Good Guy

Part Sixteen

The weekend passed, and something changed.

Cleo couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but it had been there when Scotch rode with her to school last Friday. She couldn't help but feel that, at the time, he'd been getting through the day just for her sake. She'd been hesitant to ask him about it because of his reaction at Shayla's house, and this inability to question him bothered her a lot.

Then Saturday came, and she lost her chance to bring it up because he had to go home and check in with his folks. At least his trip proved that something was definitely going on in his head. Whenever he was away for the weekend, he always texted her the moment he arrived at his destination and again the next day. Just little things, like reminding her to lock her door before turning in for the night, or making sure his bike was still in the parking lot, or asking how she was doing 'without her bestest roomie.' It never failed to make her smile and feel relieved that his trip had gone safely, no matter how innocent and casual his texts would be.

But Saturday, yesterday, there'd been nothing.

No phone blinking, no little envelope at the corner of her screen, nothing. She'd tried texting him the night before, but he hadn't replied. She'd texted again the morning after, but by this time she wasn't really expecting any response. It was a Sunday, and he would be returning to the city. Still, it had been worth a shot.

And this afternoon, she only knew that Scotch was back when she heard the door to his apartment open and slam shut. As usual, she waited eagerly for it to open again and for Scotch to be knocking on hers only moments later, as was their ritual. But he never did.

By six in the evening, it became obvious that their little tradition of sharing tasty souvenirs sent over from the province wasn't going to happen. By eight, Cleo decided to clean up Scotch's place setting from her dinner table. She almost hopped over to his room just so she could see if he was okay, but she was afraid that he'd been avoiding her for some reason.

By eleven, Cleo had had enough.

Damn you, Scotch, she thought as she completely lost it and decided that she was going to find out what was going on one way or another. If he was avoiding her, like she presumed, then she deserved to know why. If it was because she'd been a little cozy at Shayla's house and had somehow spooked him off, then she'd man up, apologize and promise to never hug him like that again—no matter how much it would crush her inside.

Despite the late hour, she knocked on his door without pausing.

Only until Scotch opened it—alarming her with how much he wreaked—did Cleo stop. He wasn't out of his everyday shirt yet, and it looked rumpled beyond measure on his body. It was as if he'd simply decided to drop everything and wallow in misery. "Yeah?"

"Oh my god, Scotch." Cleo covered her mouth and nose to both hide her shock and cut off the scent of alcohol. "You smell like beer."

Scotch merely blinked at her, his side slumped against the door frame. His eyes were bleary, and there was a weird, mellow smile on his face—almost as if half his noodles had gone to sleep. His free arm was swinging back and forth like it had a mind of its own. "Well what's that happens yen woo brink deer."

He looked absolutely proud of managing to finish his sloppy sentence.

"Are you kidding me right now? You smell like you bathed in it," Cleo said, rubbing the pads of her fingers over her eyelids. The smell of booze hit her nostrils again, and she groaned. No wonder he never showed up at her unit—he'd been drinking the afternoon away. "And you're drunk. You're well and truly drunk."

"Sorry, Freshie, tut lass chime I decked, wish wash my apartment. Don't hue have homework do do or some ding?"

"You're right." Cleo sighed. She couldn't make out half his words, and he looked like he was about to fall from his feet in seconds. He was going to be smashed in the morning. "I don't think it's a good time to talk to you."