Page 9 of Into the Deep Blue

I killed a wolf. A living, breathing animal. There’s no way it survived, but in my mind, I needed it to. Delusional is the only one who has a shot at being functional, so I’m holding on to Nick’s pack-leader-dragging-it-off-the-road story. Sometimes, I think he only does the happy endings for me, but I know he needs them just as much.

When we pull into the driveway, his house is dark as usual. I turn off the car, and we sit in the silence. Rain softly patters against the roof.

“I should head back.”

Nick’s eyes meet mine.

“You can’t drive in this.”

I actually could drive in this, but it sounds like enough of a reason, so I text Dad.

The second we step into his house, Nick makes a beeline for the kitchen and fishes through a cupboard. He pulls out a bottle of bourbon and raises it—a question. I vigorously nod, and he pours two shots, already throwing his back as he slides the other toward me. I don’t like bourbon. I’m not a big drinker, but right now, this seems like an excellent idea, so I down the shot and contort my face in a hundred horrific ways. It’s so gross.

Nick nods at my phone.

“No reply?”

“Nights,”

I say.

“It’ll be a while.”

“Right.”

He turns on the faucet and splashes his face with water, rinsing off the blood.

“Fuck this hurts.”

“Is it broken?”

“No.”

He pinches his nose.

“Don’t think so.”

“Let me see.”

He comes over, and I cup his chin in my hand, running my other thumb down the side of his nose.

“Ow.”

He winces.

“Do you even know what you’re looking for?”

Our eyes meet, and my heart flickers. For a second, I forget he’s talking about his nose. I refocus on his bruise. “Nope.”

He pulls his face from my grasp.

“Come on! I thought you knew some kind of ambulance trick.”

“Why would I know ambulance tricks? I have a direct line, though, if you want.”

I pour myself another shot, and Nick eyes me, knowing this is wildly out of character.

“I think I’m good.”

He wipes his hands on the kitchen towel and flings it over the sink. “Movie?”

“Too depressing.”

“How is a movie depressing?”

“It’s too quiet. I need noise. You know what we should do? Karaoke.”

“I don’t have karaoke.”

“I do! On my phone. It’s an app.”

I hoist my phone and shake it around, heading for the living room with my drink.

“I can cast it. You have that thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, that thing! On the TV!”

He leans against the doorframe, still shaking his head as if he has a choice.

“No, I don’t . . . no . . . ”

I turn on the TV and open my karaoke app. May and I used to do this all the time at her house before Mom’s accident.

“Oh yeah, this is happening.”

He throws back his head in resignation.

“Fine! But we’re going to need a lot more alcohol.”

When he comes out of the kitchen, he’s carrying the bottle, a soup ladle, and a wooden spoon.

“What’s this for?”

I ask as he hands me the ladle.

He crinkles his eyes mischievously.

“Microphones, obviously.”

***

We burn through all the hits, Beyoncé, Harry Styles, and by the time we hit the Ramones, Nick starts to get into it. Maybe it’s the irresistible beats o.

“I Wanna Be Sedated,”

or he’s just that wasted. I stopped drinking after the second shot, but Nick kept going. He’s got a great voice—deep and smooth, and it has this soothing quality. It’s the sound of him that gets me every time. Like he could totally land a job as one of those bedtime podcast narrators if the whole writing thing doesn’t work out.

We’re sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, legs stretched out in front of us. At some point, he put a sweatband around his head, and his hair sticks out in every direction. A Sabrina Carpenter song comes on, and he smacks his wooden spoon against the floor.

“You tapping out?” I laugh.

“This one’s all you, Fi,”

he says, and I don’t even need to read the lyrics, I know them by heart, so I sing them to Nick. He throws his head back in a burst of laughter at how hard I attack this song, but the laughter quickly fades, and his gaze intensifies, giving the lyrics new weight, where there was none before. I probably should have realized that singing about hooking up with a cute guy with wide blue eyes to an actual cute guy with wide blue eyes might be a little extra, but that’s what two shots will do to me.

The song ends, and I keep my eyes focused on the screen, feeling heat singe my cheeks. I won’t look at him. The next song will cancel out this awkwardness. Except the next song i.

“Love on the Brain,”

which is the music equivalent of dimming the lights and filling the room with a hundred candles, so the awkwardness intensifies.

I make a move for my phone to skip the song, but he beats me to it and slides it away. It ends up under the wooden coffee table. Neither of us is singing. I lean back, letting my head flop against the couch, and he does the same. The music reverberates through the room like a private concert meant for two. Our hands are inches apart on the floor.

He nudges my foot. I roll my head to face him, and his steady blue eyes lock with mine. My mind empties, and my heart beats faster. He leans in closer, so I do, too—our lips, a breath apart.

The front door swings open and voices flood the room.

We jolt apart.

His dad walks in, with a woman behind him. They’re dressed up, holding hands, and partly unbuttoned as if this is the end of a date.

When my brain starts to work again, and I know we’re not about to be murdered, I scramble to the coffee table and dive my hand underneath, searching for my phone. It’s embarrassing how long it takes, but the music finally stops. The room falls silent.

This must be Brooklyn. She’s the first to break the silence with a sweet “Hi!”

and a little wave. She seems nice enough but oblivious that she’s standing in the midst of an active volcano, ready to blow.

Nick’s dad is tall and fit, with salt-and-pepper streaks running through his long, sandy-brown hair. You can tell he’s successful by the way he carries himself, with that rich guy arrogance. Nick is almost his carbon copy, minus the ugly qualities.

He assesses the room—alcohol, sweatbands, kitchen utensils, Nick’s face.

“Jesus. What happened to you?”

Nick surveys the mess, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. I touch my nose until he gets it. “Ohhh,”

he says, fighting a smile. “I fell.”

His dad picks up the bourbon cap from the floor and turns it in his hand. Maybe we will be murdered after all, but he seems to make a decision to not let this ruin his night and pulls Brooklyn forward.

“Brook, you remember Nick, and this is his friend, .”

The way he says friend is thick with condescension. He’s never been my biggest fan. I get the feeling he thinks I’m a bad influence because Nick and I met in group, and he considers everyone there to be messed up. And okay, fair, we have our issues, but to his dad, I am the issue.

I wave to Brooklyn and give her an awkward smile. Nick doesn’t budge from the floor and pulls at the carpet fibers.

“I thought you were away again this weekend.”

“Change of plans,”

his dad answers.

“I did text you.”

He pulls Brooklyn toward the stairs.

“Why don’t we get out of your way.”

“Sorry, we interrupted. Nice to meet you, .”

Brooklyn’s voice trails from the staircase.

It’s like Hiroshima happened in the living room.

Nick jumps to his feet and bolts for the door. I follow him outside, and he throws up over the porch railing into the perfectly landscaped rosebush below.

“And that’s how you do a Saturday night.”

He wipes his mouth with the sleeve not covered in blood.

“I think you’re going to have to burn that shirt,”

I say.

“You should’ve aimed for his truck.”

“Nooo.”

His face falls as if it’s the world’s biggest missed opportunity.

“Any chance you have to barf?”

“Not yet . . . but give me a minute. There could be a sympathy-barf situation happening.”

He gives me a sad smile. I know his heart is breaking.

“I don’t think I can go back in there.”

“Maybe we don’t have to. Don’t move.”

I head inside to get him a glass of water, and wonder if I imagined what almost happened between us in the living room. He probably won’t even remember it by tomorrow. Wish I could say the same. I take a drink from his glass then search through the freezer, fishing out a bag of frozen peas because he should put something on his nose. I pop out and hand both to him, trying to act casual.

“But there’s more,”

I tease, ducking inside again.

I pull off the couch cushions, and when he sees me coming, he opens the screen door and takes them from me, dragging them to the porch swing to use as a makeshift bed. He flops on the swing and closes his eyes.

“Back in a sec.”

I consider grabbing a fresh shirt from his room but don’t want to go upstairs, so I open the hall closet and find a burgundy hoodie. Then I grab the floral crochet throw from the sofa, and I freeze.

Nick’s phone is on the coffee table.

It’s sitting right there. May. Damnit. She got into my head with all of her notes folder talk. I glance at the door. There’s a solid chance he’s passed out by now. Even if he isn’t, there’s no way he’s coming back in. A mini-war wages in my head.

Do it. Don’t do it.

I drop the hoodie and blanket and grab the phone. My heart races at the thought of getting caught. It’s password-protected, but I’ve watched him do this a million times. I type 1216, Max’s birthday, and the home screen opens.

I go for the texts first, noticing one unread message. It’s from his dad; nothing exciting there. I’m next on the list, followed by Alex, Max, and a foreman from his dad’s landscaping company. I scroll to the bottom and find some old texts from his mom. The last one she sent was exactly what he told everyone.

“Don’t fuck up the house.”

It’s followed b.

“xoxoxoxoxo,”

which he conveniently left out.

My chest feels heavy again.

The time on my snooping clock is rapidly expiring, so I go back to his home screen and scroll through the icons until I spot it. The notes folder. There are a ton of files. Easily forty. I quickly scroll through the headings—story related, appointment-related, work addresses. There’s a list of gift ideas for Max, one with random facts about Brazil . . . something about monkeys?

One stands out.

Mom. 12:42pm, Dec 12. Blue button-up with white stripes, jeans rolled at the cuff, black flats, gold watch.

Understanding soaks in. This was the last time he saw his mom. It’s a total gut punch. My next thought is Why didn’t I do this? And now I’m thinking about what Mom was wearing the last day I saw her, and I don’t remember. I don’t remember.

The swing creaks outside, and I close the folder.

Why did I do that? Did I really think he was going to use his notes folder as a journal? Okay, yes, I did. I just had to know if he wrote anything about me in this supposed sacred space where he writes all the important stuff.

Maybe I’m not the important stuff.

I regather everything and go outside. He’s stretched out across the swing, and it sways gently under him. His eyes are closed. I drop everything beside him and squeeze onto the opposite end, covering us with the blanket. When I look up, his eyes are open, and he’s watching me.

“You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to sleep out here.”

“I love sleeping outside.”

It’s a lie. The only outdoors I like is the beach. My room and I, we’re real tight.

“Bullshit,”

he mumbles. He peels off his filthy shirt, tossing it on the porch, and all of a sudden, there’s a half-naked Nick in front of me.

He’s searching for the opening to the hoodie, so it gives me a second to study him. His shoulders are broad, his arms lean but toned with new definition from all the work he’s been doing for his dad. A faint red line is streaked under his rib cage. It’s hard to see in the porch light, but I think it’s scar. He catches me staring, so I refocus on the blanket, smoothing it out as if it’s urgent business, as he pulls the hoodie over his head.

“Was that a scar?”

I ask casually as if I was nit-picking his body and not appreciating it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

He lifts the hoodie on the left side and proudly shows me.

“Jellyfish sting. Florida trip with Mom and Alex.”

I nod.

“I’ve been told scars are sexy,”

he says with a bit of swagger as he lowers the fabric.

“By who?”

I snort as if the suggestion is lame and feel instantly guilty.

But seriously. By who?

He doesn’t answer. He only lies back, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Hey.”

I gently nudge his leg.

“Do you believe all that stuff you said to Grace tonight? Like not believing in happiness?”

“Honestly?”

His voice is a deep, sleepy haze.

“Always.”

“I don’t know. What the hell do I know, Fi? All I know is there’s an ache inside.”

He hits his chest with a closed fist.

“And it doesn’t ever leave. It’s like, you laugh right, and something’s funny for ten minutes, and then it’s back again, and I don’t even know if it’s grief anymore or something else. I don’t know how to make it go away.”

“Yeah.”

Dad called Nick a black hole once, but it’s mostly how I feel, like a giant void.

“Put the peas on your nose.”

He gives me a half smile, reaches for the bag beside him and drops it on his face.

“Are you doing anything next Friday?” I ask.

“Why?”

He mumbles from under the bag.

“I was invited to a party.”

“Congratulations.”

“And I’m inviting you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to go by myself.”

“Then why are you going at all?”

“It might be fun.”

He moves the bag away from his nose and gives me his bullshit look.

“May’s been all over me about going out. She thinks it’s weird I stay home all the time.”

He reaches for the glass of water on the porch and takes a sip.

“Do you really care what May thinks?”

“Ugh. Stop therapizing me.”

I poke his waist with my foot, and he sputters a laugh, pushing it away.

“It’s an easy yes or no.”

“Of course, I’ll go. Friends help friends with bullshit.”

“Always.”

“Now that’s quotable,”

he says, reaching for his phone. He unlocks it, opens his notes, and starts to type because we’re friends and that’s what’s important.