Page 87 of Wilde's End
Wilde tries to leave without me again, but he should know by now how persistent I am. Apparently as much as he is because he also refuses to let me drive. We reach his place, and he gets out before I can open his door, but it doesn’t make a difference to me. It’s not until he climbs up to his front porch, me right behind him, that he hesitates.
It takes a moment of indecision before he turns and holds his keys out. “Drive yourself back. Ziggy can take the truck to get home and come see me tomorrow.”
“Yeah, no.”
“You can’t walk in the rain.”
“I’m not planning to.”
It takes Wilde an embarrassingly long time to get to the point I’m making. “Well, you’re not coming inside.”
“Yeah, I am. I have to get you settled.”
It’s like he takes that as a personal offense. “I can settle myself.”
“Can but won’t.”
His jaw locks like he’s praying for patience. “No one is allowed in my house.”
“But I’ve been in there before.”
“And I didn’t allow it.”
I climb the last step so we’re both standing on the little porch. “What’s your problem?”
“Well, the one and only time someone has been in my house since it was built, they broke one of the few things that are special to me. So maybe that has something to do with it.”
I … did what? Guilt tries to shrivel up my gut.
But while I feel bad about that—even if he did smash our shit up—this rule was clearly in place long before me. “I promise not to mess with anything else. Happy?”
He doesn’t answer, which means I’m wearing him down. Testing that theory, I step toward his front door and rest my fingers on the door handle. Wilde doesn’t try to stop me, so I turn the knob and push my way inside.
It’s as small as it looks from the outside. One room that holds a kitchen, living room, and small table to eat at. There are two doors opposite me that I’m assuming are a bedroom and a bathroom.
The place might be small, but I’m taken off guard by how cozy it is. He’s got a teapot that’s covered in something knitted, and there’s a patchwork quilt thrown over the back of his couch. I walk closer, running my fingers over the stitching. It’s soft and well loved.
“This is nice.”
He limps closer. “Nan made it.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
Well, that’s a fun answer. “Mine too.” And because we’re already here, I figure I might as well push my luck. “Your parents?”
Wilde’s gaze latches onto the quilt. “Dunno.”
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know either,” I confess. Thunder punctuates those words, but it sounds further away than before. “Dad’s fucking his way across Canada. I think he’s trying to bone every woman in North America.” Wilde has no reaction to that. “Mom’s so high half of the time she legitimately has no clue where she is.”
“High?”
“No one noticed she was abusing benzos until it was too late. She ended up in the hospital during my senior year, which scared me enough to make some changes myself.” It’s almost a cute family story, how we went to rehab together. I walked away okay, but when we got out and Dad was in a different state instead of waiting to pick us up, I think she lost all motivation at that point. She doesn’t want to be better. “Anyway, it’s gotten to the point where whenever she tries to give them up, it’s more pain than it’s worth, so she’s stopped trying. She’s happy, living in that fog. Or at least I assume she is.” The way she’s so unfocused and slurs her way through any conversation makes it difficult for me to even want to be around her. Not that I don’t love her, but with how weak I’ve been lately, she makes me feel guilty for having those thoughts at all.
“If she’s that messed up,” Wilde says, “why would you be tempted to go back to …” He’s struggling through every word. “That?”
“Most people assume it would be the opposite. And maybe it’s true for some, but my issues and her issues have always been separate in my mind. Even though we both just want to escape.”
