Page 18 of Love Me Like It's Real
Why am I being like this? Why do I keep checking if he’ll come after me? Why are my breaths short with anticipation and my steps slow, almost uneven at the prospect?
That’s the kind of shit lovers do and I ain’t one, that’s for sure.
And yet, I can’t keep myself from glancing back at The Striped Maple waiting to see the luscious pink hair, the shiny eyes whose color I wasn’t able to define and the pink, inviting lips that beg to be bitten, defiled even.
He doesn’t show. Of course he doesn’t. We’re nothing to each other. If anything I probably scared him with my act. Not that I care. I don’t. Really. But…
I’ve never met anyone quite like him and I’m not gonna lie. I’m intrigued. I’m intrigued by his cute appearance, his sexy voice, his lithe body and the mystery of his story.
It’s not even anything to do with his earlier comments about his daughters coming out of him. I don’t discriminate. I like all men. In my bed that is. I don’t like any men on any other furniture unless it’s for scandalous purposes.
No. It’s the hint of personality I’m intrigued by, which makes me wonder what he’s been through to hate love too. Or at the very least be open to the possibility of hating love.
“God, Hayworth. He’s not coming. Get your head screwed on,” I mutter to myself and turn away from the bar and head home, all the while resisting the urge to glance back in search of him.
Felix Spring.
That’s what his name badge said.
It suits him but I don’t even know why. It’s like when you meet someone whose name you don’t know but when they say it, it fits them like a glove. A glove I’d love nothing more than to explore.
I shake my head and try to forget about Felix because this kind of incessant analyzing is verging on obsession and I don’t obsess over men. I use them and discard them. I don’t obsess. Not me.
I need a drink.
Yeah, that’s what it is, probably. In all the chaos of sneaking into the bar for the event I didn’t even manage to get myself a drink. It’s sobriety messing with my head.
Determined to get some beer—or shots—in me I march toward The Forbidden Maple and focus on the promise of the drink I’m about to have and not the sexy man who’s haunting my head for no apparent reason.
I only make it as far as the beer garden out front before I change my mind. Instead of finding the usual, inviting black and white decor that matches their logo, I see couples sharing drinks, or saliva, and it turns my stomach.
This town gets so sickening during Valentine’s, and it’s not even Valentine’s yet. It’s going to get worse and streets are going to be flooded with ephemeral couples who think they’ve found the one in the drunken daze of this stupid holiday. And the Season of Love festival crap is only going to add to that stupor of stupid love.
I need reinforcements if I’m going to sabotage this annoying festival. I can’t do it alone. I’ll need other club members to help me, which is really annoying because this is supposed to get easier with time. Not more difficult.
I need to coordinate with the most dedicated member of my club because Jason—as much I love him—is not it. He may be love-shy but he doesn’t hate the concept yet, try as I might to convince him. I know he humors me most of the time more than anything. But Wells? Wells is almost my equal. And I think I’m gonna need him this Season of Love.
But first…
I get home and crack open Doctor Hop American IPA and turn the TV on so I can veg out for the rest of the night. I scroll through all the horror, the mystery, the drama and go right for my guilty pleasure.Heartstopper.
Not that I will ever admit it to anyone. It’s my dirty little secret and I’ll die before I ever let anyone in on it, but when it’s dark outside and lonely inside the four walls of this apartment I turn it on and for a minute, an hour, a couple of hours, I allow myself to believe in something I loathe. To believe in something I shouldn’t after all the times my heart was shattered into pieces. I allow myself to believe in love.
If anyone asks, which no one would because it’s my best kept secret, that’s been established already, it’s not even about me. It’s not like I dream of meeting the one and living together forever. It’s the characters. For Charlie and Nick, two fictional characters, love is attainable. It’s realistic. It’s their truth.
When I’m well on my third can of beer and the start of season two, someone calls Charlie by his last name and another spring comes to mind.
Felix.
Suddenly, from having achieved utter oblivion, he appears front and center in my living room in far more detail than any sane person should be able to remember after the brief encounter we’ve just had. But either I’m too drunk or too lonely to care so I allow him to be there, to sit beside me, to keep me company and make this evening a little less…sad.
It’s nothing. It’s harmless. It’s innocent.
It’s dangerous.
I turn the TV off and try to cast him out of my head and out of my living room. It should be easy. He’s just a figment of my imagination.
A figment that’s taken on a life of its own because no matter how many times I shake my head, how many ways I squeeze my eyes, no matter what kind of mantra I repeat in my head, he’s still there.
