Broken Compass

“Tell me something I don’t know. What happened?”

“West is in trouble, but Nate just doesn’t care. And I’m done with him.”

Whoa. “Wait, Syd—”

But she flounces off to her room and slams the door shut.

What the hell now? Girl is in love with Nate, so what happened? She worships the earth beneath his feet, even if he rarely allows her near him anymore.

With a sigh, I shrug off my denim jacket, toss it on the back of the sofa and wander into the kitchen for a glass of water, or maybe a beer, if Nate left me any.

Turns out he has. I screw off the top and sip at it, standing at the kitchen window, staring out, at the nightscape—more buildings, some houses, a few trees, just shapes cut out of darkness.

The night wraps around me, grips my chest in a hard fist, my excitement to get home from earlier dimming. What am I doing here? Why haven’t I left yet? Against my better judgment, I stayed. I helped Nate. If he and Sydney are fighting, that’s none of my business.

Maybe it’s time for me to go.

Opening a second beer, I wander out into the living room, my thoughts spinning in a loop.

Nate’s pretty fucking messed up, and although I have a pretty good idea why, I never got the whole story. Even when I dragged him out of that room, out of that apartment and that life, when I sold the rest of my stuff to provide for him and Syd, and didn’t vanish into the shadows as was my plan, he never opened up to me.

If anything, he speaks much less to me now than he did then. I’ll never forget that first time I met him, when he came and talked to me. Yeah, I was the closed-off guy back then and though I don’t kid myself that I’ve turned into a chatterbox now, I try.

Like I wanted to try tonight, to talk to Syd, ask how her day was, tell her about mine, but she barely glanced at me.

And why am I so disappointed that she locked herself up in her room? All this time I’ve been avoiding her, and now I want her to stop and make time for me? Take care of me?

Fucking stupid. As if she could, even if she wanted. And that’s all right. It’s as it should be. It’s just that… I get so lonely sometimes, in this self-imposed exile.

The apartment is so quiet. Nothing is moving.

Except for what sounds lik

e a groan. From Nate’s room?

I’m seeing and hearing things tonight, it seems. Lifting the bottle to my mouth, I take another swig of cold beer, let it slide down, cooling me, numbing me.

But the uneasy feeling that started as I hiked home from the bus stop earlier is back, and before I know it, I’m knocking on Nate’s door.

“Hey, it’s Kash. Nate!”

No reply, and I’m about to turn away, when another groan drifts through the door, raising the hairs on my arms.

Shit.

I burst in to find him curled up on the bed, face scrunched up in pain, the stench of sour vomit making me gag. I know what this is.

Migraine. I Googled the fuckers after that goddamn night at the party where I tried to get Nate and West to shake hands again. Fat lot of good it did them. The truce didn’t last all that long.

With a curse, I carry the trash can with the sloshing vomit to the bathroom and empty it, then rinse it and carry it back, in case it’s needed again.

Then I sit down on the bed and pass Nate anti-nausea pills, painkillers and a glass of water. “Hey, buddy. Take these for me, will ya? They’ll help.”

He grunts something unintelligible but doesn’t resist when I stack his two pillows and prop him up. He swallows the pills without hesitation, then lies back on the pillows, eyes closed, and I stay beside him, waiting for the medication to kick in, lost in my own thoughts. His breathing is quick and shallow, punctuated with uneven, sharp intakes when the pain spikes.

It makes my own breathing catch, my heartbeat pound behind my eyes. I wish I could help more, better, take away the pain.

At some point he asks if I can switch off the light, and I get up to do so. “Makes the headache worse?”