Page 87 of The Teacher of Nothing
I can’t bring myself to tell her I am too.
No response.
I wait for a good five minutes before texting again.
Me: Just let me know you’re okay and I’ll leave you alone.
Still nothing.
An uneasiness settles in my gut. She doesn’t deserve my concern, but it’s there anyway. My mind whirls with reasons as to why she’s not responding, none of them good.
Me: If you don’t answer me back, I will be forced to check for myself.
If she’s fucking my little brother or nephew, then surely she’ll respond to keep me from showing up.
Five more long minutes pass.
Me: Has Levi done something?
Me: For fuck’s sake, Willa. Answer me.
Since she won’t reply to my texts, I call her. It rings and rings before going to voicemail. The unnerving feeling intensifies and worry begins taking over my every thought.
“Fuck this,” I grumble, grabbing my keys from the bar.
I stalk out of my house and climb into my car, thankful I didn’t get shitfaced at dinner like I’d originally intended. Within minutes, I’m out of my driveway and headed her way.
The entire way there, I check my phone. She hasn’t read my messages or attempted to call me back. Dread infects my everycell. I hate that, despite the fact she’s hurt me so fucking much, I’m pining over her.
Again, screw having a heart.
It’s pointless.
When I arrive at her house, I pass by it and park a little ways down the street. I climb out and prowl through the shadows like the creeper I am until I’m standing outside her window. The curtains are drawn and only a sliver of her room is revealed.
A body lies on the bed, barely illuminated by a lamp.
It’s early to be in bed already. Maybe she really does have a bug.
I tap on the window, but she doesn’t move. Anxiety crawls over my skin like a thousand angry ants. If I tap any louder, I chance someone in her house hearing. I’m only able to wait patiently for a whole fifteen seconds before I’m attempting to open the window.
Not locked.
Relief floods through me as I slowly lift the glass. Once I’ve opened it all the way, I push apart the curtains and let myself inside. As quietly as I can, I close the window and then survey the room. It’s slightly messy with discarded clothes and shoes on the floor. On the dresser there’s an untouched bowl of soup, an unopened box of PopTarts, and a couple bottles of water. Her nightstand is pushed against the door, blocking it.
Somehow, deep in my gut, I know.
That motherfucker hurt her.
I can’t explain how I know. I just do. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading Willa. This is completely out of character for her. Something’s wrong.
Against my better judgment, I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed behind her. She stiffens and a whine filled with terror escapes her.
“Shh,” I rumble. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”
Her body relaxes and then she sniffles. All my anger and rage have taken a back seat to the desire to comfort her. I wrap an arm around her body, pulling her to my chest, and greedily bury my nose in her hair.
God, I’ve missed this—missed her.
