“I… can’t,” his voice is shaky and timid, a far cry from the person I watched unravelling in the pub.
“Tell me what I’m thinking is completely off.”
“I can’t do that, either.”
The rest of the walk home was made in silence. I kept three paces behind him the entire way, ready to catch him when the emotions and alcohol crept up. He didn’t fall. He didn’t need saving. Instead, he just stomped off ahead and acted like I didn’t even exist. He took himself straight upstairs once he cleared the front door. It broke my heart a little, knowing that the interaction between us had soured his mood so much that he couldn’t even face his Mom. Knowing his time is limited, I felt like shit for putting him in that position– even if he doesn’t know.
“Are you going to ignore me forever?” He doesn’t answer, he just moves about the bedroom, opening drawers and pulling out clothes, deodorant, and underwear.
“Jules, look… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t–”
“But I am…”
“You don’t have to apologise for my feelings, Zander. I don’t.”
My teeth clench at the question I need to ask, “Do you like him?”
“I barely know him.”
“Do you want to?”
“I just want to be like every other nineteen-year-old. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted. I want to know whatit feels like to get lost in a moment. I want to be reckless,” he admits, exasperated. His body sinks to sit on the edge of the bed, like he’s lost the fire from earlier–or maybe I extinguished it for him.
“I don’t want you to be like everyone else. I want you to be exactly who you are. The one who doesn’t care for others' opinions, the one who moves at his own speed. Set your pace, Jules, and I’ll be right beside you the entire way.”
“But that’s the problem. I’m slowing us both down.”
I take the empty spot beside him now, wrapping my hand around his.
“I told you when we were nine– it’s what best friends do. That hasn’t changed for me, never will.”
“Always?”
“And a day.”
Chapter Twenty
Jules
Age 19
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“No…”
The noises he was making had me second-guessing myself. Little whimpers and sighs that I thought were signs of frustration turned out to be signs of approval and the desire for more.
“Please…” His voice is a quiet rasp, encouraging me to press my body against his, rolling into him with increasing desperation. “Jules…” My name leaves his mouth like a plea, dripping with agonising need. I recognise it because I feel it too, the need to chase the pleasure his body is giving me, but also to make it last as long as possible, drawing out the experience that we will only get once.
“Are we really doing this?” I press forward again, leaning in so our mouths are only a breath apart. The tension from holding myself above him runs through my arms, making the bed tremble and shake.
“Wait, stop…”
No, no, no… “Zander, it’s ok. It’s always been us, just you and–”
“I’m sorry… Please, don’t do this,” he cries out, the bed shaking more violently beneath us as his voice increases in pitch, “Please! Just– NO! GET OFF–”
