Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 42

Emersyn

Days have gone by since that night in the living room. Still, I can taste Marx on my tongue, feel the heat of his skin. He's always in my thoughts, whether I'm awake or asleep. I've tried to go about my daily life, but it's like I'm lost in a fog.

Fowler said Marx wants me. Did Marx tell him that? Or is Fowler guessing?

I sit on my bed, staring at the wall in front of me. My fingers play with the edge of the blanket. I'm here, but my mind is somewhere else, tangled up with thoughts of Marx.

I get up, hoping to shake off this haze. I head to the kitchen to make some coffee. Maybe caffeine can clear my mind. As the coffee brews, the smell fills the air. Normally, it's comforting. Today, it's just there.

I pour myself a cup and take a sip. I didn't bother putting cream or sugar in it. It's hot and bitter, but I hardly notice. I'm too caught up in what Fowler said.

Does Marx really want me? And if he does, what's stopping him? I would think that being on my knees in front of him would tell him how much I want him.

I take my coffee and move to the living room. I sit on the same couch where it all happened. I look at the chair where Marx was, and my skin tingles, as if he's still there.

I take another sip of my coffee, but it's lost its warmth. Like me, it's gone cold, sitting too long, waiting for something to happen.

Fowler's words keep echoing in my head. I want to talk to Marx, to know what he feels. But I'm scared. What if Fowler is wrong?

I put my cup down on the table and stand up. I need to do something. Anything. I need to get my mind off of this whole situation.

I grab my cup and in the sink, glancing at the clock. It's getting late, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. Fowler said to give Marx time, but time is stretching out like a long road with no end in sight.

Maybe a shower will help. Maybe the hot water can wash away these confusing thoughts, these heavy feelings. I head to the bathroom and turn the faucet, letting the steam fill the room.

As I step into the shower, the hot water feels like tiny needles on my skin. I close my eyes and let it wash over me. But even here, with the water streaming down, Marx invades my thoughts. How would it feel to have his hands on me right now, instead of this water?

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image. This isn't helping. I quickly soap up, rinse off, and step out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around me, I walk into my room.

I dry off and put on a comfy T-shirt and shorts. I should go to bed, try to get some sleep. But my bed feels like a lonely island tonight. I keep thinking about Marx's room, just upstairs. It's like a magnet, pulling me.

My feet move before my brain can catch up. I find myself standing in front of his door. My heart pounds in my chest like a drum. Should I knock? What would I even say? Is he even home?

I raise my hand, but it hangs in the air, frozen by fear and doubt. I drop it back to my side.

Maybe Fowler is right. Maybe I need to give Marx time.

I turn back toward my room. Each step away from his door feels like a tiny defeat. But maybe it's a battle that I'm not yet ready to fight.

As I crawl into bed, I know that sleep will be hard to come by. And as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I can't help but wonder—how many more nights will pass before I find the courage to face what I'm feeling? Before Marx finds the courage to face me?