Page 9 of The Road Back Home

A knock on the door cuts through the quiet chatter, and I check the time on my phone.

It’s after ten at night, too late for anybody to just drop by uninvited.

Not even Luci or Tristan come over this late.

Besides, the people I’ve allowed over are already sitting on my couch and floor.

I set my pen down, excuse myself from the group of people who’d come to play board games, and make my way to the door.

Shane calls out a request for another drink.

I ignore him in favor of peeking through the peephole.

“Hey,” I say as soon as the door is open. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were still in town.”

Holden smiles and takes a wobbly step forward, stumbling then leaning against the doorframe. He waves off my efforts to straighten him. “Sorry. I’m fine, just…”

“Drunk,” I supply flatly.

I glance over my shoulder, but my classmates—my friends—still talk amongst themselves with no care about who’s come to visit.

With a sigh, I turn to Holden and step back.

He walks unsteadily into the apartment; my hands instantly come up to stabilize him, and I guide him through one door of the bathroom, through the other, and into my bedroom.

He lets me push him until he sits on the bed, and we stare at each other.

I knew he likes to drink occasionally. Never anything to worry about, he’d assured me. But never once has he come over like this. He’s never even talked to me on the phone while drunk like this. I don’t know how I feel about his surprise appearance tonight.

Unfortunately, I don’t have time to dwell on it, not with the way he sways on the end of my mattress.

I help him lie down and blow out a breath.

Crouching, I untie his sneakers and toss them behind me, listening to the quiet thump as they hit the wall.

Holden’s eyes are closed by the time I stand up; I wonder if he’s fallen asleep until he grins sloppily.

“Stay here,” I order in the voice I use to redirect Ashton from doing something he shouldn’t be doing. Holden’s nod is off-kilter, uncoordinated. I groan and leave the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind me. “Hey, guys, I hate to do this, but something’s come up. Gotta cut the night short.”

“Everything okay?” Megan asks even as she rises smoothly to her feet.

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just something unavoidable.”

Brian smiles, slaps his hand against his knee. “Alright. We can reschedule game night in the morning.”

I walk my friends to the door, smiling and bidding them goodnight, then I push the door shut. The lock scrapes in its track as I slide it into place, and I rub tiredly at my eyes. Turning off the lights in the living room, I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Holden is, surprisingly, still awake when I enter the bedroom.

His bleary eyes find mine after a moment; I know when he registers my presence by the way his face lights up.

I strip off my shirt and ignore the strangled noise that comes from behind me.

After changing into a long T-shirt, I slide in between the sheets on my bed.

“Who were they?” Holden whispers, throwing an arm over my waist.

I blanch at the whiskey on his breath—all-consuming, overpowering. “Go brush your teeth,” I whisper back, and Holden rolls out of bed.

Ten minutes later, he’s back. His breathing evens out almost immediately upon lying down. I chew on the inside of my cheek then nudge him with my elbow. He snorts, a blurry ‘mmph?’ slipping free.

“Holden? Why are you drunk?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it, not right now,” he mumbles after a pregnant pause, one in which I feared he wouldn’t answer.

I fight to not roll my eyes even as I reluctantly drop the subject.

I have to trust he’ll tell me eventually.

Accepting the reality of the situation, I let the warmth of him so near lull me to sleep.

Holden, drunk or not, has been a comforting presence since we first slept together.

When he’s here, it feels right. I’m not going to refuse it now.

I wake before Holden does the next morning, and I carefully stretch out the kinks in my muscles before relaxing.

Rolling over to face the sleeping man sprawled on his belly, I smile at how lax his body is in slumber.

My gaze rakes across the expanse of bare skin, and I marvel at how utterly gorgeous he is.

Sunlight catches on the dips and edges of his shoulders, the divots in his spine toward his lower back, the tiny fine hairs along his flesh.

I grab my phone and bring up the camera.

Crawling onto my knees to stop by his calf, I line up the shot.

His face is mostly obscured by shadow; the barest hint of light illuminates the tip of his nose and the ends of his hair.

I snap the photo then stare at the image.

He’s perfect like this, so at peace, so beautiful.

I lock my phone, hold it close to my chest, and watch him sleep a moment longer.

Ten minutes later, after preparing myself a mug of cinnamon-apple tea, I pad across the living room to the balcony door.

No one is moving outside when I step out, and I breathe in the early morning air.

I settle into the patio chair with my mug clutched between my palms, sipping the tea while closing my eyes.

I’d slept so well last night despite my frustration, but all I want is an answer.

Why has he changed the dynamic so sharply?

Why had he acted like someone other than himself? What does this mean for us?

I sigh. I’ll probably never get a satisfactory explanation to my questions. I just have to accept it. So I try, as I sit in the chair with my hot drink and the birdsong whistling in the serenity of the morning.

Thirty minutes pass slowly, and I finish my now-cold tea and head back inside.

Shivering lightly at the temperature change, I move to the thermostat to turn it up, and the air conditioner stops with a quiet sigh.

I grab the blanket off the back of the couch, set my mug on the coffee-table, and collapse onto the cushions.

The television clicks on with a push of the button on the remote, and I hurriedly turn the volume down as a sitcom comes on the screen.

No point in waking Holden before he’s ready.

There is no warning when the man himself flops down onto the couch, shoving himself into my side, and he breathes out deeply once his head is tucked under my chin.

One of his legs hooks over mine. I smile and run my fingers through his soft hair.

Warm puffs of breath skate across my collarbone, and goosebumps race up my flesh.

Something in my chest tightens. It tells me it isn’t going to be pretty when this falls apart—and it will.

My heart wasn’t supposed to get involved. This was meant to be a way of fulfilling needs I’d neglected without the risk of getting hurt. But my heart never got the memo.

Oh, but how it will hurt when he walks away.

Holden has nearly fallen back asleep by the time someone knocks on the door.

He grumbles as I wiggle out from between him and the back of the couch.

I giggle while climbing over him; his hand swats at me but misses.

Another laugh, then I make my way to the door.

Someone unfamiliar stands in the corridor when I look through the peephole.

“Hey, Holden, were you expecting someone this morning?”

“Mmm, might be Bruce,” he replies sleepily.

“And who’s he?”

“My babysitter.”

I open the door until the chain lock reaches its full length. “Can I help you?”

“Holden here?”

“Who’s asking?”

The man’s tone is dry, unamused, when he says, “His babysitter.”

I slide the chain to the end of its track and pull the door open fully. Bruce only nods as he passes by, and I roll my eyes at his silence. Though I want to, I don’t say Manners are important, Brucie . I leave the door unlocked.

Holden isn’t in the living room when I enter, and I frown at the lack of him. A tap squeaks open in the bathroom, water gushing, and I can hear movement just beyond the door. Bruce stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. I sigh.

“Want something to drink?” I ask; my parents would be thrilled to know I still use my manners.

“Water’s fine.”

I grab a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the filter pitcher in the fridge, and hand it over.

Bruce mumbles a ‘thanks’ and sips at his drink.

I turn away to busy myself with wiping down the bar counter that doesn’t need it.

Suddenly, he lets out a sound that could be mistaken for laughter.

“ Cocaine ?”

“Hm?” I glance over my shoulder, follow his gaze to the labeled jar on the counter beside him. “Oh. Uh, sugar. My best friend’s an idiot.”

Bruce laughs again and shakes his head. I swallow, force a smile, and round the bar to pick up the blanket.

I fold it quickly with methodical movements and drape it over the back of the couch.

The bathroom door opens a moment later, and Holden shuffles out looking somewhat refreshed.

He still wears the clothes he arrived in, and they’re rumpled, but his eyes are more alert.

He smiles and waves jauntily at Bruce but approaches me.

His arms loop around my waist, and he pulls me in. His lips brush against mine.

“Sorry,” he whispers against my mouth, and I shiver at the ghost of his minty breath.

“For what?”

“For having to go.”

I shrug and lean up to press our lips together more firmly. “I understand. Just lemme know when you get where you’re going.”

“Absolutely.” He releases me upon Bruce’s pointed throat-clearing from where he stands in the shadows of the entryway. Holden rolls his eyes and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Tell Ashton I said hi. I’ll miss him.”