Jorge turned the doorknob with the patience of a safe-cracker, the metal surface slipping just a little under his sweaty palms as he twisted the handle until it clicked. He eased the door open slowly, making a gap just wide enough to allow his lanky body passage into the apartment, then carefully closed it from the other side. Only when it was silently settled back into the door frame did he cautiously release the knob and allow the door to latch. Then he closed the deadbolt, wincing slightly at the clicking noise it made.
He slipped out of his shoes and padded down the darkened hallway in his socks, sliding his feet across the bare wood to prevent the sound of his footfalls from alerting Cameron to his return. It had already been a hellishly long day, with three finals in the morning followed by a twelve-hour shift at the restaurant, and even though he loved his roommate like a brother, right now he loved the thought of falling face-first onto his pillow a whole hell of a lot more. Jorge edged up to the open archway that led past the living room, listening for the sound of the television, hoping to pass by when Cameron was distracted so he could get to his bedroom and-
"Hey hey, Mister J!" Cameron called out as Jorge passed by, the sound of his voice freezing Jorge in position midway down the hall. He turned to see his roommate sitting on the couch in his boxer shorts, the bright white fabric vividly contrasting Cameron's dark skin. "Come and take a load off, dude," Cameron gestured, wiggling the bottle of Corona he held loosely between his fingers. "The night is still young, m'man, and I already got a cold one out for you."
Jorge's shoulders slumped. One thing he had to admit, Cameron always knew when to pick his opportunities. He seemed to have a knack for it, finding the exact moment when Jorge's resistance had been sapped by long days and longer nights and the thought of pushing back against Cameron's friendly insistence seemed so utterly exhausting that it felt easier just to go along with him for a little while. Even when he already knew that 'a little while' was going to turn into something more, even when he knew that Cameron's offer of a single beer was the social equivalent of the salesman sticking his foot in the door. Jorge could already see the evening's events unfolding in his mind.
He'd have to go over and sit on the couch. If he tried to plead exhaustion, Cameron would only give him that hangdog look of his and say something, "Come on, man. We never see each other anymore, y'know? You're always work work work and school school school, dude. You gotta make a little time for your friends. Sit down, have a beer, just relax a few minutes. I already opened it, it'll go to waste if you don't drink it."
And even though Jorge knew full well that Cameron always knew what to do with an extra beer, the guilt would always eat away at him until he promised himself that he'd just spend ten minutes hanging out and watching stupid viral videos on the couch before he dragged himself off to bed. "Ten minutes, man, that's all I can do," he'd say, giving Cameron a serious look that he already knew his friend would totally disregard. "Otherwise I'm gonna fall asleep right here in the living room."
"Sure, sure, no problem," Cameron always said, every single time. His dark brown eyes practically radiated sincerity when he promised, "I'll make sure to keep an eye on the clock, dude," his face so earnest and open that even though they both knew he was lying through his teeth, Jorge always managed to convince himself that this time would be different. He'd pull up the Chromecast, put on some stupid video about guys fucking up skateboard stunts or faceplanting during a basketball game, and let it autoplay while Jorge drank his Corona.
And wouldn't you just know it, when he got up to get himself a fresh beer, Cameron would always grab one for Jorge too. Just out of politeness, of course. Because it would be rude to make Jorge get his own beer when he was already so worn out by his long day. "You been working that brain of yours so hard I'm surprised it ain't out of gas, y'know?" he'd say, giving Jorge a big smile and setting down a new Corona right next to the half-full bottle on the end table. Always the same jokes, always reminding Jorge how tired he was. But somehow never giving him a graceful opportunity to leave.
Not that Jorge didn't bear his share of the blame. He'd remind himself every time that he said ten minutes, that he meant ten minutes, that he was exhausted and bleary-eyed and so groggy he could barely string a coherent thought together. But the couch was always so comfortable, and there was always a cool beer right there at hand, and the videos autoplayed one into the next into the next without any real cues to alert Jorge to the lateness of the hour beyond the little clock in the corner of the screen. And that was easy to ignore.
