Page 12 of Loverboy

“Please don’t fucking cry again, dude,” I grumbled against his chest, trying to pry myself free. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, okay,” he acquiesced, releasing me from my prison. “If you need me, I can come over again for a few more nights after tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said, mustering a half-hearted smile. “I’d like that.”

“Let’s do our monthly get-together early. Invite everyone over. Get stupid drunk and forget about all this,” he suggested with a grin, nudging my arm.

He was my partner in terrible decision-making. Jasper would scold me for thinking about getting wasted as a way to cope, but didn’t people say you were supposed to surround yourself with loved ones when you’re depressed?

Loved ones and alcohol. Close enough.

“Yeah,” I drawled. “That sounds like a great idea. You always know exactly what I need, Oli.”

I followed him around while he gathered his things, my muscles drawing tight with anticipation, bracing me for the crash. The looming threat of being left alone slowed my pulse, like slipping into a bad trip. My palms grew sweaty as I wiped them on my pants. I felt like a dog watching its human leave for work, and the only thing missing was the whining. That part stayed internal. Mostly.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he promised.

I nodded, that out-of-focus feeling already starting to creep in. The only thing my brain was good at was numbing out when everything was falling apart. The rest of the time, it was actively working against me, trying to convince me that something was wrong, even when it wasn’t.

“Text me, alright?” he said, a little louder, waving a hand in front of my face.

It took me a moment to find my body again. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

I was becoming a pathological liar by the minute.

6

Jasper

I NEVER THOUGHT of myself as a people person—actually, I was positive I was the furthest thing from it. And yet, for some reason, people saw my shitty attitude and scathing remarks as me being real, honest, and even a good person. The meaner I was, the more people seemed to appreciate me.

Make that make sense.

Although I disliked talking to people, I ended up getting into political science courses after high school and working part-time as a bartender. A warehouse job with no customer interaction would have suited me better, but the tips I made serving drinks were hard to beat, and the hours worked well with my class schedule.

The goal had always been to provide for Mom, so she could take it easy before she worked herself into an early grave waitressing—one that I was sure she was already half a step into. As much as she tried to act like she had it all together, there was no mistaking the tiredness in her eyes.

And then there was Milo. Of my two brothers, he was the one I had to worry about most.

He was always one bad day away from disappearing, and ever since he’d moved out, it had become so much harder to keep an eye on him. Whenever he fell in love, the rest of the world vanished. I seldom got a call, let alone a text, until things started going south.

That’s how I knew it was falling apart.

It would start with cryptic messages. It was always vague statements without any context, like he was testing the waters. He’d ask me if I thought he was enough, or if something about him was really all that bad. I was the soundboard, a role he’d mistakenly given me, under the impression that I was fair and just, rather than self-serving.

Then, uncharacteristically, he’d start video calling me when he was alone. When his girlfriend wasn’t home, he’d beg me to come over and keep him company. I always showed up, no matter how much it killed me to watch him suffer.

I still wasn’t there to stop him from trying to take his own life.

I spent far too long being delicate with him when what he really needed was a firmer hand. Now, though, I was done letting him run himself into the ground, done with standing on the sidelines, afraid of ruining the only good thing I had.

I wasn’t going to lose him.

“Hey, could I get a drink?” A high-pitched voice called, and all the noise in the bar came flooding back in past the earplugs I was wearing. I was assaulted by the bass vibrating through the floorboards, the clinking of glasses, and dozens of people talking way too loudly.

Across the room, a local band was setting up their equipment, going through the motions of sound check. I had a love-hate relationship with live events. Most of the local talent was painful to listen to, but they gave us more breaks at the bar while people crowded around the stage during sets.

I wished Milo would be honest about what he wanted.