This story is one of the February Writing Challenge entries chosen to be a featured story.
.
I shift closer towards him— the leather of the couch is cold against my bare legs. Across from us, on the small box TV, The Best Of Me, is midway through, and a young Dawson serves Amanda breakfast on the porch.
His feet rest on the coffee table that sits between us and the television. Beside his socked feet is a finished bag of Doritos, and a crumpled paper bag from the liquor store lays next to it. Beside the two empty bags are two cans of beer with a label I don’t recognize. He grips a third in his hand but stretches to place it on the table in front of us. I reach for it; it’s empty. He shoves his hand in his pocket, and I rest my head on the now-empty-handed shoulder. In my peripheral, a faint glow catches my attention. I glance over and see his phone in his left hand with the chat screen opened, but he clicks the home button before I can read the name written across the top.
“You watching?” I ask.
He grunts something that resembles a ‘yes’ and slides his phone into his pocket.
“Was that work?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Boss wants me to stay late tomorrow night.”
This is the third time this week. I nod. He shifts in his seat, so I move my head off his shoulder, but I think he interprets my pulling away as a sign of dissonance because he adds,
“Babe its just a few more hours this week.” His eyes remain straight ahead.
I nod again. “Okay.”
“C’mon, what’s that for then?” He turns his head towards me.
“What’s what for?” I frown.
He reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. “That,” he presses.
“Peter I—“ I start.
“—You know what?” he interrupts. His voice is dialed back. “Forget it.”
“Peter—“ I protest.
“—No, just forget I ever brought it up.” He waves his hand in the way that he does when he can’t prove a point.
He turns back toward the television and leans into the sofa. In the blueish light of the box television, I can see the rifts across his forehead from eyebrows raised too often. The creases running from the corners of each eye towards his ears from laughing at my bad jokes have grown faint and unused. He doesn’t smile— he never smiles anymore. His jaw, unshaven, clenches and then relaxes itself. His lips open to speak but don’t; they just twitch at the corners. He rarely says anything these days. His bottom lip curls inwards as he bites back his words like he does when he’s trying to keep calm.
I prop myself up onto my knees, take his face in my hands, and press my lips to his. The bottom lip feels like it’s been chewed raw and tastes of cheap liquor— five o’clock shadow prickles my face. His lips are on mine, but it’s like his heart is far away. I pull away to see if I can catch a glimpse of him, and he looks straight at me. His eyes— they look at me, but they don’t see me. I scan his face for even a fleeting image of the boy I fell in love with, but he isn’t there.