Page 7 of Strange Lad

What’s life if you can’t have one thing that’s bad for you every once in a while?

Dr. Langley would disagree with that sentiment. But these are animals. Notme.

We’ve watched this movie more times than I can count since coming into each other’s lives again, and every time still feels as magical as the first. I doubt it has anything to do with the movie, though. No. It’s being around him.

Our casual friendship keeps deepening, the rope binding us together, thickening with every day that passes. Often, I’ve wondered why I don’t just let him tell my brother about us.

There isn’t anus.Not in that way, but you get my point.

In the beginning, I almost told Jorge it was okay. Just let Phoenix know that we’re friends. A tiny voice in my head whispered that it might be alright. How bad could it have possibly been?

But I know my brother.

I know how fucking judgy he is and how quick he is to ice someone out. He’d be livid that I’d ignored him for months while secretly hanging out with his best friend. But can anyone really blame me? I all but begged for Phoenix to talk to me. My hand was outstretched for him, but no. His obscure view on addictionand the people it preys on warped his mind so fucking bad that he slapped my hand away and left me to rot.

Phoenix can’t know about this—hecan’t. He’d never forgive Jorge, and all his faux attempts at rekindling our brotherhood out of guilt would vanish into the void.

Which leads me back to my original thought. I am taking advantage of Jorge. He’s mybrother’sbest friend. Not mine. So why do I feel like I got dibs? After all, I saw him first. All those years ago, when we moved in next door. I’d been outside, not Phoenix. I’d said hello to him, not my fucking brother.

Why does it feel like irony that the one person I’ve wanted all my life barreled into it like a bull and hasn’t shown any interest in leaving? That’s got to count for something.

Is Jorge lonely like I am? Doubtful. Utterly doubtful. He’s a vocalist for a metal band. He can haveallthe company he wants.

So what’s he doing with me? An addict? Nobody and nothing. A fuckingloser.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is so gentle sometimes that it feels like the faintest kiss on my cheek. I imagine what his lips would feel like often. But with that fantasy comes a nightmare—one I’ll never relive again.

“Sup?”

“You seem tense. What’s going on?”

Another thing about Jorge is he isveryperceptive. It’s taken every fragment of my mental strength to keep all my feelings safely stored away whenever we are together. Even I can admit it’s getting harder to do. He caught me blushing like some lovesick puppy earlier.

All his attempts at touching me, all his seemingly innocent nicknames that make my heart thud faster make it worse. Hell, even the way he looks at me sometimes leaves me breathless. It’s too much. Yet, I can’t stop this. He’s got his hooks in me, and they’re embedded in my bones.

So, I give him a sliver of the truth—a scrap he can carry without revealing too much. “I don’t like it when you try to hug me, Jorge.”

“Shit,” he rasps. “I’m sorry, Oli. You know I don’t mean to be overbearing. I won’t try again.”

“You’ve said that before,” I point out and face him.

His eyes puddle within seconds. He’s going to cry.

I’m going to make him cry.

Fuck, I can’t handle it when he does.

My therapist says it’s healthy—cathartic, even—but Jorge cries with his whole heart. Over everything and anything. It could be so insignificant to me but mean the world to him. It physically hurts to see it.

“It’s okay,” I rush. “Just forget it.”

“Does it really bother you that bad?” he whispers the question, blinking fast.

No.

Please don’t cry.

“It doesn’t.” Another lie to add on top of the lie sundae.

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