He yawns, stretching his arms above his head, his eyes reddened with exhaustion. “Why?”
I lift my hand with the phone in it. “Delilah’s mom is looking for her and wants to know the address.”
He noticeably tenses. “Well, the place burned down, so…” He shrugs, rubbing his eyes. “Does it really even matter what the address is when the place isn’t even there anymore?”
I nod, watching him closely. “Yeah, it does, so what’s the address?”
He rolls his bloodshot eyes, like I’m being ridiculous. “Five five five Mapletonville Drive,” he mumbles, then rolls over so he’s facing the wall and his back is turned toward me. “I’m going back to sleep now. I feel like shit.”
I remember when he first told me the place had burned down, how it seemed like he’d left out some of the details of what happened. Now I’m really starting to question if there’s more to it. I think when he’s feeling better I’ll have to press him to tell me, but for now I let him rest because he looks terrible.
I walk out of his room and close the door behind me. I can’t help but speculate about if something bad did happen to Delilah when the apartment burned down. If maybe Dylan did something to her. But what would that say about me, though? Since I just left her in that place, knowing how he treated her?
I can’t stop thinking about it as I walk back into the kitchen, telling Delilah’s mother the address Tristan gave me.
“Thanks,” she says when I finish.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, returning to putting the groceries away. “Can you let me know what happens? When you find her?”
“Sure.” She doesn’t sound like she’s going to, though, and I hang up feeling irritated.
The irritation only builds as I make Tristan some soup, my thoughts stuck on Delilah and where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s okay. I should have pressed her more when I was down there. Should have told someone about how Dylan was treating her.
Dammit, is there ever going to be a time in my life when I don’t regret the decisions of my past? I’m starting to think no and that regret is just a part of life and I can’t get hung up on it. Still, by the time I take Tristan his soup, my old counting habit is surfacing with my stress and all I want to do is count all the noodles in Tristan’s soup and all the specks of brown in the tan carpet.
When I enter his room, Tristan is lying on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling with his arms tucked under his head, and the lamp on. “Eat this,” I tell him as I make my way over to the bed, balancing the steaming bowl in my hand.
He turns his head toward me and frowns at the bowl. “I’m too tired to eat,” he gripes. “And I’m not even hungry.”
“God, you’re like a little kid.” I set the soup down on the nightstand beside his bed. He shoots me a dirty look and I return it. “And if the soup’s not gone by the time I come back, you’re going to be in big trouble.” I wave my finger at him sternly.
That gets him to laugh a little bit. “Fine.” He sits up, reaches for the bowl, and stares at the soup in it.
“It’s good. I promise.”
“I’m sure it is.” He picks up the spoon and starts absent-mindedly stirring the soup. “So why’s Delilah’s mom suddenly looking for her?”
“Who knows?” I shrug. “From my understanding, she’s always been a shitty mom to Delilah.”
“Yeah, I got that, too, but then again, aren’t a lot of mothers?” He glares at his soup like it’s the enemy and pokes one of the noodles with the spoon.
“I like my mom,” I state, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and crossing my legs. “She’s always been good to me.”
“You’re one of the lucky ones, then.” He peers up from his soup, his blue eyes appearing gray in the low lighting of the room. “Do I really have to eat this?”
I nod sternly. “Yeah. All of it, too.”
He sticks out his tongue, but takes a bite anyway. I leave him to it and spend the next few hours cleaning, because it keeps my thoughts focused on eliminating mildew in the shower and crumbs on the carpet, and I even get a few loads of laundry done. I’m folding up the clothes in my bedroom, making stacks on the bed, when my phone starts ringing again. After the call I got from Delilah’s mom, I’m hesitant to answer it, since I’m not sure I want to deal with any more drama for the night.
But it’s Quinton and that’s definitely a call I don’t want to miss. “Hey,” I say, positioning the phone between my cheek and my shoulder so I can continue to fold the clothes and put them into orderly piles on my bed. “I’m glad you called.”
“I said I would.” He sounds okay, which gives me a strange sense of peace inside. “I would never stand you up on one of our phone dates.”
“Yeah, but we texted so long on the phone, I thought you’d be sick of me by now.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be sick of you,” he says. “In fact, I think we made it pretty clear how not sick of you I was. How I-want-to-touch-you-so-badly-I-can’t-stand-it not sick of you I am.” There’s an extended pause. “Jesus, that sounded cheesy, didn’t it?” he says, sounding disappointed in himself.
“A little.” I smile, but it’s almost agonizing as I think about Delilah and where she is. “But I liked it. It makes me feel like I’m getting to know the real you.”
He chuckles. “You know what? I can kind of remember being cheesy at one point in my life.”
His happiness makes my sadness vanish. “I’m so glad you called tonight.” I put a pair of boxer shorts on top of the pajama stack on my bed.
“Why? Is something wrong?” he asks worriedly. “You seemed okay earlier when we were texting, but you sound a little sad now.”
I pause with the folding, regretting that I even brought it up. The last thing he needs is to hear any of my problems when he’s got so much on his plate. “No, I’m fine. Nothing major’s going on. Just school stuff.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I feel bad for lying to him, but at the same time I know it’s the best thing. “Let’s talk about something happy.”
“I’m probably the wrong person for that,” he says with honesty, his mood deflating. “You might want to try Tristan or Lea.”