The Boy Who Loved Flowers

four | t h r e a t

I WAITED FOR hours.

Long, stressful hours.

Eventually I figured there would be no response and it was too late to include an after thought of 'Oh, and it's Vivian'.

I slumped back to bed, as I had been anxiously roaming my home - all while simultaneously texting Lawrence and Kiera, who just as equally nerve-wrackingly awaited a message back from Ashton. I delivered them the news that it just might not happen, he could have changed his mind.

I lazily pulled the covers up and over my body. Everything I did almost seemed reminiscent of one who had just lost a big competition, I was slow and stolid.

I closed my eyes, ready to lose myself in sleep.

It didn't occur.

I waited.

And I waited a little longer.

With not much hope left, I let out a wail, tossing and turning to find the right position. Maybe I was too hot. I threw off the covers. But then it was too cold.

This continued all night. I was restless and angry for being so. Eventually, my mind and body gave in and I passed out around three AM.

When I woke up, I was, of course, late for school. Why had no one bothered to wake me? Luck appeared to have had abandoned me long ago. I presumed it was due to the many adventures Kiera had brought me on, often none of them good. Karma, to me, seemed real at this given moment. I checked my phone, scrolling through the thousands of texts from Kiera about my absent state, all of which I ignored as my eyes landed on a new name on my screen, one I had only titled the day before.

Ashton.

With glee I tapped on his text message, my heart burning with impatience as my screen loaded so deathly slow that I could have ran a marathon twice. Aha! There, in sudden glow of white, read his words:

Sorry for the late reply, sweetheart. Got caught up in some things.

Sweetheart? Though alone, my face heated up to such a degree that not even the sun could compete with my sudden rise in temperature. Oh, what do I respond with? How do you even respond to that? How could he just send something like that and make it seem so casual?

My mind could only conjure up a few sentences to tell Ashton, but none of which were suitable nor appropriate. And at this phase, I thought it better not to give Ashton another reason to see me as prey. I sent a simple text:

It's okay.

His response was lightning quick, not even three seconds had passed.

I figured as much,

I paused there, staring at the four words. I raised an eyebrow, that was kind of cocky. I dismissed this and continued on.

I saw that you weren't at school. Skipping, are you? Bad girl.

I thought I couldn't ever get redder than I was minutes ago. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. Never have I been more wrong. This gave me enough reason to hastily send a text to my father that I had woken up late for school, but it didn't matter because I had felt ill and that I wouldn't be able to make it to school. It was all a lie, well, for the most part. I had woken up late, just not been sick.

My reply to Ashton was not one of kindness, it was more snarky than anything.

And you're to judge?

Without missing a beat, Ashton answered in record time.

Au contraire, though my record isn't as spotless as yours, I've never missed a day of school.

I squint, if this was true then he's full of more surprises than I had originally expected. I then said:

To be fair, my assumptions were based upon the fact that it seems you're texting during class.

Ashton was also honest, another revelation I had not seen coming:

I'm in in-house.

I laughed aloud, not aware of how terrible it must be to laugh at a boy who had been put in detention. Then again, it wasn't typical that you had your phone with you in in-house. I guessed that he must've snuck it in with him. I glanced down at my phone, it buzzed with an irritation of delay.

I need a photo of you.

Probably for a contact photo, I thought. I turned on my camera app, looking into the reflection it showed me.

There's no way he's getting a picture of me right now. You see, there's a fine line between just waking up and looking like a homeless person that just got into a fight with a pigeon. The only thing that was even remotely acceptable for a picture was my eyes that stared back at me with rainwater puddles. I groaned out of frustration, responding:

Can't do that.

After that message of mine, he didn't respond in a quick flash. Not even after ten minutes. Nor the passing hour. Then the cruel five hours that went by just as slowly.

Waiting seemed to be a hobby of mine now.

I heard the front door of my house open and closed. Dylan was home. I could tell by the noise of the excited, dash of his feet that made a beeline towards his room, eager to hop onto his laptop or start his studies. Perhaps that last part there was just a lie I told myself to ensure that his grades were okay. He often struggled, I never enjoyed hearing him being yelled at.

I entered his bright blue room, "Dyl?"

"Mhmmmm?" He hummed, not even throwing a glance my way as he played a virtual game that contained pixelated blocks.

"Shouldn't you be, oh, I don't know, doing homework?" I tried to finish sternly.

Dyl spun around on his swivelling chair, looking me dead in the eye, "Shouldn't you be, oh, I don't know, texting your boyfriend?"

I blinked.

"You've no idea how much I wanted to strangle you," I stated.

"I can imagine, dear sister," Dylan returned to his video games. "Now, leave my abode, peasant."

"Fine," I muttered, my eyes flickering to something vibrating in hand. My phone.

I fervently ran back to my room, throwing myself onto my bed and preparing myself mentally to view the text message.

I suppose I'll have to take one of you then.

I squinted, alrighty then. Ashton added on.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

I chewed my bottom lip, quickly making up a lie.

Hanging out with Kiera.

I would be sure to tell Kiera of this sudden news. It was bound to happen anyway, we were often together every single free moment of our lives. Well, that being the weekends or break, anyway.

Denying me once again? Not quite sure I like that. I'll have to fix that sometime.

Oh? Nervously, I put down my phone. How had he known my fib? I hoped it was just a guess, a remarkable fantastic guess. But that wasn't the full reason why I was nervous. No matter how much I reread that three sentence message, I couldn't quite help but feel as though it was a threat.

A threat I was dangerously intrigued by.