Eric tossed in his sleeping bag for what must have been the hundredth time that night, craning his neck to look at the alarm clock on Otis' nightstand. Upon seeing the numbers 3:12 glow, he sighed, slumping his head back onto the pillow—it had only been five minutes since he last checked. This night was going to last forever.
Whereas Otis had been sound asleep since around the midnight mark, tired from a night of video games and Nerf guns, Eric had drifted off for only moments, and it was a reckless sleep at that—a doze consumed with nightmares that threatened to swallow him whole.
Eric chewed the inside of his cheek and reached down to gingerly pat the hip of his sweatpants. Yes, it was still there—the item that had seemed so small, so light now weighing heavy in his pocket and heavier on his conscience.
It had been impulsive. Mrs. Milburn had taken him and Otis to the store to pick up snacks—bad ones. Ones his parents would never approve of. Chocolate ice cream and potato chips and root beer. She had ordered them to grab whatever they wanted while she went to the pharmacy counter to fill a prescription, and while Otis was marveling over the seemingly endless shelves of candy, Eric had discreetly eyed the makeup section behind him.
There were deep purple lipsticks and brilliant blue eyeliners and pale pink blushes. There were even things Eric didn't recognize—glittery tubes and curvy wands that seemed to whisper to him.
But he bypassed all of that until he finally spied what he was looking for: a small palette of eyeshadow. The three tiny, familiar orange rectangles his mother kept in her bathroom.
At first, he'd just creep in there to look, to lose himself in its beauty. Until one day, he got the courage to open it, tap his finger into the one labeled "clementine."
Swiping the powder onto his eyelid made him feel like he could breathe, suck in the first deep breath he'd ever taken. For once, he looked in the mirror and didn't hate what he saw.
The feeling was fleeting, his mother barging into the bathroom moments later, scolding him for sneaking around and playing with things he had no business with. That night at dinner, his father had admonished him, reminding him how he was expected to behave as a man in that stern, even way that made Eric know he was a disappointment as a son.
His brain knew he couldn't do it at home anymore lest he risk more severe consequences, but his heart wouldn't let him stop. Every time he looked in the mirror it twinged as if saying, "Remember who you could be?"
So without thinking, he had slipped the palette into his pocket, feeling a rush of fear and liberation at taking something that did not—in every sense of the word—belong to him. His head was floating as he meandered back to Otis, cluelessly deliberating about candy as if nothing had ever happened.
He waited for the other shoe to drop the whole night, but it had never come. Not in the form of a shoplifting alarm. Not in the form of one of the off-duty cops at the pizza restaurant. And not in the form of Otis when Eric cautiously switched the eyeshadow from his jeans pocket to his pajama bottoms.
Though there was a sense of anxiety buzzing there, he had mostly been able to keep it at bay as he and Otis shoveled copious amounts of greasy pizza and cans of sugary soda into their mouths. The night had felt like a vacation from his real life. He could indulge in foods he was never allowed at home, share a space with two people instead of his big, loud family. He loved them, of course, but he wasn't sure they could ever love him—the real him—back.
But it was a different story when the lights turned off and he was left alone with his thoughts. He had stolen. Not only that; he had stolen makeup. His heart pulsated inside his chest, aching like a pressed bruise. His stomach swirled with the pain of bad decisions until he couldn't take it anymore.
He could feel the unmistakable burn of bile creep up his throat, and he glanced around the room, squinting his eyes in search of a trash can, a grocery bag, something to catch his emotions. Just as he was about to grab for an empty tissue box, he thought better of it. Otis may be a heavy sleeper, but Eric was doubtful he'd sleep through this.
Instead, Eric slid out of his sleeping bag, cursing the swish of fabric that got caught on his feet. Thankfully, he caught the bed before he could nosedive into the hardwood and padded out the door, awkwardly galloping down the attic stairs and sighing in relief when he reached the bottom.
The victory, though, was short-lived when he realized he couldn't remember which of the doors led to the bathroom. The Milburn house was big and different from the ones in his neighborhood, which all looked practically the same. "Gothic," his mother had scoffed at the exterior upon dropping him off that afternoon. "Downright kooky," his father had agreed.
The interior was much the same. Upon first entering the house, Eric had been glad his parents didn't take Mrs. Milburn up on her offer for tea. Had they ventured further from the doorway, he was fairly certain they would have forced him back into the car and driven him far, far away. Paintings of female bodies dotted the walls, and tables showcased various sculptures of...well, he wasn't exactly sure what they were, but he had a strong feeling they were something his parents would deem grotesque.
Otis' face had blushed red when he saw Eric curiously fixate on one of them. "Sorry—my mom's into weird art stuff." Eric had shrugged, telling Otis he thought they were interesting. And it was the truth—he had never seen anything like them. It was almost like stepping into a museum.
A museum, unfortunately, without a map. Eric's eyes darted down the hallway, frantically racking his brain, replaying the house tour Otis had given him. The first one on the right was a storage closet...right? And the one on the left was the bathroom? Or maybe the bathroom was the second one on the right and the office was on the left. But the guest bedroom was directly across from the bathroom, wasn't it?
Eric's stomach flipped again, and he knew he had to make a decision—fast. He shuffled down the hallway, yanking open the second door on the left and hoping for the best.
Once the door swung open, it was like everything moved in slow motion, the realizations hitting him one at a time—getting worse and worse. He wasn't faced with the outline of a sink, so it wasn't the bathroom. He couldn't make out a desk, so he hadn't mistaken it for the office. Instead, he saw a bed. But not the outline of the quilted bed he had seen earlier in the guest bedroom—no, that would be too merciful.
The bed was larger, the blankets wrinkled and lumpy. There was a person in it, and by process of elimination, said person had to be Mrs. Milburn.
Eric's breath caught, his stomach churning with a vengeance. He stood there for a moment, paralyzed. Had she woken up? Should he apologize? Should he bolt back up the stairs, pretend to be asleep, and act as if none of this had ever happened? Should he simply run back home, never speak to Otis again out of mortification?
He clenched his jaw, settling on shutting the door, trying to close it as quickly and quietly as possible. The door, of course, squeaked like a rabid animal. His parents would be glad about one thing—this situation caused him to pray like never before.
After stepping back into the relative safety of the doorway, Eric tried another door, this time with less caution—after all, door number two, whatever was behind it, certainly couldn't get much worse.
Thankfully, he was met with the bathroom. He shut the door as swiftly as he could with his shaking hands and bent over the toilet, finally expelling all the junk food, nerves, and guilt that had bubbled up. The release lasted only a moment, though, as the sound of several soft knocks on the door was enough to send another wave of nausea coursing through his body.
"Otis, are you in there?" he heard Mrs. Milburn say.
Eric knelt there, motionless, trying to figure out how to maneuver the situation—not an easy feat when your head was suddenly pounding. He must have paused a bit too long, as there were a few more light raps. "Otis?"
"It's Eric," he finally replied. The last thing he wanted was for Mrs. Milburn to barge in from concern.
"Eric," Mrs. Milburn corrected, her voice still filled with maternal warmth. "Can I open the door?"
"I'm fine," Eric said quickly, hoping it would get her to leave.
No such luck.
"Can I come in?" she repeated, ignoring his statement.
Eric was now faced with a predicament: be weak or be rude. He didn't want her to see him unraveled, but he knew his parents would be horrified if they ever found out he talked back to an adult, much less in their own home.
"Okay," he said reluctantly.
As he heard the door open, he turned his head to greet her, trying to look as casual as one possibly could under the circumstances. Like most of Eric's plans lately, it backfired tremendously, the quick movement causing the dizzy feeling to return. He was suddenly hunched over, vomiting once again.
"Oh, sweetheart," Mrs. Milburn cooed sympathetically, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. It was a foreign feeling—his family wasn't exactly what you'd call affectionate—but not altogether unpleasant. "Perhaps I overdid it on the pizza order, hm?" she teased lightly, now rubbing soothing circles on his back.
"I'm sorry," Eric said instinctively, talking to the universe in general as much he was to Mrs. Milburn specifically.
"Nothing to apologize for," Mrs. Milburn replied, not picking up on the weight behind his words. "Eating yourself sick is a sleepover tradition."
He felt his shoulders relax slightly under her touch. And Mrs. Milburn, ever the observant therapist, much have felt it, too. "Feeling better?"
Eric nodded. It was half true—the nausea had settled into a dull ache, uncomfortable but bearable. "Yes. Thank you."
Mrs. Milburn stood up, walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet.
Eric eyed the door. "I'll go back upstairs now," he announced, grabbing onto the counter to try and pull himself up. His body was annoyingly weak at the moment.
Mrs. Milburn looked at him, eyes widening slightly at his getaway attempt. She turned the water off and held out a hand. "Don't overexert yourself. Let's just sit for a bit, okay?"
Eric gritted his teeth but obeyed, lowering himself back down. Mrs. Miburn grabbed a towel from a shelf and slung it over the side of the bathtub. "Come here, darling," she beckoned, patting the fabric. "Should be a bit more comfortable."
He shifted so he was next to her, his back propped against the tub. She handed him a glass of water. "Sip on this," she instructed.
Eric did as he was told, taking tiny gulps. He kept his eyes firmly on his lap, fiddling with the cup, pressing his thumb into the glass until he could see the lines of his fingerprint.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, breaking the silence after a moment. "I...got lost," he explained, immediately regretting it—the words sounded stupider coming out of his mouth than they did in his head.
Mrs. Milburn smiled, propping her arm on the bathtub to face him. "This house is a maze—it was months before I figured out how to properly navigate it."
Eric took another drink and looked around the bathroom, trying to distract himself. Luckily, like the rest of the house, it was rather cluttered. Three candles sat on the back of the toilet. Several rolls of toilet paper lined a shelf in the corner. And then, directly underneath a shelf holding dozens of miniature lotions and shampoo bottles, was a plastic box marked "makeup." His stomach sank.
Eric closed his eyes, not wanting to reckon with the reminder of what he had done. The eyeshadow felt like it was burning his hip, matching the tears that were scorching his eyes. He bit his tongue and dug a fingernail into his palm—a trick he had developed several years ago that sometimes helped keep the tears from falling, at least until he was alone.
"Eric, what's wrong?" he heard Mrs. Milburn ask. The sound of fabric flitting against tile shortly followed, and he could feel that she was sitting directly in front of him now. "Do you feel like you're doing to be sick again?"
Eric shook his head, not daring to verbally reply. There was no doubt in his mind that if he tried, the tears would come rolling down his cheeks.
"What's the matter, darling?" she asked, gently stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. It felt cool against his flushed face. "Are you homesick? Do you want me to call your parents?" she tried after a moment of his nonresponsiveness.
"No," Eric said a bit too quickly, opening his eyes to plead. "You don't have to do that." Just as he expected, the tears came streaming down his face. He furiously brushed them away with his sleeve.
"Okay," Mrs. Milburn agreed. "It's okay, Eric. You're okay."
"It's not okay," Eric said with more force than he intended, his voice cracking in betrayal. More tears threatened to replace the ones he'd just wiped away. His breath hitched. "I shouldn't...be doing this."
"Doing what?" Mrs. Milburn asked, genuine confusion etched into her features.
"Crying. At your house," Eric said. Was this not obvious? For a doctor, she wasn't acting particularly smart.
"It's a natural human reaction. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, especially being in a new place when you're not feeling—"
She sounded so calm, so rational it was almost annoying. "Boys aren't supposed to cry," Eric finally blurted.
Mrs. Milburn jolted back slightly. It was the first time Eric had ever seen her not completely calm and collected. Her mouth morphed into a frown, an angry shadow passing over her face. "Who told you that?"
Eric darted his eyes away from her. He wouldn't tell her the truth. His parents weren't bad people—they really weren't—they just lived by different rules than her. He didn't want to make them look bad.
Thankfully, Mrs. Milburn didn't wait for an answer, though when she cupped his chin, forcing him to look her, the look in her eyes made him pretty sure she already knew.
"Well, that rule doesn't apply here, understood?" She thumbed a stray tear off his cheek. "Not in this house. Not with me."
Eric nodded, which seemed to satisfy Mrs. Miburn. She sat back against the bathtub again, stretching out her legs.
"Do you think you could tell me why you're upset?" she coaxed.
Eric pressed his palm down on the floor, spreading his fingers and feeling the chill of the tile. He'd really been hoping she'd forgotten. His determination was waning fast, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could avoid the root of it all. He supposed that maybe he should rip the band-aid off so he could get to the penance. No matter what it may be, he'd earned it.
"I did something bad," he vaguely confessed. "Took something."
Mrs. Milburn nodded slowly. "Okay. From who?"
"Store," he said, barely above a whisper. He reached into his pocket, fingers curling around the palette—no going back now. His hand trembling, he passed it to her, keeping his eyes firmly fixated on the ground in front of him.
Mrs. Milburn took it, perching her glasses onto the bridge of her nose before examining it more closely. She opened her mouth to speak, but Eric cut her off before she could ask any questions—he needed to admit to it all, get everything off his chest while he still had the shred of courage.
"I like the way it looks," he said quietly. "On me."
Mrs. Milburn moved it around in her hands. Eric fidgeted throughout the torturous silence.
After a moment, she set the eyeshadow on the edge of the tub. "I can see why you'd choose clementine. It certainly complements your complexion."
Eric turned to face her, surprised to be met with a soft smile.
Was that all she was going to say? No yelling? No telling him to pack his bags? He was afraid to ask, but he needed to know. "Am I in trouble?"
Mrs. Milburn sighed, sliding her glasses off her face. "Stealing is very serious," she said. "But I believe you know what you did was wrong, and I expect that it will not happen again. Would I be correct to assume that?" she arched an eyebrow in his direction, and he nodded, swallowing his shame.
"Good. Then I see no reason why we should waste our time with a lecture," she said, patting his knee and taking the eyeshadow off the tub before standing up. "Tell you what—I'll bring this back to the store tomorrow and tell them I accidentally took it without paying. I'll give them the money, and you can have it back next time you come over. Otis can't stop talking about you, so I'm sure it won't be long. How does that sound?"
Eric nodded in disbelief, lifting himself off the ground. "Thank you, Mrs. Milburn."
Mrs. Milburn smiled, slipping the eyeshadow into the pocket of her robe. She turned to leave, nearly running into Otis, who was rubbing his eyes in the doorway.
"What's going on?" he asked, voice heavy with slumber.
"Nothing, sweetheart," Mrs. Milburn assured him.
"Are you guys having fun without me?" Otis whined.
Mrs. Milburn stifled a laugh, smoothing down his disheveled hair. "No. Go back to sleep," she said, turning out the bathroom light.
"Can we make pancakes in the morning?" Otis inquired.
"Sure," Mrs. Milburn replied.
"With maple syrup?"
"I don't see why not." Mrs. Milburn guided Otis down the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom. Eric followed closely behind.
"Bacon, too?"
"We can have whatever you want, but you have to go to sleep before you can eat breakfast," Mrs. Milburn reminded him, tucking him into his bed. "Love you."
Eric crawled into his sleeping bag, snuggling his head to the pillow and trying to suppress the tiny feeling of jealousy nagging at the pit of his stomach. He reminded himself that just because his parents weren't the doting type didn't mean they didn't love him, too, in their own way.
As if sensing his thoughts, Mrs. Milburn crouched next to him, softly kissing his forehead. "Goodnight, darling," she whispered.
She stood, smoothing her robe and walking to the door. "Sleep tight, boys," she said.
Otis was out before she spoke, and Eric wasn't far behind, falling into a deep, nightmare-less rest. He woke up to the smell of pancakes and bacon, feeling safer than he'd ever felt.