“Almost. Let’s go.” Donny headed off back to the pharmacy. He wasn’t sure if Roland was intentionally trying to get out of the store without picking up his medication, but Donny wasn’t going to let it slide.
When they reached the pharmacy, Donny dropped the litter down and smiled, holding his hand out for the basket. Roland’s eyes shuttered briefly before he handed it over and walked over to the pick-up section of the counter.
“Name and date of birth?” Donny heard the technician ask.
“Roland Wilson. February ninth.”
Donny stepped back. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He didn’t want to know what sort of medication Roland’s doctor was prescribing him. It wasn’t his business. He hadn’t looked when Roland threw the prescription at him, and he wasn’t going to listen in now. If Roland ever came to a point where he thought it was important to have that conversation with Donny, he would, Donny knew that. Roland was a locked vault, but sometimes it seemed like he wanted to scream out the combination at the top of his lungs so someone,anyone, would crack through and open him up.
Roland returned, tucking the pharmacy envelope in his back pocket. Donny heard the pills rattle.
“All set?” he asked.
“I forgot one thing, I’ll be right back. Just wait here.” Roland jogged off, and Donny guarded the food. He was back quicker than Donny expected, clutching a bottle of vodka in his hand.
Donny eyed it, then looked up, sucking his lip between his teeth.
Don’t. Fucking. Mention. It.
Roland’s face looked like part of him wanted Donny to say something so he could engage, and the other part of him looked like he wished Donny would just act like he hadn’t seen anything at all. Donny didn’t know the right answer, and he settled on an indecisive grunt before he looked down at their items on the floor and picked up the heavy basket, then turned to go.
“I can do it,” Roland said, gesturing for the basket.
“I know you can,” Donny replied, perhaps a little more aggressively than he’d meant to, and his eyes shot down toward the bottle before he continued walking toward the registers.
* * *
After pickingup Pete from Donny’s and grabbing a pizza, Donny and Roland were sitting at Roland’s coffee table eating. Pete was causing havoc somewhere, Donny could hear the unmistakable slide of his bandaged paw as it bounced off the floor.
“When did you start painting?” he asked Roland.
Roland looked contemplative as he chewed and swallowed.
“I can’t remember a time before I painted.”
“But now?” He shifted and turned toward Roland, laying a hand on his thigh.
“It’s just doesn’t come as easily as it used to,” Roland mumbled, reaching for his glass and taking a drink. It was vodka. Donny knew it; he’d watched Roland pour it but he opted to not comment on it.
“Why?”
Roland snorted, “Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”
“Do you think it’s because…” Donny trailed off, but gestured to the glass of vodka.
Roland snorted again, more incredulous. “I’ve been drinking for years. The artist block— it comes and goes, I guess.”
“No correlation?” Donny asked, taking a bite of pizza. He didn’t know Roland well, but Donny had ideas that whatever was going on with Roland was tied to the drinking, and both of those things were obviously causing the issues with his art. But just like with the prescription, it wasn’t his place to pry.
Roland slumped down and dropped his head back against the couch and sighed. “Maybe.”
“Alright,” Donny replied, stroking his fingers across Roland’s thigh.
“What about you?” Roland rolled his head to face Donny.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the question. “What about me?”
“When did you start drawing?” Roland flattened his palm over the top of Donny’s hand, slowly grazing it back and forth across the top of his knuckles.
