EXPLOSION II

EXPLOSION II

Emerson’s Pov

The room is suddenly too fucking quiet.

I stare, looking around, as if the thought didn't slip free from my own brain. I blink, stunned for a minute and then my head turns towards the closet, where the sweater is.

Love.

I shouldn't. I know I fucking shouldn't.

I don't listen to myself. Even as I'm ruminating on the thought, I've already dropped to my knees. I lean down to look under my bed where both paintings are, ignoring how familiar the position feels.

Just a few hours ago, we were fucking—

Stop.

The bigger one, where he painted me at the poetry recital, is wrapped and faced downwards. I reach for the smaller one, on top of it, also wrapped to protect it.

I sit on my heels, looking at the small canvas in my hands. I don't open it, don't take it out of the careful wrapping. There's no need, the image is fucking burned into my brain, along with the rest of the evening.

Holding it in my hands is a sort of bitter-sweet feeling. It's here, I'm here and. . . he's not.

Sighing, I place it back and, still sitting on my haunches, I press my palms to my face. A sharp laugh slips free, but abruptly cuts off.

It's not funny, nothing is. It's almost fucking embarrassing— this fluttering panic, this reason for the weight in my chest that has refused to disperse.

“I’m in love with Adam,” I whisper to no one.

It's almost like I'm testing the words out, how they feel against my tongue. They hang there, heavy and a little bit absurd, until they fade away, unanswered.

I'm fucking stupid. I've gone and fallen in love with Adam; someone with a bucket load of reasons why we shouldn't be together. And he's already chosen his bucket over me once before—

I'm yanked out of my mind by knocks on the door, short hurried raps that sound almost impatient. I perk up immediately, like a dog that hears the sound of food being poured into his metal bowl. If I was, I'd definitely have my tongue lolling.

I know it's probably not Adam, because why wouldn't he just fucking come in? Still, I'm on my feet and moving immediately anyway.

I mean, maybe he forgot his key.

When I get there, it isn't locked. Even with how apprehensive I was, even with the fucking warning from the door, I still get terribly disappointed when I see who's standing there and confirm that it is indeed not Adam.

I swallow, fighting the urge to just slam the door and go lay face down on my bed. I’m already here.

I find that it's a delivery man very quickly when I look up, and he's standing there like he'd rather be literally anywhere else in the world. His hat is backwards, and as he stares at me as I do the same.

“Hey. I have a pizza and chicken soup for,” he glances down to the receipt, “Adam and Em.”

Tears jump into my eyes, stinging like a fresh injury. He ordered us food, and he put both our names too. ‘Adam and Em.’ Together.

The delivery man is still looking at me, one brow raised. So I clear my throat, thinking I'll say yes but the lump of sadness doesn't go away, even after I swallow too. So instead, I nod.

He nods back, handing me the boxes of food. “Have a nice day,” he says and walks away, mercifully not waiting for a reply.

I back away from the door, shutting it with my feet. The boxes are warm, they smell so good, and for some reason, they're making it so fucking hard to hold myself together.

I place them down on my bedside table, focusing on my breathing. It takes me a few minutes to realize that it's not working.

I don't fucking need deep breaths, I need to talk to someone.

I reach for my phone, scrolling past Ivy's name. I can't call her again after making her worry the first time, especially when I'm not sure how my voice would sound this time either. Ivy would sprint here in concern.

So I call Petra. I'll ask her not to come and I know she'll listen. Plus she already has some back story on Adam so it may be nice to vent.

The phone rings once and I dial again. At the second call, I'm back to pacing. And at the fourth, I'm in my bed, staring at the ceiling again. I guess it's just me and myself.

The panic comes in a flood; devastating. It hits brutally, like my heart’s a grass house. My mind goes everywhere at once and nowhere at the same time.

It's not someone I need to talk to, it's Adam. I need to talk to him.

But I can't. He's the one person I can't call.

Where is he?

Is he in his football club’s locker room, maybe shooting the steroids up his veins right now? Or maybe he's curled in some stranger’s apartment, pupils blown wide, mumbling nonsense between hits? Is he licking cocaine off another man’s body? Or asleep after his shots?

My stomach twists, at the torture my mind bestows upon itself. At the back of my mind I know it's stupid, he's probably not doing any one of those things, but still I can see it, too clearly.

Adam doesn’t know what he’s doing.

I've said it over and over again, that this will be the death of him and that I won't let him.

So I have to save him.

I have to save him from himself because no one else will. Not his stupid father, not his teammates giving him steroids. They just all want what he can give them.

Parasites, all of them. Latching on to just take, take, take.

So if he's off the team, he won’t need all this anymore. He won’t have the excuse, nor the pressure. He’ll be free.

I'll tell his coach tomorrow.

He’ll hate you, maybe forever, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. But better hate than the damage those steroids will do to him. Better angry than dead from the other things I know he's taking.

And besides, I don't think he can hate me forever. Where there’s life, there’s hope.

Hope for us.