Wicked Boy (Chapter Three) (Patreon)

Eighteen years old and I should have seen it coming, should have seen it coming the first time my stomach turned when he introduced his new fling. I should've felt something was off when it was harder to smile that day, when I stared at myself in the mirror for an hour and wondered if there was anything to like about me at all — if my parents had always been right.  I should have known when I'd felt my heart sink the first night he hadn't crawled through my window.

Lucas was my only validation of worth. I had a toxic, one-sided codependency and I couldn't realize for myself the withdrawals of his friendly affection.

I didn't realize that though, I was too naive — and it all ended with pining and scrambling for my vibrating cell, bleary eyed in the dark and hair sticking in every which way — just to see if it was him.   Unhealthily, unwavering, almost every day--

and usually it wasn't.

Lucas said it was money issues, that he had to help his mom with the kids at night because his dad was showing up less and less, and sometimes just too drunk to help at all.  I asked him to let me come to, that I'd help his mom with the kids while he worked,

and miss your curfew goody good?  I couldn't have your fall from grace on my conscience.

My dad caught a business deal three states over, my senior year.  I'd packed up in less than four days, color coordinated closet in one box, odd trinkets in two others.  My dad patted my shoulder and said to buck up and be a man when I nearly cried, and Lucas snuck in my window for the first time in ages that night — wrapped his arm around my shoulders, carried the smell of the night air and fireplaces.

"Still my sidekick."

He spit in his palm and grasped my hand, and I had shuddered at the thought of it, laughed when he'd snorted aloud.

"You should really stop spitting on your sidekick,"  I shouldered into him, wiped at my eyes, "Maybe that's why I'm moving away." 

Lucas had chuckled, but it sounded sadder.  He'd wrapped his arms around me tighter.

"We're gonna save each other one day, you know that, Milo?"

—

He lied.

We'd kept in contact after I had moved. We were eighteen and the distance had never registered to us completely; not until the exams came in our senior year.

College meant tuition, and Lucas wasn't well off money-wise.  Student loans meant a measly job at a mechanic shop with minimum wage pay, and then another sorting scrap metal at the dump downtown.  He said sometimes he didn't even sleep — and I begged my mom for the money to send him.  I knew when she delivered an adamant no that Lucas would be too proud to take it anyway.

He had it rough, pulling odds and ends of jobs as his mother became pregnant with her third child, when his dad skipped town like the deadbeat he was.  I think, suddenly, he was reminded of himself as the poor, angry boy with the ratty hand me downs.

He didn't want to hear about the stupid rich people my dad brought around anymore, didn't call to cheer me up after the biweekly corporate parties.  Worse, he didn't want to talk about his life anymore, evaded questions with an edge to his tone he'd never directed at me before.

The texts became fewer, less like bonding and more like a desperate nudge to make sure that he still remembered our friendship, but I knew deep down what would happen.

I worked harder, studied more, tried to forget him and the only happy part of my old life; his stupid chuckle, the warmth of his chest when he'd pull me in an reassuring hug — the way he'd wrinkle his nose before he'd full out grin and take off running from whatever stunt he pulled with me shocked and in tow.

Got to have fun, once in a while, sad little Milo,  he'd yell, cackling when my cheeks heated with anxiety, why in the hell else are we living?

After dad had us move, all I had left was Lucas' phone calls and text messages... and even those had slowed to a barely there trickle.

It was easier than I thought it would be to let someone abandon the thought of me. I realized my worth in those few years, the low — abysmal need for me.

Suddenly I didn't have to try so hard to let go of the small light I had— not after Lucas stopped trying to hold on.

—

If I think back, it all started at nineteen, when the relationship between us became something that was barely even there — an acquaintanceship at most. 

—

Despite his reputation, Lucas was a magnificent story-teller.

Whenever we were younger — and he'd do something particularly bad, he'd nod and tell me, 'this would make a good book,' and it usually did.

That summer he called and told me that he was going to attend college at Perceptum, a university that milled out talented writers like none other.  I didn't ask him how he'd pay for it, just blubbered excitedly and congratulated him — sent him a card the following day.

He deserved Perceptum, but it was another rip in the remaining threads of our old tether; the university sat nearly a thousand miles away from my own, and suddenly I realized that no matter how you want life to play out - some people weren't meant to stay.

I was accepted into StoneBrook two months later, on a business scholarship - skinny and small - unready to shoulder the weight of my father's foreign name. Lucas didn't send a card. Lucas didn't return my call.

Things didn't get better for me.  My disinterest was too apparent the more frequent Dad called me out to meet clientele.  He'd started to reek of disappointment, more and more stone-faced, more and more afraid that he hadn't an heir to take over his position at all.

I changed my business scholarship to hospitality — made his eyes light with a fire I hadn't seen before.

Disgraceful, you could have had it all.

Then, to top it off, I guess in one sad but desperate attempt to redeem me; Dad had tried to pair me up with one of his lawyers' daughters.

Tamela.

She was just as tall as I and as beautiful as the front cover of a magazine.  I knew she was smart by the way she watched those around her, but her father only continued to comment on how well-bred she was — like some sort of show dog.  We both grimaced at the words, and smiled when our eyes met. 

She lint-rolled her dress, her clothes matched, she kept a weird trinket strapped around her neck.  She moved her fork over three spaces from her napkin and straightened her silverware every time she was uncomfortable.

She was a lot like me.

There wasn't a reason to say no; no reason except the interest wasn't there — because I'd never thought of a romance with a woman, or maybe because my heart had never mended. I wasn't worthy of someone like Tamela.

It led to the worst coming out of all time, in the most awkward way ever — over Christmas dinner when my grandmother hadn't put in her hearing aid and had made me shout it six times over the dining room table.

Tamela had laughed and said it was fine, pinched my cheek red and said she wished me happiness.  She took my number and told me she'd love to still have dinner, but as friends.

Dad had stormed off in his usual way, told me I needed to figure out what the hell I was doing with myself before I sabotaged him, that there were better times to embarrass him than at Christmas with the colleagues.   He told me I'd gotten mixed up, that my head was a mess and I needed to straighten it out.

I'd rearranged everything in my room nearly sixteen times, alphabetized my books, did anything to keep myself from crying that night.

Incoming message:

Heard you caused quite the stir at dinner.

That was one of the last texts I received from Lucas, late that December - at twenty years old.  My belly had swam with butterflies, the same nervous tic that I'd had every time his name lit across the screen of my hand held.  I was horrified though, horrified to know that I'd come out and it'd gotten back to him.

Outgoing message:

Did my dad call you?

I'd seen Lucas' MeBook, knew he had a new girl on his arm that had lasted for much longer than usual, her name was Brooke and she was a nurse — had pretty soft curls and a happy sheen to her eyes.  I hadn't investigated further, couldn't stand to look at her — although it wasn't her fault the least — I felt nothing but envy.

Incoming message:

Of course he called me. Would he ever blame his precious son?

Precious son? When had I ever been precious to them?

Instead of letting my heart turn into that sad sort of tune, I'd sat fiddling with my phone, desperately trying not to tell him that I was sorry and that I missed him — that despite the circumstances of him reaching out to me that I just missed him and wished he wasn't angry — because I'd just started to realize exactly why I'd missed him. 

I told myself it wasn't okay to hold onto something like that — to hold onto someone like that.

Now, now with my intentions, it wasn't okay to say it at all.

So I had sat there, looking at his message and wondering why he had reached out. I wondered if he was disgusted, or by the tone of it — even angry — or tired of still feeling the brunt of my family's hatred and misplaced blame from miles away. 

Incoming message:

What I wanna know is how he got my number? Why'd he have to leave voicemails at my home about it for Brooke to hear?

Outgoing message:

Can you call me?

I ran my hands through my hair, in my tiny dorm room, typing out messages and deleting them — willing myself not to say the wrong thing.   Finally, my shoulders quaked with hurt - hurt that I'd quite possibly lost my best friend, and hurt that I hadn't been born a pretty little soft-curled girl that would fit snugly under his shoulder.

Incoming message:

I'm tired of phone calls today

Outgoing message:

Do you think differently of me? 

And I'd been met immediately with a,

Incoming message:

This isn't about you, okay?

Incoming message:

Are you that desperate for me to call you? Your dad can't let me do better in life because he blames me for fucking your head all up. Do you know how much shit you just started

There was nothing, nothing for what felt like hours while my mind struggled to read what he'd written. Then there was another text.

Incoming message:

I'm tired of this. I want to better myself, Milo. I can't with you in my life. Remember what your mom said when we were kids? Maybe you should've listened

My stomach flipped so hard with sorrow that I hadn't responded, burying myself in my duvet and staring at the paid programming channel until my face was wet with tears.

I fucked your head all up.

--

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