A boy I used to bully

I had barely twisted the doorknob and yanked it open before a wave of hot, greasy, oniony air blasted me in the face, instantly conjuring up every childhood memory I had of Wiley Henderson. He was the sort of person who could foul an entire entryway just by standing in it, a black hole of cleanliness and social grace. He was know to leave a greasy smelly trail where ever he walked. He disgusted me so much.

The last time I’d encountered him, I’d sworn it was the final time, that he was consigned to the past, a greasy footnote in Sarah's otherwise pristine narrative. But there he was, standing on our threshold like an unflushable turd, dressed in a wrinkled oxford that glistened faintly with what I hoped was only sweat, every button straining against a frame that had collected even more mass in the last few years.

He didn’t speak at first, just grinned. His teeth looked like a mouthful of chewed popcorn kernels, and I could see a faint smear of what might be buffalo wing sauce in the corner of his mouth. He carried an old duffel, the kind that said "crash on your couch," and his hair was gelled in some pathetic attempt to corral it, but the tufts at the crown rebelled, poking up in greasy plumes. And yet, I knew—just as I always had—that this was the same Wiley Henderson who had haunted every milestone of Sarah’s life, he shared the same birthdate as her, her neighbor, her parents were his parents' best friends, her first friend, the leech her parents insisted was family. If it wasn’t for that fact, I don’t think Sarah would even known his name because they have nothing else in common.

I always hated the way he looked at Sarah. I don’t what Sarah sees in him. He's so gross, and perverted. He probably got a shrine of her hair, or something hidden away. No matter what I said Sarah always defended him. Which is why I made it my life's mission to torment him when ever he was around.

One of the happiest days in my life was when he graduated a year early and went off to some far-off school.

I didn’t even have time to hurl an insult before he said, “Hey, Liam. Nice place.” His tone was perfectly flat, unimpressed, already taking stock of the square footage and the meagerness of our furniture.

I should have shut the door. I should have feigned ignorance, mumbled "wrong apartment," or anything. But Sarah was standing just down the hallway, already peeking over my shoulder like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Wiley?” she squealed, shoving me aside with more **** than I expected, and in the next instant they were clinging together in one of those full-body hugs that made me want to retch. He enveloped her, practically lifting her from the floor, his meaty sausage arms swallowing her slender frame. I had to look away.

“Still putting your whole heart in your hugs, huh, Sarah Bear?” Wiley said, and I watched, horrified, as she actually giggled. Giggle. The sound was so unlike her usual reserved chuckle that I could feel a fresh, cold envy sprouting in my gut. It always annoyed me hearing him call her a pet name, as he was the one person in the whole world she would let do it. No matter how many times I asked she wouldn’t tell him to stop. And if I called her, even once she wouldn’t talk to me for hours.

They finally separated, though it took at least three full beats longer than any normal embrace should have. Sarah held him at arm’s length, beaming at him with an affection I hadn’t seen her direct at anyone but me in years. “You’re huge!” she exclaimed.

“Genetics, baby,” Wiley said, patting his own rotund belly like it was a prizewinning hog. “You look great, Sarah. For real. Like you hit the gym or something.”

She laughed and did a mock flex, pulling back her cardigan to reveal a sliver of toned bicep. “Only because they make us in nursing. You know I hate running. Or doing anything remotely athletic.”

They ignored me, so I stepped back, hands in my pockets, and watched as the reunion unfolded, feeling like a stranger in my own apartment. Wiley finally gave me a nod; the kind of nod you give a meter maid or a telemarketer—barely acknowledging that I existed.

“Hey, nerd,” I said. “What, the city jail ran out of holding cells?”

Wiley didn’t even blink. “Nice to see you too, Liam,” he said, not breaking eye contact. “You still working at that call center, or did you finally makeshift manager at the taco place?”

I could feel Sarah tense, just for a split second, before quickly changing the subject. “Come in, come in!” she said, hauling Wiley’s duffel inside and dropping it by the door. “You want something to drink? Water, soda? We have coffee, but it’s the cheap stuff.”

Wiley slouched into our kitchen, which was technically just a corner of the living room separated by half a wall, and plopped himself onto the biggest chair, the one I’d specifically bought for myself. His ass nearly swallowed it whole. “Water’s fine. Or beer, if it’s afternoon.”

Sarah ran to the fridge, opening it with a little flourish, as if she were auditioning for a cooking show. I watched her, still wearing her favorite faded leggings, the ones that made her look like she belonged in a yoga studio. She moved with energy, and excitement—a different person than the girl who usually spent her evenings curled up with a book or collapsed from exhaustion. She handed Wiley a water bottle, and I caught that little glimmer in her eyes that always appeared when she was around people she liked.

I leaned against the wall, arms folded, trying to look casual. “So what brings you to our side of town, Wiley?” I asked, pretending not to care about the answer.

Wiley twisted open the bottle and chugged half of it before speaking. “Business,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Got a big project with some tech company over in the next county. They needed someone with a brain, so they called me.”

Sarah snorted. “Yeah, right. They just wanted someone who can inhale pizza faster than their entire board of directors.”

Wiley barked a laugh, and for the briefest moment, I could almost see why Sarah liked him. He wasn’t self-serious; he let insults slide off him like he’d been inoculated against embarrassment. If he got bullied as a kid, he’d weaponized it, embraced it, and become immune.

Sarah laughed. “I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in so long! I mean, what’s it been, four years?”

“Closer to five,” Wiley said. “I have been really busy with school and work.” He jerked his thumb at me.

Sarah’s cheeks went red as if she’d been caught doing something illicit. “Well, yeah,” she said softly. “Liam and I have been… you know. Busy. With life. And work. And school… So how did you know we were here?”

Wiley smiled “I just got done seeing Ann (Sarah’s mom. I always hated how Sarah’s parents allow this pathic human being to call them by their first name while I had to refer to them as Mr. and Mrs.) and she told me you were here.”

“So,” Sarah said, still smiling, “How long are you in town for?”

Wiley shrugged. “A few days, a week tops. Depending on the project.”

Sarah “Where are you staying?”

Wiley “I have a hotel room about thirty minutes outside of town.”

Before I can stop here Sarah asks, “Why don’t you stay here with us.”

Wiley smiled “Really… I don’t want to be a burden.”

I think this fucker is a burden just by breathing, so I groaned "What Sarah?"

"Come on Liam, Can't we let him stay?!?"

Before I could object Sarah turns back to him as if I wasn't even there as says“You wouldn’t be a burden at all. This will be just like when we were kids! Remember those sleepovers? Fuck, your snoring drove my parents crazy.”

“Snoring’s only gotten worse,” Wiley said, with a wink. “Just wait till you hear it after a couple of chili dogs.”

They both laughed, and I realized that, for all my talk of hating Wiley, I’d never actually seen Sarah look so alive. It was like every part of her rewound to a time when the world didn’t weigh so much when it was just her and a weird, loyal kid who would always have her back. My stomach was knotted with something that was maybe jealousy, maybe fear.

After dinner, Sarah and Wiley stretched out in the living room, both sinking into the mismatched cushions of our second-hand sofa. I lingered in the hallway for a moment, listening to the two of them banter, their laughter echoing in low, familiar waves that made the apartment feel even smaller than it was. Sarah perched near the edge of the couch with her legs tucked under her, one hand absentmindedly stroking the cat, while Wiley sprawled out like he was the lord of the estate, shoes off, socks blinding white, his meaty arm draped carelessly over the armrest. It was just like high school, except now the living room was ours and the walls were thin enough that I couldn’t escape them, not even by locking myself in the bedroom.

Part of me wanted to go in there and break it up, but that would mean I would have to spend another second around the gross perverted man, who smells like he hasn’t showered in a month. And if I did that I might throw up.

So, I retreated to the bedroom and left the door cracked so I could listen, which was masochistic but irresistible. Through the slice of air, I could hear Wiley telling stories about how I used to shove his head in the toilet during sophomore year, how I called him “Swirly Henderson” until even the gym teachers started calling him that. He listed my crimes with cheerful precision, with no bitterness in his voice like it was all just part of growing up. Sarah cackled at every story, sometimes adding her own, like the time she watched me stuff Wiley into a locker, or the time I made him eat dirt at football camp. None of it sounded as cruel as I remembered. In their mouths, it became something shared, an inside joke with the world left out.

Then Wiley’s voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial. “So, Sarah, tell me the truth. What do you even see in this guy?”

I could imagine his face, the crooked smile, tongue poking at that chip in his front tooth. Sarah hesitated, just long enough to make it mean something.

“He’s not really like that,” she said, her voice softening. “He acts tough sometimes, but only around you. Mostly he just stays up all night bingeing conspiracy documentaries and worrying about what his hair looks like.”

Wiley snorted. “He’s still obsessed with his hair?”

“It’s his security blanket,” Sarah said. “He thinks if he ever goes bald, I’ll leave him.”

There was a pause. I pictured them exchanging a glance, some secret language passed between losers who’d survived the same childhood. I didn’t like being on the outside of it, but I couldn’t edge back in without exposing how much I was listening.

Wiley said, “So tonight was supposed to be your big night, huh?”

I didn’t know what that meant, but Sarah huffed and buried her face in a pillow. “Fuck, leave it to my mother and you to ruin the surprise.”

“What surprise?” Wiley pressed, voice high and teasing.

Sarah lowered her head, voice barely audible. “Tonight was supposed to be our first night. Like, actually our first night.” She laughed nervously. “It’s so stupid. We’ve been together forever, but we never—I wanted to wait until after graduation, and then we were both so busy and now…”

It infuriated me how she so causally invited that pervert into our personal lives.

Wiley’s voice softened. “I’m sorry if I crashed your plans.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’d rather see you, honestly. It’s not like I was ready for anything to change, anyway.”

I heard the springs of the couch shift. “I can leave tomorrow,” Wiley offered, but Sarah cut him off.

“If you do, I’ll hunt you down and drag you back here.” Her voice was firm, near ****. “You’re family, Wiley. You always have been.”

There was a silence, then Wiley: “I missed this. I missed you. Not the small-town drama, or Ann’s cooking, or even the old house—I just missed being around someone who never made me feel like a freak.”

Sarah laughed, but it sounded brittle. “You’re not a freak, Wiley. You’re one of the few real people I know.”

“I mean, compared to Liam—” Wiley started, but Sarah elbowed him hard, and they both descended into laughter. For a while, they just talked in easy, rolling sentences about nothing at all: old YouTube channels, bizarre college professors, stories about the people who still lived in their childhood neighborhood. There was no talk of work, or the rent we could barely afford, or the fact that my student loans had just entered repayment. It was like they’d created a private reality where being weird was currency, and the only rule was that you had to be able to make the other person laugh.