Standing Still

Chapter 2: Not Your Scene

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Sam up in the sidelines. Isn't he just adorable?

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I had an unhealthy obsession.

One that kept me awake  at all hours of the night, consuming my brain and slowly eating away at  at, forcing aside all other things - like food, for example - that were  necessities, and making them feel unimportant. My brain could not  function properly.

It was an addiction.

The Bachelor had ruined my life.

I sat huddled on the  couch, TV remote in one hand, Reese's cup in the other, - necessities,  obviously - slowly munching away at the chocolate in bubbling  anticipation. I felt giddy.

When Brad's perfect face  popped up onto the screen, with his blonde hair, blue eyes, and the  kind of smile that would've made Nelson Mandela hand over his Nobel  Peace Prize and say, "Here, here. Just take it!" my heart fluttered.

Brad was perfection.

Mallory walked up to him  in her long, sparking red dress, the water on the surface of lake  behind them glistening in the sun as he took her delicate hand in his.

Her hair was perfect, her face perfect, her life perfect. They looked like they belonged on the cover of a poster advertising the wonders of Photoshop.

How can two people be so inhumanly beautiful? I wondered, graduating from a nibble on the Reese's to shoving the entire thing in my mouth. I was a stress eater.

"Mallory." Brad's deep,  masculine voice caused me to rise in my seat, leaning in closer to the  TV to capture the entirety of the moment. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, Brad." She smiled. I was too much in agreement with him to groan in jealously. She was unfairly beautiful. It was pointless to argue about it.

"Mallory," he said again, tightening his hold, looking deeply into her eyes, "I really care about you. So I think that-"

The screen went black.

"Hey!" I exclaimed,  pouncing up and out of my seat to jab a finger into my brother's chest.  The boy in question was standing in front of the TV, messing with the  on/off button on the side. "What was that for?"

"We were supposed to be  gone five minutes ago," he complained, towering over me. Caroline had  been right about one thing. He was tall.

"Sam," I glanced at the clock on the wall over his head, "it's only two forty-five."

"So?"

"So, the game doesn't  start until quarter after three. We've got a half an hour." I picked the  remote up off the couch. "And enough time to finish this episode," I  mumbled, clicking the TV back on.

He yanked it away from  me. I struggled to reach for it, standing even on my tip-toes, but his  arms were too long and his torso too tall. "No, there isn't. Coach says  twenty minutes early is still five minutes late." He clicked it off  again.

"Well, Coach also chews tobacco. I wouldn't exactly say he's any example to follow."

"Whatever." He rolled his eyes, tossing the remote back onto the plush sofa. "I recorded it for you. Let's just go."

I smiled. "Fine."

We walked into the  kitchen to see my mother scrambling with assorted papers over the  counter top, the phone pressed to one ear, arguing with a woman on the  other end of the phone. "No," she was saying, "they booked their  reservation for Wednesday. No, Marcie, not next Wednesday, this one. Yes. Yes! Well make sure you call Brian about it. No, heavens no. Okay, okay. Good. Buh-bye."