Chapter 20 August
TWENTY
AUGUST
Here I am, in a car, with a drunk Riley. I’m feeling toasty, while Riley is… well she’s just drunk.
Her forehead rests on the passenger seat in front of her, eyes closed, and hands in her lap. Mumbles come from her side, and I can’t make out a single word. I’m not going to interrupt the conversation she’s having with herself.
She turns her head to look at me, and I can't read her facial expression, at all. It's a mixture of confusion, interest, and rage. And I'm a little terrified.
"Uh, are you okay?" I ask cautiously.
Riley squints at me. “You need to stop flailing around like an inflatable tube man."
A laugh escapes from me because all the years I've known Riley; I've never seen her this drunk. Ever. And yet, she's still the most beautiful woman I've laid eyes on. Even if her hair is a rumpled mess and looks at me like I've taken away her lollipop.
Holding up three fingers, I ask, "How many fingers do you see?"
Her nose scrunches. "Six," she says with confidence. "How many fingers do you see?" And there's her middle finger.
The cackle that wants to leave my mouth is covered by my hands before they trail under my glasses to shield my eyes. I lean my head back, controlling my breathing, because I’m afraid if I do laugh, she’ll punch me in the face. A drunk Riley is a feisty Riley.
"Ugh. When are we getting home?" she drags out the last word.
The driver pulls over, and I realize we’re in front of my house. “Shit.”
I forgot to change the address in my app when I requested the car. We were supposed to stop at Riley’s place first.
“Thank god,” Riley grumbles and fumbles the door handle before finally getting it open.
“Riley, this isn’t your place.”
She walks up the sidewalk that leads to the front door, swaying back and forth. I’d rather not fight her on this and drag her back in the car, so I give in. I say thank you to the driver before I get out and shut the door.
“Riley, wait.” I jog to catch up with her, and she grabs the doorknob, twisting it to no avail. She pushes her shoulder into the door like she’s an offensive lineman in a football game. She’s going to wake up with a bruise on her arm.
“Hold on.” Grabbing her shoulders, I move her to the side so I can unlock the door.
She wastes no time and pushes through the door before taking her heels off. She almost falls over, and I hold her waist. One shoe flies to the corner near one of my plants that sits in front of the window, and the other to the left of us, almost going under the couch.
“Make yourself at home,” I utter as I let her go.
I toss my keys in a bowl on the entrance table to the right of me and shut the door. When I take off my shoes, I place them on the shoe rack, a few inches away from where Riley’s heel is.
Pushing my hair back with both my hands, I let out a long sigh. The sound of cabinets opening and closing comes from the kitchen that’s past the living and dining room. The heels of my feet practically shake the beat-up wooden floor as I walk into the kitchen.
She groans and continues to rummage around my kitchen. I’d be lying if I said she doesn’t look adorable with confusion in her eyes and pouty lips.
“Let me get you something.” I walk to the cabinet next to the fridge and grab a blue plastic cup, because I don’t trust her with glass right now.
She grabs it out of my hand and runs the sink water, feeling the temperature with her finger before filling it up. All I hear is the sound of gulping before she slams the cup on the counter, releasing an ahh, and fills it up again.
It hasn't hit me until now that she’s in my house. There’s never been a reason for her to come over, at least by herself. She’s stopped by a couple of times with the group, but never with her own intentions.
I take a chance and ask, “Do you know you’re in my house?”
Instead of answering my question, she walks up to me, a little too slowly, like I’m in a horror movie. Do I move out of the way? Or let her run into me?
She tilts her head when she stops in front of me. “Why aren’t we close friends anymore?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you not like me?”
I place my hands on her shoulders and guide her back to the living room. “Let’s go sit down.”
She doesn’t fight me and walks with ease. Hopefully, the water is helping. Her fingers run through my hair as we sit down, and I take the cup from her to place it on the side table next to the couch.
“Your hair is so fluffy. What do you use? Definitely not a three-in-one.”
“Nope, not a three-in-one. Just regular shampoo and conditioner.”
Riley tucks her legs into her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her eyelids are heavy, and she lies her head on the cushion. A satisfied hum leaves her lips.
“I miss having you as a best friend,” she says as she closes her eyes.
“Really?”
She nods. “Mhm. But I know we shouldn’t be.”
I'm trying to understand where her head is at, but it’s hard. All I see in front of me is a woman who wants to be loved, and I have so much love for her, it’s practically pouring from me and reaching out for her.
“Why do you think that?” My voice is hoarse, rough.
Riley yawns, and her head sinks farther into the cushion. The grip she had on her knees starts to loosen.
“Because…” She pauses and lets out another yawn, her voice is so quiet that I need to lean in to hear her. “My feelings.”
I swallow down the pressure in my throat. She’s never admitted she’s had or has feelings for me. I’ve assumed it, but everyone knows what happens when we assume things.
But hearing her say that right now, it feels like I’ve just gotten the wind knocked out of me.
“Your feelings?” I force the two words out of my mouth.
“I’m so tired.” Her words jumble together, and I know she needs to sleep.
I need to process this. I don’t even know if she’ll remember having this conversation tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can let myself get wrapped up in this.
She’s drunk, and there’s not a single sober bone in her body. But I haven’t lost her completely, and maybe I still have a fighting chance.
Maybe everything will be okay.