Chapter 6
TIM
Ifeel for Mark. The guy can’t catch a break.
He heads into the house, I figure to get another drink. It’ll be his fourth since Greg and Morgan arrived.
Can’t say I blame him. He’s done a good job of avoiding them, but he doesn’t realize they’ve been conspiring with their buddies to approach him ever since they got here—something I’ve overheard them whispering as I’ve pretended to stay engaged with my pals who were sitting on the bench when I first got out here.
From what I’ve been able to make out, Greg and Morgan want to make peace. Not sure that’s gonna be happening tonight, though. Not judging by how Mark’s been acting.
Mark just needs to fucking leave.
And I need to fucking get out of here if I don’t want to keep getting those sad doe-eyes from Keith.
Since I called things off he’s been weird.
Shown up crying at my door on one-too-many nights, and I keep running into him at parties, where he’ll get drunk and do the same fucking thing.
The script’s gotten old, and I can’t take watching him cry about us—telling me how much we could have had together.
Not again. And I can tell he’s only a few more drinks away from working up the courage to approach me.
I finish chatting with the guys on the bench and decide it’s probably a good time to head out. No need to stick around and watch Mark awkwardly find his way out of Greg and Morgan’s plan.
As I pass through the kitchen, I see Mark pouring some ginger ale from a two-liter bottle into his cup. It runs over the rim and spills onto the counter.
“Oh, fuck,” he says.
He stops pouring, and as he tries to set the soda on the counter, it falls over sideways and continues spilling onto the floor. He doesn’t notice because he’s too busy looking for paper towels for what was a very little mess compared to what he’s started.
Just get out of here, I tell myself.
But I can’t leave him like this.
I hurry past him, pick the bottle up, and set it on the counter.
He turns, and looks around as he appears to be making sense of what just happened.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he says.
“Don’t worry, I got it.”
I grab a dish towel from a basket on the counter and throw it on the puddle of ginger ale on the tile floor.
Mark gets a roll of paper towels that lies on its side beside the kitchen sink.
He unrolls it, using far too much to pat down what little managed to collect on the counter.
He tries to tear off the towels but ends up pulling more from it.
I take the paper towels from him and tear the bundle he’s collected from the rest, managing to save less than a quarter of the roll.
“Thanks,” he mutters as he cleans up the mess and stumbles to the trash can.
Considering how I just helped him, it irritates me that he’s acting weird like this. But with the night he’s had, I can forgive it.
“Do you need me to call you an Uber?” I ask.
He stands still, staring at the trash can, like he’s considering my offer.
“Come on,” I say.
I put my arm around him—not because we’re pals, but because he needs someone to drag him out of here. I help him to the front door.
“Do you have anything here you need to grab before you go?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay, okay.”
I lead him out the door and into the driveway before retrieving my phone and pulling up the Uber app.
“No, use my phone,” he insists. He reaches into his pocket. I’m guessing he doesn’t want my card to be charged for this.
“It’s not dinner. Chill the fuck out. Just get me a drink or something another night. Deal?”
“Deal.” He sounds defeated. Resigned. Like he did the first night we hooked up.
As I start to look for a car on the app, I hear behind me, “Mark?!”
I turn and see Greg heading out of the house. He looks concerned as he starts toward us. I figure he’s worried about his ex being around the notorious school dealer with a bad rep, which to some extent, I understand. But on the other hand, I’m like, You sure as fuck didn’t take good care of him.
Mark grips my shoulder. “Please get me out of here.”
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I should say no. I should tell him to fuck off. I don’t owe him anything. But I get why he’s struggling right now.
I wrap my arm around him. “Come on, drunkie.”
I guide him to my bike.
Greg starts into a jog toward us.
“If you want out of this, you’re going to have to be faster than that.”
Mark stumbles as he attempts to jog with me. We’re a lot slower than Greg.
I fish the keys out of my pocket as we approach the bike. We hop on, Mark mounting behind me and clinging to me as I rev the engine.
Greg approaches quickly, so quickly I think he might catch up with us, but soon, we’re off, and I’m speeding through the neighborhood, wondering why the fuck I let myself get roped into this mess. Don’t I have enough shit to worry about without adding Mark to the mix?