Curtis tried to counsel me about how I handled things with Mason. He knows what I’m like. I told him I wasn’t in the mood, and he gave me a this-isn’t-over mm-hmm.
I’m not a monster. I sent Mason a text saying how sorry I am. I told him I’m messed up. He texted back saying he still doesn’t understand what happened. He wants to know if we’re broken up or still together. I haven’t had the courage to reply yet.
Reyna’s there for me the way I was there for her last week with Ben, but the downside of her having no time for anyone’s shit is that she also has no time for mine.
‘If this was an “Am I the Asshole” post, then yes, Chucky, you’re the asshole of the piece,’ Reyna says, swirling her oversized glass of rosé at me judgementally. ‘The guy you’re dating showed some actual emotion, and you left him hanging. Not cool, dudeski.’
I watch the video for Courtney Love’s ‘Mono’: she grabs her guitar and dives into the folds of a sofa, disappearing into anotherdimension. I have the fleeting thought of diving into Curtis’ white leather couch to escape Reyna’s wrath.
‘It just happened,’ I mutter into my Heineken.
‘Bullshitit just happened,’ Reyna snaps. ‘I love you, but that’s the Charlie Roth MO. Every guy you’ve ever gone out with. Even your mate, Zeke. Hell, even the Mongrels. One thing goes wrong, and you throw all your toys out of the pram and end the relationship forever. It’s a pattern of behaviour. I know you like to think it means you’re edgy or hard to handle, but it’s not punk, Chucky. You’re being a toddler.’
‘I’m putting something else on,’ I mutter, as Courtney Love screams into a glass coffin.
‘Sick avoidance.’ Reyna smirks.
I frown at the YouTube recommended videos, trying to find something edgy that will match my mood. I’m annoyed by Reyna’s bluntness but I must like hearing it, or I wouldn’t have invited her over. I really did like Mason. A lot. Why did I bail like that?
‘I don’t wanna sound emo,’ I start to explain. ‘And don’t make fun of me for using this word. But I reckon I was like, triggered or whatever.’
‘As if I won’t make fun of you for sayingtriggered,’ Reyna snorts. ‘You needy little Gen Z, you.’ She turns to me, tying her hair back off her face. ‘But, look, I’m not going to be the arsehole of this situation, so – try me. What triggered you?’
‘You know how I told you I had that bad break-up in Gero, years ago,’ I say.
‘Your first love,’ Reyna nods. ‘You never did tell me his name.’
‘Still won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘But the way it ended wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.’
‘Oh, damn. Did he key your car? Take a dump on your front porch?’
‘He couldn’t handle being gay. He killed himself, Reyna.’
Reyna’s façade breaks immediately, and so does mine. A tear escapes my eye and I wipe it angrily, managing to choke any other emotion down in my throat.
Reyna wraps me into a crushing hug, spilling rosé on my shoulder as she whispers in my ear, ‘Oh my God, Chucky. I had no idea. I am so, so sorry that happened to you. That’s truly awful.’
I don’t let myself cry more than that first tear, but it’s nice to have her hug me.
‘I was never touchy-feely to begin with,’ I say. ‘People always called me prickly or whatever. But since him – I can never let myself get close to a guy. The moment it starts to get real, I’m sure he’s gonna leave me, so I leave first. Every time.’
‘That makes sense,’ Reyna admits. ‘I wish you’d told me this sooner. I just thought you were being a little shit.’
‘I mean, I usually am.’
The moment between us is broken as a door creaks open somewhere in the house, and suddenly Rex appears in the living room, his eyes so bloodshot he might have fallen asleep with his face over his bong. Which isn’t beyond the realm of possibility.
‘Have you been here this whole time?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were out.’
Rex scratches his bare chest and nods vaguely at Reyna. ‘Pretty sure I’m here,’ he mutters, spaced out to buggery.
Reyna stands up abruptly, wiping her face. ‘Yuck, I cried in front of someone,’ she mutters. ‘Be right back.’
She flees to the bathroom.
Rex bodyslams the couch, staring open-mouthed at the TV screen.
‘Wait, aren’t you meant to be up on the mines this week?’ I prod.
