An Opened Door

Chapter 12: No More Coffee for Alex

Since when is it socially acceptable to just run off when someone finishes kissing you—especially when you kiss back?

Then again, when is it socially acceptable to just spontaneously kiss someone in the middle of a dining hall bathroom?

Suddenly, the adrenaline and impulse in body turns to dread, and I have no control over myself as I literally run to the nearest open stall to vomit.

Oh.

My.

God.

It's not that he's a guy or anything—I've never technically been with a guy, mostly girls, except for that one guy I made out with at that club last year—it's just that he reacted so badly.

He clearly liked it, though. He had pushed himself closer to me and kissed back and I loved every moment of it, but when I felt the kiss was done, I pulled away and ran out. Like he was going to vomit. Am I that fucking disgusting? Christ.

I figure that the best choice at this point is to go back out to the table, see if John is there, and act accordingly.

He's not there, only Lafayette sits, eating a potato wedge.

"Hey, where's John?" I ask, faking cluelessness, as I sit down.

"He just left... It was kind of weird, and he left his food and his bag." Lafayette pops a cherry tomato into his mouth.

"Hm. Well," I sit up again, trying not to obsess or fidget, "I'm going to get some food."

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(Hey sorry I realize the last chapter I said he ran all the way to his house,, well ig oops? I'm giving him some inner dialogue of the time when he is still running)

"No one just kisses someone in the middle of a bathroom!" I half-yell in the middle of the street, a few heads turning.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I say, apologizing profusely. I reach my hand into my back pocket to fish out my phone, but realize that I must have left it with my bag at the dining hall. I run my hand over my face, but find a clock on one of the learning buildings and I see that I have about an hour and a half until my next class, so I decide on running the rest of the way to my apartment and thinking things out there.

Once I let myself into my apartment—I'm glad I always keep my keys on me—I take off my clothes, turn on the shower, and step in. The water is beyond freezing, and I feel like my limbs will freeze off, but it helps me think instead of distracting me.

Alexander Hamilton kissed me.

Alexander Hamilton is a guy.

A guy kissed me.

No one can know about this. This can't happen again. I hope he didn't tell Lafayette what he did. I can never talk to Alexander again—fuck, I actually liked him. God, not like that. Well,—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

I turn off the shower abruptly and wrap myself in a towel, sitting down onto my bed.

It's still unmade, and it still smells of Alexander. Not faintly, not just a wisp of his scent, but it smells so much like him, as if he just came out of the shower and sat down onto my bed.

I stand back up and yank the comforter and sheets off my bed, then the pillows. Holding everything, I trudge into the other, smaller room—the room Alexander should've slept in—and yank the sheets, comforters, and pillows off of the bed. I put the sheets from my bed onto it, the folds and creases not as perfect as they were when Alexander did it.