Hours

23- Thursday, May 17th

8:56 PM

Later that night, I lie on top of my sheets on my bed, my mind whirring.

Somehow, after all that drama, Micheal and I still managed to make it to class on time. We sat near the back of the class, and for the first few minutes, he just sat, staring blankly. He would close his eyes as if in pain once or twice, but otherwise, I couldn't tell a single thing he was thinking. He was mostly quiet for the rest of the day, but every now and then I caught him sneaking glances at me.

Every now and then I caught myself sneaking glances at him.

When we had to go to our next class, he stayed perfectly still until I came over, then he jumped up and almost ran out of the classroom. I sat near the back with him again, and as soon as the final bell rang he ran out. I caught him at the lockers, and he just looked so lost.

"It's okay, Micheal," I'd said to him, speaking like he was a caged animal. "I'm... not going to tell anyone."

"You think I'd care if you did?" He snapped, then winced, saying apologetically, "Sorry... it's not your fault. I just can't believe that Alisa would... that I could let them do that to you." He ran a hand through his mussed hair, and said quietly, "I don't want to hurt you more than I already have."

"Micheal-" I started, amazed, but he cut me off.

"I'm sorry about today, Kayla. I thought it would be nice, but maybe it'd be better for you to just eat with Lindsay and Ashley." Micheal began to turn away, but I grabbed his wrist like I had grabbed his hand earlier.

"If you tell me one more time that those two are better friends than you are, I swear I'll break your nose," I said, a smile playing on my face.

Micheal smiled back, but I could see it was forced, worry and pity and sadness dancing right beneath his facade.

I can't believe he was so concerned about me when he was the one who was hurt. The thought makes my face heat up. Why should he be worried about me? I'm the one who's supposed to worry about him. Why is his smile so contagious? Why does the feeling of his hand in mine never leave, and how are his eyes-

Oh, God.

I put a stop to that train of thought quickly, sitting up in bed and looking around my room. The only light on is the lamp on my bedside table, casting the room into shadows. The rest of the lights are off, and despite thinking I was being irrational, I remember checking the window and door locks three times before I could relax.

I'm home alone again.

I close my eyes as this thought rolls over me, the 'again' hitting me harshly over and over. A fresh wave of anger overtakes me, and soon I'm marching down the hall to my parent's bedroom.

I head straight to their dresser, not even bothering to turn on any lights. I reach for the jewellery box as I've done, hundreds of times before, just to check, just checking, over and over and over again since that day in grade nine, when I came home sick and-

I see it. Just sitting there. It's not even hidden, she didn't even bother to hide it.

My mother's wedding ring.

I slam the jewellery box closed in rage. Why, why, do I ever think she'll change? She knows she's hurting Dad- she knows she's hurting me. Oh, but that's not important, is it? Her little 'business trips' will always be more important. More important than our family. More important than Dad.

More important than me.

I feel the hot pricks of tears behind my eyes and immediately curse myself. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands as I head towards the bathroom, willing the tears not to fall.

I grab a wipe and my makeup remover and wipe furiously at my mascara. I know I should be more careful, but I'm beyond caring at this point. I look at myself in the mirror once I've removed all my makeup. After a moment, I tear my hair out of the bun it was in. Then I head to my bedroom, grabbing a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings from my closet. I change, all the while fuming and trying desperately to keep tears from falling. Eventually, I collapse against the side of my desk and let the tears stream down my face, breathing harshly through my teeth. Once the tears run out, I'm left feeling empty, trying to find the will to stand up again, trying to ignore the urge to go for a walk.

I hear my phone go off from across the room.

I stand up slowly, my legs feeling weak beneath me. I sit down on my bed heavily, then lie down completely, curling up into a ball on my duvet. If it's my mother, I don't want to deal with her. Even a single word from her could cause me to throw my phone across the room.

How could she do this? Does she even think about us, about our family? I can't believe she'd be so selfish. And my Dad, my Dad, he's the real issue here. He could say something. Hell, he could do something. He's the one who's making the money here unless my mother is more of a whore than I previously thought she was. If he just divorced her, if he were to just move out, he would save himself so much trouble.

I grab my phone from the bedside table.

There's a message from Micheal.

I frown at his message; it doesn't seem like something he would ask. I type a quick, "no, y?" in response.

Almost immediately, he replies. After reading his message, I sit up fully. It doesn't matter if it's urgent or not, or whether it's nothing big. I made a promise today, and I intend to stand by it. Besides, what if it is urgent? What if Andy and Alisa...

Oh, god.

Walking over to my desk, I pull the envelope out of the drawer. Heading downstairs, I hear my phone chirp again and reply quickly. I'm out the door and in my car by the time I read his address, barely acknowledging how I didn't lock the front door or leave a note for Dad. I do acknowledge how little I care.