Finley
It’s after ten when I finally get back to my apartment. I half expect to find the boys sitting on the couch, still watching TV, but the living room is vacant. The kitchen is littered with sections of a puzzle I’ve never put together before and evidence of something having been cooked…well, prepared, anyway, based on the crumbs on the countertop and some dishes in the sink.
The door to my bedroom is half-opened, the light still on. The boys are sound asleep on my bed—Connor curled in a ball and Braden spread out like a starfish. Eddie is also asleep, leaned against the headboard, his neck turned in an uncomfortable position, a copy of People magazine spread across his lap. I still can’t figure out how I started this day having hardly talked to or seen Eddie in two weeks and now he’s here, sleeping in my apartment. With my little brothers. But then again, I guess that’s sort of been our thing all along. Barely more than strangers, and then suddenly, we’re in each other’s personal space, diving in swimming pools with family members.
Except I haven’t really been in Eddie’s space at all. He’s only been in mine.
He stirs, his head flopping from one side to the other, and then mumbles something under his breath. I freeze in my spot, listening. “No, it’s fine… I’m fine… I didn’t take too much.”
I move closer, debating waking him up. Sweat trickles from his forehead down the side of his face. His breathing shifts to a more uneven rhythm. In his sleep, he lifts a hand to his shirt collar, tugging at it. “I can’t…I just…I don’t know. I don’t know.”
I glance from Connor to Braden—they’re still out cold—then back to Eddie. He’s shaking his head, protesting something. Suddenly, without warning, he jolts upright, tilting the bed. I dive forward, placing a hand on Connor’s side, making sure the movement doesn’t knock him off the bed. Eddie slides to the end of the bed, and I immediately shift Connor into a safer spot near the middle.
At the end of the bed, with his feet now resting on the carpet, maybe preparing to stand, Eddie appears to be gasping for air. I kneel in front of him, trying to figure out if he’s awake or asleep. “We shouldn’t have—we can’t… I can’t…” he mumbles.
I grip both his shoulders and give them a gentle shake. “Eddie…hey…you’re okay.”
He scrubs a hand over his face and then looks at me. I wait, watching him slowly come back to life and figure out where he is. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then they’re wide open again. He glances over one shoulder, checking out the bed, and then pats Connor’s ankle. His breathing is still ragged, like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. I shake him again, getting him to face me. “Relax, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” He nods, looking half-confused, half-embarrassed. “Sorry. I should go.”
I keep studying him—I’m still not a hundred percent sure he’s awake—while he attempts to stand, loses his balances, and grips the dresser. He pats along the wall all the way to the door and heads out into the hallway. I grab the blanket from the end of the bed, toss it over the boys, then flip the lights off before following Eddie.
He stops again on the way to the front door, when he reaches the couch. Spots appear on the back of his T-shirt from sweat. I jump in front of him, holding a hand to his chest. “Maybe you should sit for a few minutes?”
Eddie shakes his head but sinks down on the couch anyway. His face drops into his hands like it’s too heavy to hold up. “It’s so weird… I feel like—like I’m—”
“Sick?” I suggest. I perch myself on the edge of the coffee table, not wanting to give him room to exit.
“Strung out. High.” Eddie lifts his head and looks at me. “I feel like I’m high.”
“Maybe you have a fever.” I rest a hand to his forehead. It’s cold and clammy but not warm.
“Feel this.” Eddie grabs my hand and places it over his heart. It’s racing. He pulls in another ragged breath. “It’s like I can’t catch my breath.”
He’s sounding more coherent now, and already, some color is returning to his cheeks. I don’t know how to reason with him except to do just that, reason. “You didn’t take anything to make you high, right?” He shakes his head—thank God—and I lean in to get a good look at his eyes. “You’re not strung out or whatever. Try to breathe more slowly.”
I leave my hand over his heart, waiting for the rhythm to slow.