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“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”
Robin’s doing that thing where she doesn’t really address Nancy, just sort of allows her words to float into their silence. Nancy crawls over to the edge of her bed and stares at Robin, who’s resolutely studying some spot in the pattern the popcorn ceilings make. Nancy’s not sure how she isn’t also freaking out about the chemistry test they have Monday, but Robin’s study habits have always mystified her.
“I didn’t know that, actually. When did this happen?”
“It’s kind of a frequent occurrence. I don’t think you’ve ever said anything super coherent, but it happens pretty much every time I stay over.” She rolls her head over and finally makes eye contact from her spot on the floor. That toothy smirk that makes something in Nancy’s chest flutter creeps onto her face before she adds, “You may have said my name a time or two.”
Of course she would have said Robin’s name. Lately it seems like all she’s capable of thinking about is Robin; the way Robin always walks her to her English class despite the fact that the band room is on the other side of the building, the little tap tap tap she does on the window when she comes over too late to use the front door, the fact that she is permanently invited to dinner because she helps with the dishes every time. Every tiny detail about Robin that could possibly be soaked up has etched itself into Nancy’s brain.
“I must have been dreaming about birds. Did you know some robins migrate here all the way from Alaska?”
“I can’t imagine actually wanting to migrate to Indiana.”
There’s an air of defeat in Robin’s tone and Nancy almost feels bad about the obvious deflection, but she knows neither of them can go there. Well, not again.
Robin jumps to her feet and flops down on Nancy’s bed, scattering the neat pile of notes Nancy had been poring over. She knew when Robin had come over to “help Nancy study for the test on Monday, Mrs. Wheeler” very little would get accomplished, so she sweeps the papers onto the floor and sits next to Robin, poking her softly in the side.
“Have you made any progress on going through the stuff in your attic?”
Robin lights up as she recounts the latest treasures she’d dug up from her parents’ hippie days. Nancy’s pretty sure she would do just about anything to get to see Robin like this – eyes bright and voice loud, hands moving almost as fast as her words.
Several hours later – after a brief stint where Nancy pretended to study and her mom insisted Robin stay for dinner – they’re back in Nancy’s room, once again lying on the floor. There’s a mixtape Robin made for her playing softly in the background and the scene is so familiar and comforting it’s almost painful. Nancy could probably count on one hand the number of days that they haven't done this in the last three weeks. Robin would come over and they would spend the whole time hovering just out of reach of one another, orbiting but never breaching the space they’d created. It was starting to drive Nancy crazy.
She idly watches the hands on the clock move, counting down the minutes until Robin would inevitably get up and try to climb out of her window. Midnight rolls around and Robin makes a show of getting up and stretching.
“I swear, most of my back problems can be blamed on that stretch of your floor.”
“We could always hang out on my bed, you know that.”
“You’re a blanket hog, Wheeler, one of the worst cases I’ve ever had to deal with.”
There’s so much affection laced in Robin’s teasing, it makes Nancy’s chest squeeze with the weight of her unspoken feelings.
“I could grab you an extra blanket, if you wanted to stay. It’s technically already Saturday, I don’t see why you couldn’t just stay here since we have plans for this afternoon.”
She bats her eyes and watches Robin pretend to think it over. It’s all a formality, the squeezing of a brake that is quickly wearing, slowing them but never enough to stop.
“Only if you promise I can use the fuzzy red blanket.”
“You really do drive a hard bargain.”
And just like that they fall back into their routine. Robin grabs the sweatpants and t-shirt that live in Nancy’s dresser and heads to the bathroom down the hall to change. Nancy meets her there a few minutes later. Robin makes goofy faces at Nancy in the mirror while they brush their teeth, her repertoire seemingly endless. They make their way back to Nancy’s room, pausing at the linen closet to get the blanket Robin had requested.
“Robin, can you help me over here? I think Mike put your blanket on the top shelf of the closet.”
“Asshole move, taking advantage of your height like that.” Robin’s voice is low, trying not to wake anyone up in the nearly silent house, and it makes Nancy shiver.
“Shut up and come help me.”
Nancy can feel the heat Robin always seems to radiate directly behind her, acutely aware of the lack of space between the two of them. The hall is barely lit by a single night light that doesn’t even reach the closet. Robin starts blindly groping along the top shelf, leaning against Nancy as she does. It’s embarrassing really, the way such a small amount of contact makes her want to turn around and shatter whatever veneer of boundaries they’ve constructed. Robin’s hands snag on something and she pulls away, triumphant.
“I’m going to sneak this home with me someday,” Robin whispers in her ear with mock solemnity. Robin’s joke snaps whatever tension Nancy had felt and she rolls her eyes instead, flashing a brief smile. Robin ties the blanket around her shoulders like a cape, which makes Nancy giggle, the burst of sound reminding them that the house around them is still silent.
She grabs Robin’s wrist and gently pulls them toward her room. She feels a flush of heat that makes her fingertips tingle and briefly wonders if Robin can feel the tension that sparks at the contact. She hastily drops Robin’s wrist and that line of thinking as they pull back the covers on opposite sides of the bed. Robin makes a show of wrapping the red blanket around her before pulling the covers up to her chin and Nancy can’t suppress her fond eye roll.
Nancy flicks her lamp off before crawling into bed and settling on the edge of the mattress. It’s just another step in their process. After politely shifting around, Nancy brushes her foot against Robin’s calf, which is followed by an exaggerated hiss.
“Jesus, Nance, was that your foot or did you bring an ice pack to bed?”
“I guess I’m just cold.”
“You’re lucky you have someone so willing to share their fuzzy red blanket with you.”
“Actually,” Nancy says as she scoots closer to Robin, “it’s my fuzzy red blanket.”
Nancy sinks into Robin, who automatically shifts to tuck the two of them together.
“Let’s not be hasty, now. In fact, I think a compromise could be reached.”
“Do you want to split weekends and weekdays?”
“Only if you meet me half way for the drop off and I get it on New Year’s Eve.”
“Hmm, I think that could be arranged.”
Their conversation dies out after that and Nancy tries to memorize everything about this moment. They do this often, but it always feels so fragile, like one wrong breath or a small shift in their routine would bring the whole thing crashing down.
Sometimes it feels like her whole world revolves around these moments.
She focuses on the comforting weight of Robin’s arm across her waist and the way she can feel every deep breath Robin takes. Their legs are tangled together and Nancy’s toes no longer feel cold against Robin’s skin. Nancy laces their fingers together and reverently brushes the tip of her nose against their knuckles, not quite brave enough to let her lips touch the skin she so desperately wants.
She pushes down the urge to turn around and watch the way Robin’s face glows in the bright beam of moonlight that’s splashed its way across their bed. Robin’s not as heavy of a sleeper as Nancy and she’s always afraid that moving more than a little will wake her up and they’ll end up on opposite sides of the bed again. She’s content to imagine Robin’s freckles if it means there’s no risk of missing the way she loses track of where she ends and Robin begins.
Nancy doesn’t realize she was asleep until she’s awake again, the morning sun pushing at her eyelids, reminding her that she cannot stay in bed all day. Nancy pulls the covers over her head to block out the light and lets out a violent shiver. The bed is always so much colder after Robin leaves.
This is the step that kills her; the rinse and repeat. Robin promised to meet her for lunch and Nancy knows she’ll be there, fidgeting with the cheese and pepper shakers at their regular booth. The same way she knew Robin would crawl out of her window just as the sun started to come up. Their routine is rigid, but safe. It’s something consistent in a way that should be comforting, but really makes her feel like maybe she’s drowning a little bit.
Drowning in the hope that Robin would stay, in the need to kiss her. Nancy is being pulled so far down by her perpetual dedication to keeping things familiar that she knows she will run out of air if she doesn’t reach the surface soon.
Later that afternoon, as the last glowing rays of the sun paint the walls of her room in orange, Robin lays on her bedroom floor and she knows with a sinking certainty that she will always crave the dip of the mattress in the mornings, missing Robin like a phantom limb.