7.
1009 Words
Maggie
It’s just shy of 10 p.m. when I finally drag myself out of what was supposed to be a twenty-minute power nap.
My mouth feels like it’s lined with cotton, and my head has that dull, leaden throb that only comes from sleeping way past the point of refreshment. I fumbled for my phone. Nothing. No missed calls, no "we’re staying out" texts from Ana.
After a quick, aggressive rinse with mouthwash, I pad down the hallway and made for the stairs. The house is too quiet.
I find David on the couch in the living room.
He’s passed out, his head tilted back at an angle. His arms are knotted across his chest, and the TV is flickering on mute, casting a ghostly blue strobe across his face. There are shadows under his eyes that look like bruises. It’s the kind of exhaustion that doesn't go away just because you closed your eyes for an hour.
I freeze in the archway. Part of me wants to wake him, to tell him his neck is going to be wrecked; the other part wants to vanish back upstairs before he realizes I’m standing here like a stalker.
He stirs before I can make the choice.
"Maggie?" His voice is a gravelly rasp, thick with sleep.
"I didn't mean to wake you," I say, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. "Sorry."
"No... no, it's fine." He shifts, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You okay? Need something?"
Yeah. You.
The thought hits me with a physical thud. I swallow it down, hard, before it can leak into my expression.
"No," I say, my throat tight. "I’m fine."
He nods slowly, his brain still catching up, and then he reaches out and pats the cushion beside him. "Sit."
I take it.
My heart is doing this annoying, rhythmic thumping against my ribs.
"Can’t sleep?" he asks, his voice smoothing out.
"Napped too hard," I admit, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "I think the nap stole my actual night’s sleep as a ransom."
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. "Yeah. I know that feeling. You must’ve been running on empty."
"Not really. Considering that I didn't even go to work today."
"Work?" He frowns, finally looking at me properly.
"At the café," I say. I hesitate, then add, "Well... the club café. When there’s a gig."
He blinks, the sleep finally leaving his eyes. "Oh."
It’s a flat word. Neutral. But I see the way his jaw tightens.
"Oh," I echo, trying to sound breezy. "I thought Ana might’ve mentioned it. It’s not a big deal, though. Just a job."
"Right," he says. "No big deal."
Is that disappointment? Judgment? My stomach does a nervous little flip. Why do I even care?
"Did either of them check in?" he asks, pivoting the conversation.
"No. I tried Ana. She’s probably buried her phone in her bag."
He exhales, a long, weary sound, and stares at the dark TV screen. "Doesn't look like they're coming home tonight."
"Looks that way," I mutter, tracing the seam of the sofa with my thumb.
He stays quiet for a beat, then turns his head to look at me. "You should try to get some more rest, Maggie."
"I can't. I've still got assignments hanging over my head."
He studies me for a second, then pushes himself off the couch with a grunt. "Would tea help?"
"Yes," I say, a little too fast. "Definitely."
He heads for the kitchen, and I follow a step behind. The overhead light clicks on, softer than the living room glow, warmer. It makes the space feel smaller. More private.
David fills the kettle at the sink.
“Chamomile okay?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s perfect.”
He nods and sets the kettle on the stove, then reaches for two mugs from the cabinet above him. I notice absurdly that he grabs them without looking, like muscle memory. Like this kitchen knows him.
I lean against the counter, folding my arms loosely, trying not to stare. Trying and failing.
“Careful,” he says as he hands me a mug. “It’s hot.”
"Thanks." I murmur
"You're Welcome."
“So,” he says, quieter now. “You’re handling everything okay? Being here. With… all this.”
“Yeah,” I say honestly. “I am.”
He nods. “Good.”
He lifts his own mug but doesn’t drink yet. Just hold it, watching the steam curl upward.
Then headlights sweep across the kitchen window.
We both look up.
Ana and Nate must be back.
David straightens, slips back into dad-mode like muscle memory. I set my mug down quietly.
Ana walks in first looking tired, but not frantic like how she left. Nate is behind her with his hood up so I can't even see his face.
“Ana,” David says.
“We’ll talk in the morning, Dad. I'm literally about to crash," Ana responds.
Nate’s already trudging upstairs without a word to his Dad. I feel so bad for David even though I know that fights like this are normal in families.
I whispered goodnight to David and then follow Ana to the room. I don’t want to bother her with questions, especially now that she looks tired.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask
She plops onto her bed. “Yeah dude. Just Dad and Nate’s drama and then there’s me caught in between. And honestly, neither of them are wrong, but I don’t know why I always feel like I have to side with Nate. He’s had it worse than all of us since Mom died, so yeah, even if he's wrong, we can't just team up against him.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” I say
"Goodnight Dude, wake me up in case my alarm fails."
"Aren't you going to change out of those clothes?"
"Hell no, I'm too tired dude."
"Alright then. Goodnight."
- Writer
