THRUST

Chapter Twenty-Five

"You okay?" His voice is soft, comforting.

With my eyes to the ceiling and through heavy breaths, I answer him. My fist is against my chest, feeling my heart pound out fast beats.

"You almost gave me a heart attack." I exhale. "How'd you get in?"

He pushes the comforter and top sheet over to my side, bunching it up against me as he scoots in closer beside me, turning over and keeping one leg up onto the bed. "I took Jess's key."

He folds his arms, laying his head back onto his hands. We both quietly stare at the ceiling.

"You still feeling sick?"

Nervous would be a better word for it.

"Just trying to slow my heart rate down, now that I know I'm not being murdered." My tone is sarcastic, and I regret it immediately, but I'm still a little shaky from the scare and my feelings are still hurt.

He speaks quietly. "For what it's worth, you scared me too."

It's in those words... out from his mouth, into the air between us, and through to me. A new vibe flows through this conversation. One of responsibility. One that's heavier than ever before— it's in this crackling, static space and it floats between us.

I look over to him, stretched out on top of my bed. He's got one leg covering the length of my mattress, his foot dangling off the end. His other leg hangs off the bed, bent at the knee, foot on the floor, shoes still on. I'm flat on my back, just inches away, hoping for my racing heart to calm.

We're lying here like we do this every night, but it's never been like this before.

I face him, looking at his silhouette that peeks out, over his elbow. "How did I scare you?"

He unfolds his arm, placing his hand on his stomach, as he turns to me. "Rose used to stay messed up... I hated it. Remember me telling you that?"

"Yeah."

"There's a reason why she's not my girl anymore." He turns his eyes away from me, shaking his head. A resentful tone in his voice. "That shit's such a turn off."

Stab.

I feel about two inches tall right now. And judged. He's never made me feel that way.

I look out, through the window that spills moonlight onto the bottom half of the bed, and speak quietly. "Okay?"

His eyes burn into me through the dark.

"I was gonna leave tomorrow without saying bye to you. My was mind made up. And that last time you looked at me, through zoned-out eyes, sealed it for me. I'd've called later— once I got there or something, but I was just gonna leave without a word."

He doesn't even flinch, saying words that cut me like a knife.

"But every time I'd start to buy a ticket, something stopped me."

He turns his eyes back to the ceiling and I instantly feel relief. I find comfort in the shade. Relief from the exposure, from the conviction, from the responsibility to be more. To be better.

"I kept going back and forth, back and forth." He moves his head side to side as he speaks and then stops. "I talked to Jake about it, before I finally decided to leave and then I came home tonight and bought a noon flight out tomorrow." He adjusts himself and continues. "You texted me about five minutes after."

My heart sinks and heavy knots swell in my throat, but I lie quietly, with my stomach turning over and over from his words... knowing what he says next is going to be pivotal before it spills from his mouth.