Jesse

20: First time

20: First time

            The phone rang. Finally. I had been standing in the kitchen, pacing, worrying. Harold and I had finished eating supper awhile ago. He hadn't done anything but grumble, and I considered that I was lucky for that, and maybe he half-way enjoyed it. I would have just left a note that I was gone for the night, if I hadn't had to make food for him; and, anyways I had already called his work once. And that was enough.

            So I told Ian to just call me, after we got back from filling out a couple of applications; that was when I first gave him my house phone number. The only number I had, really, since I didn’t own a cell. Ian had given me his number too, but I didn't need it. I would just go and see him, when I wanted to talk to him. Made sense, since he was my neighbor.

            Harold wouldn't have noticed anything out of the ordinary tonight; he was already in the living room, collapsed onto his recliner watching TV, drinking. He was in his deadly silent, depressed mood tonight. Sulking. Like a drunken, overweight slug. Groaning occasionally. It couldn't have been more right. When he was like this, I could get by with things, better than at other times. And he was rarely like this too.

            I picked up the phone instantly, raising it to my ear. "Hello?"

            "Hey, Jesse," I heard Ian's voice say, caringly. "Can you come over?"

            "Yeah," I told him shortly, my eyes drifting toward the living room, fearful. "I'm just going to grab a few things, before I head over."

            "Okay, sounds good. I'll see you soon then. Love you."

            "Love you too," I spoke quietly. "Bye."

            "Bye Jesse."

            I hurriedly clicked the phone back onto the mounted holder. Rushing, I flew upstairs, tore into my room, and ravaged for what I needed. I grabbed my old, drawstring red bag and stuffed in an extra shirt, shorts, and boxers. Something I rarely did, I checked myself in the mirror. My eyes seemed for some reason less bagged, and less purple. I was smiling. Wearing a white tank and gym shorts. Nothing much. But Ian didn't care. My stare lingered on my can of Axe, and I decided another quick spray was alright. I smelled good, and looked okay.

            When did I start caring about how I looked? I wanted to laugh at myself. I never cared about how I looked before…before Ian.

            I left my room, feeling all jittery and excited.

            Now there was one thing left to do. Get past the wonderful father. My heart began to slam hard against my chest, reverberate into my ears: a fiery reminder of what was coming, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I swallowed, as I reached the bottom step and walked swiftly from the kitchen, through the hall, and into the living room. Harold slumped there in his leather seat, unmoving, clutching onto his beer; his own white tank top was stained with drops of the drink, along with his unkempt beard. His eyes looked extremely different tonight, sunken so far back into his head, hollow, and lost somewhere, glazed over. I sucked in a breath, and walked around him, in front of the TV, carrying my bag, toward the front door.

            "Where the hell are you going?"

            "Going out," I said, firmly. He couldn't stop me. I would escape if I had to. There was no stopping me this time. Not this time. I was going to see Ian, and there was nothing he could do about it. I was thinking these thoughts? Something was wrong with me. I was never this brave before. I had a reason now. Ian. Ian. Ian.