I worried my mom would hear him, worried about how he’d slip out in the morning without anyone knowing.Wondering if his parents would be livid that he wasn’t at home in his own bed.It all consumed me for a split second before it was lost to the feel of him in my bed.
He smelled of the ocean and bubble gum surf wax; he smelled like our childhood, and it’s something that will always be part of him, part of us.
I dream about that day regularly, about all our days together, hating the pain that seizes in my chest at the thoughts of him.More so, I hate how much I ache when I think about him, how it still hurts in a way that makes me want to hate him.I try to hate him, and some days I do with such intensity that I hate myself.
Miles was the first of many things for me; that night with him in my bedroom was the first night we spent together, and it became a regular occurrence.His warm, tanned skin flush with mine under my sheets that were dotted with surfboards and palm trees and hibiscus flowers.The smell of his body lingered, and I often wondered if my mom knew he had been in my bed, the scent so strong, but maybe it was only to me.
He was my first kiss, the first guy to sleep in my bed, the first time I had sex; it was with him.All my firsts are his.He owns them, and again, at times I hate that.
The first time I had my heart broken, it was by him.The pieces are still scattered, jagged and sharp, inside my chest.They cut deep with every thought of him, a reminder of how much it hurts and how much I never want to feel that again.
Isaac was there to pick up the pieces while Miles lived his life on the mainland, touring with his band.
It was something I wanted for him because holding him back made me feel yucky and selfish, but watching him leave nearly broke me.But what really broke me were the social media pictures of him and the band, all the girls throwing themselves at him, and all the posts of him with his arms wrapped around adoring fans.Fans who undoubtedly know he has a tattoo for me.
But none of that matters.
We’re done.
Because my heart won’t let me get close to him again.The constant fear of him leaving is the only thing on my mind, even if the band imploded on itself, the smallest bit of fame being too much for all of them.
Their Instagram page is still live, and people still comment, asking when there will be new music or another tour.I torture myself regularly by looking at it, seeing the thirsty comments from girls about Miles, and as much as it pains me to think it, they’re right.He’s fucking hot.
This is my life.This mess of falling in love with two men, and sometimes I wonder if I’m even in love with Isaac or if I’m in love with the way he became a distraction from my reality.
Again, I hate myself for it all.
Even in my dreams, I smell him.
Miles.
The ocean.
The bubble gum surf wax.
The feel of his body.
And when I crack an eye open, my head throbbing, an ache so deep in the center of my forehead, I wonder if I fell last night and will have a giant goose egg there.
I run my fingers over it, but there’s nothing there, and when I finally will myself to open both eyes, I panic.I’m fucking hungover, and I’m not at home.
Gasping for air, I realize I’m in Miles’s bed, at his house, the house he shares with his aloof and clueless, perpetually indifferent to life brother, Kai.There’s no way this is going to stay quiet in our little group of friends, and it will no doubt get back to Isaac, and I will be fucked.
I throw the bedding off me and send up a silent plea when I realize I still have my underwear on and am still wearing the clothes I had on last night.Not that underwear ever stopped Miles and me from having sex; if anything, that tended to be a bigger turn-on.Pulling them to the side…
Fuck.
I’m so fucked right now.
Luckily, it’s still early.Shockingly, I’m awake, normally loving the solace of sleep and sleeping late, but I have to get my ass out of here.
Not even bothering to look for my shoes, I creep to the door, opening it with caution, not knowing what I’ll find on the other side.
The house is silent, and even though I haven’t been here in over a year, I slip through the tiny house, led by muscle memory and the need to get the hell out of here.
I have no idea where my purse is or where my shoes are or, hell, even my phone, but all of that can be dealt with later.I can’t be here.
And with that thought, I exit out the back door, bare feet, looking like I’m homeless as I head down the road toward Alana’s house.
