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“Hey, I’m trying to help you. Do you want to fall to your death?”
“Are you saying you want to save me if that happens?”
We both stare at each other in mutiny. I have no clue how we got here. One second, he was okay, just lethargic, and now, he’s as mean as he is when he’s sober.
“I’m saying that I’m not selfish and cruel like you. You never helped me but I’m going to because I’m a nice person.” He opens his mouth to argue, I’m sure, but I put my hand on his lips to stop him. “And the sooner I help you to your room, the sooner I can get back to sleep.”
Three breaths.
That’s how long he takes to clench his jaw and acquiesce.
I feel it all on my palm. His puffs of air, that hard clamp of his bones, his rough night-time stubble. And from my palm all of it goes down to my belly, making it tug and ache.
It takes us a few minutes to make our way back to the mansion’s service entrance. I enter the code to get access.
The nightlights illuminate the empty hallways. I know I’m courting danger but I couldn’t just leave him there.
Thank God for the sleeping staff.
Zach has enough presence of mind to grab the bannister with one hand whenever it’s time to climb the stairs.
Finally, we’re at Zach’s door. As soon as we enter, he loses all energy and all but face-plants on the floor. Grunting, I push him toward his bed so if he wants to fall, the mattress will be there to break it. When he goes down and crash-lands on the bed, I breathe a sigh of relief and stretch my back.
I cover him with his blanket and then go ahead and take off his dusty, grass-stained boots, too.
As I set them by his bed, I notice his book is lying sprawled much like him, pages open and folded at the ends.
I pick it up and smooth them down. There are pieces of a broken pencil, just a few inches away from the book. I pick them up, as well, rolling them around in my palm.
So weird, these broken pieces.
Did Zach break it? Why would he? Why would anyone?
Just as I’m about to close the book and set aside the ruined pencil, I see something.
His name. On the front page.
It wasn’t there the last time I saw the book. Meaning, he must have written it recently. Probably a few days ago.
But why does it look like it was written years ago and not by him but by someone much, much younger?
Actually, no.
I’m wrong. I’m so fucking wrong. Age has nothing to do with it.
It’s written by someone who mixes up uppercase and lower. Someone who wanted to use cursive but a few letters later, changed their mind and started writing in print.
It’s written by someone who has difficulty writing.
It’s written by him.
The guy who’s sleeping now, but who drunkenly stumbled out to my cottage, and watched the stars from under my window.
