Chapter 12 – Pookie
CHAPTER TWELVE
POOKIE
Sliding doors—the life I live versus all the other lives I could have lived. In the modern world, I think they call this the multiverse: infinite worlds of possibility opened by split-second decisions that change everything.
It's been four days since I stormed out of the wet underwear party. A bomb ticks inside me, counting down the seconds until everything falls apart. I've been conditioned to understand that eventually, everything breaks. There is no good without bad, and the bad weighs so much more than the good.
Roger is a nice enough guy on the surface.
He has never done anything explicitly wrong to me and, to my knowledge, never witnessed the things Cameron would do to me.
Cameron was careful like that, for the most part.
If he lost his temper in public, it was never around the elite he surrounded himself with.
It'd be in the penthouse, or the bathroom at a fancy eatery, or on the subway surrounded by what he'd call trash.
In the back of limousines that were driven by men on his payroll, who wouldn't say a word because it was good money.
But Roger knows Cameron. He's friendly with him.
They run in the same circles, revel in the same gossip, and share the same half-truths.
I can only imagine the stories Cameron has told Roger in my wake.
Roger, well, he's a talker. He likes to talk.
More than most. He talks the most when he's flirting, which is clearly what he was doing with Gunnar.
Something tells me there's no way Roger didn't tell Gunnar everything he doesn't actually know about me—just what he's heard.
So, no, I haven't been back to work since.
I've come down with an illness that I try my best to feign whenever Braxton's around, but I'm not sure he's buying the act.
I've never been a good actor, which is crazy because most gay boys who spend the entirety of their formative years in the closet learn to at least be somewhat competent at playing pretend.
One door opens, another closes. Never-ending, rotating doors. Sliding. Slamming.
Braxton pries open his bedroom door, but it sounds like it's screaming. He comes out wearing sweats and a white tank top.
Sitting on the couch, I hack an imaginary cough into my fist, but it sounds more like I'm trying to get Braxton's attention than actually hacking up my lungs. It's lacking the wetness of an actual sick cough. See, bad fucking actor.
Braxton arches a brow as he passes by, slinging a duffel over his shoulder. "Still sick?"
"I feel a little better today, but I don't want to push it," I lie through my teeth, but again, it's not much of a lie.
He picks up his water bottle off the counter, stuffs it into his duffel, and smirks. He turns to me in one of those slow circles that screams he's up to no good. "Pretending to be sick won't make your problems go away."
I bat my eyes at him, but I don't know why the fuck I'm surprised. "What?"
He breathes a heavy sigh, torn between amusement and irritation. "The longer you don't show your face, the more you're going to prove Gunnar right. It doesn't actually matter if he's right. If he thinks he's right, that's basically the same thing."
"What does Gunnar have to do with this?" I ask, still desperately trying to play stupid, hoping, praying he never quite figured out why I left the bar the other night. I'm clawing at the flimsiest fabric of reality I can grasp. "Look," I huff, "I don't know what was said to you, but it's bullshit."
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "I know you're a good dude, Pookie. Gunnar doesn't have that same inclination. He doesn't trust you—"
"I don't particularly care what Gunnar thinks," I cut him off, throwing the thin covers from my body.
Braxton stands steadfast. "Even if he's prepared to lobby his version of the truth to the whole group?"
"This was a bad idea." I climb off the couch, grumbling. It takes about two seconds to realize I'm not wearing anything more than a thin pink thong. I rip a pillow off the couch and cover my crotch. Why the sudden modesty? The hell if I know. "I don't know why I thought I could do this."
"Because it's your life and you get to live it however the hell you want." Braxton's eyes linger on the pillow for a moment before rising to meet my gaze. "I know you're not a user, an abuser, or a thief, and I'm pretty damn sure you're not a liar, either."
"So that's the story Cameron is telling his friends?" I retreat down the hall, making a beeline for my bedroom. I throw open the door and hear Braxton's footsteps following behind.
"That's the story Gunnar heard." He leans against the side of the door, watching as I pull a pair of basketball shorts on.
"The story he either wants to believe because he doesn't know you, or the story he's going to tell regardless because he knows how juicy it's about to be when he reveals it on camera. "
"You're not giving me a reason to show back up again." I shoot him a glare. "Do you think I want to confront any of this, especially in front of a camera crew?"
"I think it's too late to stop it from becoming a storyline.
" He shrugs, and that pisses me off for some reason.
It makes my blood boil. "The way I see it, you only have two choices.
You let them write a narrative about you, or you tell your own truth.
" He takes a measured step towards me, but I take an equal step backward. "You know I'll have your back."
"Do I know that?" I scowl, this minuscule spark of rage flatlining into something even more terrifying—sadness, loneliness. "I barely know you."
"I haven't said anything yet," he points out with a frustrated sigh.
"I haven't said shit about the things you told me in confidence.
And trust me, I've wanted to say a lot, but it's not my place.
" He grits his teeth and winces. "I've wanted to find that man and kick his ass.
I've wanted you to grow some balls and do it yourself. I'm protective of my friends."
Friends, he says again. It's always on the tip of his tongue, as if the only reason we're friends isn't because he needed someone to pay half the rent and production needed a storyline.
I shake away the anger, desperately trying to unshackle it from my body. It's heavy, though, like a fur coat or a weighted blanket. Years of pent-up sadness materializing into rage the first time I might have found something good for myself.
"I just need you to aim the gun," Braxton continues, and I pray he's speaking in metaphors. "Show me where to point it, and I'll deliver the final blow." He settles a palm on my shoulder, rustling over the cotton fabric of my tee. "I just need you to show up and stop hiding."
"I can't do that." I shake free from his touch. "Not yet. Not today."
"There's no time like the present." It's such a fitting thing for him to say.
Always living for today and never worrying too much about tomorrow.
It's one of the many things I envy about him, but he and I are wired differently.
His brain is riddled with ADHD, and my brain is a crisscrossed maze of frayed wires and nerves.
"The present, today, is actually an awful time." I fall weightlessly onto the bed, but somehow stay fixed upright. "It's my birthday today, so today I just need to not do this."
"Oh shit," he gasps quietly. He immediately forces a smile, but it's a hollow attempt at lighting up the darkness. "Happy birthday, bro."
"Not so happy," I whisper and search for something in the room to look at.
Anything but him. Anything but those California-set eyes as I lay myself bare.
I'm not good at these things. I'm straight up fucking terrible at processing my emotions or vocalizing my thoughts.
I steady myself on a photo of the beach on the wall, and it's like I'm talking to the ocean instead of the man standing in my doorway.
"My birthday never really is a happy occasion.
Things have a bad habit of falling apart just in time for the birthday candles to be blown out.
I think my last good birthday was when I was a teenager.
" I bite down on my lip, tasting iron and regret, and something a little more terrifying.
"Cameron bought tickets for us to go see Hamilton again, for the tenth damn time.
It was more for him than me because it's his favorite show, but that's where I should be tonight.
That was the plan. Instead, I'm hiding in this apartment because his fucking friend recognized me at a bar.
" I peel my eyes upward and level my sights somewhere just beneath his chin.
"I don't like being weak like this, you know?
I don't like hiding, but I'm clinging to a past that kind of doesn't give me a choice. "
"Hey, hey," he grumbles softly, approaching from the front.
He takes a seat beside me, the weight of his body compressing the mattress.
He throws an arm around my back and pulls me close to him, close enough that our sides melt together.
"You have a choice," his voice is raspy against my ear.
"It's not an easy one, but it's there waiting for you to make it. "
"Not today."
He grips my shoulder harder and jerks his head to the side, his eyes widening. "You really don't like Hamilton?"
I roll my eyes. "Been there, done that."
"You're not missing out on much then." He squeezes my shoulder once more before prying himself away from me.
When he stands, it feels like the proverbial fur coat is being shed.
It's not anger that's dissipating, though.
It's something else. Comfort. He scratches at the back of his head.
"I'm sorry, but I really have to go. I'm already running late, and you know how Talon gets when I'm late.
" He backs slowly to the door, like his feet are stuck in quicksand, like he doesn't really want to leave.
"If you need anything, please don't hesitate to shoot me a message.
" His lips hitch into a familiar smile, painted in gradients of mischief.
"If you're a good boy, I'll even bring you back a birthday cake or something. "
"You don't have to do that," I say, unable to hide the smile creeping across my own face. There's something about him that makes me feel... safe, seen. "I'll be in bed before you get back."
He nods once, quick and short. "Maybe cake in the morning, then?"
And then he's gone, his footsteps trailing down the hall.
I throw myself back in bed, my head landing like a comet on the pillows.
I awake sometime later in a fog, my mind heavy and my limbs sore—the consequence of an early evening nap that so often leaves your body feeling like it's been hit by a train.
There's a loud knock, and it sounds like it's coming from the front door.
I groan as I kick my feet off the edge of the bed and begin making the tortuous—albeit short—trek from my bedroom to the living room.
There's another knock, harder than before, and as I draw closer to the door itself, my heart begins to race.
Fight or flight.
Sliding doors.
Every decision I make irrevocably changes my life, for better or worse.
Answering this door means one thing. Crawling back into bed, leaving the door unanswered, means another.
I'm tired of running, though.
I rip open the door without so much as looking out the peephole, and my jaw hits the floor.
Not Roger, or Cameron.
It's Braxton, dressed in an all-black suit instead of the jeans and pink cowboy boots he should be wearing.