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“That’s none of your damn business,” Alex mutters lowly. Then he steps back, raising his hands in front of him. “You know what? Fuck this. I’m getting another fix.”
“Not an addict, huh?” Blaise challenges with a raise of his brow.
“I’m choosing to do this,” Alex throws back as he hurries for the doorway. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Alex …” Blaise starts, chasing after him.
They disappear out of the room. Moments later, a door slams, followed by a lot of banging. Then silence.
I deliberate what to do, whether to go out to the car or not. I’d probably feel more awkward if I hadn’t spent the last handful of years having similar arguments with my dad, sometimes in front of an audience.
After a minute ticks by, I slowly inch toward the doorway. “Blaise?”
A pause of silence, and then he mumbles shakily, “Yeah, just a second.”
I hesitantly peer around the corner.
He’s standing just a ways down a dark hallway with his head resting against a door, his eyes shut, his body flowing with tension.
I almost turn around, let him have his meltdown, but … I don’t know, sometimes, when I’m about to break apart, I secretly wish someone would help me hold it together. Not that I’d ever tell anyone that. Besides, the only people in my life who’d help me are the people I’d rather not see me have meltdowns.
Sucking in a breath, I start down the hallway toward him. “You okay?”
He unevenly inhales then lifts his head and faces me. “Yep, just great.”
“You don’t look great.”
“I look how I always look.”
“Then maybe you always don’t look great.”
“Wow, way to kick me when I’m down,” he tries to joke but misses the mark.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” I prop my shoulder against the wall. “I just meant that maybe you always look stressed out because you’re always stressed out.”
He laughs hollowly. “Stressed out? Is that what this is? Because I thought this constant helpless and irritated feeling festering inside me meant I had the best fucking life in the goddamned world … Shit.” He turns away from me and lightly bangs his head against the door again. “I don’t know why I keep telling you stupid shit. It was probably a really stupid idea to bring you here.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “But since I’m here, feel free to tell me stupid shit. It’s nothing I haven’t heard, or probably haven’t said or thought myself.”
He aims a skeptical look at me. “You’ve told a girl who hates your guts that you’re stressed out all the time and secretly wish you lived alone instead of taking care of your brothers?” He whispers the last part.
“Not exactly.”
He gives me asee-I’m-rightlook before lowering his forehead to the door again.
I drum my fingers against the sides of my legs, feeling restless and sorry for him. It’s kind of annoying how much I want to make him feel better. I don’t know why I feel this way. Maybe because I secretly wish I had someone to make me feel better? Or maybe I’ve just lost my damn mind. Who knows?
I stare at the cracked wall straight ahead of me that reminds me of so many of our old homes. “Hey, Blaise?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
A shaky exhale escapes my lips. “I’m stressed out all the time. And I have these rules that … that are going to help me get the hell away from this life the moment I graduate, which is pretty shitty because that means I’m going to leave my sisters behind with our alcoholic, drug addict, con-man of a father who can’t even take care of himself.”
He gradually turns toward me, moving his head away from the door. He searches my eyes for an unnerving amount of time, so much so that I start to regret my confession.
“Rules?” he questions curiously. “What sort of rules?”
I shrug. “Nothing that interesting. Just keeping my grades up, keeping myself out of trouble, no dating—stuff like that.”
