Chapter Text
Electric bill. Phone bill. Water bill. Oil bill. Notice of late payment. Jury duty. Car parts invoice. Food shopping list. Davie’s ever growing list of things he needs for clothes for school because he’s going through a growth spurt, literally sprouting like a damn weed these days.
Speaking of Davie, you lean your head into the stairwell once more and shout, “Davie, are you almost ready? I’m going to be late for work!”
“Five minutes!” he yells back.
“I already gave you ten,” you shout back up the stairs, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “And cool it on that tone of yours!”
“Why are you always such a bitch?!”
Like hell he’s going to talk to me that way, you think. “I told you—language like that isn’t allowed in this house! I don’t care how your little friends talk while you play your little games at Holly’s house, but if you keep this up I’m going to have to talk to Mrs. Wheeler—”
“I’m coming. Fine!” Pounding feet on carpeted stairs, and a flash of hair and a lanky ten year old appears before you. “You don’t have to mother me, gosh.”
The word stings, because you’re not his mom. You’re not meant to be. That title was reserved for the woman who only lives in the picture frames hanging on the walls throughout your childhood home, your father and her frozen in time and forever the ages they were when they were lost in the earthquake.
“Helmet?” you ask, to which he nods, “cleats…glove…bat…?”
“Yes,” he groans, swatting your hand away as your fingers comb through the messy hairs littering his forehead, grown out like a lot of the boys in his grade now, “now can we just go? This is my third time late to practice this week; Coach Harrington already got on my case for the last time.”
“I’ll talk to your coach and explain the situation. It’ll be fine, buddy,” you reassure him, because you’re used to making excuses for everything lately, “I’m already late for work, what’s a few more minutes?”
-
The sun beats down on the baseball field by the time you arrive, a phone call made before you left the house to the hair salon where you work a later shift answering phone calls part-time to apologize that you will be missing yet another day. To which the owner finally told you that if you were to call out one more time, they’d have to find someone else to fill your spot. Not exactly what you need at the moment, but that’s a problem for another day.
“Are we going to lose our house?” Davie asks from the back seat, picking at the strings of his baseball cleats. “Your boss sounded really mad.”
You’re not sure. “No…” Maybe.
“Is it my fault?” His voice is softer now, wobbly.
“Davie, no.”
“Are they going to take me away? I’ll be good, I promise. I don’t really think you’re a bitch.”
You know he means the social worker that comes around to check on you both once a month. Your heart fissures, his curse word disregarded (this time). “Hey,” you whisper, turning around in the seat to look over at the little boy swiping at the tears forming in his eyes. “You’re the best, you know that? We will never be separated, okay? My boss kind of sucks anyway. I can find something better. Something with better hours, too. Don’t you even worry about it, alright? I got this.”
Lie, lie, lie, because most days you don’t know what you’re doing. But Davie needs consistency and he needs strength in a time where there’s so much uncertainty. He comes first. Always.
Davie nods, lips tilting upward into a weak smile. “Okay,” he hiccups a little, letting out a shaky exhale.
“Turn that frown upside down,” you tease, unbuckling and slipping out the driver’s side door, shoes sliding on gravel as you open Davie’s door, “I love you times infinity, right?”
He nods, in that weird stage of boyhood where he won’t say it back, even if it was something your baby brother always would tell you when he was younger. You don’t begrudge him for it, never push, because the smile he throws you tells you everything his words won’t.
The boy clambers out of the car, asking you to hold his things for a second as he tucks his Cubs jersey into his pants. Satisfied, he grabs his things and lowers his head a little bashfully, awkwardly waving to someone behind you.
It’s not that you’ve never seen Steve Harrington before. You graduated high school with the guy. Sure you ran in completely different social circles, but everyone knew him back then. Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington. Part of the popular crowd before he fell from grace a little, and now high school health teacher and little league coach. Worlds apart from the teen you once knew.
Usually, you’re only on the field for a quick second to let Davie out of the car, with Derrick Turnbow’s family being the one to drive your little brother home after. You’re not able to linger, but it’s different today. Because even though Davie’s the one on Steve’s team, it’s on you that your old classmate focuses his attention.
“Steve,” you mutter, allowing your eyes to trail along his features, taking in the tufts of hair spilling out from beneath his baseball cap, the broader shoulders, the more manly features that replaced the boyish ones you remember within the lines of his face. “I apologize that my brother is late again today. Something came up.”
“I know I’m just their coach, but on my team I ask just a few things of my players. One of them being timely for practice. Davie is a good player, great honestly, but if I make exceptions for one kid I—”
“Have to make them for all,” you finish, chewing at your bottom lip. “Look, it won’t happen again. We’ve just had a lot going on, and I know it’s not an excuse, but…”
He opens his mouth to speak again, but cheering erupts on the field as one of the kids on the team hits a home run, and Steve rushes over to cheer on the boys with high fives and words to express just how proud of them he is.
Figuring now is as good a time as any, you make your way over to the bleachers and slip into the back of the crowd and flipping to the hiring pages in the newspaper, always feeling a little out of place surrounded by the team parents. Little more than a kid yourself, raising a ten year old, missing your own parents.
-
Ironically enough, food shopping is one of your favorite things to do lately. As much as you love Davie, being able to get out of the house under the guise of simply driving somewhere and not having to answer to a chaotic boy for an hour is a sort of bliss you never take for granted.
They say it takes a village to raise a kid, and you’re grateful to people like Karen who don’t mind if you drop the kid off for an hour at a time or so, if even to keep her daughter Holly occupied and out of her hair. A trade off, if you will.
Today is a bigger food shop, the fridge at home emptier than you would like. Fortunately, your boss hasn’t fired you yet. Unfortunately, when you get to the front register, your blissful bubble is popped when the cashier reads a number that is definitely higher than the cash you have on hand.
There’s a terribly awkward moment where you fumble with your wallet, recounting the money as if more will appear into thin air. But no matter how much you wish it so, the funds aren’t there. The teenager at the register awkwardly clears their throat as a slightly frantic and uncomfortable giggle pours out of you.
“I’m so sorry,” you mutter quickly, reaching to pluck a few things off the conveyer belt, deciding you can do without this time, “you know what, I don’t actually need these. You can take—”
“You dropped this,” a voice says from beside you, familiar and not at all comforting in a moment of pure embarrassment.
Steve Harrington stands there then, wearing a simple tee shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly handsome with his hair coiffed to perfection as usual. There, held aloft by two fingers, are a few bills.
“Huh?” you ask, swallowing the lump forming in your throat.
“You dropped your money…” he repeats, as if it’s simple, as if he’s not lying to your face because he definitely grabbed it from his own wallet.
Cheeks feeling suddenly hot, you blurt, “I don’t need your money—”
“You dropped it,” he urges again, those dark eyes of his oh so serious.
The cashier clears their throat again, a line clearly starting to form behind Steve. Hesitant fingers reach out to snatch the bills from him, before you turn to face the cashier, handing over the remaining balance on your grocery bill. Once the receipt prints, you thank Steve as quickly as you possibly can and speed out the front door with your cart, wishing for nothing more than to disappear off the face of the earth, because how pathetic.
Give yourself some grace, honey, you can practically hear your mother whisper in your ear, running her fingers along your scalp like she would before you lost her, your head curled in her lap after a hard day.
“You know, I never thought you much a runner back in high school,” Steve huffs a laugh, because obviously he was parked beside you the whole time. Naturally. Your shoulders stiffen as he pops his trunk and tosses in the one bag of groceries he has, before stepping closer to your popped trunk. “Let me help?”
“You really don’t have to,” you tell him, though you don’t protest much as he helps you lift a few of your heavier items out of the shopping cart and loads them into your car. “Why’d you do that back there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, focusing at the task at hand, biceps moving with each bag he lifts and loads.
You exhale deeply. “I don’t need help. I’m fine on my own.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, turning on the heel to look at you.
He does a slow perusal of your face, and you wish for a split, and maybe silly moment, that you swiped on some sort of make up this morning before leaving the house. Because who cares what Steve Harrington thinks of you?
“It’s just been a rough week.”
“A rough week,” he agrees.
“A rough few weeks,” you add, kicking at a rock near your shoe.
Months, if you’re being honest, but he doesn’t need to know anything about your life. No one does. It’s yours and yours alone.
“You still live on Lark?” he asks suddenly, though you didn’t know he even knew where you lived at all growing up.
“Uh…yeah…”
“Let me help you out with these. It’s a lot of groceries.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Neighbors and hospitality and all of that, right?”
-
Steve whistles to himself as you both pull up in your driveway, waiting as you pop your trunk for him and mutter quickly that you’ll unlock the front door. While he’s occupied with your groceries, you rush into the house and kick Davie’s shoes and toys littering the entry hall, trying to make some sort of sense of the messy kitchen Steve’s walking into. In your haste of getting to the store, you left a mountain of dishes in the sink, with yours and your brother’s breakfast dishes still on the countertop. Steve’s entering with the first of your bags as you toss the dishes into your messy sink, managing a soft smile and a wave of a hand as he asks where to place your things.
This goes on for a few minutes, you working on cleaning some of dishes in the sink while Steve reassures you time and time again that you don’t need to help him, that he’s got it, that he wants you to do whatever you have to do to catch up. Part of you hates it, hates the helping hands, hates the feeling that he’s quietly judging you—even if there’s no indication he actually is thinking anything at all of the situation.
“This is a nice picture,” Steve says suddenly, pausing at the fridge.
Wiping your hands on a dish towel, you make your way over to his side, taking in the picture of your little brother standing in front of you, and your parents on either side of you. Everyone is smiling, and your chest aches because it’s one of the last few photos you have with them. “We look happy. We were happy.”
“I had heard from Nancy…” he says, not looking at you as he speaks, “I’m really sorry.”
Nancy, one of your old friends from school. You’d drifted over the years, but she’d called when they’d passed and offered her condolences all the same. “Don’t be. I’m one of many to lose loved ones in the earthquake.” His lips settle into a grim line. “I’m okay, Steve. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
“Why not?” He shrugs in that lackadaisical way of his. Like it’s not strange, like this is a normal occurrence, like you weren’t strangers in high school.
“Because we don’t like each other.” A poor choice of words, you realize, upon Steve’s wince. “I mean, we weren’t friends in high school or anything. You’re my brother’s baseball coach.”
“Tough crowd,” he laughs, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I just…thought I’d lend a hand. Davie’s a good kid and you were always…well, you. Nice.”
“I don’t need help.”
Steve nods. “I know you don’t.”
But still, it’s nice to have extra hands. “I’m sorry,” you utter softly, chewing at your bottom lip. “Thank you, Steve. I’m royally messing this up, aren’t I?”
He snorts, tilting his head back and forth a little. “I mean, just a little. I’m not fully innocent myself, I guess. You looked overwhelmed at the game the other day, and when I saw you today I just thought…I don’t know, maybe some extra hands wouldn’t hurt.”
“That’s…” Perceptive of him. “Thank you.”
“Now put me to work,” he demands, holding his hands open in the air, “I got two, and I’m ready to use ‘em.”
-
The saying proves true, about how many hands make light work. By the time you’ve finished putting everything away, you hear the familiar rap of Davie’s fist on the front door, alerting that he’s done with his play date at Holly’s. Steve perks up from where he’s perched at the kitchen island, sipping away at a beer you gave him in payment for his assistance.
Conversation had been good…simple. Nice. A breath of fresh air, honestly, since your life had gone from weekends with your friends and a life of carelessness to guardian to a little brother, helping with homework, running around to school events, and keeping a house afloat. It felt good to be twenty two again, if only for a little while.
“That’ll be Davie,” you tell the guy, walking over to the front door to open wide for the boy to come barreling in, kicking his shoes at the door as you yell thank you to Karen for dropping him off. “Hey, buddy. We’ve got company.”
“Who?!” he exclaims, pushing past you to see his baseball coach sitting a few feet away. His eyes widen. “I thought you talked to Coach about being late. Am I in trouble?”
Steve chuckles at your wide-eyed worry at your brother’s words. “Your sister and I talked, and you’re definitely not in trouble. How are you doin’, kid?”
“I’m…good…” Davie hedges, staring between the two of you. “Are you…and coach…like…dating or something…?”
“No!” you exclaim, just as Steve chokes on his beer. The poor guy practically drowns himself in it, the rasp of his breath filling the kitchen. “Steve was helping me with groceries. We ran into each other at the store. We went to school together. We’re…friends.”
“What your sister said,” Steve helps, clapping a hand on his chest.
This seems to satisfy Davie who simply shrugs. “Cool.” He pauses, and then, “Since you’re here…can we practice some throws?”
Steve looks to you for guidance.
“Do you have homework?” you ask.
“A little, but I promise to do it before bed,” your brother says, looking back to his coach eagerly. You suppose it’s not the worst thing, and maybe it’ll make him tired enough to fall asleep at a decent hour for bed tonight.
“Okay fine.” You pat the kid on his back, beaming as Steve jolts to attention and is ushered out the back door by the cutest ten year old you ever did see. Not at all biased, though.
With a sigh, you lean back against the refrigerator, palm sliding down the side of your face. For the brief moment you’re alone you allow yourself a second to breathe, just as the back door opens and Steve’s head pops in. Heart racing at the scare, you clap a hand over your chest, meeting the dark stare of your…new friend.
“Go do whatever you want. I’ll keep him busy for a bit. Shower, change, I don’t know. Whatever girls like to do after they get home after a long day.”
“This is really too much, Steve.”
“Neighbors, remember?” There’s a glint of mischief in those kind eyes, and if you were silly enough, you’d find yourself drawn to them. But this isn’t that, and he’s here to help, and you’re focused on making sure Davie gets everything Davie needs.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” you ask, “you’re off the clock.”
“I love little nuggets.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Little nuggets?” Your head tilts.
“Kids,” he amends, giving you another one of his megawatt smiles, “and he’s one of the easier ones I deal with. It’s really no problem. Go do whatever you need to do.”
“Okay…” you trail, watching him disappear from the doorway, as your thank you flutters in the wind.
-
“You good back there, buddy?” you call from the front seat, looking over your shoulder to see your little brother presently cradling his sore arm.
A school physical turned into a half day of school and a trip to McDonald’s once you realized the poor thing needed to get a vaccine at the appointment. You were reminded of the times your mother would do the same for you, treating you to whatever special meal you’d like and a day of rest.
“Yeah, still kind of sore. Are you going to call coach?”
“On it,” you assure him, knowing the doctor warned of potential fevers and just all around fatigue for the remainder of the day. There would be no baseball practice today.
“Can he come over again soon?”
“Huh?”
“Coach Harrington. Can he come over again soon?”
His gentle tone shocks you into brief silence. “Would you…want him to?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool. He threw the ball around with me,” Davie starts, breaking off into a sniffle, “like dad used to.”
Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel and you fight back the urge to cry at his confession. The heels of your palms press to your eyes as you shift your car into park, tamping down the emotions welling inside. “I’ll ask him if he wants to come over again this weekend. How about that? I’ll make your favorite baked mac and cheese?” You’d do anything for him.
Davie’s answering smile is all you need to see. It’s not long before he’s whipping his door open to the car and running up the stairs, ready to take the nap of all naps. In your own moment of peace, you find yourself curling up on the couch, and finally resting yourself.
By the time you wake again, Davie is in front of the tv, watching one of his shows with a bowl of chips in his lap. Stretching, you make your way into the kitchen, announcing you’re going to start cooking a pizza for dinner. McDonald’s for brunch, chips for a snack, and a pizza dinner. You can hear the protests from other adults now if they ever found out, but push them free from your mind. With your little brother distracted, you start to preheat the oven, snatching the phone from the wall as you throw together pizza ingredients.
It rings once, twice, and then you hear the familiar voice of Steve pouring down the line. “Hi, Steve,” you practically yelp, swallowing the nerves that bubble up. “It’s—”
“I know who this is,” he chuckles, and it’s a sound so rich, so warm your stomach dips a little, “how are you?”
“I’m…I’m good.” You swallow again, tugging open the oven and sliding inside the pizza, “I was actually calling you to ask you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can say no.”
“Out with it,” he urges, chuckling again.
“Davie had a doctors appointment today and he won’t be at practice today. Got a shot, so he’s just lounging for the day.”
“That’s fine, but also not a question.”
“He was also saying he had a lot of fun the other day, and I was wondering if you’d want to come over this weekend? If you want, no pressure, I’ll even make dinner and—”
“What time?” he asks, jumping over your words.
“I don’t know…maybe four?”
“I’m there.”
“Seriously?” you question, leaning your back against the countertop, chewing at your bottom lip.
“Don’t sound so shocked. Four sounds good. I’ll bring wine and dessert,” he says, bright and light hearted as ever, “tell Davie I hope he feels better soon. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Sure. Bye, Steve.”
“Bye,” he echoes.
-
Red dress. Black with dainty flowers. Pink with polka dots. That strappy one you haven’t worn in years. Maybe the denim skirt with that new blouse you got off a clearance rack? Or maybe you just throw everything in your closet on the floor and start all over with a new wardrobe. You don’t, but it’s a brief thought in frustration.
“What are you doing?” Davie asks, appearing in the doorway as you hold up yet another outfit on a hanger against your body. He pauses a moment, taking in the clothes littered about the bedroom. “Are you being a girl?”
“Being…a girl?” You blanch, not understanding his meaning.
“Some of the girls at school dress all weird to impress their crushes.” Davie looks at the outfit currently in your hand, dangling from a hanger. Suddenly a look of not so innocent glee crosses his young features. “Are you trying to impress Coach Harrington?”
“Absolutely not!” you nearly squeak out, swatting at the empty air, because how silly of a thing, and not at all true (psh, what does he know anyway?). “For that, you’re grounded.”
“I’m grounded because you have a crush on Coach Harrington?”
“I do not! And you’re grounded for two days now.”
“You’re so weird.” He sticks his tongue out. Little brat.
You narrow your eyes. “I just…want to look nice. We’re having company. We don’t have much of it these days.” Because you’re always working, always taking care of things you were never meant to. But life changes in the blink of an eye, as you’ve learned, and things have a way of turning out completely different than you could ever anticipate.
“Sure,” Davie says with a snort, head perking up as a knock on the front door echoes up the stairs. “I’ll get that.”
“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’ll tell him you were staring at yourself in the mirror for an hour. Sissy and Steve sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
“Do it and you’ll see how long I ground you for,” you laugh, reaching out to tickle Davie’s sides, trailing your fingers in a way that always gets him screeching.
“Stop, stop! Uncle!” He cries out, wiggling his way out of your grasp to thump down the stairs in search of his newest friend.
You can hear both their voices downstairs as you quickly tug on a pair of jeans and a striped shirt, turning this way and that in front of the mirror before deciding it is what it is. Steve’s downstairs in a gray tee stretched across his broad chest, a tray of cookies in one hand and a bottle of wine dangling in the other. A ball cap is turned backwards on his head, little tufts of his hair poking out the front and sides, a smile so wide across his lips you’d think he could light up a room.
Your heart does that stupid thing where it dances a little in your chest, which is stamped down quickly as Steve thankfully announces, “Cookies are for the kid, wine is for us.”
“Can I have wine?” Davie asks, hopping up onto an island stool.
“Absolutely not, you dingus,” Steve teases, slipping his baseball hat onto the smaller boy’s head.
The boys slip outside shortly after Steve gets himself situated, and you find yourself sitting outside on a plastic chair, ignoring the way your lungs tighten because the spring tends to make your asthma flare up as it is. You don’t want to miss a moment, not as the two of them throw the ball back and forth for what feels like hours as the sun sets, eventually end up just chasing one another around the yard, Davie hellbent on getting his coach wet with the hose he whips out from the side of the house. Steve’s fast, agile and quick on his feet, twisting this way and ducking, so in tune with his body. Davie screeches with giggling laughter as Steve flips him up and onto his shoulder, dangling the kid upside down.
“His sides are ticklish!” you cup your hands around your mouth to call out.
“Traitor!” Davie wails, but he’s laughing so hard you know he doesn’t mind. Not really.
Tears prick your eyes at the lightness to Davie’s features. The way he smiles easily and breathes that way too. How he practically beams with it, the grief you know he’s dealing with still clinging to his mind. Because you know it mimics your own, you simply hide it better. For a few moments like this, your brother is just a boy again, living out his childhood like you know he’s should be—memories of a double funeral something he should have never experienced in his short lifetime.
The two of them settle down on the grass, chatting amongst themselves, too quietly for your ears to hear. Without bothering them, you slip inside and start working on the dinner you promised them both, peering out the kitchen window every so often to watch them together. And you smile.
-
“You’re good with him, you know,” you tell Steve later that night as you sit on the porch swing with a glass of wine in your hand, mirroring the one in his.
The boy in question fell asleep watching one of his shows on tv, tired out by his baseball coach who sits by your side.
“I told you, I’m good with kids,” he reminds you, sipping his drink, “used to, uh, babysit for a bunch of them actually.”
“You? Really?” Your brows arch at his admission, because that’s the furthest from what you could ever imagine Steve Harrington doing in his spare time.
“I mean, yeah. I had a few odd jobs throughout high school and…after high school, but the longest was probably my…I guess babysitting gig.”
“You guess?”
“It’s complicated.” He winces, but you don’t probe him further. You’re about to start a new conversation when you start coughing, earning a look from the man beside you. “Are you okay? You’ve been coughing since we came back inside.”
“I’m good,” you assure him, clearing your throat, “it’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Sounds like a doctor should check you out.”
“I’m fine,” you tell him, because you have to be, because you only get money from the government for Davie, and it’s only enough to pay for the necessities.
Health insurance—well, that landed on an endless list of ‘I’ll get to it laters.’ You couldn’t afford a doctor’s bill right now, not really anyway. You’d use your inhaler later, it would clear things right up.
“I’m glad you invited me,” Steve says, changing the topic as if he knows how increasingly uncomfortable it makes you to think about your already dwindling finances. “I had fun tonight.”
“I’m, ah, glad you came too.”
“You,” he muses, “or Davie?”
“Davie…” You add with a whisper, “but me too.”
“Are we becoming friends? Because it kind of feels like we’re becoming friends.” Steve beams, wiggling your shoulder playfully.
“Don’t push it, Harrington.”
But your smile says it all.
-
Over the next few weeks, you fall into a sort of schedule.
You work during the day, drop off Davie at practice, and work your second shift at the hair salon on days you’re asked to come in. Steve often drives Davie home after practice and games to help you out on days where Davie plays baseball instead of stopping over the Wheeler’s with some of his friends for their game nights. It’s not a perfect routine by any means, but you’re able to work more and do a little more around the house, and you can’t thank Steve enough for the bit of weight he’s taken off your shoulders.
You also spend a lot of time with the man. He comes over more often than not for dinner (often with his ‘extra’ groceries he ‘accidentally bought at the store’ that you protest him giving you every time), and you find yourself spending many nights chatting with him until it’s time to head to bed for the night, or falling asleep against his shoulder while you watch movies together, your body seemingly finally allowing you to rest when in his vicinity. An unexpected friend, but a friend nevertheless. And you couldn’t be more grateful for it.
Another Monday morning greets you, your little brother still clinging to the last few minutes of sleep you’ll allow him before he has to ready for the day and head off to school. Your lungs are on fire, that persistent cough urging you to grab your emergency inhaler more frequently than you have as of late. And you’ve been rationing the medication as it is, the overdue heating bill at the forefront of your mind.
The room is a little wavy today, your body feeling heavier, movements slow like you’re wading through molasses. You push it aside, pouring a glass of water to try and quell the dryness in your throat, pressing the inside of your wrist to your forehead. Warm, too warm.
The room spins a little, a fearful thought of who would take care of Davie if something happened to you crossing your mind in the briefest moments of panic. Head shaking, you dislodge the thought, pouring yourself coffee instead to push through it.
Another newer bill sits on the countertop. Thicker than the others. A final notice stamped in red from the power company. Demanding money you just don’t have right now. In a few weeks maybe by some miracle, but not today.
“Davie?” you call out into the home for the second time that morning, his lanky form barreling into the room a split second later.
He squints at you as he enters, looking at you in that way that only he does, knowing you better than you know yourself. “Are you okay? You don’t look too good.”
“Oh thank you, a woman loves to hear that in the morning,” you chuckle half heartedly, breaking off into a hacking cough that has his eyes widening a bit.
“You sound weird too,” he says, tugging on the fridge door and grabbing some milk to pour into the dry cereal you’ve already put in a bowl for him. The little bits of food float to the top of the milk, like little floaties, and he opens to the comic pages you left for him in the newspaper. “I can stay home today if you’re sick. You might need help or something.”
“You’re going to school,” you tell him, urging him to eat faster as the bus will be by in a few minutes.
“Fine,” he groans, resuming his reading. “You should go to the doctor though.”
“With what money?” you ask, not meaning to snap the words at him, wincing at how harsh they come out. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know how. You know that. And he frowns in that quiet, worried way that makes you feel even more older than him than you already are.
“Will you please think about going to the doctor?” he asks, a little pitifully, “you always take me to the doctor.”
Yeah, because he has insurance. “I’ll think about it if I start to feel worse. Okay, buddy? Now go on and get, I hear the bus coming down the street.”
“Love you!” he shouts, hoisting on his backpack and running for the front door.
“Love you, too!” You jolt as the door slams behind him, a typical boy, and make your way across the room, pulling open the kitchen cabinet to try and find your inhaler.
You shake it, grimacing at the sound that greets you, and the number of doses you’d written down nearing empty. You’d wait it out a little, it would be okay, you think to yourself, knowing you wouldn’t be able to make it to the pharmacy at least until pay day. And even then you’d be stretching it thin with money.
Still, you are most definitely too sick to work, your body practically screaming at you to sit down and take a moment to rest. You dial the familiar number of the hair salon, dreading the sound of the owner on the other end. She sounds unamused as she answers, and even more so when you begin to speak.
“Hey, ah, Mrs. Gibbons, I’m not going to be able to make it today. I’m not feeling well.” You break off into another rasping cough that has your chest aching, breath coming in a little shallower.
There’s a pause and an annoyed sigh. “This is the last time, kid. I can’t keep you on the schedule if you keep calling out like this. I know it’s hard, being a single mom and all of that, but this is a business. You understand me?”
“I know,” you say quietly, tears burning in your eyes out of frustration, remorse filling your every word, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Feel better,” Mrs. Gibbons says, even though you doubt she really means it much, just as the line clicks and you’re left in the quiet of your home, chest and head aching and pounding as you make your way over to the couch on wobbly legs.
You’ll lay down. Just for a little, you think to yourself. And then you’ll figure out what to do next. Maybe you can sell more of mom’s old jewelry, or maybe some of your vinyls. Something, anything, for a little more cash.
Just for a little, you think to yourself as you curl up beneath a heavy blanket and hug yourself tight within it. A little too heavy for May weather. But you’re shivering, teeth chattering, needing to find warmth as quickly as possible.
“Just for a little,” you whisper into the nothingness as your eyes flutter shut, and the world slips away into darkness.
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