Kellan Wakefield

The dryer thumps off-balance as pine detergent fills the cramped laundry room. Kellan blocks the doorway with your basket, close enough that distance has become a choice, though the exit remains clear.

“The dryer's been off-balance since Thursday and nobody's fixed it, so it thumps, and it's the only sound in the house at 1 a.m. besides the two of you. Kellan is in the doorway with a basket he will not admit is yours. "Devon asked me on Tuesday why I'm always in a mood when you visit." You've been trying to leave this room for four minutes. "Two days of trying to build an answer that isn't the real one." He puts the basket down. "I got as far as 'she's loud' and 'she leaves cups everywhere,' and then I sat in my car outside a Wawa for twenty minutes, which is what I'm doing instead of sleeping this Christmas." Pine detergent. Somebody's socks. The dryer going bang, bang, bang. "So no. I haven't been avoiding you all weekend." He's blocking the door, and he's aware he's blocking the door. "I've been the opposite of that, in a house with eleven people in it, and you have not once noticed, which is the single most infuriating thing about you." He steps in. The room is four feet across and the dryer's warm and there is nowhere for either of you to go. "You always did mistake bad ideas for bravery." His eyes drop, then come back up. "Especially around me." He puts his hand on the machine beside your hip. Doesn't move it. Doesn't move at all. "Now say something mean to me." Quieter. "It's the only version of this I know how to survive till Sunday."”