Anticipation
Stormy winds picked up, and as my eyes began to open, I could feel the wind pushing me forward, cold but not unbearable, as the tears that came from such harsh winds became like ice against my cheeks, blurring my vision.
A cliff’s edge. In the distance, and where the wind was pushing me towards. Rocky and grey, and far beneath me the pounding of the waves against the rocks was loud, haunting, the water black and cold, ready to drag me down to the deepest pits and keep me there.
One step. Then another. I let the wind guide me, tucked in my arms and tried to hold my footing against the pebbles that kicked up when I planted my feet down.
The edge was closer, the screeching of the winds picked up, and my skin started to feel numb, my hair flying in my face as I try to spit out the strands that got caught on my lips, shoulders and legs tense, the cacophony of the waves loud, jeering at me, shouting at me to be pushed, to dive down, to jump, knowing that the waves were bitter cold and that the last breath to leave my lungs would be frigid, and frightening.
I don’t want to though, not like this. This isn’t what I’m meant to do now- I’m being pushed, but I feel too early for this. Whatever I am meant to do or see here, I’m not ready.
And as the blackness chills me, I wake up in a feverish sweat, clinging to the thin white blanket, my forehead damp, fingers tight white.
My head hits the pillow beneath me as my fingers try to find my phone nearby, which reads 6:17 am. At least it’s not some ungodly hour of the night, and I can try to salvage my early morning slowly.
But I don’t feel like getting up, and opt instead for staying in bed, drifting in and out of a light slumber, letting visions cross my imagination, until when I open my eyes again. It’s nearly 10.
After we had gone to the gaming store and for coffee, Peter and I had made arrangements- we’ll meet up two days from then, and he’d come pick me up around early afternoon.
Today was the day, he said he’d swing by, no pun intended, and we’d be headed up to New York. He had texted me last night with some gentle reminders to not be too nervous, that it wasn’t too late to call out.
Peter had become my family. I wasn’t close to my actual family, and I’m deathly loyal to the few that to the few I’m close to for that reason. Of course I wouldn’t bail.
The dorm feels hollow without the few around me, busy as worker bees, fluttering around and in and out. Here, the winter draft passes through some of the windows, and the whole place feels cold and empty.
The small, dark green suitcase lay by the foot of my bed, half-opened and mostly prepared. It was small, sure, but it was plenty nonetheless.
Pajamas? Check. Outfits? Check. Winter stuff? Yep. The one textbook I couldn’t, ahem, “legally” find a PDF copy of? Yes. A few housewarming gifts? Packed and ready.
I felt like a little kid the night before they were going on a field trip. That dizzying suspense of daze and wonder, taking a break and seeing someplace new.
An hour dragged by slowly as I gathered my remaining toiletries and threw them in, actually putting an effort to look nice and prepared. Another, as I threw some spare materials in my worn backpack, taking things as I went. A third, when I ate the gourmet dish of the gods- instant ramen- and stared off into space for a while. And listened to some music.
A familiar ringtone had me standing straight as I fished it out of my backpack. Peter. Of course. Yeah, it would be alright if we met up at 2. He’d pick me up a few streets away from my dorm, and everything was all set.
Two more hours. Just a little bit more to weight, but what more was there to do? Even now, slumped in the common rooms, mindlessly browsing through my feed, I feel time move slow like wading through mud. Must be the anticipation.
There’s quiet, and then the running of footsteps in the dorm. While it does feel like a ghost town, I forget that there was a small handful that did decide to stay. A face I quickly recognize, Mallory, ducks into the communal floor kitchen, a smile etched wide onto her face.
She doesn’t see me, doesn’t notice me. There’s the quick pace of footsteps in the hall, and then they slow down. A game of chase of sorts. Mallory’s effortlessly pretty- shiny, sleek black hair, and fit. There’s always a glint of mischief in her green eyes, and she just always made you agree with her. She just had that sort of way with words I suppose.
She turns around and seems caught off-guard by my presence, huddled up into a spare green armchair.
“Amira! I, sorry, didn’t see you there,” she laughs, before throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, I was just getting ready to leave anyways.”
“Oh? Well I know you’re the last in your dorm left here for the break, right? Well Nikita and I are going out later if you want to tag along. Briar might be coming along too.”
“That’s really nice of you Mallory, but I’m actually leaving today. Last minute plans and what not,” I shrug. I swear for a fraction of a second I saw her shoulders drop.
“Aw, well, maybe next time,” she hums. We both awkwardly stand still before I get up to leave.
“Wait, Amira… Mr. Lovett will be posting our project grades soon. You’ll be checking our seminar group chat, right?”
“Yeah, I should. Not as frequent, sure, but I’m sure my phone will blow up when those grades come out.”
“Alright, cool,” she says, and with a final glance in my direction, she turns around and starts rummaging around through the cabinets. I try not to keep my gaze lingering, but soon I’m in the hall, and can see Nikita barreling through, calling for Mallory with a playful tone.
I made my way up to my dorm, and finished packing my stuff. Or what little remained anyways. I made macarons yesterday, as Peter requested, in a few different batches. Macarons need 24 hours to sit anyway, and just a quick sniff made my mouth water. One batch was maple, one was chocolate, and one was strawberry.
12:27. I was finished packing, eating, and was sitting in my only cute sweater- an emerald green cable knit design. It was warm, snug, stylish enough to feel like I was overdoing it, but not simple enough that I would feel underdressed. I mean, I’m sure I would feel underdressed anyways, but I had spent too long last night contemplating this.
Minutes crawled by slowly, and Peter and I had been texting for a little while now. As he settled for hopefully coming at 2:30- 3:00 (Boston traffic is the bane of our existence- the fact that they made a city with zero straight, easy streets is quite the irritating, yet impressive, feat), I texted back a thumbs-up.
I found other ways to occupy myself- mainly with overthinking. At some points I hear footsteps in the communal halls, and decide to take a walk around the dorm halls to stretch my legs before what I assume might be a three hour car ride. Finally, my phone pings as Peter texts me:
“Hey, just got picked up- be there in 5 min.”
And with that I scramble to pick up my suitcase and backpack, making my way down the halls and fumbling out of the building, pushing my back against the door to open it. The air was cool, chilly but wasn’t too bad. The snow had been kicked off of the sidewalks, piling up to the sides in what little piles remained.
My eyes darted from my phone to the street, where a few cars hurried past. Another passing moment, trying to keep myself from pacing, from moving around, until finally a hearty roar of an engine pierced my thoughts, and quickly turning down the street was a slick black car, as polished as morning dew caught on a leaf.
It made a quick, abrupt stop in front of where I was standing, windows tinted so I couldn’t see who was inside. As it came to a stop and I took a tentative step forward, the passenger door swung open and a familiar figure stepped out to give me a hug.
“Hey Peter,” I said as he pulled away, his hands on my forearms.
“Amira! Oh, thank you for coming again! Here, I’ll take your stuff,” he said, shifting to reach for my light suitcase. I thanked him and followed him to the trunk of the car, where he popped it open and gently placed my suitcase next to what I assumed was his red one. I placed my backpack next to it, careful to make sure it would not get jostled around, and closed the trunk.
“Alright, are we in the backseat?”
“Yep,” he replied, opening the door closest to the sidewalk, away from traffic. “Ladies first.”
“Thank you, “ I said with a little bow, getting a small chuckle out of him, as I slipped into the warm interior of the car.
Black leather seats greeted me as I settled into the backseat, shutting the door close as Peter slipped in beside me. The interior was plush and sleek, all crisp lines and compartments, with comfy materials that made it all seem so incredibly lush.
“Thank you for picking us up,” I chirp to whoever is behind the wheel. I haven’t been able to get a glimpse of them when I entered, but when buckling in the driver turns around.
“The pleasure is all mine,” the man grumbles as I see him briefly touch the rearview mirror. He wears dark aviators, and I don’t recognize the brief glimpse of a face.
“Amira, this is Happy. Happy, Amira,” Peter introduces us as the driver turns around and takes a look at me, as I smile and he just turns back to face the road.
My shoulders are tense, back as straight as a rod, and I need to will myself to not look so incredibly nervous. I shouldn’t be, but I also am- I’m trying to act like this isn’t a big deal but we all know that it is.
My engine roars to life, loud and clear until it settles down into the deep purring of the machine as Happy brings his hand to the manual transmission, and puts us into first, and then quickly second gear.
And with that, we’re on our way. Three hours away from whatever New York may bring.