The Not-Outcast by Tijan

38

Cheyenne

Iwasn’t a snack person, but I woke up with racing thoughts a couple hours later and I knew I was done for. I had to get up, eat some sugar, and head back to bed. Sometimes it was the only thing that worked. Cut’s arm was laying over me, so I slid out, felt around for my phone and found the rest of my clothes.

I’d learned that Cut didn’t usually sleep hard, but he always did after a game. I wasn’t too worried about waking him up as I slipped into some clothes and padded barefoot across the room.

A few steps creaked and the door squeaked a tiny bit, but I waited, and he didn’t wake up.

I was good to go, and speaking of that, I had no clue where to go. I thought he kept a kitchenette on his floor, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to go searching around with my phone lit up, feeling like the criminal my father and Nut-Brother thought of me. I headed downstairs to the actual kitchen.

Flipping on the lights once I was in there, I knew I was far enough away so I wouldn’t wake Cut up. After that, it was snack time.

They had pizza.

Chips. Old nachos—gross.

Then there was a ton of salad, green vegetables. Yogurt. Chicken. Lots of chicken. Some seafood in the freezer. Lots of fruit. Protein powder on the counter.

A container of old sloppy joe.

I was sensing a theme, and I was pretty sure I could identify which was Chad’s, and which food was Cut’s.

Finding some whole wheat bread, and some natural peanut butter and honey, I was making myself a sandwich when a car pulled up outside Chad’s side of the house.

A car door slammed shut.

A stifled shout, and then the car backed up and headed back where it came from.

I sighed.

That was Chad, and he’d had to get a ride home.

That meant Drunk Chad was coming inside.

The door opened. I heard a series of beeps and then a long beep.

The lights switched on after that, flooding the hallway that connected the two homes.

I heard some keys being tossed somewhere.

A yawn that grew louder as he came down to the kitchen.

His hand was in his hair as he stopped, and he had to blink a few times. His whole body swayed back and forth from the effort.

He scowled. “You.”

I scowled back. “You.”

He frowned, blinking a few times. He rubbed at his eyes. “Are you real?”

Oh...kay. This was too good not to play along.

“No. Are you?”

“What?”

“What?” Me.

“You’re Cheyenne.”

“You’re lying.”

Another frown, and he shook his head. “Wait. What?”

“What?”

He looked around. “What’s going on here?”

“What’s happening here?”

He pointed at me. “You’re fucking with me. Stop fucking with me.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

Another frown, this one deeper and he rubbed at his eyes. “I’m so confused. What’s going on here? Why are you here? Wait. You’re banging my best friend. That’s why you’re here.” He lumbered over, walking like he was an overgrown zombie, and he threw open the fridge. He stared inside, and spotting the pizza, he grabbed the whole container.

Then, we had another moment.

He stared at me, him still holding the pizza, and he didn’t know what to do.

I could see the confusion on his face.

Giving in, I took the container and motioned to the table. “Go and sit. I’ll heat this up.”

“I don’t heat up my pizza.”

“You eat it cold?”

He scowled again. “What? No. Who said that?”

So drunk. I motioned to the table again. “Go. Sit. I’ll take care of you.”

“Why would you do that?”

But he sat and I didn’t answer. No way I was going to have a talk with him at this hour of night, and when he was this wasted.

“You took my best friend from me.”

Apparently, he wanted to have this conversation.

Ignoring him, I put his pizza on a plate and put it in the microwave. A good fifty seconds would heat it up, but not too hot for him. After that, I spotted a canned coffee in the fridge and poured it into a glass. Taking that, along with a bottle of water, I put both in front of him.

He scowled at those, too. “I don’t want those.”

“There’s alcohol in them.”

“Oh.” He grabbed the coffee first.

The microwave beeped, so I grabbed the pizza next and put it beside the bottled water.

He was finishing the coffee, all in one go, and put the can in the middle of the table. He motioned to it. “Those are my favorites.”

I stood there, uncertain what to do.

He paused, stared at me, then looked back at the kitchen. “Go get your samich. Sit wid me.”

I did, more because I wanted to see what else he’d say. I wasn’t sitting here because I cared about Chad. Because I didn’t.

I didn’t care. At all.

I was just curious. That’s it.

I barely touched my samich, I was so engrossed in what he was going to do.

He picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite. “Damn. That’s good.” He scowled at me. “You werrright. The pizzaisbedderheaddup.”

Uh-huh. I had no idea what he just said.

But I took a bite of my samich.

They’d forever be samiches in my mind now. I’d share that with Chad someday, probably on his deathbed.

He went back to scowling at me. “Why’d you take my best friend away? He was mine. Not yours.”

I sighed. He was a confrontational drunk.

“Arend you gonna answer me back?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know who else liked to have drunk conversations? When she wasn’t passed out from drugs, I mean.” I barely paused. “My mother.”

He flinched, then started rubbing at his forehead. “Donna.”

“Her drink of choice was vodka. What’s yours?”

Another frown. Another flinch. He kept rubbing at his forehead. “I’m not an alcoholic. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re implying it.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you implying it?”

It was taking such effort for him to enunciate his words clearly.

I was enjoying his struggle.

“What?”

“I’m confused.” That was me. I was playing again.

He shook his head all around, wiping his hand down the side of his face. “You’re messing with me because I’ve been drinking.”

“I couldn’t tell.” A straight face on me.

He stared at me, his eyes narrowed. He couldn’t tell either.

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re trying to ingratia—ingradia—ingracia—if you’re trying to make me like you, it’s not working. I can tell you’re making fun of me.”

Still a straight face. “I would never do that.”

He paused, studying me, and his shoulders rose and fell back down. He reached for another piece of pizza. He’d forgotten his first one. “I’m going to give you some hard truths. Cut will never love you. Never ever. He’ll always look at you, and think, ‘she’s the bitch who made me lose my best friend.’ And you know what? It’s going to happen. He thinks we’re done being friends because of me, but it’s you. It’s all you. It’s your fault, and you want to know why?”

He was a mean drunk.

Still deadpan. “No.” I leaned forward. “Tell me. Please.”

“Because you’re nothing. You’re nothing. You come from nothing. Your mom was a junkie whore, and that’s who you come from. Everything comes around, and when you’re old and alone, you’ll be back on the streets. You’ll be the one with a needle in her arm, and you’ll be spreading your legs for your ex-husband’s newest stepson like your mother did for me—”

“Shut the fuck up,” a snarl ripped through the room.

I couldn’t move.

Up until then, I’d been impassive, not taking anything Chad said to heart, but then he said that.

That.

And…

I—

Cut was furious. I felt his anger slapping against me from the room. It was rolling off of him in waves, but then my mind went blank.

* * *

Someone was shouting.

There was a scream, a primal scream.

* * *

A tugging at my hands.

“Let him go, Cheyenne. Let him go.”

Cut’s voice sounded like he was submerged in water.

Why did he sound so far away? He was standing right next to me.

* * *

I was ripped awayfrom someone.

Something? I didn’t know.

My hands were bleeding. I recognized the feel of warm blood.

I saw it, too, lifting up my hands.

Blood trickled down. It was coming from my fingers. My nails.

Why were my nails—? One had been ripped off.

That didn’t make sense.

* * *

“You’re not goingto say a thing.”

Cut was angry. He was back to snarling, and he was sounding barely restrained.

“Are you kidding me? That bitch tore chunks out of my throat.”

“You’re not going to say a damned thing.”

“Cut!”

“I mean it, Chad. You talk, and you’re not going to enjoy what happens next for you.”

I blinked, focusing back in again.

They were huddled together across the room.

I was shaking. Why was I shaking?

Cut looked over at me, cursing under his breath.

He started for me.

“Is that a threat?” Chad rose up from where he’d either been leaning or sitting. I couldn’t tell.

Cut never spared him a look, but he said, “You’re damn right it is.”

* * *

“Babe.”

We were in his bathroom.

I was on the counter. He was standing between my legs.

A dab.

I hissed, feeling the burn.

He was cleaning my wounds.

It started to come back to me then.

I looked up as he was holding my hand, and our eyes met.

I asked, “I attacked him?”

Cut never answered me. He didn’t need to.

I knew.