Page 52 of Freestyle
That’s the first thing I notice.
We’re side by side on his bed, knees barely brushing, and I keep expecting him to shift, to give us space. He always used to. Grayson hated when people got too close, except Rowyn.
But now?
He just sits.
Quiet. Still.
Like he’s waiting for me to figure something out and say it first.
My gaze flicks sideways. His fingers are laced across his knee, the subtle twitch in his knuckle from last year’s fracture still there when he exhales too hard. I never told him I noticed that.
I never told him a lot of things.
I don’t know when it started, this pull. Maybe last night when we watched Rowyn sleep on my bed after thebar incident, her mascara smudged and mouth twitching like she was still fighting in her dreams. I looked across the room and Gray was watching me, not her.
He didn’t look away.
Now, neither do I.
His voice is quiet when it comes. “Something wrong?”
Yes.
No.
“You ever think we’re too far in?” I ask. “With her. With each other. With… this.”
A beat passes.
Then he says, “Yeah.”
And then, just a little softer, “But when has that ever stopped us?”
My throat goes tight.
The air in the room tilts off-balance, charged, like something’s about to spark if either of us breathes too hard.
But instead of touching him, I do something worse.
I stay.
Nine
Rowyn
Iwokeuplateforclass with dried cum across my lips. I thought they were being sweeter last night after everything that had happened, but I guess they’re still the same fucked up boys that are holding a naked picture of me as leverage to do whatever they want to my body. Anger swirls inside me, but a sick part of me knows I enjoyed whatever they did.What the hell is wrong with me?
I scramble out of the bed, wash my face, brush my teeth with my finger then I’m out the door, sprinting to my first class in Phoenix’s sweats.
Psychology is my favorite subject, that’s why I chose it as my career path. As I sit in class, I lean forward, completely engrossed in Professor Sharp’s lecture. The hum of the air conditioner fills the silence between their words, a steady backdrop to the discussion. This week, we’re diving into mental illnesses, and I couldn’t be more curious.
“Antisocial Personality Disorder,” Professor Sharp begins, gesturing toward the screen displaying case studies. Her voice is firm, but there’s an unmistakable empathy woven into her tone. I listen intently as she describes the symptoms, ignoring right and wrong, telling lies to take advantage of others, physical aggression, hostility or violence toward others, reckless or impulsive behavior, and so on. Every word sharpens a realization forming in my mind. So many of these behaviors, so many patterns, align with things I noticed in Alberto.
I shift in my seat, tapping my pen against my notebook. A classmate raises their hand, sparking a debate about genetics versus environment, about stigma and misdiagnosis. Arguments bounce around the room, voices overlapping, each perspective making me reconsider what I know, or what I think I know about him.
My jaw tightens. I don’t want to think about him, but my mind won’t let it go.
