Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Ergh. It’s totally on me to make the first move and follow through on all my friends talk.
Because I do want to be friends. Special friends. Special naked friends.
I groan and stab at the canvas some more. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
Maybe I can convince my professor that this abstract piece is inspired by the trauma of embarrassment.
Painting is not entirely my thing. I like it, and it’s cathartic, but my stuff isn’t very good. I came here for sculpting, but an undergrad degree means I have to take an intro to all art mediums.
“Who pissed in your breakfast?” Remy says behind me, making me jump and swipe a blob of paint across the canvas. Remy’s a junior, so we don’t have any classes together, but the studio is open to art students when they need it. We seem to have similar free time on our schedules because our paths have crossed a few times.
He’s kind of broody, and I was drawn to him immediately in a friend sense. I don’t know how queer people tend to gravitate toward each other so naturally, but it happens.
“I suck.” I gesture to my blobby, stabby painting.
He comes over to examine my work and runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “Yeah, that’s not getting you an A.”
“No shit.” And just for fun, I stab at it some more.
“I’m tempted to ask what’s up, but that might result in you actually telling me, and then I’d have to be nice and pat you on the shoulder and say, ‘There, there,’ while praying for a natural disaster to come and kill me.”
And this is the only friend I’ve made so far since moving to San Luco. Well, other than Peyton. But can I really call us friends when neither of us is putting in any effort? If I do put in effort, will he think I’m a psycho? If I don’t, will he think I’m playing mind games with him?
“Why are people?” I ask.
“Why are people what?”
“People.”
There’s a pause before Remy asks, “Are you high?”
“I wish.” I put down my paintbrush and turn on my stool to face him. “There’s this guy.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Ah. Isn’t there always?”
“We knew each other back in Chicago, but I use that term loosely. We hooked up. Once. After I graduated high school. But then I went to Harvard, and he came here, but now—”
Remy says, “Stalker,” in between coughing.
“Exactly. I’m scared he’s going to think I Felicity’d him, and I didn’t … entirely.”
“What the fuck is Felicitying someone, and why does it sound kinky?”
“It’s an old-school TV show. Back when my sister got mono in high school, she binged all these nineties teen shows and would talk incessantly about them. I know way too much about Dawson’s Creek and Buffy. Felicity is about this chick who has one conversation with a guy at graduation and decides to go to the same college because she’s low-key obsessed with him.”
“Oh, so you did Felicity him, then.”
I’m suddenly regretting using Felicity as a verb. “But I didn’t. I mean, not really. And when I told him as much, I kind of convinced him I only want to be friends even though I want more.”
Remy tentatively steps forward and pats my shoulder. “There … umm, there.”
I swat his hand away. “Fuck off.”
He laughs and steps back. “Seriously, though. I get it. I’m kind of in a similar situation with a guy I grew up with. Just … without all the stalking.”
“I’m not stalking him.”
“Sorry. Without all the Felicitying. And how’s being his friend working out for you?”
“It’s not. I haven’t seen him since.”
Remy rubs his clean-shaven chin. “In my dating experience, telling someone you want to be friends and then ghosting them actually means ‘I never want to see you again.’”
He has a point.
I stand. “Okay, that settles it. You’re coming with me to the football game tonight.”
“Wait, how did I get brought into this?”
“Because, sadly, you’re my only friend at this school so far, and if I go to the game alone, he really will think I Felicity’d him.”
“Which you did,” he mutters under his breath.
“No, I didn’t. Ugh. Maybe I should go by myself.”
“What makes you think he’ll be at the game?”
I press my lips together because I can’t exactly tell Remy who Peyton is without outing him. “Let’s just say he’ll be on the field.” There are a lot of players on a football team, aren’t there? That doesn’t give it away?
“You’re not talking about Cobey Green, are you? Because I hate to be the one to tell you, he’s taken.”
There’s another queer guy on the team? Interesting.
“Not him, and, uh, I kind of don’t want to tell you who he is because I found out that he hasn’t exactly gone the dude route again since high school, so technically, he’s closeted. And I don’t want to—”