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Shiloh isn’t home anymore.
My phone starts vibrating from where it lays on my nightstand, the screen lighting up, breaking through the shadows clinging to my room. It’s my mom.
Frowning, I let it go to voicemail.
Yeah, I know. Son of the year over here.
When I catch sight of the time, my frown only deepens, and I roll my head to peer up at the blackout curtains covering my window. It’s only four in the afternoon. I assumed it was the middle of the the night.
How long have I been laying here?
What day is it?
Last I remember, it was Saturday.
Shit, did I miss class again? Is that why Gabe’s here?
At least, I assume that was him knocking. He’s been a pain in the ass these last few weeks, insisting on checking in on me, despite assuring him I’m fine. I’m just wallowing. Since when is it a crime to wallow?
There’s a thud, and muffled talking through the walls. And then I hear what sounds like a door clicking open.
I frown, and shoot up to a seated position. What the fuck?
No one but me has a key to this place. Not even Gabe. The idea of giving anyone that kind of access to my apartment makes me nauseous.
Scrambling out of bed, I glance down, ensuring I at least have pants on this time. One of the times Gabe showed up, hammering at my door until I finally let him in, I was so annoyed, I didn’t realize I had nothing but boxer briefs on.
Gabe had given me a nice long once-over and said, “Pity I’m not into twinks.”
He’s lucky he had a bottle of Jose and a bag of limes with him.
Grabbing a shirt from the floor, I sniff it, grimace, and shrug it on, just in time for my mom to appear in the threshold, eyes wide and face pulled taut with panic.
“Mom,” I mutter, letting my t-shirt fall down my torso. Is it just me, or is it baggier than usual?
Her face bunches, hardening, and then she strides toward me, wrapping me in her arms in a crushing hold. “Don’t you do that to me.”
I blink over her shoulder. “Do what?”
“Scare me like that.”
Frowning, I shake my head.
She pulls back, but keeps a tight grip on my upper arms. Her eyes are red when they dart searchingly between mine. “I called you three times. Twice on the way here. Once when you didn’t answer me knocking?—”
“How did you get in?”
“Your landlord.”
Oh.
“I thought it was Gabe again,” I whisper.
She shakes her head, disappointment lining her brow. “He called me. Told me he was worried about you.”
I’m about to ask her how he even got her number, but then I realize he probably just swiped it from my phone at some point. Likely used my thumb when I was sleeping or too tipsy to care.
“He shouldn’t have,” I whisper, pulling away from her. Putting my back to her, I slouch, and make myself smaller. I’m acutely aware now of the state of not only me, but my room. Hell, my entire apartment.
