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ReCAP (Something More #1.5)
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You already heard the story. The one of how Rory and I fell in love, supposedly, even if she couldn’t handle it in the end. You know how it all went.
Or you think you do.
You only know her side. But I have my own point of view, and even Rory couldn’t know my thoughts in those few months it took for her to go from being a stranger to my whole entire world.
Every moment is permanently ingrained in my memory. In my goddamned soul. From the moment I stumbled upon the girl panicking outside of calculus – the one with the tight little body, the angelic face, and the fierce attitude – to the night she abandoned me in Miami. It was the sum of those moments that changed me irrevocably.
Our story isn’t over. I won’t let it be. But this, this is what happened so far, the way I saw it.
I’m Cap. Or Sam, to Rory. And this is my story.
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I sit in my usual desk in the second row of Mr. Frank’s calculus class, already bored out of my mind not ten minutes into it. Frank goes over formulas I mastered months ago, thank to Bits and her home-tutors. I scowl down at the homework I actually had to take the time to do last night, no less annoyed that Frank is going to screw with my GPA if I don’t make up last semester’s “laziness” by volunteering as a student-tutor. It’s total bullshit. I know the course work, and score nearly perfectly on every test. He’s on a goddamned power trip.
I raise my hand and he rolls his eyes.
“Bathroom,” I tell him, though really I’m just looking for an excuse to kill ten or so minutes of this boring as hell subject.
Mr. Frank scribbles his signature on a pass and tears it from the pad without ever pausing his lecture or looking away from the rest of the class.
I jump out of my seat, grab it, and head out the door.
But there’s someone in the usually empty hall. A girl. A girl crying against the lockers.
I try to recognize her, but I don’t. I let my gaze skate over her, trying to place her as a freshman or sophomore, but my eyes get stuck on her tight little ass.
I would have remembered that ass.
I mentally shake off my distraction – the girl is fucking crying and I’m checking out her ass. Part of me wants to just wants to continue on my way to nowhere – I don’t know this girl, after all – but something has changed in me since Bits had her incident, and I can’t just walk away.
“Uh, are you okay?” I ask her. I realize she probably reminds me of Bits, back when she was still down all the time, and that’s probably why I feel compelled to help her in some way.
She nods vaguely against the lockers, not even turning in my direction.
Well, that’s new. I don’t usually have trouble getting a girl to look at me. But her little nod isn’t convincing, and I’m pretty sure she’s just trying to get rid of me. It makes me even more determined to help.
“You don’t look okay. Can I get you something? Or someone? The nurse maybe?” I offer.
I watch as she takes a deep breath, musters what is obviously false confidence, and turns toward me.
“I’m really fine, I just needed a minute,” she tells me, squaring her shoulders and stretching her lips into the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. And I’ve known Chelsea Printze since birth.
But despite the falseness of her smile, I find myself riveted by her lips. Full, pink, and not an drop of gloss or color on them. I feel a pull in my belly, and I recognize it immediately as attraction. I realize then that she hadn’t been crying at all. She’s practically gasping for breath, but her eyes are dry – she just seems really, really overwhelmed. Like she’s about to panic or something.
I watch her in consternation. She is an enigma – overcome by something that has a sharp hold on her breath, but forcing a gripping strength despite herself.
She trembles as she finally takes a good look at me, but when she meets my eyes, there’s a strange calm. And it doesn’t just calm her, no, it also does something to me.
She is absolutely beautiful. Big, round, brown eyes. Long lashes, and not those fake ones all of the other girls wear these days. I’m pretty sure she isn’t wearing an ounce of makeup. She’s flushed with what I’m now pretty sure is anxiety.
She looks down to get something from her backpack, and her trembling gets worse. Something falls onto the floor and I automatically bend to retrieve it. It’s a prescription pill bottle, and even though I’m aware of what an invasion of privacy it is, I can’t help reading the label.
Aurora Pine, Alprazolam
I frown. I don’t recognize the name of the medication, but I do recognize the family. The generic drug name closely enough resembles my mother’s diazepam, which she used to take supposedly for anxiety, but really just to help her sleep. It confirms my assumption that she’s in the midst of what could very well be a panic attack, and I hand her the bottle.
She opens it and heads for the water fountain down the hall. I follow her, watching as she pops a pill, takes a drink, and then leans back against the wall and closes her eyes.
I watch her, captivated, as her breathing slowly calms and regulates, and her trembling subsides.
It’s a strange thought to have, considering the circumstances, but it’s all I can think nonetheless. I shake my head, admonishing myself for the earlier thought that she reminded me of Bits. She’s nothing like my sister. This girl, this Aurora, is something else.