Blaire's room over the Bennett garage was the only place on the entire property that could be considered reasonably quiet at any time of the day or night. Even so, tonight, silence was more of a theoretical concept than a practical reality, with the noise drifting up from downstairs filtering through the wooden floorboards with the persistence of something that had no intention of stopping anytime soon.
From her bed, with her back resting against the headboard and her book open on her knees, Blaire could distinguish with fair accuracy what was happening downstairs without needing to go down and check. After enough months of living with her aunt and uncle, one inevitably developed the ability to interpret their noises as if they were a language of their own.
The dull thud followed by an exclamation was Ted bumping into something that shouldn't be where it was—or him being where he shouldn't be, depending on the angle from which you analyzed the situation.
The overlapping voices that rose and fell in volume at irregular intervals were Matty and John arguing over something related to the Patriots game, which, judging by the muffled sound of the television drifting up from the living room, wasn't going particularly well, based on the level of frustration in Matty's voice every time he spoke.
And the sound of quick footsteps pacing back and forth along the downstairs hallway was probably Ted looking for something he couldn't find or running from something he didn't want to face, because with Ted, it was always one of those two options.
Blaire turned the page of her book without having read even half of what was in front of her and let out a sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment before returning her eyes to the text with the renewed determination of someone who had already made the decision to focus exactly three times in the last twenty minutes, and all three times had failed for different reasons.
It wasn't just the noise from downstairs, though the noise from downstairs definitely didn't help.
It was also that her brain had been settled into a sort of permanent standby mode for several days, triggering a small internal alarm every time her phone emitted any kind of notification. Up to that point, it had produced eleven false alarms in the form of campus emails, a message from her literature class group chat, and a Spotify notification she didn't remember enabling.
The book had been open to the same page for fifteen minutes when a new crash echoed from downstairs, sounding as if someone had knocked over something of considerable size, followed by her aunt Susy's voice saying Ted's full name in that specific tone Susan Bennett reserved for occasions when her patience had definitively reached its limit.
Blaire closed her eyes for a second.
"Theodore Matthew Bennett!" drifted up from downstairs with a clarity that suggested Susan had decided not to bother turning up her volume, but rather to just open the living room door wide.
Up in her room, Blaire couldn't help the small smile that appeared on her face at that. No matter how much noise her cousins made, there was something about the chaotic normalcy of the Bennett house that was so familiar it felt almost comforting, though she would never admit that out loud in front of any of them.
It was at that exact moment that the phone resting face-up on the pillow beside her made a sound different from all the others that night.
It wasn't the ping of an email or the discrete vibration of a class group chat notification, but the specific tone of an Instagram direct message, which Blaire recognized immediately, even though she would have been unable to explain precisely how she knew that particular sound was different from the others.
She turned her head toward the phone without moving from her spot, staring at it for a moment from where she lay, as if the act of not picking it up immediately could tell her something about the kind of person she was, before reaching for it and unlocking it.
It was him.
Blaire stared at the screen for a full second before sitting up a bit straighter against the headboard, the book closing over her knees under its own weight as she read the message.
@SterlingW: took me a bit, but here I am. do you still remember who I am?
Blaire let out a breath through her nose in a way that wasn't exactly a laugh but came pretty close, before typing her response.
@B.Bennett: vaguely. the boy who hid in my closet.
The reply came in less than thirty seconds.
@SterlingW: technically you hid me.
@B.Bennett: technically you offered to go in on your own.
@SterlingW: technically I had my reasons.
Blaire adjusted herself better against the headboard with her phone in both hands, the book completely forgotten on the bed beside her, noticing that the noise from downstairs had dropped in intensity—or that she had simply stopped consciously registering it.
@B.Bennett: watched the game tonight, by the way.
@SterlingW: and?
@B.Bennett: and nothing. just watched it.
@SterlingW: that's what you say when you were impressed but don't want to admit it.
Blaire looked at that last line for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly at the irritating accuracy of that observation, before typing her reply.
@B.Bennett: or it's what I say when I simply watched a game and have no opinion on the matter.
@SterlingW: five touchdowns.
@B.Bennett: don't know what that is.
@SterlingW: lie.
Blaire smiled before she could help herself and lowered the phone for a moment onto her knees, staring at the opposite wall with the expression of someone having a conversation they hadn't anticipated having, and which was turning out to be considerably more entertaining than she would have predicted.
From downstairs came the sound of Matty saying something to John about the Patriots' offense, and John's response, which sounded considerably more reasonable than the question, followed by Ted adding something that made Matty burst into a sudden laugh.
Blaire went back to her phone.
@B.Bennett: I might know what a touchdown is.
@SterlingW: knew you knew.
@B.Bennett: don't get ahead of yourself.
@SterlingW: too late. did you watch it from the beginning?
Blaire considered the answer for a moment.
@B.Bennett: since the second quarter.
Which was technically true, if one didn't count the first fifteen minutes of the first quarter, which she had also watched but had no intention of mentioning right now.
@SterlingW: what about the pass on the very first play?
@B.Bennett: didn't see it.
@SterlingW: pity. it was the best one of the game.
@B.Bennett: says the guy who threw it.
@SterlingW: ESPN says it too, but if you prefer to just believe me, I'm fine with that.
Blaire let out another small, silent laugh, looking at the screen with that expression that had been appearing lately with more frequency than she felt completely comfortable with.
@B.Bennett: are you always this unbearable, or is this something you're practicing specifically for these conversations?
@SterlingW: are you always this unfriendly, or is this something you practice?
@B.Bennett: I'm delightful.
"you are" came the reply, and Blaire stared at those two words for a moment before the next message appeared: "when you want to be."
@B.Bennett: you added that second part just to protect yourself.
@SterlingW: I added it because it's true.
@B.Bennett: wyatt.
@SterlingW: yeah?
@B.Bennett: shut up.
@SterlingW: just telling the truth.
@B.Bennett: well, keep it to yourself.
@SterlingW: can't, it's a factory defect.
Blaire lowered the phone onto her knees, staring at the wall with a smile she had no intention of analyzing, before typing again.
@B.Bennett: are you always like this with everyone, or am I special?
The reply took a few seconds longer than the previous ones.
@SterlingW: did you want me to say you're special?
@B.Bennett: I wanted to know the truth.
@SterlingW: the truth is I don't usually hide in the closets of girls I just met.
@B.Bennett: that doesn't answer my question.
@SterlingW: yes it does.
Blaire looked at the screen for a moment, processing that, before typing the only response she had, which wasn't an answer but a way to change the subject before the conversation reached a territory she wasn't sure she wanted to explore just yet.
The conversation continued like that for a while, with that rhythm text exchanges have when both people are replying fast and without thinking too much, with Wyatt asking her about Emerson and Blaire responding with the same mix of real information and calculated evasion she used when she didn't want to give away too much all at once.
@SterlingW: what are you studying?
@B.Bennett: english literature.
@SterlingW: and what do you do with that?
@B.Bennett: don't know yet. you?
@SterlingW: business administration with a concentration in sports marketing.
@B.Bennett: that sounds like something chosen by someone who already knows exactly how their life is going to go.
@SterlingW: or someone who thought about the future before choosing.
@B.Bennett: or that.
Wyatt, for his part, told stories about Clemson and about Texas with the natural ease of someone who wasn't trying to impress anyone but just talking, and Blaire found that to be probably the most baffling part of the entire conversation. She was used to guys who texted her constantly trying to seem more interesting than they actually were, whereas he simply was what he was, with no visible effort in either direction.
@B.Bennett: do you miss texas?
@SterlingW: sometimes. more in november.
@B.Bennett: why in november?
@SterlingW: because in texas in november it's still warm. here it's cold in a way that makes zero sense.
@B.Bennett: welcome to the american southeast.
@SterlingW: and did you also freeze in november your whole life?
@B.Bennett: I adapted.
@SterlingW: that's not an answer.
@B.Bennett: it's the only one you're getting.
At some point, Blaire realized that over an hour had passed since the first message and that the noise downstairs had completely vanished, which meant the house had entered its night mode, with her aunt and uncle already turned in and her cousins probably in their rooms—though with Ted, you could never be completely sure of anything.
@SterlingW: what were you doing when I texted you? Wyatt asked at some point.
@B.Bennett: reading.
@SterlingW: what?
@B.Bennett: The Picture of Dorian Gray.
@SterlingW: and did you finish it?
Blaire looked at the book, which was still closed at the exact spot where she had left it when the notification rang, and which she hadn't reopened since.
@B.Bennett: almost.
@SterlingW: lie.
@B.Bennett: stop doing that.
@SterlingW: doing what?
@B.Bennett: knowing when I'm lying.
@SterlingW: it's just that you're very predictable, blaire.
@B.Bennett: I am not predictable.
@SterlingW: a little bit, yeah.
@B.Bennett: wyatt.
@SterlingW: yeah?
@B.Bennett: shut up.
The reply took a bit longer than the previous ones, and by the time it arrived, Blaire was already completely lying back against her pillow with her phone held over her face, the nightstand lamp being the only light left on in the room.
@SterlingW: hey, I gotta run. early practice tomorrow.
Blaire looked at that line for a moment without replying right away, experiencing a sensation she had no intention of analyzing in too much detail. Analyzing it meant naming it, and naming it meant admitting things she wasn't ready to admit tonight.
@B.Bennett: fine.
"fine," he repeated, and Blaire could perfectly picture the tone with which he would have said it if it were a real conversation, even though she had no logical basis for knowing what Wyatt Sterling sounded like when he said that specific word in that specific tone.
@SterlingW: hey blaire.
@B.Bennett: what.
@SterlingW: thanks for texting me first.
Blaire looked at those four words for a moment longer than was probably necessary before typing the only response she had.
@B.Bennett: you're welcome, cowboy.
She locked the screen and set the phone face down on the nightstand, turning off the lamp in the same motion, leaving her in the darkness of the room with the book closed on the bed and the invisible ceiling above her.
On the other side, in Clemson, South Carolina, Wyatt looked at Blaire's last reply on his phone screen from his bed with a smile he wouldn't have been able to explain to anyone who asked him at that moment. Then, he placed the phone on his chest with the screen off and stared up at the dark ceiling of his room amid the silence of the college dorm.
Wyatt closed his eyes, thinking that the next day's practice was going to be long and that he should probably try to sleep, knowing perfectly well it was going to take him a while to manage it.
Outside, in Framingham, the Bennett house was finally quiet.
Lying on her pillow with the dark ceiling above her, it took Blaire a moment to realize she was still smiling, and another moment to do anything about it—which was basically nothing, because there was no one left in the room who could see her, and that meant the smile could stay right where it was without it having any particular implication about anything.
She thought about what Wyatt had said about the closet and how he had said it with that same calm ease with which he said everything else, as if none of the things that came out of his mouth cost him any effort at all. That was something Blaire found simultaneously irritating and considerably harder to ignore than she would have liked to admit.
She closed her eyes in the darkness of the bedroom with the rather uncomfortable certainty that she was going to take a while to fall asleep.
Author thought
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