No Time Like Goodbye

Chapter 5- Hazel

I woke early the next morning, the sound of my twin brothers- James and Matthew- waking me from a restless sleep. I sighed and sat up, hitting the wall between my room and theirs.

"Keep it down!" I yelled. I almost never yelled, never, unless it was at my brothers, or occasionally at Dylan. I just wasn't predisposed to yell at people, and I didn't make it a point to do so often.

They didn't respond, but quieted slightly nonetheless. I sat up and yawned, giving up on sleeping anymore. I was supposed to be at Dylan's in an hour or so anyway.

I didn't move right away, sitting on my bed and looking around the small space I called my bedroom. It was smaller than the other rooms in the house. Most walls were covered with paintings and sketches I had done months ago, but one was different. Instead of drawings, it was nearly entirely covered in pictures: pictures of Dylan and me, pictures of Fahari and Dylan, pictures of just Dylan, and a dozen more photographs. My desk, located under a large window, was littered with pencils, papers, and various things still left from my high school career.

I couldn't help but let out a soft sigh. In less than three months all of this would be gone. The majority of the contents of my room- the photos, the drawings, everything- would be packed away for my departure to New Haven.

I showered, braiding my hair to keep it out of my face- I didn't have time to worry about wet hair today- and then changing. I threw on an old t-shirt and jeans, slipping on a pair of old sneakers. I never had to dress up to go to Dylan's house.

I nearly ran down the stairs, passing Matthew and James. They were already on the couch, playing video games. I shook my head slightly, not even going to try to say something. Mom had a rule that we weren't allowed to have any access to electronics until after 9:00 every day, but neither of my brothers ever minded the rule.

I waved to my father, whom was sitting at the kitchen table as he always did, and bounced out the back door. I walked across my backyard and the yards of the houses separating Dylan's and my houses and bounded up his back steps. The door was already open- Dylan always made sure it was unlocked in case I decided to come over for one reason or another.

"Hey Mrs. Nightly." I waved to Dylan's mother, a tall, blonde woman of whom I don't think I've ever had a complete conversation with, and started up the stairs to his room.

"Good morning, Hazel." She smiled at me, although we both knew it was forced. Cheryl Nightly did not like me. It had long been a point of contention between Dylan and his mother, but after a long time they had adopted the mantra of 'Don't say anything about Hazel, and I won't either.'

I padded the rest of the way up the carpeted steps and down the hall, to Dylan's room. I knocked on the door rhythmically, waiting.

Dylan finally opened his door several moments later. His hair was flattened on one side, and he was shirtless, wearing just his pair of jeans from the previous day.

I raised an eyebrow. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"Forget? Psh, no. Dylan Nightly never forgets." He ran a hand through his blonde hair and laughed. "I'm just, trying a new look. Yeah, that's what I'm doing. Do you think it's working?" He struck a pose.

I tried not to stare at his bare chest, smiling just a bit. "Hm, maybe. But you might want to add a shirt to that ensemble. You know, 'No shirt, no shoes, no service.'"

He laughs and threw one of his old t-shirt at me, rolling his eyes. "So you're saying, if I put on a shirt, you'll 'service' me?" He smirked.

I was used to Dylan's sexual humor, but I still blushed a bright red nonetheless. I rolled my eyes and threw the shirt back at him.

"Get dressed, dork. And while you're at it, get your mind out of the gutter, will you?" I laughed. "I'm going to talk to your dad."

Dylan's father was an artist. He wasn't extremely successful- he had had a few works published in magazines and shown in the local museum, but he mostly painted for personal requests. He had painted several pieces for my grandparents several years ago, as well as having taught me much of what I knew about painting and sketching.

I glanced back at Dylan once more and smiled, pausing for a long moment before shaking my head. I bounded down the stairs and to the garage, which had long ago been converted into an art studio.