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Sitting beside Chloe in her car was an experience so surreal in itself that I couldn't do anything besides attempt to come to terms with the situation. Even if I did want to talk to her—which I oddly did—I didn't know if I'd be able to.
For as long as I can remember—well, as far back as I like to—it's always been Simon and dad who were what I needed, what I got by on. Tori came later on, and as much as she annoyed me, even infuriated me at times, she was still part of the family. And my family was all I needed, all I wanted, and all I was interested in. But now, now I felt myself... intrigued by the girl beside me, who couldn't even be categorized as just some girl, but rather someone who seemed to be careening my way time and time again. When you thought about the logistics, our relationship couldn't be more basic or unadorned. I tutored her, she was my pupil; we hardly spoke outside of school, and when we did—whether it was inside the cement block or not—it was mostly about math. As simple as it sounded though, it was anything but. Because if it were, I wouldn't be spending as much time as I did thinking about the situation, about her.
"So, what football thing do you have tomorrow," she asked, pulling me out of my reverie.
I felt like snorting. There's no way that I'd ever willingly set foot in Liam's house. But she was unaware of the team dynamic and for the moment, there wasn't a problem with that.
"It's stupid. You know the quarterback, Liam Johnson? Well, he has a big house, furnished to the nines and once a month, he gathers the whole team in his screening room to watch football." Just saying it aloud made it sound like the most ridiculous and wasteful way to spend your time.
"Sounds like… fun," she ventured, apparently trying to be optimistic.
This time, I did snort. "It's not. At least, I assume it's not. I've never been and I don't plan on ever going. Liam invites me because we're teammates, not because we're friends. And even if we were, I wouldn't go and waste my time while they sat around, eating cold pizza, getting drunk and yelling at the TV." Normally, the pride and joy that was the football team was difficult to tolerate; inebriated, they were even worse, and remaining in their presence was an admirable feet that I believe only a saint could manage.
"Why did you tell me that you were going, then," she asked curiously, as if she were trying to piece things together. As it did when solving a problem, her brows knit together softly.
I risked a glance her way. Her face was open and she didn't sound as of she felt deceived. She looked as if she genuinely wanted to know why I hadn't told her the truth and that—the truth—she deserved.
"I didn't originally go looking for you this morning with the intention of cancelling. I wanted to see if you were okay. But that guy was with you and I just-I don't know. I didn't want to ask you with him around because I didn't know if he knew or not. So I improvised." By the end of my explanation, I was rubbing the back of my neck in what I could only imagine was sheepishness—at the time, my reasoning hadn't seemed as inane as it did when the words left my mouth.
"Okay," she questioned, referring to my original inquiry of her well being and looking clearly confused.
"About what happened after the game," I explained, somewhat disbelievingly. What else could I possibly be alluding to?
"Oh," she said softly.
"Yeah," I replied unnecessarily.
She said nothing and after a minute or two, I grew impatient. Was she purposefully not answering my question? Was she trying to drive me insane?
"Well are you okay," I asked finally, cracking. If she wasn't going to volunteer the information, then I'd have to pull it out of her, which was fine by me as long as my question was answered.
"Why wouldn't I be," she countered. How could she be was the better question.
"Some people go into shock. I don't know, Chloe," I said, blowing out a breath of frustration, "like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I am. I was. Thanks to you," she added quietly after a moment. Our eyes met briefly, hers deep pools of blue, before she turned them back to the road, leaving my head abuzz.
"Who was that guy this morning," I asked, surprising myself. I wasn't sure where the question had come from for the words flew out of my mouth, as if on their own accord, giving me no time to consciously think about what I was saying.
"Nate," she replied simply—evasively, to me.
"Wow, thanks. That really answers my question. I mean who is he to you? Because you looked completely uninterested in whatever it was he was saying."
"I was tired," she protested indignantly, before explaining, "He's just a friend. We're working on the script for this year's play together. It's a professional relationship."
I raised my eyebrows, smirking. Was she honestly that naïve? Or was she trying to play it down, too embarrassed to tell me about ass—Nate's blatant crush on her.
"What," she demanded.
"Honestly, Chloe," I said, looking over at her, "to you, it may be as simple as that. But trust me, to him, a working relationship is the last thing he wants."
She blushed and looked away. Bingo, I thought with a tinge of smugness and satisfaction. She knew and she didn't like it—she was trying to pretend it didn't exist because she'd rather avoid it, and that relieved me for some reason.
"What about you?" she countered defiantly, chin jutting out, "You don't seem particularly enthralled by your friends, especially Liam." So she'd noticed.
"Liam's a tool," I explained ingenuously, jaw set. He was more than tool—he was a dick, a prime example of an asshole. He was cocky, creepy and arrogant. He'd also been on my case ever since I joined the team, always trying to get a rise out of me, and talking about him further would only be a waste of time and end up irritating me. There were better things I could talk to Chloe about—hell, I didn't even need to talk to her. The company seemed to be enough.
"And the others," she prompted.
"Are my teammates. I play football because it increases my chances of getting noticed and getting a scholarship to a good school. On the field, we deal with each other. We work together because we have to. But forgive me if I don't want to spend my spare time with people who have the emotional maturity of five year olds. They're irresponsible, immature and naïve. They function on the belief that because they're popular now, life will always be easy for them. They don't realize that they're going to end up being be forty years old, still trying to regain the splendor of their glory days and probably living vicariously through their children." It may seem callous to have judged them as I had, but it was also the truth. Their vision was tunneled—they couldn't seem to look past anything that wasn't obvious or easy and I couldn't help it if I didn't want to be ignorant.
"That's a bit harsh," she reasoned level-headedly.
"Maybe. But all I'm saying is that I don't see the point of going out of my way to socialize with people that I am most likely never going to see again. I have Simon, my dad and-and Tori too, on a good day. It's enough, for me." It was enough for me, I reminded myself. What had happened suddenly that made me feel as if something more maybe wouldn't be so bad, that I might even want it? Nothing, I told myself.
"I can understand that," she murmured, sounding preoccupied.
We lapsed into silence and I looked out the front window pensively, watching as the trees on either side of the street steadily loomed above us before disappearing behind us. What was it—"Chloe! Stop!"
She slammed on the brakes just in time.
Just in time to miss the car that had blasted through the stop sign. The car that would have hit her. Whatever twist of fate or higher power or any other factor that had enabled me to warn her, to see the car coming and the driver's intent and act instantly, I was thankful for it. The thought of what could have happened troubled me, panicked me, and I preferred not to think about it for the time being. The important thing was Chloe and making sure she was alright.
Letting out a low oath, I looked over at her. She seemed distant and frozen, as if she were hardly breathing. Her hands were clasping the steering wheel so tightly you would have thought it was her lifeline.
"Chloe," I asked tentatively. Nothing. Not even a blink of an eye. She couldn't even hear me in her haze.
"Chloe," I said, tone firmer, placing a hand on her arm, hoping to bring her back to the present. She looked over at me, eyes meeting mine slowly, and when they did, my own widened in shock. Her eyes were wide and faraway, as if reliving something terrible, and she looked haunted and, and ghostly. I commanded her to pull over and she did, though her movements seemed robotic, as if she were purely relying on muscle memory. She remained unmoving, hands still clutching the steering wheel.
I was starting to worry, anxiety increasing my heart rate. What had happened? She couldn't be hurt, so what had provoked this reaction. Placing my hands over hers, I guided them into her lap—her knuckles had begun to grow what I deemed as unhealthily white.
"Chloe. Chloe, look at me." If she was in shock, then she needed direction, someone calm and collected to snap her out of it.
Her eyes met mine once again and I searched her face, looking for any sign of damage, before settling, looking right at her.
"Are you all right," I asked quietly, deliberately. That was the most important thing.
She nodded her head sharply, taking a moment to do so, and said, "Are you all right? I'm sorry… I-I just... I didn't-" Obviously she was that selfless, trying to take responsibility for something that could never be considered as her fault, concerned for me, even when I was clearly fine.
I shook my head firmly, cutting her off. "That was not your fault, Chloe. You had the right of way. You obeyed the speed limit. You stuck to traffic signs. It should be drivers like him that are taken off the road." She looked dubious, on the fence about listening to me, believing me, so I continued, "Okay? It wasn't your fault, Chloe. It wasn't." She could not blame herself for something she had no control over—there wasn't any logic in it and she didn't deserve the nonsensical guilt. I wouldn't let her.
"Okay," she repeated softly, finally.
She took a moment to collect herself, appearing to shake her head clear of whatever it was that was running through her head. Then she carefully put the car back into park and continued to my house. But she wasn't present—she seemed vacant, as if her body was in the car while her mind was elsewhere. She kept her distant eyes glued to the road, abiding to stop signs and speed limits with perfection.
It was the not knowing that worried me, killed me. Not knowing what had prompted this sudden change in atmosphere, her complete change in attitude. The more she ignored the constant stream of worried glances I threw her way, the more desperate I became—it seemed as if a thick wall was slowly but surely building itself between us as she appeared to be pulling into herself, retreating into whatever memory was haunting her.
She pulled into my driveway and set the car in park, looking over at me—finally—and attempting a smile that was a mere twitch of her lips, though it was clear that there was strenuous effort behind it.
Her whole demeanor perturbed me, worried me beyond explanation. If only I could pull her back—back to reality, back to me—then perhaps things would improve.
Reaching out my hand unconsciously, I intended to—to what? Touch her cheek? Pull her towards me? It was only until I was at the halfway point, fingers a whisper away from the side of her face, that I realized what I was doing and how utterly preposterous it was. Not only was I completely out of line, but it also seemed healthier, saner, of me to obliterate this sudden urge to have her close to me before it threatened to take over.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. After all, what could I say when I couldn't even grasp what was going on? Resigning myself to nodding—and making the decision that I would talk to her about the ordeal tomorrow when she had had time to calm down—I got out of the car, looking back a final time before shutting the door and walking into my house.
I was greeted by silence—dad and Tori still at his office, Simon either out or at some form of extracurricular—which was terrible for my mental state. I had nothing to distract me, to keep my mind occupied and expel the anxiety that I could not push away. Trudging up to my room, I set my bag down and looked around, for something, anything to do, before aimlessly walking around, restless, attempting, and impressively failing, to keep my mind blank.
Ultimately, after five agonizingly long minutes of unproductive behavior and one too many failed attempts to not think of Chloe, I decided to go for a run.
Running back up to my room with new purpose, I quickly changed, throwing on sweat pants and running shoes and discarding my shirt—while it was nearing the end of October, I still never found myself particularly cold and knowing I'd break out a sweat, it was unnecessary in any case, considering I hated the way the damp material uncomfortably clung to my skin. Shooting down the stairs and out the door, only pausing to lock it with the spare key, I set off with the mentality that the faster I ran, the harder it would be for me to think and at the moment, that was all I could ask for, all that I needed.
While half an hour was not a long time, at the pace I was going, I was starting to feel the exhaustion that only comes when you've physically tried to push your body to its limits. It wasn't just physical strain though, it was mental too. The run had not helped in my quest to not think of what had happened and what it meant and why Chloe had reacted the way she did; if anything, it made my thoughts spin more and more rapidly.
Coming up the side street that ran parallel to mine, resigned on heading back home, I came up short, literally halting in my tracks, for parked to the side, what couldn't be more than five feet away from me, was Chloe's car, parked with her inside, shoulders sagged and shaking, visibly upset, while she was bent over the steering wheel that she was still clutching with all her might.
My heart seemed to contract at the sight and I walked over to her, trying to regain control of my breathing. Whatever this was, it was so much bigger than I thought it had been. However, what I did know with certainty was that I hated seeing Chloe like this—it seemed wrong and cruel and I wanted to stop it before it escalated any more, wanted strangely to reassure her that she wasn't alone.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked on her window, waiting for her eyes to meet mine—taking in the tears and despair that were evident on the surface—before walking around to the passenger side and getting in.
R&R please and thank you :) (This was an early update after all :p)
