Page 39 of Glitter

I would’ve settled for a phone call or a text, but Dusti wasn’t answering any of my calls. And all of the texts I’d sent him might just as well have vanished into the ether, because he hadn’t replied to any of them.

Which left me with only one choice—talking to him face-to-face. Because giving up wasn’t an option.

I was nervous parking in front of the property that held Dusti’s and his parents’ house. Dusti had mentioned rather vaguely that his parents were supposed to be back from their convention at the end of this week, but maybe his definition of ‘end of the week’ differed from mine. Or maybe his parents had returned home early. All I knew was I didn’t want either of his parents to witness me sitting on Dusti’s front step like a sad, lost puppy while I waited for him to agree to talk to me.

Dusti’s car was the only one parked on the driveway, but I still shot apprehensive looks at the big house over my shoulder as I made my way around the back to Dusti’s place, anxiously expecting one or both of his parents to suddenly pop out of nowhere anyway.

Approaching his door, I shook out my arms, rolled my neck from side to side, and mentally ran through a few of the things I’d come up with to try to persuade Dusti to give me, give us, a chance. But I was still jittery, my hand trembling faintly, when I reached up to ring his doorbell.

I waited a minute, two minutes, figuratively holding my breath, hoping for his door to swing open and for Dusti to invite me in. When that didn’t happen, I rang his bell again, straining my ears to hear it and make sure it was working. It was quiet, muffled by the door, but I could hear the faint tinkling of his doorbell going off, over the low thrum of some music. The door remained resolutely shut, so I jammed my finger against the button for a third time, figuring that might make Dusti answer the door, even if it was to yell at me to fuck off and leave his doorbell alone.

Sure enough, that was pretty much what happened. The last chime of the doorbell had barely had a chance to fade away, when the door was suddenly yanked open, a supremely pissed off-looking Dusti filling the doorway. Now that I could hear it more clearly, I tried not to take it as a bad sign that the song currently playing inside Dusti’s house was “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” by Taylor Swift.

“If I ever told you that you were good at listening, I was wrong,” Dusti snapped. “Go away, Benny.”

His message delivered, he started to slam the door closed. But I couldn’t let him shut me out. I needed Dusti to give me the chance to argue my case.

I flung my arm up, in between the arching trajectory of the door and the doorframe, flinching and yelping when the solid wood door smacked into it. Not expecting that, Dusti barely had time to step out of the way as the door bounced off my arm and swung back toward him.

His eyes wide with shock, he shouted, “What the fuck, Benny?”

Not quite trusting that he wouldn’t attempt to slam the door in my face again, I kept my arm raised as I begged him to hear me out. “Please, Dusti. I just want to talk,” I said. “If you read any of the texts I sent you, or listened to any of the voicemails I left, you know that I want to talk to you. Please.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, his voice toneless and resigned, Dusti stated, “There’s nothing left to talk about; we’ve already said everything that needs to be said.”

I wasn’t surprised to discover that Dusti was stubborn. But he was about to learn that I could be just as stubborn if I needed to be.

“No,” I said. “No.Wehaven’t said everything that needs to be said,” I insisted, pointing out, “You’rethe one who did all of the talking on Saturday. But fair’s fair, now it’smyturn.”

I wanted to push my way into his house, physically crowd him with my body until he moved out of the open doorway and I could go in. I wanted to lock the door behind us, so we wouldn’t be disturbed. And I wanted to manhandle his slim body onto the sofa, pin him down onto it, andmakehim listen to me.

But I had the feeling that would only piss him off even more and make him dig his heels in even further; Dusti liked being the one in control. So, instead of forcing my way in, I begged him again to let me in.

“Please, Dusti. Can I come in? Just for a little while. I just want to talk to you. I think…I think, if you’ll let me, I can change your mind. About us. About dating.”

For the longest time, he didn’t respond. He didn’t move. He didn’t invite me in. But he also didn’t tell me to fuck off again, or try to close the door again, even with my arm in the way. He did nothing—just stood in the doorway, staring off into space.

But finally, his eyes fluttered closed and, with the smallest of nods, he grumpily said, “Fine. You can come in.” As though he wanted to reestablish even the smallest semblance of control, he quickly added, “But only for a little while. 5 minutes max.”

A giant smile broke across my face because even this small win was definitely a win.

Leaving the door wide open for me to come in, Dusti avoided making eye contact as he turned with a sigh and drifted over to his living room. I felt a profound rush of relief and hope as I crossed the threshold, taking only a moment to firmly close and lock the door before I followed after him.

Reaching the living room, I found Dusti curled up in the club chair, which left the small loveseat all alone for me. I hadn’t really given much thought to Dusti’s appearance today, but as I settled onto the end of the sofa closest to him, I ran my eyes over him and took how he looked.

His curly, pink hair laid limp and slightly lifeless, no artful disarray in sight. His pale blue eyes also looked uncharacteristically flat and lifeless, with dark smudges underneath them. His face was oddly bare—no glitter and no makeup, not even something as basic as swipe of lip gloss.

And Dusti had on what was the simplest, plainest, frumpiest, most un-Dustiest outfit I’d ever seen him wear. Curled up in the roomy club chair, with his arms wrapped around his knees, Dusti’s gray, cotton shorts had slid up to reveal a generous expanse of thigh, but only because they were way too big on him. They looked like they were made up of enough fabric to clothe two Dustis.

His white, short-sleeve shirt, with a faded picture of Rainbow Dash on it, was either several sizes too large, or else it had been intended to be worn as a sleep shirt. It was so long, it fell past his hips, covered his groin, and allowed only about the last inch of the aforementioned shorts to show.

The pink polish on his toenails was chipped or, in the case of two of his pretty toes, missing entirely. And his imperfect pedicure was on full display with his feet slid into a pair of cheap, black flip-flops.

Dusti was a gorgeous, stunningly pretty man; I’d thought so since the first moment I saw him, dancing on the dance floor at Glitter. And while he was also so much more than his external appearance, it was disconcerting and concerning to see him looking so unlike his usual self.

He also sounded sad and tired as he reminded me, “5 minutes, Benny. Clock is ticking.”

I jolted, alarmed that I was wasting the time he’d given me on cataloguing the worrisome state of his appearance. “Right.”

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