Page 92 of 72 Hours of You

“Honestly, I don’t give a shit. Get up. Get up, Sydney, I am so serious right now.”

I sit up.

“It’s enough. It’s enough already. Go and get Peter and apologize or accept his apology or do whatever you need to do to fix this. But I swear if you stay in this bed in this moment you will never leave it again.” She looks me in the eyes. “You are wasting time.”

I am wasting time.

I grab my phone and my keys and throw on my sneakers.

I’m not going to waste one more second.

Fifty-Five

I THROW THE GEARSHIFT INTO PARK before I actually stop, making the truck lurch forward.

It’s the middle of the night. All the lights are off in Peter’s house.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and scramble up the walkway to his front door, but then I decide to move back around to his window. The lights are off in his room, but I can still see a faint pink glow coming from inside. My entire body squeezes in on itself and for a second I think the weight of this might actually kill me. I might wither into dust and blow away, the tiny, disjointed particles of me scattering themselves in the wind.

But I don’t. I am still here.

There’s a jagged crack down the center of my phone, like a lightning strike, splintering out in a million different directions. But it still works.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:Hey

For a minute I’m worried that he’s not going to respond and I’m going to have to resort to throwing clumps of shit at his window again, but then dots appear.

PETERBECKETT1984:Hey there.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:Can you come down

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:Now

PETERBECKETT1984:You’re here???

The light turns on in Peter’s bedroom.

PETERBECKETT1984:I’ll be right down.

I move back to the front door, rocking on my heels, tapping my phone over and over, watching the time.

“Hey.” Peter opens the door. He’s in his glasses again. He looks so … young.

I swallow, keeping my eyes on his. Not looking at the clock.

“I want to go somewhere.”

“Now?” Peter rubs the back of his neck. I reach up and take his hand.

“Yes. Now.”

A question flashes across his face, but whatever it is, he doesn’t ask it. “Okay,” he says. “Just let me grab my wallet and leave my parents a note.” He squeezes my hand once before slipping back into the house.

He comes out a second later, his hair still messy, still wearing his glasses. He shoves his hands in his pockets, bracing himself against the extra chill of the night air. “Where do you want to go?”

“I want to go into the city.”

“Really? I thought you were going to say for a walk or something.”