Strictly Summer Romance (ON HOLD)

Chapter Twenty Two, Resurfacing

It's been two weeks. Two weeks of wet pillows, runny noses, few meals, and countless hours of sleep.

To say I've spiraled is the mildest description. I've barely spoken. Alice has tried everything. Shaina tried to break through. My mom nursed me for days with no questions. Though I'm sure she's figured out what happened, or someone's told her by now. Mason even made an awkward attempt at one point and tried to get me to come watch his show with him.

But I can't get him out of my head. Every waking moment is spent thinking about every second I ever spent with him. The years I spent using Alex as my comfort blanket. How stupid I was. The choices I made that pushed him away. I was such a fucking idiot. All the times I chose Mason over him. Is this how he felt? Why did he ever care about me at all?

My phone buzzes, and my puffy eyes glance half heartedly at its upright screen on my bedside table. The first few days when it would ring, I'd scramble for it in hopes that it was Alex. It never was. Most of the time it's Aaron. He calls and texts relentlessly. I've responded once. I think Alice filled him in on everything because his attempts have changed from, what's going on? and are you okay, to I'm sorry, baby, and talk to me.

I turn the phone over and tuck myself further into my blankets. The blinds are shut and the curtains are drawn, so the sun's afternoon glow is barely visible. Sometimes I sleep so long I'm not sure if it's morning or evening.

I close my eyes and try and drift back into unconsciousness. A soft knock interrupts my sleep, but I don't budge. If it's Alice or Shaina they'll let themselves in. If it's anybody else, I don't care.

I hear the knob twist and the door cracks slightly. "Emmy?" I hear my dad's voice call softly.

The door opens a bit more and his head pokes through, I barely peek over my shoulder as an acknowledgement. He sees that I'm awake and quietly comes in, closing the door behind him.

He's come up a few times to check on me, but my father's never been a poet with words. So his attempts of consolation usually ended with, "Do you want me to kill him?" Which I always appreciated but inevitably declined.

"Hey bud." He takes a seat on the edge of the bed. "How you doing?"

I look up at him with blood shot eyes and splotchy cheeks, and I'm half tempted to laugh at the question but can't find the energy, so I muster up a small smile instead.

"Sorry. Stupid question." He apologies.

I toy with the the stitching on my comforter to avoid replying.

"This isn't healthy, baby girl." He sighs after a moment. "You need to go outside. Get some fresh air." He coaxes and takes a deep breath before his face scrunches up. "Maybe take a shower? It smells kind of funky in here."

I actually let out a small giggle at that which in turn earns a bright eyed chuckle from him. The one thing I have dragged myself out of bed to do every day was shower and brush my teeth. After the first seventy-two hours of refusing to move, even I was grossed out by my lack of hygiene, so every day since, it's been the one battle I've made myself face.

"Seriously though, Em. You've got to break through this. Take a walk. Go shopping. Hell, here's my credit card." He reaches for his wallet. "Buy whatever you want. Just get out of the house. Out of this room." He hands his card out to me.

I shake my head at it. "I'm good, dad. I'm okay, really." I lie.

"Bullshit." He calls my evident bluff. He cocks his head and lets out another deep breath. "I hate seeing you like this, Emmy." I fiddle with the stitching some more, not knowing how to comfort him. He breathes heavily once more and runs a hand down his face. "You want me to kill him?"