I am woken by a loud pounding on the door. Not even noticing that I had fallen asleep, I sit bolt upright on the couch as my heart rate doubles in the space of five seconds. It is freezing and I am exhausted; a glance at the clock tells me that it is past midnight. I flinch as the pounding sounds again, and I jump up from my place on the couch.
"Kaaatieeee," Michael's voice sounds from the hallway in an exaggerated whine. What the hell? I pull open the door and he nearly falls into my apartment; he must have been leaning against it. Michael staggers past me, catching himself on the wall. The strong smell of whiskey emanates from him as he invites himself into my living room.
"Michael, what-?"
"Do you think she did it?" He cuts me off.
"What?" I am completely bewildered.
Michael reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a book, tossing it onto the coffee table. "Alaska. Do you think it was an accident or do you think she did it?" Only then do I notice that his eyes are bloodshot. Not just from alcohol, it looks like he's been crying.
"Michael," I whisper.
"I need to know if she did it." His voice comes out like a child's strangled cry and his hand runs through his hair in distress.
"That's kind of the point," I whisper, daring to step closer. "You're not supposed to know."
"You know though," he argues, glaring at me. He is belligerently drunk, and I doubt he will remember any of this in the morning.
"No I don't," I whisper cautiously. I stop moving when I am right in front of him.
"What do you think, though? Do you think she did it?" Michael's voice is pleading, tears in his eyes. I don't know what to do or what to say, but I know what he wants to hear. So I lie.
"I think it was an accident," I whisper. Michael looks at me for a long few seconds, his eyes searching. Without warning his lips are on mine, kissing me roughly. He tastes like whiskey and regret.
My hands fly to his face to restrain him gently, pulling him away from me. Whatever answer he is looking for in his drunken stupor, he will not find it in my body.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, resting my palm against his face. He just shakes his head, breathing deeply, eyes closed. "Come here," I whisper, pulling him down onto the couch with me. Michael sighs and lays practically on top of me, his arms around my waist and his head resting heavily on my chest. His breathing is still ragged as I pull my hand gently through his hair, comforting.
"I love you so damn much," he breathes, his arms tightening around my back.
Tears spring to my eyes and I fight them back, continuing to just hold him. He is drunk; I can't hold him to anything that he says in this state. Within minutes, Michael is snoring lightly against my chest. I slide down beneath him and shift his body so that we are both laying on the couch. I pull a thin blanket around our intertwined bodies before reaching for my phone and turning off the alarm. Class tomorrow seems infinitely less important than this avalanche of a man laying with me.
Tears flow from my eyes in a constant stream and I can't pinpoint an exact reason why. Maybe it's because Michael lied to me again today, after everything. Maybe it's because he showed up here drunk. Maybe it's because Michael's heart is more broken than even he knows. Or maybe it's because I really do think that Alaska did it.
...
When I wake up, I am much warmer than I remember being when I fell asleep. I sit up on the couch and the bed comforter falls from my shoulders. It is one of the three various blankets that have been gently placed over me, encasing me in warmth and a sense of comfort. For a moment I think that Michael has left before the smell of breakfast wafts through my nose and I hear the telltale sizzling sounds of pancakes on the griddle.
