Page 17 of Strange Lad

I caught Jorge’s hand hovering in the air a few times as if he wanted to reach out and guide me by the small of my back. And earlier, when he’d been eating his cheese on a stick, and I’d gotten a corndog, he looked almost desperate to swipe away the drop of mustard on my chin.

I’d think it meant something more if it were anyone else besides Jorge. Deeper, perhaps. But thisisn’tanyone else.

This is Jorge. And he shows how deeply he cares by how frequently he wants to touch you.

I hate it.

I love it.

I wish I could handle it better, but I simply can’t.

Not for the first time today, I scold the universe for doing this to me. Taunting me with such a tempting carrot that I’m practically allergic to. The thought of him touching me makes me want to catapult into the ocean, while images of me reachingout for him seem doable. If only he’d stay perfectly still so I could explore…

“Yoohoo,” he sing-songs, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry,” I mutter and tear my eyes away from the couple snuggling on a bench at the edge of the pier.

“They look snug as a bug,” he comments, nodding to them.

“Yeah.”

“Want to go down to the sand? I want to stick my feet in the water.”

Not really. But what could it hurt? Maybe it’ll distract him enough not to realize how conflicted I am. “Sure.”

He beams, bouncing on his heels, and gestures for me to follow him.

Without meaning to, I glance down at his outstretched fingers, my chest thudding as, once again, I’m letting an opportunity slip away due to this crippling fear. I could be holding that hand. Jorge wouldn’t shy away from it either. He’d welcome my simple act of affection. I’m sure he’d preen like a peacock, showing me off down the pier without a care in the world.

Fuck, what it must be like to be a ray of light.

I don’t think I’ll ever know.

We get to the sand, trekking through piles of seaweed and down to the murky water. Redondo Beach isn’t the cleanest, but it’s nearby and familiar to both of us. SoCal locals ‘n all. The smell of salt and fry oil fills my lungs, seagulls sound in the distance, and some loud music blasts through a speaker a ways down. I’m half aware of the football soaring through the air over us.

And just like that, clouds darken all around me.

Football.

The pain. The grout. The trickle of water down my forehead. The rough grip.

“Oli?”

My eyes slam shut, intensifying the visuals. Hot breaths in my ear. Fingers bruising my skin. I shudder. “Hey,” Jorge’s voice breaks through.

“Sorry,” I swallow. “I think the corndog was bad,” I say. A clammy layer of sweat forms over my scalp, and the corndog sits funny in my stomach. I shiver as my skin pebbles with goosebumps.

When I get brave enough to open my eyes again, Jorge is tearing off his leather jacket full of patches and studs—eerily similar to the one Phoenix has—and gently sets it over my wide shoulders. It’s too small to wear, but the gesture is not lost on me.

I allow his scent to fill my nose. Strawberries and mint. Always the same. His vape and then his body wash. “There you go,” he says softly, adjusting the collar but never touching me.

“Thanks.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Okay.”

Jorge

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