Chapter 21
Tommy
My throat burns and my lungs are aching by the time I shakily come to a stop.
I lean heavily against a telephone pole, trying to catch my breath.
Everything hurts, everything feels sore.
And this is why I don’t do Molly every night just to cum; comedown is a bitch.
Sometimes I know that it’s the drug making me feel shitty and alone, but today it feels like I’m staring myself in the face and seeing how ugly I really am.
It feels real. Like it’s just me that’s shitty, and the drug has nothing to do with it.
I stumble forward, getting my bearings. I went in the general direction of my neighborhood, with one glaring, obvious difference. I’m not heading straight home. Without realizing it, I’d been swerving in a very specific direction.
“Shit,” I sigh, and turn. “Go fucking home, Tommy.”
“Tommy?”
I freeze, my shoulders hunching. My trembling fingers are hidden deep in my jacket pockets as I face Bruce, who’s standing there in his jogging gear, pulling his headphones out of his ears.
He’s so put together, so normal and nice.
He hasn’t changed at all. Tall, broad, and a little soft around the belly, which he always felt self-conscious about, hence the jogging.
He was a man of habit and structure, and I came here knowing I’d probably run into him. Literally.
“Hey,” I say lamely. I know I look like a wreck: rumpled, sweaty from running, my shoulders hunched around my ears.
“Are you…okay?” He creeps forward slowly, so cautious and kind. “Were you…looking for me?”
“I don’t know.”
Bruce swallows hard, his eyes running over me, and I wonder how much I’ve changed.
He’s stayed the same, but I’ve got new piercings and they’re all in gold now.
I’m wearing new clothes, nice brands. New sneakers.
I’ve got a fancy watch, and a new haircut.
Maybe, besides the sweat and anxiety pouring off me, I look normal and nice, too.
“Do you want to come inside with me?” he asks, gesturing over his shoulder like his house is right behind him and not a mile and a half away. “I, I could make some breakfast. I still keep that coffee you like.”
My composure cracks, and I back up a step. “Nah, I–this isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here.”
“What’s wrong, sweethea–Tommy,” he corrects himself quickly. “Sorry, I meant Tommy.”
“I can’t be here,” I say again. I look over my shoulder, feeling like I’m being watched.
When I face him again, the realization is clear on his face.
It makes me take another step back because I’d forgotten how expressive he is, how easy to read.
Compared to Young-gi, Bruce is an open book.
And while my logical mind says that should be preferable, I’ve gotten used to Young-gi’s quiet, understated way of expressing himself.
Bruce is being too loud without even saying a word.
“You got high last night?” He puts the pieces together, taking a step toward me.
“Tommy, you know it makes you feel bad afterward. I can help, if you need me. Nothing scary, just a place for you to sleep that’s safe, alright?
I don’t expect anything from you, don’t want anything but for you to sleep this off, okay? ”
I stand my ground as he gets closer, until we’re almost chest to chest. The temptation is strong–what he’s offering is safe and easy, and I know how to take his kind of affection without breaking.
I know how to be with him without exposing my horrible, deepest self.
Being with him was never vulnerable or scary.
“No, I’m sorry, Bruce, I think coming here was a mistake,” I whisper. His eyes are so concerned, and I find myself relaxing a little, comforted by the familiarity. “I found–”
Someone new dies on my tongue before I can say it, because no, I fucking didn’t. Young-gi isn’t… We aren’t…and even if we could’ve been, we sure as fuck won’t be now. Not after I was so disgusting with him last night.
“You look…like you’re doing alright,” Bruce says carefully, brushing his knuckles across the shoulder of my jacket. “Did you…get a new job?”
I huff a laugh at his question, at his tight voice. “Why does everyone keep thinking I’m back to being a prostitute? Is that really the only way people think I can get anything good for myself? Is that all I can do well enough to get nice things?”
“No, no, of course not–”
“Is it because I’m a fucking slut or something?”
“No, Tommy, no–”
“Is it something I do?” I demand. “Is it written on my forehead that I’m one lost paycheck away from bending over for the first guy with cash in hand? What the fuck is everyone asking me that for?!”
“Tommy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just worry about you, I’m sorry.” His frantic tone, his need to appease me and comfort me, slaps me across the face and I swallow my anger as quickly as I spit it out.
“It’s not your fault,” I sigh. “No, this is all me. I’ve gotta, I-I’ve gotta go.
But I wanted to see how you were doing, I guess.
Check in, and say, like, say that I’m sorry for how things went down between us.
I wasn’t who you were looking for, and instead of telling you that, I dumped you in a pretty shitty way, just leaving like that.
No word, no explanation. Maggie told me you thought I was dead or in a hospital, that you looked for me for days.
I was… It was fucked up for me to do that. I’m sorry.”
“Tommy,” he breathes my name, a little shocked. Maybe because I’ve never said I was sorry before. I was always shitty to him. “It’s–”
“Don’t say it’s okay,” I snap. “Because it wasn’t, and it isn’t. But I should’ve told you that a long time ago. I shouldn’t have done that to you. There are a lot of things I’ve done that I shouldn’t have.”
I back away, ready to leave.
“Do–do you still not have a phone?” he asks, his voice an emotional croak, and I pause.
“I had one. I left it at somebody’s house. Not sure if I’ll be getting it back.”
“Let me–” he sniffles, and I shuffle uncomfortably on my feet at the sight of his tears as he digs in his pockets. I laugh once, surprised and yet not, when he pulls a pen out of his pocket.
“Boy scout,” I say, the inside joke bringing back countless memories of me teasing him for always being prepared for anything, always having the most random odds and ends in his pockets.
We share a laugh, the humor easing the pain between us.
“Do you have something I can write my number on?” he asks, all serious like he’s asking me for nuclear launch codes. “You don’t have to call it, but if you need me, I’ll be there. Alright?”
I stick out my hand, knowing that I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to reject him right now. It would just make me feel worse. He scrawls the number across the back of my hand.
“I probably won’t call,” I whisper. “I–listen, I’m not what you need. And I–you’re not–we’re just not… I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he murmurs, putting his pen away. “But if you need me, I’ll be there.”
“I’m gonna go,” I say, already backing up. Already trying to escape. “I-I’ll see you later?”
“You know where to find me,” he says, putting all the power in my hands. I nod tightly and walk away.
And it might be all in my head, but his stare on my back doesn’t feel anything like Young-gi’s. And despite everything, I wish it were him, not Bruce, staring at me.
The sidewalk under my shoes becomes more cracked and pitted and familiar as I get further from Bruce’s modest neighborhood and closer to my own. My head is spinning with guilt on top of everything else now, because why the fuck did I go to him?
But I know why I went. I want to be fixed. And he was the only person who ever tried to fix me. With him, I was almost a Tommy that was worth caring about. Almost.
I stifle the urge to turn around several times, reminding myself that Bruce doesn’t deserve the mess I’ll make in his life. God, I’m just feeling low, low down.
A familiar street sign, crooked and rusty, pulls my eyes up.
I’m almost home. Just a couple blocks away.
I wonder with distant apathy if Joshy turned my rent money in.
He might have. For all I know, he didn’t, and I’m going to an apartment that has no place for me anymore.
If that’s the case, I’ll just go sleep under a bench somewhere.
I’m tired as fuck. Every cell in my body is crying for sleep, like as soon as I lay down, I’ll pass out for days.
With a gusty sigh, I kick a rock down the road in front of me, and that’s about when the black vans show up.
Three screech around the corner, and I tense, wondering if I’m about to get caught up in a gang’s turf war. It’s not uncommon here, and sour fear splinters my numbness.
I shuffle back and press myself against a chain-link fence, thinking that if I just stay out of their way, they’ll be less likely to shoot me as they drive by. They roar down the street and I press harder against the fence, willing them to just keep driving.
But the vans skid to a stop right beside me, one pulling up onto the sidewalk behind me and the other in front, the third and final van staying on the street, boxing me in.
Shit.
My heart kicks into overdrive and I start to sweat, the drug lingering in my system making everything feel fuzzy and unimportant while at the same time making everything terrifying. I break into a run as the van doors fly open.
Men pour out, and I dodge someone’s grabbing hand, slipping on some gravel, which slows me down.
“Tommy!” Yosef jumps in front of me, and I get clotheslined by his muscular arm. The air gets knocked out of me as I fall backward, and I stare up at him, gasping for air.
“What–the fuck?” I ask breathlessly, less terrified now, but even more confused. Why the fuck is Yosef here?
“You’re in trouble,” he says, shaking his head like he feels sorry for me. He hauls me up, and brushes me off. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”
Young-gi… He’s mad at me?