Getting Chased

Chapter 6

If I'm being completely honest, I know I'm doing Sam wrong. It's just so hard to keep myself in check when he invades my space with all his weirdo-ness, and I can't let him go. He put himself here willingly. I just know that, eventually, he won't want to be here -with me- anymore.

The matter at hand is that I can't let him stay around. Yes, he has seen past the image I project myself to be. He has seen the me that I wish I could always be. And I would absolutely love it if that was all I am.

But it's not.

I mean it with every fiber of my body when I say that Sam is too good to stick around to see that. I can't let him see me downing bottles like I watched my mom. I don't need him to see me dropping my emptied containers in my recycling bin and savoring the ear splitting sound of glass shattering against the plastic, just like my mom would.

I can't let him stay long enough to see me for who I am. Honestly, the only time I find myself tolerable is when I'm far gone. He shouldn't see that either.

All of these thoughts shock me, because my drinking has never been an issue. It has never once gotten in the way of a thing. But I feel the urge to protect Sam from myself, which is as sad as it sounds.

God, I need a drink, now.

I look to Sam, who is innocently twirling around on my kitchen stool, probably waiting for my company. He stops spinning, then looks to me with his eyes that make it so hard to leave. I stare back, unwavering.

He stands, stumbles a bit, and walks around my counter.

"I'm gonna get a drink, okay?" He walks to my fridge and begins to pull the door open.

The only thoughts crowding my mind are ones about how I need a drink more. My gaze shoots up to where he's about to open my fridge, and my heart begins to beat a frantic beat against my ribcage. My arms shot out in front of me, and I sprinted to the door.

"No!" I shout, slamming it shut.

Sam puts his hands up quickly, his eyes wide in fear. "Sorry."

I breathe in and out, trying to calm myself. That was too close. I need a drink.

I wave it off. "It's nothing."

Sam frowns, scanning my face. I make my features as blank as possible. He reads over my body language, my hands pressed protectively against my refrigerator, my body tilted towards him.

"Clearly it was something." His frown deepens when I choose not to respond.

He sighs and sits back on the stool. "Will you get me a drink, please, Ava?" He asks me politely.

I nod enthusiastically. "Absolutely!"

I block the open crack of the fridge from his view with my body. I reach in, grab the first can my fingers graze past, and hand it to him. He accepts the soda, a diet coke.

He inspects the can with a smile. "Ellie has a billion of these in her fridge because she substitutes soda for the eggs and oil when she makes cakes. We all think they're sick, but no one has the heart to tell her, so we all sit around and eat her squishy, mush cake every weekend."

I smile, taking the seat next to him.

I use my coke to make alcoholic beverages. I can definitely relate to your sister!

My smile disappears. Sam takes notice and brings my attention back to him.

"Hey. Ava," he says, putting his hands on the sides of my face, positioning my head to look into his eyes. "What's wrong?"