Rise (Excerpt)

Part 4

NICK

"Get up! I gotta be out the door in ten minutes!"

I force my eyes open, yawn, spend the next few seconds staring at the wall, trying to get my bearings, wondering when I actually fell asleep and if the sleep was any good, 'cause I don't exactly feel rested.

"I'm not kidding! I can't miss that bus!" My brother's footsteps pound through the apartment—from the bathroom to the kitchen to the living room—heavy with purpose. "Get up!"

"I'm up!" I yell. "Jesus." I swing my legs over the side of the top bunk and slide to the floor, careful not to scrape my head against the popcorn ceiling. I regret leaving the warm bed instantly, body shaking against the cold air.

The heat strips can't be working right.

"Five minutes!"

"Yeah, yeah. Five minutes. Asshole," I mutter, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I grab a clean pair of boxers and socks from the dresser and stumble to the closet.

The pink duffle bag is back on the top shelf.

I remove a t-shirt from its hanger, pick my jeans and hoodie from yesterday off the floor and head to the bathroom, then take the longest morning leak and the quickest shower ever.

Mike's stuff is already by the door. The sofa's put back together, dishes washed and dried—no evidence she was even here last night.

"When did Fallon leave?" I ask casually, tugging at the bottom of my hoodie.

"About an hour ago." He grabs a plastic cup from the cabinet and fills it with tap water. "She ran home to shower and get her stuff for school. You guys are on a two-hour delay."

Did she say anything? I want to ask.

Did she tell you I kissed her?

Is she as mad at me as I think she is?

I scour the kitchen counter, searching for keys among papers and bills and sales flyers. "Where are my keys?"

"I'm driving," Mike announces, dumping the remaining water down the sink and setting the cup aside. Something for someone else to wash later.

"What? No way!"

"Come on, man. Be grateful. Enjoy the ride. When did you get so freaking uptight?"

I shouldn't complain. It's not a big deal. The car technically belongs to both of us. It's just that Mike is a whole lot easier to tolerate when he's not lording his power over me.

He loads the trunk of Mom's old gray Honda, this car that's been part of our lives for as far back as I can remember. Faded plastic, torn seats, the occasional stick from a long-lost grape sucker popping out from between cushions. I blow warm air into my hands, try to ignore the cold while my brother locks the apartment, glances the perimeter to make sure no one is hanging around—nothing better to do than scout the place. Watch us come and go.

Old habits are hardest to break.

The roads are caked in patches of ice cracked like spiderwebs. But Fallon was right—everything shines this morning, frozen solid, sunlight bouncing off tree branches and telephone poles, long rows of icicles dripping from every roofline.

I should've at least told her goodnight.

Apologized.

And it's like Mike's heard me, knows I'm thinking about her when I shouldn't be, because then he asks: "So what's up with Ron?"