The way he wouldn’t kiss me for so long…
“Did we do that?” My words are thick with horror, revulsion at the thought that not only could I have caused that, but that he would let me do it. If he knew.
“Police are on their way,” Richie reports. He slips his phone into his pocket, then reaches forward in one smooth motion to grab a bottle of bourbon that’s sliding around the floor. He cracks it open, takes a sip, and the whole time, August isn’t saying a fucking word.
“Do we need to go back?” Amber asks. “To be witnesses or something?”
“I’m not driving back to an active shooter,” Jon responds. He rips the bottle out of Richie’s hand. “Not that it would make much difference. I’m already dead. On the inside.”
He flings his head back to take a drink, and August mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
The liquid drips down Jon’s chin as he pulls the bottle away. “You think you know? You think you understand? Fucking kissing cousin. You can get the fuck out of my van. Tico! Pull over!”
The van veers to the left, and a volley of horns scream at us when we lurch to a stop on a double yellow line.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
“He can get the fuck out!” Jon yells, standing now. “You’re disgusting, August. You’re disgusting!” This now directed at me, the first time he’s let himself take aim at me since the kiss. “Your fucking cousin? Of all the people, man.”
“He’s not… Ah, fuck. Look…” This shouldn’t bother me so much. What does it matter if Jon thinks I kissed my cousin? Butfuck!
“I love you.” Jon slides between my legs, digging two fists into my shirt, my arm smacking back into August when I reel away from him. “I love you. And even if you make me sick, I still fucking love you.”
So romantic…
August settles deeper into his seat, dropping a leg onto Jon’s vacated spot opposite. “Shame it wasn’t you he kissed, then.”
A vacuum of air pulls my stomach tight, both at the casual admission of what just happened and the jealous callousness of the comment.
“Motherfucker!” Jon yells. His face snaps back to mine, and he declares, “It’s me or him. Tell me it’s me, and I’ll forget you kissed your cousin. I’ll forget all about it, and we’ll move on.”
“Jon… Listen, things are…” I just didn’t see myself breaking his heart right now, in front of all his friends. Equally, something catches at my words before I can say, ‘Sorry, I choose August.’ Because does August choose me? Does he even want me? Was that just some dumb, tipsy moment, fuelled by jealousy and a good song?
“He certainly doesn’t choose you,” August quips, like a complete shit, and I still admire his confidence, even as Jon leaps up from the floor, grabs his shirt instead of mine, and wrenches him towards the van door.
“Stop it!” Richie shouts, moving himself between the door and the two men I’m inexplicably tangled with.
“You can’t throw him out in Camden,” mutters Shashi, ever the voice of reason. “At least drive on a little bit, away from the gunman.”
“You can’t throw him out at all,” I shout, shoving Jon off, back into Richie, where he stares at me, open-mouthed. “He’s my… He’s…” My heart’s beating so fast. What I’d give for one word from August, one statement to let me know this is something—something material that I can fall back on when I’m throwing one of my oldest friends away over him.
When nothing comes, I latch onto the coward’s way out. “Who bought you this van? You think you can just throw my cousin out on the road like yesterday’s garbage? You can fucking not. Tico, drive the car!”
“Don’t drive the fucking car,” Jon yells, and the van stays resolutely still. “I told you, it’s him or me. You put him out, or I’m going back to Koko.”
There’s a communal groan, but I’m the only one to say, “Don’t be so fucking stupid, Jon.”
“You are all I live for,” he cries, and I really think he believes it right now. He’s so caught up in himself, in his drama, that he’s forgotten every night he left me at home to go and fuck some groupie. Every time he said I was holding him back because I wanted him to make us public, and not pretend I was just some roadie tagging along for the ride because he wanted someone else for the evening. “You’re every breath I take, August.” And my heart sinks as we dip into his usual butchering of Bon Jovi lyrics. “You’re my wine, and my water, and…”
“Jon, let it go,” I sigh out. “Just sit down.”
“I can’t ever sit down again!”
But August does, a tired flop into the seat with his hand rubbing over his brow, a gesture which is touching on how I’m beginning to feel.
“If I can’t have you, I’m going back to Koko. I’m going back there, and I’m getting myself shot! Right here!” Jon slams a hand down on his chest. “You wouldn’t leave me for your cousin. Of all the people in the world, your cousin?”
The look Richie shoots at Amber and Shashi drives home the general abhorrence of my actions.
