Keeper

Chapter 55

“Well, the couch is always open for use, if you ever need it.”  Mikey spoke as he leaned against his parents’ kitchen bar, a cigarette in hand.  The entire house smelled of mildew and dust.  Every square inch of the living room walls stood out, covered in nineteen-fifties floral wallpaper and neon pink picture frames. 

 I didn't think we were even going to stop by.  As we drove, I thought we were going to my house.  But instead of making a right, we went straight.  I didn't ask questions.

 As I sat there, next to Harry, I rested my head in my hands.  I was getting a headache.  The throbbing in my head only grew worse with each passing second.  I wanted to leave, but kept my mouth shut.  I am here for Harry, I am here for Harry . . .

 “So Harlequin,” The mention of my name broke me out of my thoughts.  I must of looked half dead; I was exhausted, both physically and mentally.

 My gaze met Mikey’s for a split second before he went back to staring out the window, at something obscured from my seat low and dipped on the living room couch.  It was like sitting on a stuffed cow.  I wanted to puke.  “It’s just Harley.”

 The black-haired boy peered back at me with sharp blue eyes.  Ever so slowly, his lips curl up into a smile.  “Sure, whatever you say Harlequin.  You see, I was thinking back on first semester.  I remember we were in the same gym class.  With Missus—what’s her face?  Do you remember that?  When we were on the same volleyball team?”

 “Like it was yesterday,” I said, my head in my hands.  My foot poked at a chewed-up dog treat.  “Unfortunately.”

 “We don’t like to talk about volleyball.”  Harry was the one who spoke this time.  When I looked over at him, our eyes met.  He gave me a weary smile, and I returned the favor.  It was the first time Harry had spoken since we arrived at Mikey’s place.  Uneventfully, I had been the one doing all of the talking and explaining.  Mikey had been good about it, though.  He hadn’t asked any questions.  Or at least, anything about the situation.  

 My voice was soft as I spoke.  “Volleyball was a bad time.”

 Mikey’s laughed, his head nodding in my direction.  “Well,” He said.  “At least we tried, right?”

 Biting his lip, Harry got up from his seat beside me.  He raised an eyebrow.  “A horrible attempt.” He said, moving toward the entrance kitchen.  When he reached Mikey he elbowed him in the arm.  Mikey laughed and returned the action.  Harry just kept walking.  “Say, do you have anything good to eat?”  I watched as he glanced around the room, his forehead in creases, before he began reaching for shelves and loose cabinet doors.

 “Not unless you like laxative cookies,” Mikey answered, turning on his heel.  “Considering that’s the only thing my mom keeps in the house.”

 “No thank-you, then.” Harry said, letting out a sigh.  And then he grinned, his lips suspended lopsided and lazy.

 Out of the blue a heavy metal song began to play, right at it's chorus, fast and rhythmic.  Aggressive.  I nearly jumped at its unexpected loudness.  "Oh fuck me," Mikey spit, pulling his phone from out of his pocket.  It was his ring tone.  Honestly, that shouldn't of surprised me as much as it did.

 He quickly cancelled the call, and then looked up at me.  The wild confusion must of been more than evident on my face.  Harry stood behind him, still, scrounging around empty cereal boxes.  "It's this girl," Mikey spoke nonchalantly, more to me than Harry.  "I met her at a party a few months back, you know.  We had a lot of fun together,"  He then licked his lips, taking a drag from his cigarette.  "She keeps saying I got her pregnant."

 “Well, did you?” I stammered my words.

 “No,” He said, waving me off with his hand.  “Hell no.  We didn’t even have sex.”

 “Are you sure about that?” I asked.

 He conjured up a teeth-bearing smile and nodded in my direction.  “Positive, Harlequin.”

 “You could have been drunk,” I said.

 By that time Harry had stopped and tuned in to our conversation.  He had an eyebrow raised in question.  I watched as Mikey shrugged.  “I didn’t stay long enough to get drunk.”  I watched as he checked the time on his phone.  And then he turned to Harry.  “My dad is gonna be home in like . . . twenty minutes.  Unless you wanna smell the beautiful fragrance that is sweat and butcher-shop bologna, I suggest you head on out.  But I’m not trying to rush you, or anything.  It’s just a heads-up.”

 Harry nodded and patted Mikey on the shoulder.  “I think we were just about to head out, anyway,” He said.  “Thank-you for the couch.  I’ll keep it in mind.  I appreciate it.”

 Mikey pushed himself off the wall.  “Thanks for the company.  By Harley.”

 As I walked towards the front door I threw my fist up in the air.  “Now you’ve got the idea.” I said.

 Neither of my parents were home when we pulled up in the drive way.  I was glad.  Harry didn't talk much during our drive.  He only mentioned Mikey.  "He likes to joke around a lot," He told me.  "If I were you, I wouldn't trust a word that comes out of his mouth.  I sure don't."

"So you don't believe he'd let you actually use the couch?" I asked.

"Well, besides that." He said.  "He would never joke about that."

Inside of the house it was cold.  There was no circulation of air in my bedroom.  It felt almost like time was at a standstill.  Harry sat down at the foot of my bed.  His eyes were glazed over, like they were covered in a thin sheath of film.  I wish I could of read his mind.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” I said.  My voice was quiet.  It shouldn’t of felt as ear-piercing as it had.  Harry only nodded.  When I returned from the bathroom my eyes darted to Harry.  He was sat on the ground, knees to his chest, his back against the wall.  His eyes were shut, his chin against his knees.  I didn’t want to disturb him.  His arms and legs were a tangled mess of limbs, crossed and bowed.

 I hated myself for breaking the silence.  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.  A silence followed.  I watched as Harry craned his head to the side, his eyes meeting mine.  He only shook his head.  “Do you want to do something?” I asked.  “I mean—I think there’s some left over macaroni salad from yesterday, if you’re hungry.  Or I could order hoagies—Fran’s makes hoagies, right?”

 “I’m not hungry anymore,” He says, and then he shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut.  “In fact, I think I’m about to throw up.”

 Without much thought I turned around, right back into the bathroom.  When I returned with a small metal trash bin, Harry let out a strangled laugh.  "You're so fucking good to me," He said.  "It's . . . nice.  Refreshing.”

 "Refreshing?" I threw him the empty bin with careful hands.  He caught it without even breaking our eye contact.  Show off.

 "Yeah," Harry said, setting the bin down beside him.  "Unusual, I guess."  When I didn’t respond he patted the empty space beside him, opposite the trash bin.  “Come here.” He said.  I sat down cross-legged next to him.  We were so close in contiguity that his knee touched mine.

 “Are you sure you don’t want that macaroni salad?” I asked, my voice hushed.

 Harry half-laughed, his voice low and baritone.  “I’m pretty sure . . . Unless you want me to repaint your bathroom floor.”

 “But I gave you the bucket.” I whispered.

 “Buckets are for weenies.” He said and I laughed.

My head found his shoulder and we sat there in a harmonious silence.  The moment was sweet, my cheek resting against his shoulder, my nose nuzzling against the soft fabric of his shirt collar.  He smelled of something like honey.  I became so lost in that moment that I almost forgot how damaged the boy next to me really was.