Since I had the night off, Mason and I were chilling in the living room, sprawled on opposite ends of the couch with game controllers in our hands.
“You suck at this,” he jabbed.
“Then why am I winning?”
“Barely.” The front door opened, and Mason glanced over his shoulder. “Hey,” he greeted.
Rowan stepped into the living room, taking in the game on the TV before zeroing in on the controller in my hand. “You still play?” he asked.
He sounded genuinely curious, but the question felt like a punch to the gut. Games had been our thing when we were young, and I hated that his words sent me spiraling back in time.
Ten YearsOld
Rowanand I had been hanging out for a couple of weeks. Long enough that his mom no longer asked whether my parents knew I was there whenever I came over.
We were sitting cross-legged on his bed, playingMario Kart.
“Hey, you just hit me with a turtle shell,” I complained, glaring at my screen.
“Duh.” He chuckled. “I’m trying to win.”
“Well, good luck,” I said just before using my lightning bolt to shrink his player.
We kept laughing and trash-talking, and I tried not to think about how I’d never really had a friend to hang out with like this before because there weren’t many kids our age in our neighborhood. The older ones ignored me, and the younger ones annoyed me. At school, I had people to talk to and play with at recess, but I never invited anyone over. I was too embarrassed about what might happen while they were at my house. But Rowan was the first person I’d let into my home. Even then, I hadn’t invited him over. He’d just started showing up. I never let him stay for long, though, and more often than not, I convinced him it would be more fun at his place.
Just as my character crossed the finish line, a shout from my mom cut through the air, coming through Rowan’s open window.
My fingers froze on the buttons, and Rowan paused the game.
Another yell from my father followed, and my stomach dropped, but I kept my attention glued to the screen.
“Unpause it,” I ordered.
I could feel him watching me, but I refused to look at him.
A crash echoed across the narrow path between our houses. It sounded like something had shattered, and my face felt hot.
“Did that come from your house?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I brushed it off, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s fine.”
“Are your parents fighting?”
“Probably.” I forced my voice to remain flat. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You think I don’t know that you’ve been blowing our money on shit we don’t need and going out with your friends?” Dad’s voice carried over to us.
“Oh, please,” my mom snapped back. “Like you’re any better with all those bar tabs.”
I cringed and stared at my lap. “Please unpause it.”
“Does it happen a lot?” Rowan probed, instead of resuming the game like I wanted.
“Sometimes. It’s worse when they drink.”
Rowan didn’t say anything right away, which somehow made me even more embarrassed.
Then a high-pitched yell from my mother was followed by another crash.
