Misfits | m. clifford

3; "You have a treehouse?!"

"Oh, my gosh, Thalia, you are so drunk. Come on, it's time to go home." Sarah towered over Michael and I, as we both looked up at her. We had been sitting cross-legged, facing each other, me playing with Michael's fingers and him drunkenly babbling on about all sorts of random shit, when she walked up.

I frowned. "But I was having fun." I whined, glancing at Michael, who was also frowning.

Sarah looked between Michael and me. "Oh. I see. Well I'm really sorry, but we have to go. So get his number or something, and c'mon."

I turned to Michael. "Sorry, Michael," I said. "Here," I scribbled out my phone number on a scrap piece of paper with a pen I found in my purse, and handed it to him. "Text me, okay?"

"Okay. See ya around, Thalia."

I smiled at him, waving as Sarah pulled me away, back to her car.

+

When I woke up at Sarah's flat the following morning, my head ached and I barely remembered anything that had happened the night before past when Michael had his head in my lap and I played with his hair.

I groaned and got up slowly, making my way to the kitchen to get some ibuprofen and a glass water. I'd read once that the reason hangovers happen is because drinking too much alcohol can (ironically) make you dehydrated, or something like that, and that if you drank a glass of water for every glass of beer, you could get drunk without the awful hangover. But I obviously had not remembered that trick at the party

I swallowed the pills and trudged back to the guest bedroom, where Sarah had evidently let me stay the previous night. I started to pull out my phone to text Michael, remembering something being said about phone numbers before Sarah and I left the party, but then I remembered that though he had my number, I didn't have his. I sighed and burrowed back under the covers, deciding to just go back to sleep.

+

A few hours later, I had slept off my headache, and felt slightly less like shit. I told Sarah I was going home, and she waved me off, talking to someone on the phone.

It did not hit me until I left Sarah's apartment that my car wasn't there, as she had given me a ride home from the party. I'd have to pick up my car from whoever-had-thrown-the-party's house somehow, but I guessed that I'd just take a taxi. This was London after all, and taxis were always in abundance.

I hailed a taxi, and I remembered the address of the party, thanks to my selective-but-amazing memory. We arrived within ten minutes, at about the same time as another car. There were still quite a few mobiles sprinkled along the house's driveway, so I figured it was just another person picking up theirs. I did not pay much attention to it.

I payed the cab driver, and walked over to my old mercury (circa 1979), lovingly nicknamed the Goose for as long as I can remember, though the meaning for the name was long forgotten. Maybe if I had had any shred of self conscience when it came to cars, I would've been embarrassed of it. It was a grandfather type car, really. Not something most nineteen year olds would be proud to drive. But I actually kind of liked it. It was my dad's old car, his first one. He kept it for sentimental reasons, and then it somehow ended up with me. I liked it because it had a story, I guess.

About the same time that I was climbing into my car, two boys hopped out of the aforementioned car and started to walk towards the mustang parked in front of mine.

I immediately got back out of my car.

"Michael!" I said, feeling a grin form on my face. He didn't notice me at first, but the other boy did, and tapped Michael, pointing at me.

Michael turned to look at me, and I waved, laughing a little. A look of recognition passed over his face, and he was only a few yards away when he said my name. "Thalia! Hello there!"

I took a few steps towards him. "Getting your car?" I asked.

"Yeah. Luke took me," He gestured to his friend, who gave me a polite smile.

"Oh, I remember him from yesterday. He was the one who was playing beer pong really badly." I said, laughing at the still fresh memory. To which Luke blushed, scratching the back of his neck.

Michael laughed as well. And then stopped. "I guess I should introduce you properly. Luke, meet Thalia, Thalia, meet Luke."

We exchanged nice to meet yous, but it was pretty clear that Michael and I were only interested in each other. After several minutes of listening to us ramble on about what we did and didn't remember about the party, Luke looked between us, and then looked at Michael and informed him that he was leaving.

We said bye, and then talked some more.

My cheeks were red in the November cold, and I noticed chill bumps on Michael's exposed hands. "Hey, do you wanna go to my place?" I finally suggested. Not in, like, a provocative way, more just code for let's get out of this fucking cold weather.

His eyes lit up. "Okay," he said. "Your car or mine?"

"Let's take yours," I said for no other reason besides I wanted to see his car.

And so we did.

+

My house was something I was actually quite proud of. It wasn't an apartment, but an actual house, located off of a pretty country road. It wasn't really in the country though, not really, more like it was in a slightly more woodsy and slightly less inhibited area. We all know those places.

So my house was small, with a garden off to the side and an oak tree that featured an old tree house. It was isolated, quiet, and as far away from population you could be within city limits. And I loved it.

The inside of my little cottage had a living room, but my piano and guitar took up most of the space there.

The kitchen, like everything else, was small and old fashioned, but homely. It was like stepping back a few decades, when you walked into the kitchen.

There was a dining room, but really it was my library. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined almost every wall, with the one exception being instead filled with various chairs, including a bean bag chair, a recliner, an old fashioned cushioned chair, and a love seat.

My room was furnished with a wooden queen sized bed, covered in homemade quilts from my grandmother, and an old vanity. It also had a closet attached to a bathroom, a Hollywood-style room divider, and a desk piled high with my papers for uni.

But my favorite thing about my house, were the drawings that decorated the walls. I had decided that any time I felt the strike to draw, I'd do it directly on whatever wall was closest, which resulted in murals in the most random places. In the kitchen next to the microwave, in the library above the beanbag chair, in the living room to the left of the piano, in my bedroom next to my bed, and even in the bathroom, to the right of the toilet. Everywhere.

All in all, I felt like I had my own paradise in my little space: it was my very own Cottage in the Forest.

I gave Michael directions to my house, and I felt quite nervous of what he'd think of it. Sure, I absolutely loved it, but maybe he'd deem it too quirky, or too old fashioned, or too quaint. Maybe he was the modern, rich type. In which case, would he be disgusted by my house? At least disappointed?

Honestly, I had to stop analyzing things so much.

Regardless, when we pulled up to my driveway, Michael seemed in awe from the start.

"You have a treehouse?! I've always wanted one of those!" Was his first comment upon our arrival.

"I actually have only been up there once. It came with the house, it's really old."

"Let's go up!"

*

Sorry for the awkward stop, I wanted to end the chapter but I didn't know where to