Wicked Boy (38) (Patreon)

Ez hums, the rough slide of his cheek meets mine, and he turns in a way that crowds me back against the door.  My fist is still caught in his shirt collar, and it flexes with uncertainty and surprise.

Where I was once in his ear, he trades our places, leaning down into mine.  I watch his hand that's against the wood, the way his fingers barely touch it, ringed and without force.  His other hand cups my neck in the same fashion, loosely, like he's caught a butterfly in his palm.

"That was a pretty little please,"  Ez whispers, but my stomach somersaults under the heat of it.  I nod dumbly, then shake my head, pulling myself away entirely.

Ez releases me with a laugh and snags his towel from the edge of the couch.  I look away, straightening the cuffs of my sleeves,

"It certainly won't happen again."

My voice doesn't sound as icy as I would like it to.  Instead, it resonates with an embarrassed edge, and I wish I hadn't said anything at all.  I look to the other man to see if he's noticed, and our eyes meet next to the hallway.

Ez shrugs,

"I bet it does."

—

I meet Tamela on the porch.  Despite the yelling, the fists, and the absolute drama of her arrival, I bury my anxiety deep inside my gut. 

The door shuts, my expression sets into mild irritation, and Tamela, still in yesterday's attire and vivid eyeshadow, glowers back at me.

"You do know,"  I frown, crossing my arms in front of me to hide the wrinkles of the shirt I've slept in.  I don't know which parts to give away and which to hide.  It's disorientating to see a part of my Pennbrook life under Huxley's sunlight, "even if you have money, breaking and entering is still a crime."

"Hardly,"  Tamela swallows visibly.  Her eyes are swollen and rimmed with unshed tears.  She flips her hand back towards the entrance, her phone still in her manicured fingers, with my contact on the face of it.  "It's a screen door, you idiot.  A hungry raccoon could get past it."

We stand that way for a few moments, and I feel awkward and unsure of what precisely this air is between us.  Tamela doesn't look like she does when she's furious; instead, she seems somewhat vulnerable and ruffled.  It's the way that she sometimes appears to me after too long of a visit with her mother.

Guilt sings in my chest.

"...What are you doing here?"  I grimace.  Somehow, my words lose feeling so quickly.  I feel like I should ask Tamela what's happened to make her look so small.  The abnormal fragility of her appearance unsettles me.  Her mascara is smudged.  There's mud on her heels.  But.  I don't tell her that I notice. "How did you get his address?"

"Really?"  Tamela laughs, wounded and quiet.

I nod.

"Goddamnit.  Milan,"  Tamela inhales, her fingers stretched in front of her as she closes her eyes, "you,"  she starts again, and I can tell it's supposed to be the start of a fight.  There's supposed to be anger there, like before, but it crumbles under distress, "you didn't come back inside."

"What?"

"You!  Didn't,"  She punctuates each word with more passion, more accusation, "come back inside.  Then,"  she lifts her chin, but her tears pool regardless, and I hesitate before I uncross my arms, stepping forward.  "You — didn't answer your phone."

Tamela paces back from me with a curl of her hand,

"I canceled my date.  Which was fine, because fuck that,"  she swallows again, this time with more difficulty.  "But — then I searched the parking lot.  I called you.  I drove all the way to fucking Huxley! Again!  Then I practically had to beg for this address,”

"Tamela, I'm an adult."

My brows gather as she exhales heavily, and her breath quakes with it as she taps her foot, her eyes averting towards the tree line, then heavenwards.

"Why do I have to keep repeating that — you're my friend?"  She murmurs.  There are tears on her cheeks.  I feel extraordinarily uneasy, suddenly, like I've taken a misstep.  "Am I trying to convince myself?  Whenever I say I care, you say,"

She waves towards me again as the thoughts catch on her throat.

"Whenever I worry, you say — I'm an adult."

Tamela takes another step back, and now, her arms cross tightly along her midsection.

"You wouldn't,"  my teeth meet each other uncomfortably.  My jaw clenches, but Tamela won't look at me.  "You don't listen.  I told you that I was uncomfortable, and you wouldn't listen."

“I was worried.”  Tamela inhales.  Her chest quivers when she lets the breath go.  My skin feels hot.  My hands feel damp where they touch one another.

"I should only have to say no."  I run my thumb against my index finger forcefully, trying to calm myself, "I should only have to say no once.  That should be enough.  But it isn't for you."

Her eyes widen before her brows gather, her mascara trailing with speckles of black down her dark cheeks.

"It isn't like that,"  Tamela shakes her head.  

“It is like that.”

”I'm —  I.  Milan, I shouldn’t — but it’s just that, sometimes,"  she rubs at her tears with the back of her sleeve, something so unlike her to do.  She talks with more force, desperate to communicate, "I don't know if you know when to shut me out, and to say no.”

”What?”

”Theres — all these times when you‘re busy saying no — and trying to push me away, and you actually,"  her voice quakes and splits with desperation again, "really need help.  I — I’m worried.”

I flinch back at her heavy sob, and she pulls herself out of her heels with an awkward limp from one to the other.  Once she's barefoot, she pads to the porch swing, sitting on the edge of it like she doesn't know what else to say.  She rocks with her hands between her knees, and her head tilted away from me.

"… I want," she says it with conviction, even though she looks less prideful than she ever has.  "to be your friend, Milan.  To know you."

"Tamela, you,"  I take a step away from her, then rethink it.  You need a friend.  I think of Ezra.  His offer — to do the same for me.

I inhale and carefully take the seat next to Tamela instead.

"I'm..."  I stare at the tree that shades part of Ezra's home, with large, round green buds that hang from even larger leaves.  "Most days.  I feel like it's a waste."

"…To be my friend?"  Tamela glances back at me cautiously and shyly pads her nose against her shoulder with a sniffle.  She stays that way, waiting for an explanation I don't have.

"No…  To be me.  For example,"  I bite the inside of my cheek.  "I'm — a waste of... Food."  I laugh sadly at how silly that sounds, and sink my forearms into my thighs alongside her.  "So I don't remember to eat."

"I know,"  Tamela whispers.

"But it's.  It's not just that.  It's...  Everything.  Mostly I feel like,"  I smile softly and push the swing backward.  We rock slowly, and Tamela nods.  "... A waste of time."

"You're not,"  Tamela wrings her hands together in her lap.  "I know you feel that way — and I can't say you don't."

"Ah.  Tamela, you don't have to — "

"I don't think you're a waste of time.  I won't.  I’m..."  Tamela laughs too, but there’s not any sound to it, it mostly sounds like an exhale, “I’m here.  Aren’t I?”

--

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