Gosh. She said that in such raw and unfiltered way. My cheeks heats up. I was really kinda looking forward to... nevermind now.
"Don't mind her. She is so crazy." He huffs. I don't think refuting his statement about calling his mother crazy would sit well with him right now. He looks so pissed. This is the first I have seen him like this. His jaw tenses. I nearly trip over the stairs from the way he is pulling me along with him. He doesn't look back to see if I am okay. He just pulls me back up. He is taking long strides and holding my wrist firm in such a way that I can't even rotate it. I can't help but think and wonder what the problem is between him and his mother. I have never seen or heard of a mother and child bond like this one. If it can even be called a bond. What could have resulted to it? The woman is sassy and... how do I put it? Unapologetically cool and a little nasty from my first impression perspective. But I find her incredibly cool and fresh from typical Mothers of young adult kids. Some style their partially grey hair in loose or tight buns. Wear dull, unattractive clothes, hang spectacles on the bridge of their noses, looking like no nonsense disciplinarians. I draw an unlikely conclusion that he might have been physically abused by his mother. And the most likely one that it might have something to do with his parents divorce. He once mentioned that they divorced when he was really young. He was vague about it and did not give details about what led it on and how old he was at the time. But I am guessing age 4-5 since he used the words really young. What ever then happened must have really broken him.
"Keep your meddling helping and problem solving tendencies to yourself. He doesn't need it right now." My subconscious tells m. And I have to listen. We get to a small passageway, and he opens a door and go in. It was dark, I hear him flip a switch and the lights came on. He finally lets go of my wrist and sits grumpily on an armchair. I rotate my wrists, checking to see if it was broken. No breaks. But there is a red grip mark on the skin around there.
I lean against the door and watch him silently. And at the same time checking out his room. Everything is all white except for the grey rug on which the bed is sitting on. There isn't an aesthetic to it. Just clean, sterile, and perfect. I was kind of expecting his room to scream untidy masculinity like Dylan's. Shirts and boxer briefs and condoms lying carelessly all around. Baseballs and posters of famous athletes plastered on the wall. There is none of that in this room. I held my breath as my eyes landed on the small piano at the corner of the room. Piano. I have always wanted to play the piano. Freddy distracts my focus from it by speaking,
"Sorry you had to see that."
"No problem. You saw my family fiasco too, so we are even." I shrug. Wait, did I just say my family? I guess I need to lie down and sleep. It is far into the night now. I haven't really slept well in three days. Freddy's late night chats tradition and frequently updating my lagging pace fanfiction has made me sleep deprived. Touching and possible sleeping together is out of the picture. His mother's words and the pissed guy sitting a few steps away has put an embargo on that.
I threw my backpack on the floor and jump into the bed. I roll repeatedly from side to side. The bed is bouncy. It must feel great during sex. Him hooking my knees on his arms and pounding in and out-- I stop imagining at once when I hear his voice.
"Did you say something?"
"How do you like my room?" He asks. "If you are not comfortable we can go to another room."
"There is no need to. It's great. I think it is the most perfect guy's room I'll ever see." I smile.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well I don't like it." He deapans, solving a Rubik's cube. "The woman you met downstairs requested for it to be designed like this.
Having her only her and my Dad's bedroom painted in her favorite color wasn't enough for her."
She is cntrolling. I see. "Should have told her you didn't like it." I said simply. "Or didn't she care what you wanted?"
"Bingo." He suddenly says in an accomplished tone.
"Oh my God. Wow." I sit up on the bed. My widened eyes stuck on the Rubik's cube. "How did you do that so soon? Where did you learn how to do it?" I am amazed. The once scattered colors were now in perfect arrangements on each sides. Bravo. He solved it in barely two minutes! I had one myself too. I got fed up and threw it out along with the trash when I could not solve it even once. I kept it for over two weeks before getting frustrated with it.
"I learned it from someone." He glances at his phone. "1 minute, 58 seconds. Why can't I do it in less than a minute?" He said in a disgrunting manner.
"You did very great. Most people can't solve it at all much less be that quick."
"There is this friend of mine who does it in seconds. He is really good at it. I have been trying to beat his record for years now."
I simply hum in response. Then I get the feeling to ask what his favorite color is.
"Favorite color? My favorite color." He repeats. He currently has the exact look of when one is trying to think or recall something. Does anyone need to think when asked about their favorite color?