My Classified Life

Chapter Forty-One: "This Isn't The Set Of Twilight!"

I groaned as I sat up in bed, the wild and untamed jungle of sheets encased me tightly and I fought against them to get out. It was almost eleven, I couldn't waste away the whole day.

I sat up in bed, scratched my head and could already feel the mess of tangled hair from my constant nightmares that night that kept me tossing and turning. I squinted my eyes and looked around the room, I had a feeling I was forgetting something, something important. Like a ton of bricks it hit me, I kept forgetting Dylan was still in my house. In my mind, running away meant being on my own and I was always forgetting I had company. My eyes almost fell out of their sockets when I realized he was across the hallway, a mere feet from where I had been the whole night.

I used my fingers to comb through my hair before going into my bathroom and stripping, shivering before the hot water warmed me up from the cold tile floor. I took a comb to my hair and managed to make myself look like less of the mess I am. That's one thing I would miss about being on my own, I no longer had to pretend to be anything I wasn't. I didn't have to put on a show.

After slipping on some fluffy sweatpants and shirt, I opened my door just a crack and peeked through. His door was shut and I let out a sigh of relief and knew I would not be the one waking him up, he could sleep past noon. I was not, under any wild circumstances, entering into that room. There was just too many things that go awry.

Since we were past breakfast time, I pulled out some ingredients to make real food, I felt like something spicy. The meat was cooking over the stove when I left it to turn on the TV so the house wouldn't be so silent, a habit of mine I'd kept up. From the pantry I took some enchilada sauce and checked the fridge for tortillas and shredded cheese, everything was accounted for. I set to work, preparing the meal we could eat the leftovers of for days. I would end up throwing some of it out, but it didn't matter much.

Around me the sound of cheesy morning cartoons from my youth filled the silence, I listened in occasionally, trying to remember what show it was again. When I put the enchiladas in the oven, it was noon and Dylan hadn't woken up yet. I just assumed he was tired, like really tired. I had never really inquired about how he did it all, tracked me around the world and managed to look just fine despite the jet lag.

I started to freak out at the thought that he had found a way to stick some sort of tracker on me, I quickly inspected myself, thought over if I'd felt any unusual bumps on my head. I raked my fingers through my hair like a monkey searching for bugs. I was being incredibly paranoid, but still, the thoughts of an ingested tracker came to mind and soon I found myself feeling sick. I searched frantically through my hair again, feeling that if I just found it the incredible feeling of paranoia would go away. I felt like a bug was crawling along my skin but I couldn't find it to make it go away.

I was making a real show of myself, freaking out and ruffling through my head like a maniac. Dylan just had to chose that moment to walk in the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing?" his voice startled me from behind, I froze in my spot and slowly rotated around stiffly and attempted a cool smile.

"Oh, you know..." I tried a quick it's-no-big-deal laugh, making myself sound even more pathetic, "fly." I continued to wave my hand around my head like one had just been there. Dylan just raised one eyebrow at me from the way I fumbled with my excuse delivery. I couldn't help it either, because he was standing in the middle of my kitchen, shirtless, with his hair messed up, one half of it sticking stock straight and the other normal. I asked myself: How could a person actually look hot with bed head?

My highly superior spy brain managed to restrain itself from full on gawking at him to merely staring. I'm not going to sit here and tell you he had a six pack that I'd never noticed, or that his skin was perfectly tan. I'll just say that I could bake cookies on the boy he was so hot.