Page 2 of Lovers Like Us
“Moffy?” Jason said. “I was justjoking.”
Some fucking joke.I expected that shit from trolls and assholes. Not people I mistakenly considered “friends”—and I wished for a timemachine.
Take me back to yesterday.Don’t invite him inside myhouse.
Take me back to twenty minutes ago.Don’t overhear him in the yacht’scabins.
Then maybe I could keep up the fantastical charade of believing that I can havereal, honest to God friends from school. I barely even trust people to begin with, and what little I gave Jason, he shiton.
“You’re just joking?” I said, my voice hollowed out. “Are you fuckingserious?”
Jason glanced at Ray. Then back to me, their smirks etching. Like I was the butt of a joke. Like I was the famous nineteen-year-old that should take thebeating.
Like all those times we’d been on two-hour bus rides to swim meets and talked and laughed had been a damnlie.
I should’ve left the cabin. Right there.I should’veleft.
Instead, I threw the first punch. Ray and Clark jumped me from behind. Three on one, and I would’ve fought them until I couldn’t breathe. Until they choked the life out ofme.
Maybe they saw that I wouldn’t end it, and after a while, they just left the boat cabin. One-by-one. I picked myself off the ground, steady as a statue. With a stinging lip, aching jaw and festeringrage.
And now here I am. On the deck, gripping the railing. Knucklesreddened.
Not able to stopthinkingorremembering.
I breathe, my ribs throbbing, muscles burning. I blink and blink to push past themoment.
But part of me wants to rattle this yacht railing. Then climb over and jump into the restless ocean below. Just toscreambeneath saltwater.
But Idon’t.
I staystoic.
I turned nineteen in July. I’m the oldest guy to too many cousins that look up to me, to siblings that need me. Like I’m Captain America. Theirsuperhero.
Dear World, how many times have you seen Captain America jump into an ocean and throw a pity party of one? I’m asking for a friend. Sincerely, just ahuman.
So I can’t have a public breakdown. I can’t cry bitterly andangrily.
I can’tscream.
Just moveon.
I swallow myfeelings.
“Moffy.”
I turn as Dr. Edward Keene sidles next to me, a lime mojito in hand. He’s in his early fifties, ash-brown hair tied in a small pony, strong jaw and nose. I always thought he resembled Viggo Mortensen, circaLord of theRings.
I’m not surprised my family’s concierge doctor is at the summer bash. The Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts invited peers, employees, security team, their friends-of-friends—pretty much anyone we’d shaken hands with and saidhelloto.
I’m more surprised that he’s nearing me. And lingering. Dr. Keene sips his mojito and eyes my raw knuckles, abs andchest.
I release my tight grip off the railing. “Hey.”
“If you were hurt fighting, I should take a look,” he says, curt and to the point. “I won’t tell yourparents.”
Doctor-patient confidentiality.Plus, I’m a legal adult. All of that, I understand. Still, I don’t want help. Not likethat.
