Your Inaccessible Light

The next day is the day I have been dreading for months. I don’t even bother trying to get out of bed because I can tell you for a fact I have neither the energy nor the motivation to go to school. I will not be able to get through it without breaking down. Instead I curl up in a ball and pull the duvet tightly around my shoulders, wishing I could just disappear for a while. It sure as hell would be a lot better than suffering through the grief and the guilt and the hurt and the longing I feel right now. I hear the sound of the front door slamming, signalling my parents’ departure from the house, and I could swear my heart breaks a little more. Now that everyone has gone, it is safe to cry. For the first time since Austin died, I allow myself to play back the memories, out of choice. It’s his birthday after all and even if everyone else is prepared to forget about him, I sure as hell am not. Besides, I think it is best to go over the memories now and again; I’m terrified that one day I will forget him the way everybody else has. I hear my phone buzz, but it doesn’t really register in my brain, therefore I don’t check it. It isn’t until a few minutes, and a few more buzzes, later that I finally reach out onto the night stand and pick up my phone. The brightness from the screen is temporarily blinding, but I eventually make sense of the blurred letters that spell out Ronnie’s name. I have three missed calls and a text.

'Morning sweetie. Get up, get ready, we’re going out xx'

I groan, a few tears escaping my eyes as I reread the message just to be certain I read it right. I don’t know if I am relieved or upset or scared or annoyed or grateful. I hate that I can’t describe how I’m feeling. I’m overwhelmed with an emotion I can’t explain. Just as I am about to put my phone down, another message comes through.

'The front window is open by the way. Don’t make me come in there xx'

Several more tears escape my eyes and before I know it, the tears have turned into sobs. I try to calm myself down because I don’t doubt that Ronnie will come in and I don’t want him to see me crying. He’s seen me once and even that’s one too many times. Instead, I drag myself out of bed, stumbling across the hall to the bathroom to get a tissue. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, splashing my face with cold water so it’s not obvious I’ve been crying. The fact that I look like shit only makes me feel worse but I somehow manage to tear myself away from the mirror, making it downstairs before I start crying all over again. Unfortunately, the second I open the door and fall into Ronnie’s arms, I burst into tears, the sobs even heavier than before. He holds me for a while, his strong arms being the only thing preventing my feeble frame from collapsing. Neither of us speaks, but I prefer it that way. I’d rather not talk when I feel like this. After a few minutes of crying, I realise how pathetic I must sound and demand myself to stop. It’s difficult at first but I try to focus on purely Ronnie; his scent which sends my head spinning, his dishevelled appearance which is somehow attractive and the pounding of his heart which is strangely comforting.

“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as I can string the words together. Ronnie suddenly releases me from his arms, holding me at arm’s length.

“Shut up Noelle, would you stop apologising for one second? You don’t have to be sorry for crying. I’d find it weird if you weren’t crying given the situation.” In an instant, I am lost for words again, overcome by this side of Ronnie that very few people, if any, know exists.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I ask.

“No, I got suspended for a few days.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Me either,” he smirks, “Now go and get ready so we can go out.”

I don’t argue, partly because I know he would win, but also because I do want to go out. I want to celebrate Austin’s birthday even if no one else will. I go upstairs, throwing on some ripped leggings, a grey woolen jumper and my Converse. Then I brush my hair and my teeth, applying a small amount of make-up before shoving some essentials in a bag and going back downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, we are sat in a restaurant at the mall, hidden in a booth towards the back.

“You’re coping surprisingly well,” Ronnie states.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “I thought you’d be in tears right now, I’m surprised I even managed to get you out the house.”

“Apparently you don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do.”

“You might be right there.”

“So you got in a lot of trouble for yesterday then?”

“Yeah,” he frowns, “I guess I need to get better at hiding it when I’m pissed.”

“Or maybe just don’t get drunk in the first place,” I suggest.

“But that’s no fun,” he smirks, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Your definition of fun sucks,” I mutter, kicking him under the table. He just shrugs and laughs that laugh that frustrates me beyond belief but at the same time makes me want him even more. Once again I find myself wondering what I’m doing with someone who’s so bad for me, even more so why I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to kiss him. Then again, I don’t think he is so bad for me. He’s actually very good to me, when he’s not drunk at least.