Just Roommates

Chapter 2

Hearing my mother giggle across the hall as my father does . . . whatever the hell he does, is starting to drive me crazy. I've been here almost a week. Not only is the drive to school more than I want to deal with, hearing them, night after night after night . . . well, it's not something one should ever have to go through. Is this some sort of mid-life crisis? It's not like they're even that old . . .

Neither of them seemed put-out with me staying here; in fact, they both seemed to enjoy catching up with me. However, when Mom told Dad why I was staying, well, it took a lot for us to convince him that the jail time wouldn't be worth it. His face seemed to turn an even deeper shade of red as his rage suppressed his embarrassment from having been caught on the couch with my mother under an hour earlier.

"I assure the both of you, I won't be caught," he'd said, making both of us laugh as I stood up and hugged him before he could pace a hole in the kitchen floor.

"Aw, Dad. Thanks for the offer, but Adam Mitchel isn't worth it," I told him, feeling his rigid body soften as he hugged me back. "Trust me."

When he had finally calmed down, he assured me that I was welcome to stay there as long as I needed. He even told me that the house just hadn't been the same since I'd gone. I had to bite my tongue so as not to point out the more obvious changes, not really feeling the need to embarrass him further—or remember the sounds and brief glimpse I caught myself . . .

When dinner was ready, Dad concluded his tirade, and we all went about eating the delicious casserole my mom made, falling easily into a much more pleasant conversation about work and school. It was as if that thing I almost didn't see never happened.

Which brings me back to now . . .

"Kyle, stop it!" my mother squeals, and then I hear the deep tenor of my father saying something in return. His voice is muffled, which can only mean one of a few things I really don't want to wrap my head around for fear of needing industrial-strength brain bleach. Honestly, I'm glad I can't make out what he's saying, because I know I'll run to my desk and drive sharp pencils into my ears. I might even attempt to lobotomize myself; I'm sure there's a Google or Wiki article about "Do-It-Yourself Lobotomies" out there somewhere. Though, I can't imagine they're entirely safe.

She giggles again, and having heard more than enough for the day, I bolt out of bed, throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, grab my bag, and hit the stairs before I hear things I never want to hear again. I'm moving so fast that I think I might have even jumped from the top step and landed safely on the main floor. Considering my natural lack of grace, I'm shocked I haven't broken anything if that's truly the case.

I'm just opening the door when I hear the creak of my parents' door at the top of the staircase. "Stephanie?" my mother calls down. "Are you going somewhere? I was going to make breakfast."

Oh, right. I forgot to mention that it's nine o'clock in the morning. They like to get an early start on their day.

"I'm heading into work," I reply, yanking the door open. "I wanted to get a little studying in before my shift, and the cafe is typically pretty quiet this early."

Her footsteps are heard as she heads for the stairs. "Are you sure? I was going to make waffles." She descends the steps barefoot and dressed in her bathrobe, her cheeks lightly flushed, and her lips plump and red.

I clear my throat, trying not to think of why she looks this way. "Yeah," I tell her as she sits on the bottom step and looks up at me. I know she can read the look on my face; the way my nose is scrunched up because of what I heard is a dead giveaway. "As tempting as it is, I think it's best I go . . . study."

"Stephanie . . ." I know that tone. She's about to tell me she and Dad are adults. Like me. That adults have sex. I'm not a stranger to this talk. Ask my therapist.