14. Harvey

14

HARVEY

What the fuck am I doing?

I've asked myself those same six words on repeat for the last ten minutes we've been in the car. I despise this girl, and yet, I'm driving her home. The bubbling of feelings is too immense to ignore, but I'm certain this is hate. This is loathing, this is… inexplicably the most annoying person I've ever met, and she's stuck in my brain.

She doesn't even know it.

I have the music blaring loud. Gorillaz is drowning out any possibility of conversation, though I'm safe in assuming she isn't planning to start any. Nia stares out the window with a blank expression on her face; I can't tell if she's high, or if it's the same emptiness I feel too.

Funny how the same wound can cause two completely different reactions. She's filling that hole up with whatever she can to numb the pain. I'm carving it deeper, wider, until it consumes me, and there's no one and nothing left for me when I'm done.

She points every now and then, letting me know where to turn until we've made it downtown. It's getting really familiar with every new turn, and then she says, "It's the red brick on the left."

"That's K-Otic's place." I've only been there once or twice to drop off Lonnie, but I wouldn't forget it, wouldn't get something like that confused.

"Yeah," she says, real quiet again, and the confirmation feels sharp in my gut.

When I pull into the driveway, she gives me a look full of hesitation, but then she shakes it off and reaches for the handle. It sticks the way it always does. I undo my seatbelt, reaching over her to pull it the exact way it needs to open the door.

"Thank you." It comes out of her in a breathy whisper that sounds too intimate.

"Hey," I call out to her before she has a chance to fully step out of the car. "Give me your phone."

Turning to face me, she says nothing, but she pulls it out and hands it to me. I enter my number, blocking out my own inner turmoil that tells me this girl is bad news.

I know she's bad news.

"Next time you go put that shit up your nose." The words are coming out of me before I have a chance to fully think through them. "Call me." I grimace at my own offer. "Or something."

"Yeah?" She furrows her eyebrows. "And what are you going to do?"

"Keep you busy."

She doesn't break eye contact, but she doesn't say anything else.

With a slight nod, she slams the car door shut and walks toward the house. She's not my responsibility, but I wait until she's through the door before I shift the car to reverse. Then, I drive home, to my miserable life, where every day blends into the next like some fucking purgatory Groundhog Day.

Except I'm not learning the lesson. I'm too afraid of what it has to teach me.

It's nearly five in the morning when I give up on trying to sleep. It's not my best attempt, but I can't waste my time pretending when my brain is going a hundred miles an hour. I roll out of bed and head for the kitchen, where my least favorite task awaits.

Opening the dishwasher to reveal the slew of clean dishes waiting to be put away, I mentally prepare myself with a single breath. Anything is better than giving my brain the peace it needs to overthink.

I'm uncomfortable in my head, tired of the way only I'm capable of making myself feel, and now, after seeing how clearly Nia hates herself, it's no longer cathartic for me to do it too. I begrudgingly put away each dish, fully aware it's doing nothing to stop the trainwreck of my thoughts, but at least now, I'm productive.

I sigh like this is the most laborious thing I've done in ages. It feels like it, because it's the task I dread most, but I know it isn't. Sitting in the car with Nia for twelve minutes in silence was nearly unbearable, yet this feels harder.

Looking over to the full sink of dishes, I let out one final, dramatic huff, as if anyone is even around to hear it. And then I begin to tackle the dirty pile of dishes. It's not even six when I finish. Not even thirty minutes. The thing I've put off doing all week doesn't even take thirty minutes of my time.

I shake my head, frustration at myself and myself only.

I ordered pizza for lunch yesterday to avoid needing a clean plate.

My nerves are killing me. It's not the pressure of the bout tonight; it's something physically eating at me from the inside out. It's only when I've cleaned the entire kitchen from top to bottom that I feel the discomfort ease, and I can finally relax. The oven clock reads eight, and I finally consider resting.

I crash on the couch, turning on the tv and settling for subtitled Inuyasha. The minute my eye drifts from the screen and I lose focus on the story, I feel the wave of sleep hit me like a freight train.

And I finally welcome it.

Maybe, at least in my dreams, I can finally get that girl out of my head.