Find You in the Dark

a chocolate cake and plates.
    Clay had left right after dinner, despite me asking him to stay and watch a movie. I think he wanted to get away from my dad's eagle-eyed stare. I walked him to his car and stood in the driveway with my arms wrapped around me. It was chilly and I could see my breath.
    “Sorry if that was weird.” I said as Clay got into his car. Clay shrugged. “It was fine, Maggie. I'll talk to you later.” And with that he left. And I hadn't heard from him for the rest of the weekend. I had tried calling him all day on Sunday, but his phone kept going straight to voice mail.
    But then Monday morning, Clay was at my locker like nothing had happened. We never mentioned the dinner again. My mom had let me know that Clay was welcome at the house. My dad had stayed resolutely silent.
    But I made sure Clay only came around when I knew my dad was at work. Clay never questioned why I was specific about the times he could come over. I don't think he wanted a repeat encounter with my dad.
    But he had started waiting for me to get out of cross country practice so he could take me home when he wasn't working at Ruby's shop. Today, he had brought over his Calculus homework and was trying to get it done while I worked on dinner. My mom was going to be home late and dad was still at the library.
    Clay tried to stifle a huge yawn. He was looking haggard today. I reached over and ruffled his hair and he smiled at me. “You look tired.” I commented. Clay rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and sat up straight, trying to wake himself up. “It's one of the side effects of my medication. Extreme lethargy . Sure I'm out like a brick at night. But I could probably sleep all day as well.” He looked at me as if to say, see, this is why I hate being on medication.
    Wanting to change the subject, I put the vegetables I was chopping up in the pot on the stove and set it to simmer. “Come up to my room. I want to show you this dress. It's hysterical!” Clay got to his feet. He curled his arm around my waist and pulled me into his side. My breath hitched in my throat. I always got this way when he decided to be touchy feely. Which was a lot more frequently now, I noted with giddiness.
    “Your bedroom, huh? You sure you want me up there?” His voice was husky and I had to stop myself from shivering. Damn straight I wanted him in my room. I wanted him in my room, naked, and in my bed, preferably.
    I flushed at my rated R thoughts. I gave him a playful shove. “Just come on.” I tried to affect a playful tone and led him to the stairs. Clay had never been upstairs in my house. Maybe because having him in my bedroom felt too intimate. There was this unspoken line between Clay and I that we were both hesitant to cross.
    Sure we were close; he had become one of my best friends. But it didn't stop me from lusting after him and wanting something so much more. And some instinct told me that he felt the same. Even when he could have any girl in the school, he chose to spend his time with me.
    But we were still holding back. Clay was still trying to get a handle on his issues, trying to do what he needed to do to be healthy. There were days that he still fell into depressions, times he shut me out completely, even with the medicine. I had talked to him about going to see a therapist. I knew he needed more than the medicine to get a handle on things.
    To say Clay was unwilling was a bit of an understatement. He had told me emphatically that he had had his fill of “head doctors” when he was hospitalized. I tried to not get frustrated with how stubborn he was about his mental health. But he was insistent, stating he knew what he needed and the meds were enough.
    Though I didn't believe him, and I suspected there were still days he didn't take them. I hated not trusting him about something so important but I knew he still hid so much.
    “This is your room?” He asked in surprise. “Yeah.” I said defensively. Now I remembered the other reason I had never let him up here. The excessive amount of pink left over from my childhood was more than a little humiliating.
    Clay went over to my window seat and picked up Mr. Prickles, my stuffed porcupine. “Cute.” He said wryly. I grabbed Mr. Prickles from his hands and hugged him to my chest. “Don't make fun of Mr. Prickles. He is priceless.” I put the porcupine on my dresser and turned to my closet. “I wouldn't dream of making fun of Mr. Prickles.” He joked,