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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.
