Philophobia (Anger is Bliss)

chapter 11

I've never struggled so much to find an outfit in my entire life.

It's already 8:19 pm and I'm still lying on my bed, thinking. Thinking about combinations of clothes that wouldn't look too bad on me, and also thinking about everything else.

I'm so tired. Do I really need to get up? I could just...fall asleep and care later.

No. That would be too mean, even for me.

A few minutes later, I sigh and get up. I pick a black shirt to put on with my black jeans. Though, it shows a little bit more skin than I wish it would.

But I only have that. It'll have to do.

I look at the time. I'm late. How did that even happen?

I hear a motorcycle sound out my window but don't mind it. Then I take my zip hoodie as quickly as I can and hurry outside.

He's probably not here yet, so I can pretend I was never late, I think, amused. I can hear the diabolic laugh in the back of my mind.

"Well, you like to take your sweet time" I hear when I come out.

I internally sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm usually never late." Which is definitely not true these past few days, but anyway.

"It's fine, I just got here," he says with an amused expression that looks so sweet and friendly. So friendly. I don't like him. Did he just beat me at my own game?

He's wearing black pants and a black shirt, just like me. He's also wearing a leather jacket and has a helmet in hand. I realize what my ride is going to be and somehow freeze without stopping. Then, the information gets to my brain and I—finally—stop and try to talk my way out of this.

"Actually, I don't feel so good, I should get back inside," I say with an innocent look on my face. One that probably looks too fake anyway. I turn around and start walking away when I hear, "it's not going to bite you, you know."

"Yeah, no shit, it's a motorcycle you idiot, I'm not getting on that."

Plus, the cliché of the popular guy who rides a motorcycle? Seriously?

"It is a motorcycle, congratulations" he answers in a mocking but gentle tone, "come on Andrea, don't you trust me?"

He looks at me deeply. He said my name.

"No, not really."

"Oh, uh" he looks down, "well anyway, I obviously won't make you if you don't want to, but I'm the one driving it, you shouldn't worry" he adds, "it's not my thing to get into accidents, especially when I have someone else with me. Which I usually don't."

I look back at him. He's kind of cute.

"Okay fine," I say, looking away.

Taking small steps toward him, I try to build up the courage to climb this monster of a vehicle.

I won't keep it a secret. I have bad memories from when I was a kid. I fell off a quad bike—well, I was technically pushed off of it, which makes this situation even worse since a motorcycle has two wheels, not four.

He holds my waist and tries to carry me to help me climb the motorcycle. I take his hands and get them off me in a hurry. "Don't fucking touch me" I say in a bit of panic.

"Sorry, I. I just wanted to help you" he says, seemingly regretting it.

He stands there, being careful not to touch me again and just waits for me to come back to my senses. I realize how crazy I must look and try to get the words out.