I really could stay in this room for the rest of my time here and be content.
The issue is everyone else who lives in this house.
My father has checked on me multiple times. I told him I had a headache and my throat was sore and it hurt to talk, so he just pops in every now and then and asks if I’m feeling okay.
Sara has been bringing me things. Food, water, medicine I don’t really need. At one point yesterday, she crawled into my bed and watched Netflix with me for an hour before leaving to go on a date with Marcos. We didn’t speak much, but I surprisingly didn’t mind her company.
She has a good energy. Sometimes I feel like a black hole around her. Like maybe I’m sucking all the life out of her by just being in her innocent presence.
I’ve kept track of Samson’s routine more than I care to admit. I don’t know why I’m so curious about him. His routine intrigues me, though.
I’ve left his alarm on my phone because the sunrises seem to have become a thing with us. He’s out on his own balcony every morning. We watch the world wake up alone, yet together. Each time I make my way back into my bedroom, we make brief eye contact. He doesn’t speak to me, though.
He’s either not a morning person, or he’d rather appreciate the sunrise in silence. Either way, it feels intimate somehow. Like we have this secret daily meeting no one else knows about, even though we never speak during said meeting.
I usually go back to bed afterward, but Samson always leaves his house. I don’t know where he goes that early each morning, but he’s gone most of every day. And when he returns at night, his house is always dark. He only ever turns on the light to whatever room he’s in, and then he turns out the light as soon as he leaves that room.
He seems to live with military precision already. The house is spotless, from what I can tell from my window. Makes me wonder what kind of father he has. If he’s going into the military, maybe he was raised in the military. Maybe that’s why he seems so controlled and keeps his house so clean.
I really need to find something to occupy my brain if this is what I spend my time thinking about. Maybe I should get a job. I can’t stay in this room forever.
I could buy a volleyball and a net and get some practice in, but that doesn’t sound appealing at all. We’ve already been assigned workout routines and schedules from the coach, but I haven’t even opened the email. I don’t know why, but I have absolutely no desire to look at a volleyball until I’m in Pennsylvania. I’ve lived volleyball for the past five years of my life. I’m about to live it for the next four.
I deserve a month or two of not having to think about it.
The rain has stopped and the sun is out today. If I continue to pretend I’m sick for a fourth day in a row, my father might actually take me to a doctor. I don’t really have an excuse to stay in my room much longer and it would be a good day to go out and job hunt. Maybe I could get a waitressing job and save up my tips for when I leave for college.
I’d give anything for another day like the three that came before this one, though. But it doesn’t look like I’m gonna get it because someone is knocking at my bedroom door.
“It’s me,” Sara says. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I’m already sitting up on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Sara crawls onto the bed and sits next to me. She smells like cinnamon.
“You feeling better?”
I nod and force a small smile. “Yeah, a little bit.”
“Good. The rain finally stopped. You want to have a beach day later?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking maybe I should look for a summer job. I need to save up some money for college.”
She laughs at that. “No. Enjoy your last summer before adulthood kicks in. Take advantage of all this,” she says, waving her hand in the air.
She’s so chipper. I’m still stuck in yesterday’s mood. There’s an obvious imbalance between us right now. She notices because her smile disappears and she narrows her eyes at me.
“You okay, Beyah?”
I smile, but it takes too much effort and my smile falters with a sigh. “I don’t know. This is all just… it’s kind of weird for me.”
“What?”
“Being here.”
“Do you want to go back home?”
“No.” I don’t even know where home is right now, but I don’t say that. I’m in limbo and it’s a strange feeling. A depressing feeling.
“Are you sad?” she asks.