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First, I’m the subject of a Beatles song, now Britney?
Thanks, Brain.
Are you gonna play soundtracks during this whole exit stage left or…?
Finally, my hand stops doodling, allowing my arm to drop lifelessly to the side, numbness totally welcomed.
I have to go.
And I have to go now before I idiotically change my mind.
Again.
My first step out of the kitchen instantly startles Kipp awake to a sitting position once more, “Baby…?”
“B…B…” I force myself to stomp down the tears that are bubbling up and steady my voice enough to reply, “Bathroom.”
He grunts his approval and collapses back down, exhaustion winning the physical as much as the mental battle.
“I’m gonna take a shower and try to relax, okay?”
Another grumble of acceptance precedes the heavy breathing I’m strangely gonna miss.
Funny thing is both think it’s the other one that snores like a freight train when in reality it varies from night to night.
I’ve kinda come to find the noises they make comforting.
Oddly securing.
Heading for Nolan’s bathroom, I tuck the pen into the high bun I made the instant we got through the door, not wanting to lose one of the only things I know I can keep guilt free to remember The Kid by. Enroute to the ensuite, I crack the door to the main living area behind me, leaving just enough space to squeeze back through when the time comes, mentally note where my backpack is, the nearest clean clothes, and what items are an absolute must.
Luckily for me I’ve had a lot of practice at this.
That’s why most of my shit is easily replaceable and readily packed to flee.
I start the water, making sure to turn up the heat in order to create an eventual smoke screen of steam. Next, I begin playing music from my phone to further present the illusion of the lie I’m trying to sell. “You’re All I Need to Get By” blares from the tiny speakers not only pulling a death glare out of me but a flashing of my middle finger over having to sing along with the lines being crooned at me.
Post grabbing a pair of black yoga pants and an old, oversized dark gray sweatshirt that belongs to Nolan – one I will always remember him by – I position myself near the door and sing, knowing if The Kid randomly hears me, he’ll stay calm, convince himself that I’m fine, and happily drift back asleep long enough to buy me the small window for a swift exit.
Once I’m dressed, I stuff my backpack with my laptop. I instinctively grab an extra bra and pair of panties without care or concern if they match. Lastly, I toss in my wallet, after making sure my favorite Disney pen gets safely tucked into my bun beside the other and zip it up. I grab my beat-up sneakers with plans to put them on outside not wanting to risk being heard before then.
Impatiently, I wait until “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved By You”, gets to the easy singalong chorus and belt it a bit louder in tandem with slipping out of Nolan’s room.
Like I predicted the pause in Kipp’s breathing ceases and the snoring resumes as if he’s literally staying passed out in love song increments.
I quickly cross the other side of the apartment and quietly undo the lock, knowing I don’t need my phone.
It’s a burner.
Plus, the damn thing is clearly haunted by ghosts who just adore emotional love song torture.
There’s no hesitation to hustle down the stairs the instant I’m successfully on the other side. Hell, stopping to put on my shoes doesn’t even register to be done until I accidentally step on the edge of a tool The Kid left out. “Sonofa-” Clamping down harshly on my own tongue near the piece of jewelry in it stops the statement from continuing while reminding me that I still need to be quiet.
Afterall…I’m not out of the woodwork yet.
Bracing myself against the passenger door of the car that I’m also leaving behind, I hastily wiggle on one shoe; however, the second I begin to repeat the action with the other, tears return to the rims of my eyes.
Fuck.
