DARKNESS STILL ENCOMPASSES the room when I stir awake. Feeling with my hand, I pat the bed but only find a thawed bag of ice cubes. Sitting up, I blink my eyes a few times, taking in Dex’s room. When I don’t hear the water from the bathroom next door or any movement of his return, I decide to seek him out.
The door creaks open and I descend down the steps, following the shouting and calling of familiar voices echoing from somewhere in the house. Peering outside, I see no one there, so I’m guessing everyone has left except for the true gamblers. The ones that live and die for their easy money because a few times they actually were ‘blessed’.
Once I’m at the bottom of the basement stairs, I scan the smoke-filled room with televisions lining the walls. Some men are cheering on a baseball team and others busy themselves at poker tables. Spotting Dex, my stomach hardens, all of those butterflies from earlier slowly dying and weighing it down. Standing in the middle of the room, Dex has a fist full of money, yelling at the television.
The game ends and he screams, “YAY!” I glare as he walks around the room, grabbing money from men’s hands, bearing an arrogant smile. Some men pat his back, saying congratulations while others shake their head in annoyance.
“You should stick with him. He’s one talented bastard.” My dad comes along side of me and my vision flickers to his face, wrinkled and weathered beyond his years, and then back to Dex’s younger face, full of life. That elated sense of like and security I felt when I looked at him earlier quickly gets replaced with the need to purge my stomach into the nearest trashcan.
As though he hears my thoughts while his eyes scan the room, double-checking he collected all of his bets, the baby blues land on mine and his lips turn down as he lowers his hat to cover his eyes. Not willing to witness the unraveling of someone I believed was pure to this devil-infested life, I twist away from him and run.
His big bare feet thump up the stairs after me. I swing the door closed as soon as I step into the kitchen, but his flat hand stops it from shutting in his face. “Chrissy,” he calls out after me, but I continue my way up to his room with him close behind. I bend down to grab my shoes, and when I stand, I stumble back from his closeness.
“You’re no better than them,” I say, intently narrowing my eyes at the money still firmly clenched in his fist.
“This is nothing. It’s fun for me. You think I’d ever live my life—”
“Whatever, Dex,” I interrupt him and push by, disgusted that he gambles for entertainment. Doesn’t he realize everyone starts out that way and then the tide turns to a need basis? He grips my arm, twisting me around before sliding his hand down to join mine.
“I’m sorry, Chrissy. I was just bored and thought I’d go down there. One thing lead to another,” he says, making excuses for his behavior.
“I just think you should stay as far away as possible,” I advise and take in a breath. “I live the slippery slope first-hand.”
“I know—I will.” We stand there with our eyes darting all over the room, and the warmth of his hand in mine. “Just stay. Your dad can’t drive.” He leads me back over to the bed.
Sitting down, we find the same positions we were in hours ago. This time, the television remains turned off though. I roll over to face the wall and he rolls over on his side, facing the opposite direction.
I lie awake most of the night, listening to Dex’s breathing pattern and light snores. Eventually, I succumb to sleep, because when I wake up, he’s gone again. Leaning over, I wrap my arms around his pillow and inhale the scent that’s left behind, allowing that feeling of loneliness to occupy me again. A small envelope rests in the heel of my shoe. When my shaking finger tears along the seam to open it, I automatically know what it contains. All the crinkled money he won last night overfills the envelope with a small note.
The last thing I want is gambling money, but thinking about how many times my hard-earned babysitting money was ‘blessed’ to someone else, I shove it into my purse. When I get downstairs, Mr. Prescott is up and sitting at the kitchen table.
“Dex asked me to tell you goodbye for him. He had an early football practice this morning,” he informs me. “His mom picked him up.” He brings the cup to his lips.
“Oh, yeah, okay.” I stand here awkwardly shifting back and forth.
“Take a seat, Chrissy.” He motions toward the chair, and I hesitate before eventually sitting down.
Mr. Prescott talks to me about nothing important, just how’s school and my teachers. He never mentions the fight or Dex at all. I’m thankful he doesn’t dig into where I slept last night or how I got Dex mixed-up in the fight. It’s embarrassing to always be the basket case his son needs to rescue. A half hour later, my dad joins us with his hair stuck up in every direction, smelling like a scotch distillery.