The Best is Yet to Come

Nine: Noah

The door to my bedroom bursts open, making a horrific noise as the wood collides with the wall behind it. Light pours in through the doorway, blinding me where I lay in my bed.

"What the fuck?!" I jump out of bed, wearing just black boxers, ready to fight whatever intruder made it past the dumpster we call our living room. How did they get past our booby traps made of garbage?

"We're having an intervention!" Chris yells from the doorway, "Meet me on the couch in five."

I sigh in relief, thankful it was just my roommate. God, what a dick. I stand there, half naked, half asleep and decide not to argue. He gives me a knowing look and shuts the door gently, engulfing me back into the peaceful darkness.

I take a look around my bedroom- the only room in the apartment that wasn't littered with beer cans, candy wrappers and pizza boxes. Chris may be a slob but growing up, my mother wouldn't allow shoes in the house, let alone an empty bag of chips on the floor. I guess old habits die hard.

My room was fairly neat and tidy, apart from a few empty water bottles on the bedside table. I had a full sized bed with black linens in the center of the room, a T.V. mounted on the wall across from it and a shelf below that that displayed all my favorite video games and comics. The walls are decorated with posters and pictures I had collected over the years, hiding the hideous banana yellow paint left from the previous tenet.

I shuffle over to my wooden dresser, pull out a t-shirt and shorts and start getting dressed. Peeking into the mirror in front of me, I run my fingers through my tumbleweed hair and swipe my hands over my face, tracing the dark circles that formed over the last few sleepless nights. I have to admit I look like crap.

With a deep breath, I walk toward the door, ready for whatever awaits me in the living room. An intervention? Last I checked, I wasn't addicted to any drugs but okay...

....................

"We are gathered here today in mourning," Chris begins, reading off a paper in his hands, "of Noah's balls, which have seemed to have shriveled up and died without so much as a goodbye."

"Jesus Christ," I groan with a nearly audible eye roll. I don't know what I expected to hear when I came into the living room, but this was definitely not it. I grab a donut from the box calling to me from the coffee table and take a bite; at least Chris had the grace to grab breakfast.

He continues, "Let us not forget how they served Noah and all the girls that have been honored with the pleasure-"

"Ok! That's enough!" I laugh, "What the fuck is this?"

Chris moves from where he was standing to sit on the couch, his notes still clutched in his fist. He tosses the paper onto the table and I see that it's blank. I shake my head- this kid and his theatrics.

"We need to talk," Chris's humor turns to concern, "You've been sulking in your room for three days. You're going through beer like water and you haven't played a game with me since. What is going on with you?" he eyes me suspiciously. "Are you PMSing or something?"

The smile leaves my face. Has it really been three days?

I didn't realize it had been so long. I know I've been distant; hibernating in my room, only leaving to pee or get more beer, but to be honest, I didn't think Chris would notice. Having no need for a job, he was usually glued to the flat screen in his bedroom or the even bigger flat screen in the living room.

"I'm fine," I lie. There's no need to tell him of the events from the writing class or my foolish return to the bookstore. No reason to let him know why I felt like I was mourning, too.

I haven't heard from Emma since I handed her my poem. I had scribbled my number at the bottom of the page, confident that she was going to call but she never did. It's been three days with nothing. I feel the hollow ache of emptiness that confirmed I was being ridiculous. This pain is too real for a girl I barely know.

I decide I've humored Chris enough and get up off the couch, heading for the bathroom. A shower will do me some good.

"You're not fine!" Chris calls after me from the living room. I drown out the sound by shutting the door and turning on the shower, watching as the room fills with steam.

I hear Chris approach the other side of the bathroom door. "Look man, I know you're not one to talk about their feelings, but I can tell that something's bothering you. We've been friends forever," his voice grows softer, "You're like a brother to me and I want you to know you can talk to me about anything."

I really must seem pretty miserable because he rarely gets all sappy like this on me. Who's turning into Romeo now...

I can sense Chris still standing on the other side of the door and in an effort to spare his feelings, I mutter a soft thanks in return. But how do I explain to him that I don't want to talk? It's not Chris- talking has never been easy. I was raised with a professional skill to keep all and any undesirable emotions at bay. You'd think my family were a bunch of robots instead of actual humans.

And yet here I am; mystery girl wins again with the uncanny ability to turn me inside out, unrecognizable, even to myself.

I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed at myself and I'm annoyed with the pretty girl with blue eyes. She's all I can think about anymore. My heart pangs at the thought of her face and it's followed by a rush of anger. I don't even know her. I was a fool to chase after her like some love sick puppy. How many times did this woman need to reject me before I got the point?

A million. You will never forget about her, my subconscious mocks me. He thinks this is funny.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts to go away. I don't want to think about her anymore. Turning the heat all the way up, I stand under the scalding water; praying a mixture of heat and steam will clear my mind. I run though my shower routine slowly to maximize the quiet time I was being blessed with and start to strategize different ways to avoid Chris when I ultimately make my way to the kitchen later for another beer.