To Heal All Wounds

The Morning After

Steve had not agonized over his reflection to this extent since he was a teenager. After his shower, he had spent hours carefully arranging each strand of his hair as purposefully as possible before mussing it all up and starting all over. It must have been three attempts in when he finally decided it was good enough, not perfect, but good enough, and set to agonizing over his clothing instead. He must have laid out twelve outfits before he, once again, settled on something good enough. Not perfect. But good enough.

He felt foolish. He felt like a child. He felt vain and shallow and stupid.

But none of that stopped him.

Steve went ten over the speed limit and ran at least three stop signs.

Steve also didn't care about any of this.

Ever since Eddie slipped through the window of Mike's basement, his nerves had been on fire and his blood had been singing and there was a cord wrapped around his heart that was pulling him towards Mike's house. And following that was all that mattered.

He was the first to arrive that morning, around 6, and noticed that even Mike was not yet awake. Mrs. Wheeler, fully done up because of course she was, was busy at work at the stove, flipping pancakes while Holly watched cartoons in the living room. Mr. Wheeler was being useless on his recliner and Steve tried to recall if he'd ever seen him anywhere else in the house. Or outside of the house.

There was already a mug of coffee on the counter, finished exactly how he liked, and a small stack of paper plates next to a growing pile of pancakes.

Because of course.

"I figured with school canceled the troops are going to rally here," she offered and Steve wondered if she didn't know more than she let on. But then she smiled and turned back to the stove and Steve knew that he would never know the answer.

"If you could pull the juice out and set it on the counter," she tossed over her should, "that'd be lovely."

"Which ones?"

"All of them. We're going to have a lot of hungry teenagers here today."

Apple, orange, grape, and grapefruit were all set out, which Mrs. Wheeler took the time to arrange in chromatic order.

Because of course.

She considered the lineup for a moment before she went to the pantry to rummage, returning with an unopened bottle of some sort of blend of juices. She placed it off to the side of the counter, almost as an afterthought and Steve tucked it under his arm and grabbed a small stack of three plastic cups.

Was it an afterthought?

"I think I'll be down there for a while," Steve covered for himself, piling more pancakes than one man could eat alone onto a stack of three paper plates. "Nancy didn't know what box the cardigan she wants is in, so I'll have to go looking." If Mrs. Wheeler noticed anything, she said nothing. Only smiled and nodded, saying, "of course."

Mrs. Wheeler then patted his cheek with a smile and called him a good man.

He tried to believe her as he slipped down the steps as quietly as possible, despite the way the steps creaked and groaned under him. About half way down, he heard whispering, and wondered if he weren't intruding on some kind of lovers interlude. For the millionth time in the last 24 hours, Steve's heart hit the soles of his feet. If he already felt so stupid primping and preening himself like a prima donna that morning, and he was going to feel a million times worse if what he was hearing was correct. Steve swore that if he came down and either of them were in any state of undress he would have no choice but to launch himself into the sun.