"You look tired," I say, settling on some cooking show.
"I am," he says. "I feel like I could sleep for a week."
"Take a nap."
"I'm not a toddler."
I shrug. "I take naps."
"Yeah, well, it's beauty sleep for the beautiful," he says, looking at me, "but there's no rest for the wicked."
I roll my eyes. "I wouldn't call myself beautiful."
"I would."
"I wouldn't call you wicked, either."
"I would."
"Regardless," I say, "if you're tired, you should go to sleep."
"Yeah, I should," he admits, although he makes no move to go upstairs, settling in on the couch as he kicks his shoes off. "You find anything interesting today?"
My brow furrows. "When?"
"When you went through my stuff."
My heart seems to stop for a second as I turn to him. "Why do you think I went through your stuff?"
"Because you're human," he says. "It's normal to be curious, and you're a smart woman… I'd expect no less."
I'm not sure what to say. He doesn't sound upset in the least, but his matter-of-fact tone, pegging my actions from the start like he knows me better than I know myself, still unnerves me. "No, I didn't find anything."
"Figured you wouldn't," he said. "Nowhere near as interesting as what I found in your drawers in the dorm."
Now my heart does stop. My eyes widen. "You went through my stuff?"
"Of course. I'm human, too."
"What…? When…?"
"When you were sleeping that first night. You woke up and caught me."
I know when he's referring to… he'd been looking at the picture frame on my dresser when I woke up. "So that's what you were doing."
"Yes," he says. "Although, I have to say, I was surprised you only had one vibrator. That's at odds with the vixen you turn into when I get you naked."
Blood rushes straight to my face. I can feel my cheeks flame with embarrassment. I look away from him, covering my face with my hands, as he lets out a loud laugh. Before I can think of something to say he grabs ahold of me, laying down on the couch and pulling me into his arms. I tuck in against him, my head on his chest. "Ugh, I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be." He kisses the top of my head. "Do you use it often?"
"Oh God," I groan, closing my eyes. "You're not helping me not be embarrassed, Naz."
"There's nothing to be ashamed of… I'm just curious."
"No," I whisper. "Not anymore, anyway. Not since you."
Ugh, are we really talking about this?
"Good." I can hear the sleep in his voice. "I'm glad."
"You are?"
"Yeah," he says. "I like to know I can keep you satisfied."
They say what goes around, comes around. Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you. It's the Golden Rule. I've always tried to follow it, to be a good person, but karma has caught up to me.
Dozens of calls. Just as many messages.
I haven't heard from my mother in weeks.
I'm regretting all those times I sent her to my voicemail, regretting the missed calls and days where I didn't respond to her messages. Every time her answering machine clicks on, I grow a little more worried, leaving yet another message she won't respond to.
"Mom, it's me… call me."
"I'm worried, Mom… where are you?"
"Why aren't you calling me?"
"Please, just let me know everything's okay."
I'm in the den, where Naz spends most of his time when he's home, sprawled out on the couch in my pajamas. I've been here for seven days now, and it still feels surreal, like I'm just visiting, although Naz acts like I've lived here all along. His guard dropped easily, quickly, the façade of perfection he always carried melted away now that I've moved in.
Today he's sitting at his desk, still wearing a black suit, but he didn't bother putting on a tie and his feet are still bare. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the bottom not tucked in. His laptop is open in front of him as he types away. He's doing whatever it is he does, I'm not entirely sure. I asked and he said 'dealing with people'.
For someone who deals with people every day, I rarely see another living soul come around him.
He works odd hours, leaving occasionally on a whim, slipping away in the middle of the night and returning before I'm awake. I have my suspicions about what kind of dealing he does, but I don't bring them up to him.
Maybe because I don't think he'll admit it.
Or maybe because I'm afraid he will.
Sighing, I open up the contacts on my phone and find my mother's name, hitting the button to call her. Bringing the phone to my ear, I listen as it rings twice. I wait for her machine, the monotone 'leave a message' voice, but instead a series of beeps greets me before the line dies.
I call her back again right away, hoping it's a fluke, once more getting the beeps. My stomach drops. The tape is full. I don't know what to do, what to think, but sickness brews inside of me at the realization.
She hasn't been listening to my messages.
"Do you think I should call the police?"
The typing instantly ceases as Naz's eyes dart over top of the computer, meeting my gaze. "Excuse me?"
"I can't get my mother on the phone," I say. "I haven't heard from her in weeks, so I'm wondering if I should call the police, you know, to have them go check on her."
He stares at me for a moment. "People go weeks without talking to their parents. That's nothing out of the norm. I haven't spoken to mine in months."
His words distract me from the worry. "You have parents?"
"Of course," he says. "I didn't create myself."
I roll my eyes. "I know that. I just didn't realize they were still around. You don't ever talk about them."
"We're not close," he says. "Ray's more of a father to me than my own father ever was."
My curiosity is piqued. He opened the door, so I stick my foot in, seeing how far into the room I can get. "Have you known Raymond long?"
"Since I was your age," he says as he shakes his head. "Younger, actually. I was sixteen."
"How'd you meet him?"
He's quiet, and I think he's about to shut down, to change the subject, when he lets out a deep sigh and closes his laptop, sitting back in his chair. "I stole from him."