Rekindle

14

The slam resounded in the stairwell and echoed indefinitely. It followed me out into the drive, amplified by the shutting car door, pounding through my head. I still didn't have a license or a permit. Oh well. Who cared, who cared anymore. I was rogue. Free. On the loose.

I turned the radio up extra loud and set off down the highway, unsure of exactly where I was going. I drove in a haze. Didn't hear a thing, much nonetheless think. I'd never been so out of it that I wasn't able to identify if I was even feeling any emotion. Everything felt like nothing and white, white white white thoughts. I smiled then. And realized I was probably feeling happy.

About thirty minutes out, I managed to break my way into a closed library to search for some directions, because I totally knew what I was doing, all the time ever. Sarcasm, if it wasn't obvious. The air smelled like books and ink again, and I considered sleeping in the library for the night, but thought better against it. After researching directions, Elk City had turned out to be a four hour trip, so if I could knock down at least one that night, I would be...eh. It was already eleven.

Might as well crash.

The thought startled me. The intermittent sentences had always been there and had all always been in my head, but that one suddenly felt...out of place.

Why?

I ignored it, startled again, and headed to the other side of the dark library. I stumbled to the couches and collapsed into one. Goddamn. When did I get exhausted.

Everything had been pitch black when I walked (climbed) in, but my eyes had adjusted by then as it all finally seemed to slow down. A large window to my left let in minimal city light. The rows and rows of book were noticeable with my partial night vision, endless possibilities looming behind each corner and cover. New ideas. New hobbies. New information. Everything new, and I found that I was missing something in my little everything: Asher.

No. No, he didn't care. And I didn't care that he wasn't sitting in the chair across the coffee table with a book or laptop lighting up his tired face. He wasn't clicking away or turning pages. He wasn't saying anything. He wasn't smoking. He wasn't in the library at all, and it started to feel so empty. But that was okay. It, it had to be okay.

Sitting up, staring at the chair in front of me, I tried to visualize what it'd be like against better judgment. All my emotion was rushing back in watercolor, and I let it, despite the dangers looming ahead. I'd already broken it off. There was no going back, I just had to keep that in mind. But I could imagine him so clearly, him looking up from his book or laptop, asking me, "What?"

"Nothing," I'd respond.

"It's something. Why are you looking at me?"

"I don't know. Because I can."

"Fine," he'd say with a short little pause. Then another glance up, eyes narrowed in annoyance. "You're still looking."

"Because I can," I would say again. "And because you were probably the best thing that ever happened to me. Even if it did start out a little shaky, and, I mean, the whole trying to kill you part, I'm really sorry about that. But hey! It's all fixed now. And leaving you for Bridget, I'm really sorry about that too. Jesus do I feel terrible about that. I never meant any of my hostility that night, I never meant anything I said. Because aside from all the times I messed up, I hadn't ever had such an exciting life before you. Even if you were a bit of an asshole sometimes. But at other times, you were really nice and kind and humble, and you were a really intellectual person underneath all that narcissism. And because of your inflated ego, you damn well knew you were attractive, no new news there, so—"