so how did you guys like James, eh? I had the intentions of him being a charming, likeable character, but it's wishful thinking. everyone has different preferences :)
but in other words, I did say that the chapters would be longer, however the previous one was about as long as the beginning chapter and I apologize for that. I've been swamped with homework, so this'll be about the same length as chapter 2. it's not a very good excuse, I know :( the story will really start to pick up within further chapters, so you'll have to wait for those! I'm also sorry for not updating in awhile, and it'll most likely be harder for me to update now that school has started, but I'll do my best :) without further ado, here is the chapter 3!
Tap.
Tap.
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Pause.
Tap.
I sprint up from my bed, ripping the comforter off my body. Silence fills the house except for the howling of the wind and the occasional tree branch that scrapes the side brick wall.
And that tap.
That series of knocks on my window pane that do not strike worry into my veins, but anticipation. I know well enough that it's not an intruder, but I still feel that rush of adrenaline and fear, as if it is. The fear of being caught by my mother, or even his parents. The fear of being discovered that instead of sleeping away the night in my bed like I had recently promised to my mother, I was opening my window and letting a boy into my room.
But he wasn't just a boy.
He was my best friend.
This sequence of sneaking into each other's rooms in the middle of the night had just become a typical occurrence in the past couple of years. What had started off as just one night of loneliness and needing someone to talk to had blossomed into a nocturnal routine of sharing secret laughs and quietly listening to music underneath the covers of whomever's bedroom we were staying in.
I quickly but quietly search for my glasses on my bedside table and put them on. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimness of the room, then I locate my warm slippers that have found a home in the dark, hollow space underneath my bed. I slip them on and tiptoe over to beside my bed. Hastily, I pry my curtains apart and unlock the window. Another pair of hands aids me in the process of pushing the frame upwards to create a passage large enough to slip a body through.
"You took forever. I thought I had to call 911 and report a dead body." His voice is one I have grown fond with for the past few years of my lifetime. At this time of night, it is low - well deep into the areas of a whisper. In the dimness that comes with the times past twelve midnight, his voice is more evidently intimate.
"You're one of the most impatient people I know. And the most exaggeratory. It has only been, what, two minutes? Three minutes, tops?" I pull him in the rest of the way through the opening, and once he's safely landed on the floor of my bedroom, I turn around and shut the window. But I keep the curtains pushed aside. The moonlight is our only source of illumination. Opening my lights would be too much of a risk of waking up my mother, and blocking the windows would bring upon too much darkness.
I find Austin sitting on the floor, leaning against the foot of my bed. His knees are bent upward and his hands are linked tightly behind his head. His hair is disheveled, more than usual, and when I look closely, I spot dark circles beneath his eyes. His mouth forms a thin line that forces his features to wrinkle, as if he is in pain. His head is tilted upward. The entire sight of him makes me feel a burning abhorrence for whatever had caused him to end up this way.
He was unusually silent tonight. Most of the time, he'd already be situated comfortably on my bed with his phone out as well as his old, sentimental headphones. Then he would look up from scrolling through his playlists and gesture for me to come over by patting the sheets beside him. Other days, he would still lay comfortably on my bed, but he'd smile warmly and say, "You won't even believe what happened to me this afternoon." This was only when we weren't glued to each other's sides for the day, like we would for any other. If we weren't together, then generally, it was because one of us was visiting long distance relatives.
But Austin didn't look at me. He didn't smile. He didn't take out his phone. Didn't say a word at all.
There were days when this would happen. Normally, his distress would come from receiving a test with a grade less than what he was aiming for. Despite what everyone believes, Austin is one of the best students in our school. He keeps up a persona, however, explaining that if anyone knew how serious he is about achieving excellent grades and how much he actually loved learning - "It's refreshing," he said to me one day when I found him reading from a history book. "to learn new things. It's like," he pauses, waiting for the right words to hit him. "pushing our abilities and knowledge beyond what it already knows." Then he smiled and went back to reading with his 20/20 eyesight. - he'd be deemed as "a dork".
"So what I am, Austin?" I asked him, slightly offended that being concerned about grades and loving education was identified as "dorky".
"You, my Allycat," he said as he pulled me into a protective and affectionate embrace. He tucked my head under his chin, as he was quite tall for his age. "are adorkable."
It was then, that I had acquired a newfound appreciation for the word "dork".
But today wasn't one of those days. There was a silence, yes. But it wasn't a frustrated silence that came from an A- or worse, a B. It was a strained silence. The room was filled with tension that emitted from Austin, though I could not figure out what the issue at hand was.
Tentatively, I walk over to Austin and kneel in front of him. I grab his hands, feeling the stiff posture of his muscles. "What's wrong?"
He infuriatedly removes his hands from my own and runs them both through his hair. He abruptly stands up and crosses the room over to my bookshelf. He stares at the pictures I have of my father and my mother, and myself. One particular picture he picks up, frame and all, of my mother and father during their anniversary a week before he died. That photo was taken over two years ago.
Out of nowhere, he throws the picture, frame and all, across the bedroom. The edge of the frame creates hard contact with the wall opposite of my bookshelf, and the glass protecting the picture shatters into pieces. Everything falls to the floor, and the picture floats onto the sea of shards and wood.
"What the hell was that, Austin?" I yell at him. Not entirely. It was still within the areas of a whisper, but louder. The crash of the picture frame should've woken my mother up, but it didn't, and I had no objective of waking her up now, with any outrageous screaming.
He's breathing hard and still facing the bookshelf. His back is turned to me, and I can visibly see his shoulders moving in time with his breathing. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. Like he's gauging what had just happened, realizing what he had done. He's calming himself down.
"I swear to God, Austin. What the hell was that?" I repeat. I'm angry. No. Now I'm the one frustrated. That was one of the last pictures I ever had of my father before his death.
Austin turns around, finally, after a few more minutes. His face is not what I would have expected. He was defeated. He was tired. Something was eating him up inside, and he wouldn't tell me what it is.
He groans. "Jesus, I-I'm so fucking sorry, Ally." Again, he runs his fingers through his hair, then scratches the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."
He's been doing that a lot more frequently, now that I think about it. For the past month, he'd sigh, or huff, or pull at his roots. He'd close himself off for a second, then go back to smiling. But it would be emptier than it was before.
Except this time, he didn't smile, or laugh it off.
He unexpectedly walks over to my window, unhooks the latch, and climbs out. Before he completely leaves my room, he stops.
"I'm sorry, Ally."
"Stop saying you're sorry and just tell me what's wrong."
"Everything's fine. Look, I'm sorry. Really. I just have to go right now. I'll see you tomorrow."
He lied. He'd never lie. Not to me.
Tomorrow comes, and he's back to smiling. Like last night had never happened.
Like our future was not leaning on the side of destruction, and our entire friendship would come crumbling down.
Although my friendship with Austin had deteriorated over the years, the closeness of our two families had never dwindled.
While the Moons were away at Colorado, my mother had kept in touch with them. Every evening before dinner, I'd come downstairs from my room and spot my mother making herself cozy on the single armchair next to the landline. And every time, she'd be laughing, smiling, or gossiping in whispers to Austin's mother. I don't believe she'd ever caught me watching her, what I suppose were private, conversations. So I would retreat into the kitchen and set the table while she would enter a couple minutes after to start cooking whatever mouth-watering concoction she had that night, or to preheat yesterday's leftovers. As we ate at the table, she would start up about how much Mimi "missed her little kitten."
I was always everyone's little kitten when I was younger. But it started with my father. There's no sob story that I would associate with the nickname, just that he bought me my first ever Kit Kat when I was six years old, and ever since then, I had been obsessed with them. Obsessed. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner obsessed. After a while, my first cavity came, and that's when my mother told me to "turn it down a notch."
Kitten really stuck with me once Austin started to use the nickname. There are so many instances I can recall where I'd be lying on my stomach across his bed, unwrapping a Kit Kat while completing my assignments. Austin was aware that my mother had started to limit my candy cravings at the time, but he never told me to stop. In fact, he thought I was so obsessed that if I ever went a minute without satisfying my cravings, I'd shrivel up and die on his watch.
"Kitten," he'd say. "I do not want to be responsible for your death, whether it be you having some serious withdrawal issues from being restricted from your candy, or you overdosing on those Kit Kats."
I glare at him. "Are you trying to stop me from consuming my only life source?"
His eyes brighten and he grins. Grins.
Conceited asshole.
He gestures with his hand. "By all means, keep going."
I nod my head in satisfaction, continuing to eat my beloved chocolate wafers.
"Just watch yourself, Ally." He chuckles and goes back to his own work, and I shoot daggers into the back of his head.
I hate that all these memories are slowly resurfacing again.
originally, this chapter was supposed to be longer. I started it in the summer, but then I put it off for a long time and I just wanted to put something together for you all. it seems more like a filler now that I look at it. but at least you get a glance at austin & ally's past ;) I'll try to get another chapter in as soon as I can.
by the way, how is school going for you guys? starting a new school? a new grade? do you like your classes? not only am I interested with what your opinions are of my story, but I'd love to get to know you all, as well :)
on another note, thank you for all the reviews so far! you're all so sweet!
and CassyR5- yes! I do watch Teen Wolf (I may or may not be obsessed with it)! the Coach in this story is inspired by Coach Finstock hahaha, you'll be seeing more of him in future chapters [points and winks]
jusqu'à la prochaine fois!