Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,74

cheeks and bit his lip.

“Not cool.” Chip shoved Trent down the hall.

“Have fun!” Trent cackled. “Rubber up!”

Chip dragged Trent away, shooting me an apologetic look as he went.

Landon stepped away from me, and I shivered, with the cold locker against my back and Landon’s warmth removed from my front.

“What was that about?”

“What?” My voice croaked. I cleared my throat. “Um. What?”

“That got really weird all of a sudden. When he mentioned us having sex.” He glanced down at my pants. “Playing the ‘foreskinned fiddle,’ huh?”

“Trent is an asshole,” I said.

And then I said, “They both are.”

“I thought Chip was your friend?”

“So did I.”

I pulled away from the locker and wrapped my arms around myself.

I still kind of wanted to cry.

“So are you . . .” Landon’s eyes darted down again.

“What?”

“You know.”

I shook my head.

“Uncut?”

“Intact,” I said.

“Oh. Huh.”

I hated that word: huh.

I wiped at my eyes, because I wanted to cry but I didn’t want Landon to see me do it.

I was more or less immune to Trent humiliating me. I had adapted.

But what was I supposed to do when it was Chip who did it?

“It doesn’t bother me. I’ve hooked up with uncut guys before.”

“Hooked up?”

“Just jerking off and stuff.”

I didn’t want to know about Landon masturbating other guys.

“Is that all you want to do? Hook up?”

“No. That’s . . .” Landon’s cheeks were on fire. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

My own cheeks began to burn too.

“Why are you so mad at me?”

“Why won’t you be honest with me? Why does Chip know you’re uncut anyway?”

“He saw me that day when I got hurt.”

I wiped at my eyes again.

This felt like a knee to the balls.

Worse, even.

Landon stared at me for a long moment.

And then he said, “Do you have a thing for Chip?”

“What?”

“Do you like Chip?”

“He’s my friend,” I said. “That’s all.”

I didn’t have a thing for Chip.

I couldn’t.

“You won’t even take your shirt off around me. But he’s seen your dick?”

“That’s just soccer,” I said. “It was an accident. But us . . . you . . . I need more time. I told you I’m not ready.”

“Well, what about what I need? What about what I’m ready for? Why is it always about you?”

“It’s not,” I said. “I care about you. And what you want.”

“I’ve told you sex is important to me. But you never want to talk about it. You want to go to dances and look cute together, you want me to cook for you and your family, but when it comes to doing stuff—stuff that I told you I wanted, stuff that matters to me in a relationship—you say you’re ‘not ready.’ We’ve been together for four months now and you won’t even take your shirt off around me. You’re a coward. And you’re selfish.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”

“But you’ll go around swinging your dick in front of Chip?”

“It’s a locker room. What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t even know.” Landon closed his eyes. “You know what? I’m going to go.”

“What?” I squeaked.

“It’s clear you’re not coming home with me. Are you?”

“Um.”

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to say yes to everything.

But I couldn’t.

I wiped my eyes and said, “Landon . . .”

But he shook his head and said, “This is bullshit.”

And then he said, “I’m leaving.”

And then he walked away.

SUITABLY MELANCHOLY

I wanted to follow Landon.

I wanted to chase him into the rain, and reach out for him, and have him change his mind and turn around, and tell me he was wrong and he was sorry and everything would be okay.

But first of all, it was barely drizzling. Not nearly heavy enough for any sort of dramatic reconciliation.

Second, I was a coward.

And third, I didn’t know anything I could say that would change his mind.

I hovered inside the double doors while he waited for his ride to pick him up. Once he was gone, I slipped outside into the empty parking lot and watched the car’s taillights disappear into the haze, which at least felt suitably melancholy.

It was the type of situation that called for some sort of heavy piano music, or maybe a haunting cello motif, but the only soundtrack was the bass beat of “Despacito” rattling off the windowpanes of the Main Gym behind me.

I sat on the curb and wiped my eyes and felt the yawning void of self-hate open up beneath me.

The thing about having depression is, you can recognize the cycles your mind goes through, even when