Page 31 of Fallen Stars

I exit the live video and go to their main feed. Tap on the pinned post with a list of upcoming dates and read the May schedule. There, in black and white, I have my answer.

May 27th – Stone Bay Memorial Day Festival

Seeing him play, having the chance to hang out with him in public for a bit, is a perk. Being at the festival with my fake girlfriend, on the other hand, puts a damper on spending any true time with him. I easily picture my father scowling as I ignore Abigail to speak with Oliver.

“Fucking bullshit,” I mutter as I swipe up and close the app.

I tap on the photos folder, then click on videos. And because I obviously have masochistic tendencies, I choose a video I filmed a while back in Oliver’s garage as the band practiced. Over and over, for far too long, I stare at the screen, at Oliver, and watch him play. Without shame, I play it muted on repeat for close to an hour.

When I close the video, I open my text history with Oliver. My fingers fly over the keyboard. And before I second-guess myself, I hit send.

Saw part of the live in LL. Sounded great. Not sure if you’re back tonight or tomorrow. Would like to hang before MD fest.

A light sheen of perspiration dampens my skin as I read my text to him again and again. My message feels generic and lifeless. Like I don’t know what to say. Like I don’t know how to speak with my best friend.

But I guess that is what happens when you kiss said best friend. The world around you—every word, every glance, every touch—is different. The lightness you once had morphs into something more complex.

And since we have yet to discuss what this all means or where we go from here, the earth is less stable. The future is more uncertain. The friendship Oliver and I have shared for almost seven years is in limbo.

I toss my phone down, drop my elbows to the counter, and let my head fall into my hands.

Please tell me I didn’t fuck this up.

Oliver kissed me back. He pulled me closer and wordlessly begged for more. I may have been reserved about my feelings for Oliver for years, but I picked up on every single one of his signals. He wanted me. Hewantsme.

Not opening up to him about how I feel has been tough as hell. Countless sleepless nights have passed when I wanted to call or text him at three in the morning and reveal all my secrets. Spill my heart.

Seeing Oliver with other guys… it chipped away at my soul. Made me question if I’d misread him all these years. If I’dmisinterpreted the smiles he gave me and no one else. If I’d misunderstood the way he flirted differently with me than other men.

Fingers crossed, Oliver’s silence is just his way of processing this major revelation. Uncertain what our kiss means, he needs time to sort through his thoughts and feelings. To adjust to this new side of us.

If there is an us.

Quit overthinking.

I get up, rinse my dishes, and put them in the dishwasher. Grabbing my laptop from the island, I go to the gaming chair in the living room and crack open my computer again.

Much as I need a break from all the work chaos, I need a distraction from my wayward thoughts about Oliver more.

After I reconnect to my work computer, I pick up where I left off in the forum. Line by line, I scan through the feed and read the topic captions. My eyes grow heavy and my limbs weak as I sift through endless dark chats. Topics written in creeper code that I spend minutes deciphering before reading the next.

As I’m about to close my laptop and call it a night, a title catches my attention.

Fresh catch from port at market price.

To the layperson, it sounds like fishermen offering fresh fish to markets and restaurants. To sick motherfuckers, this is something way darker, more sinister, and the ultimate prize.

I take a few deep breaths to center myself. Calm as possible, I click on the topic and read through the thread. Nausea roils in my belly as I wade through the posts. As I read comments from others with off-putting user handles asking howfreshthe catchis, if it’sripe, I question if I am able to do this. If I can pretend to be one of these disgusting pieces of shit to find missing children.

I shove down the bile climbing up my throat.

This is for Sydney. Set aside your feelings and find her.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I think of what to type. Can’t seem too eager. Can’t be too clean.

Keep it simple. Talk their lingo. Earn their trust.

fall_or_rise39

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