Rash Decisions (PREVIEW)

Chapter 8 - This Isn't Even Close To Over.

JULIA FERRIS

I stuff the rest of my chocolate bar in my mouth. Savoring the instant sugar rush. I was so anxious when I got home that I had no appetite for dinner. And knowing I needed some sort of sustenance, this chocolate bar was my mind and bodies compromise at the corner store. 

I swallow the last bite as I take in the building. I should have guessed what kind of place Troy would live in. I don’t know why I pictured him living somewhere else. It isn’t like him to own a house in the suburb, even if he does have a child. 

Go figure. I didn’t see that one coming. The child, I mean. Actually, I take that back. I mean everything.

 It’s obvious this is better suited for him as his bachelor pad. I confirm the thought as I let my eyes slide over the sleek metal doors of the elevator taking me to fiftieth floor.

I wanna huff and roll my eyes. What a Jerk-Faced-Hot-Shot.

I bounce back on my heels as my stomach plunges into my guts from the rocketing elevator. The feeling of nausea only supports the fact that I am so out of my league. 

Why did I agree to do this again?

When I arrived home earlier, I had hoped to see the pixie cut blond girl so I could introduce myself in the hopes that I could beat myself to the punchline that a seven year old was going to become my first friend in this city. Troy doesn’t count, and I don’t know Noah, yet.

I hug my phone gleefully at the thought, which helps my rattled nerves. I haven’t had this much of a text relationship with someone since college, and I have to admit … it feels good. Juvenile, but good. We’ve been texting nearly every day since I literally fell into his arms.

I had forgotten what liking someone new felt like. Rarely have I experienced it, if ever. I must admit I am terribly excited for our first date. 

As the metal doors pull apart I never imagined feeling so under dressed for babysitting. I know that is a ridiculous thought, but as I peer down at my torn up jeans and straighten out my worn, oversized, grey knit sweater I think I should be wearing at least something a little more presentable, and a little less homeless-sheek.

I take in a deep breath and strut into the hallway, my black chucks screeching in the silence. I want to laugh. However, this for some reason is my reflexive response when I try to seem cool. Yeah, I am aware that this has an opposite effect, but I can never stop myself.

With each stride my shoes echo another squeak, and my giggles only get more incessant. I chew the cuff of my sleeve trying to cover my quiet laughs as I examine the gold lettering on each door. Now with each squawk of rubber over the polished tile I want to laugh even more. It hits me how ostentatious it is for Troy to live here. I swear if he has the corner window apartment I might actually die of laughter. Each passing door is like a higher level of douche-bag, and all I kept thinking is I am trying to get away from this kind of lifestyle. It only confirms that Troy and I will never get along. We just have nothing in common.

My steps stop at the second door from the wall. Apartment 5031B. Close enough. 

I swallow my last bout of giggles and begin my knocking. I have barely finished before the door swings open and I am stunned into awe.

Troy’s sapphire eyes burn into me as his long fingers rub through soft charcoal strands of hair.

Why do the jerks have to be the pretty ones? Troy’s casual look throws my ovaries into overdrive. His leather bomber jacket, with a sweatshirt hoodie emerging from the collar makes him look like the guy from the wrong part of town. However, they clash so wonderfully with his bed head of hair. His hair is always slicked back and sharp. He always looks so severe. Now, I don’t know how to feel. His boy-next-door-but-I’d totally-sneak-into-your-window-at-night look throws me.