Page 102 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

He responds five minutes later.

Dylan:Sorry to hear that.

I head downstairs, grab a packet of potato chips from the kitchen, then walk to the living room. Switching on the TV, I pull my feet up onto the couch to enjoy a relaxing night of Riverdale and self-pity. Part of me wants to tell Tommy to come back, but the whole art of self-pity is to do it by oneself. I should get used to this if I plan on growing old alone. See that? That’s me self-pitying like a champ. I stuff another handful of potato chips into my face, but over the crunching; I hear a knock at the door.

I’m not sure who it could be, so I approach the door cautiously, like one of those brainless chicks in horror movies who are just begging to die.

“Who is it?” I call out, then roll my eyes. I don’t know why I asked that because if it’s a burglar or a serial killer, it’s almost like I have a silent expectation that he or she will be honest when they answer that question.

“It’s Dylan.”

I let out a small breath of relief and open the door. “What are you doing here? I said I’m not going out tonight.”

He hands me a bouquet of white roses, but I don’t take them from him. “You also said you weren’t feeling well. I came to check on you.”

This is why he’s boyfriend material. For some reason, I’m both touched and angered by the gesture. “I told you not to come. Please leave.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not really sick, are you? Because you look fine.”

“I have...my period.”

“Odd. You get it twice in one month?”

I grit my teeth. “Leave, Dylan!”

I try to slam the door in his face, but he catches it before it shuts and forces his way inside.

“So, if you’re fine, why don’t we go out tonight?” he asks, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t want to go out. I want you to leave.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I decide to not wait for Monday. He’s here now. I’m just going to get it over and done with. “I’m putting an end to this arrangement. We can go back to our ten-minute chats at your locker, but everything else ends here.”

Again, he studies me very carefully before he responds. “Any particular reason why you want to end it?”

I shrug with indifference. “It’s become boring and monotonous for me. I think it’s time we both move past this. You were looking for something of substance before we started this, and there’s nothing of substance between us, so let’s not drag this out.”

Saying that hurts me more than it hurts him. I know this for two reasons. One, I feel like my heart squeezed so tight it got a little bent out of shape. And two, he keeps his expression neutral the whole time, not showing an inkling of emotion, and somehow, that hurts more.

“Oh.” His eyebrows draw together in a curious frown. “Okay.”

“Good. Close the door on your way out.”

I head toward the stairs, and instead of leaving, he follows behind me as I walk back up to my bedroom.

“So, you want to get something to eat on the way there? I’m starving.”

I stop right outside my bedroom door, glaring at him with indignation. “I’m not going out with you. Did you not hear anything I said?”

“I’m thinking we could try that new place on Mission Street. It’s around the corner from Sky Lounge.”

“I’mnotgoing!”

He lingers at the doorway after I storm into my bedroom. “I’m coming in.”

He phrases it like a question, as if he’s asking permission before he enters my room. A few seconds pass as he waits for me to deny his entry, but I’m so confused by his blatant disregard for my request that I just stand there speechless.

He places the roses on the nightstand beside my bed, then sits down on the edge of the mattress, whips out his cell phone, and casually starts playing a game. “I’m just going to wait here while you get ready.”

“Get out of my room, Dylan.”

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