Her head wobbles and bobs with the turns and the bumps in the road. Even passed out, she looks troubled, eyebrows pinched and drawn.
Twenty minutes later, the cab squeals to a stop outside my apartment. I pay the driver, and then nudge Echo’s shoulder with my hand. “Echo. Echo. Wake up.”
She moans, and her eyes flutter, flicker open. “What? Where am I?”
“Come on. We’re going in, okay?” I tell her.
She nods sloppily and sits up straighter. I get out of the cab and move around to the driver’s side, open the sliding door, and she topples out, into me. I catch her; help her find her feet. She wraps an arm over my neck, clinging to me. I lean heavily on my cane and hobble carefully toward the door. I’ve been on my feet too much today, and my knee burns, throbs, and I know I can’t make it much farther on my own, much less support Echo as well. But I don’t have much choice, it seems. She’s not even really awake or aware, more just holding onto me instinctively.
I refuse to acknowledge the press of her body against mine, or the feel of her breath on my neck. I’m an asshole for even thinking about it, for having to stop myself from dwelling on it.
I’m not sure how I make it to the door, or how I get it unlocked and open, but I do. Barely, though. I get her to the doorway to my room, and then my knee gives out, leaving me clinging to the doorway, an arm slung around Echo’s waist holding her upright as I hop on one foot and fight for balance, gritting my teeth. She’s groaning, head lolling, and I’m about to drop her.
“Echo. Can you stand up for me for a second?”
She murmurs something unintelligible, and then peers at me. “I know you. We just met. Hi.”
“Hi there, yeah, you know me. I’m Ben, remember? I need you to stand up for me. Can you do that?”
She blinks, closes one eye and then the other, and then widens them both. “Maybe. Possibly.” She grabs my arm and hauls herself upright. “There.”
I let her go and get my foot under me, gingerly stepping on it and leaning on my cane. And then she sways and starts to fall backward, and I have to catch her, hobbling forward as she stumbles away from me as she tries to find her own balance. I grab her, catch her around the waist again, and then we’re both falling, hitting the bed, thankfully.
“You caught me.” She peers at me, grinning. “Good job, Benny. Benny. Is that short for Benjamin? Bennnnn…jamin…” She draws the middle sound of my name out, and then grins again. “Bennnnjaminnnn. Benj…amin. Benji? Benji. Maybe I’ll call you Benji.”
My heart lurches. Only one person ever called me Benji. “How about you just call me Ben?” I say.
She tries to wriggle onto the bed, turns onto her stomach and crawls army-style. And then she waves at me. “Come on. Up here. Come up here with me, Benji.”
“Ben,” I say through clenched teeth, my heart cracking as I force down the hurt and the thoughts and the memories I’ve tried to bury. “My name is Ben.”
She blinks at me. “But I like Benji. It’s cute, and you’re cute.” Her gaze narrows. “You’ve got a lot of stories, don’t you…Benji? Ha. I hear the story there too, you know? I may be wasted, but I remember. I remember.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” I move to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and watch her as she kicks the blankets down and tucks her feet under them, making herself comfortable in my bed.
“I need a drink, Benji.” She leans against the wall, head lolling and eyes narrowed and watching me.
“I’ve got some water bottles and some Gatorade,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “No, Benji. A drink. A fucking drink. I still remember, and I want…I want to forget. I need to forget.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—” I start.
“You’re not my fucking mother!” she snarls, darting forward and jabbing the air with her finger. “You’re not my fucking mother, and I need a drink, goddammit.” She flops back against the wall, head smacking the drywall. “Ow. Please. Please, Benji.”
Every time she says that nickname, something inside me clenches, stings.
I push to my feet and limp into the kitchen, hating that I’m doing this. But I don’t know this girl, and her pain is bright in her eyes. So I grab a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam from the cupboard over the fridge. I snag two juice glasses from a different cupboard, and a bottle of water from the fridge. When I make it back into my room, Echo is standing up, unsteadily at best, reaching awkwardly behind her back for the zipper of her dress.
“Fuck this dress,” she mumbles. “Done with this stupid dress.”
She’s facing away from me so I know she doesn’t see me, which makes it almost funny. It would be funny if this were any other circumstance. She finds the zipper and pulls it down, shrugs her shoulders, and the black material falls to pool around her feet. I swallow hard. She’s wearing a black dress, black underwear, and I can’t breathe, can’t look away, can’t avoid the desire and the guilt raging inside me.
“Um. Hi.” I clear my throat, duck my head.
“Oh. Benji-boy.” Echo turns, wobbles, and topples into the bed, then pushes herself upright. “Couldn’t handle that fucking dress anymore.” Her eyes go to mine, and I see an odd note of something I can’t decipher in her expression. “Hope you don’t mind, Benji. I just can’t wear that dress anymore. You don’t mind, right?”
“No…I mean…” I don’t know what to say. This feels wrong. She shouldn’t be practically naked, and I shouldn’t be struggling with my instincts. Not like this. Not her. “You want a T-shirt or something?”
“Yes! A T-shirt. What a great idea. There’s nothing as comfy as a boy’s T-shirt.” She points at me. “Shirt me, Benji.” And then she giggles, like she’s said something funny.
I move to my dresser and set the bottle and glasses on top of it, and then rummage in my drawer for a shirt. When I turn to hand it to her, she’s somehow moved to stand right behind me, and she’s lost her bra in the process. Breathing, swallowing, looking away, guilt…the list of impossible things grows by the second.
“Like what you see, Benji-boy?” She’s just standing there, two feet away, topless, in nothing but her panties.
My zipper tightens, and I’ve got to clench my fists to keep them at my sides.