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 sayManners 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?”
