Violet removes her coat, draping it across the back of a chair near the door, and fluffs her white blonde hair. No matter how hard my brain tries not to notice her figure, my eyes can’t help themselves: black leggings, black t-shirt, black Chucks.
She’s slim and petite, fists propped on her hips.
“Where’s the little guy at?”
My lips part, and I want to make a joke about the little guy being inside my pants, but don’t want to be offensive after the whole trampoline park boob thing. Besides, my roommate Oz is the pervert, not me, and the last thing I want is for her to leave.
“In here.” I point toward the living room. “The little shit passed out on me. I wasn’t sure what to do with him.”
“Aww, poor lil’ guy. It only took eight minutes for me to get here!” Her hazel eyes narrow. “You didn’t give him any beer, did you?” she jokes softly, tiptoeing to the couch.
Violet peers down at Kyle, bending at the waist to gaze affectionately as he snores soundly, then looks up at me. “I’m so sorry I said the beer thing. It was a joke.”
“I’m an asshole, not an idiot—I got the joke. You’re very funny.” I shove my hand into my pockets, rooted to the carpet. “So? Do I leave him in here or what?”
Violet looks around, biting down on her lower lip. Her eyes light up. “Why don’t we move him into your bedroom? Then he can get some decent sleep. I don’t think you want him waking up when your roommates come home. He has school tomorrow.”
Good point. “Okay, yeah. I’ll toss him in bed.”
That I can do.
I move to the couch, strategizing my plan for picking him up.
Bend at the knees, scoop up Kyle’s limp, lifeless little body, support it in my arms—I free-weight more than this kid weighs.
Violet skirts around me, silently questioning which room is mine, and I nod with my head to the door at the end of the hall to the right. “That one,” I mouth.
Violet sneaks past, turning the knob to my room and pushing gently on the door. Stands in the threshold, glancing around.
I made the bed this morning, so she rushes forward, pulling down the black bedspread, dragging it low enough for me to set Kyle down, completely dressed.
We stand side by side, staring down at him.
“His shoes,” Violet mouths, pointing to the scuffed-up tennis shoes strapped to the squirt’s feet. She then pantomimes that I should take them off.
Obediently, I kneel at the foot of the bed, untying one raggedy tennis shoe, then the other. Holding them in the palm of my massive hand, I give them a onceover: gray and black with red laces, the rubber at the bottom is peeling back from the plastic base. The laces have broken in a few spots, but were retied instead of replaced.
The toes of both are scuffed to shit.
His mom is right, the kid needs new shoes; these are horrible—no way they have any good arch support left. I disregard them, placing them carefully under my window sill, out of the way so Kyle doesn’t trip if he wakes up and gets out of bed.
Behind me, Violet flips on a small desk lamp, her fascinated eyes roaming the room. She walks slowly to the bookshelf, browsing the stacks of novels about the Great Depression and American history. My collection of Game of Thrones Pop! Art and Star Wars stormtroopers. The Rubik’s Cube I sometimes solve between study breaks. The vintage Firebird and Mustang model cars I put together last winter when everyone else went home to see their families for holiday break; they took me an entire month. I painted each piece by hand, assembling every teeny tiny little part myself.
God, what a pain in the ass that was.
Violet peeks over her shoulder at me, a secret smile tipping her mouth as her index finger skims the shelf.
I inwardly groan; Christ, all the shit on my shelf makes me look like a goddamn nerd.
She stops skimming when she reaches the one picture displayed, the one of me with my parents, taken when I was about six, right around when their business exploded.
We’re standing in front of the garage of the red brick starter home my parents were renting and I’m holding the handlebars of a new bike.
It was my first bike and I remember begging my mom to take the picture. A few years ago I unearthed it at my grandparents’ house and stole it, frame and all.
I don’t know why.
How stupid.
Violet leans in for a better look, hands behind her back. She wants to pick it up to study it; I can tell by the way her fingers reach forward then quickly pull back.
When she’s done snooping, she places a forefinger to her lips, gesturing for me to follow her out the door.
“Shhh.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners.
I pull the door closed behind us, leaving it slightly ajar in case the kid should wake up and get scared or whatever.
“Did his mom say how long she has to work?” Violet’s whispering though we’re in no danger of waking Kyle.
“No. She didn’t tell me dick—she was freaking out and hung up before I could ask any questions.”
Violet nods. “Poor thing.”
“I know, right? How did she think I was going to handle him all night? I have no idea what I’m doing, and all I wanted to do tonight was read and sleep. I’m fucking tired.”
I trail behind her tinkling laugh all the way to the kitchen. “I didn’t mean you when I said poor thing, I meant him. Poor thing, getting shuffled around. It’s no fun.”
Oh. She feels sorry for the squirt but not me?
Figures.
Then again, why would she? Violet has no idea I’ve done more uncharacteristic shit in the past three weeks than I’ve done in my entire goddamn life.
Volunteering. Hanging out with kids. Letting her browbeat me into more play dates.
Asking for help, like I did tonight.
“You want something to drink? A water or something?”
Jesus Christ, what am I doing? I don’t want her to stay; I want her gone.
Let’s go ahead and add that to the growing list of shit I normally wouldn’t do: inviting a chick to stay and making her feel welcome by offering to quench her thirst. I know women—they’re worse than mangy stray cats. You give them a taste of something once, and they keep coming back.
I like my privacy; I want my privacy.
I want Kyle gone.
I want my bed and to be in it by myself.
“Kyle is sleeping peacefully. There’s no reason for me to stay. Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?”
“Only if you want to; there’s no rush.”
“Where are your roommates?”
“No idea. Probably with Jameson.” Mental groan.
“Who’s Jameson?”
“The nerdy girl my roommate is dating.” Then I hear myself add, “If you don’t want water I can make you some hot chocolate or something. It’s motherfucking cold out.”
Shut up Zeke. For fuck’s sake, shut up.
Violet smiles shyly, tripping up on her speech. “S-Sure, I can do a quick hot cocoa. That sounds toasty and delicious.”
Toasty.
I have a girl in my house that says shit like sounds toasty.