Ripe

Chapter 13

♪Chapter Song♪

"You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You" by James Arthur

(I do not own this song.)

***

CHAPTER 13

"YOU NEED TO make up with him, Will. He's going through some things, you can't blame him," Erin says from across the kitchen island. She's holding my phone, looking at the text message he sent me hours ago. "You haven't had it easy, either, so I know you understand. You're being inconsiderate."

"I'm not inconsiderate," I argue, running a hand through my hair. "I just want to be able to help him, Erin. How am I supposed to help when I don't know what's wrong?"

"Put yourself in his shoes. If he asked,  'Why don't you look like Parker or Erin?' or 'Why don't you call Erin "mom"?', would you have told him, out of the blue without feeling defensive?"

I sigh, getting her point. "No."

Erin gives me an advocate grin. She hands me my phone and stands from her stool. She grabs the container of strawberries from the table and tosses me an encouraging wink over her shoulder. "When he's here to pick you up, you better be ready young lady," she says jokingly, although she's not exactly joking.

She's actually pretty serious.

I glance down at my phone and reread the message over and over again.

Andrew H.

b ready at 6 sharp. i'll b outside

11:07 AM

Today is the concert, and although I've been dreaming that he'd still want to go with me after I acted the way I did, I don't want things to be awkward if we do. It's very hard to imagine that we'll be all buddy-buddy when we go to the concert. We may not even talk.

Erin's telling me I should patch things up with him. How am I supposed to do that? 'Oh, sorry BFF, I'm sorry for asking you why your parents aren't living with you and calling you bossy. Now let's dance!'

... No.

I grab a fist full of my hair and tap my toes against the kitchen floor tiles in anxiousness. I'm going to have to make up with him. I can't let him think I haven't been hung up on this for the past few months, ever since we've actually talked to each other.

I miss him more than I miss being sheltered. Hell, I am still sheltered, but not as sheltered as I was before we became friends.

Friends. Friends, friends, friends. We became friends, I became his, he became mine. He was, is, might still be my only friend, the only person I've ever considered a friend. I love him— like a friend. I think he loves me— like a friend. I hope so, I really hope that he still does, more even. That he still will when we go to the concert.

I wonder how he's going to react. Will he even care? If he accepts it, will I even believe him? I don't think he would if we switched places. He would be skeptical, I know that for sure.

I check the time on the top of my phone; it's a quater after four. I guess I should get ready. When I'm finished, I'll wait him out. I don't want to go over there and make him feel like I can't take his directions seriously. After all, he can be pretty demanding.

Hopping off my white and blue stool, I take slow steps up to the bathroom to take a shower, hoping and praying that this doesn't go all wrong.

All I ask for is for nothing horrible to happen tonight. I just want to have fun with no added consequence. Is that too much to request?