Now he’s silent.
Then his chest starts shaking again.
I fall asleep shortly after he pulls me back to him, not bothering to worry about his warning.
It won’t matter anyway, because Kaiden is…Kaiden. My Kaiden. The very person I need in my life to put things in perspective.
Nobody compares.
Nobody will get a chance to.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kaiden slips into my bedroom almost every night since break. There are no expectations, just dreamless sleep and the occasional fondling that I’m sure isn’t accidental. It’s nice, welcoming even, when I hear the door crack open and bed dip beside me. Sometimes I’ll wake up to trailing kisses or hand holding. Other times to soft snoring that makes me giggle.
December has hit in full force, with winter snowfall coating everything in white. I never liked the season, even when I was little. Lo would always drag me outside to build snowmen and snow forts, but I’d protest every time until Mama said it’s good to get out.
Now I loathe the cold weather for justifiable reasons, not that anyone truly gets it. When the temperature drops, my joints become so stiff I can’t move them for at least an hour after waking up, and there’s always a dull ache that lasts throughout the day unless I wear gloves and try to keep warm. Wearing gloves during classes isn’t an option though, so I endure the struggle of holding a pen while jotting down notes.
Even my space heater doesn’t do as much as Kaiden’s warm body wrapped around me does. I go to bed wearing layers, sometimes even sleeping in my fluffy bathrobe for extra comfort. But it doesn’t always help. The single digit temperatures do my body in, and it reminds me of the days Lo struggled to get out of bed because her body was so swollen and locked up that she had to be tended to from our room.
School has become a ready distraction from the aches and pains and late night rendezvous with Kaiden. Most girls would probably be irritated over being ignored by him in the halls, but I prefer it. Nobody sees him for who he is here. He let’s down his walls for me at home, sharing silly stories about our pasts that mean more than he could ever know.
During Thursday Book Club, Annabel sits by me instead of her usual seat. She kept looking at me in history, but never said a word. I was almost tempted to ask her to sit by me at lunch, but I’ve gotten used to the empty table that graces me for forty minutes.
Annabel brushes hair behind her ear as she settles into her seat. “I don’t think the others like our book choices.”
Three of the girls stopped showing up almost two months ago. Apparently staring at Mr. Nichols wasn’t worth the effort of reading and talking about the books.
After break, we discussed Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper, which one of the girls protested because of its content. Both Mr. Nichols and Annabel defended my choice by arguing it should be discussed regardless of what happens to the characters.
Nobody wants to read about reality.
Mr. Nichols had asked Little Mermaid why she thought so, which she scoffed at. She doesn’t want to talk about books or why she doesn’t like reading them. But I know the answer she won’t verbalize.
People are afraid of the truth. They don’t want to accept that bad things happen to good people every single day. People struggle. People die. It’s life.
Little Mermaid called me morbid.
I called her na?ve.
Mr. Nichols told us to be respectful.
The more we talked about the book, the more heated it got. It stopped being about the content and about why authors write about realistic topics.
Fiction is the perfect platform to talk about the things nobody wants to have conversations of in real life. When you’re reading about a character’s struggles, you find ways to relate from a distance. It doesn’t always hurt as much, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt at all.
Chronic illness is real.
Death is real.
People don’t like to read about those things because they know it could happen to them. Distance or not, you put yourself in the shoes of every character you read.
Denial doesn’t make the fear go away.
It expands it.
Feeds it.
Makes it impossible to fight.
Annabel pulls out her book choice, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, and wiggles until she’s settled comfortably in her chair.
I give her a small smile. “The others don’t like living in a world that’s beyond creepy vampires that watch women sleep and kids that get put in an arena to slaughter each other. They’ll get over it.”
She giggles. “We’re doing them a favor, if you think about. Hitting them with reality before reality can.”
I grin back at her.
Mr. Nichols walks in and smiles at us. We’re the only two in here so far, but a couple girls are lingering at the computers across the room. They’re giggling and joking and probably looking up something they shouldn’t be online. I see people do it all the time, hacking through the firewall the school places on social media sites.
“Ready for another group read?” he asks, setting his messenger bag down on the table in front of his chair.
Annabel rolls her eyes. “Do you mean argue with the girls about tasteful literature? Yes. I’m prepared.”
Amusement flickers across Nichols face, but he doesn’t buy into the remark. “I’ve considered adding this book to the curriculum for next year. I’d like to see what discussion we come up with based on first opinions.”
Annabel makes a face. “It’s the kind of book you’d need students to do research on. It isn’t like Emery’s book last month. Atwood uses political influence in this.”
Nichols sits down, taking out his own copy that has multicolored tabs marking the pages. Something tells me he’s already done extensive research on the book, especially if he’s interested in teaching it.
Annabel must realize the same thing, because she looks apologetic. “Why would you want to teach this anyway? It gets a lot of backlash and most students will just watch the television show instead of reading it.”
He chuckles softly over her disbelief in his reasoning. “Emery made a good point. Literature isn’t always going to give us the content we desire. It’s important to change up what’s expected of the student’s, including how political and personal experiences impact people in everyday life.”
I can’t help but notice how he looks at me while he delivers the last part.
When it’s time to start, only a few of the girls join us. It seems like Book Club won’t exist past Christmas break at the rate it’s deteriorating. I know it was going to be tested through the semester, but I’d hoped more people would join.
Halfway through our conversation on first thoughts of what we were assigned to read, my vision grows fuzzy. Blinking past the blurriness as I stare at the girl whose name I can never seem to remember, I take a few deep breaths and sway slightly in my chair. From the not so far distance of my conscience, a headache forms heavy and unforgiving.
It’s been a couple weeks since one settled into my temples. I thought I was finally getting relief, but maybe Cam’s suggestion on seeing a neurologist will give me answers. She’s on medicine for chronic migraines, so she’s willing to set up a new patient appointment for me.