Thirty-Three
FRIEDRICH
I throwmyself into work to keep my mind off things, not that it does any good. The days are getting marginally easier, but I still get a little jolt of hope every time my phone dings, thinking maybe it’s her. Aurelia and I agreed it was best to make it a clean break. Or rather, she asked for that, and I’d willingly take a long walk on a short pier if she asked me to. But that still doesn’t stop me from hoping. Exhausting myself with meetings and charity events and even keeping up with this stupid dating game can’t keep my mind from straying to her.
The only thing keeping me from going completely mental is the fact that Father appears to be improving. The physicians are pleased with the progress of the gene therapy, and he’s putting on a little weight since having the feeding tube placed. Weflew to Paris recently for a climate conference, and he didn’t seem to tire as easily. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but he really does look better these days.
My mood is only mildly improved after a few weeks without her, but I’m still surly as a poked bear. When I’m not busy, I’m in my bed doing my best to block out the world. Miles has tried to drag me out for a night of drinking. Mother has visited a few times but has kept her distance after I snapped at her during her last visit; even Claus has stopped by and attempted to act like he cared.
Nothing makes me feel any better, though. Not drinking alone or with friends, not drowning myself in responsibilities, not even masturbating. That always used to make everything better, but now an orgasm only leaves me feeling deflated and gross since I have a hard time not picturing thick auburn locks wrapped around my fist or those perfect red lips or the way that sweet cunt felt around my cock.
It’s Saturday night, three weeks since the day Aurelia walked out of my life with my heart beating in her hands, and I’m settling in with a book and a tumbler of whiskey, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. Marta has been stopping by to change my sheets more often lately since I’ve been spending extended periods of time in bed recently, and the smell of the lavender detergent she uses is a comfort as I snuggle under the covers. I’ve only just flipped open to the bookmarked page when my bedroom door flings open.
“Christ, Miles! You scared the shit outof me.”
“I hope not literally because we have places to go tonight.” My friend is already yanking the blankets from my bed before he even finishes his announcement.
“No, man, I’m good tonight.”
He snatches the book from my hand.
“Hey,” I protest as he fails to hold my place and loses the page I was on.
He turns the book over in his hands and scoffs as he reads the cover. “Eat, Pray, Love?”
I shrug. “Lorelei thought she was being funny, but I don’t know. It’s kind of good.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Miles runs a hand roughly down his face. “Look, my dude, this has got to stop.” He pulls on my arm, trying to physically drag me from bed. “Cyril is hosting a private event at his gallery, and he has been blowing up my phone since he’s been unable to reach you.”
I pick at an invisible speck of dirt under my nails and avoid his eyes. “He’s been reaching me; I just haven’t responded.”
My best friend finally gives up and flops down on the bed next to me. Laying here together reminds me so much of our time at boarding school together, only the bed is much bigger and so are we. Back then, we would push our beds together between room inspections so we could lie side by side after we finished studying and talk until we fell asleep. Our concerns seem so silly now. We worried about which professor was going to spring a quiz on us or how we could get the attention of girlsback home. Miles would fret over people noticing his piano induced boner before an upcoming recital. He still gets those when he plays at the jazz club now. I would lament any time it came close to school holidays, never ready to leave the boarding school bubble where I wasn’t a prince, just another boy working hard to do well in class and trying not to get caught by my roommate while jerking off.
We lay the same way now, on our backs, arms at our sides and staring at the ceiling.
“I just miss my friend,” Miles says after a while.
“I’m honestly trying,” I sigh. “I just can’t seem to make myself do anything beyond the absolute necessary. It’s like my daily energy stores have been cut in half or something.”
He turns his head to look at me. “Fritz. I know for a fact you did a fat lot of nothing today besides watch Portyard in your pants and eat takeaway. Brenton says you haven’t even been running. Which, I mean, good because only psychopaths run for fun. But it’s seriously time, man.”
I roll my head over my shoulder, too. This close, I can see that the irises of his eyes aren’t quite the same shade as his pupils. They’re a deep, deep brown. The scar in his eyebrow is just barely visible from here, a gift from a rival school’s rugby team when we were fourteen. That was the last year Miles played.
If we were any nearer, I might be able to feel the warmth of his breath on my lips.
“Fritz.”
“Mm-hm?”
“Get out of this bed,” he growls.
“Ugh. Christ. Fine.” I push myself up and let my legs dangle over the side of the bed for a moment. “But I seriously don’t want to go to Ardsbend tonight.” It’s a two-hour drive into the interior, less by train, but Brenton would shit a brick if I tried to talk him into a last-minute train ride.
Miles lets out a huff. “We have to at least leave the house tonight. Let’s go to The Club.”
“If that’s what will get you off of my back.” I head to the bathroom. “Just give me thirty minutes,” I say as I shut the door. “Oh, and I’m not participating tonight, got it?”
My friend shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
