Impulse

6. Spark

senirasushipping — because it doesn't have to end like this

***

Some questions aren't easily answered. Those little mysteries of life that keep a girl up at night. Like how to outdo a model in a swimsuit ad, when you're not a model and you can't wear a swimsuit.

Well, I can, obviously. Just not to a musical.

I should've told the other leaders we were going to the hotel pool, I muse to myself as I scan the lounge. They're sitting in bored silence for the most part. So I've made it very clear to them that technically this was Fantina's idea.

The pool would be fun. It'd be like that beach party we never had. And I'd get to see Volkner in swim trunks.

Then again, I'd be met with the impossible task of somehow maintaining my composure while faced with Volkner in swim trunks. On second thought, maybe this musical wasn't a bad choice.

Besides. It's the sort of event you can dress up for. And believe me, I haven't let the opportunity go to waste.

I'm wearing a barely-there dress in a piercing ice blue—one of the ones Gardenia turned down for dinner with Roark. It was a bit more bedroom than dining room, she said. Not that there was anything wrong with that. She just hoped for my sake I might need it later.

Though I'm not sure a musical was what she had in mind.

I run my fingers over the soft lace trim and begin to second-guess myself. Is this too much?

Of course not. It's fine. It's only a slipdress.

Besides. My shoes aren't too much, and it's all about balance. After that close call at the football game, I've switched out the skyscraper heels for a delicate pair of sandals—the kind you almost float into the room in. I've got everything I need to steal Volkner's attention away from Elesa once and for all.

There's just one tiny hitch. He's not here.

I mean, honestly. Everybody else is.

Fantina's watching the clock and muttering foreign words to herself. She's already warned me that we're about to be late. Byron's staring out the window at Arceus knows what. Probably some excavation site off in the distance. Wake's drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Maylene's absorbed in her phone. Gardenia's resting her head on Roark's shoulder, and it's giving me serious couple envy. I'm trying not to dwell on it.

I texted Volkner. I know I did. I double-checked to make sure the message went through. Double as in more like fifty-seven times.

I texted everyone about our musical plans—everyone who wasn't with me when I thought them up. And they all got back to me right away. All except him.

Wake sent a "rock on" emoji. Roark informed me without hesitation that he had his own plans and Gardenia did too—her influence, no doubt. To which I replied that I'd spoken with Gardenia and there'd been a small change of itinerary.

(I'll make it up to her someday. Really, I will.)

Even Byron wrote, "K." Which is at least an answer.

So Volkner has no excuse. None.

That crushing moment when you text a guy and he doesn't text you back. There's no worse feeling. You'd rather he text something—anything. Even if it's not what you want to hear. Then you don't lie awake half the night clutching your all-too-silent phone and wondering if you should send another text to ask if he got your text.