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But that’s for him to decide, not me.
Besides, it’s also very possible that once he got a good night’s sleep, he woke to discover the fantasy gone. I was no longer of interest to him, and he decided to enjoy the rest of his stay here at Dreamwood Isle his own way.
Without me.
Also, I could be very wrong, and he could be looking for me right now on Breezeway Point beach.
Maybe.
After letting the shower pour scalding hot water over me, I dab on some deodorant and thrust on a loose tank top, but swear I can still smell burned muffins somewhere. When I head for the door, I pass by my mom, who clearly had too much to drink last night at the bonfire, because she’s conked out on the couch, mouth agape and snoring. I stop for just a moment to clear the beer cans off the coffee table, pull a limp nub of a cigarette out from between her fingers, and lay a blanket over her. Then I grab the keys to my motorcycle and take off.
As I head down the road, wind pummeling my hair, I’m left with two very annoying questions: Why didn’t I give Jonah my number? And why didn’t I get his?
Maybe he lost interest already. Maybe his friend Rico got to him, and he’s joined in a merry threesome with my fuck-off of a brother.
What a lovely image I just gave myself. Now I want to hurl my bike into the ocean with me still on it. While it’s on fire. And I’m screaming.
Today’s a fucking dumpster fire.
I pull into the parking lot and take a spot near the front. The arcade complex is just across the street from the Elysian, and I’m pretty sure I mentioned it to Jonah in passing. I figure it’s as good a place as any to run into him. After all, he did seem interested in games last night when he saw Skipper playing his Xbox. Not that Jonah is the only thing on my mind. I’ve got other reasons for being here. I have some high scores to beat, especially with the sudden and annoying appearance of all these “TBOY” top scores on half the games. Who the hell is “TBOY” anyway?
But during my fifth round of pinball, I hear a noise at the front doors and spin around, for some insane reason thinking it’s Jonah. Instead, it’s some drunk pair of teens off the boardwalk, laughing after one of them tripped and fell on the ground. I scowl and face the machine again, only to find all my balls are gone.
Today’s worse than a dumpster fire.
A fit of cheering erupts nearby. I look over to find a small crowd formed around one of our latest permanent arrivals to Dreamwood. Everyone here knew his father, who was an eccentric mix of an artist and a tinkerer, and when he passed away, there was a candlelight vigil on Sugarberry Beach. I went, even though I didn’t know him that well. My mom might’ve had a fling with him, but it’s unclear, and I don’t care to make it clear; it’s her business. His son inherited everything, and to everyone’s surprise, instead of selling the house like everyone expected him to, he actually chose to move here from Spruce with his boyfriend. I should probably make an effort to get to know them, but haven’t gotten the chance. The cheering around intensifies. I guess other than having inherited his father’s artistic prowess, he’s also something of a gaming prodigy.
Oh. I think I just realized who “TBOY” is.
And now I feel like an idiot.
I return to playing pinball. This time, with far more aggression than before. For one moment, I’m doing great. The next moment, I’m sucking. And then—
“Why are you trying to fuck my pinball machine?”
My last ball gets sucked up. Game over. I snort over my shoulder at the arcade manager. “I’m not.”
“It can’t get pregnant. It won’t have pinball babies. It won’t give you a higher score.” He clears his throat. “Plus, you’re one bump away from activating the tilt sensor, and you know that’s a bitch to turn off.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mikey B. Is there something you want? Or you just came over to fuck-shame me?”
“First off, it isn’t advice, it’s a warning. Second …” He comes up close to my ear. “Why don’t you just call me Michael instead of that annoying-ass nickname?”
I chuckle. Michael Buchinski and I went to school together. We’re always messing with each other like this. He always said one day he’d run this arcade, and here he is, the boss man. “Everyone calls you Mikey B! It’s catchy. What can I say?”
“There’s nothing ‘catchy’ about Mikey B. It sounds like some discarded character idea from Sesame Street.” He sighs when an alarm sounds across the room. “Ugh. Someone jammed the claw machine again. Look, Kent, just stop dry humping the pinball machine, alright? Maintenance is backed up two weeks and I can’t afford another down game on a weekend like this.” He slaps me on the back before heading off with his clipboard.
