“You really shouldn’t be mad at Basilton for this,” Niall says to me. We’re standing in a corner of the hallway outside of the Leaver’s Ball, and he’s trying his best to calm me down. If it had been anyone else, it probably would have just pissed me off more.
“I have every right to be mad at him,” I say. I’m was so furious that I almost marched myself straight across the ballroom just to punch Baz in his stupid, snooty face.
Niall puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a sympathetic look. “I know you do, but that doesn’t mean that you should. We really have no idea about their circumstance.”
“Three years, Niall. Three fucking years we’ve had to keep this a secret. And for what? Baz just gets to snog his half-wit roommate in front of the whole bloody school? It’s not fucking fair. And on top of that, how could he not even tell us?”
He starts rubbing his thumb along my shoulder, and I glance around to see if anyone is in the hallway. But we’re hidden from view by a few statues, and I begin to relax against his touch.
“He didn’t know he could tell us. Just like we didn’t know we could tell him. But it’s okay now.” He slides his hand down my arm, curling his fingers into mine, and pulls me towards him. He presses his lips against the edge of my mouth and doesn’t move them away. “It’s okay now,” he whispers this time. “We won’t have to hide any of it much longer.”
I turn my head and kiss him. “You’re right,” I whisper back. “You’re right. How do you always know what to say?”
I think the lady upstairs must have died. Someone was tearing out her carpets. I was making coffee and they were packing all her stuff onto a little platform that lowered itself toward the earth with the unbelievable balletic grace of a cotton candy cloud. From there, two men took it all and tossed into a dumpster. The dumpster had teeth. Its paint looked fresh. Their footsteps were loud and continued well into the afternoon. This isn’t even a poem. It’s just me in bed early on a Friday in which a few things came to an unexpected end.