𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 11

— Chapter 11 —
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

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E L L I O T

The tearing calendar on my bedroom wall marked the date as March 12th when I woke up the next morning.

Crossing out the previous day with a faded, black marker, I stared at the date signposted on the thin paper.

The twelfth, I repeated to myself.

Trailing my eyes along the columns, I came to realize why the date felt so urgent. My eyes slowly came to rest on a marked box only ten days away. My grip on the marker loosened as I read the words that had been haunting me since I'd first turned the page over two weeks ago.

MOM was the singular world written in the box. I'd marked it on with a tight hand at the beginning of the year, harsh enough that I'd slightly scratched through the paper with the ballpoint pen I'd used.

Ten more days, I thought. A shaky exhale left my lips as the realization settled into me.

Gently resting the black marker on the small desk beside me, I picked my phone up off its charger and checked the digits that marked the screen.

10:27 A.M. March 12th, it blared, helping to settle it into me. Why did it make me feel so uneasy?

Shaking out my hair and sucking in a breath, I turned away from the calendar and tossed my phone somewhere on the bed.

Ten more days.

The thought repeated in my head several times as I'd showered, gotten dressed, and cleaned myself up that morning. The freezing air and blanket of snow outside gave me enough of an incentive to wear thicker layers—a cotton shirt, paired with a heavy jacket and the thickest coat I could find hidden away in my closet. That, as well as black jeans and boots that were beginning to look somewhat worn.

I had a shift at Joe's tonight, and I didn't feel so terrible for once. My wrist still ached, of course, but not so noticeably.

I'd managed to whip up some basic eggs for breakfast—sunny side up. Considering my terrible history of cooking, it was probably one of the only things I couldn't drastically fuck up.

Finding the box of tea I'd hidden at the back of the cupboard, I rested my gaze on it for a moment as I remembered the trouble Noah went through to get it for me. I'd prepared it with extra care that morning.

It tasted sweeter than usual.

Maybe it was the batch. Perhaps it was the quiet of the house, slowly calming my nerves. Or, maybe, it was the thought that Noah had put into the tea itself.

The memory of last night still burned fresh in my mind. The rosiness of his cheeks against the Boston cold, the misty air he exhaled, the marks on his palms, the care with which he held my hands open... it was almost too much.

Did that all really happen? I thought shyly to myself. My fingers curled around the porcelain teacup in my hands. And he gave me his number, too...

It was just shy of midday, though I'd surprisingly woken up earlier for once—if ten in the morning counted as 'early', that is. My father was off who-knows-where, probably suffering a hangover in the house of one of his female acquaintances.