“Can I get my tab, man?” I ask as one of the bartenders passes by.
Moping around my apartment after what I did to Mark this afternoon was driving me crazy, so I decided to walk to 9 Million, a local bar in my neighborhood. It’s getting late, and I’m about to hit my limit with alcohol.
Sitting here alone, trying to think about anything other than what a total dick I am has proven to be harder than what I was hoping. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m sick of the self-pity, wondering why I have to deal with all of this. Why can’t my life just be simple—simple choices. Hell, who am I even kidding? I know this isn’t a choice. I wish it were. None of this would even be an issue if I were just straight. Maybe I was better off just being numb, taking what I wanted from guys and not having to worry about what it all means for me.
“Here you go,” the bartender says as he hands me my receipt.
I don’t even look at it; I just hand him my credit card and turn around in my seat. It’s a busy night and people are packed in here. Everyone seems so carefree—happy even. I’m envious of them.
Before I turn back in my seat to finish off my drink, I spot familiar tattoos on arms I vaguely remember. Making his way through the crowd, I definitely recognize his face as he pins his eyes on me and approaches. What’s his name? I can hardly filter through my intoxicated brain to remember who this guy is.
I swallow the last of my beer when he leans onto the crowded bar top and says, “Jase. It’s been a while, mate.”
His Australian accent is his tell and it clicks. “Hey, Preston.”
“Haven’t seen you around lately. You just disappeared on me.”
I disappear on almost all the guys I hookup with, and Preston is no different. In fact, this was the very bar I met him in the night we messed around several months back.
“Didn’t disappear. Just been busy,” I respond, not really in the mood to talk.
When the bartender hands me back my card, I stand up, shoving it into my pocket.
“You headed out?”
His accent is more than appealing, then I remember how even more appealing it was in bed. No question, this guy is hot with his short, messy hair, hard build, and the almost cryptic winged tattoo I know is splayed across his shoulders underneath his shirt. Needing to dull the anguish in my head, I find myself return to my not-so-old habit. “Yeah. Wanna come with?”
We head out into the Seattle mist and walk the couple blocks to my building, staggering as Preston drones on about whatever it is he’s talking about. I can’t focus because my mind is still with Mark. I need to rid the thoughts of him; they’re only making me feel worse.
It’s not long before we step into my apartment. I toss my keys towards the coffee table with shoddy aim and hear them hit the floor as I walk to my room. Preston follows and when I clamber into bed, I look up to see him stripping off his shirt before he climbs on top of me.
I’m a fumbling mess, trying to remove my shirt, needing to move quickly in an attempt to clear my head. He doesn’t seem to want to waste any time either when he pulls my pants off and tosses them across the dark room. His kisses are rough and aggressive, and I find it distracting because it’s such a contrast to Mark. God, stop thinking about him.
Returning Preston’s intensity, I flip him over, tear open a condom, and almost immediately find myself regretting this hookup when I slam myself inside of him. This used to be fun, but now it feels wrong. I grip his shoulders, and my emotions start to spin out of control until irritation pervades.
Frustration takes over, and I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. Quickly, I push off of him and fall on my back onto the bed. “You need to go,” I pant out.
“What the hell’s your problem?” he snaps back, and when he does, I roll out of bed, rip off the wasted condom, and yank my boxers on.
“Just get out,” I throw over my shoulder as I walk out of the room and to the kitchen in search of some aspirin. I used to be able to do this, no problem. Pushing feelings aside, and just taking the moment to be in a place of pure physical indulgence. It hits hard when realization affirms that this isn’t what I want. It’s him. How could I be so stupid—weak? Why is it that Mark, in an instant, made everything I thought I knew about myself irrelevant?
“This is really fucked up, you know?” Preston slings with ill temper as he walks into the living room, and I can’t blame him; I’m an ass.
I can’t say anything else, so I just agree. “Yeah, I know,” I mumble before taking another sip of my water, back towards him.
“What, you can fuck me but you won’t look at me?” he yells, becoming more pissed.
“It doesn’t even matter,” I say in a low, defeated voice as I turn to face him. And to me, he doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure I matter.
His words are mixed with threat when he laughs and says, “It doesn’t matter to you now,” before slamming the door behind him.
My phone reads that it’s a little after two in the afternoon when I pick it up off my nightstand. Running my hand down my scruffy jaw, thoughts of what happened last night run through my still sleep-induced head. How is it possible that I feel even worse than I did yesterday?
I should have accepted Candace’s offer to come over last night; it would have saved me from making a complete ass of myself. I’d much rather be waking up with her than alone in the bed where I completely used Preston when all I really wanted was to go back in time and erase screwing things up with Mark. And now—now all I want is her. Truth is, I need her, and I know her well enough to know she won’t pry. With Candace, I’ll be able to relax a bit; she has a way about her that, no matter what, just makes me feel good.
Can you come over?
After I text her, I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen to mix up some Gatorade. My phone chimes with Candace’s incoming text.
Heading to the studio. Everything ok?
Yeah, just want to spend time with you.
See you in a few hours?
Sounds good.
Knowing that she’ll be coming over, I force myself to pull it together. If she saw me like this, she’d worry too much, and I don’t want her to worry. So I decide that tonight will be like any other night for the two of us. We’ll hang out, cook, and just relax . . . God, I need to find a way to relax.
I decide to forego the self-loathing and hit the pavement for a much-needed run and try to do some productive thinking for a change. I toss back my Gatorade, chugging it before throwing on some clothes and heading out.
I run around Fremont before drifting into the surrounding neighborhoods. Pushing myself, my mind starts to drift again, but this time, I try and focus my thoughts on how to make this right. What I did to Mark was wrong, no question about it. But if I’m ever going to get to a place where I can stop living a lie and face the truth that deep down I know is me, I need to do something. I am so damn torn up about Mark. Why did I have to be such an idiot?
I think about what my parents would say if they knew. What would they do? Pounding my feet against the ground, I take long strides as the thought of baring myself to my parents sends chills through my ragged body while sweat trails down my back.
Fuck that. It will never happen. I just need to get away—get out of Seattle for a while and get some space away from this mess. As much as I don’t want to, I do need to go back home. Check in with my parents. It’s been almost eight months since I went back. We haven’t spoken in a couple of months, so just the phone call alone will be uncomfortable. I know they’ll leave me alone for the most part, and that’s really what I need right now. Space. Get out in the ocean and do some surfing, maybe hang out with some of my old buddies.