He stares at the doorway with his brows drawn together like he’s working out a problem with no obvious solution. When he steps inside finally, the dark shifts, feeling more benign than threatening now that he’s here. My whole body relaxes.
“Where did you hear the sounds?”
I point down the hall. “In my bedroom. At first I heard it right outside my window, but then I heard things from above too.”
After closing the door and locking it back up, I turn around to find him stationed in front of me, his back facing me, still checking the apartment like he’s ready for anything.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Torrin moves down the hall and rounds into my room.
I stay by the door, listening, waiting. I don’t hear the noises anymore, and I wonder if I did hear them again, would I crawl into a closet like I had or barely notice them now that he’s here? From my room, I hear the shades moving and the closet doors whining. I hear some rustling and sliding, then I hear nothing.
“Torrin?”
His figure floats out of my room. As he comes down the hall, he stops to flip on a light. “Why’s it so dark in here?”
“I was going to bed. I thought I was supposed to turn off all the lights.”
He flips on a lamp just inside the living room. “You’re not supposed to do anything unless you want to. For someone who doesn’t seem like a big fan of the dark, I wouldn’t expect her apartment to be pitch-black on her first night on her own.” Torrin leans into the kitchen to flip on the lights in there too and stops when he notices me lingering by the door.
“You’re wearing my old soccer shirt.” His eyes drop to the worn shirt I threw on to sleep in.
I glance down and stretch it out at the sides. “Well, you scored the winning goal at the state championship that year. Someone ought to wear it proudly.” Then I cross my arms, feeling like this shirt is somehow an extension of my soul and I’m bearing it for him to see.
“Proudly as in wearing it to bed? Where people snore and drool and wake up with morning breath?”
I lift a brow and feel relieved he’s acting normal, giving me a hard time and all. “Exactly.”
He looks away for a second, but his eyes find their way back to me. “I checked around your room and outside your window. There are some big recycle bins behind your room, so someone could have been dumping their bottles or something and made that noise. You’ve also got people living above you, and with the way apartments are built, a person could be tiptoeing up there and it would sound like a hippo had moved in.” Torrin points at the ceiling. “I can’t find anything else, but I can hang around for a while. You know, just in case you hear it again. So you know for sure.”
Recycle bins. Upstairs neighbors. Everyday noises of apartment life that had practically put me in some kind of PTSD state. I feel embarrassed and silly and immature and a bunch of other things.
“Thanks for checking.” I shift. “And sorry. I’ll try not to wake you up in the middle of the night the next time my neighbor flushes the toilet.”
Torrin smiles. It’s a different one than I’m used to. It looks more forced than natural. “It’s okay. And I wasn’t asleep anyway. This was actually a welcome distraction.”
“A distraction from what?”
He shrugs. “My thoughts.”
I don’t know what to do with him here—inside my own place. Do I invite him in for something to drink? Would we have that in the kitchen? The living room? Not that I can move anyway because his eyes are pinning me to the door.
“I heard about them suspending you.” I swallow. I never made that call my dad recommended. I didn’t because I knew if I did, I couldn’t just say I was sorry like I’m going to try to now. “You don’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”
“They didn’t do that. I did that to myself. I requested the suspension.” He wanders into the living room, and I follow him. He turns on another lamp.
“Why?”
His back stays to me when he stops. “I needed time to think . . . thus, the thoughts keeping me awake tonight.”
My living room, like the rest of the house, contains a mishmash of furniture. An old sofa from Sam’s place. An overstuffed chair and coffee table from my parents’ basement. A couple of side tables from a yard sale and a houseplant from the nursery in town. It has no theme or cohesion at all, but I like it. Nothing here belongs together, so I guess there’s one characteristic it all shares.
Torrin’s taking in the room. I think he likes it too.
“Sorry I interrupted them—your thoughts. Do you want to, you know, talk?” I curl my leg beneath me as I sit on the couch.
Torrin glances over his shoulder. “Do you?”
The way he asks, I know he’s not thinking about his summer plans or what day of the week’s his favorite. “Should I?”
“I don’t know.” He turns around to face me, and in the light, I can see how tired he looks. I was right though, it’s not just tired—it’s exhaustion. Like someone’s wrung him dry and is still holding on. “You’ve definitely been the highlight of my thoughts—a little firsthand knowledge would be helpful.”
“I don’t know, Torrin . . .” I say, summing up every answer to every unanswered question that hangs between us.
“Tell you what—you help me with that firsthand knowledge thing, and I’ll help you unpack.” He tips his chin at the stack of boxes stuffed in the corner.