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I’m just gonna find out if he’s as confused as Gareth, and if he is, I’ll help offer pointers. Consider it charity work.
That’s it.
That’sall.
I catch up to him in no time, keeping a few yards between us. His back muscles ripple beneath his shirt and his hamstrings extend and repress, causing his shorts to ride up his thighs with every step.
Hypnotic.
My gaze keeps flitting to the round globes of his ass, though, all peachy and shit.
If he’s straighter than straight, it’s such a shame to leave that ass empty.
Brandon seems lost in whatever is playing in his ears, because he doesn’t notice when I close the distance between us.
I keep running at his pace right behind him.
Now, I know I’m supposed to be on a stalkerish mission, but it’s impossible to stay away from his spellbinding pull.
Fuck it.
I pluck one of his AirPods out and whisper into his ear, “Long time no see. Miss me?”
4
BRANDON
I’m a creature of habit.
Neurotically so. In every sense of the word.
Without my carefully laid-out routine, I’d crumble and crash into a million irreparable pieces.
Without my punctual set of actions, I’mnothing.
So every day, I wake up at five. No exception—not during holidays, not after a night of drinking or partying or doing whatever is expected from a uni student. Five.Always. Everysingleday.
Then I put on my clothes, do a smoothie, and go for a run at five thirty. Back at seven. Shower. Breakfast. Wallow in my studio for another hour or two. Then school. Then I go to practice with the lacrosse team. More wallowing. Talking, smiling, laughing, caring, texting, liking, being.
Existing.
Day in and day out, I have to exist. To be out there and fuckingstaythere. In the middle of people with blurry faces and names and personalities.
All day, I tell myself that I belong with them and that I’m not in fact battling with incessant nausea that saturates my lungs with every breath. That’s what I do best.
Pretend. Swallow it all down. Smile.
Again and again and fuckingagainuntil I can crawl back to my studio, stare at my soul in the form of a blank canvas, then shower longer than necessary. I scrub myself clean, turning my skin as red as a tomato, and that’s the only way I can tune out for the day.
Then I have herbal tea and go to sleep at ten thirty.
That is, if I’m not dragged to a party by my friend Remi, who likes to have fun on an everyday basis.
Sometimes, I can shoo him away and keep to my sleeping schedule, but other times, he’ll be armed with our other friends and I can’t say no.
Rejecting invitations constantly doesn’t fit well in the pretending agenda, now, does it?
My inconsistent sleeping schedule scratches at my neurotic side like an unreachable itch, but I deal with it.
