CHAPTER 9
KIAN
Trent doesn’t say anything else, and I don't force him to talk.
That won’t make this better, but I also hate seeing him like this. I know it’s not just the puzzle that has him shutting down. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the root of the problem is.
We lie there–him with his face in the pillow, and me staring at the popcorn ceiling, keeping my fingers entwined in his hair. The constant touching right now isn’t for him; it’s for me.
To keep me grounded.
Because while life is hard, our love isn’t.
Loving him is the easiest thing I've ever done.
Our love has evolved over the years. From sixteen, to eighteen, to twenty one, to now. I’ve loved every version of him. And I’ll continue to love every version of him.
As his breathing evens out, Trent’s head falls to the side, facing toward me. The light puffs of air from between his pursed, pouty lips are sweeter than any candy. I press my lips against his, savoring this moment, before pushing myself off the bed and leaving him to rest while I talk to Mitch.
Mitch says that Trent’s been good about going to meetings and seems serious about being sober. But he and I both know that this is tricky and relapses do happen often. Though I have so much hope that Trent stays resilient.
“How’s work?” Mitch asks me, as I take a huge bite of the pizza that Trent specifically wanted. Oh well, it’s my favorite too. But I’ll be sure to leave some for him.
“It’s work, you know how it is. Campaigns, posters, trying to stay up to date with the latest trends.”
Mitch doesn’t actually know, because he’s never worked somewhere where they rely on advertisements to boost their company. He worked at the tire shop two blocks over until he was too old to break a lug nut loose. He’s still supportive, though, even if he doesn’t always understand.
“Any new hobbies?” he asks.
I roll my eyes, because not every person has to have a hobby. Some people just like to come home and watch TV until they go to bed. Shouldn’t that be considered a hobby? “No, I'm not like you,” I tell him. “I don’t require constant brain stimulation to make sure I'm not getting early onset Alzheimer's.”
A sharp pain throbs in my arm and I stare at Mitch, jaw slacked. “Did you just smack me?”
“I don’t recall, it must be Alzheimer's.”
“Mitch! You literally said that’s why you do it. Because your mom, and her mom, and her mom all had it. It’s in your genetics.”
He huffs, taking another big bite of pizza and speaking around a mouthful. “That doesn’t mean you can make that comment though, only I can.”
I rub the sore spot on my arm and give him puppy dog eyes. “I’m sorry, Mitchy. I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
That earns me another smack in the same area, so I decide maybe it’s in my best interest not to test my luck anymore.
The sound of our chewing is deafening in the otherwise silence. I’ve never been good with silence, of any kind. The need to fill it is strong, but I wait for Mitch to break it first. He’s always been the kind of person to hate small talk, and he would rather sit in the quiet instead of filling it with unnecessary words. And I get it, I really do. It’s just not my strong suit.
“Maybe you should try photography,” Mitch finally says when we’re finished eating.
I contemplate his words, because photography does not sound interesting to me. Taking pictures, getting the angles, making sure the lighting is correct–all of those things sound terrible to me. “Pass.”
“Working out?”
I look down at my small arms, the same size they’ve been my whole life. The most action my muscles get now is lifting bundles of white paper for the copier.
Mitch sees the look I'm giving him and shrugs his shoulders. “Might be good for you. It’s all the guys at the shop could talk about. Getting fit and showing off for the ladies.” He wags his eyebrows, and I burst into laughter.
“Really? That’s the best thing you could come up with?”
He shrugs, standing up and walking away with the empty pizza box. Hopefully Trent wasn’t too excited about eating some.
I cough to clear my throat, a burning sensation growing there. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth, hoping that helps ease the slight pain. It’s probably strep-throat. Great. The uncomfortable sensation after swallowing has me rolling my eyes. Of course I would get sick in the middle of summer.
“You gonna check on him before you leave?” Mitch asks, and I hesitate for a minute.
If Mitch says Trent’s doing better, shouldn’t I reward him for good behavior? Staying just one night won’t hurt.
God, I feel like I'm playing with his emotions with this back and forth. As if I don't know what I want when it’s blatantly obvious, because I don't always express myself in the most coherent way. But I'm working on it.
“Do you care if I stay?”