SAGE #3
“You gotta lift the lid when you pour.” I explain something he should already know.
He should have been here when it broke; my mind just can’t let that fact go.
All the small shit he missed. Not even the big events, like Mom, like what happened with his dad after he left.
But the pointless shit that makes up a life.
He slowly turns around and looks at me. My anger dries up and I’m left with…
something. His hair is all fucked up, matted and crazy against his head.
His—my—sweatpants hang low on his hips, and he looks like he used to.
Like he belongs here. Well, almost like he used to.
His face isn’t lit up with some arbitrary joy. He’s apprehensive.
“Yeah…I got that. Uh…towels?” His hand runs through his hair as he glances around the kitchen like he’s never seen one before.
“Same place.” I use the bat to point to the drawer filled with towels and oven mitts. Honestly, haven’t opened that particular drawer in a while, so hopefully they are still in there.
“So, you stayed,” I say, stating the obvious. Now that the threat of murder by intruder has passed, my hangover comes back with a full-body slam. I drop my ass down on the kitchen chair, the old wood creaking with the effort of holding me up. I place the bat on the table.
“Uh…yeah. Sorry if I woke you up. And I’ll return your clothes.” He goes about cleaning the coffee up. More accurately—shoving the liquid around, smearing it into the counter. The dude was always useless.
“Don’t bother. How long are you gonna stick around for?” I finally ask the question I’ve had spiraling around since last night.
When we passed out together on the couch, I expected him to be gone when I opened my eyes. I remember, vaguely, curling into his side and greedily taking advantage of his presence. Another thing I’ll be adding to the list of shit not to think about.
“I gotta return the truck to Henry. But uh…he doesn’t need it for a while?” he asks me like I know when Henry needs his stupid truck. On that note—who the fuck is Henry?
Why is this so goddamn awkward? I’ve seen Mac in all stages of life. But awkward is something I rarely saw him as. He was always confident, even in situations where he was in over his head.
Last night’s conversations were…tense. Lots of pregnant pauses and heavy silences.
Way too much staring. Then I guess the alcohol loosened our tongues.
We deep dived into nostalgia. Reminiscing about all the dumb shit we used to get into.
Always tiptoeing around memories that involved Mom.
Neither of us wanting to taint our temporary camaraderie with guilt and regret.
It was like it used to be. Just laughing and joking, and for a while, it was like he never left. He fit back into my life seamlessly. But now we are back to not knowing how to act around each other again. I fucking hate it.
“Well, you can stay,” I say casually with an indifferent shrug. “If you want.” I’m not ready for him to leave. I wasn’t before, and I’m not now. I’ll take this weird-ass staring or whatever I can get. I just miss him.
He whips around so fast he has to grab his head to keep his brain inside his skull. He slams his eyes closed tight for a second before he looks at me. Optimism and anxiety war on his face. His mouth opens and closes a few times before his words are stumbling from his lips in a rush.
“I wasn’t lying, Henry needs the truck. But…maybe you could follow me? And we can come back here. Together?” His voice is so damn nervous. Full of hope and tinged with fear. Fear I’ll say no and kick him out of my life. Or I’ll say yes, and this awkwardness will continue.
“I mean I don’t know if you work today, or have plans, or just don’t want me around.
I’m off. Work, that is. I’m off work till Monday.
I work at a garage. Did I tell you that?
I don’t remember if I told you that.” He’s rambling, talking so fast his words trip over each other.
He sucks in a large breath and turns around, refocusing on pouring coffee into two mugs.
“Or I can go. I should go? Should I go?”
When he turns back to me, I can’t hide my shit-eating grin. My cheeks hurt from how wide I’m smiling. The expression feels foreign on my face.
“Mac. I wouldn’t have said you could stay if I didn’t want you to.” He pushes a mug towards me, and my heart does this stupid fucking thing. It doesn’t speed up or skip a beat, it just pounds harder for a single beat.
After pushing the mug towards me, he puts down the half empty bottle of honey. Asshole remembers how I drink my coffee. It’s dumb. It’s something so goddamn inconsequential and stupid. But he remembered.
Our eyes meet, and his face is tinted pink. A soft blush dances on the apples of his cheeks. His teeth nervously nibble on his bottom lip.
“Asshole,” I mutter, grabbing the honey and squirting some into the mug. His anxiety is swiftly replaced by a smug smile.
The nerve of this guy.
Showing up—after I called him—but still! He’s here in my kitchen, remembering how I take my coffee, and I wish I didn’t love it. I wish I could hold the anger I carried around for two years. But I can’t.
He’s Mac.
My Mac.