The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 77: Ronan

"I want to talk about Becca."

"Nope. You're not allowed. I'm cutting you off."

"That's not fair. I only brought her up once today!"

"Yes, and once was already enough. We already went over everything that happened last night. I'm not interested in hearing it again."

Finn tries to scowl at me, but his eyes are still so red and puffy from last night that it looks more like a grimace. "You're not a very supportive roommate, you know," he says, as if this is some sort of grand revelation, and not the same words he's said to me at least a dozen times before.

"If you wanted a supportive roommate you should have filed a complaint on the first day of camp and gotten yourself switched into a different cabin," I say reasonably, folding over the sleeves of my polo to form a tidy square.

Finn throws an empty shampoo bottle at my head. I duck.

"Mind the shirts, moron."

"Fuck your shirts."

I shoot him a glare. My entire wardrobe is lying on the floor around me, all my shirts and pants folded up into neat little stacks, except for the few starchy ones that decided to be difficult. It always takes me forever to pack. I like my belongings to be in mint condition before I place them in my duffel bag— it's a habit I picked up on the road with Sabrina. Makes unpacking easier. (Now that I think about it, this might be the first time I've packed to return somewhere— usually, I only pack to leave a place behind.) "Don't you dare mess up my piles," I warn him. "I've been working on this for two hours."

"I know. You're neurotic."

"Well, at least I'm not a slob," I say, gesturing to his messier side of the room. "It looks like a bomb went off in here."

"It's a work in progress."

"Really? 'Cause it looks like all work and no progress."

Finn retaliates by hurling a loose bar of soap at my head. I swat it away.

"Mind the shirts!"

"You have enough polos already," he points out. "I'm sure you could sacrifice a few."

"These polo shirts cost more than your plane ticket, Fish."

"You're never going to stop calling me that, are you?"

I consider this for a moment. Then, I conclude, "Nope. Never."

Finn falls silent, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. It isn't until I've folded three more shirts that he pipes up again, asking, "Am I allowed to talk about Becca now?"

"Jesus Christ. You've got a problem."

"I have a lot of problems. That's why I want to talk about Becca."

"Reliving her rejection isn't going to make you feel better. It's only going to make you feel worse."

"That's not what happened. She didn't reject me," he protests. "It was a mutual break-up. We both decided that it was better if we just stayed friends."

I pause my folding to give him a look.

He sighs. "Okay, fine. Becca rejected me."

"Don't take it too hard. I'm sure she's rejected plenty of guys in her days. You're probably the sixth heart she's broken this year alone."

"Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"I'm just being honest."

Finn scowls at me from atop his cross-legged perch on the bare cot. His bags, strewn wildly around him, are already bulging with his belongings (probably because he didn't bother folding his clothes— he just stuffed his shit back into the suitcase from whence it came with reckless abandon), but even surrounded by so much stuff he looks more alone than I've ever seen him. He tugs at the loose plastic of the mattress, scattering electric-blue threads across the floor. "Of all the times you could have been honest, you choose now?"