Chapter 30 Mat
Mat
I swear to God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t know what’s happened to me. I can’t pull myself together.
Believe me, I’m trying. I just can’t get my shit into gear.
I can’t get myself off the sofa or out of our apartment.
The thought that Trouble could come by and we would miss him feels like death.
It makes me panicky. Like the best thing that’s ever happened to me slipped through my fingers, and it could happen again at any time.
I didn’t realize it was happening the first time.
I didn’t even make a fist. I didn’t even try to hold on.
I just fell asleep and let him slip away.
Will’s been doing the heavy lifting. He’s been taking care of me.
I see it, I feel it, and I’m embarrassed by it, or I would be if I could muster the strength to feel anything other than the fucking awful sense of doom I’ve felt since the day I first realized Trouble might not be coming back.
It’s omnipresent. A heavy mix of hopelessness, helplessness, and regret.
We had Gould around this past weekend. I could barely keep up.
It was fucking weird. It was like Will played the role of me and I played the role of a total fucking fuck-up.
Strangely, Gould seemed to buy it. He seemed happy we’d gone to the effort of cooking for him.
By we, I mean Will. I sat on the kitchen stool Trouble sat on when he was here and spun from side to side like he did, while Will sliced and diced.
Now and again, I raised my eyebrows and smiled when it seemed like some sort of input was required.
Will didn’t say anything, but he looked at the ceiling several times, and he only does that when he’s trying really hard not to sigh.
I have the Sunday blues on top of the other blues I already have.
It sucks ass big time. I hate my job and my life, and I hate being an adult.
I don’t want to do it anymore, and that’s really sad because it’s only been four years since I left college.
It feels like an endless road ahead of me. A long-ass time till retirement.
“Mattie, come ‘ere,” says Will.
At this point, he’s probably the only thing in my life I don’t hate.
Him and our apartment. We were super lucky to be able to buy it.
It’s perfect. It’s in an old art deco building with high ceilings and big windows.
It has two huge bedrooms and a decent-size living room.
Sure, the kitchen and bathroom could do with a refresh, but we’ll get to that.
Will got a huge bonus at work, and I came into some money when my grandpa died.
We both had roughly the same amount, which ended up being just enough to put a down payment on this place.
Will was psyched because we were able to buy the place three full years ahead of when he predicted we’d be ready on his five-year plan.
Yep, he has a five-year plan. And naturally, that means I have a five-year plan too.
He has a ten-year plan too, but so far, I’ve managed to worm my way out of that one.
That’s Will for you. We were so fucking excited when we bought the place.
We thought paying off something we owned would feel so much better than throwing cash at a landlord every month.
And it does. Usually, it really does. I’m usually super grateful.
I sidle over to him obediently and sit next to him on the sofa.
I put my head on his shoulder and wait for his arms to circle me.
I know it’s a sad sign of the times that he feels he has to do this for me.
Usually, I’m the one who makes this kind of thing happen.
Ever since we were kids, I’ve always been the one to initiate this type of contact.
I’ve always suspected that Will only does it to indulge me.
He kind of lets it happen without really liking or wanting it.
If I had any pride, I probably wouldn’t let him do it.
I’d tell him I didn’t need it. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t.
Hard to say because when my head comes to rest on his shoulder, I feel so much better than I do the rest of the time.
I feel relaxed. Like I’m safe and I’m home.
Like all the shit swirling around in my mind doesn’t matter as much.
I don’t know. That might just be my mood tonight talking.
I don’t always hate my job. Sometimes I find it pretty tolerable, and most of the people I work with are great.
Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem, and maybe Will does get something from our cuddles, or whatever you’d call them.
Maybe it’s not the same thing I get from it, but he’s not the kind of guy to do things he doesn’t want to.
I get as close as I can, and when he tightens his arms around me, I say, “Love you, Will,” like I always do.
I hear him smile, then he reaches up and ruffles my hair.
At least, that’s how it starts. He scrubs my scalp until my hair’s standing on end.
He does it until I’m about to tell him off and push him away like I usually do, but before I get to that, he smoothes it down.
He winds his fingers through it, finding curls and twirling them around.
It makes my scalp tingle and feels strangely relaxing.
I thought I already let the tension I’d been holding go, but I haven’t.
I couldn’t have because as his fingers run through my hair, I feel relaxed in my bones.
Like I could fall asleep right here. Like I could spend all night on this uncomfortable-ass sofa with Will and still get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.
Neither of us talks for a long time. Will keeps doing the hair thing, and I don’t move because I don’t want him to stop.
Part of me would like to ask him why we do this.
No, not why we do it. I know why we do it—we do it because we’re human.
We’re social and need comfort like any other mammal.
I’d like to ask him why we only ever do it when no one else is around.
Even when we were kids, when something upset me, I’d find Will and seek comfort, and he’d give it to me in private.
It confuses and upsets me that we’ve always both innately understood it’s something we need to hide from other people.
It makes me think of the guys dancing at Schlong.
I wonder if this kind of thing is why they looked so free and why I hardly ever feel totally free.
The rest of me wants to talk to Will about the porn we’ve been sending each other.
It’s obvious we’ve both been jerking off to it.
Well, I mean, I assume that’s what he’s doing.
I know for damn sure it’s what I’m doing.
Lately, I’ve felt so unhinged that I’ve had a crazy urge to go to his room after I’ve sent him a clip to see what he’s doing.
I know it would be all kinds of inappropriate and possibly borderline crazy. I’ve begged myself not to.
I wish to fuck I could snap out of it.
It was just one night. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Yes, it was a mind-bending night, but still, it was just one night in the grand scheme of things.
“Mattie,” there’s something soft and uncertain in his voice, “do you still think of him?”
I lean in closer than I already am and close my eyes. I know if it was anyone else, I’d have a shot at getting away with a lie. Because it isn’t, I tell the truth.
“All the time.”
On Monday night, I lie in bed and think about how much better life would be if I knew Trouble’s real name.
Not that I’m advocating for being a dick or invading someone’s privacy or anything.
It’s just that knowing his name would make it a lot easier to trace his whereabouts.
Without a name, I’m shit out of luck. I don’t even know where to start.
I know that if Trouble doesn’t come back by this weekend, I’m going to drag Will back to Schlong with me.
I know it. I can feel it. Even though I know it’s ridiculous to think he’d be there again, especially in a city like LA, with a veritable shit ton of other cool places to go, it’s all I’ve got.
On Tuesday night, I scroll through various social media.
Again. I don’t even bother entering a search because I’ve run out of ideas of what to search for.
I just mindlessly flick through whatever crap the algorithms deem fit to show me.
I look for wild eyes and black hair. A sexy gait and a mystical air.
I click on the next video the second it becomes clear that I won’t see what I want.
I do it so hard and fast that I’m pretty sure I’m giving myself a repetitive stress injury.
I feel more and more frustrated as I do it. Angry almost. I’m in such a frenzy I almost miss it. A new video Gould just uploaded. I click next before I’ve had time to watch the whole video, but as I do, something catches my eye.
Gould’s out with his friends. I distantly remember him saying something about a birthday party.
I think he mentioned it when he was here this past weekend.
They’re at a bar or a restaurant. It looks vibey and loud.
He’s with a stunner of a girl, a big blond dude, and a dark-haired guy with impossibly chiseled cheekbones and a jaw that could slice through ice.
I do a serious double-take when I see him, and my heart starts clattering in my chest.
What?
Is that…?
No!
I start the video again and watch it all the way through this time.
Gould is getting everyone to leave a birthday message for his friend, Izzy.
The blond guy looks pleased to do it and leaves a sweet, sincere message telling her how much she means to him.
The girl, who I presume is Izzy, looks uncomfortable to be on video but gives a perfunctory smile, and so does the dark-headed mystery guy.