When I looked up in the fluorescent tube lights Ziggy was still sitting there, the beer in one hand resting between his legs, his eyes fixed on me. He lifted the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a swallow and returned the bottle to its place.
“Do you think he’s right?” I asked.
Ziggy just kept staring. In the weeks since we’d come home I’d hardly seen him. Not that I’d expected to. Being home was a harsher reality. As he took another swig, I began to feel the throbbing low-level hunger I had for him, like some kind of nagging headache or injury that I couldn’t forget.
Could we really go back to the way we’d been? Ignoring each other?
As he sat there, drinking and staring at me, I let my mind run in circles. What if he did want me, what then? We couldn’t very well do anything here in the house, not and keep it a secret. And where could we go? Neither of us had a car. And what would happen if the others found out? Bart might be okay at first, but I could envision the dynamic of the foursome changing to the two of us and the two of them, and that felt bad to me, wrong, looming disaster.
Ziggy finished the beer and got up to put it in the box with the other empties. The bottle hit the others with a clink and he shook his head and walked out of the room.
Christian’s drums rumbled through the floor from the basement. He and Bart were probably working on something right now. I should have gone to join them. Ziggy probably had. But instead I sat there, looking at the table and wondering what to do with myself.
The next thing I knew I was carrying a guitar case down the stairs.