Boot(s)

24- Boot

Sergeant Jackson

I was asleep, but just barely. It was the kind of sleep where you were bored, not tired, and closing your eyes was more for a change of scenery rather than actual necessity. All the lights in my room were on, my door wide open, so he could see I was still waiting up.

When he came home, he made no effort to shut the front door quietly. I instantly sat up and checked my watch. It was eleven. Already, my heart rate had elevated from its barely-alive pace to its very-much-alive-and-very-anxious pace.

I could see the lights in the kitchen flicker on. He was digging around in the fridge, probably for a beer. I swallowed.

"Bo? That you?"

Of course, he made no indication he heard me. A few seconds ticked by. In my chest, they weren't seconds. They were years.

As if answering my question, he shut the fridge, turned out the lights, and made his way upstairs. His footsteps sounded heavier than usual. Slower, too. I fell back on the bed, breathing heavily out my nose. I couldn't press him. I had already done enough damage for one day. Done enough thinking about it, too. Little more couldn't hurt.

I flipped over on my side. I hadn't bothered to get under the blankets, in case he came looking for me. I tucked my hands under the pillow, counting my breaths. I was able to close my eyes before, but now, it was impossible. Not with him, one floor, sixteen steps above me, probably thinking about the best way to ask me leave. Where would I even go? I couldn't leave this. I couldn't leave them. They were my family now. No—they had always been my family. Always. And now I was home. I couldn't go, not again.

I'd go to Jessie's. Maybe I'd use Nancy's spare room. I'd make it up to him, somehow. I'd buy him a boat. Didn't he always want one? One like he had in Missouri, the one his mom taught him to fish on. I had always thought that was so cool. His mom was a badass, he said. Like a female Steve Irwin. She and his Pop were so in love. I wondered if he still missed her, like he used to.

Fuck. Didn't he mention fishing with Bella? He already had a boat. Course he did. Sometimes I forgot he had so much money. Millions. Billions, maybe? What was his contract, that last year with the Knicks? 25 million? And his line of Nikes. How much did that pay?

"Peter?"

I had been so obsessively consumed with calculating Bo's net worth that I hadn't even heard him come down the stairs. I hadn't heard him cross the living room. I hadn't heard him until there he was, standing in my doorway, looking, forgive me, fucking awful.

I sat up immediately. "Bo."

He looked exhausted. He had no color in his cheeks, the bags under his eyes were so grey they were almost purple. He was still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he had put on after basketball this morning. He looked a little drunk still. He was gripping the doorframe, maybe to keep himself up, I don't know. How long had it been since he came home? Twenty minutes? An hour?

I swallowed. He hadn't said anything. All he was doing was leaning against that doorframe, his eyes drifting all over me. All over me. I watched his stare as it moved, slithered really, down from my face, my parted-lips, my exposed chest, my leg and a half in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. He had never seen me like this before.

Finally, light years later, his eyes drifted back up my body and landed on my face. Before, he looked tired. Angry, maybe. All I could see now was sadness.

"You left me." He wasn't whispering, but still, I could barely hear him. He was emotional, clearly, but I had no idea where he was going with this. "You never called. You never wrote. You left me." I could feel my bottom lip drop open. This conversation was not about today. Not at all. "You were my best friend. Why didn't you call? I needed you, Peter. Why did you do that?" His voice was cracking. "How could you do that?"