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Pushing off the door, I make my way to the kitchen. I pull a beer from the fridge and crouch to scan the contents. It's bare. I really need to get groceries, but between the café and the bar, I have no time. And it seems Ian ate the pasta I made. All of it.
Looks like I'm drinking my dinner tonight.
Alright.
That's fine.
With a small sigh, I push my feet and lean against the counter, sipping my beer. The kitchen is dark—the entire apartment is dark. I can't hear anything from Ian's room, which means he's asleep and not on his game.
Good.
He needs to sleep.
As I finish the beer and set it in the sink to recycle tomorrow, I hear someone stomp up the wooden steps outside. My neighbors are usually quiet and don't have guests over this late, but there's a girl who lives above me that has friends over all the time. Maybe one of them is leaving.
I pause by the front door, making sure it's locked and lean on it, listening to the person on the other side. Instead of their footsteps retreating, they're getting closer and closer.
Bang!
I jolt and jump away from the door. Rasputin sprints into the room, barking ferociously. Or as ferocious as a pug can.
“Hush, dog. It's me.” Ezra's voice is muffled through the door and I let out a harsh breath. Fucking man nearly gave me a heart attack. My hand presses into my chest, my heart pounding beneath as I move toward the door.
"Mom?" Ian rushes into the room as he yanks a shirt over his head. His black hair sticks up in fifty directions and he has lines creasing his cheek from sleep. "Get back." He pushes his way in front of me, puffing his chest out as he moves toward the door.
"Ian." I reach for him, but he easily shakes me off.
He grabs the baseball bat we keep by the front door. It shakes in his hand, but he brings it up, resting it on his shoulder as he slowly walks forward. Ezra knocks on the door again, and Ian jumps, then glances at me over his shoulder.
"It's just—"
"Go to your room," he says. "I can take care of this."
"Ian—"
"Mom, please—"
Bang! Bang!
"It's Ez—"
Ian yanks the door open and swings the bat in one fluid motion.
The metal makes a hollow dinging sound when it connects with some part of Ezra's body. He grunts, then stumbles back a step.
"Ian!" I rush forward and grab his arm when he pulls the bat back, ready to attack again. "It's Ezra!"
"Who?"
"Kiwi!" I shout. "Ezra is Kiwi!" I move past Ian, finding Ezra clutching the side of his head.
"Fuck," he groans.
"Shit." I wrap my arm around his broad shoulders and usher him inside. "Grab the First-Aid kit, please."
I flip the overhead light on, making everyone hiss at the sudden brightness. I push Ezra onto the couch, his face scrunched. He’s still clutching his head, but there's no blood, so that's probably good?
I hope.
