Six

Dylan

It almost becomes a joke, I convince myself, waiting until I hear the music playing so I can knock on her door and pretend to be pissed while she pretends to be irritated I’m there.

It’s a game. Because I’m not mad and she’s not annoyed. I know this because she’s never surprised to see me show up at her door.

Over the next few days, we set a routine.

Me knocking. Her opening. Us in her room. Me in her bed. Her in her corner.

I sleep. She writes. I watch. She cries.

We never ask why.

Sometimes we’ll talk, which always ends in a bunch of humorous insults and the occasional throwing of a cushion. Two days ago, she kicked me out by saying her mom was coming home soon. I hadn’t even realized how long I’d spent there. She didn’t seem to mind.

Then, yesterday, there was no obnoxious music/invitation.

Yesterday fucking sucked.

Riley

Dylan knocks on my door halfway through the first play of the song. He doesn’t bother with any pleasantries, just pushes on the door, steps around me and marches up to my room where he unplugs the speaker and then turns to me, his hands on his hips. “You left me hanging yesterday,” he says.

I try to remember what all happened the day before but the morning booze already in my system has my memory a little hazy. “My mom was home,” I tell him.

He nods and rubs the back of his head while his gaze wanders around my room. Finally, he sighs, his head jerking toward the bed. “Can I?”

I shrug. “You still having trouble sleeping?”

He makes his way over to the bed and sits on the edge to remove his shoes. “A little.” He climbs under the covers and pulls the blankets to his chin. “Why are you home during the day, anyway? You’re not in college or something?”

“No,” I answer, taking up my spot on the cushions.

“You don’t work?”

“No.” I pick up the notepad and start to write.

Why is he here?

“So you’re what? Taking some time off?”

Why do I like that he’s here?

I shrug in response.

He shifts in the bed until he’s facing me. “How drunk are you right now?”

Why do I like that he’s here?

I hate that he’s here.

“I like you better when you don’t talk.”

He stifles a laugh into the pillow and I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t know why he thinks it’s funny. It’s not. If he keeps talking, keeps asking questions, I’ll revoke the privileges of my bed which I’ve so kindly offered for the last week and he can get the hell out. I’m grumpy. Not because I’m drunk, but because he’s not the only one who’s been losing sleep. Guilt can do that—make you lose sleep, I mean.

“Hey, Riley.”

I roll my eyes at him, trying to make it as obvious as possible that I wasn’t kidding. I really do like him better when he shuts the hell up.

He laughs again, then quickly recovers. “Can you adjust the blinds? I’m already in bed and it’s so warm and cozy.”

I get up and do what he asks because the quicker he’s asleep, the sooner I can go back to drinking. When I’m done, I sit back down in my spot, grab the bottle and take a long, well-earned swig.

“Hey, Riley.”

“Jesus Christ! What?”

“God, you’re feisty.”

“I’m sorry.” My words come out in a clipped tone. “This isn’t part of the deal.”

“The deal?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah. You. Here. Talking and asking questions. It’s not part of the deal.”

He’s silent a long time before he shifts again, putting his left hand behind his head now, his face toward the ceiling. With his voice low, he says, “I was just going to say, after I crash for a couple hours, I’d like to take you out to lunch or something. Just to say thank you, I guess.” He clears his throat. “I’ve never once seen you eat while I’m here. I thought it would be fun. Maybe get some cake to celebrate your birthday…”

I take my time trying to form an appropriate response. I take too long.

“So?” he asks.

“So… I can’t.”

He sighs. Long and loud and with obvious disappointment. Not at my answer, but at me. It should hurt. It should make me feel something, but it doesn’t. Maybe because I’ve done nothing but disappoint people for the past year and a half.

“I’m actually sleeping okay,” he admits out of nowhere. “My brother moved some shit around in my old room and put a mattress on the floor. I don’t come here to sleep, although it helps. I come here because you don’t ask questions and being at home… I guess I get scared that my dad or brother are going to ask me something I don’t want to answer and it becomes a bigger deal than it is. They were both Marines so it’s like… the thing that connects us all together. My brother and I don’t have much else in common. In fact, I don’t think we really know each other at all. So I’m here hiding out because I don’t want to risk it.”

I take another sip. Write another sentence.

I hate that he’s here.

I like that he’s here.

He continues, “None of my friends know I’m home. I haven’t told them. So, I guess you’re the only person I have right now—which is dumb—because up until a week ago, I didn’t even really know you. So I’m sorry if I’m asking the wrong questions. Pushing the wrong buttons. Because I completely get why you’re pissed—”