More Than Enough
Page 7

She looks up.
And though barely awake, I ask, “What was with the cupcake?”
It takes a few seconds for her to answer. “It’s my birthday today.”
“Is that why you’re drinking?”
“No.” She goes back to writing. “My alcohol is like your medicine. It dulls the pain.”
 
 
Four
 

Riley
I wake up the next morning to Mom’s standard routine: the shower switching off, her movements in the next room, and then the clicking of her heels as she leaves for the day. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the full bottle of wine sitting on my dresser, wondering why it is I didn’t feel like drowning myself in it last night. I mean, a part of me knew. Of course I knew, but I didn’t really know why. I was only awake a couple hours after Dylan—the boy (or more like man, now) next door had fallen asleep. I got comfortable on the floor, surrounded by cushions and an empty bottle of wine. I’m not sure what time he woke himself up, but when I finally came to, my speaker was back on my nightstand and the empty bottle I fell asleep with was next to it, two small flowers placed inside and a note that read: Thanks for letting me use your bed. I promise I’m not crazy. Just tired. And happy birthday, by the way. It’s not much of a gift, but I thought you should know… you look real pretty when you sleep.
That was a whole lot less creepy in my head.
I pick up the note and read it for what feels like the hundredth time and each time leaves me with the same feelings. Butterflies first, then emptiness, and then guilt. The guilt is the worst. The guilt is what has me putting the note back down. But the butterflies—they’re what have me picking it up again. Over and over. Like the stupid song I have on repeat from the moment Mom leaves to the moment she returns. The same song I had playing when he showed up at my door wearing nothing but boxers and an anger in his eyes that I only ever show myself.
And it’s because of that anger, I’m positive of one thing: he doesn’t know.
That fact alone gives me the courage to do what I do next.
I turn on the speaker, switch the volume to as loud as it will go, and use the Bluetooth on my phone to start the song, filling my ears with the words of weep-inducing lyrics.
Then I pick up the bottle, take the first sip of the morning, sit down on my bed and I wait.
The song plays once.
Twice.
And by the third time, half the bottle is gone and so is my confidence and once bright mood because I’m dumb. Dumb dumb dumb. And seriously, by the way, why the hell would I even think he’d show up? Here, Riley, says dumb brain, play that shitty music that got him so mad he basically kicked down your door and told you you were the Worst Human Alive and holy shit I’m drunk already.

I scoff at myself and stand quickly, swaying on my feet while I take another sip. I tilt the bottle too far and it pours out of my mouth and onto my chin… drip drip drip down my neck onto my shirt. I laugh. Because in times like these, there’s no other cure but laughter, and more alcohol—which I’m now out of. The song ends and then starts again. I drop the bottle to the floor and shuffle my feet across the carpet toward my door. I step out and start for the kitchen where Mom keeps the wine and before I’ve made it two steps… knock knock.
I stand in the hallway facing the door… looking at it—no, glaring at it… waiting to hear the sound again.
Knock knock.
My one sock covered foot glides across the floorboards, moving closer to the door.
“Riley!” Bang bang bang.
I open the door, my head lowered, eyes squinted at my one bare foot. “Where did you go?” I ask it.
“Home,” Dylan shouts, and I look up at him. He looks nice. Not as nice as he looks almost naked but still… he looks nice. His dark buzz-cut hair—I assume mandatory for whatever military branch he’s part of—does nothing to lessen his general good looks.
“My sock is at your house?”
“What?”
“Huh?”
His eyes are tired, which takes nothing away from the blueness of them. But he’s tall. So tall I have to crane my neck to look at him. He still wears the same clothes I’d seen him in through the years he lived next door. White tank, often grease stained from working on his or his friend’s car, and a flannel shirt over it. It’s the same way his dad dresses, and even his brother. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t have a woman living with you. You dress in whatever you can buy in bulk for cheap and move on.
He rubs the few days’ growth on his jaw while he watches me look him over. “Your what is where?” he shouts, then rolls his eyes and steps inside, carefully placing me to the side so he can march to my room. I follow behind him and watch as he unplugs the speaker from the socket. Why doesn’t he just turn it off?
He spins around, his eyes immediately locked on the empty bottle on my floor. “How drunk are you right now?” he huffs. “And where is your other sock?”
I scoff, a little confused. “You said it was at your house.”
He lifts his gaze. “What?”
“Huh?”
He shakes his head. “You’re a hot mess, Riley.”
I shrug. “Thank you for my flowers.”
He looks from me, to the flowers, then to his note sitting on my bed. He huffs out another breath, his shoulders dropping with the force of it. “So listen,” he says, sitting on the bed and moving the note to my nightstand. “I know it was probably a once off for you but can I crash for a few hours in here? My brother—”
“Yes.”
His smile is instant. It’s also hot. I’m pretty sure I hate his smile. And I’m definitely sure I hate him—or, at least, how he makes me feel.
He kicks the bottle on the floor and watches it roll away from him and toward me. “I take it you had a good time last night… celebrating your birthday and all.”
“No.”
“No?”
I shake my head.
He looks around the room. I stand with my hands at my sides, pressing one foot on top of the other, willing myself to stay put and not run to the fridge for the other bottle like I really want to do. “So I tried to sleep last night and when I couldn’t I started thinking about you,” he says.
“Oh?” Fuck you, butterflies.
He shakes his head quickly. “Not like that… not like, in a creepy way.”
“Oh.” The first “Oh” was a question. This one was a semi-disappointed, semi-guilty statement.
“So I think I have you worked out.”
“You do?” I ask, clearly surprised.
“Well,” he says, eying the corner of my room where I ended up sleeping last night. “From what I know about you, which isn’t much… and the facts that I’ve accumulated from the small amount of conversing we’ve done… I think I’ve come to the conclusion about who you are. Well, not so much who you are… but what you do…”
“You talk a lot,” I blurt out.
He laughs, this deep, gruff, warm chuckle that emits from his mouth and floats to my ears, then races down to my stomach and again… Fuck you, butterflies. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that,” he says.