Everything is Unreasonable.

I awake abruptly at half past three, bone tired and unable to fall back into slumber. I lie there, sprawled across the mattress and on my back, thinking and dreaming up ideas of when I’ll finally leave this place behind. But mostly I think. I think about my parents’ divorce first; I had told my mother that I understood, but, truthfully, I don’t. I know that they’ve been having problems and arguing quietly when they think my siblings and I are asleep, but I suppose I just didn’t think it’s been that bad. I sigh heavily and try to think about anything but the divorce; think about the party, I tell myself.

Albeit I can keep my mind off the divorce, the bubbles of dread and unease still churn my stomach. When I can’t distract myself and grow bored with thinking and dreaming, I roll onto my back and turn on the lamp by the couch. The light spreads eerie shadows across my mattress and causes my eyes to cringe at the sudden light. I grab my book from the dresser to my left when the light isn’t too painful on my retinas. I flip to a dog eared page and begin to read.

The book’s plastic jacket crinkles with my every move and with every flip of the pages. I’d swiped the book a long while ago, at a time when I had lost my library card but wanted a book. I simply took it but just now got around to reading it. The librarians may be unaware of my less-than-ethical checking out of the book, but I pay no heed to the obvious fact. I do intend to return it and therefore it shouldn’t matter how I came across it.

Fatigue overcomes me once again when the sun begins to shine through the windows above the television across from my bed. I burrow under blankets and try for sleep again. As they were the first time, my attempts are in vain. Defeated, I rise from the cocoon and get dressed and go outside, walking down the warm asphalt road to your house. I know you won’t be awake, but I go over anyway because you’ll need some help nursing a nasty hangover. I circle your house and kneel outside the window to your basement bedroom.

“Lyss, open up,” I shout, rapping on the window with a tight fist.

I wait. After three muffled thumps, the light flickers on. Leaning closer to the window, I watch you walk across your room. Your hair is a mess and your eyes are bleary as you step back onto your bed and look at me through the dusty glass. With a glare, you pry it open, crumbling and flopping onto your back once the window is opened.

“We need to talk,” I say as I slide through the narrow opening. I nearly lose my balance and topple onto you—an event that surely would have turned the barely civil meeting into an exasperated war.

“Ask Garrett,” you groan. Curling into the fetal position, you bury your face into a pillow and choosing, in your sickly state, to ignore my presence.

I sigh. Without leaving your bed, I sit against the wall, allowing my head to loll back as I wait for you to become social. It takes all five minutes before you spring from your mattress, running from your room to the bathroom. I’m at your heel and hold your hair as you empty the contents of your stomach into the basin of the toilet. Once you’re done, I stand and hand you a tissue and your toothbrush.

“Thanks,” you cough miserably into the tissue, flushing it along with the bile.

“Now will you talk to me?” I ask, stepping away from the sink for you to reach it.

You squeeze a bead of toothpaste onto the brush and wet it, sticking it in your mouth before even beginning to answer.

“I guess,” you answer with the toothbrush still in your mouth, garbling your words.

I explain what had happened the night before, sharing the unpleasant news that had been delivered to me through my mother. With a sympathetic gaze, you frown and rub my shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, John,” you tell me. “Pat’s parents got divorced when he was younger, remember? He and Tim are fine.”

“I know,” I mumble. “I just thought my parents would work it out. But, at least Mom told me about it.”

Falling silent, you simply nod and offer a helpless shrug, unable to help me further. To change the subject, I offer to make breakfast. At seven we go upstairs and you help me find everything to make pancakes before going to wake Garrett. His hangover’s nausea isn’t as severe as yours, but a splitting headache causes him to bury his face into his arms when he sits at the kitchen table. I saunter over to him, hunching over his chair and winding my arms loosely around his form.

“Good morning,” I whisper against the hallow of his ear, kissing just below the lobe.

Garrett groans in response, nuzzling into the crook of his elbow. I breathe a laugh against his skin and drum my fingers over his ribcage before retracting and ruffling his hair. You are unfazed by our closeness, simply going about the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the tap and downing it as you overlook our interactions. I knead my hands against Garrett’s shoulders in attempts to soothe him as I allow my gaze to lock with yours.

“You up for some breakfast?” I ask you.

Once you’ve set the now empty glass down, you reply: “I think I can hold it down…”

Nodding, I cease Garrett’s massage—pulling another muffled groan from his lips—and walk to the fridge. I gather the best of the breakfast foods: eggs, bacon, sausage, milk and orange juice. From the pantry, you retrieve a ziplock bag containing a few biscuits, a jar of jam and cereal. Within minutes, you’re perched on the counter while I fry the bacon and eggs in a pan.

“So, John,” you say as you gnaw on the first piece of cooked bacon. “About this party shindig next weekend…”

I raise my eyebrows at you, expectant. Behind your shoulder, Garrett remains curled over the table, face pressed to his arms. I can’t help but smile lightly, but return my complete attention to you.

“Are you sure it’s gonna be safe?” you ask, trepidation evident in your voice and in your body language. After setting the half-eaten strip on the paper towel beside you, you hunch your shoulders and your back, picking at a loose thread on your pants.

“As safe as any other party is, Lyss,” I answer. And how I was wrong…