All Rémy Miller has ever known are lies until someone is able to give him the life changing truth. When studying at Harvard University, his path unexpectedly collides with feisty freshman Céline Martin. Their meeting is not the ideal way to meet som...
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The truth
It was a week ago since I promised her a wild ride, although I had no idea how rocky it really was going to be.
My eyes are still recovering from morning fog while my entire body is jolted awake as Céline jumps out of bed. Last night she told me she didn't have class or practice, so I don't get why the hell she's in such a hurry. She cusses something at her phone before dropping it at the end of the bed to grab a sweater from our closet. Next, she's pushing her legs trough some jeans and I'm just here sitting, watching her rushed movements.
"Pretty, what are you doing?" I yawn, while rubbing my eyes. "Come back to bed."
She doesn't even look at me as she puts on her last shoe. "I have to go, I have to fix something." But I can tell something's wrong, the sound of her voice betraying her.
It's shaky, uncertain, terrified.
Now I am too...
"Where to?" I ask, but nothing, not a look, not even a little sigh. "Babe, talk to me." I sit up straight now, frowning at her as she grabs her coat and huffs towards the door of my room. "Céline!" I yell after her
"We'll talk later." She yells back as she's off towards the front door, her feet heavily stomping across the floor.
What the fuck?
I rub my eyes again, thinking that maybe it was just a lucid fucking dream, but no, she's really gone and I have no idea if I should be worried or not.
It was weird...
What the fuck?
I shrug it off and go back to bed, for exactly five minutes and then I begin to go over every possible reason she could have left in such a hurry.
King of overthinking... He's definitely in the room with us right now.
As I lay in bed, the minutes stretch into a few hours, and still, there's no word from Céline. My worry gnaws at me like a persistent itch, and I just can't ignore it. But then I start to make excuses.
Maybe Stella called in for a last minute practice?
Maybe her phone died and that's why she didn't text me, she must know I'm asking myself a million questions.
She always texts me throughout the day, to a fault.
But as morning bleeds into noon, my attempts at reassurance begin to crumble.
I reach for my phone, dialing her number with trembling fingers. The phone rings and rings, and each unanswered tone sounds like mocking echo of the growing worry in my head.
Frustration simmers beneath my skin, and after a few more unanswered calls it boils over into impatience as I pace back and forth in my room.
