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“Hey.” Steve shoved the front door open and it thudded against the wall as he sat down on the couch. He heard the door swing partially shut, but not all the way. He’d get it in a second. Or, preferably, someone else would get it, if anyone was home. It was dark in this room of the house, and outside, too, the moon just a sliver in the sky, but they couldn’t be asleep yet. Maybe someone was in the bedroom. He held his head in his hands, not looking up from his feet, counting the seconds, waiting for a reply. One, two, three, four. The house was warm, the air pressing in on him. He tried to listen past the creaking of the wood floor beneath him as he shifted on the couch. Five, six seconds. Nothing. Silence. He tried again: “Hey.” Louder this time, but that didn’t stop his voice from faltering toward the end. Soda must still be at work. And Darry, well, he was always at work.
Steve heaved a sigh and gathered himself up off the couch, moving through the open doorway to the kitchen, where he flicked on the light and started rifling through the icebox. Darry was always on his case about not taking anything, but looking wasn’t taking. Besides, he’d had a hell of a day. There’d been no reason for his dad to go and do a thing like that. He was a fine kid—he made good money at the DX for Chrissakes. That was better than half his friends could say for themselves. He didn’t smoke too much, he didn’t drink too much, he didn't stay out all night with his girlfriend. If he was being honest, he didn’t even like Evie that much. She was someone to go around with when Soda was at work, or when Steve got kicked out. He rolled his eyes, settling on a few slices of bread and the measly scraps of ham left. He’d go out and buy some more tomorrow when his dad had a change of heart. Taking didn’t count if he replaced it.
He slammed the door to the icebox shut and moved to put together his sandwich at the small wooden table. He was about to take a seat when the sound of heavy footfalls entering the house made him jump.
He heard Soda’s voice, but it sounded far off, quiet compared to the clunk of his boots on the floor. “Goshamighty, who left the door wide—” Soda locked eyes with Steve in the dim light streaming through the living room from the kitchen doorway. “Steve.” Soda rolled his eyes and gave a little laugh, shutting the front door on his way to the kitchen. “How long have you been standing there with the front door open?”
“I was just stoppin’ in for a snack,” he lied.
“A snack?” Soda checked the icebox and whirled back around toward Steve. “And the last of the ham, too? Why I oughta—” Soda made a swipe for his head and Steve dodged out of the way, snorting. But Soda didn’t come after him, just moved quietly to the sink, the smile falling from his face.
Steve furrowed his brow, returning to making his sandwich. Maybe Ponyboy’s moods were contagious. Soda might catch one and skip town, too. Steve bit down hard on the sandwich, trying to savor the sliver of meat between the two slices of bread as he toed a chair out from under the table and sat down. He flicked his eyes to Soda’s back, the lean muscle visible through his tee shirt as he hunched over the basin of the sink, and back to his sandwich. The water trickled quietly over Soda’s hands before he splashed it onto his face, into his hands again, over his face, scrubbing his eyes before his hands were under the water again. Steve watched Soda’s hand move to turn the water off before the boy at the sink decided against it, bringing his fingertips back to the edge of the countertop. Water dripped from Soda’s thumb to the floor, slowly, one drop at a time, barely noticeable with the sound of the faucet still running into the sink. Still running.
“Soda, would you cut that—”
“Sandy left.” He turned off the sink and faced Steve, quickly, his whole body tensed, like he might bolt back out the front door the moment Steve replied. But he didn’t go anywhere. He just stood there with his back against the counter, and Steve could see now that his eyes were red, the circles under them dark.
He jumped up from his chair, slapping the sandwich down on the table. “With who? I’ll go and—”
“With no one.” Soda breathed out, quirking the corner of his lip up into a sorry smile.
“With no one?” Steve stepped forward, ready to shake Soda out of his skin. “Well, where’d she go? And why ain’t you gone after her yet?”
“She didn’t—” Soda let out a sigh, his body relaxing under Steve’s grip on his shoulders. “It wasn’t—” Soda tried to keep his face to the ground as the tears started coming again. Steve slammed his fist on the counter beside other boy.
“What do you mean? She just left? She can’t just leave without givin’ you a reason.” He bent to try to look into Soda’s face. “She didn’t give a reason?”
Soda made eye contact. “Ain’t no reason.” The smaller boy pushed past Steve and into the living room, then into the bedroom and onto the bed and immediately under the covers.
Steve followed as far as the doorway. “What’re you doin’?”
“Goin’ to sleep.” The sound was muffled from under the covers. Steve listened as the shifting of the blankets mingled with soft sniffles.
He stood there a long time, his hand clenched around the doorframe, watching the soft shadow he cast fall across Soda’s legs. She couldn’t just leave him. It wasn’t right. His teeth were gritted and his neck was tight. But Soda wanted to rest. Not to fight. So let him rest. Goodnight.
Steve turned in the doorway, moving toward the tiny couch, leaving his shoes by the front door as he passed. His girlfriend wasn’t any trouble but he still got kicked out twice a week. Sandy was a load of trouble, she’d only ever been trouble, trouble since whenever she decided she didn’t want to be with Soda, which she must’ve decided, because she must’ve known, because she must’ve seen how he looked at her, his face alight like he was staring into the sun. And she just got to up and leave? Leave him like this, crying in the dark, when he deserved that sunlight? Nothing made sense and the corner of one of the saggy couch pillows ripped under Steve’s hand as he rooted around for the blanket in the dark of the living room.
He heard that raw, quiet voice again.
“What’re you doin’?”
“Goin’ to sleep.”
“So get in here.”
Steve moved back across the living room to the bedroom door, hesitating at the threshold. “What?”
“I said get in bed.” Soda sounded half asleep. “The couch is too small to really sleep. And it’s not like Ponyboy’s gonna—” He suddenly choked out a sob. “Y’know—”
Steve bolted to the side of the bed, quickly climbing in under the covers. “Soda.” He grabbed him by the shoulders again, not bothering to hold him at arm’s length. He could feel hot tears on his shoulder. “Soda, he’ll come back.” Steve moved a hesitant hand to the back of Soda’s head. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him. Everything’s going to be okay.” The breathing against his chest grew softer. “He’ll be back. He’ll be drivin’ you crazy before you know it.”
There was a long stretch of silence before Soda spoke. "You're right."
Steve let his open palm rest against Soda’s soft hair until he felt the boy’s breathing slow and his leg twitch against Steve’s knee. Maybe he wasn't right. Maybe Ponyboy wouldn’t come back. But maybe people who were meant to come back could never really leave. Maybe they always had to come back and maybe that was the only way things made sense. Soda was asleep, and then Steve was asleep, too.
Steve woke to warm sunshine coming through the doorway and Soda’s arm across his chest. The smaller boy's face had a little bit of its familiar glow back about it, eyes only slightly puffy from last night. Steve smiled, sliding gently out from under Soda’s grasp. He moved to the living room, careful to avoid creaking the floorboards, and found himself alone in the kitchen. No Darry, yet. If he’d even come home, that was. It seemed like every night since Ponyboy had gone missing, Darry had been out talking to police, talking to reporters, talking to the hospital to see if any unidentified kids had turned up.
Steve grabbed a few eggs out of the icebox and cracked them in a pan over the stove before peeking inside again. He grabbed out the jelly—only a spoonful left—and went searching for the rest of the meal. Damnit. He’d wasted the ham, and he hadn’t even finished that sandwich. No cake either. He grabbed a few more eggs and started to combine ingredients in a bowl. Flour, butter, what else went into a cake? He rifled through the cupboard above the stove as he haphazardly poured sugar into the bowl. Then the eggs were burning. Chrissakes.
Steve yanked the pan off the stove and flipped the eggs into the air, landing them on the yellow side with the brown burn marks face up. The smell was enough to make him choke, but when he coughed into his sleeve, stray flour exploded back at him. Then the dust cleared and Soda was standing in the doorway.
“What on Earth are you doin’?”
Steve shrugged, smiling. “Makin’ breakfast.”
Soda grabbed the pan from him, emptying the eggs onto a plate with a grimace. A skinny arm pointed Steve to the table, where he took a little less than half of the eggs and tried to believe they were edible. Soda turned toward the oven and went to finish the cake mix.
“Next time just wake me up.”
Steve looked up from his eggs and smiled, watching Soda mix the ingredients like it was easy. Next time.
“Did you hear what I said?” Soda hollered over his shoulder.
“Huh?”
He turned toward Steve. “I said, don’t try to make anything on your own. Just wake me up next time.” Soda rolled his eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?” He grabbed a dishtowel off the counter and snapped it at the other boy. “Huh?”
Soda shook his head. “Ain’t no reason.”