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Me: Go home. I’ll call you in the morning.
“Yeah,” I murmur proudly to myself, pleased at holding my ground, “go home, big bro…Go home and rest from all the drinking or drugs or hanging out at cheap strip clubs you’ve probably been doing with those idiots you call friends.”
I successfully shove the USB cord into the socket split seconds prior to getting a new text.
Tomas: I’m fucked Zel
Tomas: Fucked!
Tomas: Fucked! Fucked! Fucked!
I don’t have a moment to decipher the madness, when my cell starts ringing and vibrating, showing our squished together faces in a picture I took right before Mom got sick. Seeing us side by side, his mischievous smile being hidden by a slice of avocado he’s using for a fake mustache to make me laugh, has me committing what I fear will be the first of many sins.
His name is the only thing that manages to make it out of my mouth, “Tomas-”
“Gimme the code.”
“Tomas-”
“Now. I…I need it.”
“No!” I forcefully bite back and lengthen my spine to stand up straight. Tall. Strong. All the things Elias has spent weeks reminding me it’s okay to be. “You’re asking for the code to my boyfriend’s fucking penthouse.”
“And?”
“And I can’t just give it to you! Fuck, that’s a violation of his trust on like the highest level!”
“And you don’t trust me?”
“Not at two in the fucking morning! Not when you’ve told me again and again that I shouldn’t be here! Not when you haven’t once said you were happy for me!”
Surprised that I’ve been allowed to carry on a monologue let alone say my peace, I brace myself for the inevitable yelling he’s probably building up to do. Tomas is basically like a hotheaded politician. Everything’s debatable, and if he gets loud enough, he’s almost guaranteed to win.
The tiny hairs on the nape of my neck slowly begin to lift off in nervousness.
He’s never this silent.
Even when he’s deadly.
The closest he’s ever come is that one time I got a tardy because I was busy kissing his best friend in the school parking lot.
He was speechless for about six seconds and then roaring in both English and Spanish.
It was scary.
Yet this is scarier.
“Tomas?”
Eerie, heavy breathing slowly starts to ensue.
Newfound worry works its way through my vocal cords, “…Tomas?”
“Zel…”
Undeniable pain zaps through the receiver, tearing at the very heart that was just teeming in Elias’s wordlessly declared love.
“Zel…,” his tone transposes to a slower, much more labored one, “I’m hurt.”
