Page 58 of Am I the Only One

I should have remembered the lock.

He holds a glass of water as he walks over to my bed. “Here. You should take these.” He then opens his palm, dropping a few pills next to my cup of coffee before setting the water next to it.

I want to thank him, but even more, I want to yell at him and tell him to stop fucking everything with a pulse.

“You were completely passed out last night. I had to carry you in from the car,” he explains. “You shouldn’t drink that much.”

“What are you now? My dad?” My words come with fangs meant to bite, and I can see their infliction within his expression.

His eyes fall from mine, and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He’s clearly uncomfortable, and even though a part of me wants to soothe him, I don’t because I’m too confused. The moment he lifts his head is the same moment I look away to avoid him.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he leaves me with before walking out and closing my door.

Turning onto my side, I peer out the window and stare into nothingness.

His words echo in my head.

I’m sorry.

It isn’t the words I hone in on, it’s how he said them. His tone, his inflection, his meaning behind them. Something about his apology tells me it wasn’t about him intruding into my personal space.

No.

His sorry was for something else, but I’m too hungover to dissect it.

Sighing, I roll over and swallow the pills, secretly wishing I had the whole bottle just so I could be with my parents again. Instead, I close my eyes and pray I find them in my dreams.

Emma

Waking up to darkness, the world is no longer spinning, but I’m so thirsty. I pick up the glass of water that’s next to the untouched cup of coffee and swallow it in large gulps. It’s close to nine in the evening, and I can’t believe I slept the day away.

My stomach growls, begging for food, so I sling the covers off me and head out to the kitchen. Walking past the living room I notice a slew of beer bottles on the coffee table and a half-smoked joint in an ashtray, none of which were there this morning.

Luca’s door is closed, and by the looks of it, he’s probably been here all day.

Something is wrong.

It takes me a moment to realize that my anger from earlier has dissipated, and I let go of whatever it was that had me so bitchy and knock on his door. When there’s no answer, I let myself in to find him slouched on the loveseat that sits by the large windows. More beer bottles are scattered about, and he has me worried when he doesn’t look up.

“Is everything okay?” I ask softly, and when I do, he finally looks up with bloodshot eyes. “Luca?” I go to him, taking the bottle that’s dangling from his fingers and sit next to him. “You’re scaring me.”

He leans back, resting his head on the cushion and staring up to the ceiling. “You’re scaringme.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head, remaining silent, but his behavior right now ... it isn’t like him.

“I’m serious, Luca. Why do you say I’m scaring you?”

His head tilts to face me, and his eyes are both bloodshot and glassy. “Because you’reyou,” he says, pausing for a beat before adding, “And because I’m me.”

“We’re who we’ve always been.”

“Exactly.”

I pivot so that I’m facing him dead on, not understanding anything he’s saying. Sure, he’s been drinking all day, but I can tell he isn’t totally wasted, just a little drunk; he’s simply running off the remaining fumes of what he’s consumed, so I push him to explain and ask, “What’s wrong with who I am?”

“Nothing.” He sighs. “That’s the problem ... you’re perfect.”

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