The Strip

Part 9

 Rebecca POV:

The distinct pop of the bubbling mixture on your stove brings you back from your daydreaming. Amelia has been droning on and on for the past hour about work, and your apathy has gone by unnoticed.

It's six-fifty pm, and you're cutting it much too close with your less than presentable white tank and sweatpants.

You check the peephole of your front door, absently humming your agreement to whatever it is that Amelia has been saying. "Listen, Amelia, I really need to -,"

"And then! This fucking twat! She is basically the younger version of Titus - you know she even shaved her head - anyway, this bitch goes and -,"

"Amelia!" You breathe exasperatedly. "I promise we'll talk more about the project later. I really do have to get going. Freen's going to be -,"

"Ooooh, say no more, squirt! Ha! Hopefully one of you will be doing that tonight!"

"Oh my God," you groan. "Officially ruined that nickname."

Amelia's chuckles are all you hear as you hang up. You check the peephole again, willing the blonde to magically appear at your door so you can see her again, while also hoping she isn't there because you're so nervous to see her again.

Because, what if you fuck it all up?

You had been frantically cleaning, and cooking, and talking yourself off a ledge, and your body slowly melts into the mattress as you lie down for the first time all day, the crook of your elbow covering your eyes to hide the state of disarray your room is in.

You had pulled every piece of clothing out of your closet, only to sit in a pile of 'no fucking way I'm wearing that'.

Two shirts are left hanging - a red flannel, and a slim fitting v-neck tee.

You can hear Amelia calling you a useless lesbian in your head at your choices.

You opt for the white shirt, deciding that the last thing you want to hear all night is your nagging sister's voice. You jump into a pair of pale jeans, picking at the fluff on the leg while you pretend that, just for a second, you're not desperate to get back to the peephole of your door to check for Freen's arrival.

You scold yourself for being so weak when your feet find their way to the front door again.

This time, when you look through the hole, there is blonde hair in your view. Freen appears to be mumbling words of encouragement to herself, her eyes closed, head nodding as she mumbles.

She sighs.

You sigh and pull on the end of your shirt to dry your suddenly clammy hands, disgusted by the sudden sprouting of sweat and frustrated that you've already managed to ruin your shirt by wiping your dirty hands against the material.

You're a useless fool.

You're stumble backwards, startled by the intensity of the knock, so lost in your self deprecation, and end up knocking your motorcycle helmet off the stand and to the floor. You grumble at your motorcycle helmet, picking it up and putting it back where it once was, finding yet another reason why you're not worth this date.

You're not cool .

You take a deep breath to shake the erroneous thoughts and open the door.

And your breath comes out fast, knocked from your lungs as soon as you see your date on the other side.

"Freen," you gape, starstruck by her beauty.

"Hi," she responds quietly, tucking the loose strand of hair back behind her ear again.