So, yeah, I'm back and I suck I know. I'm not going to ramble off my list of excuses. In short, life was being life (aka, getting in the way) And I'm sorry to the power of infinity for not updating. Thank you so,so much, everyone who has stuck by this and has continued to read, review, and add alerts to this story. As I've said before, you readers are the ones who keep me writing. Speaking of, let the writing speak for itself and without further ado, chapter 8 :)

If possible, my mood grew darker as the evening progressed, turning black as the night. Tori remained unsympathetic; dad had resigned himself to letting me be, as did Simon, though only after I had snapped that I was fine—for the fifth time—just tired. A blatant lie, but not only did I not want to involve any of them in the problem I was faced with, even if I did, I couldn't: if the situation in its entirety didn't make sense to me, how would I begin to explain it to them, how could they make sense of it?

The problem wasn't Chloe, not so much anymore. I had simply decided to accept that I thought about her slightly more than was probably usual and that was that—I was done trying to explain, and trying to fight, to not do it, proved more difficult than I had thought. So, whatever. She was on my mind rather frequently and that was that. The problem, however, was what Chloe entailed, the implications that came with her friendship and my own contributions. Chloe made me feel, in a nutshell, normal. At ease, comfortable and accepted. I enjoyed her company, liked the sound of her voice, and found myself willing to participate in conversations, either a result of how she made me feel or a natural response to what I could tell was sincere curiosity. It was this curiosity that worried me. As socially inept as I may seem, I knew that for any sort of relationship to work, reciprocity was involved. You couldn't take without giving anything back. I couldn't continue to expect openness from Chloe if I remained unwilling to give a little in return. And the closer we got, the more I could feel the truth trying to claw its way out. My past, what I did, keeping it from her seemed almost deceitful. A part of me wanted her to know, wanted to get it off my chest, lay out on the table, and if she judged me—which she understandably couldn't refrain from—then fine; at least she hadn't done so before she had even gotten to know me.

Another part, a bigger part, a more selfish part—maybe even a smarter part—didn't want to tell her, knew that I couldn't unless I wanted things to change, drastically and for the worse. I couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing that I was purposefully keeping such a big piece of information to myself, keeping her from both properly knowing and judging me, but the selfishness took over: I didn't want anything to change, I didn't want Chloe to go away and I didn't—at time thought I couldn't—want to risk it.

I wasn't dependant on her or anything; she was simply a nice change from Simon and Dad and Tori, and she had sort of snuck up on me and made a lasting impression, one that I wanted to keep present and not something exclusive to memories.

But the guilt came back, succeeded in doing so every time I turned this conflict over in my mind. If I couldn't, or didn't want to, be honest with her, then I shouldn't continue to be friends with her. It was reckless, inconsiderate, and I had a feeling that if I let myself carry on this path that involved Chloe, things would end badly for me.

And thus, my night was one of restlessness as I jumped from resolve to keep things as they were, leaving her in the dark, to guilt for wanting and intending to do so. By the time dawn broke through the heavy night, watery sunlight filling my room, I had probably slept for an hour and, establishing that any rest now would be futile and naïve to hope for, I dragged myself out of bed, intent on going for a quick run, hoping to clear my head, in the least to silence my thoughts.


Walking into class, my eyes, predictably and like a magnet, searched for Chloe, almost immediately settling on her and meeting her blue orbs.

My run did nothing to settle my inner turmoil; if anything, it strengthened the reality that I either had to put morals and principle aside and continue to hide the truth for her in my own selfish agenda, or make the decision to distance myself, the only fair solution if I couldn't—wouldn't—be honest. Eyes locked with hers, the decision I made went without question as I pushed my guilt aside and made my way over to her, sliding into the seat next to her.

"Morning," she murmured, still looking at me.

"Morning," I replied, clearing my throat—having barely said ten words since yesterday afternoon, my vocal chords had turned stiff.

She continued to look at me, seemingly ignorant of the fact that it was bordering on staring, her eyes soft and faraway. Beside the sentiment, however, there was no other indication as to what she was thinking. Without warning, a light pink began to dust her cheeks and she snapped back to reality, hurriedly zeroing back in on me.

"Tired," she blurted out, meaning it as a question as she looked pointedly at the darkened spots under my eyes.

I shrugged after a moment, slightly puzzled and more than a bit curious as to what she had genuinely been thinking, ready to bet my college savings that it hadn't been my state of fatigue.


Sitting at our usual table, I was surprised when Chloe walked into the library earlier than usual, looking simultaneously worried and determined.

"You're here ea—"

"Are you mad," she demanded, cutting me off.

"At you? Why would I be mad at you," I asked, searching for clarification and truly perplexed. We hadn't spoken much this morning, but the fact that it was morning was reason enough. And aside form that, we hadn't had any contact for the rest of the day. It wasn't as if I were an irrational person; where would she even get the idea that I was made at her?

"I was talking to Simon and he told me that when you got home yesterday, you seemed upset and-and I was j-just wondering if I had done something…" she trailed off, sounding less confidant and determined as she had in the beginning of her explanation.

As soon as she mentioned Simon, and the fact that she had talked to him, two feelings immediately rose to the surface, each fighting for dominance. The first was a mixture of betrayal and bewilderment; since when did she talk to Simon and why would she talk to my brother about me? Surely her and I had more of a relationship than she had had with him, so why would she feel the need to talk to him rather than to me? The second was less explicable. It was anger, born in the fact that one of the things that sprang to mind when I thought of Simon was that girls adored him, fawned and tripped over him, and that Chloe was definitely his type and he would just as definitely find her cute.

"You were talking to Simon about me? Since when do you talk to Simon?" These were the most important questions. As soon as I had them answered, I could begin to properly from a conclusion about what Simon had said and more importantly, the relationship they had. How long had they been talking? Did Simon have any classes with her? He was always one to verbalize and lament about his ups and down with girls—despite and amidst Tori's protests and insults—so, if anything had happened with Chloe or if he wanted anything to happen with her, he'd surely have mentioned it. At least I hoped.

"I don't talk to Simon," she said quickly.

"Really." To turn that into a question would be asinine. I didn't think it would be possible for me to sound more sarcastic.

Realizing her fallacy, she said, "I wasn't talking about you to Simon," sounding insulted and irritated, which was unexpected and a source of surprise. I didn't know she had it in her to sound so sure and steely. "Simon was in my drama class today—which was the first time we've ever really spoken," she continued, eyes narrowing as if to prove a point. "He was helping with set design. When class ended, he came up to me asking if we had gotten into a fight because he said that when you got home yesterday, you seemed upset. He was concerned and wondered if I had an explanation since we had been together. I didn't—don't—so…" she trailed off, uncertainty taking over and eliminating some of the steam she possessed earlier.

"I'm not mad at you."

"Well, were you upset? Did something happen?" She was fishing; dissatisfied with my answer. It was maddening. It wasn't as if I could explain the situation to her without sounding insane. 'I wasn't mad, Chloe, simply frustrated because you and our relationship have begun to confuse me. I enjoy the time we spend together and don't want to jeopardize it, but in doing so, I'm also lying to you. What about you ask? Well, I'm not going to tell you.' Yeah, that would go over so well.

"I was tired when he saw me." That's a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he may have thought I had been mad.

"The tired excuse, Derek? Really," she asked dubiously. She looked about as believing as she would have had I told her werewolves existed.

"Yes, tired. After I dropped you off, I needed to pick something up for my dad. Coming home, I hit really bad traffic and I hate being in cars." It was always best to remain firm and as close to the truth as possible when concealing the truth from someone—I was not proud that I knew this, but I did and didn't exploit it often.

"You hate being in cars," she asked, this time sounding more quizzical.

My mind jumped to yesterday, where we had spent a couple of hours in a car. It was true; I didn't like being in cars, they made me feel uncomfortably enclosed. Surprisingly enough, I didn't mind being in a car with her. Not wanting to say that, I said instead, "Not in them. I just hate long car rides. And I really hate traffic." Looking at her, I added, "They make me restless," deciding to add one more truth to the explanation, attempting to compensate for this one big lie.

"Okay. Glad we got that cleared up," she said professionally. If she had papers in front of her, I imagine she would have neatly arranged them in front of her.

Reaching for her books, I asked, barely registering the question, "Are you coming tomorrow night?"

She looked thoroughly perplexed, as if I had just asked her to prove the theory of relativity.

"You are probably the least spirited person at this school," I added, not entirely sure of where the good-natured jab had come from.

"Besides you," she questioned innocently, teasing lighting her eyes.

To hide my surprise that she was more perceptive than I gave her credit for—something I was still getting used to—I gave her a look, one that warned to tread carefully.

Sighing, she asked, "Your point?"

"There's a football game tomorrow night. Are you coming?"

I was oddly anxious for her answer. I wanted her to come; even more, is she did, I hoped she was walking home, hoped that I could walk with her again.

"Yes."

Biting the inside of my cheek very hard and mentally berating myself at the mere thought of my reaction, I opened her book, hoping math would reinstall some rationality into my mind.


Walking into the house after school, there were three things I wanted to do before the game: shower, eat, and talk to Simon, though the last was most important today. Running up the stairs, I strode down the hallway and opened his door: we were brothers and with Simon, I hoped I had already seen in it all.

Looking up from his sketchbook, he said drily, "Ever heard of knocking? It's a new concept, but it's really starting to gain popularity."

Ignoring his veiled jab, I said, "Can you do me a favor?"

Looking surprised, he pushed away from his desk, rolling his chair to face me—chairs with wheels having always been something that amused Simon—and sat up straighter, looking at the ready for whatever it was that I needed. I wasn't one to ask for help; I preferred to figure things out on my own, so when I did—ask for help, that is—it was never taken lightly. In fact, it seemed sometimes as if it was welcomed.

"Of course. What is it?"

"Can you refrain from going behind my back and talking to Chloe about me?" I also wasn't one to beat around the bush.

Getting a hand on his wide-eyed expression, he argued, "I understand where you're coming from. And I can respect it. But I haven't seen you that moody in a while, and since you clearly won't talk to me, I thought I'd go to who I thought could be the source."

"If I say I'm fine, I'm fine."

"You've been fine for eleven years, Derek," he retorted. I wasn't sure where that had come from, but the conversation had taken an unexpected turn, one that I wouldn't allow and had to get a reign on.

Sighing and running hand through my hair, I said, "I get it. But I really was just tired. And I'd like if you came to me about stuff like that rather than asking Chloe. It involves her unnecessarily and I only tutor her after all." At the moment, I was unsure of how true I wanted that statement to be. It seemed as if it went from glad it wasn't true to wishing it was the case daily.

He said something under his breath that I couldn't quite catch.

"What?"

"Nothing," he denied, pulling himself back to his desk and refocusing on his drawing.

As I stood there, wanting to know what he had said, he asked, without looking up from his work, "Don't you have a game to get ready for?"

Annoyed, but more concerned with the growing rumble of my stomach, I walked out of his room and headed for the kitchen, purposefully not closing his door in an attempt to gain some sort of vindication, however small.


I had been standing in the sidelines, pacing nervously, for about fifteen minutes when I finally saw her, standing on the field and looking so tiny in the grand scheme of it all.

Walking up to her, I cut her off just as she was about to make her way up to the bleachers. In the time it took to cross the distance from the sidelines to her, I grew significantly less confidant and one, could not believe I even wanted to ask this and two, couldn't even remember why I did want to. It took all I had to stop rubbing the back of my neck in nervousness.

"What's up," she asked.

"Are you planning on walking home alone again tonight," I questioned.

"Yeah, why," she replied simply.

Her response and seemingly blasé attitude irritated me, almost angered me. While I had been hoping it would be the case, though more for my sake, I was mad that it sincerely was the case. Hadn't she learned after the last time? Wasn't she concerned for her safety? Or did she enjoy being targeted? Did she want to attract danger? Pushing these wonderings aside, I focused rather on the in her answer gave me.

"Wait for me when the game's over. I'm walking you home." It wasn't necessarily a question, but it was a well-intentioned command. If it hadn't already been obvious that I was concerned for her safety, it was now.

"It's fi—"

Cutting off her attempt at seeming completely self-sufficient and able—which weren't attributes I doubted in her, just ones that wouldn't do her any good if she found herself surrounded by more than one guy, hell, even one guy—I said, "It's not fine. It's indisputable. I'm walking you home."

"I can look after myself, thank you very much," she snapped indignantly.

"I never said you couldn't," I reasoned.

"It was implicit." Sometimes, I swore she argued just for the sake of arguing, for the sake of irritating me.

"No, Chloe. It was you putting words in my mouth. Why are you being difficult?"

"The only reason you want to walk me home is because you're afraid that what happened last time might happen again," she pointed out.

As socially withdrawn as I may be, I knew, just as every other person who wasn't completely dense knew, that this act of concern, one that clearly showed care, was usually appreciated. This was why thoughts of Chloe weren't easily pushed away, were what I reverted to when my mind wasn't occupied. She surprised me, kept me guessing, and I wasn't used to that. With her, I could never be certain of what to expect for it seemed that our relationship had been slightly unpredictable from the start.

"Is that a bad thing," I asked, not bothering to hide my incredulousness.

"You think I haven't learned my lesson. That I still wouldn't know what to do if it came down to that," she disputed.

"You wouldn't. You would be exponentially safer with me around. That's undeniable, but it's also beside the point. I'm not saying you're defenseless. I'm saying that I'd much rather walk you home and know you're safe than sit at home and wonder," I admitted, my frustration affecting my filter. While that was not something I had wanted to admit—ever—and wished I could take back, I was too irritated to properly care. Why wouldn't she just comply? Did she need me to spell it out for her even more clearly than I already had?

"Okay," she said quietly, looking down and missing the bewilderment and shock that momentarily took over my expression. Were all girls like this? Or was it just her? Was she the only one who had the power to drive me completely crazy, leave me completely confused?

"God, Chloe. Talk about being dramatic. I thought you were a 'behind the scenes kind of girl,'" I said, using the words she had uttered only yesterday again her.

She stuck out her tongue and I laughed, unable to hold onto my irritation.

"See you after the game, then," she said once I recovered. Nodding, I was turning to walk away when I paused, wondering if I should say something, express that I was glad she was here, that I was looking forward to walking her home, and then decided that she was most likely causing me to slowly lose my mind.

Walking away and trying to decipher where these sudden conflicting thoughts about my behavior around her had come from, the sound of her voice, calling my name, had me turning around once again.

As I looked at her questioningly, she said, "Good luck," and I couldn't help but smirk. There was no luck in football. It was about skill, strategy and size, all of which I had. She was in for a show and for some reason, I felt very proud that she was about to see me play.


"Hey, Derek," Liam called back from the head of lineup, stepping out of it to look at me.

In short, Liam was an arrogant, ignorant, self-important, obnoxious, vulgar jackass who walked around like he was invincible.

I looked at him warily, having decided long ago that I would only speak to him when strictly necessary.

"That girl you were talkin' with? She's a cutie," he said, smiling cockily and narrowing his eyes before stepping back in line.

My fists clenched and I had an overwhelming urge to knock his stupid, southern accent right out of him.

I did not like Liam. Not at all. However, what I disliked more was the mere thought of Liam even looking at Chloe. It made me anxious, it made me angry.

Running out onto the field, I was no longer certain of who my true adversary was, who was really the threat: the opposing team or Liam. I had a wary feeling it was the latter—knowing he exploited his invincibility and having always gotten a bad vibe from him. Suddenly, I wasn't as anxious to play, to show-off. Rather, I wanted nothing more than for the game to be over and to have Chloe beside me, knowing instinctively I would only relax when she was.

I know I've been a bad author. I also didn't proofread this because I wanted to publish far too badly. But if there are mistakes, or if this is OOC because I've been gone for so long, I need to know. But you know I love comments and reviews, too. So pretty please, if not for me, for Chlerek, review? :)

**Also, I will try to update weekly. Promise