Page 26 of Connectio
Turning my back on Rico’s tank, I step to the bed, shush her, and pull her blanket up and over her body. “Go to sleep. You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”
As I go to leave her room, my finger hovering over the light switch, she snuggles her pillow and slurs, “He’s the one.”
“Who’s the one?”
“D—” She inhales deep then slowly exhales, and I think she’s finally passed out, when she slurs, “Derrrek.”
Tightness pinches my chest, swift and hard, but I breathe through it as an unbearable sadness overwhelms me like a lingering dark cloud. I want what she’s found: the perfect guy, a yin to her yang, her happy place. But no matter how hard I search, all I find are jerks.
Blinking through my tears, I drag the back of my hand across my eyes and force a smile. I’m happy for her. Really, I am. She deserves this. And if I can’t have the fairy tale I’ve always dreamed of, then maybe Carly can.
“I hope that’s true,” I whisper before shutting the door behind me.
* * *
The first schoolbell of the week rings, reminding me just how quickly the weekend flies by.
“I still have a headache.” Carly cups her ears, squints, then hands me my roll-call folder before sitting at her desk.
“It’s your own fault. You drank too much.”
Her phone beeps, and she diverts her attention from me to the screen, so I leave her to it, pushing open the heavy glass door that leads out of the main office building.
“Will keeps sending me annoying texts,” she calls out. “He wants your number.”
I pause and glance back. “Why?”
“I think he likes you.”
I point at her. “Don’t you dare give it to him.”
She waggles her eyebrows.
“I mean it.”
Carly makes a pfft noise, then says, “Our usual for lunch?”
“Sure.”
We always go to the café down the road for lunch on Mondays, and every time, I pretty much gag when she orders a roasted lamb sandwich soaked in mint sauce. To be honest, I kinda dread it; it really is gross. But I go anyway, because Carly loves it. Plus, it’s much quieter at the café. No screaming kids and bouncing balls.
“Lib, wait up.”
The sound of Oliver’s voice followed by his hurried footsteps almost makes me want to power walk, but there’s no use avoiding him. It’s impossible; we practically teach at the hip.
“Have a good weekend?” he asks, stepping up beside me.
I smile in his direction, instantly noticing his woollen vest—not that it’s unusual he’s wearing one. For some reason though, the mustard-coloured number he has on today, paired with the red tie around his neck, makes him look like a walking, talking hot dog with ketchup.
I blink. “Yes, thanks, I did. And you?”
He shrugs. “It was nothing special. A bit boring, actually.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about that.”
He chuckles. “It’s not your fault.”
“I never said it was.”
