All Damn Day | Post Malone

Chapter 8

Sophie

His room isn't what she expected it to be. She expected beer cans and ashtrays and clothes strewn upon the floor. She expected slept-in sheets and tossed aside shoes. She expected a mess, quite honestly, but what she gets is a bare space instead. The bed is neatly made and the few things he does have are properly placed throughout the room, and she briefly wonders if it was a product of his own organization or if he had someone do it for him.

She doesn't stray from her spot as he leaves to get the water she requested— she nearly didn't ask for it, her instinct of never wanting to make people go out of their way for her forming the word no before she caught it in its tracks—and each ticking second with him gone is another test of her decision. But he seems like a genuinely nice person, and he's already doing more to make her comfortable than she'd expected, so she plants her bare feet into the gray softness of the carpet, forcing them to stay put even though one of them is itching to run back out the door.

She pushes back her hair but it just falls out of place again, and she uses the excuse to just dismantle her braid altogether, all the while acknowledging that it's more so she has something to do with her hands than because she's frustrated with it. She takes the thin silk scrunchie off the end and puts it around her wrist as she unplaits the woven strands, letting the waves fall naturally over her shoulder instead. She runs her fingers through her hair to make sure it lays flat, and she's not quite sure what to do with them afterwards. She feels awkward just standing here, but the only other option is to sit on the bed and she's certainly not doing that.

So she simply clasps her hands together, letting them hang in front of her as casually as she can manage, but she still feels like her back is too straight and shoulders are too sternly set.

She probably should get on the bed, she thinks, but she can't work up the courage to do so. Partly because she doesn't want to seem presumptuous—although part of her acknowledges how ridiculous that sounds—and partly because she's afraid allowing her feet to move will give them the freedom to go in the wrong direction. She wants to stay here, dammit, and she doesn't want to let her nerves dictate her life.

Well, even more than they already do, at least, she amends.

The door opens across the room then, and Post enters with his arms full of two water bottles and two BudLights. He gives her a smile, seeming equally surprised and pleased that she's still here. She smiles back, though it's such a small quirk of her lips that she wonders if he can see it at all.

She continues standing just inside the room while he quietly closes the door, and he strides over to the bed as she folds her arms in front of her, her thumb nervously rubbing slow strokes over her forearm.

He hesitates by the side of his bed, like he's trying to figure out what his next move should be, and she hopes to God he doesn't ask her because she doesn't have a clue, either.

"I, uh, I brought up a beer for you, too, if you wanted one," he says kindly, holding up the cans in his hand like he's showing her proof. She doesn't particularly care for alcohol, especially beer, but he doesn't know that—why would he, really?—so she appreciates the gesture all the same.

"Oh, um, I'm not much of a drinker," she says, before adding on some words at the end so she doesn't seem ungrateful. "But thank you."

He smiles at her again, nodding his understanding before he places the bottles and cans on his nightstand. The cold drinks are already starting to sweat in the heat of the summer, and it's then she realizes his room is lacking the frigid chill of central air that circulates throughout the rest of the house. It's pleasantly warm in here, actually, and she wonders how he manages to keep the oppressive California heat at bay without turning his room into an icicle.