TEN MINUTES

Chapter 4: Sedative

Anthony is propped in the arm chair when I return to our apartment.

"Dahlia?" he calls, as though anyone else would have a key to our door.

"It's me," I answer, holding back a sigh. I know that I have to tell him, and I know that he will not be happy.

I take my time pulling off my shoes and run a hand through my hair. My mother is right, I do need a trim.

I round the half wall that separates the small kitchen from the even smaller living space. I moved in with Anthony after the end of my third semester at school. It was cheaper, really, than continuing to pay the skyrocketing prices of the dormitories. Charlie was not pleased, but my mother was over the moon.

He's watching a game show on the flatscreen, mumbling something about "day time television" and how "there's never any good shit on." I almost break a smile.

"What's up, babe?" he greets me, reaching a hand out to grasp onto my skirt. He pulls me towards the chair and I eye his brace which is lying on the coffee table.

"Shouldn't you be wearing that?" I ask, motioning towards the blue cloth and metal contraption.

He glances towards it, and then back at me, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"Nah," he says, grabbing for the bottle of beer in its holder. I don't mention that it's only noon on a Tuesday. "'sides, need to work out my wrist a bit, you know?" He makes an exaggerated motion of flicking his wrist and then pressing buttons on the remote on the armchair.

I laugh and he smiles up at me.

Anthony is easy. He's always been easy. He wants a laugh, a reaction, and that's about it.

"How was your class?" he asks after a few seconds and I sit carefully in the loveseat beside the armchair. It's now or never, and never is such a permanent thing.

But, before I start, I pull the box of scones from my bag. His eyebrows raise in interest, his hand already reaching out for the delivery.

"From my mom," I say, handing them over. "Blueberry, or something. She thought you'd like them."

"Fuck, yes," he hisses, immediately pulling open the cover. He peers inside and his eyes light up like a child in a candy store. I wonder if it's wrong to butter him up like this, but then decide that every bribery helps. He is not going to like what I am about to tell him.

"Anthony," I start, pulling his attention from the desserts before him. He looks at me, half interested in what I am about to say.

"I didn't go to class today."

Now he's all the way interested.

"Where were you all morning, then?" he asks, his brow furrowing. He glances down at the food before him. "Your mom's?"

I shake my head, already feeling the traitorous tears stinging and he knows. I can see it in the way his baby blue eyes sharpen just a hint, the way his jaw tightens against his collar. He lifts his head just a centimeter and I recognize the action. He's preparing.

"Don't tell me you went to visit him."

My stomach sinks, but his words don't surprise me. Honestly, it was crazy to visit him in prison. If the roles were reversed, if Anthony was visiting an ex who had assaulted me, I would be just as angry.

"I..." I start, and settle on pulling in a deep breath through my nose. "I needed some closure, Anthony. I just needed him to know how I felt before he... disappeared."

I can hear his teeth clicking together in agitation.

"And how do you feel?"

I bite my lip; it's an old habit of distress. "Like he ruined my life."

This seems to mellow him out, and he slumps a little in his chair. There's a little fluttering in my chest that tells me I may not be telling the complete truth. Did he ruin my life? And if so, was it completely his fault?

"What did he say?"

I shrug, picking at the corner of the worn leather couch. It belonged to Anthony's sister, and it's his prized possession. Honestly, I've always hated it. It's one of those kinds where your legs stick to it in the summer and in the winter, it's too cold to enjoy.

"Nothing too much," I say, because I'm not about to tell him that he asked whether I had ever loved him. And I sure as hell don't want to tell him the answer I gave, or the one that I buried away.

I chew on the skin beside my thumbnail. "He said he wants me to be happy."

Anthony scoffs and then laughs as though the notion is incredibly absurd. A tinge of anger builds in me at his reaction, but I beat it away. I have to remind myself that Anthony is the victim here. Not me, not Devyn. Anthony is the one who is hurting.

"That guy is a fucking nutjob, Bells. He's clinically insane." He pauses for a moment, looking over at me with curiosity. "Honestly, is he on medication? Because he should probably look into that when his time is up."

I bite my tongue, holding back the retort on the roof of my mouth. I feel like Charlie, always wanting to defend him though there is little to defend.

"He never has been, no," I answer, despite the explanation I really want to give.

Anthony makes a sound of sarcastic amusement in the back of his throat and shakes his head, taking a long sip of his beer. I stand up with all intentions of taking a shower and washing this day off of me. The morning took its toll on me emotionally and all of the excess crying I did afterwards, physically. My legs feel like jelly as I collect my bag, but before I am out of the room, Anthony lets out a quick laugh and a last retort he must have just thought of.

"Maybe a sedative. Keep him under forever."

I focus on the rustling of the Tupperware container with the scones so that I don't hear my own pulse racing.

His words are exactly my fear.