Simon x Billy
Chapter 7: Where’s the helipad
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AN: Enjoy the sweet sweet sounds of helicopter blades slicing through the air. I love the helicopter scene so much. It is happy-making. It just makes me love both of them for each other. (Let's ignore the fact that I wrote it.) And it's been sitting there patiently, completed, waiting for me to write literally every chapter before this one.
We are so close to the sex, guys. So close. This is the last SFW chapter for a while. Bask in the virginal dude-bro atmosphere, and let people know that you read the chapters before they were cool.
TW: Drunkenness. If alcohol is triggering for you, no need to read the last teeny section after we first meet Barry. Rest assured that Simon gets home safely and says cute stuff, then happily goes to bed.
Masterlist | Start: Chapter 1 | Prev: Chapter 6 | Next: Chapter 7.5
Playlist! 1. Me Myself & I by De La Soul || 2. Mirror in the Bathroom by English Beat || 3. Sunday Bloody Sunday by U2
Chapter 7: Where’s the helipad
—--/Simon/—--
I am trying to stop thinking about falling to my death. Give me a minute.
Ok, so this is…..This is a long flight of fucking rickety, wind-blasted wood. Not like that metal set of stairs with all the switchbacks I was complaining about last time I encountered stairs. I take all of my complaints back about that place. That was the height of stair-building technology by comparison. This place is just…..language fails me, like I’m picturing the stairs failing me any second now.
So have I mentioned that the Hotel di Limoni was originally a private home? Pretty big family, I guess. Prolly a summer vacation villa, cuz this coastline has been a summer-getaway spot for centuries. Scratch that. For millenia. Yes, the view from my room is insanity. But what you can’t view from up in my room is the tiny strip of beach wayyyyy down there at the bottom.
Both shots are from the website of the actual Hotel La Tonnarella, which is the hotel I based my fictional hotel on. Yes, it really looks like that. Yes, I did stay there. Best decision I’ve ever made. You can faintly see the stairs, at left. It’s that pale diagonal line down the cliff from the hotel at top left down toward the beach, crossing right in front of that ruin in the middle, halfway down the cliff.
Beaches are a rarity on the Amalfi Coast. Anybody with two inches of it will stick a beach umbrella in it. So imagine owning the only access to an entire beach. There is one stairway, and the hotel owns it. Yeah, its size is probably more aptly described as a mini-beach, but still, it is a goldmine for a hotel. And the public pay handsomely for what the guests get for free: a beach lounger. (These are pebble beaches. Nobody wants to lie on sharp and lumpy rocks.)
The only other access to the beach is from the water. And there are a lot -- I mean a lot of yachts around here. They will never, ever look normal to me. But they’re starting to look like a normal thing around here. And I’m told these aren’t even the big ones. Fuck me.
Anyway, we’ve seen the (only) road and there’s definitely no place to do my morning run. It doesn’t even have a shoulder. I guess if I can’t run without being squashed, I could do the steps when I wake up. Better than nothing. It’s just… we’ve seen that I hate stairs. Steep stairs. Cliff stairs.
Fuck. Besides being terrifying, it was tiring just getting down here. What am I going to do when I have to go back up?
Anyway, Billy’s working down here today. And I really feel like disrupting his job well done.
“Will yeh just look at your man now. Down the beach, explorin,” he calls, as I approach the hotel’s beach cafe. “You didn’t take the stairs, did yeh?”
“Um, yeah? I wanted to see the beach.”
“Why didn’t yeh take the lift?”
I fix the man to his spot with a very frowny, very deep, “Would you mind repeating that, Billy?” Like if Patrick Warburton was playing me in the movie. I can barely see through my eyes that have now narrowed to slits of disbelief and distrust. “There’s an elevator?”
“Well, yeah man. How else are people meant to get down here? The cliff’s a dangerous way down, innit.”
Ok, Lewis. You can incorporate this new information without flipping out. Just be proud of yourself for facing your fears. You descended steep, unsafe stairs. Good job! And you were only vaguely terrified the whole time. Good job!
“Is the cliff so dangerous that they should close it down due to the mounting death toll? Or is it only dangerous in an inoffensive, cute way?”
He huffs out a quick laugh, then returns to slicing up lemons and limes.
“Billy? That was an actual question. Care to provide an answer?”
“Meh, it’s safe enough,” he says. And that, ladies and gentleladies, is all I need to convince me I can indeed use this as my new Italian morning exercise routine. 1. Cliff, 2. Coffee, 3. Cliff, 4. Vomiting coffee. Perfect.
—--/-/—--
I’ve spent the week forging a grudging relationship with the beach stairs.
I’m getting a little more used to it. I have a few specific stones and broken twigs I’ve chosen as landmarks, whenever I require reassurance that I am indeed climbing down the right cliff. And if I’ve survived it the last four mornings, I can survive it a fifth time. Flawless reasoning.
Behind the bar, Billy gives me a wave as he sees me approaching. “You packed, man?”
My insides instantly start fizzing. I am so freaking pumped. I got us an airbnb in Naples for the weekend so we can check out Sabina’s show tomorrow night. Billy could not say yes fast enough. He’s a social guy, and there’s not a lot of nightlife around here. I have no idea how he’s managed it all this time. Oh wait. He’s managed it with women. Lots of women.
Over the last week, I’ve come to the realization that management does not mind a guest hanging out at the bar distracting their employee all day, because while that person is distracting the employee, he is also ordering drink after drink, and healthy fruit-based foods. It’s like they’ve realized that my distraction of Billy might actually be lucrative for them.
“I have come to a decision,” I declare as I take my seat at the bar. “We need a convertible.”
“Sorry?”
“A convertible. We need one.”
“Yeah, mate, heard yeh.”
“What, it’s a convertible!”
Billy remains unmoved. “Why can’t we take the train? It’s simplest-”
“We are not taking the train.”
“But I quite like the train.”
“Because you’re insane and don’t like convertibles.”
“See now, I never said I don’t like convertibles. I-”
“I need to do something.” Because my brain just exploded with potential.
“What?”
“Be an Ugly American.”
“Em, that sounds terrible,” he says.
“If you’re gonna be American, you might as well own it. Watch me own it, Billy, just watch me.”
He still looks wary. “That sounds-”
“Awesome.”
“-terrible. You’re not going to wear one of them caps with straws into beer cans, are yeh? Actually, I might pay yeh to do that.” He snorts at whatever he’s picturing.
“Ok, not that ugly.”
I’ve got the phone out and I’m already dialing before I’ve even reached the stairs. And then I remember I can also take the elevator.
—--/-/—--
You ever notice there’s an ugh in ugly?
Billy has finally met up with me at the fountain by the hotel entrance. Thank god, cuz I really don’t want him to miss the arrival of that Ugly American thing that required a phone call.
“There you are, Delaney. MWAH hah ha ha hahhhhh! Prepare to hear the sweet sweet sound of helicopter blades pulsing through the air. It’s done, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
“Simon-”
“So where’s the helipad?” I inquire.
“The what now? Mate, it’s not that kind of hotel. Why are we taking a helicopter to the city?”
“The appropriate response would normally be ‘because we can’-”
“That is not a normal response.”
“-but not this time,” I finish. “That’s not the real idea.”
“Oh, so you’re tellin me this is a superfluous helicopter. That is ugly.”
“No! It is most definitely not superfluous.”
“Your carbon footprint’ll be spendin all eternity in hell, man.”
“Billy.”
“Simon.”
“Stop talking. And just enjoy the mounting anticipation. The mellow sense of terror. Or at the very least a nasty case of creeping dread. MWAH hah ha ha hahhhh!”
“Stop it, mate. You’re gettin evil genius all over my uniform. And you know how I feel about laundry.”
“Just a little bicarbonate of soda. Gets out even the most organic of stains. MWAH hah ha ha hahhhhh.”
“Simon.”
“Billy.”
“Stop talkin. Like an evil genius. Stop evil cackling all the time. We’re gettin complaints.”
“Are not.”
“From me. I’m complainin.”
“What am I going to wear?”
“Simon. Oh my god.”
“I’m serious! I packed for Italy in ten minutes. It’s all socks and shorts.”
He’s shaking his head at me. For some reason, this makes me happy. In my tummy. How novel. And then…
“Is that the fire alarm?” he asks.
“Huh? I mean, MWAH hah ha ha haaaah, oh no. It is the sweet sweet purring of a helicopter bearing my booty.”
Billy jumps on it swiftly. “You didn’t think that one through, mate.”
“Oh, but yes, yes I did. The booty is worth baring. Can you feel it? The heady excitement of anticipation? The mellow terror?”
“Yes. I feel the terror,” he says blandly.
“That would be the best cologne flavor ever. Mellow Terror, by Simon Lewis. Pour homme.”
“Are you manic right now?”
—--/Billy/—--
I was joking, but Simon just went very still. I’ve put my foot in, haven’t I?
“I am a bit manic, am’nt I?” he offers, with a fake little laugh.
“Somethin wrong with your shoes, mate? Simon, man, my eyes are up here.”
“Just wait til you see what I’ve done,” he says, sheepishly, eyeing me from under his caterpillars.
“Simon. Should I be worried?”
“Oops?”
Oops? I haven’t a clue what to do with oops.
He grabs me excitedly by the forearm and starts dragging me toward the hotel gates.
That’s…Wait, is that-
“Simon. Did you buy a Mini Cooper?”
“A convertible Mini Cooper.”
“But why ?” I ask the reasonable question.
“Because I can!” He’s practically vibrating. I can tell he wants to do his jumping-clapping thing by the way he’s currently bouncing on his toes.
“Simon.”
“Billy.”
“You bought a Mini Cooper. Convertible, ” I swiftly add. “You’re in the land that built the Maserati, the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, and every other sports car that ends in i-”
“Not Audi.”
I huff in annoyance, “-and you bought a convertible Mini Cooper. And had it airlifted here. Because you could.”
“I’ve always wanted a convertible Mini Cooper.”
“But not a convertible Ferrari,” I clarify.
“No.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m awesome,” he answers, because he’s Simon.
I decide not to mention that we could have skipped the car altogether and taken the helicopter to Naples.
This is so childish, and impetuous, and reckless, and I refuse to find the actions of a grown man adorable. Jaysus.
“Oh my god!” he squeaks. “They were driving Minis in The Italian Job!!!”
Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.
“Did you have them airlift in some clothes, too?”
“Shit! I totally should have!” He appears to actually mean that.
“You should see your face,” he hoots. Feckin hoots, all half bent over from laughin.
And now he’s ignoring me. It’s like I’m not even there. He only has eyes for his Mini. “Oh my god it’s so kawaii.”
His smile is kawaii.
“Go away,” he flaps a hand at me. “I want to fangirl freely and without judgment from a judgy Irishman.”
“Fine. I need to pack anyway.”
And off behind me I hear him call, “Wait! What am I gonna wear?”
Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.
—--/-/—--
I’ve gathered my gear, and I can see Simon out by the car park. I’m hitching up my pack, so it isn’t really until I’ve cleared all the foliage, that I realize Simon is humping his Mini Cooper convertible. “All right?” I ask, tryin to keep a straight face.
“Oh, yes. All is definitely right,” he purrs.
“Have you turned her on yet, or is it just you who’s turned on?”
He slides off the car til his Converse hit the pavement with a slap.
Now he’s draping himself over the boot. I can’t help it that I’m laughing. Sometimes he just hits me at exactly the right moment to set me to belly laughin. Doesn’t happen often with Simon, but when it does, he wears the greatest surprised happy face I’ve ever seen. This time there’s giggling. Off to a good start, which is good. Yes. Good.
I hesitate. “Look, mate. Will this thing actually fit us? Have you tried?” I eyeball the car. “I am quite seriously concerned that we might actually need the top down to ride in this thing. How tall are you, anyway?”
“Six feet. Why? How tall are you?”
“Just a bit taller. But not enough for you to get intimidated, mate. I’m sure the ladies won’t notice when I introduce my small friend.”
“You’re short shaming me. No, that’s ok. I don’t take offense. You just seem to need a lot of reassurance about your size, Billy. I mean, sure, it’s ok to want to be bigger. I assume. I wouldn’t know.”
“Mate, get off the boot so I can shove this in there, and we can go.” He does, and I do. “Thanks for not getting the red, white, and blue one.” There is a god. Thank you, Poseidon.
“They were out of orange, white, and green, too.”
“You asked about the tricolor, did yeh?” Alright fine, he’s got me laughin again.
“Fuck out of the driver’s seat!” he roars.
Wow. He looks proper angry. I admit I may have even flinched.
“Don’t you want a car and a driver? No, serious, don’t yeh want me to drive, since I know the way?”
“ Get the fuck out of the driver’s seat, Billy. Now!”
“Alright! Fine, fine. You’ll be usin GPS then, will yeh?”
“Si si si, certo.”
I groan. “This is all about to go so very-”
“Awesome,” he declares. “This is all about to continue to be awesome. Be the change, Billy. Be the change!”
“Oh my god Simon.”
“I can hear you rolling your eyes from here,” he says from behind the boot, which he slams shut a little too hard. I feel it in every moving piece of this tiny automobile. Bigger than a SMART car, so I suppose I shouldn’t be complainin. Well, here’s hoping he’s still so enthused about it at the other end.
“Gotta say, mate. I’m surprised you’d want to drive at all.”
“Why not?”
“Because mate, it’s Italy, innit. Famous for frightenin foreign drivers.” He has to remember what the drivin was like his other three trips down this road. “Well,” I sigh. “At least you get to drive on the wrong side of the road in Italy.”
—--/-/—--
“See? I told you you’d fit.”
“Alright man, you did.”
“Come on, give it up…
“What?” I’m not laughing, I promise. “Is she a smooth ride? I don’t know, man, why don’t yeh start her up ‘n find out?”
“Well there is that. So yeah,” he says as he pulls out of the car park and up to the mouth of the hotel driveway. “It’s to the left, right?”
“Em, yeah. Yes, the city of Naples is still in the general direction of left. Like the other three times we’ve done this road together.”
He rolls his eyes, and all is right and well in the world. Until the moment he pulls out onto the road. Then I’m brought up quick by the realization that between us we know fuck all about the convertible Mini Cooper. “Wait, where’s the GPS on her, for the flat’s address?”
“I dunno, check the screen thing.” So helpful, my man Simon is.
“Do you even have an Italian driver’s license? Or insurance? I love this guy. How’ve yeh managed to live this long being the way you are?” I pause for an answer, but none is forthcoming. “I mean, fucksake, Simon. You called someone to buy you a car and suddenly you’re on the highway to Naples. Do you even know where the directionals are? Or like, the wipers? D’you know what I mean? Should I be concerned for my safety, Mr. Clever Clogs?”
“Shoosh. Don’t jinx us. Do you need to have registration in Italy? Or insurance? I don’t know. Italy doesn’t really strike me as a big insurance-y type of country.”
“Not a bad point, actually. But I take it you have….whatever, I dunno, papers and all that?”
“Don’t know. What’s in the glove box?” He makes a flappy gesture in the general direction of my knees.
“How are you like this? Were you actually born like this, or did it come with fame and wealth?”
“You mean, was I actually born a flaming asshole, or just become one?”
“Meh. Yeah,” I shrug. “We’ll go with that. So, what’ll it be?”
“Ow. Straight for the throat, Delaney.” His tone is recriminating. “Uncool, man. Uncool.”
I’m flipping through the owner’s manual. Before long, I’ve got the time plugged in, programmed everything for his phone, located the GPS, cued up some tunes, and even found the button to pop the bonnet. “There you go. It’s workin now.”
“What’s working?” he asks.
I shrug. “Everything, man. Everything.”
He barks out a laugh, and I realize I’m smiling to myself. Grumpy fuck.
I plug in the address for the flat and immediately the voice pumping out the radio is a woman speaking Italian. Now I’m fumbling with it again, while Simon’s stuck in a fit of laughter.
“Aw, come on! Let’s see how we do in Italian,” he gasps out.
“Fucksake. See how we do in Italian.” Shaking my head.
“No, seriously. Let’s hear what she has to say, this ummmmm, what should we call her - Maria! Because obviously, Maria.”
“Certo.” That gets me another laugh.
“Santa Maria, show us the way, in Italiano,” he pleads in a truly horrendous accent. “I am so happy right now.”
He says it with a laugh. Such a thing to so easily roll off the tongue. Fella I met a few months ago, I never would have pictured bein happy, let alone noticing it, naming it, declaring it. Nice to see. Unexpected, know what I mean.
“I don’t trust you when you’re quiet that long, Delaney.”
“Hm?”
“Exactly.”
Am I missing something?
“Ok, so.” He clears his throat. “We know who I am. Who are you? Let’s hear it. Who is Billy Delaney?”
Aw, man. Serious? “How long we got?” Please don’t make me.
“How would I know? Maria’s speaking your language, not mine.” He shrugs.
“Fair enough.” I hit play on my playlist, hoping the conversatin will trail off from there. But of course it doesn’t, because this is Simon. Si. Certo.
“What. Do you have some horrible second identity thing going on? Are you really even Irish? Truth time, Delaney.”
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”
“Yeah, ok.”
“Oh.” Uh, erm…..”So, what mate? What do you want to know?” I ask, though truthfully I wish he’d just let it go.
“Is your name really Billy Delaney, and are you actually even from Ireland at all?”
“Yes.”
“Boring.”
“Brief.”
“Obtuse.”
“Si.”
“Oh my god, Billy. So where are you from?”
“Ireland.”
He looks around us rapidly. “Is she going to start speaking Italian? Cuz we just passed Ercolano.”
“Already?”
“Yeah! I know, right? Time flies when you’re torturing someone for information. So should I panic?”
“Nah, we've a bit more road before we turn aside. Maria can sleep on.”
“Alright. I swear to God, Billy. If you don’t start coughing up some details, I'm serious, I will pull this car over. Do I have to pull this car over, kid?”
“Wow, that’s forceful.” Cos it is. “Ow!” I flinch when he swats my shoulder with a backhand.
“Fine, ye bastard. My name is actually Lola, but I go by Billy Delaney. And I’m only mostly joking. One of the summer cousins I used to play soccer with couldn’t say William, when we were little. So for a few months every year, I was Lola. There. Was that not juicy enough for yeh?”
“Charming. But from that I got these few details: 1. You have cousins. Conceivably fertile ground. We could continue that way. 2. You play soccer, and you call it soccer. Isn’t that illegal outside the US? No- don’t answer that. I’m not finished. 3. You go someplace where there are cousins to play soccer with in summer. Are we even still in Ireland?”
Em. I just sort of sit there and wait.
“And you really don’t want to talk about this, do you?”
“You are so easily distracted,” I tease him. “No, but seriously, here’s some details for yeh. I’m 27. I left Ireland at 18, after gettin out of culinary school, and was sent out to do my apprenticeship. That was at a manor house near Galway.”
“And…..”
“That’s not enough?” I thought that was a fair bit of information, if I’m honest.
“Do I have to turn this car around, young man?”
“I feel like I’m missin some essential cultural reference, here.”
“Don’t distract me with your distractions, Delaney. Feed me.”
And that’s when Maria tells us to turn left.
—--/Simon/—--
I can’t fuckin believe that there are Irish pubs in Italy. Nor can I believe I’m in one. I mean, where do Italians go to watch soccer? This can’t be right.
“All right?” Billy asks the bartender.
“Howeyeh,” says the man back to him, and Billy’s eyes go comically wide.
Next thing I know, I’m bored stiff, pretending to find the intricacies of European football interesting with a Welsh guy named Barry.
And whoa, turns out Billy’s day-to-day accent is pretty washed out in comparison to the thickness of his accent when he’s speaking to his new BFF. They’re speaking so fast that I can’t understand a word through their accents. Welsh is so much easier.
That is, until I hear a voice disturbingly similar to Billy’s, requesting a Bud.
I swing back around in time to see Billy’s new BFF nod at him and begin turning toward the draft beers.
“No! Wait,” I wave. “He’s only joking,” I say, emphatically shaking my head no.
“Oh,” the Irish bartender looks back to Billy in surprise. “Were you?”
“Course he was! Certo.” Ok, fine. It might not have been Billy’s best-executed joke, but what , does the guy think I’m just making it up?
“Why ‘ of course ’?!” Billy turns on his barstool to face me. “What the fuck, Simon?”
“Sorry if I fucked up your joke, dude, but don’t drag it out, ok?” I say under my breath.
Disparaging other people’s beer of choice is like a national pastime in Brooklyn, because it frequently employs irony, and we are naturally good at it from birth. Don’t blame him, he’s new.
“I’ll take that Bud,” Billy reiterates. “Ta, mate.” The barkeep returns his nod and goes about the business of it.
“Billy? We’ve talked about this. You swore you’re Irish. Were you lying to me? Are you a lying liar who lies?”
“Why do yeh say that?”
“Because you can’t – you’re not – you’re not, like, allowed to drink bad beer when you’re Irish. Isn’t that illegal? Or fatal, or something?”
The big ape is just lazing back against the bar, sipping his pint of piss beer, looking at me in amusement.
“You’re like a caricature of yourself sometimes, Simon, d’yeh know what I mean?”
“Fuckin- What?! That’s not very nice! I’m outraged.”
“You should see yerself, mate. Yeh look like your face is about ready to split down the middle and outrage’ll start pourin out like lava from the fissures.”
I stop and cock my head at him. “That was both specific and descriptive. Nice one. But that said, how dare you! I demand an apology.” I’m trying really hard to keep a straight face. He has no intention of making it easy for me.
“Apologize? For what?” He gives me a cock-eyed grin. Oh look, his cock eyes are doing that twinkly thing again.
“You have offended my good taste and have let down your countrymen and native soil. Or water or whatever it is that makes all beer taste better in Ireland. The least you could do is the decent thing and apologize to your countrymen, and me , and then hide it in your jacket where no one can see you sneaking sips!”
He laughs because he thinks I’m joking.
“Do you just not like beer at all? And that’s why you don’t order the good stuff?”
“Simon, you are such a snob,” he says, and goes right on twinkling.
“Correct. And if you’re going to drink cheap beer, for god’s sake, order PBR and salvage at least some of your self respect.”
“Do you know this man?” the bartender asks Billy. “Is he harassin yeh?”
Billy is now laughing so hard that he’s almost fallen off his stool.
“We know each other,” I reassure the barkeep. “Don’t know how long that’ll last, all considered, though. Check back for updates.” I raise my pint of Guinness in respect.
“It’s czech. Budvar,” the man informs me.
“Ah, no! Why’d yeh tell him, mate!” Billy raises his hands theatrically. I’m telling you, theatre school. “Yeh just had to put him out of my misery, yeah?”
“And my misery,” says the man.
—--/-/—--
Ok, so what is it with the whole pub drunkenly singing “oh-ay-oh-ay” at the top of their drunken lungs, sloshin beer out of their pint glasses, whenever Europeans play soccer. Mebbe they sing it in Southmerica, too. Butwhatevercuz I don’ really care.
If you can’t – beat em then join em. Thassmymott, um, -o. Thassmy motto. Motto.
Where’s Billy? I can’t see him. If thissperson would get out of the frickin way. He’s all backed up against my face’n I can’t see. Anything. Nothin to see here, folks. Move along, people, move along.
Where’s Billy? Oyeah, right right right. Right here in my face.
I figure it’ll be easier to keep track of him if I hold onto his belt loop. Or a pocket or something. Yeah, I’m just gonna hang on to his pocket.
Pocket.
I like the word pocket. Lossa hard consnits that pop. Pop.
Pop.
I like the word pop. It sounz like it pops. And it’s the same backwards and forwards an’itsall about the lips. Pop ’ing.
What? Where’s he going. I’m trailing after him with my hand in his pocket. He keeps pullin it out and I keep puttin it back in. Oth’wise I’m gonna get lost and then where would I be? Huh? I wouldn’t even know !
“Oh! Now I know where we are! We’re on the block where we’re were where gonna sleep.” If make it up th’stairs. But Billy’s helping. He’s nice like that.
“You’re nice like that,” I say with a big smile. “And you‘re funny lookin.”
Wait.
“Oops! I mean yerlookin funny at me right now. Whass funny? ‘m’I funny? Or juss funny lookin?”
I crack myself up. Like in real life, cuz I’m laughing. Right now. Sometimes iss hard to stop laughin but I’ll be ok.
“Billy. Billy! Hey, Billy. What’re you doing? Tryin to get in my pants? That tickles! Oh, hey! Did we win? I mean, I don’really care - just wonren.”
Hey! Tickles! “Stop that! How’dyou know I don’t wanna wear those? I’ll take ‘em off when I feel like it. Prollymaybe take ‘em off tomorrow. Hey! I was wearing that! And that!”
He’s very pushy. “You’re very pushy. Stop pushing.”
I land on the bed and it’s like fluffy clouds of teddybears. “K, fine. I’ll go to bed, jeez .” Alls I wanna do is bury my face in pillow, but can’t breathe when I do that.
“Don’t close the door all the way, Ma. And leave the hall light on, K? g’Night, love you too.”
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