Chapter 8
TIM
Fuck Mark.
Throwing up all over the floor—all over the pile of dirty clothes in my room.
I spent over thirty minutes cleaning it up. He offered to help, almost hit me when he demanded I let him help. I practically had to kick his ass to get him to lay down in bed.
I’ll need to head to the laundromat today to get these clothes clean. Won’t risk putting them into the washer here, that’s for sure.
I enter the bedroom, holding a plate with an omelet and two pieces of toast in one hand. In my other, I pinch the rim of a glass of water between my fingers while holding a couple ibuprofen in my palm.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” I say as I nudge his arm with the plate.
He squints his eyes open. “What time is it?”
“Six. I figured if you had a class at eight fifteen, you’d have time to get to it if I woke you up now.”
“I think I’m gonna skip.” He glances at the plate. “What’s that?”
“It’s an omelet.”
“You fucking cook?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
He sits up and slides across the bed until his back’s against the headboard. He eyes me skeptically as he takes the plate.
“It’s not poisoned or anything.”
“Thanks,” he says.
I hand him the ibuprofen and water. He downs the pills.
“That was some serious drinking last night,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” Mark looks for a place to set down the glass. I take it from him and set it on the nightstand.
He eyes me uneasily once again.
“What? Are you disappointed I’m not the heartless bastard you thought I was?”
“I don’t know how I feel right now, other than nauseous.”
He glances at the plate of food.
“Did you actually make this?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Tim Halwell? Sorry. I mean, thank you.”
“It took me like five minutes.”
“No. I mean, yes. But also, thank you for last night. You didn’t have to help me. Or clean up the glass I broke. Or the…”
He eyes where the pile of clothes were on the floor before I bagged them up and moved them outside.
“Oh, fuck,” he says.
“Don’t sweat it.”
“I’ll take care of that. I’ll clean them up.”
“That would be helpful,” I admit.
“I just can’t believe I let it get that bad.”
“You had a lot to deal with last night.”
“God, I can only imagine what Greg thinks is going on between you and me. Not that there is anything. Just that he’s going to think…”
“That you’re suddenly making terrible life choices because you went home with the school drug dealer?”
“You said it, not me.”
“Well, better than dating some lying, cheating scumbag, isn’t it?”
“Right? Oh, God. How bad is it? Be honest with me. Nobody is fucking honest with me. What does everyone think? Do they think I’m just this idiot who fell for his looks and personality and that I’m such a fucking idiot for not knowing what he and Morgan were up to?”
“Pretty much,” I say, my words filled with sarcasm.
He glares at me.
“God.”
“That was a shitty way to find out, too,” I add. “Finding your buddy’s phone in the bed when you were trying to text him. That’s some fucked up shit.”
“Sounds like more of the rumor’s gotten around than I thought. I bet Greg’s bragging about it because he’s impressed with how long he got away with it. The messages went back three months. Three months out of the fucking year we were together. Now everyone thinks I’m an idiot.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter what all those snot-nosed rich kids think about you.”
“Tell my mom that. When this all went down, she didn’t counsel me about how I would be fine and how I’d get through it.
She gave me strategies to look like I’m unaffected by it.
Said I need to do the walk of shame and put on a good performance so that no one will notice how bad it is.
Also got my dad to prescribe me some Lexapro.
To make it not hurt…so much. To make it easier to put on the act. ”
“I forgot your dad’s a psychiatrist. So you pretty much have total access to all sorts of awesome drugs, don’t you?”
He gazes at me uneasily.
“That was a joke. Not like I need any considering what I do.”
He forces a smile. “Oh, sorry. Yeah. He’s been supplying me with antidepressants since the breakup.”
“They help?” I ask.
“Ask the garbage can. I took them for a while when I was in high school, for some things that were going on at the time—”
“What kinds of things?”
Me and my big mouth. Judging by the look he’s giving me now, he doesn’t want to discuss it, but I had to press when he was being so ambiguous.
“My sister,” he says.
Four years ago, his younger sister was diagnosed with stage four leukemia. Though she was in treatment for several months, she passed away. It’s a legendary story that has helped his mother win the hearts of plenty of voters. But I can only imagine how affected Mark is by it.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I took them for a while, but one day I realized I wasn’t feeling as terrible as I did right after. Decided I didn’t want to take them anymore. Sorry. Not gonna unload all that on you right now.”
He takes a bite of the toast.
“Well,” I say. “If you want to finish up with that, I can give you a ride back to your place.”
“I’ll Uber,” he says quickly, the toast still in his mouth. He chews and swallows. “I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have. Just give me the clothes, and I’ll take them with me.”
“I mean, you don’t have to. I can—”
“No, really. I insist. It’s the least I can do after what you did for me last night.”
His gaze is filled with appreciation—appreciation I don’t deserve.
If I was anyone else—any of his real friends—he wouldn’t think twice about them helping.
It’s because I’m trash that he’s surprised.
Because he expects me to be this big fucking asshole—the asshole I’m sure Keith has led him to believe that I am. Rightfully so, I guess.
I leave him to eat his breakfast and head back into the kitchen.
I work on another omelet when the door to Nanna’s room opens, and she heads in from the hall.
In her flower-print pajamas, she looks tired.
She’s not wearing one of her wigs, so I can see the ratty gray strands that are starting to come in again.
“You want me to put on your tea?” I ask as she heads into the kitchen.
She shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a Keurig. Not like you have to put on a kettle.”
She fixes herself a cup before sitting at the kitchen table, where I’ve already set aside the entertainment section so she can read the comics and horoscopes.
“Oh, my little angel,” she says. “I’m gonna need you around when I’m senile.”
I chuckle. “Whatever. We’ve got a long time before we gotta worry about that. I’m not taking care of your ass when you get old.”
She laughs. “If I’m not old yet, then I wonder what I am.”
As I finish her omelet, I move it over to a plate with my spatula.
“I hear seventy-six is the new sixty-two,” I tease as I deliver it to her.
“Such excellent customer service at this fine restaurant,” she says, her smile stressing the lines in her wrinkled face—a face that’s aged not just because of her years, but because of the disease we worked so hard to treat—the one we hope won’t return.
She inspects the plate. “You didn’t put any jalapenos in it, did you?” she asks.
“I never put jalapenos in it. You eat those when you steal mine.”
A sly expression twists across her face as she opens the paper to the comics.
“Well, I know who won’t be getting a tip from me this morning. And I might just leave a Yelp review about this place, too.”
I roll my eyes.
I hear the door to my room open and soon Mark comes out, carrying his empty plate. As he steps through the entryway into the kitchen, his eyes dart to Nanna.
“Nanna, this is Mark.”
She smiles, exposing her dentures.
“Hi, Mark. Nice to meet you. Aren’t you a cutie?”
She winks.
“Nanna’s an incorrigible flirt,” I say.
He smiles, but I can tell he’s a little uneasy.
“Don’t worry. She meets all my tricks.”
“Yes, Mark,” she says. “Don’t be uncomfortable. It’s not like you came in here without any pants on. And trust me, that happens.”
He laughs. “Oh, God. That would have been embarrassing.”
He heads to the kitchen sink and rinses off his plate before opening the dishwasher and putting it away.
“I could have gotten that,” I tell him.
“Oh, no. You’ve done more than enough.”
He gets a funny expression on his face and then turns to Nanna quickly. “He was helping me because I was drunk. We didn’t do anything.”
I can tell by the way Nanna smirks she doesn’t believe him.
“Of course,” she says before taking a sip of her tea.
“Do you happen to have a trash bag?” he asks me.
“Yeah. In that broom closet over there. I put the clothes in the spare bedroom beside mine.”
He heads to the closet and retrieves a garbage bag. I’m kind of impressed with how effortlessly he makes himself at home. Most guys wouldn’t be so bold.
As he closes the closet door, he turns to Nanna. “Sorry. I have a little bit of a mess to take care of, but it was nice meeting you.”
“You as well.”
When he heads back to get the dirty clothes, Nanna says, “Well, isn’t he a cute one?”
“Shut it.”
She snickers and takes another sip of her tea.
“He’s all right,” I confess.
“I bet he is.”