In fact, the logical thing to do is turn around and leave.
But then again, I was never much of a logical person.
If I don’t stay, I’ll come back tomorrow. And if I leave tomorrow, I’ll return the day after.
It’s an itch at this point.
As Brandon starts running down the road, I release a sigh, tuck my phone back in my shorts, and follow right after.
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’s all.
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’m nothing.
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. Every single day.
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 fucking stay there. 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 fucking again until 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.
Logically.
By waking up at five the next day and resuming the cycle.
That’s why I nearly lost it after that godforsaken initiation I shouldn’t have set foot into.
That event was a major deviation from my usual habits, and it took me more than just waking up at five to get over it.
But I did. Eventually. Because I’m in control.
The whole ludicrous experience is in the past.
Or that’s what I thought.
Another unexpected event just slammed into my steel wall, putting a dent in it and sweeping my perfect cycle into a ditch.
My feet come to a halt as I peer back at the waste of space of a human whom I’ve been trying to bleach out of my mind.
And I did.
I succeeded.
Until he spoke just now, that is.
My lungs heave in quick succession, chest rippling against my shirt as if hoping to escape from my own fucking skin.
Alternative rock keeps playing from my sole earbud, the loud beat pounding in my ear, but I can’t hear anything over the constant static thumping in my skull.
Like whenever my carefully built life experiences a hurdle.
Nikolai isn’t only a hurdle. He’s a fucking wall that I can’t seem to shove out of the way.
He doesn’t notice the clusterfuck he’s brought on with his mere presence and stands there grinning like an idiot.
Half naked.
Only a necklace with a bullet dangles on his chest.