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He shakes his head. “You’re not helping, you know.”
“Aww.” I reach over and hug him. “You’ll get over him. Seriously, you were going to dump him, so why are you acting like this?”
Like he’s sad.
Crap, from up close his eyes are red-rimmed. Was he crying earlier? Boys don’t cry easily, and I’ve never seen Corey shed a tear. Not even when other boys bullied him at school back when, or when his dad told him to leave home unless he started liking girls ASAP. If it wasn’t for his uncle who took him in, I shudder to think where he’d be right now.
“You’re right,” Corey says and draws away from me, cutting through my thoughts. “I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just not used to it.”
Yeah well. He dumps everyone before they dump him, so of course he isn’t used to it. In fact, it’s as if...as if it’s a preemptive strike. Do it before someone does it to you—like his family did with him.
I knew all this of course. Psychology major, remember? It’s hard to miss. Every time I look at Corey I see a frightened teenager, rejected by his only parent and fighting tooth and nail to survive, to be who he is, be accepted, and all I want is to hug him again and say something meaningful, something comforting.
If only I could help myself, too, use what I’m learning to understand how to get rid of my fears. Corey always said it was a mistake, studying psychology. That the only people who can never understand themselves are psychologists.
I guess he doesn’t like us, much like I don’t like therapists—because they weren’t able to help us, and we blame them for it somehow.
Dammit, how can I help Corey?
“We should go out,” I decide, and he turns to stare at me. “What? You’re moping.”
“You’re moping, too,” he says.
Oops. That obvious, huh? “Not the point.”
“You didn’t see that escort again, did you? What was his name again?”
Great, I managed to distract Corey only to have him focus on me. Who’s going to distract me now?
> “Riot. Forget about him. Like I said, we should go out. Meet people, drink, dance. Have fun. Sitting here, wallowing in our misery, sucks.”
“Know what? You’re right.” Corey juts out his chin and gives me a bright smile. “Let’s go, girlfriend. Let’s go find us some boys and have the time of our lives.”
I seriously doubt that, at least for my case, but I let him haul me to my room and dress me up—he loves doing that—before dragging me out of my apartment.
Can I do it? Let a boy stand close to me, touch me? A boy that’s not Corey?
A boy that’s not Riot?
I guess only a test will tell.
***
The bar Corey chooses is one I’ve visited a few times. Quincy’s. It’s in fashion right now among college students. They like it because the booze is cheap and the music is good—a blend of seventies, eighties and modern funk.
“Come on,” Corey says, dragging me inside. “Frank said they’d be here tonight. Better chances of forgetting our woes if we’re not alone, right?”
Right. I try to remember who Frank is as I follow Corey into the misty, murky depths of the bar. Classmate of his, probably. Corey studies English literature, and his friends tend to use quaint words when they speak.
Then again, mine tend to psychoanalyze everything and blame childhood traumas and sex for everything.
“Pax, this is Frank.” Corey thrusts me toward a dark haired guy with a long beard, and instinctively I press back.
Beards. The guy who hurt me that night had a beard. Shit.
“Welcome, friends, to this reunion of the spirit,” Frank declares and raises his glass. “To the spirit.”
Corey laughs and I smile but my heart isn’t in it.
