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He goes to slam the door shut, but I kick my socked foot out, catching it.
“Feel like letting off some steam?”
He huffs, and wrinkles his nose at me, brows furrowed. Not for the first time, I can’t help but catalog all the little changes. He has more ink now, scrolling up his arms.
He’s filled out some too, like maybe he started working out. I know he runs—something Mom told me over the phone while I was gone. But he’s got muscles now too—nothing crazy, just some definition that wasn’t there before.
He’s also pierced his tongue. I noticed that earlier.
Still haven’t asked when that happened. I think I’m scared to find out he did it before I went to rehab, when I was just too high to even notice. Same with the tattoos, though I know he’s had that one on his middle finger for a couple years now. It was his first one. Two connecting Xs.
“I feel like being alone.”
Rolling my eyes, I wave him toward the stairs. “Just humor me, okay? I want to try something.”
“Try what?”
With a huff, I cut him a look. “It’s me, okay? You can cut the shit.”
He scowls and looks away.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Rather than say anything, he gestures for me to lead the way.
Downstairs, Shawn’s waiting for us with his guitar case strapped to his back. I feel more than see the moment Waylon spots it.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing the guitar I’d bought on the way home today, and head for the basement door. Mom had to work when Shawn and I got out, so Gavin picked us up. He tried to buy this for me, but I refused to let him spend his money on another instrument for me.
Not after what I did to the Yamaha he gifted me so many years ago, my most prized possession.
Yeah, I know, I’m such a piece of shit.
Of course Gavin doesn’t hold it against me. But it’s definitely up on my list of worst, most regrettable moments. That thing was my baby…
Don’t think about that right now. Nothing you can do about it.
This guitar was dirt-cheap. Used as fuck, but it works. It’s enough for now until I can save up for something better. Just need to find a job first…
Waylon’s eyeing my guitar with a mix of wariness and confusion. “What’s that?”
“A guitar.”
“I know it’s a fucking guitar, asswipe.”
“Then don’t ask stupid questions, dickmuncher,” I throw back, flipping the light switch connected to the bulb swinging over the stairwell, and I hold the basement door open for him.
Waylon gives me the finger as he passes, and I fight a small smile.
It’s met with heaviness in my chest of course, but I’m getting used to it. I don’t see it leaving anytime soon after all. Not until Izzy comes back.
And she will…
I know she will. Be it tomorrow or fifty years from now.
I won’t accept any other outcome, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.
If they want me clean and functioning, then this is the way it has to be.
