Dreams of 18(38)

It’s supposed to be this stigma-filled word. It should horrify me and it would, if he hadn’t said it with… a fondness, almost. Or at least, with some lightness injected into it and if I hadn’t felt it in my belly.

“You do that, Strawberry Man.”

Then, he puts a period in the conversation with another glug of his whiskey.

“You know you really shouldn’t drink first thing in the morning.”

“You know you should really mind your own business.”

I laugh.

I don’t know why but I do, and something changes in him for a second.

Something goes both soft and intense on his face. He swallows like his throat is dry when I know it isn’t; he just took a huge swallow of that dreaded whiskey.

He drops his eyes to my mouth, as if willing me to laugh again. Willing me to stretch my lips, and it’s such a crazy thought that he wants me to smile for him that I speak. “Mr. Edwards?”

He jerks up his eyes and almost glares at me. He takes a violent pull of his liquor before growling, “I don’t like loud sounds first thing in the morning. So keep your laughter to a minimum.”

I’m so confused as to what just happened that it takes me a few seconds to realize that someone has knocked at his front door.

Someone is at his door.

Someone is at his door.

Oh Jesus Christ.

I’m not equipped for that. I’m not equipped to handle knocks at the door.

Okay so, along with not being able to enter through the front door, I kinda get spooked when someone knocks at the door as well. Back in Connecticut, as soon as I heard the bell, I’d lock my room, dive into my bed, put my headphones on so I wouldn’t hear why someone was there. Or if someone was there for me, gossiping about me downstairs in the living room. It has happened during the initial days when the story had just broken.

And now someone is here and I don’t know what I’m going to do because I’m this close to losing my shit.

Right in front of Mr. Edwards’s eyes.





Oh God.

No.

No, no, no.

I can’t have my doomsday brain ticking up right now.

I try to breathe normally. I try to purse my lips, press them together lest my heart jump out of my mouth and smack Mr. Edwards in the chest. I even try to control the flush that’s rapidly covering my throat.

Oh God, please. No. Please, please, please.

I’m usually fine. Why is this happening right now? Why in front of him?

Not to mention, he is frowning.

He also takes a step back and I think it’s because he knows I’m losing it by the second. He’s finally realizing what a basket case I am.

Which is so not true.

I’m fine.

Fiiiiine.

But no, that’s not it. He hasn’t realized it yet.

Oh God, he hasn’t.

Because he’s not paying attention to me. His thoughts are far away, probably on that someone at the door, and to prove it, he whirls around and leaves. He strides down the hallway of his cabin and goes to the front door.

Just when he turns the knob, I flip around and plaster myself on the wall, hiding away from sight.

I hear the door open, followed by Mr. Edwards’s voice. “Richard.” He sounds bored. “What do you want?”

“I’m surprised to see you’re up so early,” the man, Richard, says.

“When you knew there was a possibility of me sleeping, why did you come?”

Richard chuckles. “To wake you up.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m up and about. So you can go back now.”

“Not so fast.”

A few seconds of silence and creaking of the floor as if someone is shifting legs on the spot. And then, “Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“I won’t,” Mr. Edwards says.

“Have you been drinking?” Richard’s voice has grown louder. “Never mind. Don’t answer me. I already know.”

“Why are you here?”

“Whose car is out front?”

I freeze at that.

That and gasp. Or almost gasp because I have the presence of mind to whip a hand over my mouth and catch it.

I swear I hear an imaginary clock ticking as I wait for Mr. Edwards’s answer.

“No one’s.”

“You’ve got company?”

My heart jumps in my throat and I press my hand on my mouth harder. Will Mr. Edwards tell him yes? Would he bring Richard out back to see me?

Oh God, I can’t see people without my disguise.

I can’t.

I can’t talk to them. I can’t look at them.

Richard will know who I am. He’ll know what I did, how I ruined things for Mr. Edwards.

He will. He will. He will.

As irrational as the thought is, I can’t shake it; then, I hear a sigh, followed by the words that bring me sweet relief.

“What do you want, Richard?”

A few beats of silence again before Richard answers, “The football camp starts next week, Graham. I’m here to make sure you know that.”

“I know.”

Richard makes a non-committal sound. “It’s surprising given that you’ve hardly been to any of the meetings.”