𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟕. #𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞

The next morning, your mood was overcast as the clouds that hung heavy in the sky. Last day, you reminded yourself. The arrangements had been made. Clay would drive you to the airport tomorrow, and though you'd professed your excitement at finally going home to your family, the truth was that you'd miss Florida and the memories you had had there.

"Clay?" You caught him just as he was trying to slip behind the door. "Can we talk?"

"Sure." He didn't budge. "What about?"

"Uh, what happened a few days ago. You, me, your phone, your bed..." Anxiety wedged itself into your chest. "Did I offend you? Was it too far?" But Sapnap was right–Clay had initiated... whatever that was.

He was silent, expression unreadable in stark contrast from his goofy warmth. You hazarded another sentence. "I want to be on good terms when I leave tomo–"

At this, he finally responded: "I know when you're leaving, okay?" Clay forced out. "Don't try to hold it over me."

Closing the door, he said, "And that phone thing was really awkward. Let's just forget about it."

That's not what I remember. He left you alone to mull it over. The mystery conflict definitely hadn't been resolved. Did he think you were trying to guilt him? Had you read that whole chase situation wrong? And should you push the topic, or put it off for later? Lightly, you knocked on his door. "Whatever it is, I'm sorry. Please talk to me when you're ready." You lingered a few moments and, hearing silence, made to leave.

His reply was muffled by the door. "[Name], give me space. I need to think."

So you did. You spent the rest of the day pacing, anxiously scrolling social media (hurricane warnings also looked more severe–as if that was what you needed right now), and searching for the fuzzy comfort of Patches (she was nowhere to be seen). You checked and double-checked off a list of hurricane preparedness supplies, replacing the batteries in the flashlights for fun, locating the First-Aid kit, and restocking water and expired canned food. Why not? If Clay wouldn't tell you what was wrong, you may as well regain a semblance of calm by addressing a different source of paranoia.

You stacked a few tins of cat food and headed out to replace the household's dwindling supply of masks. There was a misty drizzle outside, so you layered on a light rain jacket and slipped into your rain boots. You set off, taking your passport and visa papers–foreigners were meant to have them at all times. You looped your finger through the spare keys and a mask over your ears.

The local store was only a couple of blocks away. Panic-buyers had emptied the shelves, but you managed to scoop up the last box of masks. Waiting in line, your phone buzzed against your papers in your pocket. It was Clay. You let it ring, staring at the caller ID as six feet in front of you, the next person moved up in line. It buzzed again, and you wondered if you were ticked off enough to ignore him. No, let's see what he has to say.

"So now you want to talk?"

"[Name], come home," he ordered.

Clay was sometimes a little bossy, you mused. And usually, you'd let it slide, but it felt really unfair that he expected you to listen to him when he didn't listen to you. You told him so.

"Okay, come home," he repeated. "We can talk about it then. I guess."

"Why not now?"

"I can't." There was a pause. "I'm... busy. Seriously, you need to come home, there's–"

You hung up. "I heard you the first time," you muttered. The cashier gave you a concerned look. "Just this, please," you said, flashing her your best in-public smile.