Sam made a comment about how I would never cease to surprise him, and I smiled at him.
"So, what's your favorite hobby. We're learning all of my secrets, but I still don't know much about you, other than your favorite color is emerald green, you like ketchup on your macaroni and cheese, and your favorite movies are the Matrix trilogy and Inception," I recounted. He laughed wholeheartedly, shaking his head and staring at a painting I did of a little girl playing with bubbles like I saw in a movie somewhere.
"I guess I like to write. It's mostly all poetry and short stories. I don't have the patience to write a novel, yet, but I'm working on that. I'm not the greatest though. The pictures I paint with words aren't nearly as graceful as the ones you paint with a brush," he told me. I blushed and looked away.
Meanwhile, Sam took a seat on the edge of my bed and looked around my room again. "You know, I've never seen a teenage girls' room quite as cleanly as yours."
"Yeah? And how many teenage girls' rooms have you seen?" I asked, only mildly concerned.
"Three or four. Unless my mom's old room doesn't count, in which case I've seen two or three." He answered.
I nodded, and picked up the book on my end table. It was Wuthering Heights by Charlotte Bronte. I was rereading it for a book report in my English class, and I loved it just as much this time around as I did the first. I began the night I met Sam, before my parents had gotten in their last fight.
"What's it about?" Sam asked, nodding towards my book.
"It's a romance between this woman and a man, but the woman dies, and the man is terribly depressed. He turns into a bitter and sour man, and he's not a very friendly person anymore. It's great," I told him. He snorted.
"It sounds kind of cliche, don't you think?"
"Not at all. Yes, romance is blown way out of proportion these days, but this one is a classic. You'd have to be the stereo-typical teenager who hates to read or a Skeptical Romantic to dislike this book," I concluded.
He shrugged and said whatever, and I let the subject drop. I placed my book gently back on my end table and sat next to Sam.
In the living room, I could hear my mother shuffling around. She must've just gotten home from work. Her footsteps clicked on the floor softly as she wandered towards my room. Her head peaked inside of the room, and she seemed surprised that my light was still on.
"Hey guys. Nikki, I thought you'd be asleep by now. It's past midnight. Did you want to go to church tomorrow?" My mom asked quietly. She didn't seem bothered that I'd been alone in my room with this boy and it's passed midnight. My dad, on the other hand, would've been furious.
"No, I don't think so. We should go to the evening service though." She nodded and said,
"Well, you two have fun. Keep this door open, and don't stay up too late." She gave a firm look towards Sam, which I couldn't believe. She's never been worried about me before. Heck, Gill has stayed the night before and Mom never even said a word. Thinking about Gill made me a little angry, but I shrugged it off as mom went back into the kitchen to put groceries away.
"So what were you doing in town today?" I asked, looking at Sam. He had a thoughtful look on his face.
He shrugged, not answering my question immediately. "Not much." I knew better than to press the subject.
Outside my window, Manhattan was coming alive as the moon rose. The Empire State Building was lit up from top to bottom, and many of the other buildings that surrounded it. I gazed out at the skyline for a minute, resting my head on Sam's shoulder again.
He chuckled softly, as if thinking of an inside joke only he might know. I hadn't realized how tired I was, and I could feel my eye lids drooping.
I was almost asleep when I heard him sigh. I thought he might be looking down at me, but I couldn't be sure.
"You always fall asleep first," he said to himself quietly. I was so tired I didn't comprehend a word he'd said.
I felt myself slipping, and I could feel his arms lay me gently down on my pillows so I wouldn't fall over. He sat cross legged, facing me, and watched me sleep. At least, that's how it happened in the dream I'd slipped into.
His fingers ran through my hair a few times, and he must've leaned over me, because I could feel his warm skin hovering over me. He touched my forehead, but it didn't feel like his fingers. Did he just kiss my forehead? I wondered. That was my last thought before I fell deeper into a dreamless sleep.