Pursuing Miss Introvert

Chapter 7. A Promise of Tomorrow

That was too close! Even for him.

For some reason, he couldn't stop smiling like stupid since he left her in that shed.

With the light of the bulb directly illuminating her pretty face, Laurence could see the blush instantly creeping from her collarbone up to her cheeks like a hot liquid, it took every willpower in his mind not to completely claim her mouth that instant.

Covering his smile, he swore his heart was pumping an adrenaline rush by how fast it was beating even after she already left. At this point, he almost didn't care if she got angry at him and went for the offensive the next time they saw each other. But of course, that was a lie. He didn't want her angry at him, maybe curious, a little upset, but not angry to the point of hating him. He hoped not.

The usual twenty-minute drive from Ryan's house only took him about half of that tonight. What with the suppressed excitement and rush he felt. Just when he was about to do something he probably would have regretted a lot, knowing she wasn't ready for him at all, he mustered his strength and walked away, back to the front of the house to help Ryan. Besides, he was never the rush type of guy. He had always been patient and steadfast. This was not an exception, even if he came close to the edge in just a short period since he knew her.

By the time they came back to the shed, she was nowhere in sight. That was for the best. For now, he thought, as he inserted the key to his apartment.

Being in his third year now, he had his fair share of relationships throughout the years, but none felt serious enough. Of course, he treated his relationships right and gave his time whenever he could, but ultimately, it didn't reach a point of getting serious at all. He didn't know if there would come a time, but for now, he couldn't deny his interest in her. One big problem though, Ryan made it clear that he didn't want any of them to get involved with his cousin. Plus Milly, of course, it seemed all Laurence had been doing the past two days was to confuse her, to say the least.

With a can of beer in hand, Laurence slumped on the sofa. His apartment was on the third floor of the building, overlooking the river that ran through half of the city. On this side were residential buildings like the one he was at, small hotels, and clinics. While on the other side were slum areas, a complete contrast to the manicured neighborhood just across. Two faces of the city he had already come to love. The only thing that may have covered the stark difference, were the thick, and grown bougainvilleas that surround each side of the river. They seemed to grow flowers all year long, well maybe not all year, but he couldn't remember any time that they didn't bloom. Their vines were strong enough to withstand the wind that usually came with the rise of water in the rainy season. They have potted in big concrete blocks in a way that their vines dropped down the wall of the river banks, covering whatever ugliness one might see on each side if they looked closely.

Still, the orbs of lights visible from his apartment looked picturesque enough in the darkness of the night.

Laurence rested his head against the sofa. Time had surely gone by since he moved to his own place. His parents paid for it, of course, but it was more like compensation for their absence over the years. Though he didn't hold any bad feelings for them, there were times and occasions when he wished they were with him.

Luckily, his grandmother never missed any of it, even the ones that were pretty unimportant, she was there.

The corners of his eyes creased in a soft smile. He would call her tomorrow, for sure, he thought briefly, as his head relaxed more on the pillows on his back.

Tomorrow, the next day, or whenever possible too, he would deal with his growing interest in Amelia. He honestly had no idea how to do that yet, but he didn't think he could let it go.

Too late for that, he knew. Funny how much just a week could change one's focus.

The can of beer he was holding slowly slid off his grasp, spilling foamy liquid on the gray granite floor, as his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

Tick, tock, tick...

The old wall clock in Milly's room struck two a.m. but she was nowhere near asleep. In fact, she desperately wanted to play her piano, but she couldn't, or she would wake her aunt and cousin in the wee hours of the morning. Instead, she was slumped on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by an array of paint and brushes. Her canvass, a twenty by sixteen stretched cotton; now drew a combination of shades of red and orange hues, a web of tangled lines crisscrossing each other, not yet forming anything in particular, but just a series of dark to bright colors coming together to form, a sort of chaos, against the stark white of the cotton.

Her feelings were undescribable tonight. Did she feel angry? Or maybe sad? No, not quite, she thought. Was she upset about something? Maybe. It was quite hard to pinpoint where the sudden mood to throw herself into her painting in the late hours of the night came from. But she knew, she had to let the tension she felt go.

Every stroke of her brush somehow lessened the tightness she felt in her chest. The bright yellow and orange colors she was using captivated her attention more to the beauty of the art she created, that it somehow calmed her, made her focus on what she knew best, rather than be distracted by someone she didn't know at all.

Laurence.

She would not give in to the kind of game he was playing with her. Granted she got affected, but she wouldn't let it go further. Not anymore.

Did he think she was easy to get?

And what was his ultimate goal by acting so randomly like that? Milly wondered.

Out of nowhere, he would tease her in the most unexpected way that she had not experienced with anyone before. If he thought she was that easy, then he would know how wrong he was soon. Milly would make sure of that.

With the stubborn tilt of her head, Amelia picked up a small script brush and drenched it in blood-red paint; before meticulously lining the edges of the abstract image she formed on the canvas.

Roughly surveying her work, she sighed in satisfaction.

Sometime tomorrow, or the next day, whenever possible, she would not even give that man a chance to talk to her, not even a glimpse of her if she could.