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I’m not staying for dinner. Fuck that noise. I’m going home where I don’t have to worry about messing everything up. Where I can be weird and awkward and alone, and I don’t have to worry about anybody worrying about me. I mumble something about seeing her later and reach for the door, to pull it open so I can get the fuck out of here, but she stops me.
“Where are you going?”
I freeze, hand on the knob, ready to bolt but I can’t. My feet feel like they’ve been nailed to the floor. “I didn’t mean to bother you. When I came in from the garage, you were in the living room, visiting with my dad and I thought…”
“I came up here looking for you.”
I feel my fingers tighten around the knob in my hands. Trying to pull it open. Trying to get out of here before I fuck it all up again by opening my mouth. “Why?”
You know why.
You know what she wants.
What your good for.
Just because you’re seriously fucked in the head doesn’t mean you don’t know how to use your dick.
That’s what she wants.
She wants you to fuck her.
Make her come.
She’s going to say it and you’re going to lock the door and you’re going to give her exactly what she wants. Because something is better than nothing.
Because she’s not the only junkie here.
“Because you told me to bring you cookies.”
My hand goes slack around the doorknob and I feel myself turning to look at her. She’s still sitting on the floor. Book still in her lap. Books scattered around her like tiny, brightly colored islands. Plate of cookies in her hand, held out to me like an offering.
Like a sacrifice.
“You brought me cookies?” Jesus fuck, don’t you fucking cry, you big, weird baby. If you cry, you’re going straight out the motherfucking window.
Head first.
When I don’t move she sets the plate on the floor in front of her. “Yup.” She lowers her gaze to the book in her lap and opens it.
I stand there for a while, hand on the knob, face inches from the door, considering my options. Weighing what I want against what I know I should do. Finally, I let go of the door and cross the room to sit on the floor, bracing my back against my bed to stretch my legs out in front of me. And I just look at her.
Yeah, I know it’s weird. That I shouldn’t stare at her. That it’s not normal, the way I can’t seem to look away, but I don’t care. I’m too busy capturing and cataloging every minute detail of her in front of me. Every freckle. Every expression. The way the late afternoon sun steams through the window and sets her hair on fire. The fact that she’s taken her shoes off and left them somewhere. That she’ll spend twenty minutes trying to find them before she leaves. I want to trap it all. Keep ahold of it so I can remember.
The time Henley brought me cookies.
“You’re staring again.” She says it without even looking at me and I grin because she doesn’t sound upset. She doesn’t sound like it bothers her.
“Sorry.”
Her brow crumples slightly and she scoffs at me. “No you’re not.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m not.”
Even though she’s not looking at me, I catch the hint of a smile.
“What are you reading?”
She lifts the book to show me the cover. East of Eden by John Steinbeck. “I know, I know…” she drops the book back into her lap and shakes her head. “The Grapes of Wrath is better.” She rolls her eyes like she thinks I’m full of shit and I can’t help but laugh.