I find a pair of gym shorts and an old hoodie, and carry them up to her room. I walk in to find her bathroom door shut, and assume she’s changing in there.
I close her bedroom door, and am pulling off my sweater just as she emerges from the bathroom in a baggy shirt and pajama pants. Caught off guard, she freezes, her honey-brown eyes wide as she takes in my naked chest.
I refrain from chuckling, and take a few strides toward her. “Nice pajama pants, Finch.”
Her eyes immediately dart down to her light-blue plaid pajama pants, the tips of her ears burning pink with a blush. “Oh, uh, thanks,” she adorably stutters, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder. “You can go change in the bathroom now.”
I chuckle this time, grabbing my shorts and hoodie to quickly change out of my jeans.
I come out of the bathroom to find her standing in her closet, the hoodie I gave her homecoming night in her hands as she seems to be contemplating whether to wear it or not.
“Wear it.”
She jumps, spinning around to look at me. “Huh?”
“Wear it,” I repeat, setting my jeans on her bed before walking over to her, grabbing the hoodie, and helping her put it on. Once her head and arms are through, I pull her ponytail out of the back and drape it over her shoulder.
“There,” I say, satisfied.
She blushes, her gaze shying away from mine and fixating on the large rip at the collar of the black hoodie I’m wearing.
“Nice hoodie,” she teases, trying to fight back a smile.
Surprisingly, almost as if mesmerized, her hand reaches up, her finger lightly tracing my collarbone through the rip, making goose bumps blossom across my skin.
Any hint of a smile left on her face vanishes as I take a step closer, my chest brushing against hers. I hear her soft gasp as I plant my hands on her waist, drawing her that much closer.
With no space left between us, she lifts her chin to look up at me, and I swear I can feel her heart pounding against mine.
God I want to kiss her. But not with her parents and Cora right downstairs.
“We should probably go downstairs,” she whispers, as if reading my mind.
I nod in agreement, but neither one of us moves.
I lift my hand to cup her cheek, my thumb stroking the soft skin. Her eyes flutter shut, as if savoring the moment, and I do the same. The need to be impossibly closer to her has me leaning forward and pressing my forehead to hers, yearning to be trapped in this moment for as long as possible.
But when I hear the floor creak outside her door as someone walks by, I finally force myself to pull away and take a step back. Reaching for her hand, I lead her down the stairs to the living room, where her parents and Cora are already in their pajamas and picking out a movie.
Olivia and I take a seat on the couch and toss a blanket over ourselves, and she surprises me yet again when she curls her legs under her and hesitantly rests her head on my shoulder.
After a moment she tips her head back, looking up at me questioning if it’s okay. Instead of replying verbally, I grab her hand under the blanket and thread our fingers together, jerking my chin in the direction of the TV. When her gaze finally lands on the screen, I take the opportunity to tilt my head, resting my cheek on the top of her head, and she snuggles into me as the movie plays.
Twenty-five
Brutal
The week back after Thanksgiving break is brutal. Everyone is walking around like zombies, probably still hungover from the holiday, but most of all, they’re dreading the next three weeks.
The few short weeks leading up to finals are utter hell. Kids are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, some of them crying or jitterier than an addict from running solely on caffeine, and most look like pure death. Everyone is already so worn down from the semester, and they’ve all gotten a taste of what the month-long Christmas break is going to be like, so there’s no turning back now. We’re all just trying to push through these next three weeks to survive and keep our sanity, but the professors are ruthless.
As if cramming a semester’s worth of material into one final test isn’t gruesome enough, some even tack on last-minute projects and papers like it’s no big deal. They act as if they’re asking you to just add one extra item to your grocery list.
Aside from stress and pure mental exhaustion, finals are usually the time of year everyone starts getting sick. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, every year without fail, campus seems to be the breeding ground for the plague since everyone’s immune system is depleted due to stress.
Wednesday afternoon, I stroll into the science building for lab. I walk down the hall and round the corner to find Olivia standing outside our classroom, talking to Delilah.
My steps falter a bit as I take in her appearance. Her skin is pale and her eyes are tired as she tries to focus on what Delilah’s saying. She looks so worn down and fragile, like she’s sick.
