The Hanging Words

Reid-ing Between the Lines

Milo drives me home in near silence, though it's not for lack of trying to converse. He makes several innocuous comments to drum up conversation, but I'm resistant to each attempt. I'm not looking for a return to normalcy. I know we're well beyond that stage and into the I've-royally-fucked-this-up portion of our acquaintanceship—or friendship—or whatever the fuck we have. No amount of avoiding the topic is going to erase the fact that I dipped mid-discussion, sprinted my fucking ass off into the trees, and was later found screaming at the apparent silence to stop. Things are not looking well for me. On some level, I appreciate Milo not wanting to address the skyscraper in the room, but it all feels a bit futile. After fifteen minutes, Milo seems to realize this and stops trying. We listen to pop's top-forty radio instead. A wash of electronic beeps and blips with the uncanny ability to suck the remaining life out of the air.

Finally, we pull up at my condo, and I relax some at the sight of familiarity. I can sulk in solitude now. Thank God.

Why?

I furrow my brow, aggrieved by my own errant thoughts. Wallowing is best done in isolation—I'm testament to that—and wallow I will, once I'm inside. Once the door is locked. Once I know this is over.

It should've never started.

I know I shouldn't have said any of those things to him on the path. It's not his fault. I know he was just asking, but I knew better. And yes, maybe he hadn't immediately turned away like I expected him to—he ran after me and somehow made the tapping go away. But eventually he will turn away. All the more quickly, now that he knows what he's dealing with.

I was killing it on my own—I can do so again. Predictability can be satisfying. Find the pipe and get those naked men back on my screen. We'll be out before nine.

The Jetta dies.

Milo lifts his hand. For a brief moment, it hovers in place like he might reach for mine. But then he opens his door instead and steps outside.

Is he going to walk me inside?

I glance up at the clouds, still hanging there above us. Rolling languidly over one another.

Maybe I don't have to be alone.

My door opens and Milo is standing there smiling down at me. That heartbreakingly beautiful smile. How could I have been angry at him before? It's utterly impossible. I undo my seat belt and slide out.

He lets the door fall closed behind me. The car beeps as it locks.

"Do you want to come in?" my voice asks.

"If you don't mind," he says.

"I don't."

Searching my keys, I select the one for the front door. The deadbolt slides out of place. The door creaks as it opens. Darkness. I flip the switch. Yellow light floods the entryway. I step in. Milo follows and the door closes behind him.

"This is it," I say, gesturing around with one hand.

"Worth the wait," he says, and follows me deeper into my home. To our left, the stairs climb to the upper floor, where I'm all too aware my bedroom waits. The expectations are a clusterfuck I'm unwilling to contemplate at the moment, preferring to veer away from acknowledging them by not giving him a tour.

We step down into the living room.

"Feel free to sit," I say, gesturing to my worn sofa.

"You like to read, don't you?" he says, nodding toward my bookshelves. I have two of them—inherited from Aunt Evora—in the faux 1970s oak stylings of yesteryear. But they do the job just fine. Each stands taller than me and is absolutely stuffed with an assortment of hardbounds and paperbacks.