Matt is a thorough professional, never half-assing things when he sets his mind to it and even pulls on a pair of latex gloves to begin removing shards of glass from my leg. The blood seeps out quickly so he applies pressure to the wound with a piece of gauze before raising my leg onto his shoulder. I gasp and wince every now and then, especially when he moves onto the tiny pieces lying inside of my foot.
“Stop being a baby, Mils, and hold still!” he chuckles, making it feel like I have my old friend back again.
I still cross my arms in a huff and shove on a pout just for good measure, but I also laugh along with him. This is the Matt I remember, the boy I fell in love with as a friend. Matt has always been, and will most likely always be, the most caring and loyal friend. He’s going to one day make some girl really happy.
The moment between us now, however, is bittersweet. The bitter taste of knowing we have drifted apart, the sweet for seeing that we can perhaps be like we once were…can’t we?
When he is suitably satisfied with his doctor role and evaluates his work, seemingly happy that it’s good enough for his high standards, he puts away the kit and makes his way to the cupboard where he grabs the broom and begins sweeping. Of course, he is meticulous about this job and goes about it in a systematic fashion, proving that he would make an excellent and thorough house husband. He ignores my pleas to leave it and eventually has everything looking back to the way it was. He then grabs his bag from where he had thrown it and comes to join me on the sofa, finally ready to explain his reason for being here in the first place.
“So, after Friday, I owe you yet another apology, Amelia Thomas, and I thought what better way than to bring around a few Harry Potter films and a big ol’ bag of Cheetos!” He proudly pours the contents of his bag onto the table in front of us, including the chemically enhanced, salt-laden, but oh so tasty orangey snack.
I grin at him with genuine affection, and he smirks with both a cheeky and apologetic smile that he manages to expertly pull off at the same time. With a smile like that, I ignore Grant’s warning about keeping away from him. For when I look at him now, I can’t see what is remotely dangerous about us hanging out together, just like we’ve done a million times before. Yes, he’s made some mistakes, but the first one was due to alcohol, and the second one, the slap, I put down to emotions running high.
Of course, I don’t think Bowie would quite high five me for hanging out with him but he’s not here. Plus, I can’t just give into my boyfriend’s tantrums, or let him think that giving me an orgasm in the shower gives him the right to automatically get his own way. Rightly or wrongly, I’ve reasoned with myself to let Matt stay and spend the afternoon with me as my friend. Matt has been with me from the start and I owe it to him to at least show a little bit of loyalty.
“I could Harry Potter it up,” I nod towards the DVD player by means of an invitation, “but only if you admit that Hermione is the real hero of the story.”
“If that is what it takes, then…” he pauses as he gets up to insert the disc for the very first film, “I reluctantly concede that Hermione Granger is the real heroine of Harry Potter…even if it is called ‘Harry Potter’!”
Halfway through the second installment of Harry Potter, Matt and I are stuck in a permanent state of silliness in that we’ve taken on the roles of Hermione and Harry for them. We execute our lines with precision and expert expression, proving we are kickass fans of the Harry Potter phenomenon.
The packet of Cheetos has been demolished and I even half-heartedly chastised Matt for not having brought over more, to which he reminded me about my old nickname, Tubby. It earned him a soft kick against his thigh and me calling him an ‘asshole’, but he took it all in jest.
Matt has relaxed into his go-to lying position when watching any kind of movie with me, that is his head is resting firmly on my lap and rubbing one of my feet which is hanging off from the sofa. He’s beyond comfortable with where he is and once upon a time, I wouldn’t have worried about it either. However, given the state of everything, I’m not feeling quite so easy about it, even though he reassured me it was only because my house was weird for not possessing any sofa cushions. Therefore, I chose to remain tight-lipped because I know it’s not any different from how we used to be when we were eleven. Matt has always been the cuddly type and I don’t want to make things feel awkward again.
“This is nice, Mils, just like it used to be, huh?” He throws a peanut in his mouth, for it’s the only thing he could find in the house. They’re my dad’s favorite so God knows how old they are.
“Like old times before you joined the dark side!” I tease.
“Before you slept with the enemy!” He grins back at me and I tug on his earlobe. He feigns pain but then chuckles about it straight afterward.
“You always said Bowie was like your Ron.” I nab a peanut and crunch down on it, instantly regretting it as soon as I begin chewing.
“You always said he was Malfoy!”
“Well, I guess he was back then,” I mutter quietly. “Who knew so much would change?”
It’s a hard thought to stomach all of a sudden, and I sigh noisily over my brother being in prison, Sam being too afraid to come back home, and Bowie and Matt no longer being friends. As if sensing my impending tears, Matt lifts himself and takes my hand affectionately inside of his, smiling softly, and telling me he understands how I’m feeling without having to use words.
“Have you seen Grant at all?” he asks out of the blue, to which I shuffle uncomfortably because if Bowie ever found out I was in contact with my brother, I think he’d be pretty pissed about it. “It’s ok if you have, Mils,” he rubs my arm in gentle movements, comforting my guilt for a moment, “no one will hear anything from me if you have.”
“Only recently,” I admit. “He wouldn’t see me for the first eighteen months. I’ve seen him twice and will be seeing him just before Christmas. Funny though, it’s more than I’ve seen my parents in the last year.” Matt scoots up and sits next to me, sliding his arm around my shoulders and pulling me into his side while I silently wipe away at my wet eyes. “Thanks, Matt,” I sniff, “it’s not like I can talk to anyone else about it. I love Mercy but she has a mouth that often betrays her, as well as others, even if she doesn’t mean to. And Bowie? Well, you know…” he nods and we stare blankly at the screen in front of us.
“Does he still claim he’s innocent?” he asks in almost a whisper. I merely nod, then sigh, finding the whole thing difficult to voice out loud. Besides Grant and Gabe, I haven’t talked to a single person about any of this, knowing it’s probably best that it doesn’t escape these four walls.
“I believe him, Matt,” he grips my hand while I try to articulate my thoughts. “He absolutely adored Sam and would never hurt someone weaker than him. But how can you prove that to her and everyone else, when she believes it was his face she saw when whoever attacked her?”
My words leave us in silent contemplation, just as Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe converse on the TV, this time without our voiceovers.
“Y-you don’t…” Matt begins, suddenly snapping me out of my own dark, confused thoughts. “Never mind!”
“Oh, you know you can’t do that with me, Matt,” I poke him in the ribs with my finger, referring to his annoying habit of starting something, then refusing to finish it. “You know I can’t stand it when you do that!” He laughs when I poke him again.
“Ok, ok,” he puts his hands up defensively, “no more poking! I just wondered if Sam may have…you know?” I look at him, having no idea as to what he’s hinting at, but also know it can’t be good to say out loud, particularly if there were others around to hear him. Others being a certain football player who I’m sleeping with and who Matt used to be best friends with. “Well, maybe she blew something out of proportion and then didn’t know how to stop it. You said she was all apologetic with you afterward, remember?” I frown at him, but it’s not enough to stop his dangerous train of thought. “Think
about it, maybe after they argued, she wanted to get back at him. Or maybe she fucked someone else and then regretted it, killing two birds with one stone?”
He’s becoming more and more animated, convincing himself of there being some other reason for Sam’s accusations, and wrapping the whole case up neatly in a pretty pink, innocent bow.
“No,” I tell him on a sigh, “you didn’t see her, Matt. Someone definitely hurt her that night, trust me!”
“Yeah, but maybe not in a physical way,” he eyes me intently as if it will somehow convince me too. “Maybe she got hurt emotionally and wanted to have some kind of vengeance.”
“Matt you can’t talk like this, especially in earshot of Bowie,” I suddenly stand up just to break away from the conversation which is becoming increasingly uncomfortable and reminding me that I am slap bang in the middle of everyone involved. “I think he would literally kill you…dead!”
I march over to the kitchen and Matt returns his gaze to the TV, thankfully dropping the subject altogether. I give it a few minutes to calm my frazzled mind before braving it to go back there and hopefully keep the conversation at a more easy-going level.
A little while later, Matt disappears upstairs to use the bathroom, being that the only one down here is in Grant’s ensuite. No one has been in his room since he was taken away to prison and I wouldn’t be surprised if something had now crawled in and was nesting inside of the toilet bowl. Perhaps a family of rodents, or a big, fuck-off snake, waiting to bite your pasty ass when you innocently go for a pee.
My mind wanders and before I even realize where I am, I find myself walking towards Grant’s door. This isn’t all that unusual, seeing as I periodically, at least once a week, find myself doing this. The white door stands silently before me and I stare at it for a long time before putting my hand over the cold, silver door handle. This is usually my point of cowardice, where I let go and run. My breathing has accelerated, and my heart is galloping at an alarming rate, but, and this is the unusual part, I am not ready to run yet.
Maybe it’s talking about him with someone other than Gabe, maybe it’s because I’m seeing him in prison now, or maybe it’s because I know Matt’s here with me, albeit in the bathroom upstairs. But something is urging me to take a breath and walk inside; to get over my fear and face his past.
Slowly, I close my eyes and pull down on the handle until I hear the click of the mechanism opening. I then push it open and drop the handle which makes a heavy clunking sound as the catch goes back into place. I open my eyes, one at a time, and take in an extra big gulp of air before finally taking it all in.
Everything’s the same as it was when he still lived here, so much so, it’s a little eerie, like something out of a horror movie. His sport jacket is slung over his desk chair. Old assignments are still sprawled out over the wooden desk where a framed picture of him and Sam grinning at one another still stands in pride of place. His laptop is open with a blank screen and his pen is clicked open, ready to complete whatever homework he had that night. The bed is left unmade and an empty glass, which once held water, is now stained with evaporated white rings. Nothing has moved, except now, everything is covered with a layer of dust and something reminiscent of Miss Havisham hangs heavy in the air. Time stopped still in here.
Gradually, I venture further and further into the room, treading carefully like I’m a thief breaking into a stranger’s house. I can’t even bring myself to touch or move anything, so I end up settling by the side of his unmade bed, still donned in classic boy, navy bedsheets. It even smells of Grant’s aftershave, something expensive and masculine, not unlike the stuff Bowie wears. I close my eyes tightly to help breathe it in more easily. A nostalgic scent of happier times.
I audibly gasp when I notice a small, stuffed bear lying by one of his pillows. He’s well-worn and missing one of his eyes, telling me instantly who it is. I slowly sit down on the creaky mattress, wincing over the noise as I try to make myself as silent as possible, still feeling like an intruder. I then carefully pick up Tibbs, a treasured bear from childhood.
He stares back at me, looking a little pathetic with his missing eye and wonky ear. It’s enough to make a few tears leak over my cheeks before I pull him into my chest to squeeze tightly. Something about finding him here, in Grant’s bed, makes me weep for the boy lost inside of those prison walls.
“Oh, Millie,” Matt’s soft, sympathetic voice crackles across the dusty space between us, “may I?”
I give him a small nod as an invitation to come in, which he instantly does before sitting down next to me, where he holds me in a comforting embrace. His arms wrap around my whole body, bringing me in close so he can flutter little kisses over my head.
“Who’s this?” he asks, taking the bear from my hands and sounding a little jovial while we both stare at Tibbs. “Is it Grant’s?”
“No,” I shake my head, then wipe my nose ungraciously across my sleeve, “it’s mine.” Matt frowns in confusion and I laugh a little. “When we were younger, we both got one from my grandmother before she died. She told us it was her way of keeping an eye on us after she was gone. I was only three and was happy to keep it safely in my bed, but Grant was a little older and wanted to take it everywhere. Well, you can guess what happened to his one.” Matt smiles and nods with understanding. “Anyway, he was devastated when he lost it. He believed Gran would be mad at him. So, mom asked me if I would share Tibbs with him. Being three and thinking my brother was the sun and moon all wrapped up into one, I just agreed. He lived in my room but if Grant was going through a difficult time, or just needed extra comfort, he would borrow him.”
“Perhaps you should take him with you next time you visit?” he suggests and passes him back to me.
“Yeah, maybe,” I reply with a shrug. “I guess he must have got lost in here. I’d been looking for him for ages. He used to sleep with me every night.”
Matt leans over and inhales the bear’s worn fur, then laughs.
“Yep,” he chuckles, “he definitely still smells of you.” I slap him against his rock-hard chest. “It’s a good smell,” he belly-laughs over my pathetic attempts to hit him, “like summer.”
“How can you smell like Summer?”
“You know, like sun lotion and freshly cut grass,” he shrugs, “that’s what you’ve always smelled like to me.”
“I guess I can take that as a compliment,” I answer on a soft sigh again. Suddenly I feel like I want to get the hell out of here, but before we leave, I place Tibbs safely back inside of Grant’s bed, tucking him in tightly as if he were real. “I think he can stay here. He can look after Grant’s things until he gets out.” Which I hope is going to be sooner rather than later.
Chapter 25
Amelia
Christmas comes and goes fairly quickly, but I’m more than grateful for it. The build-up made me feel thoroughly un-festive. I was so grumpy, Matt was mocking me and calling me the Grinch for the entire two weeks beforehand. My parents had the gall to call me up and edge around the fact that they wouldn’t be here for the season at all, with both of them claiming business was keeping them from celebrating at home. But I’m no fool. I can guess where they each would be; somewhere hot, sunny, romantic, and with someone totally unrelated to me.
I tried to act nonchalant over it, tried to make myself believe that I didn’t care, that it didn’t hurt, but when Bowie came by soon after my Mom’s phone call and asked how I was, I broke down completely. He held me tightly, muttering all sorts under his breath when he thought no one was listening, but ultimately, he was my rock.
To put the final cherry on the cake, he brought over a Christmas gift for me, a silver necklace with a simple heart pendant, together with an engraving of our initials on the back. He blushed so hard when I opened it, I jumped into his arms and kissed him all over his face. I gave him some tickets to go and watch his favorite team play, then begrudgingly agreed to go with him, even though it’s the last thing I’d choose to do mysel
f. I’d equate watching football on a par with him going to the movies. In fact, it makes my list of five, right alongside theme parks.
We dated up until Christmas, including going to the movies where we made out like a couple of randy porn stars in the back row. It was a touch cliché, a tad scandalous, but neither one of us was the least bit sorry about it. Afterward, Bowie said it was the only reason he’d ever go again. We also went ice skating, which I am pitifully poor at, but then had a go at archery, which I am infinitely better at. I joked that being an archer was exceptionally more useful than the ability to skate on ice, especially when we rarely have weather cold enough to warrant skating in the wild.
Matt and Bowie are still frosty towards one another, but they have managed to get through the school day without breaking out into a fight or attempting to kill one another. I choose not to attend football practice, telling them both that it’s for the best. I hate seeing them crushing one another on the field anyway. I do, however, meet up with Matt once a week for a movie and copious amounts of ice-cream, seeing as Bowie refuses to eat the stuff. Bowie doesn’t know about this arrangement and I feel horribly guilty for it, but until he and Matt make up their differences, I don’t think it’s going to help matters by divulging such details to my boyfriend.
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