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(vol ii.)— FORTY FOUR: FOR THE GIRLS
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"STOP YAWNING, SARAH!" demands Lydia, balancing two containers of hair supplies in her arms as she trails behind Allison, who's lugging three large train cases full of makeup into the redhead's living room. "Girls day has barely even started, you're not allowed to be bored already."
"I'm not bored!" Sarah insists, a little too quickly that it almost sounds like a lie, despite the fact that it's completely true. She feels another yawn coming along and does her best to stifle it. "I'm just tired."
And that, despite the utter quickness with which she'd said it that had almost made it seem like she was simply pulling something out of her ass to avoid admitting that Lydia's right about her being bored, is one hundred percent true. Even the two and a half cups of coffee she'd chugged this morning weren't enough to slap a bit more life into her, much to her dismay—and Scott's, because he'd just recently read some article about the many potential negative health effects of caffeine, and Melissa hadn't gotten the chance to pick up any decaf coffee yet, so he was terribly concerned for her wellbeing (which she thought, and still thinks, is so adorably sweet).
Still, she has no one but herself to blame for the heaviness of her eyelids and the too-frequent yawns and the growing desire to droop her head onto Malia's shoulder from where she's sitting next to her on the sofa and drift off for a moment or two.
Well... herself, and Isaac.
Actually, scratch that. Only Isaac. She's completely innocent in all of this.
It's his fault for being overly-accommodating, ever the good friend (or whatever he is to her now), instead of leaving her to her own devices to toss and turn on the air mattress and eventually fall asleep at a somewhat respectable time. His fault for inviting her up to his room and engaging her in two and a half games of Mario Kart—the Switch had crashed halfway through their game of Shine Thief (which she'd silently been grateful for, because he had been beating her)—and then in an hour's worth of conversations about everything and nothing all at once. His fault for all the skin to skin contact that had transpired in the kitchen and again up in his room; the brushing of his hands against her thighs, against her cheek when he'd pushed her hair behind her ear for the umpteenth time that night, against her neck ever-so-subtly as he'd helped her un-braid her hair in his room after their second race. All that skin to skin contact that made it nearly impossible to fall asleep even after she'd crept back down to the living room and slid under the covers on the air mattress beside Darcy, too busy overthinking every little instance where their skin had touched; too busy being silently annoyed that it wasn't their lips that had touched again.
