Page 52 of Level Up
With a sigh, Hadley reaches out for his arm and yanks him to his feet, but doesn’t let go.
Sammy doesn’t seem to notice Hadley’s vise-grip on his arm as he stares up at the cave opening above them. “I guess we have to climb, then—” he says, but Hadley gives him a shove and pins him against the wall of stone behind him.
“Don’t you ever get yourself hurt like that again,” Hadley says, glaring him down.
Sammy’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t bother with a smart remark this time. “I won’t!” he says. “I know you hate me and this must be?—”
“I don’thateyou.” Hadley’s voice softens ever so slightly, easing his grip on Sammy’s arm that’s now wedged between them. “I could never hate you.”
Kissing Sammy, finally, feels like the first breath Hadley has taken in a long time.
— Excerpt from “Petty Thief of My Heart” by@HadTrash93
fourteen
netflix and chill
The first opportunitythat Damien and I have to hang out after Thanksgiving is a Thursday night, what with my work at the shop and my Monday-Wednesday-Friday streaming schedule, and I’m grateful when he suggests we meet up close to my apartment even though I know it’s selfish of me. Maybe I should be making more of an effort to meet halfway, but that sounds liketoo mucheffort.
We settle on my favourite pub, boasting a hybrid of British pub classics and pretentious fusion cuisine full of sriracha. But they have a good variety of beers on tap, rotating weekly, and they do these battered French fries that are even better than the ones at Costco. (With sriracha mayo dip, obviously.)
It isn’t until we’re seated at a high wooden table, facing each other, that I realize this probably looks like adateto the casual observer. But he’s in his usual hoodie and jeans combo, and I’m wearing corduroy overalls with one of my mother’s old striped turtlenecks from the 90s. I look like an overgrown toddler. So clearly neither of us is trying to impress anyone tonight.
I have, on occasion, felt the need to try to impress thepeople I was hanging out with, but those people usually drifted away over time because I didn’t have the energy to keep up that sort of pretense. It’s never been that way with Victory, though, and not with Damien either. I feel like I’ve known him for three years, not three weeks.
He seems a bit overwhelmed by the beer menu at first, but in the end, he orders a red ale and I get an oatmeal stout—and halfway through our pints we swap, as the basket of fries between us dwindles.
He goes on a long rant about his family and his weekend with them, and I mention a few of the more annoying things my sister has done lately, except for anything regarding him. She’s still staying with Mom and Gram, and most of her stuff is getting brought over from her place in Montreal this weekend.
“That’s gotta be tough,” he says with a sympathetic nod, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about Marie’s situation and not the fact that I have to deal with her.
“I guess I just figured she and Josh were perfect for each other because they’re both normies,” I reply, cupping my hands around my pint glass (that was once his).
“It’s almost like people are more complex than that.” He smirks. “Normies, weirdos, it doesn’t matter. Compatibility is a whole other thing.”
“Oh, and you’re a relationship expert, are you?”
“I have a degree in Social Psychology, I’ll have you know,” he says smugly. “Well, it’s a Bachelor’s degree, and it was just my minor, but still. I’m an expert on everything people do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can read anyone,” he continues, apparently unwilling to let the joke die. “And I never experience social awkwardness.”
“Yeah, remind me to screenshot your latest word-vomit from our chat log when I get home,” I say dryly.
“But seriously, imagine if you could just study in schoolhow to be a person?” He stares off at nothing with a thoughtful expression.
“That is the mostintroverted weirdo nerdthing you’ve ever said.”
“Better yet, all conversations should come with dialogue options,” he adds, “and all you have to do is choose whether you want to be Light Side or Dark Side,KOTOR-style.”
“You just want BioWare to design your life,” I say with a laugh.
“Yeah, well, it’s better than having a Bethesda face.” He gestures to his own face before picking up his (my) glass and taking a large gulp.
I crack up at that. “You don’t have a Bethesda face!”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, thank you.” The smile that spreads on his face isn’t wide and all-encompassing, the goofy grin he gives me when I make a terrible joke that he loves; it’s a half-smile, hidden behind his glass, that reminds me of all the thoughts that were swirling in my head the last time we were in the same room.
