Tronnor in Anaheim

Chapter Ten

"I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday,

because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you,

every thought is burnt up in a great flame.

But then you come;

And you're so much more than I remembered. 

And what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between,

that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this."

—Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton

Troye 

I fiddled a moment with the pen in my hands, struggling to articulate the words on the tip of my tongue. Scribbing down some synonyms in haste, I finally threw down the pen in frustration, glancing up at the digital clock on the hotel dresser. 

5:41 a.m. 

The skies were dim, though clear, and I could still make out the stars from the bright sky as the sun was just beginning to jump the horizon. I stood up slowly, intensely and immediately aware of the pulsing pain of pins-and-needles that rushed to fill my feet. I hissed into the empty air, clawing at my legs through my pajama pants futiely in an effort to numb the agony. 

Waddling over to the window and pulling the heavy, cream-colored curtains to their respective sides, I looked outside for a moment, and suddenly my chest was constricted. I gasped for breath for a short minute. 

L.A. never failed to take my breath away. With a sprawling view of gleaming silver buildings already bustling with people, buses honking and stopping in the middle of the road, and pools rippling with the wind currents and refracting morning light- I felt the urge to take up my pen again. 

If someone had tapped on my door and inquired as to why I was awake this early, I'd be rendered speechless before them. Some muse nudged me from a restless slumber an hour before, and I'd been grumbling to myself ever since. "Freakin' inspiration and it's shit timing," I mumbled under my breath.  

Returning to plop down on my bed, I watched my hand edge ever closer to my cell phone, charging on my desk, chiming every so often with another forgotten text. Because they weren't the person I wanted to talk to right now. 

My thoughts were consumed by him, and every other thing reminded me of it- the spare room incident. 

That's what I had decided to call it, anyway. 

Back at Chris and Pat's, Connor and I had dressed in relative silence, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out what to say. My body was extremely relaxed, and I'm sure he could tell as I fairly floated downstairs, eyes still slightly glazed with pleasure. Just before we re-entered the living room, Connor turned to me, a small smile playing across his lips. 

"Your lips are kinda red," was all he said, swiping a finger across my bottom lip gently. I smiled against his touch. "Well, whose fault is that?" 

"Certainly not mine!" Connor feigned offence. I giggled.

Without saying another word, we re-entered the basement. 

If the others noticed something was off, they didn't mention it. 

I retired to my room after dinner that night, determined to not focus on what I had done earlier, blaming it on the excessive alcohol we had consumed. The alternative, I couldn't stand to picture: that Connor and I could be together, we could be a couple, he could come out with me by his side - and that's when I stopped with the daydreaming. Each time I approached a possible relationship, I over-thought everything. Without ensuring Connor's plans, I couldn't afford to shape my own. My heart couldn't bear it.