Page 22 of Miss Behaved
He stops in front of me, eyes trailing downward, and that’s when I realize I’m in nothing but a tank top and underwear.
“I—” Slapping my hands in a crisscross over my body to hide it, I stumble backward.
“Sorry.” Carson spins, but not before I catch his eyes widen.
The last thing he probably wants to see right now is my stubby bare legs. Especially when he’s dating someone as beautiful as Sarah. Tall, and not all torso. Blonde hair that holds perfect waves. Lips he’s probably spent hours kissing.
Throwing on a pair of shorts and a sweater, I try to bury my embarrassment.
“All good now,” I say after a deep breath.
He turns, skimming me with his eyes again, and when he pauses on my legs, I wish I’d gone for leggings. His stare skips from me to my twin-size bed and back again.
The first time Carson showed up at my window, we were twelve. He said his parents fought kinda loud sometimes, and he couldn’t sleep. Asked if I minded if he hung out for a few minutes until it quieted down.
I didn’t.
We sat at opposite ends of the bed, talking for hours. About nothing. About everything. Sharing a pack of gum, thumb wrestling. Keeping our minds busy. Back then, I believed it was that simple. That Carson’s house was just a little loud sometimes, and he needed a distraction. I was still naive enough to not see it.
After that first night, he started to show up more often. And I stopped asking why or questioning the dark look in his eyes.
Sometimes he would have a lot to say; sometimes he would just lie in my bed and listen to me like I was his personal white-noise machine. Sometimes we were both quiet.
About a year ago, he stopped showing up altogether. I was relieved things must have improved for him, even if I missed him a little. And now here he is again, standing beside me. I realize that in the past twelve months he’s outgrown my twin-size bed, and we’re somehow a lot older than the last time this happened.
“I’ll take the floor,” Carson decides, probably noticing the same thing I am. He grabs a spare pillow and tosses it on the ground.
Here I am, stressing about Carson climbing into my bed like some crazy, lovesick girl when of course that’s not what he’s after. He has a girlfriend. One he’d probably happily share a bed with, and with a lot less clothes.
I climb back under my covers and toss him one of my blankets.
“Thanks,” he says.
“It’s been a while,” I say to him, staring at the darkness of the ceiling, tracing the shadowed divots and making faces out of the crevices.
Is the room vibrating, or is it just me?
Carson hums, and I wonder if maybe he’s falling asleep, so I pull my comforter up tighter and close my eyes. For too many years, I’ve wondered what it would be like if Carson finally tried to cross that line with me, the one that would make us more than just friends. I’ve imagined all the ways it could have happened.
When we were thirteen and he got me that necklace from the thrift store for my birthday, or when we were fourteen floating around on that lake and he pulled me so close that I thought for sure he was going to be my first kiss. Each scenario unfolded in front of me right before it shifted. He would step back or pull away, breaking the spell.
It was a constant reminder he’d only ever see me as his friend.
So that’s what I gave him. A floor to sleep on. A listening ear. This sixteen-year-old boy has enough complications in his life without me adding to them. It’s probably why his girlfriends are always so perfect. The last thing he needs is more messy.
“It was getting better,” Carson says finally, and I realize he’s still awake. He takes in a deep breath, and it feels like he sucks all the air out of the room. “Last year, Mom threatened to leave. Bags packed, she was out. It was a wake-up call, and Dad finally sobered up for five minutes.”
“That’s good.”
“It was.” Carson sighs, and I think I hear him roll onto his side. “But then he lost his job at the pier, and, well—he drowned that problem in a bottle of whiskey. Then another. And another. And, well, you heard the rest.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “I’m sure it’ll get better.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums, but we both know it’s a lie.
It never really gets better. Carson told me that once. His dad is either drunk or depressed, wavering from one to the other. Sometimes both. Never better.
“Congratulations on the win last night,” I say after a long pause, getting the hint that Carson probably doesn’t want to keep talking about whatever is going on in his head.
