Right Where You Left Me

things dont feel real at 4 am

I wake up abruptly at four in the morning, eyes wide open and staring at the dark ceiling.

Next to me, Nate stirs. I stay still as his arm brushes against me. He shifts around and lies still again. I'm fairly sure he's asleep, but then:

"Ahmed?"

"Nate." Our voices are crystal clear in the hazy darkness of the bedroom. I can barely see his face, but I know exactly where he is. I know the warmth of his body, mainly because he is inches from me.

"Having trouble sleeping?" he asks. His voice is husky from sleep. He shifts so that he's lying on his back.

I turn to lie on my back too, and my eyes adjust to see the floral wallpaper. "Yeah. It's so cold." I don't tell him the truth; sleep rarely finds me. Not when I am plagued with visions of my mother and father, both taunting and hurting me. I would rather stay awake than close my eyes only to wake up hours later, breathing heavily in a cold sweat as I try to convince myself that my father can't hurt me anymore, that my mother will never be a loving mom again.

"I have trouble sleeping too," he admits. "I hate being alone with my thoughts. And I try to sleep, but it's like these voices are inside of my head, yelling and screaming and not letting me sleep."

Something about his voice seems vulnerable; maybe it's the piece of information he's sharing with me, or maybe it's because he was sleeping.

He told me something about himself, so I guess it's only fair if I tell him why I can't sleep. It's a fair trade.

"Sometimes when I close my eyes," I say, "My dad shows up. In my dreams. With bloody fists and broken beer bottles. He yells words at me and grabs me and shouts. I hate it."

When Nate speaks again, his voice is filled with an emotion I've only seen from him once; at the party when he was about to punch the boy who threw his drink on me.

His voice is angry.

"I know that you don't like violence," he says slowly. "And I know you hate it when people use their fists to resolve an argument. But I swear to god, Adya, if I ever see your father, I will beat the living shit out of him."

I swallow hard. His words hit a part of me that is small and weak. A part of me that likes the idea of being protected. No one's ever had my back, because no one here is worth my trust. I could be honest and vulnerable with him. I could tell him my worries and troubles. But I don't. Instead I say, "I'll help you."

I can barely see his lopsided grin in the dark, but I know it's there.

There's a long silence that fills the room, but it's not awkward. It's comfortable. I'm scared to move, because I don't want to touch him. I don't want to ruin the peace we've created in the dark of this room.

"When I left," Nate says, "I stayed at this cheesy motel. And there was this guy who was working the counter one night, yeah? His name was Ollie. He was cool enough. Let me stay with him for a while. Then one night he invited his friends over. I was sixteen, and they had some weed and beer. Easy stuff, yeah? The next time they came over, they brought the real shit."

My heart drops to my stomach. I've been wanting to know Nate's story ever since he left, but I'm dreading it all the same.

"Drugs were my way out," Nate continues. "They were my escape. I tried some of the stronger drugs, but Ollie wouldn't let me keep taking them. I hated him for it." He chuckles dryly. "He probably stopped me from getting addicted."

"But there was still weed, and there was still alcohol. And people can get addicted to that shit too. I drank and I smoked and I took those little edibles. And then Ollie offered me a deal.

"He told me that if I wanted to keep using his shit, I had to sell some too. That was the deal. If I sold enough, and gave him the money, he gave me some of his weed."

"So you were a dealer," I say. It doesn't change my perception of him. People do questionable things when they are desperate.

"Kind of," he says. "My third time selling, a guy approached me. His name's Charlie. Great guy." I can hear his smile in his voice. "He invited me for coffee. While I was there, I met a bunch of people. They saved me, Adya."

"And then you came back," I finish. "Do you still keep in touch with them?"

"Sometimes," Nate tells me. "They check in. I haven't gone to meet up with them yet."

I shift on my side to face him, curling my knees into my chest. He's staring at the ceiling, his hair tousled, his eyes wide open. His hoodie looks so soft. I want to hug him. I want his arms around me. But that's weird to want, so I keep my arms still and I don't move a muscle.

He looks down at me. We stare at each other for a few moments. His eyes flick to my lips, then back to my eyes. He glances at my posture, and the corner of his mouth curls upward.

"You look cold."

I shrug. The blanket is thin, and Linda's old house doesn't have the best heating. Of course I'm shivering.

He sits up and takes off his hoodie. He's wearing a shirt underneath, but the hem rides up a little and I catch a glance of his lean, defined stomach and smooth skin.

He hands the hoodie to me, and wordlessly I put it on. It's the second time he's given me one of his hoodies. It's way too big for me and the sleeves hang past my fingertips, but I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth.

Nate leans back on his elbows and looks me up and down sleepily, his eyes half-lidded. A lazy grin tips his lips. "My hoodies look good on you."

I feel like I'm on a rollercoaster drop. Nate looking at me like that and saying those things - it runs a dangerous thrill through my body. Like I'm doing something wrong, but it feels so fucking good.

I play it off by rolling my eyes and falling back on the bed. "It's four in the morning, you dumbass. Shut up."

Eventually, sometime in the cold dark room with Nate next to me and his hoodie on me, I fall asleep. But for a long time, those words echo in my head.

My hoodies look good on you.