Chapter 52: The Bet *Conflict of Interest

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Chapter 44 *Conflict of Interest

~Sophia

I'm in the stage where a few minutes to go, I will wake up. It's the stage where you are there, and not, at the same time. I can feel my body slowly returning to consciousness. I can hear the silent buzz of the air condition and the quiet movement of someone beside me.

"Sleeping beauty, it's time to wake up . . ." A velvet voice murmurs, followed by a soft touch on my lips.

Slowly, I open my eyes. My body is aching. I want to crawl into a ball to minimize the pain. I grit my teeth so as not to make a sound of frustration.

This is just a fever, but why does my body feel sore?

To top it all off, my head wants to explode; it’s throbbing, like someone is hammering it from inside and out. And I feel cold outside and warm inside. Ironic.

To my embarrassment, my stomach growls.

“Is that a lion roaring?” Draky asks amusedly.

“No,” I mutter, my cheeks burning hotly, “it’s a cheetah contemplating if he’ll eat you.”

“I didn’t expect you to be furious when you’re hungry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

Surprised, I wriggle out of him. He looks taken aback at my action. If I’m not staring at his eyes, I won’t see the flash of hurt in them.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, letting me go.

“No, it’s not that,” I explain, steadying myself because I didn’t know I was leaning to him that much. “You might get contaminated because you’re close to me. This fever is contagious you know.”

He grins, showing all his perfect white teeth. Then he wraps his arms around me, shoving me to his muscled chest. Playing basketball has its perks. Even though he stopped playing for a while, I think he continues to go to the gym to maintain his body. I wonder what his chest look like without his shirt.

Why am I thinking of him bare-chested?!

“It’s okay,” he says, laughing, “That way, you can take care of me too.”

Before I can stop myself, I smile at him. He tightens his arms around me and buries his face in my hair. I feel embarrassed because I haven’t taken a bath yet. I almost want to die when he suddenly pushes me lightly away from him. Am I stinky? Oh God.  I hope—

“I forgot,” he says, cutting me off my horrible thoughts, “you haven’t eaten yet. That was why your stomach growled a while ago.”

“It did not,” I deny, forgetting my previous horror. I smell myself inconspicuously and sigh in relief when I didn’t smell something bad.

“Wait for me here,” he says, getting up from the bed. “I’ll heat the food I cooked for you.”

“Your specialty?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

“Yes,” he replies, his mouth tugging at the corners.

“You said you’ll just heat it,” I say.

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. “I cooked it earlier while you were sleeping.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll go and get it,” he says, walking away. I hear his footsteps on the stairway until they fade away from the distance.

Drake Swift concerned with Sophia Taylor.

Who would have thought this day would come?

Even though I did daydream when I had a crush on him before that he would take care of me, I didn’t believe that it will happen.

A dream can turn into a reality.

It’s impossible, but here we are, almost the same as my imagination. A wash of déjà vu washed through me. It feels weird to see your fantasy coming true. Well, it was a long long time ago.

He comes back, carrying a tray with a bowl in it.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“My specialty,” he answers, setting the tray on the bedside table and sitting on the bed beside me.

“And your specialty is . . .?”

He takes the bowl and let me see it.

“It’s a soup,” I say obviously. Of course.

“Yes, it’s a soup,” he says, “but don’t think it’s the same with others. It doesn’t taste like them.”

“Uh huh.” I should have known that he prepared me a soup. “Give it to me so I can taste it.”

“No,” he says. “I’ll feed you.”

“What?” I ask incredulously.

He shrugs, and ignores my weak attempt at getting the bowl of soup from him.

“I can eat it all by myself,” I say, shaking my head to the spoon he’s holding a few inches from my mouth.

“But I already said I’ll take care of you,” he says disapprovingly.

“But—“

As soon as I open my mouth, he puts the food inside. I have no choice but to swallow it.

“Draky!” Thank God it’s not that hot!

“What?” he asks innocently, mixing the soup and not looking into my eyes.

“Nothing,” I mutter, because I know he got me there. I did say that he can take care of me.

“What does it taste?” he asks. I can imagine him crossing his fingers.

“Just like any other soup,” I mumble, sticking my tongue out at him. To be fair, I have to say that this soup is delicious. I haven’t taste like this before. I wonder how he made it.

He smirks and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to open my mouth. He makes a buzzing sound and makes a circular motion on his hand. “Here’s the airplane,” he says, “Open your mouth.”

I can’t help but laugh at his childishness.

“Come on,” he says, trying hard not to laugh and to look serious. “Open your mouth now. The airplane’s running out of engine.”

Smiling, I open my mouth and accept the food.

“Good,” he says approvingly.

“What are you going to eat?” I ask.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, “just by looking at you eating what I prepared makes me full.”

“Uh huh,” I mutter. “You just don’t know how to cook.”

“I do.”

A smirk makes its way onto my mouth. “I can cook you know, I won’t let you starve.”

“Good, because when I get home from work, I want to eat what you prepared.”

I look at him, confused at his words. After a second, realization dawned on me. He meant when we’re old. Why? Why is he saying these things to me?

“I know,” he says suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I can order a pizza if you want? Or a Chinese food?”

“Pizza sounds good,” I agree. I’m suddenly craving for a cheesy pizza.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll call the pizza hotline. Anything else you want?”

“Pizza’s okay.”

He gets up from the bed and dials something on his phone. He talks for a minute, telling the receiver his orders.

Looking at him in this angle, I can’t help but think what his motives are. You can’t blame me for having these thoughts. I’m kind of putting a wall so as not to get hurt. When will I tell him that I know about the bet is out of the question for now. Maybe a few days I can have the courage to ask him about it.

“What do you want to do while waiting for the pizza?” he asks.

I shrug. “Anything. Do you want to watch television?”

“Nope,” he says, sitting again on the space he evacuated earlier. He starts feeding me again, and this time I don’t fight him because I really am hungry and I have to admit, I want to be taken care of.

“You’re going to be in serious trouble because of this, you know,” I say.

“It’s worth it,” he says, doing a one-shoulder shrug.

“If you say so.”

After a few minutes, our pizza arrives. Draky goes downstairs to get and pay for it. When I give him the money, he refused, saying that this is a date. A date, seriously? I just shake my head at him and let it go.

I haven’t really realized how hungry I am. To my surprise, I ate three slices of pizza. Can you believe it? I was starved. Now I am full! My stomach even wants to explode.

Draky laughs when he sees my expression.

“What?” I ask, annoyed.

“Girls usually eat a little when they are with guys,” he tells me.

“I’m not a usual girl,” I snap.

“Exactly,” he says softly, “And that’s a compliment. I don’t know what’s wrong with those girls. They can’t even be true to themselves.”

“Well, maybe because they are not proud with themselves,” I blurt out.

“Or maybe they are shy,” he guesses. “Perhaps they are afraid that when the guys really see how the girls eat, they will be horrified,” he finishes, chuckling.

“I’m not,” I state.

“You are not,” he agrees, giving me a sweet smile; a smile that can melt a cold chocolate.

“Draky.”

“What?” he asks.

“Have you passed application forms for college?”

“Not yet,” he answers.

“Why?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

“I have no time for that,” he says evasively, in a tone that clearly indicates that it’s closed for further discussion.

I just don’t know why I should care. In the first place, I’m just playing my role. Maybe because I become attached to him in the time we spend together. That makes me remember the quote, “We are with each other everyday, but not together.”

I can’t help but feel a little bit sad so I vanish that thought away.

“You’re going to be accepted when you apply,” I say, trying to cheer him up.

“They won’t accept me,” he mutters.

“They will.” Why is he so pessimistic?

“You think?” he asks, gazing at me with his blue eyes. It’s like swimming in the vast ocean. I feel like drowning.

“I know,” I say, when I finally find my voice. I get his hand and squeeze it. “You haven’t even tried yet and you’re already discouraging yourself.”

He grins. “You’re optimistic lately,” he observes, tightening his hold on my hand.

Thanks to you, I thought.

“I realized that life is too short to worry about things that are not happening yet. You have to focus about now,” I say. “There is tomorrow - for the future. Just put your best foot forward. More importantly, you have to believe in yourself, and you should have faith.”

“Faith in what?” he teases.

That makes me smile because I remember Serendipity, the first movie we watched together. Ignoring him, I continue, “Everything will fall back into their right places after that.”

He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“What?” I ask, suddenly feeling self conscious. “Er, sorry about that . . . Sometimes my mouth talks without my permission.”

“That’s  . . . that’s the most epic conversation I’ve ever had,” he says, putting my hand on his lips and planting a kiss on it.

“Um.”

“Where do you get those things?” he asks, looking at me behind his eye lashes.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, “they just come to my mind.”

“Pie?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

But he’s silent, and not voicing his question.

“Hey, I thought you’re going to ask something?” I say, poking him on the side.

“Well,” he starts, and then pauses to clear his throat, “How many. . . How many boyfriends have you had?”

“Haven’t you asked that before?” I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.

He shrugs and says, “I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” I’m quite sure that he asked me this question before. Weird.

“So.  . .?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know- that’s why I’m asking.”

“One,” I mutter.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“Nothing,” he says ruefully,

“You won’t ask that just for nothing,” I say matter-of-factly.

“It was just mere curiosity.”

I open my mouth to say something when his phone rings.

He grins and picks it up. “Hey.” His smile grows wide as he listens to the other line.

I feel like intruding to his conversation. Ugh.

“Chill. I’m at Sophia’s.” He li

listens again and says, “Because I’m taking care of her. . .  Yeah. I think she’s okay now.”

“Who’s that?” I ask curiously.

“Driana,” he answers. “I’ll tell her,” he says to his twin. “See you later.” And then he puts his phone down.

“Well?” I say, looking at him meaningfully.

“Well what?”

“What will you tell me?”

“She said that she’ll call you later when she gets home from school.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding my head.

We talk about nothing in particular then. Anything you can imagine. Truth be told, Draky’s not so bad. He’s one of the few guys who have a good sense of humor. We’re just sitting on my bed, side by side and not uncomfortable when we’re lacking of new topics to talk about. Who would have thought we would enjoy each other’s silence? We didn’t even notice the time. When I look at my alarm clock, I’m surprised to see that it’s quarter to five. Time sure flies by when you’re having fun.

“Drake?”

“Yes?” he asks, brushing the hair away from my eyes. His hands linger on my cheek, rubbing it with his thumb.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

“No.”

“No?” I ask, confused.

“I should be the one thanking you because you let me take care of you,” he explains, putting his forefinger on my nose.

I turn away quickly, muttering, “That tickles!”

“Pie can be tickled on the nose,” he says amusedly.

“Stop it,” I protest, moving away from him.

He grabs my arm and pulls me towards him. “Okay, I will stop. Just don’t move away from me.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, I lean back on his chest, both of us ignoring the pizzas on the bedside table. Well, the box was almost empty.

After a while, he starts to touch my hair, playing it with his fingers. I relax more comfortably in his arms.

“Why do you like to twirl my hair on your fingers?” I ask curiously.

He pauses and looks at me for a moment, perhaps contemplating if he’ll tell me or not. Finally, he says, “You have hair like Taylor Swift.”

“Pfft.”

“It’s true,” he says, nodding.

“You’re just teasing me,” I accuse.

“I’m not. You really have hair like Taylor Swift.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“How do you know?” I ask doubtfully. “You haven’t even seen her in person”

He shifts in his place so we are looking eye to eye. “I saw her lots of times on television.”

“You’re just changing the topic,” I mutter.

“I’m not,” he says, shaking his head.

“Yes you are.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No – okay,” he says, getting impatient. “Let’s continue this argument when you’re not sick anymore.”

“I’m not sick,” I deny.

“Yes you are,” he retorts, rolling his eyes.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes – Hey! Why do you like to argue with me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes a little.

“Do I?” I ask innocently, a smile slipping on my mouth.

He sighs. “You can still be sarcastic even though you are sick.”

“That rhymes,” I say amusedly.

He returns my smile with one of his trademark grin. When he looks at me like that, I am lost in his eyes. His blue eyes that is deeper than the Atlantic Ocean.

And in a time like this, a horrible thought strikes at my head. What if he’s just doing this for the bet?

“Pie?” he says, his smile turning into a frown. “Are you okay?”

I can hear the worry in his voice. Is he just a good actor?

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there’s a voice whispering that he cares for me. Mom said to trust my instinct and that’s the voice in my head.  Am I doing the right thing by trusting it when I can’t even fully trust the person beside me who’s so bent in making me fall in love with him?

“Pie?”

“Yes?” I shake my head to have a clear mind. This day is so –

I can’t even find the right word to describe it. Human language is limited with words. That’s why words without actions are senseless.

“You were daydreaming a while ago weren’t you?” he asks bemusedly.

“I was not,” I mutter. “I was just thinking if boys have an unspoken agreement not to tell girls about these kinds of things.”

“What things?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

“You know, things like, twirling the girl’s hair, and whatnot,” I explain.

“Well,” he says hesitantly, his lips curving at the corner.

“What?” I probe.

He shakes his head and says, “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Because. . . “

“Because . . .?”

“Because when I tell you, I have to kill you,” he finishes.

“Ha ha,” I mutter, “That’s not funny!”

“Yes it is,” he argues, “you should have seen your face! It was priceless!”

I roll my eyes at him.

“You believed me for a second didn’t you?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I did not.”

He grins, not letting it go.

“Whatever.”