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1168 Words
The second Georgie gets into the car, she starts talking her head off.
"We didn't do anything," she says, her hands held up in mock-surrender, "I swear, we didn't. And I've liked him for awhile, so don't think that I'm, like, a total—"
"Jesus, calm down," I say, shaking my head and resting my feet up on the dash, "I wasn't accusing you of anything."
She lets out a huff of air, rubbing her temple as if I'm giving her a headache.
"You had that look," she says indignantly, and my brows shoot upwards.
"What look?" I protest, and she sends me a pointed glance, quipping,
"You know, the—the look. The you're-making-bad-decisions-and-I-don't-approve look."
"Christ, Georgie," I say, laughing as she starts to drive away from the campsite, "If you're happy with him, then it's all good. That's all I want."
She looks at me from out of the corner of her eye, and I don't miss the small, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"I am," she says, breathlessly, after a while.
"Alright, then."
A few beats of silence pass between us, in which she keeps her eyes on the road and I scroll absentmindedly through my phone, and then she decides to pipe up again.
"Don't you dare think that this means we're not talking about you and Reed."
I pinch my eyes shut. "Georgie—"
"Uh-uh. No protests." I see the sly smirk, even in the darkness. "Looks like I'm not the only one who scored with a guy, huh?"
"We were just talking. You and Hale might as well be married."
"Well, I think we're taking things slower than that. Maybe a few months before marriage."
I hear the sarcastic humor in her voice, and snort a little at the dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. She looks content, though, for what seems like the first time in ages. Her shoulders are relaxed, her hand is drumming on the side of the steering wheel to the beat of the music, a smile keeps reappearing on her face.
How nice it must be to know that her feelings are mutual.
I push the thought from my mind, but that doesn't stop my best friend from voicing it for me.
"So did he flirt with you?"
I debate, turning the situation over in my head, and grin when I say,
"Yeah. In French."
"Ooh la la," she says, with a lift of her brows, "What did he say?"
I pretend to take a minute to remember, even though there's no way I've possibly forgotten.
"Well, he said I have a nice French accent," I recall, and her eyes light up at the words, "And then he added—get this—that all beautiful women do."
Georgina lets out a low whistle.
"Holy hell," she says, with a wide smile. "What else?"
"The rest was just banter," I tell her, with a dismissive wave of my hand. For a moment, I contemplate on whether or not I should tell her about Reed calling me an "opportunity", the way he wanted me to take risks. I decide not to, because it feels intimate and kind of personal, and—if I'm being wholly honest—I like having the memory all to myself.
Georgina seems happy enough with the information she's already received. She talks the entire way home—about Hale, about Reed, about me. I listen, occasionally peppering the bouts of silence with commentary, and she keeps me entertained until the second we pull into my driveway.
And as I get out of the car, I imagine his face again, smiling at me—and I can't help but think how lucky I am, to have crossed paths with an excellent human being such as Reed Bishop.
________
Friday has sucked so far, due to the fact that I was out late last night and couldn't find sleep until three o' clock in the morning, which means I got approximately four hours of sleep before returning to school.
By the time French rolls around, I'm not even the least bit enthusiastic. I slump into the chair beside Reed, and he sends me a sideways glance, a smirk kicking up the corners of his mouth.
"You okay, Moore?" He asks, and I groan into my folded arms.
"Shut up, Bishop."
"Bit harsh," he replies, and I hear the note of humor in his voice, "It was a pretty low-key outing for a Thursday night in Atlantic City."
"Just because we live in New Jersey doesn't mean we're all made to be party animals." I shoot back, and he laughs, a deep chuckle.
"Very true," he concedes, and then yawns. "I'm tired, too, if that makes you feel any better."
I make a vague noise of assent, and we fall silent as Mrs. Manhime begins to teach, talking about the importance of poetry and how French is the language of love, and so on and so forth...
And suddenly my eyelids are heavy and my breathing is slow and the classroom is warm and I'm just so goddamn tired...
And the rest, they say, is history.
________
I wake to see Reed bent over a piece of paper, right in front of my face. Startled, I draw back, sucking in a huge breath as I do so. He looks up, breaking into a grin and pressing a finger to his lips.
"Shh," he says, with a small laugh, "You fell asleep. It's okay, though. I scooted my chair in front of you so no one would see, and it looked like you were studying, so it's all good. Nobody noticed."
I shake my head, appalled. I've never slept through a class. Ever. Hell, I didn't even sleep through nap time in Kindergarten. I'd always just look at the ceiling and wait until we could go back to learning again.
"You really are tired," he notices, dragging me back into reality, and I nod, feeling exposed. Did I drool? Does my face look weird when I sleep? Does he care?
I clear my throat nevertheless, saying,
"Yeah. I didn't get home until around midnight, and then it took a few hours to go to sleep."
"Hm," he says, his pen moving absentmindedly across the page as his eyes meet mine, green flecked with brown and gold and a million different colors, "Why is that?"
I lift a shoulder half-heartedly, not daring to tell him the truth, that it was because I couldn't stop replaying our conversation in my head, over and over and over again.
Reed falls silent, and suddenly I feel the urge to say something, to find a way to express my gratitude for keeping me concealed from Mrs. Manhime's beady, judgmental eyes.
"Thanks for letting me sleep," I say finally, and it sounds stupider out loud than it did in my head. "I mean, you didn't have to—"
"I know I didn't have to," he says, cutting me off with a signature grin, "I wanted to."
- Writer
