He came down for the meetings, yeah. Business crap.
But with this dude, it never feels like just business. He doesn't look at me like I'm disgusting.
That's why I let him stay. That's why I can breathe when he's around. We stop on this little hill and both of us are panting.
"Holy shit," Lorenzo groans, tossing his helmet to the side. "My ass hurts. My back hurts. I need to lie flat, now." He flops onto the ground.
I look at him with pure disgust. "You're nasty," I say.
"Shut up," he mutters.
"You're taking a shower after this anyway. Come on, live a little. Lay down."
He pats the spot next to him.
I sigh, then drop down beside him. Whatever.
A dirty outfit is the smallest of my problems right now.
Lorenzo lights a cigarette. He offers me one.
"I don’t smoke."
He shrugs. Doesn't push.
That's why he's always been the only one I trust with the mess in my head. Maybe I should talk to him.
Out of everyone, he's the one who would actually understand. Or at least not make it fucking worse. We've been through shit.
He's seen me at my worst.
He's held my head when I was drunk out of my mind.
He's pulled me away from fights, from cops.
If there's anyone I could say it to, it's him.
Still, I don't know if I can. I don't even know if I need to. Actually… do I really have to tell anyone? Can't I just deal with it in my own fucked-up way, like I do with everything else?
Maybe I can kill it before it grows. Before it gets bigger.
Before it turns into something I can't control. You know. Just starve it out.
Less time with him. More distance.
I'm good at pushing people. I've had years of practice.
But right now it's the first time in my life I'm actually feeling something big for someone, and I'm managing it by screaming on a bike and venting to a cat.
Lulu listens, sure.
The picture frames listen.
The walls of my house listen.
But they don't talk back.
It would be so fucking nice to talk to an actual person.
