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chapter four

SHE'S ACTUALLY HAPPY SHE didn't ride with her parents

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SHE'S ACTUALLY HAPPY SHE didn't ride with her parents. From what she hears, the twins watched their videos the entirety of the three hour ride. Irena can't imagine having to listen to his voice for that long.

Well it's not Clay's voice. It's that YouTuber...Dream. That's what Isaac called him. Whoever he is, he just has a similar laugh to her stranger. Their voices didn't even sound the same, it was just the laugh.

Irena pulls into her grandparent's driveway just behind her family's minivan. The tall house is decorated spectacularly for Christmas, complete with blow-up snowmen and reindeer and a million different colored lights. Her parents complain every year about all the hazards the decorations ( and the decorating itself ) pose for Irena's grandparents, but the worries always fall on deaf ears.

They're greeted by the two short and bubbly figures that they know so well. Irena's mother is a carbon copy of her parents — a composition of curly dark hair, a cherub-like face, and a bright personality to match. She's always wished she could be more like her mother and aunts. They're all so good with people, and the perfect Greek children that the grandchildren were expected to resemble. But Irena's other grandmother described her so well. Old soul. She doesn't have to please others all the time. She's more content to be a voluntary lone wolf, despite her family's worries.

After the initial greetings of the extended family that have gathered in Orlando for the holidays, Irena is sent off to work out the sleeping situations. She only just has time to settle in the second guest bedroom ( shared with two of her girl cousins ) before she's sent right back out to the store to gather supplies for that night's dinner.

The Toyota's engine has only just settled down before she's forcing it back to life. She takes a moment to plug in the nearest grocery store on her phone before carefully backing out.

Normal Publix, nothing out of the ordinary. She keeps glancing down at the scribbled list her grandmother pressed into her hand. It's not easy to read the older woman's handwriting. Especially when half of it is old slang — sometimes words in Greek — that Irena's never been able to pick up on. Yet again, she finds herself wishing she knew more words in her grandmother's native tongue than just the simplest terms ( greetings and goodbyes, smattered with the occasional random vocabulary ).

She's still looking down when she rounds the end of an aisle and bumps into someone. The box of pasta she's holding falls to the ground.

"Shoot, I'm so sor—" It's a miracle that she happens to look up before reaching for the pasta. It's discarded in a moment. "No fucking way." All the breath exits her lungs in one rush. He's been in her head for days and now he's here. Is this even real?

"It's you," he breathes in response.

"What are you doing here?" She winces at the severity of her words. Irena didn't mean for them to be so harsh. But he smirks. She can't breathe again.

"I live here. What are you doing here?"

"Visiting my grandparents."

"Cool. Uh, I'm Clay, by the way," he offers quickly, offering her a hand. Irena wants to laugh at the complete irony of this situation. It almost feels fitting to tell him I couldn't stop thinking about you and now you're here.

It's fate. It has to be. She's never been a big believer in destiny and the paths that people follow, but there's something about this that is too...perfect. Two different cities, hours apart.

"I'm Irena," she takes his hand.

"Shame we didn't do this two weeks ago, right?"

"Yeah. I was working up the courage but you left before I could talk to you." She blushed as the words fall from her mouth. Why is she telling him that much?

"Oops. Not too late to ask for socials, I hope?"

"Uh, no. I'll warn you though, I'm not very active."

"As long as we don't separate again without contact."

Don't smirk at me like that, you prick. Don't you know how attractive it is?

"You can put your number in," she offers him her phone. "I actually remember to check my messages there."

"You have Twitter?"

"Yeah," she waits until he's pulled up the app on his own device. "My user is goldengirl."

"Cute," he remarks. She blushes at the word falling out of his mouth. It's a shining little gemstone, crafted just for her. "Wow, you really aren't active. Only ten tweets. How do you survive?"

"Maybe I have a burner where I post all the bangers."

Clay seems a bit startled by her vocabulary. He breaks into a laugh. The sounds reminds her of the YouTube videos.

"Hey...by the way, has anyone ever told you that you sound like some YouTuber?"

The laughter dies in his throat. She regrets being the downfall of such a joyous noise.

"Which one?" He replies casually.

"I think his name is Dream. Plays video games? I'm not sure my brothers were just watching him and I guess he's pretty big."

"Huh. Don't think I have."

"Yeah. Stupid thought, sorry. Forget I mentioned that." She tries to laugh it off.

Her nerves must've been on vacation. Maybe she left them in Miami. Wherever they were, they're back now. Her throat is drying up at a rapid pace. The weak smile shes tried to plaster in place is slowly melting off. She's being pitifully exposed for her lack of communication skills.

At least Clay doesn't seem to care. Though his mood has definitely shifted. He drops momentarily to retrieve the forgotten box of pasta.

"I'm gonna get going. Don't abuse my number. I don't give it out often." He winks at her. She takes the pasta from his hand ( his grasp is positively dwarfing the blue container and she has to act like it's not sending her heart into a fit of palpitations ).

"I'll try not to. You might get a bit of spam on Christmas though." Irena swallows heavily as he turns to leave. "And Clay? I'm sorry if you got weirded out by the YouTube comment. I don't know why that came out."

"Not weirded out. Just surprised." He offers her a warm smile. Not the mischievous smirk, but a real smile with teeth and a set of dimples that just completes the expression. "Bye, Irena."

"Goodbye, Clay."

"

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