Page 61 of Finding Delaware

That’s what it looks like on the outside, right? That he’s okay. Happy. Winning damn near every game and undoubtedlygetting all kinds of offers from the NFL. His social media pages all showcase the star athlete-who’s openly gay by the way- surrounded by friends and teammates, surfing in the ocean, and having dinner with his grandparents or boyfriend. My jaw clenches.

It’s precisely how it all seemed with him in high school, too. Picture perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

A sharp pain shoots through my collarbone from a memory I’ve done my best to bury, threatening to bring up shit I don’t want to face right now, so I connect my phone to the Bluetooth and put on my favorite album, The Emptiness by Alesana. Salem doesn’t protest, knowing I need the music to keep my mind from wandering.

By the time she pulls into the driveway of the duplex I rent with Christian, the album is half over and my mood is worse. It’s always like this after I catch one of Huck’s games. But I must be a masochist because I keep watching.

“I can come in if you want?” Salem smiles with a shrug, “I won’t be too entertaining since I’ve got all these photos to edit and a pile of homework, but I don’t mind sitting with you. I brought my backpack and laptop.”

“Nah, your man’s waiting at home. I’ll probably just shower and hit the sack anyway.”

She gives me an uncertain look. “You sure? You know he won’t mind.”

“Yes, Salem, I’m sure.”

I can’t keep the irritation from my voice, and I bite my lip. I absolutelyhatewhen she and Christian get this way. When I say I’m fine, I’m fine. If I say I’m sure, I’m sure. I’m not theone they need to worry about. It’s not likeI’mthe one who attempted suicide, right?

No, just caused someone else to do it.

I hide my wince as Salem leans over to kiss my cheek. “Sorry, Tay. I just worry. Text me if you change your mind, yeah?”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Exiting the car, I wave to her before heading toward the building. My ancient yellow Chevy pickup sits in the driveway, and Christian’s spot beside it is empty. We decided to carpool today to save on gas. I’ll probably have to give him a ride to get his car in the morning; he’ll likely take an Uber home.

Our two-bedroom, two-bath unit is on the right, and I step onto the small porch to unlock the door. It’s pretty small, smaller than what we pay for it, but we’re putting our money away to someday buy two houses next to each other and build a track in the backyard. It’s an open floor plan, with an island separating the kitchen from the living room, where a large flat screen sits in front of the brand-new leather sofa we just bought. We were both pretty pumped about that because neither of us has ever owned furniture that wasn’t used. We even threw a party to celebrate it, invited the neighbors, and had a cookout.

“Goddammit, Christian,” I sigh in exasperation, taking in the food wrappers and dirty socks covering the couch and coffee table. I love my best friend, but the fucker is a slob.

Turning on some music, I get to work clearing up the mess in case he decides to bring home a chick—or two. He’s done it multiple times before and tries to get me to hook up withthem. Sometimes, I do. Most times, I don’t. Usually, I just watch. Depends on my mood.

Tonight, I don’t feel like company.

Putting the oven on preheat, I grab a few celery sticks from the fridge and enter my bedroom just off the kitchen. It’s not as big as Christian’s, but that’s fine by me because mine gets far less action than his. Little excited oinks greet my ears from an enclosure in the corner, and I bend down to open a wire cage door.

“Snack time, BB,” I tell my rabbit, Baby Bones, as I place the celery before her. She’s the coolest bunny I’ve ever seen, all black except for the white parts of her face that look like a skull. A fellow motocross buddy gave her to Christian to feed to his very illegal python currently taking up space in his bedroom, and the minute I saw her, I fell in love. She’s gorgeous. And then I threw a fit and made him swear that he’d only feed the fucking thing rats from then on. Still makes me sad, but lesser of two evils, I guess.

Her nose twitches as she munches on her celery, and I leave the cage door open for her before grabbing fresh clothes and heading to my adjoining bathroom. It consists of a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a tiny shower, but it’s mine, and I don’t have to share. Stripping out of my moto gear, I study myself in the round mirror, eyes dropping down to the outline tattooed on my muscled chest, over my heart. The empty feeling inside of me intensifies.

Stepping into the shower, my head fills with images of Huck from the game, the smile on his face, the damp curls stuck to his forehead, the way his uniform clung to his thighs and ass. My cock swells along with my shame, and I wrap myhand around it as I think about the fact that the last time I got to taste him was in a shower.

I’d been so drunk and coming down from shrooms that I hardly remember. But the taste of his lips, the way he felt against my palm when I jerked him, those memories are burned into my core so deep that I’ll never forget. So are the sounds he made for me when I made him come inside the pool back in high school. I work myself hard to the memory, as I’ve done so many fucking times over the last four years that I’ve lost count. It’s all I have left of him now. All I deserve, honestly.

And just like every time I do this, the self-hatred and guilt eat me alive as I spray my cum on the shower wall with his name on my tongue.

I hate it. It kills me.

But I can’t seem to let Huckslee Davis go.

After my shower, I cook a frozen casserole, then sit on the floor in my room to eat it while Baby Bones hops around exploring.

I’ve always liked being on the floor. Something about it grounds me. Also makes my weak ribs and back feel better when they ache, so there’s that.

Taking my phone, I tap social media and log into Salem’s account. Her password has been the same since high school, and she doesn’t seem to give a shit that I use it since I sureas hell don’t use mine. Everything posted about me on social media is done by Salem, my ‘marketing manager,’ or so she calls herself. She’s got a degree in the field and has been managing all of the ads for the arena since she interned for them after graduation, so I figure she’s the expert.

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