Bret held me close against him and I smelled yeast and grass, and looked up into his eyes, my hands on his chest. “You okay?” he asked. “Almost got tackled.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “This place is crazy. What’s going on?”
“Soccer match,” he said, nodding toward the TVs. “Come on, let’s get out of here before some hooligans attack.”
I let him tug me along by the hand, feeling too breezy and buzzed to care about anything, and it felt good. It felt really good to touch him, to be pulled around by him, to be saved by him—which was pathetic to admit, but I’d always wanted that. Even if it was getting saved from a minor spill, it was still getting saved. I’d wanted him to save me since the day we met, and I realized that his home life was as broken and fucked up as my own, and I thought he’d be able to pull me out of it—handsome, outgoing, smart Bret, older Bret, experienced Bret.
Instead, he left me all alone, and I had to come to grips with the fact that nobody could save me but myself.
My mood soured, but only slightly. I took my hand away from his, and if that bothered him, he didn’t comment. We walked back to the truck and he drove me home.
“This is the place,” he said, snagging a spot out in front of my apartment, like he had some magical ability to make parking appear. “Shall I come up for a nightcap?”
I gave him a look. “Yeah, right. I had a good time, but not that good.”
“Ah, but we could always make it better.” He brushed his fingers along the steering wheel and I wondered how it would feel for those fingers to move down my back, or my thighs, or along my lips and my throat.
“No thanks,” I said, pushing the door open.
But he got out and followed me anyway. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Only taking you to your door.”
“What a gentleman.” But I did feel better with him nearby. Zeke still plagued the back of my mind.
We walked up the stoop together and I unlocked the apartment building door. I went inside and he followed, wordless, into the dark hallway with its light brown carpet and the fingerprint-marked walls. My door was straight ahead, and I stopped outside of it. He lingered a few feet away, watching me carefully, and his expression was strange, almost unreadable, like he wanted to follow me inside but he didn’t know how to broach the subject.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said.
“Sure,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
I unlocked my door. He was going to ask if he could come inside—and I wasn’t sure that I had the willpower to turn him away. “Okay,” I said.
“How bad was it, after I left? With your mom?”
I was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the doorknob under my fingers. I hadn’t expected that and it sent a wash of fresh memories rushing through me—my mother slumped on the couch, her eyes rolled back in her head, snoring soundlessly, wrecked on pills, exhausted from work. I remembered joining clubs after school, debate, the school newspaper, anything to keep from going home to my mother, who was either angry and looking for a fight, or fucked up and unable to do much more than drool at the television. I didn’t know which version of her was worse, and sometimes when she was high, I missed the anger.
“It got worse,” I said softly, and shook my head. “But also sort of better. I mean, she got worse, but I got better at handling it.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She was bad, before I left.”
“The pills got worse. She wasn’t angry as much, because she was high all the time. I avoided her as much as I could. Even got a job at Hollister folding jeans.”
He smiled a little. “That place always gave me a headache. Too dark, too loud, and way too much cologne.”
“I know, but it was better than home.”
“I know what you mean.” He glanced away and I saw the pain in his expression, but I couldn’t feel bad for him. He got out, and I was left behind. I was the one that suffered. “Do you still talk to her?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “Sometimes she’ll call.”
“Is she still using?”
“She says no.” I pushed my door open. “But I don’t know.”
“Yeah.” He sucked in a breath and looked at me. “I don’t talk to my dad much. Sometimes he calls, but he’s still drinking, so—” He stopped, and his eyes went wide, staring at something over my shoulder. I felt a strange chill creep down my spine as I turned and looked inside.
The place was a wreck. It took my shocked brain a few seconds to process the scene. My kitchen was a mess—the dishes were ripped out and smashed, and half the cabinets were broken and hanging off their hinges. The couch was slashed, and as I stepped inside, glass crunched under my feet.