Escape

- Chapter 18 -

Hey jiggas! It's been long I know and I apologize, I realize there are a LOT of chapters to upload in the future - of course, this story hasn't reached the climax yet. Oh and I changed the cover and title of my story because I felt like it :-) and I hope it looks better? Lol, I don't know. I'm not the most creative person who can come up with oh-so wonderful titles and such.

Now read away and enjoy!

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“E-excuse me?” I sputter, wondering if I had heard correctly. Is Shawn demanding me to cook for him? Who does he think he is?

He slightly raises his head from his arms to get a look at me. “I’m starving, do you cook?”  

I glare at him but he doesn’t seem to notice so I answer “yes.”

He must’ve heard the confusion and softness in my voice because his brows furrow and he mumbles a “please?” and it makes my heart rattle inside my chest. He leaves his eyes on me for a moment and that’s all it takes for me to nod, to nod away just to have him stop looking at me like that because it causes me to feel uncomfortable, a little different, a little unlike me to be gazing at him the way that I am. I look at the ground.

And one question forms in my mind: why is Shawn mean one minute, a jerk another, soft the next, and nice the last minute? I don’t think I’ve encountered such a confusing person and it honestly makes me a little lost in an angry manner.

“I-is ravioli fine?” My feet move towards the door and I wait for him to respond.

His eyes close and he laid his head back on his overlapped hands, nodding once in response. I feel like I don’t need to put an effort to make him feel at home; he already done that himself. Should I feel comfortable with that? Will this happen often?

I stay by the door and gaze at his tall and lean frame across my bed. His Chucks dangle at the end of my bed due to how small it is and the picture almost amuses me. It almost makes me forget about my aunt. I find myself smiling a little, mentally snapping this image in front of me before I hop down the stairs, thinking about that image over and over.

 Ten minutes later, I’m going up the stairs with two bowls of steaming hot ravioli bowls in my hands. I thought about how smart I had been to cover up the holes in my room with random drawings I had in my drawers from elementary school – Shawn would’ve noticed and questioned it. And then I thought about Luke, how nice he had been to me today. But mostly, I thought about the boy who’s on the floor above me, in my room. It might’ve been wrong that I didn’t really think about my aunt and how she might come home any minute. It might’ve been wrong that I had been playing the scene where Shawn’s wet body rolls into my room over and over. And I could talk to him, but I rather think about him. Is that wrong?

What has he done to me?

I quickly move the door with my feet and pace into the room to set the bowls on the table. I look over to Shawn, who’s now sitting on my floor, and his back leaned on the side of my bed, hunched over to examine a sheet of paper in front of him.

“It’s still hot so we should wait a little,” I say, slowly walking towards him, asking myself whether I should sit next to him or stay five feet away from him in case he doesn’t like me sitting next to him.

He doesn’t look at me. “That’s fine,” he says, staring at the paper. When I don’t say anything, which must’ve been sort of awkward, his head finally jerks to me and he checks me over. I suddenly feel self-conscience.

So I bend my knees and sit myself down on the spot that I’ve been standing on for the past minute. Which is more than five feet in distance from him.