Page 8 of IOU

I spring from the bed and throw open the door. I need a beer. I need anything; at this point, a sloppy rim job doesn’t sound too horrible.

Banging my head on the refrigerator a few times, I let out an angry growl and snatch open the door, grabbing a beer. I won’t drink the fucker, even if I want to down it in one go. That would be too easy for me. Instead, I’ll punish myself for getting into this situation by holding the cold glass in my hands, allowing the aroma to tempt me with its promise of washing away the stress with one long pull. I don’t owe favors. I haven’t since ... it doesn’t matter. I can handle whatever it is. If I can’t, I’ll know someone who can.

It’s simple.

It’s fine.

I pop the top on the bottle, the releasing hiss calming as I sulk through the living room and plant my ass in one of the plastic chairs on the balcony. It’s pitch-black, save for a few porch lights. I like it that way. I feel secluded—at ease even. I’m an introvert by nature, but ever since I’ve been at Havemeyer, I’ve retreated even more.

My life is messy and complicated. And I’m not sure how to fucking fix it. Realistically, there’s nothing to fix. I’m doing fine in all my classes. My family is taken care of. They haven’t had to worry about sending me any money, thanks to my poker nights. So what if I can’t sleep and my mind is in constant overdrive? Boo-fucking-hoo.

I take a longing look at the beer bottle clutched in my hand, swaying it back and forth until I have the angle just right, and pour the stream between the slats of wood down to the balcony below me.

“What the hell?” A female voice shrieks.

An errant smile tugs at my face. It feels suitable for once—relieving.

“Shh. Be quiet!” My neighbor below scolds. I don’t know his fucking name and don’t plan on learning it. He’s a decent guy—has a cute girlfriend that he takes out on date nights every Friday, which inevitably leads to them cooing bullshit words like love and forever. It grates on my nerves and ruins my shitty mood. Hence the beer interruption.

I hear the sliding glass door click closed, and I can’t even find it in me to relish the win. I need a distraction—another game, perhaps. Lately, though, the competition has been laughable. A trip deep into the city maybe? I check my watch. I have time. I could make it to Gigi’s and catch a real game.

My fingers twitch.

No.

I dial another number instead.

“I swear to God you’re worse than a girlfriend about these late-night cuddle calls.”

I bark out a laugh, pouring out the rest of my beer. “What the hell is a cuddle call?”

“You know,” his voice goes all high-pitched, “you wanna talk before bed? Tell me how your day went and all that shit.”

The laughter feels good—distracting even. “Why don’t you want to talk to your girlfriend at night?” Clearly, he gets this statement a lot.

Shuffling sounds on the phone. “Who the fuck do I look like? Dr. Phil?” His tone is incredulous. “If I wanted to spend two hours on the phone listening to drama, I’d ask Pops how his day was. Phone calls with girlfriends should be restricted to phone sex only.”

“Agreed. So how often do you do it?”

He groans. “All the damn time. Why does pussy have to be so good?”

Even though my brother’s tone is whiny, he’s serious.

“Because something had to make us lose our sanity.”

Pussy has never been enough for me to lose focus, though.

“Yeah, yeah. So, what’s up? You lose tonight?”

My brother has never been someone to beat around the bush.

I shrug to no one, looking out into the night air.

“I just called to see how it went today.”

I start laughing before he adds, “Fucking cuddle calling.”

“I’m serious,” I add soberly. “You had that big game today.”

---