Page 32 of Elusion

“Does that make asking you weird?” I ask, but of course it does. I really didn’t think this plan through.

Finally, emotions flash through her eyes, only they cycle too fast for me to identify. I steel myself for a giant leap backward. I pushed her too far.

“I leave after my last class to go home; otherwise, I would,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait, you’re leaving Friday afternoon?”

She nods.

Fuck any subtlety. My head falls forward, and I shove the heels of my hands to my forehead to relieve the instant tension. “Worse. So much worse,” I mumble my thoughts before reining them in.

Her leaving again is worse than a setback. It means, I only have the rest of the day, tomorrow, and part of Friday left.

I need more time.

As if mocking me, the alarm on my phone goes off for class. I get up off the floor and take a deep breath to get my shit together. “What are you doing to me, beautiful?”

She stares up at me, no doubt wondering the reason for my dramatics. I lean down and kiss her forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

I walk out the door, defeated. No, anxious. No—hell, I don’t know. Conflicted.

So very conflicted.

With my adjusted timeline, I begrudgingly agree to go to band practice instead of driving Callie to her study group. A mistake. Physically, I play through our set list in the garage, but mentally, I’m running scenarios on how to speed up my progress with her.

I check the clock hanging on the wall and miss a key change. A groan comes from someone over the music, but I don’t bother seeking out the source. My fingers speed up, forcing Johnny to up his tempo.

A cymbal crashes, and I dodge his stick.

“What the fuck, Waters?”

I lift a hand in submission. “Sorry.”

Gavin drags the strap of his bass over his head. “Should we even bother practicing until after Friday?”

I wait for Benji to chime in so they can gang up on me with one of their focus groups dedicated to figuring out what’s wrong with me and my life. Instead, he puts his mouth close to the microphone and grins. “I’m hungry. Practice over.”

It’s all I need to unplug and sprint out the door. I drive over, eager to engage a new strategy—push Callie’s boundaries. Instead of worrying about spooking her, just go for it. She won’t hesitate to let me know if I’ve crossed a line.

I walk into the suite without knocking. Unfazed by my entrance, Felicia pauses the TV and waits for me to plop down on the couch with her.

“Good,” she says. “I didn’t want to watch this by myself.”

“What are we watching?”

“You’ll see,” she says, pressing play.

And see I do. Why Felicia decides to traumatize us, I never have the chance to ask. I’m too busy wrapping my head around the atrocities on the screen. Chickens confined to tiny cages where they lay eggs like machines. Male chicks being thrown into a grinder merely because they’re male. Chicks grow so huge, so fast, that they can’t even bear their weight before being slaughtered.

Callie comes in during a cutaway to the slaughterhouse. I grimace, and Felicia cries again. To protect her from what happens next, I hold her against my chest.

“Documentary about chicken farms. Worst. Thing. Ever.” I wince and force my eyes to Callie, a welcome fucking sight after the horror show. “Do you know how they make chicken nuggets?”

Felicia wails into my shirt, something about the evils of capitalist culture.

Callie rushes to shut off the TV. “Why would you keep watching it?”

“Uh, to learn how the world works, Callie. Duh.”

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