Page 15 of Nothing to Fear
“Where are you from? I thought from your accent you lived in Mass., but I wasn’t positive,” I ask, changing the subject, my eyes boring into the old wood of the tabletop, tracing over every indent with my pointer finger. When I look up from the written note, I find Asher’s eyes back on me, a smile tugging at his lips, a pink hue on his cheeks as if he’s blushing.
“What gives it away?”
“I heard you say ‘wicked pissah’ a few times and didn’t know what the hell that meant because you seemed to be enjoying yourself when you said it.” Asher’s eyebrow rises in question, and I realize I just gave away the fact that I watch him sometimes, and that I remember things he’s said, even if they weren’t ever to me. “It stuck out ’cause I’d never heard it before, and you use ‘wicked’ as an adjective.”
“Yeah, born in Boston, raised there by my mom and nana. My sister, Allie, is a senior in high school.”
I realize how much I don’t know about Asher, even though I’ve semi-pined over him the last several years, and now that he’s given me a glimpse, I want more. I need more.
“They must miss you.”
“Yeah. Especially Allie. I’m her favorite person on earth,” he says with a chuckle.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Where’re you from? Got any siblings? Do you know how conversations work?”
Nope. Because no one fucking asks. It’s all superficial bullshit. Frustration starts to rise in me. I’m trying to stay calm, but the comments from my teammates, trying so hard with Asher and realizing I’m no good at this at all . . . it’s all just too much.
“Upstate New York. Mom lives there. I’m the youngest of three; my brothers are all out in the world doing their own thing,” I answer, my jaw tight as my chest starts to ache and my palms get clammy.
“Ahh, the baby. Everything is so much clearer now.” He meant it as a joke, and I could sense it in both his delivery and his facial expression, but it still slices across my heart, and that defense mechanism that is an old friend of mine weasels its way in, taking over.
My skin gets tighter, my muscles ache, and blood rushes between my ears. Why the hell is vulnerability so hard for me? Of course he would think that because I’m the youngest, it means I’m a spoiled brat. That my outward behavior has to be because of that, there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation. Oh, how about I let fear run my life, Asher?
The aged stone walls of the archives start to close in, the quiet of the room deafening, and I rub my clammy hands on my jeans and struggle to get in a breath of air. I need to get out of here.
“Gonna have to cut this short,” I say on a rushed breath, my voice coming out more of a croak.
“What?” he yelps. “We’ve got things to do; you have an assign?—”
“—I know what I’ve got to do, Asher. I’ll get it done. I’ve got to go,” I snap.
I don’t bother looking at Asher’s reaction, and I don’t wait for him to say anything more. I haul ass out of the archives, practically jogging up the tight spiral staircase, not stopping until the brisk autumn air pierces my lungs. I nearly collapse to my knees on the cold, stone ground as I gulp in lungfuls of air, willing my panic attack to ebb.
Why couldn’t things be different? Why couldn’t I have just had the balls to be who I am from day one? Why did I resort to falling back into the role that was chosen for me without giving myself a chance at being who I want to be?
Chapter 6
Asher
The sudden tapping at my bedroom window startles me awake. I jerk upright, shielding my eyes against the onslaught of the harsh early morning sun lighting up my bedroom like a supernova. The book I fell asleep reading last night falls to the floor with a thump, and I groan loudly. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up, peering through my blurry vision, coming face-to-face with a raven perched on the other side of the glass.
What the hell is going on? What are they trying to tell me? I snatch my phone off the end table, pressing the side button to check the time when it doesn’t wake up. A completely black screen stares back at me.
“What the fuck?” I hold the power button down to turn it on, but it doesn’t respond. Panicked, I throw the blankets off my body, jumping up in nothing but my boxer briefs and slamming open my door. The loud bang of the wood bouncing off the wall echoes behind me as I run into the kitchen. I skid to a stop in front of the microwave, my mouth falling open. The blaring red numbers look back at me and make me feel sick.
8:42.
Holy fuck, I overslept. I’ve never overslept in my entire life. Bolting back to my bedroom, I grab the first pieces of clothing I find—a pair of sweatpants lying over my desk chair, and the T-shirt I had on yesterday, crumpled on top of my laundry basket. I quickly brush my teeth, tug on my boots, grab my jacket and backpack, and check the time again.
8:50.
Ten minutes until lecture starts, and Thorne Hall is across campus. Of course, my second class with Professor Thorne, and I’ve somehow fucked up. If it weren’t for the raven tapping at my window, I would have missed it altogether.
I race across campus, pumping my legs as fast as they can go through the quad, feeling the bite of embarrassment as I pass other students. The number of times I’ve mocked them in my head for being in this very situation is infinite. But now here I am, made a hypocrite because of a dead phone. My senior year, no less, and for the one damn class I can’t afford to screw up in.
