Page 39 of The Heartbreakers
Grabbing my pillow, I fluffed it up and flipped onto my other side, trying to find a comfortable position in bed. It was past midnight and I was trying to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t slow down or allow me to drift off.
Since our fight, I’d avoided Cara. I knocked on her bedroom in the morning to try to patch things up, but she refused to talk to me “unless,” she said, “you’re here to tell me you accepted Paul’s offer.” In fact, she was so mad that she threatened to never speak to me again unless I took the job. I hadn’t, but I hadn’t declined either. Regardless, she kicked me out.
Three full days later, and I was no closer to knowing whether I should stay or go. All I needed to do was choose, and even though I’d never been an indecisive person, any attempt to make up my mind seemed futile. Decision-making had always been so straightforward for me: yes or no, black or white, Pepsi or Coke. Maybe that was because I was impulsive, jumping into things headfirst and listening to my heart. But what was I supposed to do when my heart wanted two conflicting things?
Askyourselfwhatyou’re so afraid of.
Drew’s question kept swimming through my thoughts, and as hard as I tried to drown out his words, they refused to sink, instead choosing to tread the turbulent surface of my mind with fierce determination.
“Dammit!” I said and threw off my covers when I realized sleeping was pointless. As I climbed out of bed, I stepped on something sharp—probably a hair clip—and a colorful string of swear words erupted from my mouth.
My room had fallen into neglect over the past three days, and I was sick of it. I flipped the light on, squinting as my eyes adjusted, and then started cleaning at random. My collection of post-hardcore CDs, which normally lived in a stack next to my stereo, was strewn across my desk. I had yanked them out while searching for Bionic Bones the other night. It took me a few minutes to order them the way I liked, all-time favorites to least, and then I moved on to my clothes. It looked like my dresser had vomited onto the floor. Not knowing what was dirty, I sniff-tested everything I picked up, folding some items and chucking others into the hamper.
I worked in a heated sort of manner, tearing around my room like a Happy Meal wind-up toy that would lose steam at any moment. When I’d finally burned through my frustration, there was a slick layer of sweat on my forehead, but my room was restored to its normal organization.
“Stella?” Drew pushed open my bedroom door, blinking as he adjusted to the light. He didn’t bother to cover his yawn. “What are you doing?”
“Crap. Did I wake you?” I glanced at the clock again: 2:17 a.m.
He nodded. “You were slamming drawers and stuff.”
“Sorry. I went on a midnight, can’t-sleep-for-the-life-of-me cleaning spree.”
“That’s chill. I thought maybe—” Drew stopped and lifted an eyebrow. “Stella, are you…packing?”
“Packing?” I repeated with a frown. “No.” But then I looked at my bed and saw what Drew did.
Five neat piles of clothes covered the basics: shirts, shorts, underwear, and so on; my camera bag was packed with all my equipment, camera resting beside it; a colorful collection of eye shadow and lipstick was inside my zebra-print makeup bag; and last was a Ziploc bag full of my favorite jewelry. All I needed now was a suitcase.
“I-I…” I was more than speechless, so I just stood there feeling my heart slam repeatedly into my chest. How had I done all this without realizing?
Drew noticed my sharp mood shift and took a step toward me. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly and held up his hand. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just curious.”
“It’s not okay,” I exclaimed and pointed at the stuff on my bed. “How can it be okay when I didn’t even realize I was doing that? My head is all over the place, Drew. The more I try to make up my mind, the more anxious I get, and I can literally feel my heart stressing itself out.”
“I’m sorry,” Drew said and pulled me into his arms. “Just take a few deep breaths.”
So I listened to him. In and out I breathed. The first few lungfuls were shaky, and it took me a few minutes to calm down, but with my head buried in Drew’s shoulder, I could hear thethump-thumpof his heartbeat and I focused on that.
Finally, I worked up the courage to mumble into his shirt: “How am I supposed to do this?”
“Do what?” he asked and pulled away so he could see me.
“Leave,” I said, my voice cracking. “Be on my own.”
Drew tilted his head as he worked out what I meant, while I looked away. I’d missed a sock while cleaning. It was poking out from under my bed, and I concentrated on its crumpled form instead of my embarrassment. Drew probably thought I was being silly, because what eighteen-year-old was afraid of leaving home?
“You know,” he said, sitting on the end of the bed and pulling me down next to him, “I’m nervous too.”
I swallowed and turned back to him. “Nervous?”
“About going to college.”
“You are?” What did Drew have to be nervous about? He would only be a quick drive away from home, and we would see him every weekend.
“How could I not be?” he said. “I mean, what if I’m not smart enough, or my roommate is a weirdo? And what will happen if I don’t make any friends and miss home too much?”
“So don’t go,” I said, even though I knew I was being ridiculous.
