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“You always have,” I said easily.
“My mattress is lumpy.”
“It’s the worst.”
“And I can hear the road from my room and you can’t hear it in here.”
“I’m on the opposite side of the house, so that makes sense.”
“You’re humoring me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not,” I replied, watching him in the dim light that came through my window.
“You are,” he said flatly.
“I like having you in here, Birds-the-word. You can sleep in here whenever you want.”
“Cool.”
He was quiet after that, and it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.
Bird didn’t remember, and I’d never tell him, but a couple of years before we came to live with Nana, our mom had an exceptionally bad boyfriend that used to show up at night drunk and tweaking out of his mind. He’d been full of conspiracy theories and bullshit and most of the time mom had been able to settle him down no problem. Occasionally though, she’d say the wrong thing or argue with him and all hell would break loose. On those nights I’d make a bed for us in the closet and carry Bird in there to sleep. We’d miraculously stayed safe, the boyfriend had never come looking for us, but sometimes Bird would wake up in there in the pitch black and panic until he realized I was with him. I’d soothe him back to sleep over the background noise of the boyfriend screaming and smashing shit all over our house. I was ten years old at the time and Bird must’ve been two.
So, it wasn’t surprising that my baby brother didn’t like the dark. If anything, he was lucky that he wasn’t more fucked up than that.
I closed my eyes and lay there in the quiet, eventually listening as Pop walked down the hallway and into his and Nana’s room. I couldn’t think of Rumi while my brother slept only a couple feet from me, so before long I fell asleep too.
The next morning, everything seemed normal again, and I felt like a goofball for letting Pop’s bad mood bother me. The situation with Rumi once again took over all of my thoughts.
Chapter 3
Rumi
“Whatchu doin’?” mydad called as he passed me in the garage, an air hose dangling from his arms.
“Changin’ the oil,” I spat, rolling out from under the Tacoma I was working on. “I’m always fuckin’ changin’ oil.”
Dad laughed as he dropped the hose near an air compressor. “Gotta pay your dues, son.”
“I’ve paid ’em,” I grumbled, going back to work. “I’ve changed everyone’s oil in a goddamn fifty-mile radius.”
“What’s up your ass today?”
“Nothin’.”
“You sound like Micky,” he joked, kicking my boot.
“Mickydoesn’t change oil.”
“Micky’s been workin’ here years longer than you have.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Shit runs downhill, Prospect,” Dad reminded me, his voice a little farther away. “Get used to it.”
“I’ve been workin’ here over a year,” I yelled back, jerking as something sticky fell next to my head. “Jesus.”
He was right. I did sound like my grumpy older brother but I’d never admit it. I’d been in a shitty mood since Sunday morning when I’d woken up and realized that Nova had left sometime in the middle of the night.
