And, maybe that would’ve been a possibility if something inside my mind hadn’t finally clicked to tell me enough is enough.
Okay, so, I’m not entirely sure if it’s actually my brain or just the faint traces of the six Alabama Slammers I downed during multiple Tina Turner performances.
Doesn’t matter though.
What matters is that I’m finished with Jevin Wells, and he’s put his goddamn hands on me for the last fucking time.
I carelessly discard the empty vegetable oil jug to his kitchen floor and grab the long-handled lighter from where it’s waiting on the counter. Making sure to keep a good distance – not wanting to lose my perfect black eyebrows – I aim the tip near one of the shoelaces to his lucky kicks and click the button. The flame that appears is exciting while the fire that occurs in his kitchen sink is gratifying. It burns brighter and brighter, growing bigger and bigger, and I allow myself a brief moment to drink in the fitting ending to our situation. On a villainous smirk, I exit his apartment to the sound of the smoke alarm blaring and what I’m pretty sure is faint swearing.
Instead of fleeing to the nearest curb and texting Betty – my best female friend – to come rescue me, I veer to the right knowing one building over is where I can grab a soothing remedy to the pounding in my head.
And, if I were totally up front about my shit – rather than sipping on the cocktail of denial – I’d admit it’s also the one place where my emotional wounds are always lovingly licked without any type of reluctance.
I’m lucky to have that shit.
I don’t know anyone else who does.
I take the elevator, despite the fact I only need to get to the second floor, and rapidly knock on the door that’s at the opposite end of the hall.
“’Cause you don’t fucking live here,” my favorite voice in the entire world grumps from the other side of the barricade. “That’s why.”
At the same time, the door opens, the other male voice says, “Yeah, but it’s probably just Mo.”
“Did you mean a mo’ because that’s unnecessarily offensive this fucking early in the day and rude.”
My sassiness swiftly shoves a wide-mouth smile onto the typically stone-cold face of Vlasta’s favorite hockey defenseman, Hugo Rhinehart.
Most of the world views him as this big, burly, beast to bow to or carefully bypass as to not piss him off, but to me, he’s always just been like one of those oversized teddy bears you win at the carnival. The ones that are too difficult for most people to obtain and too large to fit into your tiny car. I’ve never viewed him to be the storybook ogre our schools have always made him out to be, and he’s never crowned me a stereotypical drama queen like my reputation has commanded.
It could be because we’ve known each other for so long – we’re talking since the first time I strutted out into the world wearing sparkly eyeshadow and tight cut off shorts I made at the age of ten – or it could be because in a weird, unspoken way, we’re one another’s secret keeper, holding onto the thoughts and fears and dreams we don’t want to keep to ourselves yet aren’t sure anyone else will ever accept. Our entire friendship has very much so been an “if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” kind of deal.
Except in the literal if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine sense.
We’ve never taken steps that direction.
It’d be super fucking easy to point the high heel his direction and claim it’s his fault. That his overly masculine nature prevents him from seeing me as anything more than a “brewskie buddy”. That his undeclared or understated sexuality is what’s always stood in the way of him making a move on me. That because he never made a production of ripping off the closet door, I never considered making a move on him. All that shit would be so easy to sell if it were even remotely true. But it’s not.
And, I know it’s not.
And, I also know that right now I’ve only got enough energy to deal with the current self-evaluation that’s already underway.
Maybe I can score the shit decisions I’ve made in this friendship after lunch.
Or, maybe I’ll wait until after a different night of excessive drinking and doing tribute dances to one of music’s most beloved divas.
Hugo happily hums out my name like it’s a privilege instead of a burden. “Crash…”
“The one and only, boo.”
He rolls his chocolate eyes and backs into his apartment to allow me to enter. On his way past his other best friend, Gillette, he grumbles a command, “Greet.”
“I was fuckin’ gonna.” Gillette shoves his hands into his basketball shorts pockets and tosses me a polite nod as I shut the door. “Hey, Crash.”
“G-Unit.”
The nickname causes him to arrogantly chuckle, which seems to make Hugo grin again.
Much like myself and the tall glass of iced tea that’s heading into his kitchen, Gillette is more an acquired taste for those not interested in touching his stick off the ice. He looks like the sweet, kind, caring boy next door but speaks like he’s auditioning for Frat Boy Douche Number Two in the Van Wilder franchise revamp.
Hugo silently watches me saunter over to the long gray couch in his smaller than average living room.
Why a guy his size chooses to stay in one of the smallest square footage spaces available exclusively for our athletes is still a wrinkle-inducing mystery I have yet to solve. Even with his minimalist style and military-like neatness at times there’s still barely enough room in here to break in a pair of Kermit Tesoro heels. Hell, just the idea of trying to maneuver around this sardine can in anything other than my gym shoes has me offhandedly griping, “You can literally have a penthouse at the snap of your fingers, compliments of your Hockey God status, and yet you continuously slum it in something smaller than your parents’ basement.” I flop down on an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand. I’ve never understood. And, now I’m tired of not knowing. Why the Polly Pocket routine, Hugo?”
Gillette chuckles prior to teasing, “Pretty sure it makes him feel like Prince Gristle from Trolls.”
I playfully gasp. “Oh shit! That would be a good costume for you for this Halloween!”
His expression remains unamused.
“Pretty sure I’ve got a leopard printed cape you can borrow.”
The smallest wrinkle cracks his forehead.
“I wore it doing one of my Cher performances at the club.”
One of his eyebrows slightly lifts in curiosity.
“I damn sure know I’ve got a crown…I’ve got at least four of those bitches.”