3:30pm

24: whites

                        <I got black, I got white, what you want?>

•°•°•°•

Breathe in, Cleopatra, just breathe in.

Straightening up from my slouched position on the bed, I filled my lungs with air.

Yes, that's right. Now let it out slowly.

I heeded to the instructions of my mind and exhaled.

Great! Now we're gonna add one more thing. Breathe in, breathe out, believe. Easy right?

And that I did. I took in another deep breath, let it out, and made for the last part but stopped halfway, doubt creeping into my mind.

Believe? Believe Stephen's mom doesn't consider me a one-night-stand material after meeting Stephen and I half naked on her couch, making out? Believe Stephen's mom first impression of me was dandy, and she was rooting for me to be with her son, anytime, anyday?

Hell, no. Who was I trying to play? Myself?

At once, I sprang up from the bed and began pacing back and forth the room (from the edge of the bed to the wall opposite), hands wrung together, teeth making a mess of my lower lip.

I couldn't just stay here and act like everything was perfectly okay. Call me paranoid, but I needed to know what was happening downstairs in the living room where Stephen and his mom were. I needed to find out what was going through Stephen's mom's mind at the moment.

Nuh-uh, Cleo. What if you go down there and she spies you eavesdropping? Or you go down, try to speak to her, and your words hitch in your throat, like they always do in explanatory moments? Don't do it, girl. You'll only get her more agitated.

That voice was back. That sly, deceitful, dissuading voice was back, but I was having none of it no more.

Blowing it away in my head, like strong wind dispersing an obnoxious cloud to tiny wisps, I made my decision and with a firm resolve started out of Stephen's room, down the stairs and to the living room.

Standing beside the door, I pressed my body into the wall and leaned forward to take a peek into the now brightly lit living room.

At the edge of the couch on which Stephen and I had made out over an hour ago—the longest one in the room, opposite the TV, which was currently turned on but muted—sat his mom, her back leaning against the arm rest, bare feet up and resting on the plush cushion of the couch, a cup, with steam rising from it's surface, in her hands. Beside her was Stephen, a leg crossed on top of the other and a distracted smile on his lips, eyes halfheartedly going through his phone.

"At least they transferred her earlier. I was starting to get sick of Detroit anyway," she said before taking a sip from her cup, wincing, almost immediately, at the hotness of the liquid.

Looking away from his phone and at her, Stephen raised his eyebrows, "Isn't that too hot?"

She shrugged. "I prefer it that way,"

Now dressed in black slacks and a tanktop, her dark afro hair held up and together with a band, she looked much younger, like she was Stephen's older sister or something. And much . . . friendlier. Easygoing.

"I remember her," she spoke up after another sip, this one longer than the first.

My heart skipping a beat at her words, very well knowing that the "her" referred to was me, I strained my ears harder to pick up every single word.