Page 120 of Finding Delaware

Been practicing for the qualifier this weekend.

Me: Shit, that’s this weekend?

No response. I type out a quick ‘good luck, I hope you win’ because it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk to me, and I don’t blame him. Yeah, I tried reaching out via Instagram, but I didn’t know he doesn’t even read his social media messages. And I shouldn’t have left him in the first place, but I was just...confused.

Ashamed, not because of what we did together but because of how I treated him. His dad almost killed him and hurt him so bad he was in the hospital for a month, but I just ignored him. It was easier to believe he was the villain than to try and understand him, just like how our parents are acting now.

I’ve noticed in my short twenty-two years of life that people are comfortable taking things at face value. No one hardly ever digs beneath the surface, too afraid they might delve too deep and find something that makes them uncomfortable. Ishould know; I put on a show for years that nobody noticed. Nobody except Taylor.

But just like everyone else, I saw his asshole kid exterior and automatically decided he was a bad egg, even when he showed me his true self in eighth grade. When he changed into a dick, I never questioned the switch. I should have known something was up.

I should have fucking known.

Eventually, the evening ends. Logan and I make the long drive back to his apartment in the city, and I’m tempted to ask him to drop me off at Taylor’s, but I don’t. Instead, when we walk into his two-bedroom, one-bathroom on the top floor of a high rise, I throw my jacket onto a chair and close myself in my nearly empty room.

There’s an air mattress, my suitcase, which I’ve been living out of, and a desk I purchased from IKEA with college money, which I’m steadily running out of. Seriously, I owe Logan so much money when all of this is over for letting me stay here and for eating his food. He says not to worry about it, but as soon as I figure out what the fuck I want to do with my life, I’ll pay him back with interest.

Walking over to the desk, I plop down and let out a breath. My laptop sits to the left, and my sketchbook to the right. Finals are in a week and a half, so I should probably study.

And yet…

My hands reach for the sketchbook of their own volition, and I find myself flipping through the new pieces I’ve been working on. Drawings for Taylor and Christian’s brand, even though it was never brought up again after February. It’s given me something to do, though. Keeps my mind occupied. Flipping open the book, I lief through my latest sketches, feeling heartsick.

That night, after Taylor fell asleep, I studied every piece of ink on his skin, mapping them to memory. After a heavy FaceTime with my therapist, I started drawing them—renditions of them anyway, in designs I think Taylor would like based on his t-shirt choices. I learned a lot of things that night when I studied his body, just from his tattoos and the things I noticed around his room.

He seems to like old movies, like Young Frankenstein and Little Shop of Horrors. Judging from the few books on his shelf and the cosmos inked onto his arm, he loves sci-fi and space. There are constellations down his spine and a UFO abducting a cow on his ribcage that made me chuckle. His other arm has trees and mountains on it. I could tell there was more on his legs, but since we were both clothed from the waist down, I couldn’t see those. The ones on his right knuckles are a mystery, Japanese letters I know nothing about. His left hand has a skull tattooed on the back of it.

The memory of those inked fingers wrapped around his cock sends a heated wave through me, and I reach down to adjust myself. Fuck, he looked perfect. Lips all swollen from biting kisses, his neck red from my stubble, the tip of his dick engorged and weeping for me. I want to taste him again. Make a mess all over him and clean it up. Fucking hell.

I’m about to take out my dick and pull up his Instagram for the umpteenth time when a new message comes through in the chat, his reply to my good luck text.

Taylor: Thanks. I think I have a good shot at making it.

Christian does, too, but there’s only one spot, so it could be either of us.

Me: Oh, damn. Is it causing issues?

Taylor: With me and Christian?

Nah. He’s worked just as hard as me for this. I’m proud of him.

We’re solid.

Resentment festers in my gut as I read his words. Typing out a message, I hit send before I can stop myself.

Me: So different from the scholarship, then?

I’m such a petty fucking bitch. Swiping on the screen, I’m about to apologize when his reply comes through.

Taylor: I’m not a little punk-ass crybaby anymore, so no.

Right. Shit.

New leaf, Huck. Start fresh.

Me: You’re right. Sorryfor assuming.

Taylor: Well, you know what they say about those who assume...you make an ASS out of U and ME.

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