We’ve spent time together since I came back, but it hasn’t been spent going over the details—we’ve been too overwhelmed by the weight of the big things.
I know Torrin, but I don’t know the daily version of him. The seemingly inconsequential details that, when stacked together, are just as significant as the big stuff. Who he is on the surface is just as important as who he is beneath it all.
So I don’t know what he likes for breakfast, but I do know that whatever it is, I probably don’t have it. That isn’t going to stop me from trying to give him what he wants though.
I think about it for another minute. What do my parents have in the morning? What do I remember my parents’ friends having?
I feel a smile when I remember—coffee. It’s an adult staple, right? After throwing open a few cupboards, I find them mostly empty. I throw open the rest, even the ones meant for silverware and dish towels, and don’t see anything that looks like coffee. Not that I could have done anything with it since, I realize, I don’t have a coffeepot. Not that I would know what to do if I had one because—though I probably could have figured it out with a little trial and error—I’ve never made coffee in my whole life.
A pot of coffee. I never would have thought it would feel like some test I need to take to graduate into adulthood.
I grumble and head back toward my room. Maybe if I just stare at him long enough, I can figure it out. Is he still a sugar-for-every-meal guy? Or has he morphed into one of those Seattleites who only eats food that looks like it was grown for unicorns?
I’ve barely been standing there for two seconds when a sleepy smile stretches over his face. “I missed you.” His eyes are closed, and he’s still lying in bed like he’s holding me.
I smile too. Torrin’s bare upper half is a stark contrast to the soft pillow and smooth sheets tangled around his legs. “I was gone for five minutes.”
“Yeah, and you were gone for ten years.” His eyes open. “I’ve done my time when it comes to missing you.”
It’s impossible not to shift when he looks at me like this. When I do, I try to remember why I’m standing here watching him. “Yeah, so, I think someone’s usually supposed to make coffee in the morning, but I don’t have coffee because I’m still a child who thinks it tastes like ass.” I pluck at the hem of my shirt as I look at him. In my bed. Half naked and staring at me the way every person wants to be looked at by another person at least once in their lifetime. It’s like a dream, but it doesn’t quite feel like one, because in my dreams, I feel more intact than crumbling. “But I think I’ve got milk and cereal, so how about a bowl of Cheerios to wake you up?”
Torrin flashes me a thumbs-up. “Cheerios sound awesome.”
“Coming right up.”
I smile as I wander back down the hall. Cheerios. I don’t know if this is what he has some, most, or all mornings, but at least for this morning, it’s what he wants. It’s awesome. That’s a start.
I’m just reaching for the yellow box on top of the fridge when I hear something. It isn’t my neighbors moving around upstairs or someone dropping off their recycling. It’s a familiar sound—though not in this context.
I move toward the window, clutching the unopened box of cereal to my chest. I don’t make it far before it falls out of my arms and hits the floor. I shouldn’t have opened the curtains. I should have kept these ones closed.
Outside past the gate, I see what’s behind the familiar noise—it’s the media. I feel like they’re right outside my window even though they’re stationed a little ways back thanks to the police barrier going into place.
They found me. How did they find me? I’ve barely been a resident for twenty-four hours, and already they’re here, ready with their scalpels and bone saws to dissect me, piece by bloody piece.
I won’t be able to leave my apartment without passing them. I won’t be able to do anything outside of this one-thousand-square-foot space without them seeing it or following me or documenting it.
My heart drops all the way into its grave six feet under. Torrin.
Do they know he’s here? They can’t. But they will. Soon. If I don’t figure out something.
I’m thinking of ways to get him out of here, avenues for him to escape through as I stumble down the hall.
He knows something’s wrong before I face him. His expression goes from serene to troubled in half a blink of my eyes. “What is it?”
I freeze-frame this moment and archive it at the front of my memory. This moment can’t last, but the memory of it can. “They’re here.”
He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t ask how many. He doesn’t ask where. His expression creases as he throws off the sheets and jumps out of my bed. “Good. I’ve got a confession to make.”
The way he says it, the way he powers past me . . . I know. What’s he about to do and what he’s going to say.
“Torrin, don’t.” I jog after him, panic digging its claws into my throat.
“They want a story? I’ll give them a story.”
The muscles of his back are tense, and as I follow him, I realize there are so many more parts of him I haven’t seen. So many lines and grooves and dips I want to touch and explore. I could spend one full night acquainting myself with each of them.
That will have to wait though because what I want and what’s best for him are two opposite things.