You're Not Alone
five.
five.
“Ari,” I correct both of them, “please.”
Before I can go, or even say something else (like 'bye!'), Mrs. Schmidt speaks up. “Kendall,” she says, “we had no idea you were coming back so soon, and as pleasant as this surprise is... Since we thought we had a few more days, we gave Ari your room until we can find her some place else. If we weren't painting and redoing the guest room right now, then she'd stay there but... your room was the only open room...”
“That's cool,” Kendall says nonchalantly, and I can't tell if there's some kind of sarcastic or angry undertone or if he's actually cool with it. “I'll just take the couch. Or I can stay at Logan's.” I feel really bad; he doesn't say it in a mean way, but I get the feeling he's guilt-tripping me for comandeering his room if only because I feel like he should be mean to me. He probably hasn't slept in his own bed for many months, and was so looking forward to it; I know I would be if I had been sleeping in tour buses and hotels for a long time.
“No, really. I have a friend who has friends here who can find me some place.” I don't mention that this 'friend' is one of the last people I want to talk to right now.
I put my head down and walk into Kendall's room—that's another thing: I would hate it if my mom just let some random person stay in my room with all my stuff there, especially the private stuff I hide even from her. I pull up the handle of my measly rolling suitcase and grab my laptop case and one bag. I shouldn't have even come here to begin with, and Kendall getting back early was just the sign I needed.
I don't want to wander around L.A. until Ben can talk to his friends, but I also don't want to take the time to text him right now (or text him period).
I roll the suitcase out into the den to meet frustrated and argumentative whispers. “It was nice seeing you again,” I say above their whispers. However, I avoid looking at both Kathy and Kendall, keeping my head high as I walk to the door. I hear Kendall let out a heavy sigh right before he says, “Wait.”
I turn my head around. Kendall is now alone, Kathy apparently not wanting to be in the midst of all the drama. “Just... I'll have to come in and get stuff. But you don't have to go.”
“I appreciate you trying. But we both know you hate me, so—“
His brow furrows. His hair is now short (and sexy... wait, no, I did not just think that), shorter than it was on that TV special I saw him on. “Hate you? Why would you think I hate you?”
“Because. I'm a total bitch, I know, I ditched you and treated you like garbage and called you terrible names and let Camelia bully you—“
“You think I hate you because of that?” He almost smiles. “Belly, we were five years old. I was upset then, yeah. But do you seriously think I've worried about it all these years?”
“Ari,” I say. Then I continue on as if I hadn't even heard him. “And now I'm taking your room after you've already been gone all this time and I know if I came home to find out some random person was staying in my room, I would be so pissed off—“
“I'll take the couch. It's really not a big deal.” I have no idea what his mother said to him to make him do a complete 180 and start acting all nice toward me, but I think I would rather him be real with me and show his true hate then pretend to be a nice person. Unless of course it was just the initial shock that made him seem mean at first and now he's just being himself—a truly nice person. Whatever the case, it's better if I leave.
“It's just better if I—“ But before I finish he's snatched the handle of my suitcase away and is rolling it back to his room.
“What are you doing?!” I storm after him. He's thrown my suitcase onto his bed and is unzipping it before I can stop him. “Kendall!” I shove him, which doesn't do much since he's a lot bigger than me—and, um, rather muscular—but at least I succeed in stopping him. “Touch my stuff I touch yours.”
He laughs, those dimples becoming more pronounced. I try not to stare at his face, to look at my suitcase and zip it back up. “Since I'm being nice enough to let you stay in my room, you're not going to touch my stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “Someone hasn't grown up a bit.”
“Funny. I was thinking the exact same thing about you.”
“Ha. Ha. Hilarious.”
“One condition,” he says. “I come in whenever I need to get something.”
“After you knock, of course.”
“It's my room.”
“And if I'm changing or something? Uh, uh, you knock first.”
I don't miss the grin that crosses his face. I punch him again. “Kidding,” he says. “You're not exactly my type, Belly. I like blondes and...”
“And girly girls who don't wear heavy eye makeup and have piercings every where and listen to screamo. Yeah, don't worry—”
“Piercings every where?” Kendall jokes suggestively. “Where exactly do you have piercings, Belly?"
“You're not exactly my type either,” I continue as if he hadn't interrupted me. “I do like boys who wear eye makeup and have piercings and tattoos everywhere, not the preppy boyband types—“
“Whoa. I am not preppy. And boybands are back in, thank you very much.”
“Hipster, whatever. Hipsters are so lame, hate to inform you, Dork. As is synchronized dancing.”
He snorts. “Says the girl who was obsessed with 'NSYNC. And I do have tattoos,” he continues, playing my own game and ignoring my comments about the hipster stuff.. “Wanna see?” He starts to lift up the hem of his shirt.
“No, thank you,” I interject quickly and loudly, but not before seeing the infamous V and wishing I could erase it and all sexy thoughts from my mind.
He smirks as if knowing exactly what I've been thinking, and his green eyes seem to look right into everything I've built up so hard; yes, yes, I do want to see. No, I'm not actually picky with a 'type' as long as they're super attractive (though, honestly, I'm more the friends with benefits type; I would never be able to have a real relationship now). Would I mind being friends with benefits with him? Not. At. All. Tell Kendall Francis Schmidt all of this? Never.
“Just because you live in my house does not make us friends,” he says, back to the serious business.
“Agreed. I wouldn't get along with your hipster synchronized dancing self and your friends anymore than you'd get along with the likes of me.”
“Actually, I was referring to the fact that 15 freaking years ago you were, and I quote, 'a total bitch who ditched me and treated me like garbage and let me get bullied', but whichever reason helps you sleep at night.” He smirks again.
I pull a face, shooting a fake smile. “Cute.”
“And also, stay away from my hot synchronized dancing band mates—“
“Hot? What are you, gay?” I wouldn't be surprised in this day and age, although he never seemed like the type, where as this other kid who was in grade school with us turned out to be gay, and we all knew he would even when he was 5.
“And don't talk to me, and we'll be good.”
“Done,” I say.
Easier said than done, I think as I watch him leave, forcing myself to get a grip and to stop thinking about those green eyes and the dimples and the V... This is Kendork! I remind myself. And you're kidding yourself if you think any guy, no matter how hot, would ever fill Ben's hole.
“Ari,” I correct both of them, “please.”
Before I can go, or even say something else (like 'bye!'), Mrs. Schmidt speaks up. “Kendall,” she says, “we had no idea you were coming back so soon, and as pleasant as this surprise is... Since we thought we had a few more days, we gave Ari your room until we can find her some place else. If we weren't painting and redoing the guest room right now, then she'd stay there but... your room was the only open room...”
“That's cool,” Kendall says nonchalantly, and I can't tell if there's some kind of sarcastic or angry undertone or if he's actually cool with it. “I'll just take the couch. Or I can stay at Logan's.” I feel really bad; he doesn't say it in a mean way, but I get the feeling he's guilt-tripping me for comandeering his room if only because I feel like he should be mean to me. He probably hasn't slept in his own bed for many months, and was so looking forward to it; I know I would be if I had been sleeping in tour buses and hotels for a long time.
“No, really. I have a friend who has friends here who can find me some place.” I don't mention that this 'friend' is one of the last people I want to talk to right now.
I put my head down and walk into Kendall's room—that's another thing: I would hate it if my mom just let some random person stay in my room with all my stuff there, especially the private stuff I hide even from her. I pull up the handle of my measly rolling suitcase and grab my laptop case and one bag. I shouldn't have even come here to begin with, and Kendall getting back early was just the sign I needed.
I don't want to wander around L.A. until Ben can talk to his friends, but I also don't want to take the time to text him right now (or text him period).
I roll the suitcase out into the den to meet frustrated and argumentative whispers. “It was nice seeing you again,” I say above their whispers. However, I avoid looking at both Kathy and Kendall, keeping my head high as I walk to the door. I hear Kendall let out a heavy sigh right before he says, “Wait.”
I turn my head around. Kendall is now alone, Kathy apparently not wanting to be in the midst of all the drama. “Just... I'll have to come in and get stuff. But you don't have to go.”
“I appreciate you trying. But we both know you hate me, so—“
His brow furrows. His hair is now short (and sexy... wait, no, I did not just think that), shorter than it was on that TV special I saw him on. “Hate you? Why would you think I hate you?”
“Because. I'm a total bitch, I know, I ditched you and treated you like garbage and called you terrible names and let Camelia bully you—“
“You think I hate you because of that?” He almost smiles. “Belly, we were five years old. I was upset then, yeah. But do you seriously think I've worried about it all these years?”
“Ari,” I say. Then I continue on as if I hadn't even heard him. “And now I'm taking your room after you've already been gone all this time and I know if I came home to find out some random person was staying in my room, I would be so pissed off—“
“I'll take the couch. It's really not a big deal.” I have no idea what his mother said to him to make him do a complete 180 and start acting all nice toward me, but I think I would rather him be real with me and show his true hate then pretend to be a nice person. Unless of course it was just the initial shock that made him seem mean at first and now he's just being himself—a truly nice person. Whatever the case, it's better if I leave.
“It's just better if I—“ But before I finish he's snatched the handle of my suitcase away and is rolling it back to his room.
“What are you doing?!” I storm after him. He's thrown my suitcase onto his bed and is unzipping it before I can stop him. “Kendall!” I shove him, which doesn't do much since he's a lot bigger than me—and, um, rather muscular—but at least I succeed in stopping him. “Touch my stuff I touch yours.”
He laughs, those dimples becoming more pronounced. I try not to stare at his face, to look at my suitcase and zip it back up. “Since I'm being nice enough to let you stay in my room, you're not going to touch my stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “Someone hasn't grown up a bit.”
“Funny. I was thinking the exact same thing about you.”
“Ha. Ha. Hilarious.”
“One condition,” he says. “I come in whenever I need to get something.”
“After you knock, of course.”
“It's my room.”
“And if I'm changing or something? Uh, uh, you knock first.”
I don't miss the grin that crosses his face. I punch him again. “Kidding,” he says. “You're not exactly my type, Belly. I like blondes and...”
“And girly girls who don't wear heavy eye makeup and have piercings every where and listen to screamo. Yeah, don't worry—”
“Piercings every where?” Kendall jokes suggestively. “Where exactly do you have piercings, Belly?"
“You're not exactly my type either,” I continue as if he hadn't interrupted me. “I do like boys who wear eye makeup and have piercings and tattoos everywhere, not the preppy boyband types—“
“Whoa. I am not preppy. And boybands are back in, thank you very much.”
“Hipster, whatever. Hipsters are so lame, hate to inform you, Dork. As is synchronized dancing.”
He snorts. “Says the girl who was obsessed with 'NSYNC. And I do have tattoos,” he continues, playing my own game and ignoring my comments about the hipster stuff.. “Wanna see?” He starts to lift up the hem of his shirt.
“No, thank you,” I interject quickly and loudly, but not before seeing the infamous V and wishing I could erase it and all sexy thoughts from my mind.
He smirks as if knowing exactly what I've been thinking, and his green eyes seem to look right into everything I've built up so hard; yes, yes, I do want to see. No, I'm not actually picky with a 'type' as long as they're super attractive (though, honestly, I'm more the friends with benefits type; I would never be able to have a real relationship now). Would I mind being friends with benefits with him? Not. At. All. Tell Kendall Francis Schmidt all of this? Never.
“Just because you live in my house does not make us friends,” he says, back to the serious business.
“Agreed. I wouldn't get along with your hipster synchronized dancing self and your friends anymore than you'd get along with the likes of me.”
“Actually, I was referring to the fact that 15 freaking years ago you were, and I quote, 'a total bitch who ditched me and treated me like garbage and let me get bullied', but whichever reason helps you sleep at night.” He smirks again.
I pull a face, shooting a fake smile. “Cute.”
“And also, stay away from my hot synchronized dancing band mates—“
“Hot? What are you, gay?” I wouldn't be surprised in this day and age, although he never seemed like the type, where as this other kid who was in grade school with us turned out to be gay, and we all knew he would even when he was 5.
“And don't talk to me, and we'll be good.”
“Done,” I say.
Easier said than done, I think as I watch him leave, forcing myself to get a grip and to stop thinking about those green eyes and the dimples and the V... This is Kendork! I remind myself. And you're kidding yourself if you think any guy, no matter how hot, would ever fill Ben's hole.