19.

                                    

                                          
Sam
I stayed with Sidra until she fall asleep. She said after morning sex and the little argument with Rita, she was drained. And sore. She finally admitted to being sore. I decided not to give her the letter. From now on, I'm going to tell her things about me, not write them down. The way she so easily excepted the fact that I killed my father was...unbelievable. I want to see her face when I tell her things. I want it to come naturally. 
"You're here again, huh?" Jackson asks, joining me in the gym. I shrug and punch the bag. There's a slight sting of pain with each hit of the bag thanks to last night's events. My knuckles are getting worse too, I guess I hit David harder than I thought. "Paul's coming over."
I freeze mid-punch then turn to him. "What?"
"I texted him. I thought with everything going on, she needs a friend."
I roll my eyes, holding back a scoff. I turn back to the bag and swing a hard, powerful right hook. I hate that fucking kid. Who the fuck does he think he is coming in here and bullshitting Sidra with some shit about sudden feelings for her? I swear he sensed that I liked her and moved in before I could. A whole month, he fooled her-I punch the bag hard-for a fucking month, dragged her along because he's a fucking baby. Sidra's too kind for that shit. 
"She's sleeping," I say bluntly. "I checked on her."
"Shit, really?"
"She didn't answer the door..." 
"Fuck." He jumps up from the weight bench and hurries out of the room. 
What the fuck was that about? That was a little extra for maybe wasting Paul's time. A few more hits on the bag and I call it. I want to take a shower. 
Sidra
A few hours later...
I wake up to an annoying, loud ringing. My phone. Maybe I don't miss it that much. I sit up the best I can and grab my phone. I slide my thumb across the screen, but the ringing doesn't stop. I force my eyes open to see it's not someone calling, it's an alarm. Momma must've set it when she gave me back my phone. It's five in the afternoon-right on the dot, thanks to my mother. I sit up, knowing there's no way in hell I'm going back to sleep after that. My dry throat begs for water, and I climb out of bed. 
Opening my bedroom door, I somehow stumble on my own two feet and trip. I trip into the door and hit my face hard against it. Agony pain spreads through my face. "Ow!" And to make matters worse, the impact causes me to lose my balance and I fall on my ass. "What the fuck?!"
"Sidra?" Paul laughs as he kneels in front of me. "What did you do this time?"
"I tripped over my foot," I say shyly, and Paul's amusement only grows. 
"Only you," he laughs. But then his grin vanishes, his eyes widen, and his cheerful expression is long gone, all in two seconds max. I begin to panic matching his fearful eyes. "Jesus, Sidra, how hard did you hit yourself?" He extends his arm until his hand meets my face. I'm about to protest, telling him that wasn't funny nor okay, when I feel some dripping down my lip. "Your nose is bleeding."
As if Paul said some magic word, bleed starts gushing out of my nose. 
"Shit!" He exclaims, hooking an arm around my waist. He hoists me to my feet and together we hurry to the bathroom. I lean over the sink, letting the blood pour into it, then lift my eyes and see myself in the mirror. I look awful with my bloody nose and messy hair. "Here." Paul hands me a white cloth. "Hold your head back."
"And risk a blood clot? No, thanks. I rather ruin all my mother's sheets before doing that." In the mirror, I watch him shake his head. "The bleeding will stop," I remind him. "It always stops."