The Not - Outcast

I heard some keys being tossed somewhere.

A yawn that grew louder as he came down to the kitchen.

His hand was in his hair as he stopped, and he had to blink a few times. His whole body swayed back and forth from the effort.

He scowled. “You.”

I scowled back. “You.”

He frowned, blinking a few times. He rubbed at his eyes. “Are you real?”

Oh...kay. This was too good not to play along.

“No. Are you?”

“What?”

“What?” Me.

“You’re Cheyenne.”

“You’re lying.”

Another frown, and he shook his head. “Wait. What?”

“What?”

He looked around. “What’s going on here?”

“What’s happening here?”

He pointed at me. “You’re fucking with me. Stop fucking with me.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

Another frown, this one deeper and he rubbed at his eyes. “I’m so confused. What’s going on here? Why are you here? Wait. You’re banging my best friend. That’s why you’re here.” He lumbered over, walking like he was an overgrown zombie, and he threw open the fridge. He stared inside, and spotting the pizza, he grabbed the whole container.

Then, we had another moment.

He stared at me, him still holding the pizza, and he didn’t know what to do.

I could see the confusion on his face.

Giving in, I took the container and motioned to the table. “Go and sit. I’ll heat this up.”

“I don’t heat up my pizza.”

“You eat it cold?”

He scowled again. “What? No. Who said that?”

So drunk. I motioned to the table again. “Go. Sit. I’ll take care of you.”

“Why would you do that?”

But he sat and I didn’t answer. No way I was going to have a talk with him at this hour of night, and when he was this wasted.

“You took my best friend from me.”

Apparently, he wanted to have this conversation.

Ignoring him, I put his pizza on a plate and put it in the microwave. A good fifty seconds would heat it up, but not too hot for him. After that, I spotted a canned coffee in the fridge and poured it into a glass. Taking that, along with a bottle of water, I put both in front of him.

He scowled at those, too. “I don’t want those.”

“There’s alcohol in them.”

“Oh.” He grabbed the coffee first.

The microwave beeped, so I grabbed the pizza next and put it beside the bottled water.

He was finishing the coffee, all in one go, and put the can in the middle of the table. He motioned to it. “Those are my favorites.”

I stood there, uncertain what to do.

He paused, stared at me, then looked back at the kitchen. “Go get your samich. Sit wid me.”

I did, more because I wanted to see what else he’d say. I wasn’t sitting here because I cared about Chad. Because I didn’t.

I didn’t care. At all.

I was just curious. That’s it.

I barely touched my samich, I was so engrossed in what he was going to do.

He picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite. “Damn. That’s good.” He scowled at me. “You werrright. The pizzaisbedderheaddup.”

Uh-huh. I had no idea what he just said.

But I took a bite of my samich.

They’d forever be samiches in my mind now. I’d share that with Chad someday, probably on his deathbed.

He went back to scowling at me. “Why’d you take my best friend away? He was mine. Not yours.”

I sighed. He was a confrontational drunk.

“Arend you gonna answer me back?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know who else liked to have drunk conversations? When she wasn’t passed out from drugs, I mean.” I barely paused. “My mother.”

He flinched, then started rubbing at his forehead. “Donna.”

“Her drink of choice was vodka. What’s yours?”

Another frown. Another flinch. He kept rubbing at his forehead. “I’m not an alcoholic. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re implying it.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you implying it?”

It was taking such effort for him to enunciate his words clearly.

I was enjoying his struggle.

“What?”

“I’m confused.” That was me. I was playing again.

He shook his head all around, wiping his hand down the side of his face. “You’re messing with me because I’ve been drinking.”

“I couldn’t tell.” A straight face on me.

He stared at me, his eyes narrowed. He couldn’t tell either.

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re trying to ingratia—ingradia—ingracia—if you’re trying to make me like you, it’s not working. I can tell you’re making fun of me.”

Still a straight face. “I would never do that.”

He paused, studying me, and his shoulders rose and fell back down. He reached for another piece of pizza. He’d forgotten his first one. “I’m going to give you some hard truths. Cut will never love you. Never ever. He’ll always look at you, and think, ‘she’s the bitch who made me lose my best friend.’ And you know what? It’s going to happen. He thinks we’re done being friends because of me, but it’s you. It’s all you. It’s your fault, and you want to know why?”