Thursday Evening

A/N~ JanNo sucked out my writer-y soul. And then some. Anyway, sorry this is so freakin' late.

Blame Fight Club, too. That book makes me feel inadequate. By a lot.

An apology is owed to all my reviewers/people who like the story. Most especially to Dreamer, though, who has just been so diligent in reviewing. Makes you want to write, you know?

I coulnd't even get away from this if I wanted to. Andrew's the most realistic character I've ever written. And he grows way, way more than the main character in my novel. (Odd, no?)

Reviews are appreciated, as always, to make me an even better writer.

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I knew that I messed up. I tried to call to tell him when and where I would be home, but the battery was dead. I cursed at myself.

I was too close to being home to stop and call. There’d be no point.

When I entered, I knew I fucked up. The lights were off, but the TV was on. I could see it flickering, illuminating his face. He looked so gaunt, I was almost worried.

He was on the couch, several beer cans in front of him. He never drank. Never. He’d be upset. How upset? I didn’t know.

This could be the first test. The first fight. How we, no-I, handle this, this determines the rest of our lives.

I did not want to tell him. Not about his sister. I had made my decision that she was bad. She was horrible. She’d be a trigger.

“I’m sorry.” I start off, hoping that it will work.

He looks, no glares, at me. He’s still pissed. He hisses at me the question I don’t want to answer. But I know what he’s thinking. And I know that I’ll lose him if I don’t tell him.

Fuck.

“I was with your sister.” His face falters, and he opens his mouth, looking strangely angry.

“You’re fucking my sister?” Disbelief. Shock. Pain.

If this had been any other situation, I would have rolled my eyes. I would have been annoyed. Instead, I tell him that I found her for him. And that I wouldn’t want her, as she was an ‘icky girl’. I tell him that I found her so that he could reconnect with her.

He staggers forward, knocking over some cans, and he’s in my arms before I even thought about opening them. He mutters something, but it’s slurred, and it is too soft for me to understand. But I know its meaning.

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It hit me hard. The beer. I was dizzy instantly, it seemed. It was amazing how quickly it left me not caring. That’s why I hated the substance. Soon, I was thinking things like, “he’d show up when he’d show up.”

I was worried that when he got home, he’d suggest trying new things. But now, I would be open to it. If I could keep him, it would be worth it. And then, I would hate myself for thinking such a thing.

I’d become one of them. The whores. The ones who wanted a savior. The ones who wanted to be taken out of that life. I was too desperate. Too desperate to keep him.

When he got home, I was smashed. Too smashed and too angry to get up.

He starts off saying that he’s sorry. And I scoff. I glare. I hope to make him feel some of the pain I felt today. But I glance at his face while he’s clearing the cans off of the table to sit and face me. He looks serious.

He starts talking again, saying that he knows it looks bad, but it was innocent. And I glare. But he stops with that, and then, starts talking again.

“I was with your sister.” It was like a confession. Something he didn’t mean to say.

My stomach is gone. My heart’s in my throat, and I can imagine what he’s going to say. That he’s in love with her. That I’m nothing compared to her.

There’s too much disbelief. This can’t be real. But I utter my fear.

“You’re fucking my sister?” This question kills me, and he probably rolls his eyes and sighs in annoyance. He tells me that he found her for me. Because he knew what I had done for her.

I feel like a jackass. All I would have gotten him would be a new phone.

I collapse forward, knocking over some cans, falling onto him. He catches me, and I try to whisper thanks. But it’s slurred, and my conscious leaves me.