Page 23 of Strange Lad

“Hey,” Jorge coos. “What happened?”

I slowly raise my head, chin wobbling, eyes wet. “Where were you?”

Those brown pools swirl with guilt and sadness, tearing up like mine are. “Oh fuck my life. I went to help my dad with my auntbecause the girls are sick, and then—” he stops himself, dropping from his squat to kneel before me. “I should’ve texted. Are you alright?”

The nod is shaky, just like my legs as I stand up. He follows suit, fingers twitching. He wants to touch me, to hold and comfort me. I kind of want it, too, but I quickly squash that idea. Right now, I need to be inside, hidden, gone.

“Come on,” he says gently, gesturing for me with an outstretched hand.

I don’t take it. My stomach twists because I don’t.

He keys the lock, opens the door for me, and moves to the side so I can go in first.

As soon as I smell him, strawberries and mint, I relax. The tension washes off me in ripples, falling somewhere at my feet.

I head to his kitchen, which feels more like mine than the pitiful excuse for one in my studio. My fingers grip the refrigerator door, finding cold water bottles, and I grab one. I don’t come up for air as I swallow it all down. Jorge simply watches from a distance.

“Was it a bad day?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I rasp, tossing the empty bottle in his recycling bin. “Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just know that you can whenever you want. I’m here for you, Oli.”

Our eyes connect, then. Something silent is being spoken.

Do you trust him?

Dr. Langley’s words flow through my thoughts.

I want to. I want to trust him completely. I feel the strings tying us together strengthening. Every time I need him, he’s there. Always there. I don’t want to pressure myself into thinking about it too hard; I do that enough. But I’d be lying if Isaid I wasn’t starting to trust him. My body led me here when my mind checked out.

That’s got to count for something—it has tomeansomething.

Ifeel better now that I’ve showered.

Jorge gave me some clothes to borrow, but they're too small. I keep tugging down the shirt, but it rides up anyway. And don’t get me started on the sweats. They’re like a second skin. So when I creep out of the bathroom looking like the clothes have shrunk three sizes, Jorge stares at me.

I mean, hereallystares at me.

The slow perusal of his brown eyes makes my stomach flutter and my chest cave in.

He’s never looked at me like that before.

It must dawn on him when I frown slightly because he clears his throat and gestures to the kitchen. I walk down the short hall and into it, where I see a small buffet of Thai food. It’s our favorite. I let his weird gawking go as my stomach rumbles with hunger instead. Quickly pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I slide into a seat, the damn shirt hiking up my back.

“I got you, Pad Thai,” Jorge squeaks. “I’d already put in the order on my way home because I was going to ask you to come have lunch with me.”

I turn to face him, his eyes glued to the strip of my exposed skin, and he blushes. “Stop doing that,” I tell him.

He blinks and shifts his eyes away. “I didn’t think my clothes would bethatsmall,” he teases, back to his normal shenanigans, helping me relax.

“You’re like four inches shorter than me and skinny.”

“I’m not skinny,” he argues, plopping into the chair across from me. His curls flop as he does. “I’ve got a little muscle.”

---