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You know what I did?
It’s so fucked up.
I watched him. Like reality TV watching.
Like he’s mine, something I need to consume to feel happy. I think this is a “crush” but it’s the kind of one that hurts. HE gives me the clawing feeling I remember from my mom’s house. Like I’m falling too fast through thin air and I need to grab a hold of something, but I can’t.
You know that quote that says “Everything I ever let go of had claw marks on it”? I’m leaving claw marks on my freckle-faced stepbrother. Makes me feel like a freak, especially since I don’t know the guy. And I don’t know if I ever really did.
Tomorrow, I’m starting yoga w/ a tight end named Stephen. Seems like a weird thing for football players to do, but I’m hoping maybe that can help my mind get back on track.
Maybe I should delete Snapchat and Instagram.
But I can’t. I guess that’s the truth.
I don’t have anything else.
Josh Miller is not at Montevallo.
Josh Miller appears to be at Auburn.
I’m going to tell you something else. Okay?
He said he’s going to Atlanta Thursday. On his Insta, on that post on his stories- he posted a motherfucking
-rainbow-
Seven
Josh
June 27, 2019
"You good, brother?"
Something slaps my back, and I look up from my drink.
Daniel. I give him a drunk grin.
"Damn, Josh Miller. Lost in the sauce again."
I try to roll my eyes at Daniel, but that makes me dizzy. I laugh at myself.
"Like you're not," I say.
He takes his ball cap off and puts it on backward, flashing me a big grin as the cap presses blond hair down into his eyes. He leans in, so close I can smell the liquor on his breath. "I got a real ID, Mills. I'm not gettin' drunk off Jack and Cokes on a fuckin' Thursday."
I shake my head. I'm too drunk to tell him to go fuck himself. Something pings in my head, like this little distress signal. But the liquor in my system blots it out.
I feel happy. Sitting on a barstool in the fucking Hardwood House, up in Atlanta. I laugh at the name now, and Daniel leans back over, slings an arm over my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his chest on my back. It makes my dick twitch even through the veil of being fucking drunk.
"I'm gonna hug up on ya," he murmurs. "That way we'll catch someone's eye. Then you can both get us some bussy."
"What?" I laugh.
"Oh c'mon. You never heard it called that?" He leans down, so we're at eye level. "You're a virgin, aren't you?"
I look down and draw myself away from him. I shake my head.
"Well, shit. It didn't go well?" He's loud—talking over the music.
I put my finger over my lips and shake my head.
"That's right. Miller's a shy boy," he says.
"No I'm not. You're just loud as fuck."
He mimes a lasso, swinging his hips to the country music they've got blaring right now.
I put my head in my hand, shaking it. Jenna met this dude when she did orientation back in April. He was her group leader. He had on rainbow shoes, so she got his number for me. Like all gays should automatically be friends.
When I moved into my new apartment about a week and a half ago, Jenna pushed me to text the guy. So I did. He was at my place in like two hours, helping me unpack my boxes. He came by with sub sandwiches, plus two of his also-gay friends. Within two days, I was coming out to everybody who seemed safe. Pretty fucking crazy.
A few days back, Daniel saw my Snapchat—I guess he got it from Jenna the Betrayer—and he weaseled me into running the social media for the LGBTQ+ student group. So now I'm doing two Snapchats, and also two Instagrams.
Daniel gets out on the dance floor, and I look down at my phone. Maybe I'll snap the olives at the bottom of my martini. Jack and Cokes my ass. Motherfucker’s definitely drunk if he mistook this martini for a Jack and Coke.
I snap the olives, throw a filter on, and then hold two fingers up at the bartender, letting him know I want more when he can. Daniel and Finn, his—our—friend, can dance all night if they want. I'm not made for dancing.
I'm made for the bar stools.
I'm smiling to myself when a low voice says, "Hello there."
It sounds like a radio announcer, so at first I'm confused.
I look up, frowning, at...whoa—this hot, hot guy. He's on the bar stool by mine.
"I saw you," he says in a soft and low voice, holding a phone up. "On Snapchat." He arches a brow.
I'm too confused to do anything but frown. Which makes him laugh. He has a nice laugh—soft and husky.
