I hate parties. No matter what I thought, no matter what I had convinced myself of before, I hate them. Especially when the first thing I see upon entering one is a couple kissing. On Valentine’s Day. Of course.
“Travis! You made it!” Alex calls from across the room. The entire party seems to be centered in his basement, which is huge enough to be divided into different sections. Most people seem to be in either the section devoted to a TV playing some soppy romantic comedy, or in the section devoted to… beer pong. Alex is in neither. He’s stationed in front of an old refrigerator, talking to Ben, Mason, and Jeremy. I weave my way through people to point at Ben.
“You said this party was about love sucking. Not about love being awesome and a reason to make out in front of me,” I accuse. He glances over to the couple I passed.
“That guy’s actually cheating on his girlfriend right now. He’s supposed to be dating a girl from another school, and that chick’s in my math class. So, see? Love does suck,” he says. Alex pushes off the refrigerator and wraps an arm around my neck in a very unexpected hug.
“I’m really glad you made it. Ben said he invited you, but the party started at like, seven, and it’s like, ten o’clock right now. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. I was terrified,” he says. This hug has lasted way too long. I untangle his arms from me and guide him back to the refrigerator after helping myself to a beer from it.
“Let me guess. He started drinking around seven?” I say. Mason snorts.
“More like six thirty. He likes to pre-party,” he says. Alex tries to fill me in on the events I’ve missed, which mainly seem to include a lot of music, a lot of drinking, and a lot of talking. The party itself is a pretty mellow one, mellow enough that I don’t feel bad about helping myself to a second beer once my first is gone. I’m not supposed to drink, of course, and if any of my regular friends were here to see this, they’d have a shit fit. I’ve gotten about a thousand different “don’t mix antidepressants with alcohol” lectures, but I feel fine. I don’t feel any different from usual, really.
“Do you guys have parties often?” I ask. Ben shrugs.
“Not, you know, once a week, but I guess we have them… once a month, maybe?” he suggests. The others nod along.
“Alex doesn’t usually get this plastered, though. I mean, he’ll have a beer or whatever—”
“Beers are plebeian and I am like unto a god and shit. I’ve been doing shots of tequila,” Alex interrupts.
“To being plebeian,” Jeremy announces, tapping the neck of his beer against my third one.
“Anyway… he doesn’t usually get like this, but he decided to go overboard since it’s a holiday,” Ben finishes.
“I’m doing this little thing I like to call ‘drowning my sorrows.’ I’m mourning my loveless Valentine’s Day,” Alex says.
“Dude, you love being single. Who are you trying to fool?” Mason says. Alex shakes his head.
“I usually love being single. But what’s the fucking point of being single on Valentine’s Day? I get that it’s a shitty Hallmark holiday, but still. Nothing like being alone on a day like this to make you realize how truly horrible life can be. Why do you think we have this party every year?” he says.
“If I remember correctly, it started in eighth grade because Jessica Spring had just broken up with me, and I was really depressed,” Mason says.
“And why do you think we continue to have them?” Alex prompts.
“Because we’re pathetic trolls who will all die alone?” Ben suggests. Alex points at him.
“Exactly,” he says. “I mean, we all know this year round, but it’s never thrown in our face like it—”
“Faces,” I say quietly. “Plural.”
“Whatever. Same thing. Anyway, it’s never thrown in our facessssssss—” Alex draws it out into a hiss “—like it is now. This is the time of year when all of us realize just how pathetic our love lives are, and just how much it sucks to not have anybody to be spending tonight with instead.”
Ben glances at me, but I try to ignore it. This night was supposed to be fun, but it’s turning into the exact opposite. I know why I jumped at the chance to go to a Love Sucks party. I don’t need anyone to give me a speech about it. I came here for a distraction.
“You alright?” Ben says to me. I nod once before I decide that I had it right. Distractions are unfortunate, but necessary.
“Alex?” I say, barely loud enough for him to hear. He pauses halfway through the act of opening the refrigerator and turns to look at me.
“Yeah?” he says. I get the feeling that he already knows what I’m going to ask, but I take another sip of my drink anyway. Liquid courage, right?
“Are you drunk enough for your ‘bisexual above the waist’ thing to kick in yet?” I ask. He throws back his head and laughs, nearly cracking his skull against the refrigerator door.
“Travis, I’m so drunk that if you play your cards right, you might be the first guy to get me to be bisexual below the waist,” he says. I finish off the rest of my drink and toss the empty bottle into the trash can. It barely makes it in. I shake my head a couple of times and lean back against the counter. I’m not drunk, I’m just a little fuzzy around the edges. My hand is slightly damp from the condensation on the bottle, so I wipe it off on my jeans before reaching out to Alex. He plants his feet as firmly as he can and leans over to grab my hand without really coming any closer. Mason shoves him lightly, and he stumbles towards me. It happens too fast. One second, Alex is several feet away, and the next, he’s pressed right up against me, his lips inches from mine.
“Jesus Christ,” I hear Ben mutter, but then I have to focus all my attention on the fact that Alex is kissing me. It’s nothing like kissing Garen, and for the first few seconds, I can feel the alcohol turning in my stomach. I never wanted this to happen, never wanted to have to kiss anyone who isn’t him. But then it really seems to hit me that this is all I’ve got left. Kissing Garen isn’t an option anymore, and it never will be again. I am kissing Alex right now, and I am kissing him because he’s the only person I can kiss.
“So, Al, who’s better, Travis or Ben?” Jeremy asks loudly. Ben hits him, and Alex bursts out laughing, staggering away from me. He seems ready to stop, but I am not ready for him to. I shadow the three stumbled steps he takes back to his previous location, and when he looks at me again, I slam him back against the refrigerator and kiss him again. I half-expect him to shove me away, laughing, but instead, he grips the back of my t-shirt and opens his mouth under mine.
“Oh, wow. I thought they were done,” Mason says softly. Jeremy and Ben both hum in agreement. I twist my arm behind me to give them the finger, but Alex almost yanks it out of the socket in his attempt to get my hands back to him. I might smile, if I were capable of feeling right now, at how eager he suddenly seems to be. He tastes unfamiliar, sort of like tequila, and that’s a good thing. This new taste, this new feeling, is helping me forget.
“Do you guys uh, wanna stop?” Jeremy suggests. Alex pulls away and leans slightly past me to address him, which puts my mouth about an inch away from his throat. I kiss right over his pulse.
“No, I think we’re cool with keeping going,” he says, nudging me. “What about you, T? Wanna stop?”
T. I have a sudden flash of the letter, tattooed on Garen’s wrist, but I’m able to squash the image with a shake of the head. “No.”
“Okay, well in that case, do you wanna at least not dry-hump each other in front of the drinks? ‘Cause Amy Tremont just almost had an aneurysm when she came in here for another Corona,” Jeremy says. Alex laughs again, but his voice is softer, breathier. I don’t listen to his response, instead trying to focus all my attention on the mark I know I must be making on his neck by now. I can feel him slowly starting to get hard against my hip. So much for only being bisexual above the waist, I guess.
“My room’s upstairs,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. “If I were sober right now, I’d have a really good excuse for why you should come check it out.”
“I can pretend you want to show me your CD collection, if it makes you feel better,” I say. He laughs again.
“Yeah, that works. Wanna?” he says. I nod, and he heads for the door, towing me by my hand. I glance at Ben, who looks stunned.
“Are you shitting me?” he says flatly. Alex doesn’t seem to hear him, so I pretend I don’t either. I almost feel bad for him. He wanted Garen; I got Garen. He wanted Alex; I’m getting Alex. Not in the strictest, most eloquent sense, but in an inebriated, half-assed sort of way.
Alex’s room is basically the same size and layout as my room, but with pale green walls and a closet instead of a dresser. By the time I’m done looking around, he’s already sprawled on his bed, watching me wander around, his kiss-swollen lips slightly parted. All in all, pretty fuckable. I join him on the bed and we resume kissing with the same drunken desperation we had downstairs. Every minute I spend kissing him feels like forgetting another minute I spent with Garen. Ten down, one hundred and thirty-six thousand to go. Alex pushes me half-off him so he can tug my shirt off, then fumbles for the buttons on the front of his own shirt. I laugh softly.
“I thought you were still claiming to be straight,” I say. He sits up slightly to free himself the rest of the way from his shirt.
“I’m totally straight,” he assures me. “I want to put your dick in my mouth in a very straight way.”
I laugh again to cover my nerves. Garen and I only ever really hooked up about half a dozen times, and now I’m going to move on to someone else, someone who I barely know. Do I even know his last name? I can’t remember, partially because of the three beers I’ve had, partially because now he’s grinding his hard-on against mine as he struggles to undo my belt. I reach between us to do it for him, and somehow end up rubbing his crotch instead. He makes a sound that almost seems like a sigh and drags me back down to kiss him. His mouth is so soft and warm, but all I can really think is, Alex is just my friend. This means nothing to me. It means nothing when he worries my lower lip between his teeth. It means nothing when he knots a hand in my hair to anchor me down. It means nothing when he slides a hand down the front of my pants and starts to stroke my cock. It means nothing when he rolls me over onto my back and pulls my jeans down to my knees, or when his lips leave mine to start their journey downwards, or when his tongue darts out to trace my hipbone, or when I glance down just in time to see my cock disappearing into his warm, wet mouth.
And then suddenly, I am not in Alex’s bed on Valentine’s Day.
It’s my birthday, and I’m in Garen’s bed, in Garen’s mouth. I’m shaking all over, and under how good it feels, I’m still so nervous. My hands are clenched on the sheets, because I refuse to let them grip that soft spiky hair, refuse to feel like I’m making him do it. His fingers are caressing my hips lightly, running all over my skin, leaving goose bumps in their wake. I’m whispering his name, praying to God that our parents don’t come home and ruin this, praying that I can stay like this forever, never have to leave, never have to stop. He’s letting his throat relax to take me in deeper, and I’m gasping out his name again, I’m so, so close…
“Stop,” I whisper, grabbing Alex’s shoulders, “Alex. Alex, please stop.”
He rocks back. The glow from the computer screen on his desk makes his eyes look huge and glassy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just… I can’t do this. I’m sorry,” I say. He shifts away from me again, and I pull my jeans back on. “Don’t think that it’s about you, because it’s not. I mean, under any other circumstances, I’d definitely be taking advantage of you right now.”
“You sure?” he asks, stretching lazily. I can’t even process the idea that anyone in the entire world is calm right now.
“All I see is him,” I say softly. “I thought this would distract me. And it did, at first, because you’re really hot, and a really good kisser, and I bet if I hadn’t stopped you, you would’ve given one hell of a blowjob. But you’re not him, Alex. You’re not Garen. And he’s all I want.”
I roll off the bed and search around in the dark for my t-shirt. I finally find it and tug it on. I turn towards the door, but Alex grabs my hand.
“He left, Travis. I’m not saying this because I want to be your rebound fuck, because honestly, tonight’s been really weird, but I’m still not… you know, I still don’t think I’m gay. So it’s not that. I’m only telling you because you’re tearing yourself up about this, I can tell, and it’s stupid. You shouldn’t waste your time holding on to someone who let you go. You’re a really cool guy, Travis. You should let yourself be happy. You should get over him.”
“Stop,” I say hoarsely. Alex looks almost sober when I finally meet his eyes.
“Get over him, Travis. He’s not coming back,” he says. I yank my hand out of his and shove it in my pocket.
“Thanks for inviting me to the party,” I mutter before heading back down the stairs. I don’t know where the front door is, so I return to the basement to leave through the door there.
“Look who’s back,” Jeremy laughs, nodding to me. He’s still standing around near the refrigerator with Mason and Ben.
“That was fast,” Ben remarks.
“Nothing happened,” I say. He snorts.
“Next time you say that, first make sure your belt’s on properly,” he says. I look down to find he’s right. In my haste to get my clothes on again, I missed two of my belt loops. Mason laughs outright, and Jeremy elbows him. Fucking belt. I unbuckle it with shaking fingers and rip it from my belt loops, tossing it somewhere under the counter. My jeans sink a little lower on my hips, but I don’t really care that much. I press my palms against my face, trying to see if I can block out all the shit I’m feeling. It doesn’t work at all. I slide my hands up to the top of my head and grip my hair as tightly as I reasonably can.
“Travis?” Mason says uncertainly. “Are you alright?”
“I should go,” I say. Ben sets down his water bottle and fishes in his pocket for his keys.
“I’ll drive you home,” he offers. I shake my head.
“I can walk,” I say.
“It’ll take you forever. Besides, it’s snowing. Let me drive you,” he says. He reaches for my arm, but I jerk away. He blinks at me for a second, almost like he’s contemplating rescinding his offer, but eventually, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door. I follow him out to his SUV and get into the passenger seat. He doesn’t speak until we’re on my street.
“If you hurt another one of my friends, I will fucking kill you.”
As he drifts to a stop in front of my driveway, I finally turn to look at him. He’s staring straight ahead, but after another minute, he turns his blank face to me.
“I’m not kidding. I spent all of October and November watching you hurt Garen. I watched him go through probably the worst emotional pain he’d ever been through, and it was because of you. If you do the same to Alex now, I will kill you,” he says.
“Alex isn’t gay,” I say. “I don’t know how to explain tonight to you, other than that he was wasted off his ass. But he’s not gay. He and I are just friends. Whatever happened between us tonight—and I swear to you, it really wasn’t much—won’t happen again. And it didn’t mean anything. I’m not going to hurt him.”
Ben nods once. “Good.”
I slide out of the car with a sigh. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, slamming the door. Mom didn’t leave the porch lights on for me, like she does whenever she goes to bed before I get home from work. Apparently she forgot. Or just stopped caring. I let myself in using the key we keep hidden under one of the rocks in the garden and lock up behind myself before retreating to my bedroom. The entire house is silent, worse than it has been in weeks. On an impulse, when I reach the top of the stairs, I turn left to Garen’s room instead of right into mine.
I haven’t been in this room in a month. It looks exactly the same as I had hoped it wouldn’t. His clothes are still strewn where he left them, my LHS Varsity Track sweatshirt crumpled on the floor. The blankets on his bed are a mess, exactly where we left them as we scrambled out of the bed after Bree came into the room. And scattered all across the floor are pages and pages of sheet music and lyrics. I pick up one of the pages and smooth it out.
Bring me all your pieces, and I will put you back together
Take me at my word, because I promise we’re forever
If I bring you all my pieces, will you put me back together?
Give me one more chance, because my storms are only weather
I let the page fall onto the bed and retreat to my own room to pace. I promise we’re forever. What a lie. What a bald-faced, huge fucking lie.
I can’t feel right in my own body tonight. I feel a dozen different kinds of fucked up, and nothing tonight has made it better. If anything, all of it—going to that party, drinking, hooking up with Alex—just made my life exponentially worse. I hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow, it happened. I brace my hands on the wall on each side of the window and stare out at the ground. The moon makes my skin look milky-white all over, everywhere except the little lines I made years ago. Little lines that never failed to make me feel completely worse, and completely better.
My body is moving without my mind’s consent, but my mind doesn’t seem to be too bothered anyway. I move across the room to my closet and dig through my still-unpacked boxes until I can find what I’m looking for. A small, slightly dented Altoid tin. I sink to the floor in front of the window and open the container, turning it over so two shiny little razor blades fall out onto my palm. I select the duller of the two and let the other drop to the floor. Now that the razor’s in my hand, I realize just how blank my arm looks without all those cuts it used to have.
“I am better than this,” I murmur, just like Dr. Baker always taught me. “In ten minutes, if I still want to cut myself, I can do it. But if I feel better, I have to put these away.”
I let my head loll back so it connects sharply with the windowsill, but I still don’t really feel it. I turn my face towards the clock and wait. Eleven sixteen. I close my eyes and try to distract myself. In my mind, I recite the Pledge of Allegiance. The Preamble to the Constitution. The beginning of the Gettysburg Address. I open my eyes again. Eleven twenty-four. I wait. Eleven twenty-five. Eleven twenty-six.
“I waited ten minutes. I can wait ten more. If I still want to cut myself then, I can do it. But if I feel better, I have to put these away,” I whisper again. I don’t feel better. I don’t feel better at all. In my head, I try to list every amendment to the Constitution, in order. I give up, and end up mouthing the words to “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab For Cutie. I need you so much closer. When I open my eyes again, it’s eleven forty. I still don’t feel better.
“I waited twenty-four minutes. I can wait all night,” I say. I squeeze my eyes shut. I need you so much closer. I need you so much closer. I need you so much closer. I try to make myself forget that I’m curled up against the window, but it won’t work. I am still writhing in my own skin. I try to sing myself to sleep, try to at least hum the tunes where I don’t know the words to every song on the iPod Garen gave me. It won’t work. When I open my eyes, it’s twelve sixteen. It has been an hour, and I still don’t feel better. Sorry, Dr. Baker.
I twist my arm so it’s illuminated by the moonlight and press the razor down onto my wrist.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
“Travis! You made it!” Alex calls from across the room. The entire party seems to be centered in his basement, which is huge enough to be divided into different sections. Most people seem to be in either the section devoted to a TV playing some soppy romantic comedy, or in the section devoted to… beer pong. Alex is in neither. He’s stationed in front of an old refrigerator, talking to Ben, Mason, and Jeremy. I weave my way through people to point at Ben.
“You said this party was about love sucking. Not about love being awesome and a reason to make out in front of me,” I accuse. He glances over to the couple I passed.
“That guy’s actually cheating on his girlfriend right now. He’s supposed to be dating a girl from another school, and that chick’s in my math class. So, see? Love does suck,” he says. Alex pushes off the refrigerator and wraps an arm around my neck in a very unexpected hug.
“I’m really glad you made it. Ben said he invited you, but the party started at like, seven, and it’s like, ten o’clock right now. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. I was terrified,” he says. This hug has lasted way too long. I untangle his arms from me and guide him back to the refrigerator after helping myself to a beer from it.
“Let me guess. He started drinking around seven?” I say. Mason snorts.
“More like six thirty. He likes to pre-party,” he says. Alex tries to fill me in on the events I’ve missed, which mainly seem to include a lot of music, a lot of drinking, and a lot of talking. The party itself is a pretty mellow one, mellow enough that I don’t feel bad about helping myself to a second beer once my first is gone. I’m not supposed to drink, of course, and if any of my regular friends were here to see this, they’d have a shit fit. I’ve gotten about a thousand different “don’t mix antidepressants with alcohol” lectures, but I feel fine. I don’t feel any different from usual, really.
“Do you guys have parties often?” I ask. Ben shrugs.
“Not, you know, once a week, but I guess we have them… once a month, maybe?” he suggests. The others nod along.
“Alex doesn’t usually get this plastered, though. I mean, he’ll have a beer or whatever—”
“Beers are plebeian and I am like unto a god and shit. I’ve been doing shots of tequila,” Alex interrupts.
“To being plebeian,” Jeremy announces, tapping the neck of his beer against my third one.
“Anyway… he doesn’t usually get like this, but he decided to go overboard since it’s a holiday,” Ben finishes.
“I’m doing this little thing I like to call ‘drowning my sorrows.’ I’m mourning my loveless Valentine’s Day,” Alex says.
“Dude, you love being single. Who are you trying to fool?” Mason says. Alex shakes his head.
“I usually love being single. But what’s the fucking point of being single on Valentine’s Day? I get that it’s a shitty Hallmark holiday, but still. Nothing like being alone on a day like this to make you realize how truly horrible life can be. Why do you think we have this party every year?” he says.
“If I remember correctly, it started in eighth grade because Jessica Spring had just broken up with me, and I was really depressed,” Mason says.
“And why do you think we continue to have them?” Alex prompts.
“Because we’re pathetic trolls who will all die alone?” Ben suggests. Alex points at him.
“Exactly,” he says. “I mean, we all know this year round, but it’s never thrown in our face like it—”
“Faces,” I say quietly. “Plural.”
“Whatever. Same thing. Anyway, it’s never thrown in our facessssssss—” Alex draws it out into a hiss “—like it is now. This is the time of year when all of us realize just how pathetic our love lives are, and just how much it sucks to not have anybody to be spending tonight with instead.”
Ben glances at me, but I try to ignore it. This night was supposed to be fun, but it’s turning into the exact opposite. I know why I jumped at the chance to go to a Love Sucks party. I don’t need anyone to give me a speech about it. I came here for a distraction.
“You alright?” Ben says to me. I nod once before I decide that I had it right. Distractions are unfortunate, but necessary.
“Alex?” I say, barely loud enough for him to hear. He pauses halfway through the act of opening the refrigerator and turns to look at me.
“Yeah?” he says. I get the feeling that he already knows what I’m going to ask, but I take another sip of my drink anyway. Liquid courage, right?
“Are you drunk enough for your ‘bisexual above the waist’ thing to kick in yet?” I ask. He throws back his head and laughs, nearly cracking his skull against the refrigerator door.
“Travis, I’m so drunk that if you play your cards right, you might be the first guy to get me to be bisexual below the waist,” he says. I finish off the rest of my drink and toss the empty bottle into the trash can. It barely makes it in. I shake my head a couple of times and lean back against the counter. I’m not drunk, I’m just a little fuzzy around the edges. My hand is slightly damp from the condensation on the bottle, so I wipe it off on my jeans before reaching out to Alex. He plants his feet as firmly as he can and leans over to grab my hand without really coming any closer. Mason shoves him lightly, and he stumbles towards me. It happens too fast. One second, Alex is several feet away, and the next, he’s pressed right up against me, his lips inches from mine.
“Jesus Christ,” I hear Ben mutter, but then I have to focus all my attention on the fact that Alex is kissing me. It’s nothing like kissing Garen, and for the first few seconds, I can feel the alcohol turning in my stomach. I never wanted this to happen, never wanted to have to kiss anyone who isn’t him. But then it really seems to hit me that this is all I’ve got left. Kissing Garen isn’t an option anymore, and it never will be again. I am kissing Alex right now, and I am kissing him because he’s the only person I can kiss.
“So, Al, who’s better, Travis or Ben?” Jeremy asks loudly. Ben hits him, and Alex bursts out laughing, staggering away from me. He seems ready to stop, but I am not ready for him to. I shadow the three stumbled steps he takes back to his previous location, and when he looks at me again, I slam him back against the refrigerator and kiss him again. I half-expect him to shove me away, laughing, but instead, he grips the back of my t-shirt and opens his mouth under mine.
“Oh, wow. I thought they were done,” Mason says softly. Jeremy and Ben both hum in agreement. I twist my arm behind me to give them the finger, but Alex almost yanks it out of the socket in his attempt to get my hands back to him. I might smile, if I were capable of feeling right now, at how eager he suddenly seems to be. He tastes unfamiliar, sort of like tequila, and that’s a good thing. This new taste, this new feeling, is helping me forget.
“Do you guys uh, wanna stop?” Jeremy suggests. Alex pulls away and leans slightly past me to address him, which puts my mouth about an inch away from his throat. I kiss right over his pulse.
“No, I think we’re cool with keeping going,” he says, nudging me. “What about you, T? Wanna stop?”
T. I have a sudden flash of the letter, tattooed on Garen’s wrist, but I’m able to squash the image with a shake of the head. “No.”
“Okay, well in that case, do you wanna at least not dry-hump each other in front of the drinks? ‘Cause Amy Tremont just almost had an aneurysm when she came in here for another Corona,” Jeremy says. Alex laughs again, but his voice is softer, breathier. I don’t listen to his response, instead trying to focus all my attention on the mark I know I must be making on his neck by now. I can feel him slowly starting to get hard against my hip. So much for only being bisexual above the waist, I guess.
“My room’s upstairs,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. “If I were sober right now, I’d have a really good excuse for why you should come check it out.”
“I can pretend you want to show me your CD collection, if it makes you feel better,” I say. He laughs again.
“Yeah, that works. Wanna?” he says. I nod, and he heads for the door, towing me by my hand. I glance at Ben, who looks stunned.
“Are you shitting me?” he says flatly. Alex doesn’t seem to hear him, so I pretend I don’t either. I almost feel bad for him. He wanted Garen; I got Garen. He wanted Alex; I’m getting Alex. Not in the strictest, most eloquent sense, but in an inebriated, half-assed sort of way.
Alex’s room is basically the same size and layout as my room, but with pale green walls and a closet instead of a dresser. By the time I’m done looking around, he’s already sprawled on his bed, watching me wander around, his kiss-swollen lips slightly parted. All in all, pretty fuckable. I join him on the bed and we resume kissing with the same drunken desperation we had downstairs. Every minute I spend kissing him feels like forgetting another minute I spent with Garen. Ten down, one hundred and thirty-six thousand to go. Alex pushes me half-off him so he can tug my shirt off, then fumbles for the buttons on the front of his own shirt. I laugh softly.
“I thought you were still claiming to be straight,” I say. He sits up slightly to free himself the rest of the way from his shirt.
“I’m totally straight,” he assures me. “I want to put your dick in my mouth in a very straight way.”
I laugh again to cover my nerves. Garen and I only ever really hooked up about half a dozen times, and now I’m going to move on to someone else, someone who I barely know. Do I even know his last name? I can’t remember, partially because of the three beers I’ve had, partially because now he’s grinding his hard-on against mine as he struggles to undo my belt. I reach between us to do it for him, and somehow end up rubbing his crotch instead. He makes a sound that almost seems like a sigh and drags me back down to kiss him. His mouth is so soft and warm, but all I can really think is, Alex is just my friend. This means nothing to me. It means nothing when he worries my lower lip between his teeth. It means nothing when he knots a hand in my hair to anchor me down. It means nothing when he slides a hand down the front of my pants and starts to stroke my cock. It means nothing when he rolls me over onto my back and pulls my jeans down to my knees, or when his lips leave mine to start their journey downwards, or when his tongue darts out to trace my hipbone, or when I glance down just in time to see my cock disappearing into his warm, wet mouth.
And then suddenly, I am not in Alex’s bed on Valentine’s Day.
It’s my birthday, and I’m in Garen’s bed, in Garen’s mouth. I’m shaking all over, and under how good it feels, I’m still so nervous. My hands are clenched on the sheets, because I refuse to let them grip that soft spiky hair, refuse to feel like I’m making him do it. His fingers are caressing my hips lightly, running all over my skin, leaving goose bumps in their wake. I’m whispering his name, praying to God that our parents don’t come home and ruin this, praying that I can stay like this forever, never have to leave, never have to stop. He’s letting his throat relax to take me in deeper, and I’m gasping out his name again, I’m so, so close…
“Stop,” I whisper, grabbing Alex’s shoulders, “Alex. Alex, please stop.”
He rocks back. The glow from the computer screen on his desk makes his eyes look huge and glassy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just… I can’t do this. I’m sorry,” I say. He shifts away from me again, and I pull my jeans back on. “Don’t think that it’s about you, because it’s not. I mean, under any other circumstances, I’d definitely be taking advantage of you right now.”
“You sure?” he asks, stretching lazily. I can’t even process the idea that anyone in the entire world is calm right now.
“All I see is him,” I say softly. “I thought this would distract me. And it did, at first, because you’re really hot, and a really good kisser, and I bet if I hadn’t stopped you, you would’ve given one hell of a blowjob. But you’re not him, Alex. You’re not Garen. And he’s all I want.”
I roll off the bed and search around in the dark for my t-shirt. I finally find it and tug it on. I turn towards the door, but Alex grabs my hand.
“He left, Travis. I’m not saying this because I want to be your rebound fuck, because honestly, tonight’s been really weird, but I’m still not… you know, I still don’t think I’m gay. So it’s not that. I’m only telling you because you’re tearing yourself up about this, I can tell, and it’s stupid. You shouldn’t waste your time holding on to someone who let you go. You’re a really cool guy, Travis. You should let yourself be happy. You should get over him.”
“Stop,” I say hoarsely. Alex looks almost sober when I finally meet his eyes.
“Get over him, Travis. He’s not coming back,” he says. I yank my hand out of his and shove it in my pocket.
“Thanks for inviting me to the party,” I mutter before heading back down the stairs. I don’t know where the front door is, so I return to the basement to leave through the door there.
“Look who’s back,” Jeremy laughs, nodding to me. He’s still standing around near the refrigerator with Mason and Ben.
“That was fast,” Ben remarks.
“Nothing happened,” I say. He snorts.
“Next time you say that, first make sure your belt’s on properly,” he says. I look down to find he’s right. In my haste to get my clothes on again, I missed two of my belt loops. Mason laughs outright, and Jeremy elbows him. Fucking belt. I unbuckle it with shaking fingers and rip it from my belt loops, tossing it somewhere under the counter. My jeans sink a little lower on my hips, but I don’t really care that much. I press my palms against my face, trying to see if I can block out all the shit I’m feeling. It doesn’t work at all. I slide my hands up to the top of my head and grip my hair as tightly as I reasonably can.
“Travis?” Mason says uncertainly. “Are you alright?”
“I should go,” I say. Ben sets down his water bottle and fishes in his pocket for his keys.
“I’ll drive you home,” he offers. I shake my head.
“I can walk,” I say.
“It’ll take you forever. Besides, it’s snowing. Let me drive you,” he says. He reaches for my arm, but I jerk away. He blinks at me for a second, almost like he’s contemplating rescinding his offer, but eventually, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door. I follow him out to his SUV and get into the passenger seat. He doesn’t speak until we’re on my street.
“If you hurt another one of my friends, I will fucking kill you.”
As he drifts to a stop in front of my driveway, I finally turn to look at him. He’s staring straight ahead, but after another minute, he turns his blank face to me.
“I’m not kidding. I spent all of October and November watching you hurt Garen. I watched him go through probably the worst emotional pain he’d ever been through, and it was because of you. If you do the same to Alex now, I will kill you,” he says.
“Alex isn’t gay,” I say. “I don’t know how to explain tonight to you, other than that he was wasted off his ass. But he’s not gay. He and I are just friends. Whatever happened between us tonight—and I swear to you, it really wasn’t much—won’t happen again. And it didn’t mean anything. I’m not going to hurt him.”
Ben nods once. “Good.”
I slide out of the car with a sigh. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, slamming the door. Mom didn’t leave the porch lights on for me, like she does whenever she goes to bed before I get home from work. Apparently she forgot. Or just stopped caring. I let myself in using the key we keep hidden under one of the rocks in the garden and lock up behind myself before retreating to my bedroom. The entire house is silent, worse than it has been in weeks. On an impulse, when I reach the top of the stairs, I turn left to Garen’s room instead of right into mine.
I haven’t been in this room in a month. It looks exactly the same as I had hoped it wouldn’t. His clothes are still strewn where he left them, my LHS Varsity Track sweatshirt crumpled on the floor. The blankets on his bed are a mess, exactly where we left them as we scrambled out of the bed after Bree came into the room. And scattered all across the floor are pages and pages of sheet music and lyrics. I pick up one of the pages and smooth it out.
Bring me all your pieces, and I will put you back together
Take me at my word, because I promise we’re forever
If I bring you all my pieces, will you put me back together?
Give me one more chance, because my storms are only weather
I let the page fall onto the bed and retreat to my own room to pace. I promise we’re forever. What a lie. What a bald-faced, huge fucking lie.
I can’t feel right in my own body tonight. I feel a dozen different kinds of fucked up, and nothing tonight has made it better. If anything, all of it—going to that party, drinking, hooking up with Alex—just made my life exponentially worse. I hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow, it happened. I brace my hands on the wall on each side of the window and stare out at the ground. The moon makes my skin look milky-white all over, everywhere except the little lines I made years ago. Little lines that never failed to make me feel completely worse, and completely better.
My body is moving without my mind’s consent, but my mind doesn’t seem to be too bothered anyway. I move across the room to my closet and dig through my still-unpacked boxes until I can find what I’m looking for. A small, slightly dented Altoid tin. I sink to the floor in front of the window and open the container, turning it over so two shiny little razor blades fall out onto my palm. I select the duller of the two and let the other drop to the floor. Now that the razor’s in my hand, I realize just how blank my arm looks without all those cuts it used to have.
“I am better than this,” I murmur, just like Dr. Baker always taught me. “In ten minutes, if I still want to cut myself, I can do it. But if I feel better, I have to put these away.”
I let my head loll back so it connects sharply with the windowsill, but I still don’t really feel it. I turn my face towards the clock and wait. Eleven sixteen. I close my eyes and try to distract myself. In my mind, I recite the Pledge of Allegiance. The Preamble to the Constitution. The beginning of the Gettysburg Address. I open my eyes again. Eleven twenty-four. I wait. Eleven twenty-five. Eleven twenty-six.
“I waited ten minutes. I can wait ten more. If I still want to cut myself then, I can do it. But if I feel better, I have to put these away,” I whisper again. I don’t feel better. I don’t feel better at all. In my head, I try to list every amendment to the Constitution, in order. I give up, and end up mouthing the words to “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab For Cutie. I need you so much closer. When I open my eyes again, it’s eleven forty. I still don’t feel better.
“I waited twenty-four minutes. I can wait all night,” I say. I squeeze my eyes shut. I need you so much closer. I need you so much closer. I need you so much closer. I try to make myself forget that I’m curled up against the window, but it won’t work. I am still writhing in my own skin. I try to sing myself to sleep, try to at least hum the tunes where I don’t know the words to every song on the iPod Garen gave me. It won’t work. When I open my eyes, it’s twelve sixteen. It has been an hour, and I still don’t feel better. Sorry, Dr. Baker.
I twist my arm so it’s illuminated by the moonlight and press the razor down onto my wrist.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter