paper rings (l.h.)

63

It was amazing how dark the world seemed  once the sun went down.

Mary thought so, at least, as she sat on her Grandmother's rocking chair. Like usual, the frogs and the crickets and cicadas kept her company. The June bugs and moths slamming their bodies into the porch light often caught her attention. That, or the bright white moon above her head. It was a full moon, just barely above the eastern horizon in a star-speckled sky. It couldn't have been a more perfect night, Mary thought. There was not a cloud in the sky, the humidity seemed to ease just for a moment. It was almost chilly, but she ignored the raised skin on her arms as she tried to skim her eyes across her worn copy of Little Women. It was a nice break from the suffocating summers she had survived. She had forgotten how nice it was to breathe air that was not full of moisture.

But she couldn't focus. Not with the reality facing her: Luke nearly lost his fight for sobriety again. It almost brought him back to where he started, and she didn't have a clue. No, she was too busy ranting about the patrons of Patsy's Diner while he was going through withdrawals bad enough to incapacitate him. He didn't say a word. Not until Luke showed up in her hospital room, and was forced to tell her. And even then, that was a half-truth.

She kept the hardcover book propped open on her lap, her head falling back to stare out at the dark tree line facing her instead of the book she holds. Did Luke find her too unfit or weak minded to understand his pain? Did he see her as fragile? Did she do something to keep him from trusting her?

Her heart cracked in her chest. She felt it with every deep breath she took. She didn't like any answer her brain figured out. So she went outside. Mary left Calum and Luke inside to hash it out, get their stories straight, or whatever. She didn't have the energy or brainpower to wonder what was being said. Her mind was occupied, anyway.

Luke appeared at the screen door, his back holding it open while his two hands were preoccupied with another cup of tea. "Hot," he warned, setting the mug on the mini table beside her, his on the table opposite. "It feels like fall out here," he nearly whispers, as if trying not to disturb the birds which have seemingly vanished for the night. "Or, as you say, autumn."

Mary looks over at him, slipping her bookmark between the pages of her book. She forces a smile. It was half-assed, mimicking the toothless grin Calum hid behind earlier. But she would give him a chance to explain himself. Surely, he wouldn't do this out of malice. "Where is Calum?" She asked instead, setting the book down on her lap. She wasn't in the mood for humor, or maybe the bubbling anxiety in her stomach kept her from laughing — at least until she finds out why she was the last to know.

"Calum fell asleep while I went to heat up more water," he scoffs, leaning back into the rocking chair with a creak. "I left, and when I came back he was slumped over on your pillow. I thought I'd let him sleep for a few minutes."

"Let him sleep," Mary waves him off, staring at the dried leaves leftover from last autumn that littered the porch. She didn't want to look him in the eye. Didn't want to initiate the conversation. She didn't know where to start. "He must be exhausted."

"Calum used to fight with all of my exes," Luke says quietly, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that the two of them were alone. "I just thought he was being bitter about not having a girl. But he was right."

Calum had been nothing but kind to her. Kind, but distant in the beginning. It didn't take them very long to be on speaking terms, took them even shorter to begin actually seeking out conversation with the other. Calum had made her laugh, and vice-versa. They were friends. She had trouble picturing Calum being anything but kind. "Why is he single?" Mary asked, looking over at him.