We’re halfway through when the door rattles.
“Shit!” Ollie hisses. He points under the couch.
“Hide!”
“We could just tell him-“
“No no no, mom said if I didn’t finish my English-it doesn’t matter, just get under the fucking couch!”
“Okay fine, fi-“
“Don’t bother, I can see you,” comes a voice from the doorway. The voice chuckles. I turn around.
“Uh-good evening, Mister Hamden.”
The man sheds his coat and shakes the rain off of it, hanging it on the little hat tree by the door.
“Oh come on, how many times have I told you to just call me Dave?”
I smile.
“Dad, I didn’t plan-I know what mom said, and I’m almost done, I just-“
Dave waves his hand.
“It’s fine. I don’t really care, I know you’ll get it done before the term’s over. But you’re lucky your mom’s outta town.”
Ollie grins.
“Alright, I’m gonna go shower. Behave yourselves!” Dave shouts from the hallway.
“Thanks Dad. You’re the best!”
“I know.”
Ollie leans back into the couch and I climb off the floor. He grins.
“So?”
“So...?”
“So I guess we keep watching,” he smirks.
I nod.
“I guess we do. You meet up with your dealer recently?”
He rolls his eyes.
“They’re in the cupboard over the microwave. Just bring the whole box.”
I giggle a little-a giggle that most certainly was not supposed to be audible-and slide into the kitchen. Ollie knew an eight year old (not sure how) named Melanie who sold him Girl Scout cookies. She went to the elementary school a couple blocks down, and we all referred to her as Ollie’s “dealer”. We’d told him multiple times that you could purchase them online, but...it seemed more fun this way.
I grab a box of thin mints and a box of Samoas and drop them on the coffee table, turning on my heel back to the fridge.
“Yep, I remember.”
Ollie will only eat his Girl Scout cookies with milk.
I walk back with an enormous mug of milk and some tea I microwaved, then snuggle back onto the couch next to Ollie. He hits play, and we spend the next forty-five minutes finishing up the film. We get to the scene where Tony’s about to fall into the big arc reactor, and I squeeze his hand out of habit. A blinding pain-and I mean blinding; like, my vision turns white and shit-seized my whole arm. I shut my eyes and squeeze them until negative spots that look like sea slugs throw a dance party on my corneas.
Much to my chagrin, a small, pathetic whimper ekes its way past my lips. I pant.
“Ohmygod Ryan, you dumbass, you gotta be careful!”
“Yeah...no shit-gah...Sherlock.”
“You want some ice? I can get you some ice. Painkillers?”
I shake my head.
“I’m good.”
“Are you absolutely certain? Maybe soup would help? Do you want me to go pick up so-”
“Oliviero Emile Hamden, I swear to god, just start the movie.”
He grins slyly and hits play, draping an arm comfortably around my shoulders. The movie ends soon, and we’re left with half-empty cookie boxes and dirty mugs. I stumble off the sofa and manage to beat him to the kitchen to wash the dishes, one-handed.
“You know I could have done that, you don’t have to do this every time you come...”
“Yeah, but I’m here a lot. It’s only fair.”
“I live here!” He exclaims while I put the last mug in the dishwasher and jimmy the little pod compartment open with my fingernail.
“But I’m a guest!”
“Exactly!”
I frown at him, and Ollie looks even more confused. We have this argument every time, and every time it ends the same. I keep humming the Led Zeppelin tracks from the movie, and Ollie throws his hands in the air wildly and sinks back into the couch. Once the dishwasher’s loaded, I sit on the back of the couch, teetering not eh edge. He pouts at his phone.
“So...it’s like, six.”
“You hungry?” He mumbles.
“Not really. You?”
“Nope.”
I nod, then in a split second lose my balance, falling with my back into his lap and my legs dangling over, upside-down. He peers past his cellphone at me and raises an eyebrow.
“That-that was intentional,” I wheeze.
“Sure it was.”
I wag my tongue at him.
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