Parker
PARKER
My head is resting against the back of the stage wall as I glance up at the high ceiling, feeling slightly euphoric.
The guilt is gone, and so is the stress.
My left arm feels a little sticky and stings a bit, but that’s only because I didn’t wait to tear the bottom half of my top off and turn it into a makeshift bandage. Usually, I let the fresh cuts breathe for a bit, but I want to go home sooner rather than later without having too many passersby try to stop me and ask me if I’m okay or need help.
It always feel so fake when they do that.
Not to mention it always makes the ride home longer than it needs to be.
I reach up to push the strands of hair that got loose when I relived the best moment of the play, then slowly get to my feet. Speaking of home, I should probably get going so I can wash away the sweat now that the guilt and stress are gone.
Blowing out a breath, I jog up the stairs toward where my bicycle has been patiently waiting for me and bring up the kickstand. I walk over to the door, retrieve the key from my pocket so I don’t forget to lock it behind me this time, then let myself out into the mid-morning sun.
I let the bicycle lean against me as I slip the key into the lock, turn it, then slide it back into my pocket. I pull the sunglasses down over my eyes, then steady the bike as I hop on and pedal back home.
I’m feeling a little better about almost running over those teenagers from earlier this morning. I saw them sitting inside the Moonflower Café as I passed by the establishment. I guess because I didn’t want to carry fresh guilt on the way home, I circled back, went inside, and apologized to them.
I didn’t expect them to be as understanding as they were, but I think I can chalk that up the large-ish, crimson stain on my bandage.
The girl couldn’t seem to look at anything except for that, so her guy did all of the talking, being sure to get me out of there as soon as possible.
Whatever, I think with a shrug as I round the corner of my block.
As soon as I reach the walkway, I slow my bicycle to a halt so I can get off, then walk it to the front doors. The sunglasses are still down over my eyes as I make a beeline toward the keypad box, punch in my numbers, then pull one of the doors open.
This is always such a damn struggle, and I?—
“Oh, thanks,” I say without looking over my shoulder.
Someone in this building is actually nice enough to hold the door open for me? Must be a new tenant, I reason as I walk the bicycle down the hall.
When I reach my door, I finally push the sunglasses back to the top of my head, reach into my other pocket for the keys, then balance the bicycle as I unlock it and begin to walk inside.
For some reason, though, the bicycle seems to be stuck.
I give it another tug, barely moving it, then look down in frustration, trying to figure out what it could possibly be caught on when I realize that it isn’t caught on anything at all.
It’s being held in place by unfamiliar hands.
“Who—?”
“Parker?”
The tone of his voice is hesitant, his eyes, which are becoming much more familiar than his hands, are searching mine curiously. There’s something about him that I know…
His lips melt into a warm smile as he nods. “It is you.”
I take a step back into my apartment, wondering who this familiar stranger is, until something about the way his smile falters slightly clicks.
I’ve seen that before.
Every time our games of hide and seek came to an end for the day, his lips would do the same thing.
“Brando?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly.
He nods as he lets go of my bicycle and runs a hand back through his hair. “I finally found you.”