Eleven ten.
It’s been nearly three hours.
Is that enough time to go back to her place?
My head fills with awful images. They’re at the bar in some cozy booth. He’s spreading her legs and sliding his hand between them.
They’re outside, in some dark, dirty alley. He has her pressed against the wall. Her back is arched. Her skirt is at her waist. He’s sliding his jeans to his knees and growling something in her ear.
They’re in the backseat of his car. She’s under him. There’s no space. His legs are hitting the seat. Her head is pressed up against the door. But neither of them care. That’s how good it is. How much they want each other.
I force my eyes to my Kindle. The words refuse to enter my brain. It’s mush. Meaningless. Nothing.
Eleven fifteen.
I’m nearly due for my medication.
For bed.
I need my routine. It’s what keeps me together. That’s why I work the same days every week. Eat the same thing every morning. Take the same post-lunch walks. Read for an hour before bed every day.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Too much is going through my head. All the things I want that I can never, ever have. Grandma being well. My parents respecting my decisions. Brendon.
A normal, healthy relationship with a normal, healthy guy. Hell, even a friendship where I don’t have to hide all the ugly things in my head.
I could tell Emma. She’d understand. Maybe. Or she might run away. Or she might crumble from the burden of my problems. The ones I’m responsible for carrying. Alone.
There’s something outside. Footsteps. Louder than the normal traffic—there are always people moving around in their neighborhood, even in the middle of the night.
Keys jangle in the lock.
The handle turns.
The door pulls open.
And there’s Brendon, surrounded by the black of night and the shiny silver moonlight.
It bounces off his hair, his eyes, that sliver of bare skin below his chin—his neck, collarbones, chest. He’s dressed the same as always. Grey jeans. Dark t-shirt. Black sneakers.
And his clothes are just as neat as before. Nothing is wrinkled or stained or inside out.
I hug my knees to my chest. Stare at my Kindle like I’ve been reading it all night. And not like I’ve spent the last few hours obsessing over his date.
He tosses his keys on the table and kicks the door shut.
“You’re still up?” His eyes stay on the ground.
That isn’t like him. But why?
“Looks like it.” My voice is more curt than I mean it to be. But who the hell does he think he is, going on dates while he’s drawing dirty pictures of me?
He doesn’t know that I know. He doesn’t know that this is a knife in my chest. But, still, it hurts.
He moves into the kitchen. Grabs something from the top shelf. “You eat dinner?”
“The pancakes with Emma. Remember?”
“Yeah.” The freezer door opens. Ice clinks in a glass. “You want something to drink?”
“Are you offering whatever you’re having?”
He pauses. He’s blocked by the kitchen wall. I can’t see his face. But I can picture it, that way his eyes get sharper when he’s thinking.
“You like whiskey all of a sudden?” His voice is even. Like this whole date thing means nothing.
“Sure.” I need to loosen the knot in my gut. This is the wrong way to go about it. Alcohol is a depressant. It’s for special occasions only. “You never let me drink.”
“I don’t?”
“Yeah. Only on my birthday.”
“A drink doesn’t have to mean booze.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Hmm.”
I set my Kindle next to my phone. I smooth my sleep shorts. Adjust my tank top. This is a flattering outfit, as far as pajamas go. Plenty of cleavage. Lots of leg.
I have a nice figure. I got it from Mom. Between all the exercise I force myself to do and biking to and from work and school, I stay in pretty good shape. Not Brendon good. But good.
He moves into the dining room—well, this is all one big room, but he’s in the dining area—and sets two glasses on the table.
He takes a seat and motions to the other glass.
“What was her name?” I push off the couch and move toward him. Slowly. Casually. Like wondering about this isn’t tearing me apart.
“Why?”
“Making conversation.” I pick up my drink and take a sip. My lips curl into a half smile. “This is apple juice.”
“Is it?”
“Tease.”
He shrugs.
“Did you like her?”
“She was nice.”
“You’re just like Em.”
He arches a brow as he brings his drink to his lips. He tries to hold a poker face, but he doesn’t quite manage it. His eyelids press together. A soft groan falls off his lips.
The man loves his whiskey.
But that’s not where my head is going.
“Whenever she says a guy is nice, that’s it. She’s never seeing him again,” I say.
“I liked her.”