17. Ellis

CHAPTER 17

ELLIS

Well, that was mortifying, but Antoni was right. I could have made the situation worse by not going, especially considering the excruciating experience I had in the bathroom this morning. If the ache in my ass wasn't enough to send me to get checked out, the blood on the toilet paper was.

Luckily, after the most intrusive exam I've ever had, it looks like there wasn't much damage done. I have a very small fissure, which is easily treated with some cream and some dietary recommendations to make things a little smoother while I heal. Apparently, even what amounts to a minuscule paper cut can cause a lot of issues and can worsen without the right treatment. Most of my problem is muscular. I'm trying to think of an appropriate thank you gift for Antoni, who not only made the appointment before I woke up this morning but also drove me there and stayed in the waiting room.

The Nurse Practitioner I saw was easily the kindest and most understanding medical provider I've ever gone to. Our family has been seeing the same stuffy old guy since my dad was a kid, and he certainly never thought to work in open conversation about safe sex other than asking me if I was active and telling me to, "Wear a rubber so you don't get some girl pregnant." When I informed him just how unlikely that was to happen, he had nothing else to say on the matter. The NP at Antoni's office, however, didn't just speak to me about safe sex and protection, they talked to me about prepping myself appropriately and even recommended toys and "training" aids to help me accommodate a larger partner. I was both mortified and interested in every word they had to say. I even felt comfortable opening up about what happened last night. They agreed that inexperience was likely at fault, and we discussed being communicative with my partner to let them know how to give me pleasure rather than pain. I walked out with what amounts to a goody bag of lube samples, prophylactic antibiotics, and multiple pamphlets about just about anything to do with sex.

Feeling the weight of the last twenty-four hours, I climbed right into my bunk after Antoni dropped me off. He'd mentioned going out for breakfast, but I don't feel like sitting on an inflatable ring in public. And I'm exhausted, so I planned to take a nap. Instead, I've been laying here for over half an hour, staring at my phone and the texts I sent Gabe.

Ellis: Can we talk?

Ellis: I'm okay, I promise.

Ellis: Your silence hurts more than my ass, you know.

Ellis: We need to talk.

I don't know if he's unblocked my number. Technically, I'm not positive he did block me, but all my messages from the past few weeks have gone unread since the voicemail I left. The last message I have from Gabe was sent a week into the break. After my initial apology text and assurance that we could work everything out, it took me another six days to get brave enough to reach out again. His silence was driving me mad. Every message left on read felt like the worst kick in the stomach. But not being read at all is worse.

I'd like to say that the Gabe I know wouldn't fuck and ghost someone like this, but that isn't true. I know for a fact that he's had plenty of hookups and one-night stands, and from what I've overheard, he's very clear about what the girls he sleeps with should expect from him. Maybe I'm reading too much into the way he kissed me, and the way I felt in his arms. Or maybe it was the way he looked into my eyes before he clenched them shut to keep from coming. Like he was holding something precious. Like he loved me, even if he was feeling conflicted about it. I attributed the conflict to his love for my brother and worrying about Elliot's reaction to me and Gabe together. Which I totally understood, because I'm afraid of what Elliot would do. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was less.

"I went along with it because I didn't want you to feel rejected. I felt bad. The rest was ? —"

The rest was what? What was he going to say? A normal, physical reaction to someone touching your dick? Except for all the times he got hard before I so much as touched him. All those pictures and videos? I suppose he could say he was thinking of someone else, or looking at straight porn, to get that hard. But what about in my bedroom on Thanksgiving? What about the video he sent of himself jerking off in our guest bathroom, exploding all over his hand when the picture of my hole that he requested came through? How could he explain that away?

Looking back, he was the first one to make every move. He was the first one to touch, the first to take me in his mouth and suck me off, without ever so much as asking for reciprocation until we got a lot more comfortable with each other. And even then, he's always insisted on getting his mouth on my neck, my flesh, my cock—he ate my goddamn ass, for fuck's sake. That's not something you do for the hell of it .

No matter how bad he felt for me the night of graduation, he still knew who I was and what I was doing. And then he kept coming back for more. Gay or not, the moans and the way he touched me, hungry and reverent, couldn't have been fake. They couldn't.

After an hour of staring at my phone and thinking up various ways to prove that Gabe wants me, I finally drift off.

I nap restlessly for several hours before I'm woken by the door crashing in. I sit up quickly, immediately wishing I hadn't when a sharp pain radiates through me. Pathetically, my mind immediately goes back to Gabe slamming the door open after Tripp followed me into the bathroom.

It's not Gabe, though. Brad throws his duffle to the ground, not even sparing me a glance, much less an apology for waking me up.

Closing my eyes for a moment to compose myself, I plaster on a pleasant smile and ask how his break was. He grunts and glares at me like my presence is the sole reason for his misery.

Great. Awesome. Missed you, too, roomie. I'm so looking forward to the next five and a half months of sharing this tiny shoebox with such a pleasant example of the human race.

I think wistfully about Elliot's offer to let me stay in their dorm, but I'm not sure I could handle the heartbreak if Gabe isn't speaking to me. The tension between us pre-break was palpable, but it was a fun and sexy kind of tension, one where we both had a dirty little secret about each other. And now? Now I'm not sure I could be in the same room as him without staring him down, begging him with my eyes just to talk to me. Showing up in his room in the middle of the night worked once, but I doubt it would again .

Christ. What are we going to do when we have to be around each other? Are we going to pretend like nothing happened? Like everything is normal, and he didn't tear my heart out when he split me apart and walked away?

I'm not sure I can do that, even for Elliot's sake. I'm not that good of an actor, and just the thought of watching Gabe go back to his normal life, pretending nothing ever happened between us, makes me want to be sick. I'm going to have to avoid him at all costs not to see it, which is bullshit on so many levels, because avoiding him is probably what he wants. It'd make life easier on him.

Fuck, I should move in with them just so he doesn't get off so easily. Let him think I'll tell Elliot, stomp my foot and demand he talk to me or else. Not because I'm so desperate I'd have him even if he doesn't want me, but because I fucking deserve the acknowledgement. If he wants to chalk this up to an experiment gone wrong, then I deserve the respect of a conversation. I'm not some girl he warned off ahead of time, that thinks she can change his mind or fix him. We've known each other since we were in kindergarten. He's been part of my family since we were five fucking years old. He doesn't get to tear into me with his huge, bare dick, fill me up to bursting, and then leave me sloppy and bleeding on his bed, never to speak to me again.

I'm not mad about what happened last night. I'm not upset that he accidentally hurt me. I'm beyond hurt that he hasn't checked in or returned my messages. I'm livid that he's dismissed me like I mean nothing to him.

My rage keeps my mind busy and my attention off Brad until he knocks over the white paper bag that I got at the clinic. My prescription bottles, the tube of ointment, multiple packs of lube, condoms, and pamphlets about safe sex scatter over the floor. There's an awkward pause as we both take in the mess before Brad's mouth curls into a snarl .

"What the fuck is this shit?!" He shouts, fuming.

"None of your business," I tell him, scrambling off my bunk to pick up all the discarded items while Brad clenches his fists. His anger is so thick, I forget my own anger from just moments ago. I'm almost a little afraid of him, but I'm not about to let him know that or back down. "What the hell is your problem, Brad?"

"You! You're my problem. Always fucking flaunting yourself around here. And now I find out you're some kind of diseased slut?—"

I tune him out after that, barely registering the rest of his rant. I'm pretty sure I hear some choice slurs thrown in, but I focus on getting the fuck out of this room. Right now. Luckily, I haven't unpacked my bags yet, so I'm able to grab my backpack and duffle on my way out the door.

Unfortunately, this seems to piss Brad off more. Because as much as he wants me out of his space, so he doesn't catch my gay slut diseases , he also really wants to be heard and acknowledged. I hear you, buddy. But life is full of disappointments. He practically chases me down the hallway, continuing to berate me for ignoring him, for being ‘too pretty', for thinking I'm better than him.

When he crowds me outside the elevators, blocking me from pushing the button to my freedom, I panic a little and consider all my options. Clearly, walking away isn't the solution. The stairs don't feel safe if he's going to continue to follow me. Pulling the fire alarm will get me in trouble. My only choices are to be as loud as possible and hope someone hears or be ready to fight back. Considering he's being plenty loud, standing up for myself physically is my last option. I do both for good measure.

"Get away from me!" I shout, pushing him out of my personal space with my duffle bag.

My push catches him by surprise enough that he stumbles back a little before lunging at me. He tears my duffle off my arm and throws it off to the side, pushing me against a wall and caging me in. My eyes dart around, begging someone to come out here. Brad has always been an asshole, but he's unhinged right now. I don't know what he's going to do, but he's leaning in so close it makes me feel physically ill. My next defense is about to be projectile vomiting in his face if he doesn't back off.

His nostrils flare. "You think you're too good for a guy like me? You think that pretty boy boyfriend of yours is better than me?"

What? "What are you talking about? Get off!"

I push him again, harder this time, but he barely budges. His hand darts up to wrap around my throat. He doesn't squeeze, only holds me there, muttering something about dodging a bullet and more homophobic bullshit. A door closes, although I can't tell where it came from. Brad turns his head, and I take advantage of his distraction, knocking his hand away from my throat with one hand, while bringing the palm of my other hand up. I make contact with his nose with a sickening crunch, and then push him away with all my might. Brad wails, and whoever it was that came out of their room comes running into the lobby in a bathrobe and slippers. He kneels beside Brad, offering his towel to help staunch the blood pouring out of his nose. Meanwhile, Brad continues to repeat the words, "You fucking bitch," while I press the call button for the elevator before straightening my backpack and picking up my duffle. I keep my eyes trained on Brad as the elevator doors close, and I pull out my phone to call Antoni.

"Hey. Yeah, I'm fine. I mean, not great. Alive or whatever. Listen, can I stay with you for one more night?"