Page 17 of Not a Word

He smiled broadly. “Top of the world. What’s up?”

“Was by this way. Thought I’d pop in.” I climbed the two steps to the door. “Don’t suppose Mom’s here, is she?”

He blinked a couple of times. “Why would she be here?”

“I was supposed to meet her at something, but she kind of stood me up. Was wondering if she came by here.”

“When were you talking to her?”

“Like, fifteen minutes ago.”

He started to shake his head but stopped abruptly, as though the motion hurt. “Can I come in?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Why not? Enter!”

Holden held the door open and followed me inside. The first thing I noticed was a dusty trace of white powder on the coffee table and an uncoiled twenty-dollar bill that looked as though it had been used like a nasal straw earlier. Holden scooted past me, swept the table clean with the edge of his hand and tucked the bill into his pocket.

He laughed nervously. “I know that might look bad, but it’s not what you think.”

“Whatever,” I said. “I’m not here checking up on you.”

“You sure?” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “They didn’t send you to spy on me? Because I’ve been doing real good lately, and this was just a little pick-me-up to celebrate. It’s not like it’s going to turn into a regular thing.”

Like we’d never heard that before.

I looked around the room. Holden, even straight, was not someone you’d ever accuse of being under the spell of Martha Stewart. The place was its usual mess. An open pizza box on the couch with one cold slice left, CD cases scattered across the floor. Like me, he’d grown up with CDs and had never cottoned on to streaming his music. There was a beer bottle on an otherwise empty bookshelf, empty Coke cans here and there, a jacket hanging off a chair. A video game console and two controllers on the coffee table across from a wall-mounted screen.

“Whatcha celebrating?” I asked.

He adopted an exaggerated expression of puzzlement, like he couldn’t exactly recall. But after a moment, he said, “You ever think you’ve fucked up big-time, then realize, okay, maybe you still did, but not as bad as you first thought?”

“Maybe.”

“Like, you think you left your wallet someplace and you’re kicking yourself over it and thinking about the credit cards you gotta cancel and then you get home and find it on the kitchen table?”

“Did you think you’d lost your wallet?”

“That was just as an example, a for instance, if you will,” Holden said. He waved his hand in the air. “Doesn’t matter what it was. But I’m in a better place now than I was earlier.”

“Good to know. Was someone here? Thought I heard the back door slam.”

“Putting out the garbage,” he said. He glanced at the pizza box. “Missed some. You’re welcome to that last slice if you want it. It’s from last night but I could nuke it for a few seconds.”

It was a genuine, if unappealing, offer. Holden was always one to share. I shook my head.

He studied me for a moment, like he was trying to get me in focus. “Would you like to take a seat?”

“That’s okay. But why don’t you sit down.”

“Well, okay,” he said agreeably, moved the pizza box to the floor and plopped down on the couch. Removing the box revealed a pair of panties on the coffee table.

“Well, how did those get there?” Holden said with mock shock, scooping them up and stuffing them between the sofa cushions. He grinned at me sheepishly. “The toppings they put on pizza these days. Better than pineapple though.”

“That who I heard leaving when I got here?” I asked.

He shrugged.

I went back to what I’d been talking about a moment earlier. “The thing is, in your . . . current state . . . can you get help right away if you need it? Like, those places Mom and Dad sent you, can you turn up at the door and they have to let you in?”