2 Christian
Ryan: She needs a new phone.
I read the text just as my front door flies open.
Jamie doesn’t knock. He never does. He storms in, angry and loud. The fact that the hinges haven’t fallen off is a mystery of physics at this point.
The door bounces against the wall, landing in the same dent he’s made a dozen times before. He doesn’t look at me as he crosses the room. Just goes straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs a beer.
“How bad is it?” I ask, closing my laptop as he drops into the chair across from me at the kitchen table.
“I mean, it’s all fucking bad,” he says, taking a long drink. “What do you want me to say? She’s had worse.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t comment on that. “What did he do?”
“Threw her fucking phone at her face. Hit her temple. Bruising’s bad.”
I glance at my phone again, at the message there. “Guess that explains Ryan’s text about her needing a new one.”
Jamie leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t do it, man. I can’t just leave her there.”
One year. A little less, actually.
“We’re not leaving her,” I say, a little sharper than I intended. “We’re not.”
“That’s not what it feels like.”
I know what he means.
It feels like standing ten feet from a fire- close enough to feel the heat, to watch it spread- and being told not to put it out.
We’ve been over this enough times that I don’t bother listing it all out again- the reasons, the risks, the things that could make it worse instead of better. None of it changes the reality of the situation.
Jamie exhales sharply, tipping his head back. “So what happened last night?”
The question isn’t really what happened. It’s “where the hell were you?”
I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to stay calm, to walk through it the same way I have three times already in my head.
“I went for a run,” I say. “Couldn’t sleep. Around eleven. Gary wasn’t there when I left. The house was quiet.”
Jamie takes another drink.
“When I got back, maybe 45 minutes later, he was stumbling out the front door. Barely standing. Obviously high out of his mind. I went straight to the door and knocked, but she didn’t answer.”
That had been the first sign of a problem.
“She texted me,” I continue. “Said she was fine. Already in bed.”
Jamie scoffs.
I keep going. “I texted you both after that,” I finish. “Told you we needed to check on her this morning.”
Jamie drains the rest of his beer and stands, grabbing another from the fridge. He brings one back for me, setting it down without asking.
“She was already gone when I checked this morning,” I add. “Left early.”
Jamie takes a long drink before saying, “I’m moving in.”
“What with her? You can’t-”
“No, idiot. Here.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s not even a discussion. Just a decision.
I huff out a quiet breath, more out of habit than anything else. “You can’t afford the rent.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “If two of us are here, we can keep a closer eye on her.”
“You are currently like 500 yards away.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “and clearly that’s too fucking far.”
I don’t argue with that, because last night proved that point, didn’t it?
When this started- when it got bad- I made the decision to move into this side of the duplex so I’d be close enough to hear it when things went wrong. Close enough to intervene.
And most nights, it works. Raised voices carry. So does the sound of something breaking. I’ve learned what to listen for, when to step in, when to wait.
It’s a system. But a flawed one. And last night, it failed.
Jamie takes another drink, then lets out a long breath as the edge starts to fade. I’m used to this- the quick flare of anger, hot and sharp, followed by the slow comedown. The trick is making sure he doesn’t do too much damage before he gets there.
“You need to start buying better beer now that I live here,” he says.
“I’m the only one old enough to buy it,” I shoot back. “So take it or leave it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns and heads for the door without another word.