Devoid [Bruno Mars]

Chapter eleven

Chapter eleven

It was silent.

Bruno and I made obvious distance between each other, him sitting as farthest as possible away from me and me doing the same. Resting my head against the window, it was hard to stay awake. The drive was pretty long, and I fell half asleep. When I felt the van slow, I stirred. My eyes roamed lazily about the van. Bruno was watching me. His mouth twitched ever so slightly, repressing a smile. Startled, I looked away.

Bruno's house stretched wide from east to west, a flat shadow against the dark sky. I followed him past the clean, cut lawn and up the small steps that led to his front door. The van drove away. I watched it vanish into the night.

We went inside. It would be a lie to say I wasn't nervous, my stomach churning. Especially when the the door closed and the fact that we were alone amplified.

He turned on a small light. We were in a short hall that led to the rest of the house that was submersed in darkness. “Why don't you look around?” Bruno spoke to me for the first time since the ride over here. He kicked off his shoes, black and white Vans. “And I'll fix us a drink?”

The one-story was immaculate and modern, more space than furniture, sort of empty-looking. One wall of the living room was constructed entirely of glass, showing the view of a rectangular pool and the rest of the residential neighborhood, dark hills in the distance. Underneath a television that was more of a theatre screen were a bunch of scattered DVDs.

I wondered down a hall, my feet padding on the floor. The sound of noises from the kitchen became fainter. Three fully furnished rooms I found reeked of unuse. Bathrooms with fancy oval tubs. Linen closets.

I opened the last door, and immediately knew it was Bruno's.

Above the unkept classic bed, was a framed picture of Muhammad Ali, next to him Jimi Hendrix, and on the other side Bob Marley. Five guitars ranging in all types lined against a wall, a piano on the other. A few clothes laid here and there but other than that it was pretty clean. When I ran my finger across the black wood of a dresser a fine layer of dust collected on the tip of my finger.

“This is my room.”

I whirled, heart pounding, not having heard him come up behind me. “I figured.”

“I barely use it. I mean, it's rare that I ever stay here.” He chewed his lip, his eyes darting around the room. He eyed the clothes on the floor. “Do you like it?”

“It's very you.”

He was holding two glasses filled with white wine and handed me one. I gave him a quick thank you and took a swallow, hoping it would calm down my nerves. He studied me carefully. “Are you tired? You were asleep in the. . .”

“It is one in the morning.” It came out harsher than intended. Another swallow. Sweet grapes.

He sighed, setting his untouched wine on the dresser. “You didn't really mean that, did you?”

A sip. “Mean what?”

“That you don't know me anymore.”

His eyes held something sad and desperate. Something in me faltered. I chose my words with care. “I was just frustrated at the moment. I didn't—”

His jaw fixed. “You should stop blaming yourself.”

I frowned. “You should stop telling me what to do.”

He glanced away from me, then cut his eyes back. “I don't want to go on being mad at each other, Adrian. I don't like it.”

I didn't like it either. I hated it. Completely despised it with every cell of my being. “Then stop acting like you are. What did I ever do to you?”