WICKED BOY (Chapter Four) (Patreon)

(author's note: before it gets confusing to those reading, Milo is a childhood nickname for the main character.  Milo's full name is Milan Minett.)

I'm confident enough that I'll never see Lucas and his green gaze again, and that makes things easier.

I'm twenty-four now, and that night of crying from years past doesn't cross my mind all too often.  Just occasionally, and mostly only on my bad days. Sometimes I reminisce, and it does more harm than good, makes my heart feel heavy and sours my mood.  Nostalgia doesn’t fit me in the way that it does most. My first love echoes with nothing but a dull ache. I tell myself that I've done well enough in my attempt to move forward, regardless of that night that weighs heavier now and again against my will.

I’m happier now.

I've willed myself to forget about Lucas' strange huff of a laugh and our late, teenage phone calls that went on until the daylight would break across my skin in soft shades of blue.  Sometimes I add bitterness to the memory — like how tired I was after talking to him all night, or how the phone hurt my ear and — oh, the one time I slept past my alarm and missed an exam.  All that, to keep from looking back with too much fondness.  I remind myself that, to him, I was never a priority but a nuisance.  To him, at my lowest, he expressed resentment towards my most considerable insecurity.

Our days that I held in rose-colored glasses were not my reality.  This is reality.

Reality is, fuck Lucas Gotthardt.

—

I'm at one of my dad's company parties, and it's one that takes over the entire first floor of the StoneBrook theatre; all cocktail dresses and expensive suits — except for me, in my sweater vest and oxfords, much to my dad's dismay.  I won't lie;  it was entirely intentional, and I've been looking forward to his disappointment for most of my day.

"I asked you to wear something nice, Milan.  I asked you to look strong,"  he grumbles under his breath, sips a bit at a martini in hand.  The truth is, I can’t afford to look any nicer than this outfit — the same outfit I wore for Aharon Blau’s bar mitzvah two years prior. Dad doesn’t have to know that. “What is that? Your library uniform?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you?” I cup my ear, flipping a page in my book. “Can you speak up a bit? This is quite the rowdy crowd of senior citizens.”

“Milan.” He's too mortified to speak any louder.  The crowd is close enough to overhear him, but he can't help himself, "I asked you to look nice — or look your age, even — not like a private school teenager that gets dunked in the toilet every other day."

"It's your genetics I'm wearing,"  I smile sweetly back at him, savoring his comment as I adjust my glasses, flip a page in the book that I've brought along.  My tone raises just slightly enough that Tamela has blatantly started eavesdropping.  "Maybe you should have sent out the stronger, more masculine sperm that night."  I wink at Tamela when she smirks, before returning my attention to my paperback.

My dad splutters on his drink but doesn't respond.  He knows that there's no point in arguing with me since I developed a micro of a spine — hasn't had it in him to threaten me since I've become a new Milan — since I've gained something to defend.

Myself.

He doesn't have to know that I ate ramen, or sometimes nothing at all, for most of my meals in that first year away from him — or about the time that I resorted to joining a hobby volleyball team to use the showers when I didn't have my own hot water.  A micro of a spine means the illusion of a micro of dignity.  Which I secretly don't have, and that's alright by me.

Fortunately, this false self-confidence of mine has created a game of tug-a-war; he makes it mandatory that I attend these little soirees, and in turn, he helps me with the cost of my studies.  It's a deal that I happily accepted at the time, because who can really deny every ounce of privilege in this economy — but my withered pride only stays intact by making sure that everyone knows that I'm not the slightest bit interested in following in my father's footsteps.

"Where's that boyfriend of yours? Erin, wasn't it?"  My dad looks uncomfortable, swings his thumb around the rim of his glass.  I sigh, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind my ear.  As badly as my dad had reacted to my coming out, he was all for the likes of me dating anyone that came from a blue-blooded family, man, or woman.  Isaac's family happened to be top-tier.

"Isaac, dad.  Shouldn't you remember him?  Isn't his father a favorite of yours?  Anyway, he's not my boyfriend."  We went on dates, sure,  the first person I'd ever actually even dated — but I still turned my cheek to him the one time he had leaned down to kiss me out of reflex, and he'd laughed about it softly.  I'd laughed about it too, and we had let it go.  Something wasn't there wasn't quite enough.  I knew that blue-bloods liked to intermingle, had seen the passionless affairs started in the name of money. 

Isaac and I both already know what we have and how it will end. Realists.

"Well, I'd advise you to stop playing hard to get before he loses interest.  You two could do so much for us,"  He nods as he speaks like he's envisioning something great, "all these ridiculous liberals that want some poster-child representative for equal work-place opportunities; just imagine the two of you starting a successful partnership business. If you’re going to refuse to do things the traditional way — it’s the next best step.”

"Take a breath, then full stop... You want to use my sexuality as a marketing ploy for liberal clientele?"  I choke a little on the air and shake my head, "Uh, alright.  If I cherry-picked that sentence, I'm sure I could find something halfway decent, but I'm not in the mood to do that tonight, unfortunately for you."

"I'm just saying that —"

"Yeah, dad, sure — I get what you're saying.  Maybe we'll have Isaac and I having sex as our emblem." I spread my hand in the air as if I'm envisioning something great right along with him, mimicking his expression. "I can picture it now — I don't think Butthole Surfers is copyrighted anymore?  Maybe we can use that and sell insurance to those on the beaches of Australia.  I saw on your browser history that gays just love beaches."

Dad lets out a heavy sigh and turns his back, grumbling something about here we go again, under his breath.  I'm not sure what he means by that, since he's the one who seems adept at pushing the worst buttons in a conversation, and I can't help but feel relieved as he wanders off.

I should've brought Isaac, perhaps, because I do like his personality quite a bit.  He knows how to behave at places like this, how to dress.  He looks the part. I'd be more comfortable with him here, at least.  I would've found a way to occupy myself beside him as he schmoozed up to each person with a grain of wealth in hopes of pleasing his own father.  Tamela is usually my saving grace, but her father is to busy introducing her to men who don't deserve her time.

Because that's all this is.

A schmooze fest.

Nearly hundreds of schmoozers.

That's how many attend the McLaughlin Co. fall event here in Stonebrook.  McLaughlin Co. is one of my dad's top investors.  For as far as the eye can see; are rich, stuck up older men with their young wives and their young little sirs that have surnames that carry more weight then they could ever manage alone. 

Call me judgmental, but it's the last place I would choose to be.  It's prim and proper right down to the precious thread on every tailored suit and heeled shoe.  It's so full of investment jargon and social politics and the flaunting of personal wealth — that my head just spins.

McLaughlin Co. is the epitome of of everything Lucas hated.

So you can imagine my shock then when — yes, speaking of the devil, Lucas himself appears.  He, who I haven't seen since eighteen, heck, haven’t spoken to since that night when I was freshly twenty years old — just comes sauntering down the main hall. 

It's surprisingly anti-climatic, in the way that life sometimes is.

I don't know what happens to me then, because it's such a natural introduction of him into my line of sight, but I feel like my ears are humming.  Everything is too quiet and too loud all at once and all I can manage is — "che cazzo..." it's warbled, unintentional and much too loud.

The ever-proud quad-lingual, Mrs. Gaspar, just happens  to be in my vicinity.  She clears her throat as she passes me, "Good Evening too you too, Milan." She simpers, and the ice in her gaze doesn't help to settle my nerves one bit.  I'm sure dad will hear about that.  I roll my eyes, eventually letting them settle back on the man across the main floor.

It's not like it is in the movies.  It's not meeting cutely with your unrequited love, dressed in your best clothes and reuniting happily.

No. 

It's loud in the main hall and smells like fishy appetizers.  It's much too hot and I can hear the man behind me blowing his nose into his handkerchief.  I still can't look away from my lost friend, with every distraction possible in sight.  Yeah. It's disgustingly heartbreaking how plain this moment is.

Lucas has his hair combed away from his face, tux tailored but jacket discarded over one arm, the hard lines of his jaw picturesque — like someone had stolen him away from his own wedding.  I'm horrified, confused — and I suddenly wish I had worn what my father had asked me to.

Well, that's at least a first.

I try to swallow but my mouth is dry and discomfort seizes any brain to limb communication for the briefest of moments.  When it subsides, and I realize that I'm effectively gaping like a fish, I snap my book shut.  I send a panicked look back to my mom —who has already wandered off in search of another drink, and then to my dad — just to make sure he doesn't recognize my old friend.

They're both preoccupied with intermingling, my mom's tongue with her alcohol, and my dad with several balding insurance prospects.  I look back at Tamela, who is sipping her soda from a straw with a distant expression as Timothy from accounting is trying to woo her with the money he saved the company the year prior.  I frown deeper, hoping to telepathically tell her that I needed to communicate with her via eye contact now. 

I come to terms with the fact that this isn't a sci-fi movie and groan.  I have no ties to anyone near her to sneak into her conversation, and her father absolutely disdains the sight of me. I briefly consider shouldering Timothy aside and asking Tamela if she'd rather get pancakes at the closest Demmy's and also letting her know that I'm totally being okay with her dad murdering me if he gets to me first.

I should've invited Isaac, why am I so stupid?

I fiddle for my phone, only because I'm here out of a mandatory requirement in order to get new text books out of my dad — and give a short scroll through the list of invitations that had been sent out — hoping to jog my memory of any acquaintance I could pester for the remainder of the night. 

Ugh, no one.  I need those text-books.

I glance up.  Not because I want to, of course, but because there's a small part of me that is inherently masochistic and loves suffering. 

Lucas has a woman wrapped around his arm, which shouldn't surprise me.  It was always that way, and they were always very lovely.  This woman is beautiful, too — a sleek long silver dress hugging her curves.  Yeah, beautiful, but definitely not the soft and pretty nurse from four years before. 

What happened to Brooke?  Did you toss her aside too?

I think, if only for a moment, and then frown when his arm slides around the dip of her waist too casually.  She laughs and touches another woman's shoulder, the look of idle business prattle that I'm accustomed to deepening their expressions.  A nod, another nod, a laugh — another touch. Lucas adds in a polite smile here and there, continues to look like a misplaced movie star in his tux. 

I'm left wondering — quite rudely and very bitterly,

how can he even afford that outfit?

I suppose he's the same man that he was, but I haven't seen him in person since I was eighteen.  I don't feel at all as if I know him, and the change in appearance distances my memories even further. 

He's not my childhood friend anymore.  No, now he's a grown man, cheekbones sharp and cutting under narrowed brows — dark and heavily lashed eyes.  His shoulders are broad and his stance is full of authority, especially wrapped around a woman so lithe.  

He's different.  Everything is different and it hurts.

The way he stands is more graceful than it is wild — like he's reigned a part of himself in as he grew older, and the sharpness to him just cuts — it cuts into every wound that I thought had healed.

I'm flushed, feel too hot.  My nerves are on fire.  I don't want him to see me because I haven't reigned in anything, I'm not different like he is.  I'm more of the childhood nickname of Milo than Milan Minett — still the boy with the fucked up head that only dragged him down. 

I'm still me in my stupid anxious skin.  We all can't hit the fabulous adulthood and call it good.  I'm still a garbling, nervous wreck, as always — and now I'm panicking. 

Oh, I'm full out panicking behind the guy that carries around the fishy hors-d'oeuvres, centered in the plaza next to the main hall.  He looks mildly uncomfortable to be standing next to me, and I might be horrible at hiding my emotions.

This is a trainwreck.

Suddenly the woman with Lucas looks to be in a state of confusion - turning back to him - and on my fifth glance, Lucas seems less sure of himself than he had just the moment before, leg bouncing back behind him before he takes a step in the opposite direction, like he wants to run.

It's then that I notice that his eyes are on me.

Of course, he'd see me, of course. 

My mouth goes slack and my eyes prickle with unwelcome tears. I'm unsure of what expression to make, but I'm positive that I look about as hurt as I felt years before.  I check the buttons on my cuffs to make sure they're straight.  I try to rid myself of my  weak expression — I clench my jaw to hold back from crying, and settle on giving a short, unsteady nod of my head in acknowledgment.  He watches me for a few moments, his composure lost.

"Milo?"  He mouths my name like he can't believe it's me, even though I've barely changed at all. His brows pull close together as his jaw jumps, looks ready to approach but pauses — runs a hand through his hair, and turns away.

He turns away, and I shouldn't have expected more.

I should have never expected forever.

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