Here Comes The Sun

thirteen

july 10th
toronto

I SCROLLED THROUGH THE MESSAGES I HAD RECEIVED OVER THE PAST WEEK, consciously ignoring them. Most of the messages were apologies, but none of it mattered. Crystal already hated me, she wasn't going to change her mind, especially since she didn't miss me. We were old enough to talk to each other when things weren't going into the direction we wanted, and she had chosen to leave me without informing me about how she felt. The whole situation was unfair; Leo had told his sister Crystal that I was only hanging out with her because of an argument between the two, and of course she believed that rubbish. And Leo kept messaging me about how he felt so guilty – he ruined 'a friendship' by the simple act of manipulative lying. The funny thing was that he wasn't actually sorry, on the contrary, without the friendship with his sister, he thought it was easier to get into my pants. He wasn't sorry about ruining what he called a friendship, he was sorry about causing me to ignore him.

The books I had fetched from the bookcases glared at me, offended that I felt like my phone was more important. The books were there, the file on my computer was there, but my concentration was nowhere to be found. I had barely worked on the project, and didn't even think of asking who wanted to be my mentor in the hospital, yet the stress wasn't creeping up on me. Yet. What I enjoyed doing the most in the library of my university, was plugging my earbuds into my ears, and discovering what various genres of music did to my mind. Every time a certain beat filled my hearing system, I imagined myself to be in a suitable situation. During Something by The Beatles I was dancing in an almost empty bar, and he sat there, talking to the bartender, eyes fixated on me. I touched my arms, my hips, my eyes were closed, and a silky dress hugged my body. I knew he was looking at me, but it was until the end of the song when I opened my eyes and looked at him, invitingly. During Fireflies by Owl City, I laid in the back of his truck, watching the stars above us. He had surrounded us with candles, and I snuggled up against him. Natural by Imagine Dragons made him yell at me and punch the walls. His knuckles were covered in blood, but he didn't want me to take care of it. Your Man by Josh Turner, well . . .

The unexpected sound of books being thrown down onto my table startled me, and I compulsively plugged out my earbuds. Miles calmly sat down across from me, and looked up once he had found the right page of his book.

"You look like you're doing an awfully grand amount of work."

I sat back in my chair and looked at the ceiling. "What would professor Brown say if I told him that I'm going to quit the project?"

"Well, he'd probably say I'm the one to blame."

"He really does hate you," I chuckled, "but that is completely understandable."

A casual smile adorned his mouth, but as soon as I looked at the cover of my book, I saw his smile being traded in for a deep frown in his forehead, and the dimples in his cheeks for two lips pressed against each other forming a thin line. His green eyes creeped up on me, yet I still acted as if I was really intrigued by the title of my book.

"You haven't really talked to me. I thought we still were friends."

I carefully peeked through my uncoated lashes, and nonchalantly shrugged my shoulders. "Do friends have to talk every day then?"

"No," he stated, "but friends also don't completely disappear for a few days without saying anything."

"Don't start that 'I care about you' act, not feeling it."

He offendedly stared at me, his mouth standing a bit open. "Dude. If you can't handle the fact that I wanted to fuck you, then don't tell me you still want to be friends. Oh, and grow up while you're at it."

"Miles-"

"Don't start that 'Miles, I didn't mean it like that' act, not feeling it." Belligerently gathering his books, mister Mad had the audacity to throw a glare at me. I wasn't amused.

            The mood swings during my period were a horrible thing. I swallowed loudly, and just looked at him, thinking of what I was going to say.

            Luckily, his vexed facial expression toned down a bit. "I put much more effort into this friendship than you do. Both parties have to put the same amount in it, you know. If you don't want to be friends – fine, but then don't tell me you want to."

            "Fine," I sighed, "I've just been busy, that's all. Past few days have been rough."

            He sat down. "What's up?"

            "Just . . ." Hart leaving the hospital, or more like leaving you, Nova, "It's nothing. Nothing important."

            "You don't trust me," he sighed.

            "It's just a bit personal, Miles, and besides, I've only known you for a week or so. You can't expect me to fully trust you – you'll have to prove that."

            "You, Nova, are lucky to be worth all the effort I'll have to put into a broken soul like you." The dimples appeared once again, and I hoped for them to never leave his face.

            "Why," I threw my bag onto the bar in the kitchen and sat behind it, watching Dennis in my mother's pink dotted apron taking perfect care of the steak he was preparing, "are you more often in my house than my own mother?"

            His deep laughter filled the room, almost sounded to echo as it touched each wall, and he performed a quarter turn to look at me. "I am your mother."

            "Damn, mom, what night cream are you using? You look so young all of the sudden." I jumped off the stool to look what was in the kitchen. Nothing. Only salads. "Where is she, though?"

            "Emergency at the hospital. Kidney transplant." Dennis added some seasoning to the steak and wiped the excess off on his apron – actually, not his apron. "And about my night cream, funny you ask; I use a mixture of certain elements such as proteolytic – an enzyme, fructose, and it also provides a medium through which the mixture can swim. Professionals like to call the cream seminal fluid, but usually people just go with sper-"

            "Thank you, Dennis," I quickly interrupted, "thank you for sharing that with me."

            "You hungry?" he asked, acting ignorant about what he had just said.

            "Not anymore."

            "Hey, that's not how I've raised my daughter. Oh, also, did the teachers mention your absence?"

            I shook my head, grabbing a cold beer from the fridge. "Probably not."

            Dennis turned around again when I popped the beer cap, shaking his head at me. "Did you know men think that women who drink beer is a turn off?"

            "Did you know I couldn't care less?"

            "You sound moody."

            "I am moody."

            He gave me that investigative scan. "Have you talked to Hart?"

            "No."

            "Explains a lot."

            I threw my head back and groaned. "I'm moody because I feel like someone is stabbing my fucking uterus again and again. Hart has nothing to do with this."

            "I guess we'll see if he has something to do with this when you get back from the hospital tonight," he wiggled his brows at me.

            What?