Chapter 2

Owen lurched to the right, put out both hands and reached for a set of thin, bony shoulders in an attempt to stabilize himself and the other person mid-crash. But instead of two bodies slamming together in a parody of cartoonish acting, the young man sidestepped gracefully, moved back towards Owen, and caught Owen’s shirt with his fists before Owen took the final fifteen stairs the hard way.

“I’m sorry,” Owen huffed, torn between the need to apologize and to rush outside, “our truck—”

The voice that responded was calm, cool, and almost frustratingly sedated. “I got it, no worries. I explained that you were moving in and you’d be gone soon as you could.”

It was the tone of that voice that caught Owen’s attention; too high and childish for the street accent it was inflected with. Once Owen lifted his attentions to get an eyeful though, it was everything else that held it. Shock purple hair worn very straight and very long, the line of dark roots confirming it wasn’t a wig, and a face that was so oddly elfin, the term Williams Syndrome came to mind instantly: wide mouth, full lips, small pointed chin, all complemented by blue eyes that were so vivid, they were mesmerizing.

“I…” Owen stuttered to find speech. “Stop your fucking ogling and get out there with my truck!” Dennis’s shout-growl ripped Owen back to focus, and he released the young man’s shoulders, his mind instantly faltering back to muse mode. Young?…ish. The man was blessed with the kinds of looks that would serve him very well as he aged. Or perhaps already were. He could have been anywhere between fifteen and thirty, though if Owen had to take a guess, he’d say early twenties based on clothing and stance. Definitely male though, unless the bits held in place by skinny jeans—jeans that garnered a new quantifier for the definition of the word ‘tight’—were add-ons. “My truck!”

The second reminder came with a snatch to the back of Owen’s shirt, and a shove that, considering where Owen stood, could have been destructive had Dennis not kept his grip. Owen hitch-stepped to match his brother’s footfalls as he was directed towards the landing. “I was coming,” Owen snarled once he was pushed through the exit and released onto the sidewalk. He shrugged his shirt flat and glared.

Dennis stepped past him. “So’s the second coming but I’m not planning to stand around and wait for it.” He raised his voice. “Officer? My apologies. I know we shouldn’t be stopped here but—”

“Ten minutes,” the cop said without looking up from his notepad. “You have ten minutes to unload, drop your stuff on the sidewalk, and go find a place to park while you carry it up. This is a no-stop zone.” He pointed at the sign, as if the two of them hadn’t already seen it and disregarded it out of the simple premise of that was where the door was and what the hell else were they going to do?

Rather than rant the concept back to the police officer however, Owen nodded and stuck out his hand. “Thank you. Appreciate that. We’ll get this finished right away.”

“You’re lucky,” the cop continued, ignoring the proposed handshake. “Your buddy in there told me the bus schedules were a little more lax on Sundays. Otherwise, you’d already have a ticket on your dash. There’s a reason this is a no-stop zone. We don’t put these signs up for the good of our health, you know.”

Owen felt his thoughts echo in his own head: no, you put them up for the sole purpose of being able to issue tickets since there is literally, literally no other place to unload for this fucking complex.

But instead of allowing those thoughts to voice, Owen merely nodded again and lowered his arm. “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. I totally understand.”

They didn’t wait for further instruction. Dennis jumped into the bed of the truck and pointed, directing Owen to begin dragging out the furniture. The cop tapped his watch once, climbed into his vehicle, and pulled away from the curb.

“Well fucking done!” Dennis paused until Owen looked up and caught his eye. “If someone would have told me you could keep your cool while talking to a cop, that you’d call him ‘sir’ nonetheless, I’d have called them a goddamn liar.”

“Times have changed,” Owen said, shouldering his end of a loveseat that he was suddenly questioning the wisdom of bothering to bring. “Ready?”

From truck to sidewalk the loveseat travelled, from sidewalk to truck they returned to repeat the process with a couch. “I’m serious, Owen. I’m proud of you.”

Owen rolled his neck and rubbed his forearm, more so to hide embarrassment then to loosen muscles. “Don’t be. It’s no awesome thing. I’m only getting back to being the me I always was. I won’t blame the booze for the ranting, or the need to assert myself over everybody else, that was me and me alone. But it did soften my resolve and paralyse my ability to keep myself in check. I was powerless to stop it from affecting me, just like I was powerless over the addiction in the first place. I admit it, I realise it, and I’m moving on from it.” The words were more recital than anything else. But he was getting familiar with them, and it got a little easier to speak them each time Owen got the chance. Every once in a while he could even tell himself he believed it.