It’s easy to fall headlong into them, and he isn’t even here. And it’s an effective distraction. I stop thinking about fried fish and failure and think about him instead. How he looks at me. How Tanner looks athimas if he might break at any second. How he and Molly were standing so close earlier today that I thought they were together. Figured they weren’t as soon as her words hit home, though. There’sno wayKai is bad at sex. Whether he means to or not, everything he does oozes rhythm and heat. At least, it does to me, but I have form for getting hooked in by straight blokes, and according to conversations I’ve heard around this place, that’s exactly what he is. The token straight boy who has no fucking idea howglorioushe is.
As that particular thought completes, my gaze zeros in on a tall figure walking alone on the busy pavement.Kai.He’s striding away from V&V as if he has fire at his back, shoulders hunched, head down. I track him as he passes the mediocre juggler. Watch him startle as the fuck-up comes and a Coke bottle smashes behind him.
Watch him hate on himself for letting it get to him. Even from a distance, I sense the frustration in the rough fingers he tugs through his beard. The bruising grip on the ball cap as he shoves his hair back and jams it on his head.
Don’t be so hard on yourself, sweet dude.
I think about texting him most of those words, but I still haven’t got round to upgrading my phone plan.
Do it now.But I can’t tear my eyes from the window. From him. It’s a crazy thing how he consumes me when I have a gazillion others to worry about.
Kai ducks into a shop. Literally. He’stall.I’m six foot, but this dude has four inches on me. He doesn’t come out for a while. When he does, he’s carrying a paper bag, and I swear down he swings his gaze to the window where I’m peeping on him from the shadows. He can’t see me, but I feel his eyes on me all the same.
I confuse him. I don’t know why, but I do. It’s in every head tilt and frown. Every grind of his teeth.
You talk too fast. And you banged your head on the fridge door in front of him this morning.
More than once, as it goes, but my Tourette’s is mild. I was done with my tics by the time I came back from supply hunting. Something else about me bothers him, and I feel bad that my mess has already run him out of his home.
You don’t know that. He’s not with Molly, but that doesn’t mean he’s not tapping someone else.Maybe that bag is for her. Chocolate and pink wine. Women like that shit, right? I can’t remember. It’s been a minute. And my mum? She drank corner-shop cider. The strong stuff. Drowned herself in it, but that’s a story for another day.
Kai disappears. I try to picture him knocking on the door of the beautiful and brilliant girl he deserves, but as hard as I try, the image won’t come.
Wishful thinking?
Nope. Definitely not. In fact, the best thing that can happen right now is for this dude to have a girlfriend. A fuckingwife. But even if he does, I get the feeling his place in my brain is kinda permanent.
KAI AND JOSS
KAI
I don’t see Joss for a few days. He gets up early every morning and disappears downstairs, and with the kitchen finished, I have no logical reason to follow him.
In the evenings, I stay in my room when he comes upstairs, and by some holy fuckin’ act of God, manage to stay there all night long. No pacing the apartment. No freak outs that send me creeping across the hall to Tanner’s couch.
On Monday morning, I finally figure out why I’ve been more chill. It’s my door. It stays partially open every night because the handle is broken, and I’ve lacked the motivation to perform the two-minute fix it would take to repair it. And for whatever reason, Joss leaves his door open all night too. So I can hear him moving around. Hear himsleeping, and the presence of another human…it soothes me, man.
I still don’t sleep much, but I don’t need to. It’s fine.I’mfine. And I’m well-fed. My conscious effort to avoid Joss has led to him leaving plates of random food in the kitchen for me to eat. Even more random? The hand-drawnmouseon every post-it with my name on.
What the actual fuck? Unless he’s referring to how my metaphorical balls feel most days. Can’t argue with that.
On Monday morning, I fall asleep in the early hours and wake up way past dawn, bemused andhungry.
I roll out of bed, find some sweats, and stumble out of my room to three things.
One: Joss’s door isn’t cracked, it’swideopen.
Two: I can see him through it, sprawled out on his stomach and stone-cold asleep.
Three: Pretty sure he’s naked.
Fuck a duck. Awake as hell, I dash for the bathroom, washing up before I creep to the living room. When I’m in my right mind, I’m nimble for a big guy. Light on my feet. I make it without crashing into anything and snatch a breath. Shake myself a little.
The hell is wrong with you? Who cares if you can see his back and the top of his ass?
My dick apparently. JesusChrist, I’m hard. What the…?
Wow. I haven’t popped wood for weeks. Not since I forced myself to rub one out in the shower just to prove it still worked. Which it did.
