Click On, Click Off

Tina kept waking up every hour, whispering to herself that summer was getting too damn hot. Even with the AC running in their four-bedroom house, sleep felt out of reach—like trying to hold smoke.

Every time the air kicked on, her chest loosened, like something unclenching inside her. When it clicked off, she held her breath, waiting for silence to mean failure. Maybe this was the night it gave out. Maybe tomorrow she’d have to tell Billy the water park was canceled.

She rolled over, eyes on the photo beside her bed. Three kids, frozen in a moment: Jeff, Billy, Tiffany. Even Tiffany’s grin looked defiant—chin scraped raw from the skateboard crash she wouldn’t shut up about.

“Makes me look cool,” she’d said.

Jeff was probably still at the bar, repeating the same mistakes she and his father had made at that age. She hoped they stayed small—no hospitals, no cuffs.

Jeff was good. Not blindly, not hopefully. Just good. Tina knew it in her bones.

Billy had just turned fourteen. He wouldn’t shut up about the water park—especially the green slide with the drop and the tunnel. It’d been his favorite since he was nine. The tickets weren’t expensive, not really, but every penny mattered now. Especially if the AC finally gave out.

Tiffany, the youngest, had always been Tina’s little princess—not that you'd guess it from the way she wore her scabs like medals. Landed her first shove-it last week. Bragged about it like she’d won gold. That chin scrape in the photo? A trophy.

Tina kicked the sheets off. Her skin was sticky.

A creak outside. Gravel shifted—slow, deliberate. Jeff was home. No headlights—he’d parked down the street again, same as always, slipping in like a ghost trying not to be noticed.

The side gate clicked, eased shut. Then the soft scrape of his boots across the porch boards. The night clung to him—beer, grease, sweat, smoke. He dropped onto the step with a quiet thud and lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter casting his face in brief orange.

Some girl—Kelsey? Casey?—floated into his mind. Something soft. She’d laughed when he spilled her drink, loud and easy. Wore her hair like she didn’t care where it landed. There’d been a flower on her hand, drawn between her thumb and finger. Looked like pen, but didn’t fade.

He thought about texting her. The screen felt heavy in his pocket. Maybe tomorrow.

The screen door creaked. Jeff didn’t turn.

“You’re up late,” Tina said.

He smiled. “You too.”

She stepped out onto the porch, the wood warm beneath her bare feet. The robe clung to her in the heat, thin and damp at the small of her back.

“Can’t sleep,” she said, settling beside him.

The silence stretched. The cicadas were still going, a single car hissed past in the distance. Jeff flicked ash into a dead plant pot on the edge of the porch.

“Wanna hear about the bar?”

She nodded, leaning in—not just to hear, but to be near. Like maybe his voice could settle something inside her.

The door opened.

Billy stood there—arms crossed, shirt inside out, hair a mess.

“Can’t sleep,” he muttered.

Jeff patted the step. “No one can. Come on. I was telling Mom about my night.”

Billy sat. “What happened?”

Jeff glanced at Tina. She gave the nod.

“Met a girl,” he said. “Flower tattoo. Right here.” He pointed. “Did it herself. Needle and some bad decisions.”

Billy grinned. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “She was.”

The door creaked again.

Tiffany stomped out, dragging a blanket.

“You’re too loud. I’m melting in there.”

They laughed. She rolled her eyes, then climbed into Tina’s lap.

Tina held her, eyes soft. This is all I need, she thought.

Tiffany’s head pressed into her chest—sweaty, warm. Her breath was the closest thing to a breeze all night.

“Jeff met a girl,” Billy said.

“Ew,” Tiffany muttered.

“She had a tattoo,” Jeff added. “Called me Romeo.”

“Double ew.”

“It’s romantic,” Billy argued.

“Triple ew.”

Billy smirked. “You wearing elbow pads at the water park?”

Tiffany grinned. “Only if you’re wearing knee pads, crash dummy.”

Jeff sighed. “You’re both wearing helmets.”

Tiffany tugged Jeff’s sleeve.

“Can we skate tomorrow instead? The water park smells like feet.”

Jeff raised a brow. “You sure?”

“Feet and sunscreen. Gross.”

Billy looked at Tina—already asleep, breathing steady.

“Think she’ll care?”

Jeff shook his head. “She’d be fine.”

Billy leaned back. “I’d rather skate anyway. But I’m not wearing elbow pads. I looked like a crash dummy.”

Tiffany elbowed him. “You’re wearing a helmet.”

A cicada buzzed somewhere far off. The porch wood was warm beneath their feet. Then, with a soft hum, the AC clicked on.

No one moved.

One by one, they drifted to sleep.

No one said anything else.

They didn’t need to.

Tina stirred as the sky cracked open with early light. The porch glowed gold, long shadows stretching across the boards. The air smelled like dust and dew. Billy lay across her lap, one arm over Tiffany, who was curled on Jeff’s shoulder. Her legs were numb. Her heart wasn’t.

Jeff sat upright, cigarette lit, eyes on the horizon. Smoke rose in slow spirals that caught the morning light.

“Still awake?” she asked.

“The girl from the bar,” he said. “Recruiter. Job a few towns over.”

He took a drag. The smoke drifted sideways in the new breeze.

“I’d have to move.”

She looked at him. And for a second, he was gone. Same slump. Same tired eyes. Same air of leaving.

She was young again. A door slammed. Metal. A crash.

Then Jeff was back.

She blinked once, and a tear slid down.

“I’m scared you’ll disappear like he did,” she said.

Jeff nodded. “Yeah.”

She reached out, rested her hand on his arm. “But leaving isn’t the same as vanishing.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched the light shift across the street, where the sky was turning a softer blue.

“I haven’t said yes,” he said. “Not yet.”

She gave him a tired smile. The kind that knew the weight of waiting.

“What happened to him doesn’t mean the same’ll happen to you,” she said.

He still didn’t speak.

But he stayed there, next to her, watching the light come in.