I laid in bed, math sheets still sprawled on my desk the way I had left it. To my absolute fortune, my parents had been too busy with enjoying each other's company to check on me. I concluded that Max was too lovestruck to remember to give me my weekend dose of story-telling.
Usually it would've resulted in me stomping immaturely into his room and demanded that he quit his games to tell me a story. Tonight, I just relished the relief as I wrapped myself in my blankets.
Pulling out my phone from my bag, my eyes widened excitedly at the messages from Jayden. I quickly opened them, reading each and every one with a growing grin.
"Yes, bitch. God, Max is one lucky guy."
He had blurted out the truth before she got out of the car- not an entire shocker- and as weird as it was having my best friend date my brother, I'd support them endlessly.
I typed, just make sure to remember what I said about his kinks ;), and chucked my phone on the bedside table.
Ignoring the immediate vibration alert of a notification, I turned to face the wall and attempted to sleep, fatigue wearing in on me.
Faintly, I could hear Max jumping up and down in his room.
I realised a crease had wedged itself on my forehead.
Why?
Just, why?
Why was my stomach flipping its shit like this? Why couldn't I just fall asleep?
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I laid back to stare at the ceiling. Glaring as if my problems were presented bare on the white plaster, flashes of heat ran through my body.
The ignition of my skin at his brief touches. The raging thumping beneath my ribcage at his probing stares.
Those eyes. I shuddered at the unwavering solidity. The fact that they coursed through my bones right to my toes. I couldn't admit it then but my knees crumbled at his every look.
Finally, with great difficulty, I fell asleep, images of stars and water merging with my dreams.
The following week forced me into denial.
The hope that there'd be a rock banging against my window any night soon can rot in hell. I locked the foreign, yearning sensations into a tight, little box and tossed it somewhere in the far corner of the room.
How ironic to be the one who mentioned Margo and Quentin.
How embarrassingly despondent it is to be Quentin.
Those few hours meant nothing, I kept telling myself. They meant nothing. He meant nothing.
Pitiful, they call it.
Dad had left after the second night, sincerely promising to return as soon as he gets the chance. I just stood awkwardly as we dismissed him from the airport. The fading figure of a fit, ageing man nestles with discomfort into my stomach.
My mother's light sobs were all I could really hear above all the numbness.
YOU ARE READING
The Ride of a Lifetime
RomanceA girl stuck with the rationale of her own mind, a mouth to quick for her own good, and a stomach full of constant hunger. Both literally and figuratively. What she doesn't seem to realise is that the only person who can satisfy her starvation was...
