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“Is that what you want?” he asks, dropping his gaze and pulling me from my thoughts.
It takes a few seconds for me to remember what we were talking about and when I do, I nod.
His eyes narrow. “I’m sorry if what we did hurt you. I regret you were drunk. I regret that I may have unintentionally taken advantage of that. But I don’t regret it.” He starts to turn away, but stops suddenly. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for in life…” He points at the wine gripped tightly in my hand. “I just don’t think you’re going to find it at the bottom of a bottle. And just so you know, I do like you, Riley. A lot.” He steps forward, but I push him away.
I have to.
Because the butterflies are already starting. But, after the butterflies come the emptiness, and then the guilt. And the guilt is what has me closing the door on him and whatever feelings I might have had for him.
I go back to my room, my solitude, and I play the song—the song that brings me closer to him. Then I grab my wine, sit in the corner with the pen and paper in my hand, and I remember him.
It was sophomore year. You knew I was a nervous wreck. You knew I hated the attention. So it made absolutely no sense to me why you showed up at my swim meet with half the JV basketball team holding up signs and chanting my name in the stands. I paced the side of the pool glaring at all of you. Every time you started to chant I’d tell you to shut up. You kept going, your big goofy smile getting wider every time. Then they announced my name and I removed my towel, slowly walking to my block as your cheers just got louder.
I was so angry.
So livid.
I stood there and tried to ignore your chants and cheers and shouts but it was so deafening. Everyone was looking at you. Everyone was looking at me. I swore to myself I’d fly through the freestyle as fast as I could just so I could get out and kick your ass.
I came in first and before they could even announce it, I stormed up to the bleachers, my wet feet thumping against the floor. You were three rows up. I remember because I could see all the eyes of the crowd move from me to you, and back again. You were smiling. “Why would you do this!” I shouted, stomping my foot. I was so, so mad. And when your grin got wider I wanted nothing more than to climb the three rows—people and all—and smack you on the back of the head.
But then you said, “Because I know you, Riley Hudson. You swim best on adrenaline. And nothing gets your blood pumping like being mad.”
I was confused. “What?”
“I did it for you!” you shouted.
I wanted to smile, but I wanted more to keep being mad at you. “You didn’t do it for me!”
You nodded. “I did so!” And I don’t know if it actually happened, or if it was just like that in my head, but everything went quiet. Everything went still. You smiled wider. “And I did it because I’m in love with you, stupid!”
We were sixteen, me in my swim gear, dripping wet, surrounded by your friends and two hundred strangers… and you told me you loved me for the very first time.
I stopped being angry. I stopped caring about the stupid signs and the stupid chants and everyone around us. I ran up to you, through the people in those front three rows and wrapped my wet arms around you. And then I kissed you. And you kissed me back. And the world stopped and my heart grew and when my coach called out and said I had to prepare for the next round, you told me I sucked and that my suit made my ass look fat.
I told you I loved you too—more than everything and anyone in the history of forever.
And I meant it, Jeremy.
More than anything.
Eleven
Dylan
I haven’t slept.
Not since I left her house two days ago.
I can’t fucking focus on the stupid engine in front of me. Maybe because all my focus is on the pathetic music streaming from her house. I wonder how long it’s been going on and why everyone else lets her get away with it. I chuck the screwdriver on the workbench and grasp my right shoulder with my left hand, then I begin to do the stupid exercises the doc instructed me to do. Move it in slow circles until the pain becomes too much.
The pain is already too much.
Dave: No one’s told me to fuck off in three days. I miss you, you giant ogre of a man.
With a halfhearted smile, I respond:
Dylan: Duck off, asshole. Better?
Dylan: *Fuck.
Dave: You’re the worst.
Dylan: Notwgat your mom said last beige.
Dave: What?
Dylan: *Norway
Dylan: *Not.
Dylan: *What.
Dave: What?!?!
Dylan: *Night.
Dave: Good night, bro.
Dylan: No.
Dave: No?
Dylan: Your mom’s far.
Dylan: *Gay.
Dylan: *FAT.
Dylan: FUCK.
Dave: What are you typing with? A potato?
Dylan: Duck you.
“Hey, Dylan?” Sydney says, her head poking through the garage door. She’s wearing one of Eric’s shirts and nothing else. “Do you have a second?” I don’t know why it bothers me that she’s standing there—a girl I barely know—in the only bit of personal space I own.
I shut my eyes and nod, giving up on my so-called physical therapy for the moment.
She steps inside, one bare leg after the other and I look away because she’s not mine to look at. “Sorry,” she says, walking over to me. “I probably should have put some clothes on but I was in a rush.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, picking up the screwdriver again. I grip it in my right hand and squeeze a few times, feeling the dull ache filter down my arm. “Did you need something?”
