Page 24 of The Key Holder

Ford

Of course I had said too much.

Dylan didn’t want to hear about my problems. Hearing them out loud—for fuck’s sake—it sounded ridiculous. I sounded ridiculous. Complaining about people only liking me for my body. He must think I’m a complete narcissist.

“No,” Dylan answered. “Sorry, I got distracted by your belly button.”

“What?”

“Eh, I shouldn’t have said that, but I took an edible earlier and who knows what I’m saying anymore.” I was going to say that he’s always rambling so I didn’t notice much of a difference, but then he asked, “Do you always play with your belly button when you're nervous?”

“No.” Immediately, I stopped playing with my belly button. “I don’t think so anyway.”

“I think you do.”

“Well that’s neither here nor there at the moment.” I glanced over to find Dylan sitting cross-legged, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his hands.

“It’s definitely here,” he said.

I ignored him and zeroed in on his newest confession. “An edible? Really?”

“What?” He shrugged. “Don’t give me the drugs lecture. I’m an adult and it’s not like I have to pee in a cup for my job.”

“Do you still work at the bookstore?” He nodded. “Do you eat them often?”

“Bookstores?”

My eyes rolled back without a thought. “Edibles, Dylan. Edibles.” Although now I knew the reason why he was a little more infuriating today.

He smiled before answering. “Not too often. Often enough? I don’t know.”

“Can I ask why you use them?”

“You can ask.”

“Ugh.” What a fucking brat. “Why do you use them?”

“There you go,” he teased, before pausing to stare off into the distance. I almost thought he wasn’t going to answer me, then he said, “They help me relax. They lessen my anxiety. Sometimes they make me sleepy and they help me sleep.”

That all sounded very nice, but a career where drug tests were the norm meant I never had even given a second thought to trying anything like that.

“I’ve got plenty more if you want to try it.”

“I’ll stick with beer for now,” I said.

“Sure. That’s much healthier for you.” He reached out and poked my obliques. “I don’t think there’s an edible equivalent of a beer belly.”

“That might be true.” I ignored the stirring in my groin that Dylan’s touch had ignited, hoping he wouldn’t notice what I could already feel forming. “But from what you’re describing, I don’t think I’d leave my couch if I started taking them, and by default, I’d lose muscle mass.”

“Oh no!” he shrieked. “Losing muscle mass! The travesty! What will you do when two abs disappear and you’re left with just six?!” To emphasize his point—as if he needed more sarcasm—he stood up, began tearing at his hair, and stumbled around.

“Hey Dylan, I’d be careful⁠—”

“Ow! Fuck!”

It was too late, and I couldn’t get off the ground fast enough to catch him.

He fell.