In the small box room, I make a beeline for the chest of drawers, pull out any old pair of Jess’s trousers and throw them at Devon. ‘There you go, D,’ I say in a sprightly manner, trying to ignore the fuzz in my brain and the tingle down my spine when Devon hesitantly brushes past me in the confined space. Is it just me or is it warm in here?
Before I can leave to give Devon some privacy, he stops in front of me. I’m not used to his towering over me. At sixteen he was maybe a couple inches taller than me; now he’s like three heads taller.
‘What was that all about?’ I say, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me. I really want my bed right now.
‘What was what all about, Scar?’ he asks clutching the trousers in his hands, tilting his head to try and engage me eye to eye. ‘I wasn’t even going to mention you wanting to be an illustrator – you can trust me you know.’ He sits down on the bed, his knees touching my thighs when he does so – the tiny room not quite accommodating his size. I stand in front of him feeling a little trapped in between his legs.
‘I’m sorry, I just couldn’t risk it. You say that to Hope and it will upset her. She’ll blame herself like she’s the one holding me back and she’ll worry that I’m not happy.’ I plead my case for my dramatic actions, able to look into Devon’s eyes better now that he is sitting. They match mine a little in the glazed department and I know he’s had one too many beers too. It’s time to call it a night. I hope he will be able to remember his way back to The Sunflower Inn, because I really don’t want to have to be his escort. I want my bed; this night is making my head spin in more ways than one.
‘Just try to understand that when you’re long gone, I’m still going to be here and I’d like to keep my friends and know they are happy, if that’s OK with you?’ I add. Jeez what do I sound like? I sound like Devon, that’s what. Since he got here, my emotions and feelings are running amok. I need to get them in check. I ignore Devon’s therapist-style gaze and silence that has me wanting to fill the gaps with more of my own words and tell him everything; even after ten years I’m struggling to hide things from him.
‘You’re angry with me again,’ he notes. It takes me a minute to register his words, having spaced out staring at him. He takes one hand from the tight grip he has on his borrowed trousers and it hovers by my wrists, like he wants to comfort me but doesn’t know how. When we were kids and I was poorly, like the time I fractured both my wrists, he would simply rest his hands on mine or lie next to me, so I didn’t have to be scared on my own. Now though, he’s not touching me, and instead of comfort I feel a static in the air, like I’m about to get an electric shock. It’s enough to cause me to step backwards, catch my heel on the dresser and snap me out of my thoughts.
‘I’m not angry, just thinking. We need to get to bed,’ I say, hastily changing the subject, whilst bending down and rubbing my ankle. There’s no more opening up and letting him in. He will be gone in a week. I need to stay strong.
I hear his mock dramatic gasp and laugh through gritted teeth with the pain in my ankle – it’s not going away no matter how gently I rub it. I don’t get to put Devon at ease and explain that I did not mean that we need to get to bed together but our own separate beds, because he jumps up off the aforementioned bed and knees me in the face as he does so. I automatically straighten up to grab my nose as Devon bends down frantically to check on me and I nut him in the chin.
A range of curse words fly out of my mouth while Devon groans in pain. My vision is blurred with the water that streaks down my face from the sting in my nose. Devon has one hand on his chin, yet his other hand has somehow made its way on to my cheek like he’s still trying to protect me or look after me in some way, even though the damage has already been done. Strangely enough, this time his touch works; his hand on my cheek begins to settle my heart rate and ease the throbbing in my face. We lock eyes and I swallow down hard. Devon’s lips are parted and there remains a faint look of shock on his face. I can see that his eyes are streaming too.
Suddenly there’s a knock on the open door. Two figures are hovering, a mix of amusement and curiosity etched on their faces.
‘We didn’t want to disturb you or anything, just in case, you know, you needed some privacy and whatnot, but if you’re OK, then we’ll leave you…’ Jess trails off, waving his hands and shrugging apologetically like he’s interrupted something. He then tugs Hope by the elbow, trying to guide her back to the stairs, but she’s too stubborn to move, too enthralled with gawping at the scene of Devon still holding my cheek.
When Jess finally gets her to move, I hear her chuckle and mumble, ‘Who knew superheroes liked it rough.’ There’s no doubt that Devon heard this too as he snaps, albeit gently, his hand away from my cheek and starts fumbling to find his spare trousers to create distance between us. I nervously fiddle with my hands, stepping from foot to foot.
‘I’ll, erm, I’ll be downstairs. I’ll let you change,’ I stutter and jog the short distance to the door.
‘Yeah, erm yes. Scar?’ Devon stutters and I pause at the door.
‘Do you always wear clothes like that to work?’ he asks, his tone serious but softer and clear now as he nods at my blue blouse and grey skirt.
I lean against the frame and bang my head against it. ‘Yes, D.’ I groan, wishing he would stop analysing my entire life. ‘Lots of people have “work clothes”,’ I add using air quotes. While that was true, I’m sure Hope would be more than fine if I wore my more favourable denim dungarees or jumpsuits. She allows everyone in the office to wear what they feel good and comfortable in. I guess by now she thinks my outfits are of my choosing for the office. I groan again, not liking Devon’s ability to somehow know me when it feels like I don’t know myself anymore.
‘OK, well I liked what you were wearing at the pub the other night. It was very you, but that looks nice too.’ His tone becomes a tad husky, he coughs to clear his throat at the end.
‘Thanks,’ is all I manage, my own voice feeling a touch restricted at the idea of D noticing my outfit. My mind flits to what I had been wearing underneath my olive dress that night and suddenly I wonder if he would like that too, which makes my cheeks heat. I quickly turn away.
I take my time walking down the stairs so I don’t make a scene and so my cheeks can cool down. I did not need to concern myself with what kind of women’s underwear rose Devon’s hammer. Did I just use the term “Devon’s hammer”? How much wine had I had tonight? OK, stop it, I urgently tell my brain. The more carefree I act, the quicker this whole incident will be forgotten. I will not speak of it and therefore it shall not become a big deal.
When I get to the doorway of the kitchen, both Jess and Hope are leaning against the counter, mumbling to each other in a hushed whisper – I can’t make out what they are saying – the sink is overflowing with bubbles and plates piled high.
‘Everything OK?’ Hope asks merrily when she spots me – a beaming smile on her face, a dish cloth in her hands. Jess is eating another bowl of ice-cream.
I rest my hand against the arc of the doorframe. ‘Of course, yeah, everything’s fine. Do you need help with the dishes?’ I ask, silently praying that Hope and Jess will have the clean-up covered so I can get home to bed and sleep this night off, though I’d usually clean up with Hope having done all the cooking. Footsteps creek on the stairs to the left of me and Devon appears, creating a shadow next to me.