Made

He was surprised when Jen showed up at his doorstep carrying a small, black suitcase. Laila was upstairs, and he was only in a pair of dark grey sweatpants, staggering from lack of sleep and the contrast of the light of the sun and the dark of his home.

"Hey," she said, cautiously juggling the suitcase. "I just."

He stepped aside to let her in, gently taking the suitcase from her hands.

"So," she said, the beginning of tears in her eyes, though she tries to smile. "I guess you saw."

He wrapped her into a tight hug, murmuring apologies and stroking her hair. She pulled away after a second, and shook her head.

"It's stupid," she said. "It's just that I broke up with Nick, and then this happened, and I feel like I'm being punished, and it's so stupid."

She shook her head again, and he led her over to the couch.

"How about I make you a drink?" he asked.

She nodded, and he trotted upstairs to put her suitcase in an empty room, and to say something to Laila.

"Jen's here," he said, stepping into her room.

She was on her phone, talking to someone, and quickly hung up when he walked in.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Jen's here?" she said, ignoring him.

"Yeah. She's upset, so we're just gonna be downstairs. Who was that?"

"It was just a friend. Malcolm."

He frowned. He'd heard that name before, in no good context. Malcolm was a thief, and terrible at it. He was always getting arrested.

"I don't like you hanging out with him."

"Thanks, Dad."

He scowled at her.

"I have to go out, so have fun here." He nodded, not wanting to argue with her, when he still had Jen to cheer up.

"Just, not with Malcolm."

"It's just Cook," she said, which didn't make him feel any better. Cook was a name that came up in her file twice, both on hospital visits. But he didn't have the energy to delve into it.

"Leave out the back," he said.

Laila nodded, her eyes going back to her phone.

Jen had turned on the television when he got back downstairs.

"Did you get lost?" she joked.

"No, just putting your suitcase in a room."

He stepped over to the bar to get her a beer, then plopped down on the sofa beside her.

"What are we watching?" he asked.

She pressed a button on the remote.

"Something called Troy." She scoffed. "I honestly just turned on the tv."

He handed her the beer, and took a sip of one he had taken for himself.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asked.

"No, I want to drink about it."

Four hours later, they were both wasted. Jen was finishing up a story about the time Nick almost got into a fight with a mime in France, and he was laughing, and realized he was never as entertained as anyone as he was by Jen. She really was something special.

Their laughter died down, and he looked at her, really looked at her. She was so beautiful and kind and sweet, and she didn't deserve this. He reached over to brush a strand of hair out of her face, and cupped her cheek.

She tasted like alcohol when she kissed him, and she was so drunk that this was a bad idea, but he was so drunk that he didn't care. She ran her fingers over his shirtless torso.

"I've always wanted to touch you," she murmured against his mouth.

They fucked frantically, like there was nothing else in the world, not a single thing that existed other than the two of them in that space and time. He wanted to savor it forever. He threw up in the sink.

In the morning, neither of them talked about it. Jen stayed four more days, and it didn't happen again.

He was still drinking about it a few weeks later, and Laila picked up on it.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I did something stupid." He took a sip of whiskey.

Laila muted the old episode of Skins she was watching, and turned to look at him. He couldn't look back at her. Something told him not to, a pulling in his gut that said he had done wrong by her, and he listened to it. He felt like throwing up again.

"How stupid?"

He still couldn't look at her. "Jen," he murmured. "It didn't - It wasn't. I don't know what happened."

"She's not with anyone anymore."

He shook his head. "I think I've really fucked up."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Laila had turned away from him.

"How was she?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Laila let out a short laugh. "Because I'm a fucking caveman."

He finally turned to look at her. She was looking up at the ceiling, and he got the distinct feeling she was directing her ire to a higher power, like children do.

"Laila," he began.

"I'm such a fucking idiot," she said.

He reached out towards her, but she shrank away.

"Please don't touch me right now," she said. She was still looking up, and he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

The logical side of his mind said that she had no right to be upset. They weren't dating. But he felt ill, he felt responsible for this. He had done this to her. He knew it was illogical, but it felt like he had cheated. He supposed he had.

"Laila."

"You know, when I was seventeen I had sex with this married guy. He was my boss and he was so handsome and sweet, and I just did it. And he told me he loved me. When I was nineteen, I said I would never get tricked like that again."

"Laila."

"I'm such an idiot."

"I'm so sorry," he said.

"Don't do that," she said. She was finally looking at him again. "Don't patronize me."

"I-"

Laila got up and walked upstairs.

He followed behind her, not wanting this to end, just waiting for her to take her reaction out on him.

When he finally caught up to her, she was in her bed, curled up.

"What is it about me?" she asked. "What is it that makes me inferior to her?"

He couldn't say anything, couldn't think of anything that would make this better, would make her stop hurting. She just looked at him in the dark of her bedroom.

He slid down against the door frame, ending up on the hard wood of the floor.

"Laila."

"No," she said. "It's okay. You should go after her. She won't be single for long, you know."

He shook his head. "I don't want that."

"You do. You just haven't figured it out yet. You were into her when I first met you. I remember."

"It wasn't like that."

She laughed. "You picked a strange girl up from the airport because she asked you to." Laila sat up, the duvet hanging off of her shoulder. "You have to go after her."

"I don't want her."

"Fass. Michael."

He got up on his knees and crawled to her bed. "I don't want her."

Laila wasn't crying. There were no indicators on her face that she was sad or upset, but he knew it. He could just tell. He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away again.

"I shouldn't have come here," she murmured.

He put his hand out, and she let it touch her shoulder. Then her arm, then her waist. He kissed her like his life depended on it, committed to savoring this, the taste of her, forever. Her hands went to his chest, as though she was pushing him away, but she acquiesed, and allowed him to get into the bed with her.

It was the closest he came to making love to someone. He fucked her like he was trying to convince her that he had feelings for her, and he technically was. He wasn't sure what was at stake, but it felt like a lot.

When he woke up in the morning, Laila was gone.