Even Wilder

Violet

He had the cutest snore when he was sleeping. It wasn't annoying, and it wasn't loud. It was just this content breath escaping him, and I liked the sound of it. I always liked the sound of it since I was little.

Many nights throughout our lives, Wilder spent the night on our couch. His mother was too drunk. Her boyfriend was on a rampage with him in his sights. Whatever the issue it never mattered. Mom always had a pillow and blanket ready for him.

Some nights I would sleep on the floor below him. And when his hand fell off the edge of the couch, I'd admire it for a while and then put it back on his chest.

Now he was huge and took over my bed with his legs and arms and muscle. He was everything a father wanted in a kid. He could play sports. He was handsome. Not too bad in school. But nobody noticed that. And the only thing he ever received from his mother or her boyfriend was pain.

My head fit perfectly against his bicep, his arm my pillow. His warm skin my comfort; it was so much better falling asleep with him. I felt like me again.

He said the same thing himself right before he planted a kiss on my cheek and started playing with my hair—it was normal for us. We always took turns as he liked to put it, giving each other "head." And no matter where we were in life, he never forgot who gave head last. He told me as his fingers slipped through my hair how much he missed everything. He missed us.

And I fell asleep in his arms, the best sleep I had since I moved there. I rolled over and shut my eyes, enjoying the closeness.

"We need to find costumes," Wilder said rolling over. His body was pressing against mine. "And pancakes."

"I told you I don't want to go to this party. Why can't we just rent movies and eat pizza?" He wiggled behind me, pressing himself into me and pulling me tighter.

"Parties are fun. I'll show you how to do them right," he held onto me.

"You have morning wood. And it's pressing into my ass."

"You have bedhead, and it's poking me in the eye." I swatted him, and he dug his fingers into my sides making me scream. He knew how much I hated when he tickled me, but he did it anyway.

"Will you act your age?"

"Not my shoe size?" He rolled his eyes. "My shoe size is almost my age. So, I guess it doesn't matter."

"I really don't want to go to this party." I rolled over, staring at the ceiling. I didn't care if I ever fit in. I hated it here. I missed home, and I missed Wilder.

"What's wrong?" He threw an arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling too. "You worried you're going to run into Mac and cheese?"

"The only thing you're proving by making fun of him is how immature you are when you don't like something."

"I don't like Old Macdonald?" He sat up, climbing out of my bed before I could say anymore about it. He picked his jeans off the floor and shook them out.

"You have made fun of his name twice."

"It's a stupid name," he insisted, slipping a leg into his jeans. "I'm not bothered, Vi. I just want you to get out of the house for once. Maybe if you did, you wouldn't hate this place so much."

I doubted it. But I got dressed so we could find costumes for the dumb party. Nothing about any of it sounded fun to me. But I was going to appease Wilder.

I even made Wilder pancakes so he would stop whining about how hungry he was. And when I finished making a stack, I brought it over to the table and set them in front of him.