Back To You | Ricky Garcia

Chapter Thirty One

Charlene's POV

If there's one thing I know about Ricky and his sense of being, it would be that he is strong. Yes, he's quirky. He has a secret love for singing and performing and making two words fit together like they're pieces on a puzzle and he just found the perfect match. He's endlessly spontaneous and charming and endearing. But if there is one thing that I know will never change about Ricky, it would be that he is undoubtedly one of the strongest people I know.

Sometimes, I envy him for it. It's not easy for me to keep my composure after I get into a fight with someone I care about. It's not easy for me to let things go, let alone with a smile on my face. I could barely make it out alive when my goldfish died a few years ago. Bubbles didn't deserve this type of fate.

And then there's him. He might as well plaster the slogan 'Just Keep Swimming' on his forehead because he sure does live by it. I sighed and sunk into my pillow, my eyes never leaving the phone on my nightstand. I haven't talked to him for two days, since we heard his parents arguing and he told me to go home on Friday. He hasn't called me, most likely because he doesn't want to talk about it. I think, in Ricky's mind, talking about it would mean remembering it, and remembering it would mean reliving it, something I'm sure he doesn't want to do.

I can almost make out his face in my mind when the sounds of people screaming and glass breaking came from upstairs. It was the kind of look your face would make when your teacher calls you out of the room after you've done something wrong. A little angry because you've been told on, a little afraid because you know the consequences, a little upset because you regret doing the things you did, but not at all surprised, because you knew it was bound to happen. Like it was expected, something you've experienced before.

I wonder if his parents fight a lot, if it's something that bothers him. I wonder if sometimes, he wants someone to ask about it just so he doesn't have to bring it up himself. I wonder if he would tell me if I did. The urge to pick up my phone runs through my mind for the billionth time tonight, but I know that if I did, he wouldn't want to talk about it. It's one of the weaknesses that come with being strong - he prefers bottling everything in. And I haven't called because I respect that.

So on a Sunday night, 9:34 PM to be exact, I'm here lying in bed with no music on, praying to God and wishing on all the stars that a certain green eyed boy is lying in his bed too, perfectly okay and unbothered, and if not, at the very least, getting there.

Realizing that constant worrying and overthinking won't actually answer any of my questions, I rolled over to the side of my bed and reached over to grab my phone. I could have sworn I tore a ligament or some muscle because the darn thing had to be placed all the way on the other side of the nightstand.

Extending my arm as far I could without actually doing so, I grunted in discomfort. The worse thing was that it was right at my fingertips. All the answers were right at my fingertips. You know, if I could actually grab my phone.

"C'mon baby, I just wanna make a few calls," I muttered, making a sour face when I realized I was talking to a phone.

"Maybe if I just..." I started pushing the phone off the edge of stand, widening the palm of my hand so I could catch it in mid-air. Like a boss.

But my heart went numb when I saw the phone tip over in a different direction. It wasn't going to fall on my hand. It was going to fall onto the screen cracking, cruel, carpet-less floor.

"No, no, no, no," I took a dive onto the floor, head first might I add, letting the phone fall smack dab on my forehead. I winced, mumbling a few curse words as I massaged my forehead on the floor.