Fake Friends - Saxon James Page 0,45

care about. And I care about him a lot. I’ll never, ever hurt him physically again, there’s no doubt there, but when it comes to anything else …” I wipe over the grinds I left on the counter after making his coffee, trying to sort through what I’m saying. “It’s complicated. I know what I want, but it’s so hard to let myself go for it when I’m constantly second-guessing everything.”

He looks awkward as he spins his saucer around once, twice, before looking up at me. “You care about him?”

“God, Leon. So much.”

“Do you know what today is?”

Fuck. Today.

I stare at a random spot on the floor, slumped down in my couch and wishing the world would go and fuck itself with a giant barbed dildo.

Five years today since I last saw their faces.

Since I saw the fierce flash in Mom’s eyes every time she caught sight of my broken nose.

Since Dad smiled warmly as he brought me soup for lunch.

They were never supposed to go out that night.

They were supposed to help me get over my heartbreak, and see me graduate, and send me off to college.

I take another sip of the scotch and hold back my gag.

I hate scotch.

But it was Dad’s favorite, so it seems fitting.

To sit and get wasted.

To watch the day pass outside, while I sit here, completely forgotten about.

Leon will be over at some point to make sure I haven’t killed myself, but the joke’s on him because I’m not suicidal.

Or is it on me?

Because maybe if I was, the pain would go away.

Instead, all I have left of them is a deep ache behind my sternum that’s infecting my bloodstream.

And it hurts.

It hurts to know this was never supposed to be my life.

I was meant to study business and become a suit. To visit home on the weekends and call my parents every night.

Maybe I even would have taken them for granted and forgotten to check in while I was at college having my first adult experiences.

I’ll never know.

All I know is that I won’t be visiting them at home or forgetting about them, ever.

And to really drive the point home, it’s Mother’s Day next week. Thank fuck I’ll be in LA.

I sigh heavily and it seems too loud in the quiet, empty house.

Maybe I shouldn’t have sold my childhood home. Would I have ever gone back there? My sources say fucking no.

But my dumbass seventeen-year-old self took that option away.

I frown as I register a tapping noise, but it goes away.

I lift the bottle of scotch to my lips and this time take an even longer drink.

I’m tempted to grab my phone and check my notifications. Check and make sure people still love me and remind myself there are people in the world thinking of me in this exact moment, but my phone is locked away.

Because I know too well that getting blind drunk and social media do not mix.

I blink and sit up a little, sure I heard a creak. The noise is gone now, but did I? Or is it just the alcohol messing with my head?

“Want company?”

I jump about a foot and spin to see Rowan standing in the doorway. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”

He doesn’t answer. I take another drink. Then burp loudly.

“Hells no to company. Today’s my day to get wasted, and I’m not having anyone around to judge me for it.”

He walks closer anyway. “You’ve never judged me for my shit,” he says as he reaches out and pries the bottle from my hand. “And I’ll never judge you for yours. Besides, that would be pretty hypocritical of me when I’m planning on getting blackout drunk too.”

“What?”

“Misery loves company, right?” He takes a long drink, then shudders as it goes down. “Bottoms up.”

“You know …” I stand, stepping forward until I’m well within his personal space. “When a gay man says that, it has an entirely different meaning.”

I take the bottle and as I drink, I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows thickly.

“Good to know,” he says.

“Mmhmm. And I’d be more than happy to do as I’m told.”

Rowan starts to laugh, but I pick up on the way it’s slightly off-key. I’ve rattled him. Which is perfect. Having the alcohol swimming through my veins makes it way easier to say what I’ve been thinking for weeks, and he better hurry up and catch up to my level of intoxication, or he’s not going to be drunk enough to