,” I muttered, taking the bottle and opening it in a one-two-three gesture. Easy-peasy, although apparently not for her.

Angel bit her bottom lip after once again thanking me, and I handed her the open bottle and its lid back. I returned to my water and Hot Pocket as she dumped two pills onto her hand and replaced the lid.

My eyes landed on my water and then the Hot Pocket.

Goddamn it.

I took the water bottle and the plate, bringing them to her right as she was about to get up. “Here,” I offered her the water bottle. “I’ll grab another one. And eat this. You shouldn’t take those on an empty stomach.” I set the plate beside her on the couch.

---