Page 85 of Faux Real
“Don’t listen to him, Fred,” I say, resting my forehead on Kenny’s door. “He’s an idiot. Different is just different, it’s neither good nor bad, it just is.” I sigh, wishing for the first time, that I was in London, that I could be there for him. “Go to sleep, Fred, yeah? Just close your eyes and sleep.”
“They’re still yelling.”
“Are you in my room right now?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, go to my closet and grab my old headphones, they’re noise canceling. Plug them into your phone and just blast some music until they stop fighting.” I pause. “Did you find them?”
“Mhmm,” Freddie hums. “Got them. Thanks, Ollie.”
“No worries, mate,” I sigh. “You’re gonna be okay, Freddie. You are.”
“I love you, Ollie,” Fred says.
“Love you too,” I say before hanging up. “Shit.”
“Is everything okay?” Kennedy asks, startling me when she places her hand on my back. “Oliver? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I murmur, keeping my back turned to her. “It’s all good.”
“Liar,” she whispers, her hand traveling down the length of my arm until her fingers curl around my fist. My muscles relax from her touch. “Were you talking to your brother? Did something happen?”
“My dad’s a mean drunk,” I reveal, my teeth clenching together. “He and my mum fight a lot. Freddie hates it. He gets scared.” I shake my head. “I can’t help him, Kennedy. I can’t do anything for him.” Kennedy wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me from behind. “What are you doing?” She doesn’t say anything, simply tightens her grip. I don’t ask again. I just stand there, inherarms, until the anger dissipates. “Kennedy?”
“Yeah?” she whispers as she drops her arms.
I turn around, peering down at her. “Thank you.”
“No worries,” she smiles timidly, fixing her hair. “I uh—I read that hugging produces oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin. Seemed like you needed a bit of each.”
“You’re such a nerd,” I say, all those chemicals bouncing around my neurons. “It’s sort of cute.”
She blinks, a rosy tint on her cheeks. “We should um—” She clears her throat. “Wanna watchFriendsnow?” She turns around, plopping down on the far end of the floor. “Ollie?”
“Right,” I mutter, sitting back down on the pillows, well aware of the distance between us.
“I hope you like it,” Kennedy says, pressing play. “But don’t tell me if you don’t.” She glances at me. “We wouldn’t be able to hang out if you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it,” I murmur, watching Kennedy lick the cranberry sauce off her fork. “You have sauce on your chin.”
“Shit.” She wipes a napkin across her face. “Is it gone?”
“Mhmm,” I hum, turning my attention to the frantic woman in a wedding dress on the TV.
How long do chemical reactions last in a person’s brain?
Minutes? Hours? Days?
Weeks?
I hate science. Bloody nuisance.
twenty-six
Metamorphosis
KENNEDY
