Page 12 of The One Decent Thing

I rolled out of bed and stuck a finger between two of the blinds’ horizontal slats to peer out at the world. The window looked out on the side of the house, and all there was to see was a narrow concrete walkway, a few abandoned terracotta pots with sad-looking succulents in them, weeds, and a tall wooden fence separating this property from the neighbor’s. I could tell it was a sunny day and even catch a few glimpses of blue sky through the neighbor’s trees, but that was it.

My jeans were pretty much the worst thing I’d ever worn, and I grimaced as I put them on yet again. I’d have to swallow my pride and ask Sebastian if he could drive me to a thrift store and then let me use the washer and dryer I’d seen in the screened-in porch behind the kitchen the night before.

And then what? That was the million-dollar question.

Since I couldn’t hear even a whisper of sound from the rest of the house, I opened the guest-room door as quietly as I could and tiptoed to the kitchen, wincing when the floorboards creaked under my weight. This place was fucking surreal. It felt like a movie set, or a dream, or a museum where anything I touched would sound an ear-piercing alarm.

The night before, Sebastian had told me to make myself at home, but it was hard to make myself believe it. Besides, what would I even do at home? I couldn’t remember anymore. I’d sat in awkward silence while we waited for dinner, afraid to take up too much space on the couch, wishing I had some deodorant to put on. Forget not talking about any one of the elephants in the room. Iwasthe elephant in the room. Sebastian had fidgeted with his phone, lighting up the screen and then putting it away again. Five or six times, he opened his mouth, sighed, and closed it again.

“You need to know something,” he said abruptly, and then went silent again.

Well, that sounded promising, if he meant to promise something fucking awful. I was glad he’d broken the horrible stretched silence, since I couldn’t bring myself to, but… “Yeah?”

Sebastian cleared his throat and picked at a thread on the hem of his shirt. “I don’t talk to my parents anymore. I know it’s still my fault what happ—”

“Fuck that, dude. You know I don’t think that,” I interrupted him, a little wearily. Yeah, it was refreshing to be around someone who wanted to take responsibility for his own actions; that was something a lot of the convicts I’d spent time with over the past few years really struggled with, to put it mildly. But I was so tired of dealing with my trial and my sentence, and a break from thinking about it would’ve been nice. It was a fucking selfish way to think about it, but seriously — it’d be better for both of us if he could stop apologizing.

“I know you don’t,” he said, very quietly. “I knowyoudon’t. I can’t help it. I’m — I’m sorry.”

“One dollar.” He smiled, but more like he was humoring me than like he was amused — and he was still staring down at his knees. He looked like a lonely, neglected kid, small and out of place living in this nice house all by himself. His parents were fucking scum, in my book, but they were still the only parents he had. What had it cost him to cut them off? Grudgingly, I said, “You don’t have to cut them off for my sake. I mean, I appreciate the thought, but if they were trying to do what was best for you —”

“What wasbestfor me?” He looked up sharply, his cheeks red. “Not letting me speak for myself, getting me on all those drugs —” Sebastian cut himself off and covered his face with his hands.

Blood running cold had always sounded like a figure of speech, but I could practically feel my veins icing over at that. I’d been a lot more focused on myself during my trial than on Sebastian, but thinking back to his testimony, and putting it together, made me sick to my stomach.

According to his parents and the psychiatrist the prosecution called as a witness, the stress of coming into the courtroom would have been too much for Sebastian, traumatized as he was. Since Sebastian was a minor, and a supposedly traumatized minor at that, the judge had allowed Sebastian to testify on video. He’d tried to defend me in that video, even though his speech was so slurred it was hard to understand him.

I’d thought he was tired, or even actually traumatized. Maybe not by me, but by all the cops and lawyers and the stress of being in the middle of a criminal trial. At least, that was all the thought I’d given it, terrified and miserable as I was at the time.

“Sebastian?” I demanded, horrified. “They drugged you?”

“A lot,” Sebastian whispered. “I didn’t want — Aidan, I wanted to clear your name.” His voice had gone thick with imminent tears, and oh, fuck, I couldn’t do that again.

“I know you did. I know. I saw the video. Did you —”

“I can’t talk about it anymore!” He’d gone high-pitched and was yanking at that poor thread on his shirt like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. “I can’t, I — just needed you to know, I left home, and I don’t talk to them, and none of this, the house or the pizza or whatever, none of that’s their money. You deserved to know.”

Maybe Sebastian’s parents indirectly, or unknowingly, paying my living expenses would’ve been a form of justice, but thank fuck for that. I didn’t want a fucking thing from them. It would’ve felt like blood money.

Especially knowing what they’d done to Sebastian. Hadn’t getting me imprisoned been enough?

“Good,” I managed to say through the rage that was forcing its way up, demanding an outlet I couldn’t afford to give it. “I’m glad you got out.”

“Me too.” Sebastian grabbed the thread on his shirt and ripped it off, wrapping it around and around his index finger. “My mother’s the mayor of Carterville now.”

I had nothing whatso-fucking-ever to say to that, and thank God Sebastian didn’t elaborate. I might’ve broken something.

After that series of exploding bombshells, we’d been mostly silent for the rest of the night. When the pizza came, Sebastian put on a rerun of some sci-fi TV show that hadn’t even been airing before I went to prison and let it play quietly in the background.

At least the pizza was fucking orgasmic. So a psychopath who’d sent me to prison and forcibly drugged her own teenage son was the mayor of my hometown. Sebastian was away from them, and I was out, and I could live with that, as long as there was real food. With my build I was hungry every half hour, and I hadn’t eaten since a quick snack before I got released in the morning. Not to mention, I hadn’t eaten anything worth eating, except the occasional candy bar, for four years. I forced myself not to devour the whole thing. Sebastian needed the calories.

Unfortunately, the pizza had all gotten eaten the night before, down to the last crust Sebastian had abandoned and I’d swiped out of the pizza box. I’d have had it for breakfast, too — I had no shame. But it was gone, and I was starting the morning starving all over again. First things first: I set the coffee maker brewing and found some mugs. A quick search of the cupboards turned up a box of granola bars. I only ate two, though I could have inhaled the whole box if I let myself.

Just as the coffee pot started to sputter and wheeze, I heard soft footsteps and turned to see Sebastian blinking in the doorway. He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a faded and baggy pink t-shirt with some flaking text I couldn’t read and a…

“Dude, does your shirt have a rainbow atom on it?”

Sebastian went pinker than his shirt and stared down at the floor, mumbling something I didn’t catch. I stepped a little closer, thinking maybe I could hear him better without being right next to the spitting coffee maker. He took a small step back.

---