Page 76 of Daydream

JJ rubs his fingers against his temple. “Gentlemen, ask yourself this: are three more straight men with microphones what the world needs?”

The noise from the other patrons rumbles around us while Mattie, Kris, and Bobby deliberate over JJ’s question. As much as I want to be home in a dark room alone, I’m happy they’re all talking about the pros and cons of a podcast instead of my shitty performance.

They keep telling me it isn’t my fault, and yet I can’t shake thefeeling that I’m letting them all down. I don’t know how to fix it. Not only that, if I don’t finish this essay, then it won’t matter how hard I’ve been trying to be a good captain, because Faulkner will murder me if I get a bad grade.

Halle tried to make me work, but thinking about peeling her clothes off her makes it hard for me to concentrate on some boring essay about a topic I don’t care about. I just want to touch her constantly and it’s distracting, especially because she wants to be touched constantly.

My free time is filled with a lot of dry humping and jerking off in the shower right now. She hasn’t asked for anything more than that, so I figure she’s still doing whatever mental gymnastics she was doing last week.

The guys are still talking about a podcast when I get back to my laptop and that little flashing line is taunting me. I can’t fail this as well as failing at being captain in the space of a week. I just can’t. The more pressure I put on myself, the less I can concentrate on my screen; the guys are getting louder and louder, and it’s all getting too much.

By the time we’re pulling up in front of our house, I’m mentally done. Coach insisted I sit with him on the bus and talk and talk and talk. Even when Robbie tried to take over, I then had to listen to it. I was looking forward to being alone, but the universe has other plans for me and Halle’s car is parked outside of my house.

Companionship is a difficult thing to navigate when I feel overwhelmed. When I know that in all likelihood this person I care about and who cares about me is going to work hard to make me feel better, and with her patience and affection she might help. Of all the people in the world I would want to be waiting for me unexpectedly, she’s the one I’d pick.

But in the same reality, the idea ofanyonebeing near me, existing in my space and wanting basic human interaction from me, feels like the heaviest weight I can’t survive.

Halle approaches me as I climb out of Russ’s truck, a glass container clutched tightly in her hands. I meet her halfway down the driveway to get out of Russ’s way while he grabs Robbie’s wheelchair from the back, and also because I’m not sure I want to invite her in.

“You look really exhausted,” she says softly, handing me the container filled with cookies. “I know you’re probably holding yourself to an unfairly high standard right now, and I know my opinion on the matter doesn’t really count, so I wanted to bring you something nice instead.”

I appreciate that she isn’t trying to give me a speech on how teams sometimes lose games like everyone else seems to want to. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to leave because you look like you need to rest. I’m fighting all my natural urges to try to find the solution to your problem, because I know you don’t like to be smothered with attention when you don’t feel great,” she says, smiling softly. “Call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll try not to overwhelm you.”

She doesn’t hug me or try to kiss me. She just gives me a small wave goodbye, turns around, and climbs into her car. There’s a huge part of me that’s relieved; I don’t want to be touched and asked to talk about my feelings, not even by her, who really, at this point, is the only person I do like touching me. But as I watch her drive away, I start to miss her.

Robbie has lived with me long enough to know he should give me space when I feel like this. Russ has a sixth sense for any kind of negative atmosphere and leaves me alone after making me a cup of tea.

I judged Aurora at first when she said a good cup of tea could solve a multitude of problems, but as much as I hate to admit it, it is comforting. As soon as she bought us a kettle so we’d stop boiling water in the microwave, everything changed for the better.

I still feel like my Word document is laughing at me and my four hundred words as I stare at my laptop screen. Usually an impendingdeadline would give me the stomach-turning anxiety to produce something quickly, but apparently even knowing Thornton is expecting something from me tomorrow is not enough to get me moving.

I really fucking hate myself for not concentrating when Halle was here to help me earlier in the week. She warned me that I would struggle if I didn’t complete it with her because she was adamant I wouldn’t be able to do anything while away with the team.

I don’t know why I’m like this and it makes me want to tear my hair out.

In my head, I have an ideal scenario of how things will go. Whether that’s how I act, how my day goes, what I eat—everything works together in perfect harmony, and I thrive. I don’t feel like I’m hyperaware of everyone around me and yet equally completely oblivious. I don’t have to concentrate so hard on people’s mannerisms and behavior and choices so I can do them, too. I do things in advance, so they aren’t something I have to worry about later. I’m a good friend who doesn’t struggle to keep up with the people he loves.

In my head, I just exist peacefully and that’s enough. I have a routine and it’s fucking great.

I tell myself I’m going to work harder to be the version of me in my head, and I’m so frozen by the prospect that I do nothing at all, not even the things I would have done before, and I make everything worse.

Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I ignore the hundreds of messages in the various group chats that I don’t have the energy for and click Halle’s number.

“Hey,” she says when she picks up a few seconds later.

“I can’t write my essay. I’m really struggling to get out of my head.”

I expect anI told youso orit’s your own fault; it’s what I deserve under the circumstance. Aside from the other stuff keeping me permanently sexually frustrated, I spent our time together lasttime drawing the painting I was supposed to be writing about on her thigh.

But it’s Halle, so what I assume isn’t what happens. “What can I do to help you?”

“Are you busy?” I ask, hearing background noise that sounds like she’s out somewhere.

“I asked first. What can I do to help you, Henry?”

I can tell she’s somewhere doing something, but there’s a selfish part of me that desperately wants her to make me feel like this isn’t an impossible task. “Can you come over and help? If you’re not busy.”

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