The Reckless Collision

Sam.

~~~

Raymond parked the car along the sidewalk on Ardmore Avenue, right between my apartment complex and apparently Scott's. I never paid much attention to the building across the street from mine. The construction was shorter, six levels high, with a weathered exterior that blended dull shades of brown and yellow. The whole street seemed to sag under the weight of its age.

Ray and I climbed out of the car, supporting Scott between us as we shuffled toward his building. He was out cold, his body heavy and limp. Of course, there was no elevator, because why would there be? The fourth floor felt like a mountain as we hauled him upward, step by agonizing step. I found his keys in his jacket pocket, my fingers fumbling in the dim hallway while Raymond braced Scott against the wall.

"Got it," I muttered after what felt like forever, finally sliding the key into the lock. The door creaked open, and a sharp, chemical smell hit me like a slap. I wrinkled my nose, coughing slightly as we lugged Scott inside.

Ray flipped on the light, the overhead bulb casting an unforgiving glare across the small, sterile space. "His bedroom's over there," he said, tilting his head toward an open door at the end of the hall.

Dragging Scott between us, we stumbled into the room and unceremoniously dumped him onto the bed. He landed in a graceless sprawl, a soft groan escaping his lips.

"We should probably take off his shoes," I suggested, my voice hesitant.

Ray nodded. "Yeah, good idea."

We wrestled off his sneakers, and Ray gestured toward Scott's jacket. "That too?"

"Sure." I helped slide the jacket off his arms, folding it awkwardly before setting it on a chair.

"I'll find a bucket or something in case he pukes," Ray said, already heading toward the kitchen as Scott let out another hiccup.

I stared at my friend, his facial expression was in stark contrast with the storm brewing inside me. He looked almost peaceful, the polar opposite of the face he wore the whole night. I was able to handle the uncalled-for glaring but his confrontation near the bathrooms left me puzzled.

According to him, I shouldn't start anything with Ray because I will eventually go back to Tom anyway. Maybe that was a fair point, but the puzzling part was that Scott knew things I never told him. Has Molly spilled my secrets?

Shaking away the thoughts I followed Raymond out of the room, leaving Scott in his unconscious state. The apartment was smaller than mine—a single bedroom, a bathroom, and an open living area for the kitchen and living room. The colors were muted, mostly grays and browns, and though the place was clean, it felt stuffy, like the air hadn't moved in days.

While Ray rummaged through cabinets, I let my eyes wander, curiosity tugging at me. I knew it wasn't exactly polite, but who wouldn't take a peek? Scott had lived here for months, practically next door, and he'd never once mentioned it.

Why didn't he tell me? I thought, scanning the room. Everything looked perfectly settled—furniture, decorations, even a stocked bookshelf.

I stepped closer to the shelf, running my fingers along the spines of books I recognized: Jo Nesbø, George R. R. Martin, Lars Kepler, and—wait. My grandfather's books. The entire Michael Morris collection.

The sight stopped me cold. Scott never told me he read my grandfather's work. He never even mentioned liking detective novels. I was an avid reader, often talking about upcoming books and my favorite reads, and while Scott unlike Molly managed to listen to book talks he never joined in.