Running Away

chapter eleven: not all mistakes are bad things

Edited.

C H A P T E R  E L E V E N : NOT ALL MISTAKES ARE BAD THINGS

- Taylor -

The drive back to Devon's apartment was, in a word, miserable. A thick and uncomfortable silence hung in the air between the three of us, unperturbed and stubborn, unwilling to be broken even by a cough. We were all preoccupied in our own thoughts—I was still hung up on what Andrew could have been calling for—and as for Derek and I, we weren't going to be speaking to each other for at least the next few hours.

After Derek had kissed me, I'd realized a number of things. Firstly, he was a much bigger ass than I'd ever anticipated. Secondly, he was never going to let me live down the bowling bet, so I'd have to take him on a date, and no matter what I planned for it—greasy dinner at a fast-food restaurant or cringe-worthy chick flick in Devon's living room—it would still be counted as a date. And thirdly, even though I didn't want to admit it aloud or in my mind, my heartrate had multiplied tenfold when Derek's lips had grazed my cheek.

I really didn't want to admit that last one.

I wouldn't be speaking to him, because I was still attempting to decipher what my reaction to his touch could have meant. And he wouldn't be speaking to me, because he was disappointed that I was going to make him suffer through an strikingly plotless movie about male strippers.

. . .

Once I was back in the safety of my bedroom, I scanned through my phone, pulling up Andrew's voicemail immediately. It was over two minutes long and, judging by his three other missed calls, incredibly important. Collapsing onto my mattress—which although overstuffed and laden with broken springs, was surprisingly comfortable—I played the message, setting it to speaker so that Andrew's quite but authoritative voice seemed to hover in the air above me.

"Hi, Taylor," he began, but it was another handful of seconds and a series of hushed whispers before he continued. "Sorry for the late notice, but I'm going to have to take the next week off, because—" he paused again, and this time I was able to make out the nasally sound of a woman whining in the background, "—um, because my parents are in town, and I don't want to risk... well, you know."

The mysterious girl who was with him spoke up then, but her words were garbled and drowned out by Andrew's constant shushing. From what I heard, it was something along the lines of, "But Andrew, your parents are back in Texas—"

"—anyway, Taylor," his tone verged on reprimanding, and I felt the corner of my mouth curl upward. So, he wasn't as innocent as he seemed. Hopefully that woman was his girlfriend. "I'll be back by October first. Keep up with the homework, though." There was a shuffling sound, and I guessed that either he was about to end the call, or she was—but then he added, "Oh, and happy birthday." That was where the voicemail died, and where it was my cue to return the favor, but I was too overcome with a strange mixture of gratitude and rage.

So my tutor remembered my birthday, but my own damn parents hardly ever did? There was something disgustingly twisted about that.

A knock on my door shook me from my mental fuming. Before I could respond, Devon stepped in, a bag of popcorn in one hand and a slightly crumpled sheet of paper in the other. Crossing to where I was sprawled on the bed, he deposited the paper—which I realized just in the nick of time was much more than one piece, and was actually a packet of documents—onto my chest. I swatted it away reflexively, pinching the stapled end between my thumb and forefinger.

"You'll need that for Monday." Devon instructed thickly through a mouthful of popcorn. Wiping his greasy fingers on his jeans, he flopped down beside me, pointing to the top of the front page, where two words were printed in all capitals: CLASS SCHEDULE.