amsterdam ( central cee )

23

Leaving my suitcase in front of his porch wasn't the best idea, I figured.
I can't help the constant bouncing off my leg as I waited. . . and waited. My phone dinged. I rushed to grab it, only for my shoulders to sink in minimal disappointment.

Mohammed: Keep your head up champ you did what had to be done.
I'll pick u up when you've landed okay?

While my fingers fly over the keyboard with a response, another text chimes in.
I thank Mohammed and tell him I love him, before navigating toward the following text.

Unknown number: what floor are u on?

There's a tremble in my thumbs when I type my answer. My heart is pounding at the reality of the decision I've made. I stare at the blank walls with not a thought going through my mind, realizing I've lost my idea of perfect. I lost him.

But choosing me first is more important. Right?

A knock on the hotel room door and an angsty feeling sank into the pits of my stomach. I'm itchy all over and when I try to swallow the lump of tears in my throat, I'm sore by all the cigarettes I've been smoking.

The inescapable buckle in my knees makes me lose my balance and I catch myself on the door handle. I take a few breaths, clenching my sweaty fingers around the gold.

Don't cry don't cry don't cry.

I press it down and I swing the door open. Oakley's fleeting eyes met mine. A multitude of emotions flickered across his face—shock, anger, relief, and worry—before softening when our eyes remained locked.

Without a word spoken, I step aside and he lets himself in. My suitcase rolled beside him.

When I close the door I lean against it, watching how he distracted himself by looking around him.

He wheels my suitcase to the corner of my room, avoiding eye contact.

"You-. . ." I watch him rethink his sentence. "When did you land?"

I sniffle, evidence of tears I couldn't hide. "Like two hours ago. . . I came to yours as fast as I could."

He takes off his cap and traces his fingers through the parts of his braids, his face is reading guilt as soon as our eyes meet, and a tear slides down my cheek.

"I saw you got in," he swallowed mid-sentence. "I'm happy--- I'm proud of you. Knew you could do it, innit." Another tear falls.

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding and I wipe my face. My hands smell like cigarettes.

"That's all I wanted." I stepped toward him and I watch him brace himself, his shoulders squaring. That hurt, as I instantly felt the distance between us.  "I wanted you to be proud of me, Oakley."

He looks away hearing his name. "Only to find out you're having bitches in your house when I'm not there. I just don't get it. What does it take for you to be only my boyfriend?! Want me to get some ass shots? Want me to mess up my face with those injections? Just tell me what the fuck you were missing from me?! What does she have that I don't? I know she's not a better woman than I am." I pause, hoping he doesn't answer the questions because I don't want to know the answers.

"I saw you."

"I know you did. I'm sorry you had to see that, it wasn't what you think it was."

A spark of rage swept through me, quick and heated. Quicker than I can control my actions, my hand had a life of its one and struck against his cheek.

I gasped at my own actions and brought my hands to my mouth to trap the sound. My instincts told me to say sorry but I fought it, he deserved it.

His head was turned, stuck for a few seconds, realizing what happened. He slowly turned to me, eyes dark with his own anger. Bringing his hand to his cheek, a cold thrill licked every vertebra of my spine. With the tip of his finger, he dabbed up the line of blood where my acrylics had scratched him.