Page 11 of Walking Wounded

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“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

Luke presses his face into the pillow and groans. “No,” he mumbles.

A hand lands on his shoulder, strong fingers curling around the joint, and that hits him like espresso. His eyes pop open and his lungs seize. This isn’t a dream, right? This is actually happening?

The apartment is dark; he can make out pinpricks of building light through the window. The mattress dips toward the heavy weight perched on its edge. Not a dream.

“Wha’ time is it?” Luke mumbles, forcing his lungs to work. “Four-thirty.” Rustling. “Sorry. Four-thirty-three.” Hal sounds far too chipper and alert for that to be true.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.” The hand on his shoulder squeezes and then releases. “Matt goes running at five-fifteen every morning, so we’ve got to get a move on.” The mattress springs back as Hal stands. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”

“Twenty? Are you…” Luke manages to push up onto his hands and twist his neck around – ah, shit, he’s got a crick from the plane – to peer at his friend. Just a tall shadow backlit by the window. “What about breakfast?” His hopes for trying one of the fancier coffee shops he’d spotted last night fracture before the answer comes.

“Sandy will have something, I’m sure. She always does.”

“Sandy?”

“Matt’s wife.”

“Oh.” It’s dawning on him that they’re both going to Matthew Maddox’s place, and his stomach leaps in a painful way. “Um…what’s going on?”

“You’re getting a shower,” Hal says, still too-chipper. “I’m making coffee.”

“Right…right. Coffee is a must, understand.”

“Luke. Get the hell up.”

“Roger that.”

Hal heads for the kitchen – is that an actualspringin his step? – and Luke manages to get upright and shuffle to the bathroom in the dark, feeling for the doorjambs as he enters. He can’t remember when he’s woken up his early. He’s been awake at four-thirty-three before, sure, but on the other end of it, because he’d never gone to bed. He’s a writer; he gets up no earlier than ten, pours coffee into himself and smokes cigarettes at regular intervals, until it’s time to swap to vodka shots.

The lights blind him when he finds the switch. “Bleh,” he mutters down at his bare feet, squinting and fumbling to get to the shower.

The hot water helps, but he still feels hungover and reeling: achy, detached, nauseas. He closes his eyes and tips his face up to the spray, lets it sting his eyelids, his lips, his cheeks.

Not for the first time, he regrets taking this assignment. It’s a fast tug in his gut, like he might be sick, a pang that has something to do with the piece he’s expected to write, and a lot to do with Hal’s shower and the sandalwood soap.

Wrapped in a towel, feet carefully dried on the mat, he treks back to the living room for his suitcase and clothes, shaving kit, hair paste. The apartment smells of strong coffee brewing, something fancier than the motor oil his maker spits out at home. Back in the bathroom, he shaves in record time, brushes his teeth, finds Hal’s hair dryer under the counter and uses it and two fingers of paste to get his hair as close to right as is ever possible. He dresses, and then gives himself a once-over in the mirror. Not the mindless checking for shaving nicks, but a real scrutiny, trying to imagine what the Maddoxes will think of him.

It took him twenty of his twenty-nine years to get this tall, a measly five-eight on a good day, wearing shoes. He still hasn’t filled out all the way if he ever will. There is a certain thinness about him that certain girls, and plenty of boys find alluring.Lithe, some would call it, with shoulders that are wide enough and hips that are narrow, the bones sharp even under his jeans. His eyes are large, large enough to tell they’re a strange greenish blue, even behind the lenses of his black-framed glasses. Dark hair, really thick, and he styles it back away from his face. He’s never known what to think of the way his mouth is a little full, and a little red; he’s always wondered if it’s the thing that gives him away.

Today he’s wearing a white Henley and skinny jeans that haven’t broken in enough to feel comfortable. He steps into his Vans without socks and thinks his usual package will have to do. He didn’t pack a suit because he doesn’t own one. And the jacket he hung up on Hal’s coatrack last night is a brown leather bomber number he got at a thrift store.

Will they think he’s younger than he is? Older? A hipster? Disrespectful in his presentation? They’ll think he’s a joke, won’t they? They’ll think he’s a total disgrace and judge Hal the worse for it, because they’re friends, and because Hal recommended him.

He curses at himself and shuts off the light. Whatever.

Hal meets him in the living room with two travel mugs that smell like fresh lattes.

“Here.” He hands one to Luke. “A dash of cinnamon, right?”

Luke feels a smile tugging at his anxiety. “Yeah. Thanks for remembering.”

“Of course.” And if Hal looks pleased, he hides it in his mug, and the moment passes.

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