Grayson's Body

Moment

Chapter 25: Moment

Moment

mo·​ment | \ ˈmō-mənt \

Definition of moment

1a: a minute portion or point of time

b: a comparatively brief period of time

2a: present time

b: a time of excellence or conspicuousness

3: importance in influence or effect

4obsolete : a cause or motive of action

5: a stage in historical or logical development

It was the night of the Spring Formal and Chip Dove was trying to get to sleep.

It was early, she knew, but she wanted to drown everything out in the wave of it. She was in a loose fitting sweat shirt the color of green peas and tight black sweatpants. The socks she had on were breathable, but tight. She curled her toes as she ran her hand through her dark hair, letting out a sigh, head hitting the pillow again. She could hear Emma's voice in the other room through the thin wall. She was playing with her My Little Pony's, making them be silly.

"Don't be mean, Twilight."

"No, I'm not being mean, you are."

Her side lamp glowed a gentle orange, and she glanced at it for a moment. She shook her head, and then clenched her jaw, releasing it again. She turned her head back again.

She stared up at the whiteness of the ceiling, how the shadows of her lamp reflected up above. Some parts of the plaster were darker than the other parts. For a moment, she thought they were physically moving, and she paid attention to it. Of course, nothing was moving.

Chip closed her eyes. She was trying to sleep, but her mind was wandering too much, and she knew it too. She grabbed her pillow out from under her and with a slight growl, pressed it to her ears, over her head. She turned over so that she was lying on her side, the bed bouncing as she did so.

"Shit," she mumbled when she thought she could still hear Emma. She couldn't, though. Everything was completely and utterly muffled.

She was imagining Ethan: his brown eyes shy behind his thick framed glasses, his smile, the mole on his cheek that she had so delicately kissed.

His hands on her shoulders, on her waist.

She closed her eyes, imaging his lips against her bare throat, his hand against hers, fingers interlacing.

She unwrapped the pillow from her head, sat up with a snap, and threw it. It flew and hit the wall with a small thump, landing on the ground.

She pictured him with Grayson, not a care in the world, at the formal. She pictured his slight smile, the way he moved, the way he'd say something so kindly, as though he was thinking of other persons' feeling way more than his own.

Was he having a good time? Or was he watching Grayson like he had said he would? Obsessively, compulsively, thinking he was a reincarnated monster?

A small, agitated sound came from her throat and she sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs and rested her head onto her knees.

"Damn," she whispered and clenched her hands into fists for a moment, releasing them again. She stayed this way for a solid minute, her eyes on the far wall, her chin on her knees.