The idea of accidentally seeing an ass shot when he’s rolling over and I’m walking by to take a leak in the early morning causes me to brace my beer bottle against the crotch of my black, baggy basketball shorts.
I have to stop having that fantasy.
It’s beginning to become unhealthy.
“Any part of your feet touches the floor at any point, you gotta chug your whole fucking drink, and only have one minute to get to the kitchen, get a new one, and find safety again,” Stratton informs from where he’s now sitting on top of the long dining room table. “Goal is to get to the safe zone. That’s how you win.”
“But, everyone’s already pretty drunk,” Tatum, his girlfriend, needlessly reminds, pecan brown shaded face frowning in confusion.
Almost everyone.
Peck and I are still on the same drinks we had two hours ago.
He hasn’t touched his since his first sip.
I only have a swig from mine whenever Crash stares at me too long or smiles at me too bright or I can feel my stupid fucking stutter surfacing.
Alcohol is not something I like fucking up my body chemistry, but nothing fucks up that chemistry quite like Crash Donovan.
How can one person be a hazard to my health and yet essential to my very survival?
Stratton shoots a wink over his shoulder at her. “That’s exactly right, Tater-tot. Everyone is already pretty fucked up. That’s what makes it more fun.”
“Oh…you purposely waited until the probability to get everyone really wasted was increased.” She cheerfully concludes at the same time she nearly spills her overfilled cup all over her tank top-covered chest. “You combined that with our scattered natures and determined now would be the optimal opportunity to not only take us by surprise but put true alcohol handling skills to the test.” A happy giggle is hiccupped out of her. “Brilliant.”
“Only you make me sound that way, Tater-Tot,” he sighs into his plastic cup that’s also filled with Irish Trash Can Punch, “only you.”
“And, where is the safe zone?” Crash questions from the foot stool he’s pretzeled himself onto.
He’d go better with my brewski than any high caloric snack food I’d ever get from a grocery store.
He’s one snack I would eat well past midnight.
Every fucking night.
My eyes momentarily shut in an attempt to banish the thoughts I’m usually better at controlling.
Most Crash-related crush thoughts are fleeting.
They come and go from my mind about as easily as he does from my apartment.
He enters, gets what he needs, and bails.
It’s routine.
He often fails to realize just how routine until I playfully point it out.
Over the years, I have built an impeccable system to defend my brain or body from becoming too overwhelmed by his seemingly spontaneous appearances. I have trained myself to be on high alert for threats when we are in crowded situations. I watch for people who are throwing judging glares or might say something out of line and redirect him or his attention elsewhere. I keep my focus on protecting him, his feelings, and his personality that is a little more fragile in public than he’ll ever admit. During the times when we’re alone in my apartment, I rely on the tactic of keeping myself busy. I wash dishes. I scrub my blenders. I decide right then to deep scrub my stove or clean my skates by hand. I keep as much of my body busy so that my senses can’t carelessly dwell on how edible he smells or how lickable his lips look in whatever new gloss it is he’s bought.
I have methods and perfect systems that prevent me from overthinking about how great it would feel to have him in my arms; however, having his presence this close and this constant is like stumbling upon an epic poem before bed that will, undoubtedly, take hours to read when I was anticipating something much shorter.
Distance has always been the saving grace of my embarrassment in this aspect of our friendship.
From a distance, my unedited feelings are less difficult to deal with.
They are less of a struggle to process.
They are less of the sole focus of my shitty musings.
At first, I was worried that both of us going to Vlasta would undo the personal protective measures that I spent most of high school putting into place as he openly dated guys who were nothing like me, something that solidified the stance that I wasn’t and would never be his type. I was worried that putting all my unresolved resentment and misery into hockey wouldn’t be enough. I was worried it wouldn’t help minimize my pining or provide me with the adequate distance needed between my routine and Crash’s. I feared we’d end up at the same parties, around the same people, theoretically pursuing the same shit, when, in reality, I would be there for defensive measures, which would involve keeping a watchful eye on those I care about – him especially – while he would be enjoying whatever warm body he felt good grinding against prior to gushing all about it to me the next morning in my apartment.
On my couch.
Crushing my heart while I violently scrubbed my wok.
The latter was the type of shit I had gotten good at avoiding in high school.
Thank fuck for hockey again.
I’d never ask Crash to keep that shit to himself.
I’d never deny him the open arms he needs.
That he’s always needed.
That I’ve always given him.
Even if us both going to Vlasta could’ve resulted in us venturing down that soul-shattering path I had convinced myself we would, I would’ve just dealt with it to ensure he always had what was best for him.
I want him, his heart, and his world guarded whenever possible.
That matters more to me than anything else ever could.
Oddly enough, going to the same college, didn’t unravel our relationship as I secretly dreaded it might.
It actually seemed to have the opposite effect.
It allowed better boundaries and borders to be built into our friendship.
I settled more into the always around, always reliable, always here in time of crisis best friend position, and my apartment became the place he pops into when he needs to shut out the rest of the world’s bullshit or heal from something hurting him. I’d done this throughout our entire lives together, but him “finding himself” in high school, led him to lean on others who “got him” more than me. Not until they’d gone their separate ways did he seek me for refuge again.
I returned to the role I had missed.
And, he gave me back the only person – outside of my parents – I’ve never hid parts of myself from.