Page 222 of Rock Me All Night
14
Meg stays through the movie. She asks if I'm okay a dozen times, then goes home to study.
I soak in my time in the living room—lounging with a cup of tea in the kitchen, lying on the couch with my Kindle, spreading my shit out on the table to write an essay. Every hour feels like a gift. Soon, Drew will come home and I'll have to rush back to my room or brave that awful look in his eyes.
Afternoon turns to night. My stomach rumbles and it won't tolerate any more dry cereal or black tea. There's another little Tupperware container in the fridge marked "Kara." Delicious, I'm sure, but it makes my stomach twist in an awful way. My silence is hurting Drew. He's making me dinner and I'm hurting him.
I make a sandwich. Grilled cheese and tomato. Nothing special—my cooking skills haven't evolved much since high school.
The smell is comforting but the sandwich holds no appeal.
This isn't me. I've never been one to lose my appetite. No matter how awful I feel, I still get hungry.
I push my plate aside and turn my attention to my computer. I dive in to lecture notes and study them like my life depends on it. An hour passes. I eat three bites of my sandwich, pour myself a glass of water, and drift back to work.
The front door swings open. Drew steps inside. There's something off about him. It's like someone sucked every bit of happiness from his body.
I did this to him.
I hurt him.
He glances at me but doesn't look me in the eyes. "There's stir fry in the fridge."
"I know."
He steps onto the staircase. "Living room is yours. I'm going for a run."
He turns his back to me and jogs up the stairs.
It's the same as this morning. The room goes cold. I pull my hoodie over my head, but I'm still freezing. I sip my tea, but it's lukewarm.
Drew jogs down the stairs, headphones around his ears, gaze averted. He throws his hand up as if to wave goodbye and then he's out the door.
Again.
* * *
Igostraight to my room and put my music on max, so I won't hear Drew slamming every door in his path.
My back and shoulders are tense. There's this crick in my neck and stretching does nothing to chase it away. My bed is hard and cold. Even my finance homework is better than this awful feeling in my gut.
I need my best friend back.
My stomach grumbles. Most of that sandwich is sitting on the kitchen table, mocking me with its blandness. It's almost ten. I need to eat something if I want to make it to midnight, and there's no way I'm going to finish readingCrime and Punishmentbefore midnight.
There's light streaming from the hallway bathroom. Water running too. It sounds like the shower. So Drew is back from his run. Either my music was loud enough to drown him out or he's worked out enough tension he doesn't need to go slamming doors.
The sandwich is still sitting on the table. I finish it in four bites and wash it down with the remnants of my now-cold tea.
My stomach settles. That's got to be good enough. I trudge up the stairs with my eyes on the stark, white ceiling.
The water stops running. The bathroom door opens and Drew steps into the hallway.
In a towel.
In only a towel.
His hair sticks to his head. His lashes and lips are wet. Water drips off his chest, down his cut abs, all the way to that perfect V above his hips.
