Grumpy Best Friend

“Wait,” Bret said, and pushed me aside as he muscled past. “Stay here.” He swept into the apartment, flipping on lights, and I was too shocked to do anything but stand there mutely thinking about Bret’s father, alone in that house, still drinking himself to death, existing on his pension and his retirement fund, with nothing else in his life. It was sad, almost too sad to bear, but feeling bad for that monster wasn’t really possible, not after seeing Bret’s bruises.

“It’s empty,” he said, coming back, his face grave.

“What happened?” I asked, feeling stupid and insane all at once. My apartment was ransacked—someone must have broken in and robbed me.

“Came in through the back window,” he said. “It’s all broken out.”

“Did they take anything?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Your laptop’s in your room. TV’s where you left it, although it’s broken. Just looks like someone came in here and went to town.”

I blinked rapidly, then pushed past him. I walked through my apartment, picking up random objects: a vase I bought when I first moved in from the flea market around Fairmount, a case of pens ripped open and scattered, the ink staining the floor, my ancient DVD player broken into little plastic and metal bits. My makeup was crushed, though some was salvageable, and my clothes were all thrown around my bed.

“I can’t stay here,” I said, and a stupid, giddy laugh escaped my throat. “You know who did this, right?”

“Pack a bag,” Bret said. “You’ll come to my place.”

I nodded, too numb to argue. I found an old suitcase in the back of my closet and started shoving things in at random. I did my best to try and imagine what I’d need—but I was in shock, and everything was thrown on the floor. My pillow was ripped, the stuffing thrown out, like guts strewn after a car accident.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking my hand. I stared at him and realized I was crying. “Hey, it’s okay.” He pulled me against him and held me, and I let it out, let it release in stupid, ugly sobs. He whispered calming, inane words as I wept, and I let the emotions rip out of my throat. I couldn’t stop myself, and it went on for too long, until I felt so exhausted that I had to stop. He peeled me back and looked at me, and did his best to wipe my tears.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said with an edge of anger. “You’re not the one that should feel sorry. This is a violation.”

I nodded and said nothing. I grabbed my bag and wheeled it behind me, over the glass, and down the hall again. I heard him close and lock my door behind us, then he followed me out into the night.

I stood on the sidewalk and stared around, and for the first time since I left my mother’s house, the world seemed like it was against me. Like nothing was safe, and I had nowhere to go.

Then he lifted my suitcase up and tossed it into the back, and helped me get into the passenger’s seat, and drove me back to his place, and although that feeling never went away—it quieted enough to curl up in his extra bedroom and sleep.

15

Jude

I woke up in a strange bed and stared at my hands, then at the ceiling, until the smell of cooking bacon dragged me out from under the sheets.

I wore a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, and stepped into the hallway. His apartment was surprisingly nice and cozy. The floors were wood, and the walls were decorated with paintings and movie posters in good frames. I padded down toward the kitchen and the living room, and stopped to look at some pictures propped up on an end table. I laughed softly to myself at the picture of us at his senior prom, his arms wrapped around me awkwardly in that stupid prom pose. We looked like children, and neither of us had wanted to go, but we both figured it was better than being home. And it ended up being fun. We danced all night together, and went to an afterparty at Lane Jacob’s house where Gemma Selva drank so much she puked in the bushes out back.

Bret stood in the kitchen in a pair of dark gym shorts and nothing else. His muscles bulged as he hummed to himself and made breakfast. Coffee sat in a French press on the table, and bacon and eggs were set in big mounds on two heaping plates. He looked up and spotted me lingering nearby and smiled at he gestured toward the food.

“Glad you’re up,” he said. “I was going to let you sleep in.”

I drifted over and sat down on a stool next to the counter. His living room behind me was small, with a leather couch and a little coffee table, and was dominated by a big TV and a ton of movies lined up like books on a shelf. A sliding door led out into a small patio. I vaguely remembered the tour, but I was in shock and could barely focus on much.