“Not a problem,” I call after and I mean it.
Despite his piercing and gutter-punk-light collection of clothing, Ploy wears ‘good guy’ like a stain he can’t scrub out. I’d watched him for days before I’d approached him for the first time—long enough to see what was underneath the dirt, ear gauges and eyebrow piercing. It’d taken me a week to build slowly from a casual ‘Hey’ to actual conversations when I purposely walked past him each day. It’d been another month before we were comfortable enough with each other that an offer to grab a shower and crash on my couch didn’t come off as an invitation to my nether regions. It’s a line I’ve never had to draw, though, because he’s never tried to cross it.
I wonder how many other girls have offered him a place to sleep instead of sending the police in his direction. I wonder when he’ll start to question why I did.
I wait until I hear the shower start before I stow the messenger bag of supplies under my bed and change into pajamas. Now that the adrenaline of finding Ploy on my doorstep has faded, my eyes won’t stay open. I climb under the bed sheet and click my light off, too tired even to close, let alone lock, my bedroom door.
I drift somewhere between sleeping and awake, my body buoyant. Only when the shower shuts off and I hear the squeak of the couch springs will I finally give in to uninterrupted dreams. The glow from the living room unnerves me, but Ploy will need to see to get to the couch. When I’m here alone, I keep the lights off as much as possible. The dark gives me an advantage. Anyone breaking into my apartment won’t be able to pinpoint where I am in the blackness, won’t know the floor plan.
Despite the lights, I sleep better when he’s here. In a fight, I can take care of myself—if I know it’s coming. A warning scream will be enough to alert me. Give me time to escape. Anyone after me, after my blood, will have to kill the boy on my couch first.
Ploy, whether he knows it or not, trades a shower and a couch for a night served as a hundred and seventy pound faux-hawked alarm system.
Hate me all you want, but I’m still alive.
Ploy
Hot water streams over me. I lift my face and open my mouth to the spray, wait until it overflows to run down my neck. I gargle hard and spit toward the drain. It doesn’t help. I know I’m only imagining it, but I can taste the tang of blood.
Giving up, I go for the shampoo, squeeze a palmful though I don’t need half as much. I scrub it through my hair, use the rest on my body. The scent of apples is overwhelming. Everything in here smells like Allie.
I toss an arm up against the tile and lean my forehead on it. I can’t think of her like that. Not with everything how it is now. In my old life, I would have asked her out already. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t know she’s pretty; she doesn’t have that stuck up air about her even around me, which is saying something.
I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about kissing her, just to see what she’d do, if she’d go with it or push me away. But it’s a chance I can’t take. Without her, I’m screwed, especially now that Brandon’s gone. If I’d decided to crash early, been there, he’d be alive.
I can’t think about what that means.
I rinse the soap from my hair and slide open the glass door of the shower. Bending down, I grab my dirty clothes and bring them in with me. The contents of the pockets and my knife are on the counter of the sink.
I toss the clothes toward the end of the tub and adjust the shower head to spray them. The water streaming off darkens to a washed out gray-brown. I work the jeans first, squirting shampoo onto the material and using the ledged corner of the tub as a makeshift washboard. By the time I finish up with the shirt, the water’s gone cold. I twist the knob.
The only sound is the percolating noise of the last water making it down the drain as I wring my clothes. I toss them over the shower door to dry and step onto the bathmat. They’ll be damp in the morning, but if everything plays out the way I need it to, it isn’t going to matter. For once, I can leave them. Have a place to set my things where I won’t worry about them getting nicked by someone with hands quicker than mine.
When I pick up the towel to dry off, I notice it’s damp. The image of her using it sometime earlier in the day jackknifes my brain. Jesus, why can’t she make the first move? If she kissed me, I could justify going along with it. Tell myself I was doing it to get in with her, get closer. And what’re you going to do when it all blows up in your face? I think furiously.
The girl is glue. If I touch her once, I’m not going to be able to stop.
I think about tucking that long blond hair behind her ear. I think about draping an arm over her shoulder when we end up on the couch watching one of those terrible comedies that I would sit through every night for the chance to hear her laughing. See a smile on her lips that isn’t tinged in sarcasm. The ones I put there never seem quite genuine. But I could...
Stop.
There are rules in place for a reason. Don’t get caught up in her. Don’t pretend it’s real. The hope that it could be only makes it hurt more. I need distance to get a clear head, but I can’t leave now. Not after what happened to Brand.
It’d been different with him than it is with Allie. Brandon and I had both known where we stood. We watch each other’s backs. Watched, I correct myself.
Even with what happened to him, I can’t bring myself to feel as guilty as I should. He hadn’t trusted me. If he had, he’d be alive right now.
Frustration twists through me, balls up inside until my fist explodes toward the fogged mirror. I pull the punch at the last second, but my knuckles strike hard enough to send pain shooting through the bones of my hand. I swipe through the fog on the glass, stare into the brown eyes blinking quickly back at me.
“You can do this,” I whisper to the reflection. I only ever meant to use her. I’ve gone through our hangouts a dozen times in my mind, searching for the moment I messed up. The moment I started to like her. “You don’t,” I argue.
I step into the sweatpants she keeps for me. They’re old, stretched out on her but a perfect fit for me. It’s weird how the simple act of putting them on relaxes my body, leaches the tension from my neck and shoulders in a way even the hot water couldn’t. They’re a stupid pair of sweatpants but they mean I get to sleep tonight without waking up to look over my shoulder every few minutes. That I’m safe.
My fingers grip the counter of the sink until they turn white.
“She’s just another girl,” I tell myself.
I’m so screwed.
Allie
The scent of coffee yanks me out of inky dreams. From the kitchen, I hear the last few gurgles of the machine and the loud beep as it finishes brewing. I stretch and roll my neck. The smile’s on my lips before my feet even hit the floor; I can’t remember the last time someone made me coffee in the morning. I wonder if it’s some sort of bribe, buttering me up for whatever he’d wanted to talk about last night. From the smell alone, I’d accept.
When I get to the kitchen, Ploy’s bent over the table, his back to me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice gravelly with sleep. I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Thanks for coffee.”