Don't Look Down

twelve: don't make me regret it

By midnight, Seth still hasn't returned from work. I'm getting nervous. Heath Briggs' novel can't distract me from the gnawing sensation in my stomach that Seth isn't coming back. When I fear an ulcer is starting, I save the manuscript on my laptop and clean. The act has never failed me in the past, but after forty minutes of wiping already spotless surfaces, I'm still anxious. So I make comfort food. If only I had Seth here to make me something scrumptious instead of the box of Mac 'N Cheese I pull from the cabinet.

The door creaks open when I'm rinsing the macaroni in the sink. Seth's steps are loud enough for me to hear him over the gushing water. I flip the handle down, turn to face him, and to my surprise, there's an apologetic smile tugging his mouth. It's indication enough this won't be another heated match and instead a friendly conversation. I'm relieved.

He says nothing as he takes off his boots and sets them beside the door. And when he finally steps over to take a seat in the far island stool, I say, "Hi."

"Hey."

I tug on my bottom lip with my teeth and consider the best way to start this shameful apology he deserves, when he takes the lead.

"So, we had our first roomie fight. Ready to toss me out on the streets yet?"

His tone is light. I release the breath I'd trapped in my lungs.

"Your duffel's still in your room, isn't it?"

He nods. "That it is."

"Then I guess we'll keep it there. Too much work to move it out."

His shoulders sag, the tension from them deflating. He glances at the empty macaroni box resting on the island. "You're just keeping me around for the cooking, aren't you?"

"Nah." I pull the colander of macaroni from the sink and pour it into the pot. "I'm actually a culinary master when it comes to the microwave."

He doesn't laugh at my own mockery, which causes me to glance up. His hands are clasped together on the island, his thumbs fumble together. He's using a great deal of concentration on those thumbs when he sighs. "The things you want to know about me are tricky."

At his mention of earlier, I say, "I'm sorry." His gaze lifts to mine. "I shouldn't have insinuated the things I did. As you can tell, I get a little nutty after a few drinks."

"Yep. Still have a mark from that shoe you chucked at me." The corner of his mouth lifts. Mine does the same. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. I get a little touchy after a few shots to my ego." I nod, breaking away to grab the butter and milk from the fridge, when he adds, "I've never killed anyone. So you can sleep easy tonight."

I never thought he did, but his confirmation is a relief. My roomie may be a criminal who's been to jail for a crime I'm still blind to, but at least I don't have to fear my life.