I realize Stuart has stopped talking. I hear one footstep and then another. I slink away from the wall and hobble down the hall as fast as possible, getting as far as the guest bathroom. I close the door and slide the lock shut using my left hand.
I don’t have a choice.
My right hand is already stuffed in my pants.
4
Stuart
God,Ilooklikehell.
My eyes are bloodshot and have dark semi-circles beneath them. If Damien saw me like this, he’d attack me with those little sticker things that go under one’s eyes. He’d do it with or without my consent. Even though I always thought they seemed closely related to torture devices, they did seem to work. I rummage in the cabinet under the bathroom sink to see if he left any here when he moved out. No luck. All I find is an empty bottle of the overpriced moisturizer he used to use. I found it on the counter the day he left. Even though it’s empty, I kept it to smell it when the sting of his absence becomes particularly overwhelming.
I know, I know. It’s very pathetic.
It’s been a while since I’ve done it. I guess that’s progress or something. I look at the bottle in my hands, running my fingers over the matte texture of the glass and the smoothness of the slightly raised embossed silver letters on the front. Then I stomp the pedal of the trashcan and drop it in.
I deeply regret telling Elliot to make himself at home. I thought I meant it at the time, but I can see now I was only being polite. I had no idea he’d make himself at home and then some. He’s taken over the entire living area. His things are strewn all around. It’s a full-time job holding the chaos at bay. He’s gone out with friends again tonight, which has given me some good time to clean. From what he’s told me about them, he should have fun. They sound like a lively bunch. I hope to God he does have a good time. I hope it puts him in a better mood than he’s been in.
The peace and quiet are blissful, but I start feeling antsy when he isn’t home by eleven. I’m more than antsy by the time he finally does get home at one. That’s onea.m. On aMondaynight.
As if that isn’t bad enough, he keeps me up for another hour with the TV blaring through the house. Eventually, I come down after two and find him sound asleep on the sofa with Sadie curled up in his arms. I’m so exhausted that I don’t have it in me to start on him about the fact Sadie isn’t allowed on the sofa. I switch the TV off and pull a throw blanket over the pair of them as Sadie lies there, happy as a clam, blinking haughtily at me as if to say, “I’ll be expecting this level of service from now on, Human.”
Can’t say I blame her. Elliot is a hellion when he’s awake, but asleep, there’s a sweetness about him. His lashes are thick and long, curled up at the ends, and his lips look plumper than usual. He has Sadie totally enveloped in his embrace. Her face is neatly tucked into the hollow between his neck and shoulder and his heavy, sleepy breath blows light puffs into her fur.
He was up watching TV again on Tuesday night. And last night too. I lie in bed for hours with my heart thumping in rage, wondering why the hell this boy doesn’t need sleep like everyone else. I’ve called Beth twice this week already to rant about it. Every time, she replies by saying something or other about “the youth of today,” which makes me feel a hundred years old and does absolutely nothing to help me with the situation at hand.
“Morning!” I say brightly when I hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“‘Ey,” he grunts, swishing his tongue around in his mouth, evidently needing lubrication before he can form a full sentence.
He looks more or less how I feel.
“Tea?”
“Nah, I’m like Wyn, I can’t stand the stuff. Think it tastes like brown water.” He seems astonished that I don’t know that about him or his friend, Wyn, whom I’ve never met, but that doesn’t stop Elliot from talking about him as if I have. I’m positive he hasn’t mentioned it before, and either way, I don’t love his tone, so I look at him with meaning until he adds, “But, uh, thanks.”
“How about a breakfast taco? They’re almost ready.” It occurred to me in the early hours of the morning that if he’s not getting a good breakfast to start the day off, his biorhythms might be out of whack and that could be causing the sleeplessness.
His lips part in a broad smile as his eyes fill with disdain. “Told you. I pick up a smoothie on my way to work.”
“You know, you might be better off adding some protein to your first meal of the day.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” His smile falters and one side of his top lip pulls up. “Whatever, Daddy.”
He drags the word out, finishing off with a sarcastic snarl that he unfurls in my direction. It hits me square in the balls with the force of a stun gun. I flinch bodily from the effect that word has on me, and then my palm twitches hard.
He flinches too. His eyes and mouth form three tight, panicked circles. He looks more surprised than I feel that he had the audacity to say something like that to me.
“Elliot,” I say before I have time to stop myself, “don’tuse words you don’t understand.”
His eyes glint darkly and shadows ripple in deep pools of chocolate. His mouth opens and shuts two or three times, but no sound comes out.
I turn on my heel and head to the study in a desperate attempt to cool down. I’m exhausted, exasperated, and so overwrought that I feel shaky. I try to reason with myself, but I can’t deny he affects me. He inflames me. I haven’t felt like this in years. Years and years. Maybe more. If I really think about it, I can’t think of a time a boy has ever provoked me more.
When I’m positive he’s out of earshot, I groan, “Sweet Jesus, help me. Someone needs to spank the skin off this boy before I do it myself.”
I give myself a stern talking-to. I need to take a step back and get a little perspective. Yes, physically, Elliot is a tight, ripped little unit, stuffed head to toe with an excess of testosterone, and yes, it is very hard to ignore his musculature when all his clothes are too small.
