Work Text:
I ran home, trembling at the thought of facing Darry. The porch light was on. Maybe they were asleep and I could sneak in, I thought. I peeked in the window. Sodapop was stretched out on the sofa, sound asleep, but Darry was in the armchair under the lamp, reading the newspaper. I gulped, and opened the door softly. Darry looked up from his paper. He was on his feet in a second. I stood there, chewing on my fingernail.
"Where the heck have you been? Do you know what time it is?" He was madder than I'd seen him in a long time. I shook my head wordlessly.
"Well, it's two in the morning, kiddo. Another hour and I would have had the police out after you. Where were you, Ponyboy?"--- his voice was rising--- "Where in the almighty universe were you?"
It sounded dumb, even to me, when I stammered, "I... I went to sleep in the lot…”
~*~
“The lot ?” Darry asked loudly, throwing his hands in the air now.
“Yeah, I…we… we got to talkin’, and– I dunno, we fell asleep.” It was a poor excuse if I ever saw one, but it wasn’t a lie.
“You fell asleep in the lot ?” Darry repeated, brows arched low and nostrils flaring, looking for all the world like a disgruntled mother staring at small, muddy tracks on her freshly polished floors. Only, there was nothing motherly about Darry in this moment.
“That’s what I said!” I snapped, turning to kick off my shoes at the door. The rug at the front door was worn and frayed, just like my nerves, and Darry’s patience.
I felt the rush of wind behind me as Darry stalked over to where I was. As he grabbed my upper arm, I gripped the only thing in front of me for stability– the door knob.
Darry turned me slightly, and landed a hard smack to the center of my rear. I wasn’t too keen on getting it so close to the damn windows, where anyone on the street could hear.
“You better learn–”, another smack, “to watch your mouth, Ponyboy Michael,” Darry scolded, landing a zinger to my thigh. The shock and pain of the unexpected swat had me gripping the door handle in a white-knuckled grip and…
Turning it.
As Darry landed the last few smacks, the front door swung open in my grasp. The quiet, dusty street greeted me as Darry’s last contact with my backside echoed off the neighboring houses. I tensed, mortified, and waiting for a sinkhole to open in the middle of our living room. Or an airborne piano to fall from the sky. Or even, a wild octopus to come crawling from the sewer gutter and drag me to the depths of rock bottom.
None of that happened, of course. The dark pavement of the street may as well have been the surface of the moon– there was no one to be seen. I took a deep breath and moved to shut our front door, not really wanting to be shut in the house with our irate older brother.
Darry’s flat palm shot out and blocked the door from closing. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Let’s go get Johnny.” I reacted before he was even able to explain, flinching away from his splayed palm. I wasn’t scared–really, I wasn’t. I just felt… all wired up, like twisting the motor of a wind-up car all the way– even past all the way– and just held there, ready to zoom away but prohibited from doing so. I thought again of the country, of the easy way life moseyed on there. I thought of waking up to the gentle sway of wheat fields against the sunrise. So different than the hustle and bustle of our neighborhood.
I straightened up awkwardly, catching Darry’s gaze as my cheeks turned warm. His swat to my thigh had left a tiny heartbeat in its place, and I thwacked my hand against my jeans, hoping to soothe some of the sting. Darry’s eyes followed my movements, his arm still holding open our front door. A chill drafted through the opening and blew away our frozen tension.
“Where’s your jacket?” Darry questioned softly, a strange look in his eyes.
I shrugged. “Dunno,” I muttered. “Prolly in our room, I imagine.”
“Go get it,” he instructed, nodding over his shoulder to our small hallway.
I obeyed silently, reeling over the sudden change in energy. Darry had deflated more rapidly than a slashed tire.
I walked down our small hallway, running my hand along the thin wooden panel that separated the top of the wall, adorned in pink lily wallpaper, from the dark brown paneling of the bottom. In my parents’ absence, our house had grown to largely reflect its occupants, both permanent and semi-permanent. There were ashtrays scattered in every room of the house (one even rested precariously on the window sill of our bathroom), scuff marks along the baseboards, and random nails in the bowl on the coffee table that used to hold bits of candy. At any time, our house was noisy, with sounds of wrestling and football on the TV, raucous laughter and raunchy jokes, and deep-belly snores from someone’s drunken bender. This wallpaper, lovingly picked and carefully placed by Momma, remained untouched by our new life here. Those pink flowers, seemingly out of place, brought more comfort than Soda’s warmest hug.
I ran a hand over a faded green stem, wondering how Momma would have felt with me coming home so late. Would she have yelled, like Darry? I know my Daddy would have blown a gasket, but it didn’t feel the same as when Darry was angry like this.
“Pony, c’mon,” Darry called.
“Comin’!” I called back, turning into our shared room. I swept the pile of dirty clothes on our bed to the floor, and fished out my denim jacket, hurrying back out to our living room.
I quickly followed Darry outside, shoving my hands in my pockets and keeping my gaze firmly glued to my sneakers. I kicked at a loose pebble and watched it bounce against his truck tire. Darry made quick work of shutting the door, and was standing beside me in the next instant. His silence set my teeth on edge.
My brother placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, sighing as if this required some great effort.
“Pony…”
“What?” I bit out, glaring at our driveway.
“You–” Darry began, sounding fired up again, but he quickly deflated. “Just get in the truck.”
Darry was silent as we drove the short distance to the lot, whether in contemplation or anger, I wasn’t sure. When our parents first died, Darry would rant and rave until he was blue in the face, delivering his lecture several octaves higher than was probably necessary. Maybe he had been channeling his football days, yelling out plays in a huddle of gassed up teens. Often, his fiery lectures (especially when delivered to Steve or Dally, the rowdiest of our bunch) resulted in just that—gassed up, hot headed teens that were not exactly the contrite and sniffling boys a good, sharp-tongued lecture from Mr. Curtis could produce.
In the three years following, Darry had learned when to yell, and when to deliver those quiet one-liners that flipped your dinner over in your belly, like a rotating gas station hot dog.
Darry had learned so much in these three years, becoming a blend of brother ( sure, chocolate cake for breakfast ) and parent ( but you’ll have some real food along with it, young man ) that was tasked with wrangling six hooligans. He was strict, but predictable, and so our odd, quiet exchange earlier had me especially on edge.
We turned the corner on Walnut street, passing the mangled chain link of a drag race gone wrong (Steve swore his right ear was partially detached from the force of Darry hauling him to the truck, not that he listened too well with them, anyway).
There was a figure leaning against the fence, like some sunken-over scarecrow. For a moment, my heart leapt in my throat, and closed around a silent gasp. A Soc? Cherry’s boyfriend—the guy with the rings?
The figure’s head flopped back, and a pile of rust-colored hair flopped back with it.
“Two Bit,” Darry and I said at the same time. Well, mine was more a sigh of relief, and Darry’s one of indignation.
“Stay here,” Darry bit out, shoving the gear into park and swinging his door open. I watched, curious, as my brother walked up to Two Bit, slinging a loose arm over his shoulders. Two Bit’s cracked, brown boots dragged behind him as the pair made their way to our truck, and then the idiot pulled a flask from the seat of his Wranglers, and threw back another dose of whatever had gotten him to this comatose state of rip-roarin’ drunkenness.
I looked on in disbelief, as did Darry, before he recovered himself and swiped the flask from Two-Bit’s grip. After it was secured in his own back pocket, my older brother, in a practiced movement as old as time, used the same hand to deliver a good thwack to the seat of his jeans.
“Hey!” I heard Two Bit exclaim. “What in tarnation!?” Oh, Lordy. Only shitfaced Two Bit would use a word like “tarnation” this far into the city limits. I half-expected a rolling tumbleweed to cross their path.
I opened my door to help Darry get Two Bit into the truck.
“I’ll tell my mother on you!” Two Bit slurred, wagging a finger in Darry’s face. He batted his hand away, hauling Two Bit up tighter against his side.
“I’ll tell her on you , Little Buddy, and then we’ll see who’s side she’s on, huh?” Darry grunted. His eyes found mine then.
“Thought I told you to stay in the truck?” Ah, so still pissed then.
“Thought you’d want a little help with Two Shitfaced,” I quipped back, shrugging under Two-Bit’s other arm.
“I want you to do as you’re told and stay in the truck,” Darry snapped, but there wasn’t much point, as we were already there. “And watch your damn mouth.”
I smirked, but kept my mouth shut. It wouldn’t do to point out that irony of that statement with my brother in this mood.
Together, we shoved Two Bit into the backseat, and he winced as his chin hit a rogue tire iron. I hopped back in the cab, and peered over the seat. In the dim light, my friend was looking particularly green. I shoved an old cardboard box in his direction, dumping the oily rags it was holding.
“Use this if you’re gonna up-chuck,” I told him, turning back around when I heard the driver-side door open.
“What’s up, Chuck?” Two Bit laughed, hiccupping drunkenly. “How many woodchucks— How much chuck could a wood— How now brown cow—“
Thankfully, his slurring was cut off by a snore—rocked to sleep like a baby by the quiet movement of the engine.
“I think he’s out,” I murmured, peering once more over my shoulder. I probably didn’t need to be quiet— he was snoring to all get out. Whenever Two Bit found himself in the cooler (which was more than once in a blue moon), it wasn’t hard to find which cell he was in. You just had to follow the jackhammer noises. He’d earned the name “Jake Brake” from some of the regulars, even the guards.
“Yeah, I hope so. I ain’t up to deal with his funny business tonight.”
I chuckled, and felt Darry’s eyes drift from the road to the side of my face. “Maybe I’ll stick him in with you.” I could hear the smile in his voice, and my nerves loosened just the slightest bit. Joking was good, right?
“If you do that, I’ll put chocolate syrup in your shoes,” I said quietly, giving him a hesitant grin.
“Shoot, kid, knock yourself out. Two Bit’s probably already beat you to it.”
We laughed quietly together, and I realized he was driving much slower than before, as if to maintain the peaceful stillness of the night.
“I’m real sorry, Dar,” I said, staring straight ahead. It was much easier to confess to the windshield than to even glimpse the disappointment on my brother’s face.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
“Huh?” I questioned, turning to face him this time.
We had arrived at the lot. I could see Johnny’s still form about twenty yards away—still sleeping. Two Bit snored in tandem.
Darry turned in his seat to face me, lips pursed and brows low. “I’m sorry,” Darry repeated, fiddling with the loose keys in the ignition. He shook his head, and looked at me full in the face.
“I know I get after you and holler at you and all,” he began, reaching back to rub the back of his head— a nervous habit passed down for many Curtis generations, no doubt.
“But I just can’t help it when you scare me like that,” he stated with a bit more conviction. “You had me worried to all get out, and I was so close to callin’ the cops, Pony, I swear it.”
I knew this, knew that I’d put him through the ringer and more tonight. And yet, I couldn’t help but think that most of my friends probably walked in at 2am all the time. Hell, some were probably still out right now, livin’ it up like teenagers should. I swallowed the bitterness, and tried to see where my brother was coming from.
“I know,” I muttered, flicking my thumb against the sole of my shoe. I glanced up again at Johnny, huddled up under his jean jacket against the cold. It probably didn’t provide much warmth. Johnny could also stay out as long as he wanted—days even, and his parents wouldn’t give a lick. Did I really want that?
A wave of shame rolled in like a tidal wave, crashing over what little false reality of unfairness I had created. Sure, I didn’t have parents, but I had people who cared whether I was out or not. I couldn’t say the same for Johnny, or even the rest of our gang.
It was suddenly hard to breathe.
“If you know, Ponyboy,” Darry said quietly, “why do I have to keep gettin’ on you for the same things over and over again? I feel like a broken record sometimes.”
And he certainly wasn’t exaggerating, by any means. I had lost track of how many times we’d had this conversation. It was like a perfectly choreographed dance— every instance of my carelessness was met with Darry’s frustrated ‘Don’t you ever use your head?’ . Even in the complex footwork of our tumultuous relationship, there was my initial indignation at being treated like a child, the crescendo of our butting heads, and my eventual comeuppance. Yet, every time, I found myself back here, trying to explain a decision I hadn’t fully comprehended even making. Because, of course, I never used my head.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, voice grainy. What else could I say? It felt like my insides had been squeezed through a cheesecloth.
“It’s not enough,” he said. “I want you to make a better decision so you don’t have to be sorry.”
Yikes. “I—“
“They’ll take you away,” Darry cut in, staring out the windshield steadily. I didn’t like the thought that doing so was easier for him than having to face me. “I’m serious about that. It won’t take much. We’re barely scraping by, Soda dropped out, and our company ain’t the textbook example of a “nice young man”. If I can’t keep you in check, they’ll take you and Soda away from me.”
I heard the unspoken ‘Just like Mom and Dad’ loud and clear.
Two Bit kicked up a snore, and Johnny turned against a heavy gust of wind that shook the trees above our heads. This felt sacred, somehow, our quiet conversation nestled between the hushed stillness of this Tulsa night.
“I’ll do better,” I whispered.
Darry looked over at me, squeezing his lips together in a half smile. HIs hand grabbed mine, squeezing tightly. “I know you will, baby. I know you can.”
As we drove home with Two Bit snoring open mouthed in the backseat and a sleepy Johnny curled into the passenger seat, I couldn’t help but think that Darry hadn’t slept all night, either. And I knew, regardless of whether his eyes closed for more than a few seconds or his head ever hit a pillow, Darry would be up with the sun, reliable as the bong of an old grandfather clock.
Although I didn’t always agree with my brother, I felt a new understanding of him settle deep in my bones. I could do better, would do better.
Of course, that resolve did nothing to put a stopper in the visceral dread brewing deep in my stomach. I walked into our house, hearing Darry direct Johnny to go lay down with Soda and Two Bit to take the couch. Great, I’d have an audience.
I took a leak, and as I was washing my hands, saw a sallow-faced Two Bit stagger to the doorway in the reflection of the mirror.
“I need-“ he bit out, but I was already squeezing past the door frame.
“All yours!” I said, jogging down the short hallway into our living room. Darry had hung up his keys and was toeing off his work boots, and looked half-amused, half-fed up with Two Bit’s antics.
“I’m never gonna get that drunk,” I declared, sinking into the sofa. “I hate bein’ sick.”
“I ever see you even close to where he’s at, you’ll have a lot more to worry about than bein’ sick,” Darry threatened, pointing a finger at me. “You can ask Two Bit in the morning whether he thinks it was such a good idea.”
I wanted to snap back that I could get as drunk as I damn well pleased, but remembered our somber conversation a half hour earlier. I put my hands up, a rare white flag. “Alright, alright. I ain’t that dumb.”
Maybe fourteen year old me wasn’t that dumb, but fifteen year old me must have forgotten that proclamation. I’d come home even drunker than Two Bit, and Darry was right— being sick was the last thing on my mind when he was through with me.
Darry waved his hand in my general direction. “Go to my room and pick a corner. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Darry!” I groaned, thumping my shoes against the wood floor. It wasn’t stomping if I was sitting down, right?
“Now!” he exclaimed with a sharp snap.
There was no arguing with that. With all the dignity I could muster, I pulled myself off the couch and trudged to his bedroom. After toeing off my own shoes at his door, I walked until my feet met intersecting walls, and let out the biggest sigh. God, this would never cease to make me feel like a small child, not able to see anything that was going on, but so visible to everyone else— even in the privacy of Darry’s bedroom.
I wondered what the purpose of standing in the corner was, other than the lack of distraction. If anything, I felt more distracted, what with the forced blindness of the position. I jumped at the rattle of the heat kicking on, probably for the first time this Fall. I still wasn’t used to the whirring that dominated our little house, a luxury Daddy had surprised Momma with just a few short months before their deaths. Our home sat on old piers and beams, skirted with rusty, bent metal that did little to deter the harsh winds of the Great Plains. Our clapboard siding, while sturdy enough to keep the Big Bad Wolf at bay, as Momma had assured us when we were little, was not enough to keep us warm on icy nights.
When first installed, our mother had held steadfast to our radiators, not trusting the central heat. Forced air was just new-fangled and showy, she had griped, and our old house got along just fine with hot water radiators and thick quilts. Daddy had told us she was more upset that they had to give up half their closet to fit the large ducts.
Momma was always holding onto things like that. However old or outdated, familiarity always won out. Like her wallpaper. She always told us we’d be her babies until our souls left this earth, and even after that.
I sighed, feeling a wave of emotion hit me like that first night without her.
Naturally, Darry walked in then.
I heard him moving about his room, pulling open a drawer, muttering quietly to himself.
Finally, he beckoned me over with a quiet, “C’mere, Ponyboy.”
I turned around, teeth clenched in an effort to maintain my composure, and walked toward my brother, seated on the edge of his bed. There was no mistaking what was going to happen next. As I reached my designated spot between his knees, I saw something resting against his left thigh.
I gasped, taking a step back. My mother did like holding onto old things, especially those with sentimental value. Like my grandmother’s heavy, wooden hairbrush, which had paddled many bottoms into oblivion.
I’d felt it a few times from my mother, and even Darry once. Implements weren’t used often in our household, and the fact that Darry intended to use one spoke volumes.
In other words, I’d royally fucked up. It looked like I wasn’t the only one who’d come to a resolution tonight.
My oldest brother pulled me to stand back between his knees, and my heart began beating like a hummingbird’s rings. I met Darry’s determined gaze, trying to keep my tears at bay, and failing miserably.
“Kiddo, you know I don’t wanna do this,” Darry said softly, holding both my hands cradled in his own.
“Then don’t,” I choked out, swallowing around the lump in my throat.
I could see his bright eyes jumping here and there, searching my face for… what? Acceptance, resignation, anger, even?
I shifted my gaze to the deep lines etched in his forehead. Between Soda and me and the rest of the gang, it wouldn’t take long before those lines became permanent, etched like the deep crevices of the weathered rock paths in Death Valley.
I remembered in science class, they told us rocks expand and eventually crack from heat. I wasn’t surprised then, because Darry always had been hot headed. Right now, however, he looked just about burned out.
Had I done that?
I whimpered as the thought unleashed another wave of tears, hanging my head. Sure, whoopings hurt and left marks, but the evidence was always gone by the next day. My affect on Darry was permanent.
Rough thumbs rubbed away all traces of my sadness, and the same hand lifted my chin up.
“You’re a good kid, Ponyboy.” I shook my head in rebuttal, and he tutted in response. “You are . Sometimes, you just need a little help makin’ the right decisions.”
“Sometimes,” I muttered, resisting the urge to roll my eyes, even through my tears.
Darry chuckled in response. “You got a good head on your shoulders. Just sometimes, your screws get knocked a little loose. Like fallin’ asleep in a vacant lot…”
“Alright, alright,” I grumbled. “Rub it in, why don’t ya?” We laughed together, and I breathed in the relief this light moment brought to the ponderous night.
When we settled down, I knew it was time to face the music. And I guessed that I was as ready as I’d ever be.
Darry rubbed his hands against his jeans, swallowing audibly. “Well,” he began, steeling himself, just as I was. “Lose the jeans.”
Wasn’t that funny, the way we paralleled one another in this moment? He the giver, and I the receiver, but our nerves were shot and our regret was palpable, all the same.
I slowly unbuttoned my Levis and pushed them down to my mid-thigh, blushing profusely. I’d never get used to the feeling, the anticipation of preparing myself to be upended over my brother’s lap.
With a hand on the small of my back, Darry tipped me over his knee so my front half was resting on the bed and my legs were tucked under his left leg. To prevent kicking, I knew.
I buried my face in his comforter, smelling the soapy musk of Brylcreem–just like our Daddy used. Darry curled his fingers in the waistband of my underwear, yanking them down. He didn’t say anything, just began peppering my rear with harsh smacks.
As the sting settled in, he began his lecture. Well, lecture number three at this point, but who’s counting?
“If you wanna see the world outside of this house, you’re gonna have to learn to come home on time.”
“I know!” I exclaimed, wincing through my gritted teeth. I lifted my head to glare stoically at the cross stitch framed on the wall opposite. It was like when I ran– I just needed a focal point to keep from focusing on the pain. Maybe it was working–
“Ow!” I gasped, kicking my leg against a flurry of smacks aimed at the lower part of my butt. “Owwwww Darry, that hurts!” So much for stoicism.
“Damn right it does. But I’d much rather have you hurtin’ here than in some boys’ home.” Yikes, bring on the guilt, why don’t you, Darry?
Darry continued on for several minutes, until I was sniffling, but not full-on crying.
I felt Darry shift, and I knew exactly what he was doing. I tensed, grabbing onto the comforter with all my might. He rested the smooth wooden back of the hairbrush against my throbbing rear, and I couldn’t help the quiet sob that escaped.
“Next time you wanna stay out all night and worry me half to death, I want you to think about this.” With that, Darry raised the hairbrush high in the air–with a steely face of determination, I could only imagine–and brought it down smartly against my burning backside.
“Oh, ow , fuck, ow,” I choked out, scrambling for purchase. Holy hell, this hurt something awful. I’d forgotten just how heavy that damned thing was.
Darry landed an almighty swat to my thigh. “Watch your mouth, little boy.” He moved back up to my rear, landing several more hard smacks. “You want me to wash it out with soap after this, huh?”
“No sir!” I wailed, bucking up against his hold. With a mind of its own, my hand flew back to cover my right cheek; it was hot to the touch.
Darry grunted, tugging loosely at my wayward wrist. “Move your hand,” he said sternly.
“No,” I wailed desperately. I wasn’t sure what had gotten into me, and Darry clearly hadn’t either.
“You don’t tell me ‘no’, Ponyboy Michael. Have you lost your mind?” He pulled more firmly at my wrist, and secured it in the small of my back. I twisted my hand around to hold his, and he let me.
Darry sighed and popped me again, and I let out an accompanying wail. “If you hadn’t held us up, we’d probably be done by now.”
And if you didn’t insist on being so hands-on, I wouldn’t be too sore to sit in class tomorrow.
“I’m sorry!” I cried, sobbing for all I was worth. Darry continued to paddle my behind until I was sure he’d spanked a whole layer of skin off, overlapping aching areas with more burning smacks.
The hairbrush was loud, much louder than this hand, and for the first time, I thought of the other three occupants of the house. I’d never be able to show my face again– in my own home .
“Next time you go somewhere without telling me or come in past curfew, I’m not even gonna wait til’ we get home to wear your little behind out. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir!” I howled, collapsing into the bed and squeezing his hand with all my might.
“Alright then,” Darry said quietly, landing one last hefty smack, and dropping the hairbrush to the bed. As always when the spanking stopped, I was painfully aware of how loud and uncontrollable my sobs were. The harsh paddling he’d given me with the hairbrush, coupled with the emotional toll of our night, had made me practically inconsolable. As a fourteen year old whose reputation would be on the line at the sight of a single tear, I didn’t like feeling so helpless.
I gulped down air, pressing my fists against my eyes until fireworks of bright light erupted. I willed them to distract me from the agonizing pain in my rear. How was I going to sit in class tomorrow? How was I going to sit ever again?
My crying was still going strong, and I felt the beginnings of a headache creeping around my temples. I immediately unclenched my teeth from my raw lip, hoping this would ease some of its onslaught.
Darry carefully pulled my underwear back up, keeping the fabric as stretched as he could before releasing the waistband gently. Despite his efforts, I still winced at the cotton prison that now encased my blazing behind. I thought again of heat expansion and cracks, and wondered if my rear actually did match Darry’s face. Maybe one day, he’d just be smacking away and my butt would crumble to dust. Wouldn’t that be something?
I giggled at the thought, pressing my fists harder into my sockets. The fireworks grew from white to pink and yellow in my peripheral vision.
“What’s so funny, honey?” Darry questioned, rubbing my back and patting intermittently.
“That rhymes. Ha,” I said through shuddering breaths and a blocked nose.
Darry snorted, and lifted me from under my arms to sit in his lap. “You ain’t makin’ no sense, kiddo.”
I sniffled, trying to grin through the tears. My eyes felt red and raw– well really, I just fell raw and wrung out all over, and dead tired. “Just channeling Two Bit from earlier.”
Darry rolled his eyes– why was no one around to scold him for that— and shook out his hand playfully. “Don’t even remind me. I need time to recover before dealing with that hooligan.”
My eyes edged to the other side of his leg, where the hairbrush rested, surprisingly free of any cracks. “Well, you’ve always got that,” I muttered, mostly joking. I didn’t want to think of any of the gang having to endure that evil thing.
Darry hummed in fake approval, but had that faraway look in his eyes again. I knew, after this stunt, Two Bit would be getting a proper whoopin’, and neither one of us wanted to think about that right now.
We were quiet for a few minutes, Darry rocking me and playing with my hair as my breathing became more even and my tears dried out. I wished the sting would fade as well, but that only seemed to be growing into a more persistent ache, thrumming like its own heartbeat.
“Pony?” Darry asked quietly, as if to check if I was still awake.
“Yeah?” I whispered.
“I am sorry I hollered at you like that.” He ran his hand down my cheek, over and over, and my eyes closed of their own accord.
“S’okay,” I muttered. “I’m sorry I stayed out. Won’t do it again.”
“I hope so,” he muttered softly, almost a croon. “But even if you do, I’ll always be here.”