Messy - Abby Anderson x Fem Reader

Chapter 12 - Arguing with you makes me want to kiss you.

I collapse on the floor in front of the small couch and lean back against the hard material. Throwing my head back to rest on the cushion, I let out a deep sigh, hoping that the bubbling jealousy in me calms down soon enough.

The silence in the cabin helps clear my head though, and I lazily reach for my bag which I dropped beside me. Maybe looking through some of those belongings I took will distract me - which I'd definitely appreciate.

So Abby's being hit on. No big deal. Right?

Right?

There's no way she's fucking straight, or into men. No fucking way. Seriously? She's always been so goddamn awkward with Owen and I mean, look at her-

Y/N, focus on the bag.

My hands hastily pull the zipper down and I rummage through my things for a small journal. Once my fingers brush against the leather material, I pull it out and slump a little, getting ready to read.

Soon enough, my mind's focus averts from seeing Abby with that guy to small memories after I had left Salt Lake City; the time I somehow survived a horde of runners while drunk, the first time I ran into a bloater, the time I was so close to-

The door creaks open and my head snaps up to see Abby walking in and those small feelings of jealousy come back. I notice how snugly her beanie fits her, and I also notice how her blue eyes seem to be glued to the floor. Slowly, I begin to put the journal back into my bag. I'm going to speak to her.

I think I've made it obvious though because she finally glances at me while shutting the door with her foot. And her gaze drops to the book peeking out of my bag.

Shit?

"Where'd you get that journal?" she asks, quietly but also rushing the words out as she exhales, standing by the closed door.

My brows furrow in confusion. Why is she asking about it? It's not like it's hers or she carries her own around. Well, I don't recall her ever writing. "It's mine so I don't see why you'd be so interested," I retort, unable to hold back the coldness in my tone. I immediately regret it afterwards though, as shown by my grimace.

Her face seems to contort into an expression of annoyance, and she dumps her heavy bag onto the low table in the room. There's a small sound of metal clinking in there, and I raise my brow, sitting up.

"What's in there?" I ask, keeping my voice kinder this time. Realistically, we can't avoid each other. And I do miss her.

"Nothing," she mutters. Her hand shoves her bag across the table, away from even herself, as if to declare it is not to be touched. What's she hiding?

I stand up and kick my own bag a little away from the couch, and I take a step closer to the middle of the room in contrast to how she's by the closed door. "Why won't you tell me?" I push.

Her eyes dart around for a moment.

Why is she keeping something from me?

Then she places her hands on her hips and reluctantly turns her back to me before bringing one of her hands up to her mouth. "What does the letter 'L' mean to you?" Her voice wavers ever so slightly and she doesn't turn to look at me. All I can see are her tense, wide shoulders encased by her black jacket.

But 'L'? Does she mean...love? Lust? Leanne?

"What the fuck are you speaking in riddles for?" I cross my own arms over my chest as I stare at her, waiting for the moment she turns around to look at me.

With a scoff, she pulls her backpack back to her rather roughly, the old table groaning in protest from the rough material, and she digs in one of the pockets to pull out a familiar locket.