Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
. . .
The soft, yellow light of the bedside lamp illuminates the depth of his exhaustion.
Bee adjusts himself up against the headboard, momentarily pausing the conversation to punch some life back into the deflated pillows his body keeps sinking into. It's hard to stay awake – normally, the two of us would be dead gone by now, completely passed out and sleeping for nineteen hours straight or something – but we agreed to talk, so we will.
The stillness of the night is a refuge in the constant clamour and blur of the academy. Every which way I turn, it's too loud, too bright, too fast. Usually, things like that don't bother me – usually, they're exciting. But two weeks in, and it's all catching up. Bee feels it, too. The puffy eyes, the dragging voice, the newfound delay of what used to be banter sharp and smart as knives – it's all evidence leading to one conclusion, a conclusion that no self-respecting Top Gun student would dare admit affected them for fear they'd look chicken or some shit. But here, now, nearing another blue midnight, we let ourselves feel it all.
Bee sighs, rubbing his eye absentmindedly. "My mama is on my back about having you over again, know that?" he grumbles, pausing to clear his throat. "Every time I call, she always ends up talking about how much she loves you. Phantom this, Phantom that. I'm her goddamn son, for Chrissakes!"
Collapsing into the white, scratchy duvet, I let out a slightly deranged cackle, shuffling closer to him despite the sweltering heat.
I could explore the whole world and never find a woman as amazing as Elaine Whittaker. Now, I've never really been the best at meeting people, much less parents (never seemed to go right when a guy would bring me home)—but my stunted, nervous responses hadn't seemed to bother her at all that first time I'd visited. It was funny seeing Bee as a kid again, though. A big baby, really, gobbling up his potatoes and giving his mother a sweet, boyish smile, and a kiss to her cheek after he washed up all the dishes. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Every time I think of her, I think of how I wish she was my own mother, and how Bee was my own brother, my brother by blood, and how that Maryland suburban dream was my childhood home.
"My ma still doesn't like you all that much," I retort, grinning up at my best friend, my heart swelling with pure fondness for that dumb, little moustache of his.
He rolls his eyes, waving a hand around, and chimes, "Yada, yada, yada. She'll come around eventually when I turn up with the best tuna casserole of all time. Loves tuna, doesn't she?"
I nod. "Like a cat."
My eyes fall and fix on my fighting hands – I really don't like thinking about family for too long. It's only a matter of time before the arguments start to sink back in, and the disappointed looks, and the "but you could've been"s and the "why would you—?"s. A beautiful time, really.
