A promise is a promise, and I owe the wonderful readers and reviewers an update. This will be an odd occurrence-a quick update, that is-but I miraculously had a limited amount of homework this weekend. To the aforementioned readers and reviewers, I think it's safe to say you're some of my favorite people :)
Was she insane? Or just pitifully ignorant? I knew that she knew she was being followed—I could tell by the way she had been carrying herself. She knew and yet she acted as she did. I honestly thought she was smarter than that. She should have turned right around when she saw them, surrounded herself with people immediately. Had she thought she'd be able to outrun them? Even if there had only been one, it would have been an impossibility; Chloe was five feet nothing and max a hundred pounds. With four of them, she may as well have strutted over to them and begged for trouble.
Her relief dissipated and puzzlement took over. Brow furrowed, she opened her mouth, but I cut her off angrily. "Were you aware that you were being followed," I demanded, giving her the chance to contradict my assumptions.
"Yes."
She sounded so infuriatingly calm that I wanted to shake her. Was she masochistic? Did she have no sense of self-preservation? "But—" She attempted to continue—apparently taking notice of my incredulousness—before I stopped her once again.
"You were aware that you were being followed and you didn't try to find help." Again, I wanted to make sure things were clear, that we were on the same page, that in my panic, I hadn't misinterpreted anything. Her eyes said it all and I pushed away my all-consuming disbelief to focus on more important things—like making sure she properly understood what had happened—ignoring once again the opening of her mouth.
"Do you want to be a victim," I inquired hotly. "Why don't you wear a sign that says 'Easy Target' or 'Defenseless and Stupid'?"
The thought of her being targeted upset me for reasons I couldn't explain. I wasn't mad at her, but at the same time, I didn't know who to be mad at. She hadn't done anything to diffuse the situation after all, so, for the moment, my anger could be justified—it seemed more logical than the absurd worry that was threatening to dominate.
"I'm sorry that you don't approve of how I acted. What do you suggest I could have done? You saw them, all four of them. Was I supposed to turn around and walk back towards the field? Because, if their intentions were what I assume they were, that wouldn't have happened. I don't live far, Derek. I was hoping to make it home," she interjected finally with a hard edge to her voice, as if taking injury to my justifiable words.
"That's naïve," I snapped, growing more irritated at her innocent mentality. "As soon as you saw them, you should have turned right around and gone back to school. You wouldn't have stood a chance against them. And they would have hurt you, Chloe. Believe me, they would have hurt you."
This fact had my heart beating hollowly against my ribs, the sound ringing in my ears. The truth that she had been so close to being victimized thoroughly alarmed me, oddly made me want to have her in sight at all times, just to make sure she was safe. The mere thought of those monsters made my fist curl involuntarily at my side.
"So far you've called me stupid and naïve. Would you like to throw any more insults at me? Because if not, I'd really just like to go home." Her voice was still strong, but there was a shakiness to it, as if my words had finally entailed some sort of response.
I didn't say anything—didn't know what to say—so I settled on looking at her. I didn't mean to insult her, didn't mean to make her upset. But I wanted her to understand the gravity of the situation so that she'd make it a point never to be in a similar predicament again, which also provided me with peace of mind. I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, I realized more than a bit startlingly.
Firming up her glare, she spun to leave, but I grabbed her elbow, holding her in place, not wanting to leave things like this—with her mad at me because she didn't know where I was coming from.
"I just want to make sure that you understand that you need to be more careful," I said levelly, hoping that she'd give me the reassurance I seemed to desperately need.
"Why do you even care," she snapped, sounding exasperated.
I dropped my hand and took a moment to consider her words, truly perplexed. I did care—more than I wanted to admit—but the problem was that I truly didn't know why.
She remained silent after I quietly admitted that, staring at the ground. At this point, my anger had evaporated and I was left with worry.
"Are you okay," I asked carefully, hoping for the best—that she wasn't going into shock or that something hadn't happened before I got to her.
She looked up at me and even if I had wanted to hold onto my anger—a better alternative to my anxiety—I wouldn't have been able to. Her eyes conveyed just how relieved she was, how shaken she was. They looked faraway, as if she were reliving the moment, and tumultuous.
Without thought, I stepped closer to her before stopping, finally registering what I had done, what I had intended to do. I wanted to reassure her, tell her that she was fine and safe now. But how could I do that? Hug her? Yeah, because that wouldn't freak her out at all—not to mention I'd probably break her. And I was not a hugger, either. Standing close to her would have to be enough, would have to suffice. Strangely, I felt better, relieved by our proximity, releasing tension I hadn't been aware of. Deciding though, that this night had been rambunctious enough, that I couldn't take much more of things I couldn't explain, I said decisively, "C'mon, I'm walking you home." Perhaps distancing myself from her all the while knowing that she was alright would enable me to organize my unwarranted thoughts.
"Derek, you don't have to. I appreciate the effort, but honestly, I'm fine. Everything's fine now," she protested, voice steady, though it sounded as if she were trying to convince herself rather than me.
It was almost laughable—did she really think I'd let her walk home alone, in the dark, after what had just happened? I brushed past her and after a moment, I heard a quiet sigh as her footsteps brought her closer to me.
After a few minutes of walking in silence, I couldn't help it; I needed to know the reason why she was, in another way, straying from the norm.
"Shouldn't you be at a party or something," I asked. After every game, there was unquestionably a party somewhere held by someone, regardless if the team had won or loss—it was either celebratory or consolatory and the entire school population seemed to flock to them.
"Shouldn't you," she countered, peering up at me.
She had apparently picked up on my lack of social enthusiasm during her days of assessment. I knew she was smart and I had to bite back my smirk at her confidant perception.
We continued on in silence, though she didn't seem to mind and neither did I. Without warning, she stopped and turned, placing herself in front of me.
"This is me," she said.
My eyes flicked to the house and a new wave of curiosity came crashing down. It was darkened—not a light on—and it looked distant, as if it weren't lived in, and empty. There was a definable hollowness about the whole picture, which again, was another incongruity. Chloe seemed like the type of girl who came from one of those secure, warm families. She looked the part, but her house completely contradicted the image.
"Home alone," I asked casually, attempting to veil my unappreciated curiosity.
"My dad's always away on business and my aunt's working late tonight, which is why I'm home and not at her house," she explained.
Her dad was always away on business? Was it because he had to be or was he one of those workaholics? How often did she see him? What was their relationship like? And what about her mom? I hadn't missed the fact that she hadn't mentioned her, so what was the story behind that? While I was dying to know, I absolutely refused to pry—how rude was that?—especially into the life of a girl I barely knew.
I settled for nodding, but as I turned to go, she placed a hand on my arm to stop me.
"Thank you. For everything," she said steadily.
"I wasn't about to let something happen." I don't know what had compelled me to say it, but it was true. Simply thinking about her in harms way made my heart speed up and I had to fight to keep my hands relaxed.
"Still. I really appreciate it," she insisted.
We regarded each other for a few moments and I wasn't sure what to do. It was evident that this was where we were to part ways—one of us just had to say goodbye, offer up an unoriginal 'See you Monday,' and that was it. But I was suddenly unsure of leaving her alone in such an empty house. What if something happened?
"Ok, so I guess I'll see you Monday then," she said, making the decision.
I could have—should have—agreed, but my eyes strayed once again over to the house, the house she'd be alone in.
"I'm okay," she said quietly, soothingly, as if to reassure me. She even genuinely looked it—okay, that is.
"You're okay," I repeated, nodding to myself and finally believing it. She was okay, perfectly fine, so I had nothing to worry about. There was nothing I should be worrying about.
She looked at me evenly once more before turning and walking up the drive, pausing to unlock the door before closing it firmly behind her. I could not pry my feet away from their spot on the sidewalk until I saw the door close, until I had the final assurance that she was safe.
Walking in the house, I unsurprisingly headed straight for the kitchen. The walk back to school and the drive home had been unsettling, filled with questions, so I finally reconciled on thinking about what I did know—which, disappointingly, wasn't much—and nothing else.
Dad was in there, sitting on a stool with his laptop open and his coffee within arms reach.
"You're home late," he stated, sounding surprised.
This was untrue; it was ten fifteen and I was the first to be home—Simon and Tori were still out, doing God knows what. Usually home at nine thirty though, it was in fact, late for me.
I shrugged, hoping he'd drop it, and opened the fridge, digging through its contents.
"Where were you," he asked with barely veiled interest.
This was a precarious situation and my answer had to be carefully crafted. I couldn't say that I'd been talking to coach Parker because—as everything else goes at our illogical school— whether we won or lost, he, along with a few other teachers who had no concept of the word 'appropriate,' went out and, in lack of better terms, got smashed. It was pathetic, but it was true. And I couldn't—
"Derek," he said, voice compelling me to turn around. Apparently, I had taken too long to respond, which meant that he knew that I was looking for a way out of explaining and which also meant that I had to explain the reason for my tardiness for he was now alert, completely focused on me.
I looked him in the eye and his expression said it all—'Don't even think about lying.'
Sighing, I turned back around, saying, "I walked Chloe home."
I heard nothing for a few moments and slowly, turned once again to face him. He was looking at me as if I had grown another head, like he was debating on whether or not to ask me to repeat myself.
Finally, he regained equanimity and he focused on me. "Oh," he said lamely. "That—that's nice."
I gave a sort of half-nod and reached over to put a container of pasta in the microwave, willing the minute and a half to go by more quickly.
"How's tutoring going," he asked, tone firmer than it had been.
"Fine." I wanted to roll my eyes—this was how he was going to broach the topic?
We fell into silence once again, the whizzing of the microwave serving as the only punctuation to the quiet. Before it had time to beep, I grabbed the bowl and a fork from a nearby drawer, hoping to escape anywhere that wasn't here.
"Der," he called, beckoning me back when I thought I was home free, almost at the patio doors.
I looked back at him warily as he asked, "Well?"
This confused me. Had he asked a question I hadn't heard? Was he not satisfied by the 'fine' I had provided him with?
"'Well,' what?"
"Is she pretty," he asked, not even having the decency to hide his mischievous smile—it was times like these that gave me a clear picture of Simon in about twenty five years.
I glared at him and his smile seemed to grow. "What," he asked innocently. "Simon said she was pretty. I was just wondering if it was true."
"Simon says a lot of things," I snapped before spearing a noodle and walking away and out onto the patio, closing the door on his chuckling.
I was not going to go there. I was not going to think about Chloe's attractiveness. Instead, I would focus on Simon. And how I would make him pay.
R&R please :)
