About... whatever I might be.
My notebook full of "scientific observations" mocks me from across the desk. I've been trying to quantify this, to make it logical and academic. But maybe some things can't be reduced to data points and behavioral patterns.
If Tyler can be this happy, then it's not wrong or sick or whatever Dad said...
I look back at my laptop. The quiz is still loading, that stupid spinning circle taunting me. Part of me wants to close it, delete my browser history, pretend this never happened.
But I need to know. Even if it's just a dumb internet quiz. Even if the methodology is completely fucked. I need something, anything, to help me understand what's happening in my head.
The screen finally refreshes.
My eyes practically pop out of my skull.
"Your Result: Bottom Energy %"
Chapter 6
Edgar and the Pre-Med Ninja
Sebastian
Whoever said running clears your head was full of shit. Ten miles in, and my brain's still playing a Family Dinner drinking game."When are you joining the company?"Take a shot."The Palmieri boy's still unmarried at thirty-five."Another shot."I know about medical school, Sebastiano."Chug the whole bottle.
Actually, that last one still has me laughing. Or wheezing. Hard to tell the difference when you're running. The way Mamma just casually dropped that bomb while elbow-deep in dishes, like she hadn't just revealed she's known my second biggest secret this whole time.
Meanwhile, I'm standing there holding a soapy plate like an idiot, trying to process that she's been researching Stanford's med program while I've been sneaking around like some kind of pre-med ninja.
The fucking Palmieri thing, though. "Thirty-five and his poor mother is still waiting for grandchildren." The tragedy. The horror. Someone alert the media.
Here I am, literally running away from my family instead of just saying eight words: "I'm going to be a doctor. Also, gay." But no, that would be too simple. Instead, I'm out here at ten PMdoing my best Forrest Gump impression because apparently, I process emotions through cardio.
God, my life is ridiculous.
I approach the small house my friends and I rent near campus. It's a shabby two-story with peeling paint and a sagging porch, but the rent is cheap, and the landlord doesn't ask questions about the occasional small explosions from Max's room.
I can feel sweat cooling against my skin in the night air as I slow to a walk for the last hundred meters, giving my muscles a chance to cool down properly.
The house glows with yellow light coming from the windows. I hear my friends talking and laughing inside. Just as I'm about to knock, the door opens.
"I calculated your arrival time based on your average pace and the distance," JP says by way of greeting. "You're two minutes late. Did you add a hill repeat?"
"Hello to you too," I say, stepping past him into the warmth. "And yes, actually. How did you know?"
"Your face is redder than the last time you jogged from their house, that suggests?—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," I interrupt, knowing JP's tendency to launch into detailed physiological explanations. "Is the beer cold?"
He hands me a bottle and leads me into the living room, where the rest of the group is gathered. The space is cluttered but clean, dominated by mismatched furniture and overflowing bookshelves. A whiteboard covered in complex equations stands in one corner, Leo's current project, and what appears to be a small robot is sitting in the middle of the coffee table.
Thank god Leo remembered to put the beer in the fridge this time.
"Seb!" Max exclaims, jumping up from his spot on the floor. His wild hair is sticking up in all directions, and there's a smudge of grease on his cheek. "Perfect timing! I need someone with steady hands."
"I just ran ten miles," I point out. "My hands are anything but steady right now."
"That's okay, we have beer for that," he says, undeterred. "This is Edgar." He gestures proudly to the robot.
"You named it," I say, taking a long sip of beer.
