Low Tide Lovers (Peter x Reader)

𝐨𝐧𝐞

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𝐏eter and I lay on the floor, staring at the television. Not long ago, when he was finally comfortable telling, he told me what Alan and his friends did. He made me swear to keep it a secret. Of course, I did. There was no one to tell anyway.

The two of us looked up when the door swung open. The doorknob hit the wall, and another few flecks of paint fell to the floor. There was a crack in the wall where the door had been opened like this so many times.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Alan asked, eyeing me.

"We're just watching TV," Peter said. I sat up, watching the group of boys walk through the door. One of them was whimpering in pain. Nate was helping him walk. Whatever they had done out there, it seemed as if Smitty had broken his ankle. Peter and I glanced at one another as they all stumbled to the bedroom.

Alan and Nate bickered about something behind the closed door. Peter stood up and peeked through the small crack where it remained open but was noticed. Someone slammed it. Quite loudly, I might add. I jumped.

"It's okay," he mumbled, sitting back on the floor beside me. I flipped the remote 

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I stepped through the door and into the quiet home. Milo rubbed against my leg, fur tickling my calf. I smiled to myself as I shut the door, locking both the knob and the deadbolt. Latchkey child routine.

Dust swirled around the living room and kitchen. In the refrigerator was just ham and cheese. There were other things, sure, but I didn't feel like cooking. While I sliced the loaf of bread, I caught a glimpse of Milo's food bowl. Empty. How many times did I have to tell my mom to feed the cat?

I took my seat at the dining table, listening to the faint crunching of Milo eating. The light above the sink flickered, distracting me. We needed new lightbulbs. Too bad I could never get Mom to go shopping.

My bedroom was just up the stairs and to the left. It was (and always had been) my favorite place. Dusty bookshelf, hand-built window seat, white ruffled comforter. I had a few posters on my walls, of various bands I liked. Dad's old sailors' hat hung on one of the posts on my bedframe. And of course, a hand-painted picture frame on my nightstand. This is my most favorite photo of Peter and I. I forget who we passed the camera to, but as soon as the photo started to roll out, I knew it would be perfect.

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I heard keys rattling against the door. It swung open, and a purse was dropped onto the phone desk. I groaned, rolling over to face my clock. 2:13 in the morning. I groggily rubbed my eyes and sat up in bed.

"Mom?" I ask, making my way down the creaky stairs. She looks at me, her messy hair falling over her shoulders. She looked a bit disheveled. I took a step closer to her, to take her keys and hang them on the hook so they wouldn't be misplaced, and caught a faint whiff of booze.

"Hi, honey. Late night," she said. Right. Since Dad had gone, she had a lot of "late nights." Nearly every night, in fact. While I did miss my mother, I couldn't be mad. This is how she coped.

"I'm going back to bed," I mumbled, picking up Milo, who had followed me down here. Before trudging back up, I watched her from around the corner. She picked up the water pitcher and poured herself a glass. She began to turn. I made my way back to my room.

I flipped on my portable radio. Milo pawed around on my bed before plopping down on one of the pillows. I crawled back in bed, but no longer felt tired. Another sleepless night, Great; it was all I ever wanted.

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I grumbled, pulling the covers over my face. The bright orange of morning shone right through my white curtains. The cat meowed. Not a wink of sleep. My radio had turned off during the night. Maybe the batteries died. I'd have to check.

Mom would be going to work in a few hours. Back to the pawn shop. And, just as it always was, I would be here, tending to my own things. Unless, of course, Peter invited me to hang out. I would gladly accept the invitation.

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