Page 39 of The Twins

Remo

SAN RICARDO - 20TH BIRTHDAY

Mr. David keeps his promises.

It’s been twenty-two months since I left San Ricardo, and I’ve never felt closer to my hometown before. Whether it’s my parents that have figured out how smartphones work or my brother who curiously messages me every other day to find out what I’m up to, I’ve got an almost daily connection to San Ricardo.

Add Mr. David’s nightly questions about my well-being, and there you have it.

It turns out that I’m loved indeed.

Stupidly so, I wrapped myself up, and I strolled around my neighborhood and school thinking that people owe me love because I’m… Me. It doesn’t work like that.

I work hard to maintain Mr. David’s friendship. His full name is Andre David, but he’ll always be Mr. David to me. We’re not on a first-name basis, although I’m sitting next to him in his favorite car as he drives us out to his cabin by Lake Arrowhead.

He’s taking a weekend off his swanky computer stay-at-home job to spend time with me. It’s the fifth time we meet like this, and my parents have begun to ask where I disappear every time I return to San Ricardo.

Nobody knows that Mr. David and I leave for weekends away together.

It’s not like we’re hiding anything spectacular. However, a friendship between the two of us might be considered suspicious in the wrong circles. Mr. David isn’t out in San Ricardo, and he doesn’t plan to out himself any time soon either. To keep up appearances, we take additional measures so that neither my parents nor the neighborhood sees our joined vacation departure.

Before you yell “creep,” I must confess that I’m still the un-kissed nerd from San Ricardo, a town in Southern California that nobody in Georgia, where I’m currently stationed, has ever heard of.

I have a dad and a mom, but Mr. David makes me feel like I’m a lost puppy searching for his guidance.

An entrepreneur, an innovator… He owns his own company, and he works from home, where he doesn’t even bother socializing with anyone if he doesn’t feel like it. There are no offices in his business as every employee can perform their duties from home. He’s worth more money than each of San Ricardo resident’s yearly income combined.

He doesn’t give a fuck about conventions, the standard practices of business. He flies to every summit, knows all of big tech’s rising stars. He doesn’t fuck with the big guns, the ones who monopolize everything. He’s everything I wish to be if I ever left the military–which is never happening.

Mr. David’s all that, and the most show-off aspect about him is his presence. And, perhaps, the smooth-as-fuck cabin near Lake Arrowhead where a weekend feels like I had a month-long holiday.

Perhaps it’s Mr. David who has that effect, not his Lake Arrowhead cabin.

He never sold the house next to ours back in San Ricardo, although he can now afford houses ten times its size. He drives an old Benz that he doesn’t plan on updating to a faster and more expensive car. He’ll consider retiring the Benz if one of his besties in the industry manages to top Musk in the electric car race.

“Be present,” Mr. David says. His voice commands me to listen, and shortly, I reminisce about my new home in Georgia. I work under people all day over there, and demands aren’t a foreign concept to me. Yet, when Mr. David asks for something, I want to make it happen without a second thought.

“I apologize,” I say. “Won’t happen again.”

“You say that every time, but you keep it up, nonetheless. Before you left San Ricardo, you were never as dreamy,” Mr. David comments. His arms stretch and pull as he takes a final left onto his vacation property. He employs people to keep the road clean, no unnecessary leaves lying around, and a well-kept asphalt road for the few times he visits this cabin every year.

To my knowledge, he never brings anyone else but me up here.

I know, right? I should hit on him, and… What do normal people do in such situations? I’m culturally clueless. Besides, he thinks of himself as my mentor. Half the time, I swear he shows off to motivate me to do better in my life, strive for more, talk less, and follow my dreams.

“You’re a people-pleaser,” he says to no one in particular, taking the key out of the ignition. It dangles in his hand, and I listen to the noises the bundle of key and fob make while entangled with his fingers.

“Guilty as charged,” I reply. We get out of the car, grab our bags from the trunk, and make our way into the cabin. It’s clean, comfortable and, most important of all, private.

“You should take a page out of my book,” he says. He lifts his head, flaring his nostrils. It would be intimidating or haughty if anyone else were in front of me, but it’s Mr. David. He hugs me before we go to bed every time we spend time together.

Sometimes, when he’s drunk, he even lets me sleep in the same bed as him.

“I wish I could, but I’m too pussy,” I exclaim. I drop my overnight bag in the hallway, and I stretch my body, unafraid of Mr. David’s gaze. I know he’s watching me closely at times, although he attempts to hide it.

If this is him being a pervert who seduced an underage teen, he’s… LATE. He’s kept our friendship torturously platonic and non-sexual.

“Don’t speak of pussy that way. Especially if you ever plan to fuck it. You’re into pussy, aren’t you?” I nod, intimidated by his glower. He claims he doesn’t care that I occasionally thirst after women. For now, although I haven’t even touched a girl or a boy or anybody else, I believe I’m bisexual. That might change in the future. “I don’t know what they teach you at your job—”

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