Then, I go upstairs, shower, and then start scrolling through her social media, reading every caption, although most of them are old. She's only posted twice this year, and both posts are of concerts, not of her. I realize why she made the comment about how I didn't know her this morning after I mentioned the concert—it looks like we have the exact same taste in music.
And Saige used to write poetry and post it online on Sundays. But she hasn't in a while—not in over a year. A few of them read like love stories, and she's even tagged some kid named Sawyer, who's in a lot of her photos.
Another tall, skinny goth kid. Well, she certainly had a type, and it's not me.
But Saige isn't my type, either, and she's all I think about.
Dax isn't her type. But I guess he does have all of those tattoos that make him maybe a little closer to what she's looking for.
And Nolan...yeah. He's giving sporty emo Clark Kent. I can see how she'd eat that up.
I read Saige's poetry, drunk enough that the room is fucking spinning now, until I fall asleep.
15
the horrors persist, but so do i
Nolan
My mom gets home just before eight in the morning. The sound of the door opening and closing startles me; it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am and why I'm on the couch.
"What are you doing out here?" she asks. "Why is Elias's dog here?"
"The dog is here because no one is at home to watch her. And I brought a friend," I tell her. "She's sleeping in my room."
"Youbrought a girl home?"
"I told you—just a friend."
"If I stayed up to meet her, would I see this friend again?"
I sigh, sitting up and pushing my hair away from my face before grabbing my glasses from the coffee table. She's tired. She just worked a double overnight. I'm not going to ask her to stay up to meet someone who is only here because she has to be.
Someone who—let's be honest—never would have slept with me in the first place if she didn't feel like she had to because she owed me something. And even if she does like me a little bit, she'll get sick of me soon.
I can't even blame her. I'd get sick of me, too.
"No, probably not."
"All right, I'm going to go to bed then. I love you. Thanks for coming over."
"Love you, too. Hey, Mom?"
"What?"
"Avery's been watching some really weird stuff on TV."
She sighs. "Well, what do you want from me, Nolan? I'm doing the best I can, and I'm doing it alone, aren't I?"
There's an implication in her tone. I know she blames me for the last part.
"You're barely around, and neither are your grandparents—not since Grandpa got sick," she continues. "Most of her friends are on social media—there's a lot worse shit on there than she's going to find on our television. I'm not that bad of a parent."
"I didn't say you were a bad parent; I just thought you might want to know."
"Well, I already know. Okay?"
"Okay."
