Chapter 21
Twenty-one
-GRAYSON-
“Okay, are you ready, Milo?” I’ve unlocked my front door, purposely taking my time before I open it.
“Stop teasing me.” Milo crosses his arms and taps his foot, being dramatic.
I inch the door open, so Milo grabs the handle and rushes inside. “Oh wow.” He heads straight for my old framed sci-fi prints. “I know this alien but I can’t place which movie it’s from.”
“I don’t think it’s from any.” I take a closer look. “At least, I thought it wasn’t. I’ve had these pictures since I was thirteen. I just thought that one was generic.”
“I don’t think it is. Like this one with a UFO over the White House. That’s a well-worn trope. Aliens always visit America in old movies.”
“Unless it’s not an American film.”
“This one’s not American,” he says, admiring another. “This female robot is from a silent German film. It’s famous.”
“I know. I see that robot a lot.”
“And you haven’t Googled her?”
“I didn’t need to. After I discovered the anime version, I watched the original film.”
Milo turns his attention to the dining table, running his finger on its surface. “Very clean. Have you finessed a housework spell?”
“I used to do it myself but now...” I smirk. “It’s so much easier.”
“And now that you don’t need your wand...”
“Spells work better when I use it. I tried housework without it, you know, just by waving my arm, and this place smelled like a hospital. And the dining and coffee tables were stripped back to their natural wood grain.”
“But this furniture is new, isn’t it?” Milo gives a cheeky stare.
“Once the wood grain was stripped, I thought I’d get the wand and change the décor.”
“Mid-century modern.”
“Yeah. I took inspiration from Penelope’s fashion sense.”
“I like the kidney-shaped coffee table.” Milo lies back on the elongated pale spearmint couch and eyes me with a sultry look.
“But sex will stain the sofa,” I say. “Wait until you see the bed.”
“Also nineteen sixties?”
“Nah. Penelope conjured a comfy king-size when mine turned to potato.”
“And it amazes me how I don’t find explanations like that weird anymore.” Milo sits up. “Can you do me a favour, Grayson?”
“Sure.”
Milo takes off his t-shirt, then unbuttons his chinos. I point in the direction of the bedroom.
“Don’t fret, Grayson. We’re not having sex here.” Milo strips, regardless. “I need you to take a photo of me.”
“A dick pic? I already know what your dick looks like. And feels like.” Although having a memento isn’t a bad idea.
“No. It’s for my socials,” Milo explains.
I sense my eyebrows rise. And they stay in place like I’m paralysed.
“It’s not naughty stuff. It’s for the Coips hashtag.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.” Milo looks at me like I was a fool for questioning. “I’ve gained another two thousand followers through my naked pics.”
“Have you posted anything about Summer?”
“I’m doing this to honour Summer.”
“How?”
“By going viral. She’d be proud of me. She always said my posts were too lame.”
I feel the need to stop time, keeping Milo in a suspended state so I can reevaluate my boyfriend. “Tell me, has there been a memorial for Summer?”
“She’s not dead. Just missing. Is she dead, Grayson? Do you know something?”
“No.” But I’m concerned how easily Summer has been dismissed.
Milo crouches on the carpet, fishing for his phone from his trouser pocket. He unlocks it and hands it to me. After staring at it, I take it unwillingly.
“Now the trick with these photos is to find something to hide my dick.” Milo smiles but I don’t smile back. “Open my Insta.”
“Why?”
“Just do it. And take a look at my profile.”
There are over twenty shots of Milo nude.
One image has a chair conveniently positioned in front of his privates.
Another has his cock hidden behind a circular saw with several stunned carpenters weirded out by his nudity.
It’s clear they weren’t expecting him to drop his pants.
In another, Milo is outside looking through a telescope with his backside to the camera.
“What’s the matter, Grayson? You don’t look impressed.”
There are several posts with the ‘missing Summer’ hashtag. One has Milo holding a bunch of flowers, looking sad. Another has Milo frowning with a teardrop painted on his cheek. Further down the feed, Milo is praying, gazing out a window.
There’s a pattern here. The perfect man who swept me off my feet is wrapped up in himself. This fakery reminds me of my last squeeze.
“Have you ever taken acting lessons?” I ask snidely.
“What do you mean?” Milo regards me like a child who can’t fathom what they did wrong.
“It’s nothing,” I reply, nonchalantly. Then discreetly hold my breath so I don’t smell my lie.
“I don’t believe you.” He frowns, glancing at his clothes on the floor. “Are we taking the picture?”
“Let’s talk about Summer.”
“Why? You didn’t like her.” He picks up his shirt, still unsure if the photo will be taken.
“Get dressed, Milo.”
He slips it on, taking his time to cover his cock. He gives a cutesy gaze but it doesn’t quell how I’m feeling. My stomach is queasy but this time, it’s not indigestion. It’s a sense of déjà vu.
Albert was my ex. My first real relationship, or so I thought, because I shied away from serious declarations of love until I found the courage to fall for someone last year.
I still recall that innocent gaze Albert often had, as if to say ‘I’m new to this too’ and ‘let’s learn about love together.’
After Albert disappeared with some of my belongings, there were rumours that he found another sucker, but that new guy threw him out after a week.
Why wasn’t I that intuitive? Albert wooed his way into my heart and then into my apartment.
And the sex was good, and hot, and non-existent after only three weeks. But sweet words go a long way.
One of my work colleagues asked about my romance, and I pretended everything was fine long after I had the landlord change my locks. My only reprieve was gin and tonic at my favourite gay bar.
It’s strange how I finally became social by drinking myself stupid while pouring my heart out to anyone who’d listen. I guess that’s why I have a soft spot for Penelope.
It was only when my boss said something about my late starts and physical jitters that I did something about it. And going cold turkey wasn’t easy. That’s when my streaming services helped. They gave me fiction to focus on, away from the heartache I felt every day.
“Grayson, you’re scaring me.”
“Could you please leave, Milo?”
“Why? What did I do?”
“I just need the evening to myself.”
“You can’t clam up like this. I need to know what I’ve done.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Milo.” I hold my breath again.
“Then why? I thought we had something.” He yanks up his pants and clutches his phone. “I really thought we had something.”
I wait. The drama will be over shortly. Milo will show himself out. And I’ll avoid falling deeper for this self-centred man. I pour a glass of water, down it in one gulp, then consider that maybe this was always only going to be a brief affair.
Milo is already at the door, opening it, showing himself out.
Bad romance averted. So why does it feel like a chunk of me just left with him? I sniffle. My shoulders jolt. And my swallow makes me feel like I’m choking.
I open the freezer. Thankfully, there’s half a bottle of gin. But even if there wasn’t anything to drown my sorrows with, I have the means to conjure any liquor I want.
“Don’t touch that.” It’s Penelope’s voice. And she sounds sober.