Two Birds, One Stone

9. Motor Mouth

Don't go outside, I ordered myself. Don't go outside.

     For a few minutes, I just stood there, right where I was. 

     I was sure Jamie must have driven away by now, so I began heading back to my room, planning on sleeping hard enough to convince myself that today had just been a stupid dream. I paused, however, at the sound of a knock at the door.

   I knew it had to be Jamie, not some neighbor or postman or Mormon. But I ignored it, no matter how badly my feet itched to answer. After a minute, he knocked again. I didn't move.

     Another minute passed. Then came Jamie's voice, floating through the wall, sounding coarse and pleading.

    "Liam, please open up. I need -- please, just let me in."

     I felt a shudder run through my body. He sounded wrecked. Like he was unraveling with every second he spent on the other side of that wall. I gave in -- of course I did -- reluctantly unlocking and opening the door. My expression was stony. I didn't say a word as Jamie stepped inside.

     "Please," he sighed, "just let me stay here for -- for twenty or thirty minutes. Then you can kick me out all you want. I just -- please don't make me leave yet."

     I nodded curtly, then turned to go to my room. "Wait!" Jamie called after me. I stopped but I didn't turn around. "Can you . . . can you stay? I don't think I can be alone right now."

    I let out an aggravated sigh and turned on my heels. He smiled gratefully, but the expression was pained, and I didn't return it.

    "Sit down," I grumbled, nodding toward the couch.

     Jamie nodded. "Can I still have that water?"

     I muttered a "yeah, sure," and began turning to go to the kitchen when Jamie started to say, "I can get it mysel--"

     I cut him off. "Sit. Down."

     For once in his life, Jamie didn't argue.

     I reentered the living room minutes later, handing Jamie a glass of water before sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Several long minutes passed in silence, and I could feel my anger ebbing away, layer by layer. The time was enough to cool me off, at least a little.

     "What's going on with you?" I asked for the second time that day, but this time, I was demanding an answer.

     Finally, Jamie provided one. "I'm trying to quit."

     For a moment, I didn't understand.

     Then it hit me, and I felt excitement for Jamie well inside of my chest despite myself; I had to work hard to push it down. With some effort, my voice remained neutral as I asked, "How long?"

    "A little over a week."

     I nodded. My anger was evaporating even faster now, and maybe I shouldn't have let it, but I did. "That's great, Jamie."

     "It doesn't feel great," he muttered. Hearing the sharpness in his own voice, he rubbed his eyes tiredly and said, "Sorry -- I'm sorry. It just . . . it really sucks."

     I didn't say anything, and we settled again into uneasy silence at our different ends of the couch. Minutes ticked by, and after a few, I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened Google.

     Nicotine withdrawal, I searched.

     After reading multiple articles, a lot of things made sense to me.