17. Huckslee

Huckslee

May

I honestly never thought I'd be going to senior prom.

Actually, I've never been to a school dance in my life. Why would I? It's not like I was ever interested in asking a girl to be my date, and it's not like I could show up with a guy. Well, I mean, I'm here with Logan. But that's different.

The high school auditorium is packed to the brim, bright swatches of varying colors from dresses and ties making my head spin. Strobe lights flash in time to the second-rate DJ in the corner as he plays some shitty remix. Streamers billow from the rafters, a banner with the quote ‘ the best way to predict the future is to create it together ' from Joe Echevarria hangs above the doors. This year's prom theme is unity. What a crock of shit.

"I was going to get us a drink, but uh..." Logan rubs the back of his neck. "Someone apparently spiked the punch."

Three guesses who.

My eyes immediately find Taylor for the thousandth time, where he stands against the stage. He's wearing the tuxedo my dad bought him for the wedding, only the red tie has been replaced with a black and white checkered one that matches Salem's shoes. She's wearing a short white dress that makes her red hair stand out like liquid fire, and a black rose corsage on her wrist matches his boutonniere. He doesn't even go to school anymore, but Salem does, so he's her date. They look gorgeous together, like a celebrity couple, and I hate how it makes my stomach ache.

"Beautiful, huh," Logan mumbles beside me, and I turn in surprise to find his gaze on them. On Salem.

Well. That's new.

"Yeah," I agree. "Beautiful."

But I'm not talking about Salem.

Taylor's been avoiding me all week since the race. I've tried everything I can think of to get him to talk to me, to tell him what I did for him, but all my attempts are shot down. I even showed up at Christian's house, where he's been staying, when I found out he had changed his damn number, but according to his best friend, he wasn't home. And no, he didn't know where to find him. And, yes, he'll tell him to text me or call me.

But Taylor never did. And he hasn't even glanced my way all evening, which hurts more than it should.

I feel antsy. Skittish. It's a side effect from a different medication since the last one made me feel like fucking Eyore from Winnie the Pooh, and I can tell it's another one I'm not going to like. I hate them all, honestly, but what can you do? Sleep is a human necessity, and without it, I'll die. So until I can finally get some shut-eye, the Russian roulette of anxiety pills continues. I just wish they didn't make me feel like pitching myself headfirst off a bridge. I'm barely holding on.

You're a fucking fake .

Taylor's words from a month ago echo in my ears, making me flinch. He's not wrong. And this pretense is killing me.

My phone alerts me to a new text, and my stomach flips, followed by disappointment when I see it isn't Taylor. Which makes me feel like a douchebag because it's my boyfriend.

Royce: Just pulled up to the parking lot. Meet me outside? :)

Right. The reason I'm here. Even though Royce knows I'm not ready to come out, he still wants to go to prom together. My school dance is this week, and I'll be going with him to his own prom next week. And I feel guilty as hell because I haven't been as attentive to him as I should have been. He should be with someone who's not ashamed to be with him, so I plan on breaking it off before I start school in the fall. Because he deserves better than me. I can't give him what he needs, but I will for tonight. To give him something happy to hold onto when I break his heart.

"Hey, my friend Royce is here," I tell Logan, who's still watching Salem slow dance with Taylor. "I'm going to go meet him."

He nods without breaking his gaze, and I frown at him before turning away, making a mental note to ask him about his behavior later. When I'm halfway out of the building, my phone goes off again, and I get a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Tell your best friend to stop eye fucking my girl.

My hands start to shake as my chest constricts. It's Taylor, I know it. I can feel it. And I'm pissed off as hell at him for ignoring me.

Me: Who's this?

Petty, I know. Sue me.

Taylor: You know who the fuck this is. And I don't like how you and your buddy have been looking at us all night. It's creepy as fuck. So get back in here and tell him to stop.

My cheeks heat from embarrassment. How dare he?

Me: Tell him yourself.

And with that, I pocket my phone, fucking fuming, as I exit into the parking lot. Another text comes through, but I don't bother to read it because fuck him. He'd be in goddamn prison if it weren't for me, but who cares, right? Just more shit Huck does for Taylor that goes unnoticed and un-fucking-appreciated. I've been such a pushover for the last four years; it's not even funny. But still, I'm a nice person, so I quickly pull my phone out again to send Taylor's new contact info to the business guy at the motorsports park before stepping over to find my boyfriend.

"I thought you forgot about me." His voice comes from my left, and I turn to see his small form striding toward me. He looks...so damn handsome, wearing a beige tux that makes his dark skin glow, the brown hair on his head shaved close in a fade. His hazel eyes lighten as he smiles at me, and my head throbs with guilt. I feel like an impostor.

"Never." I lean down to kiss him on the cheek, and he brings out a box from behind his back.

"Surprise," he laughs, a small smile forming on my lips at the matching boutonnieres in his hand. He's always so sweet like this. I don't deserve it.

He pins my boutonniere on my jacket, fingers lingering on the collar. "You look lovely, babe."

"You, too," I respond quickly, blushing and mentally kicking myself for not telling him sooner. He chuckles, always so full of laughter, before squeezing my hand.

"Ready for prom?"

At his wink, I'm pulling him toward school with a nod. We've only been dating for three months, and though we text constantly, it's been a few weeks since we've seen each other. Being at two different schools on two different schedules makes hanging out hard. I wish I was a decent boyfriend and could say that it bothered me, but really...it doesn't. Texting is fine—it's safe. Face-to-face, though, is always tough for me because of the effort it takes to maintain my mask. People exhaust me.

Except for Taylor because he sees me as I am.

That thought intrudes my brain, and I shake my head to shove it away.

As we near the gym doors, I let go of Royce's hand with an apologetic wince. "Sorry. "

He shakes his head quickly. "Don't be sorry. I know what it feels like, babe. Whatever you're comfortable with."

Fuck, he's too nice.

"Thank you," I murmur, pushing open the double doors and pulling him inside. When I look around for Logan, I find him surrounded by a small group of people, and as we near them, a sweat breaks out on my palms.

Taylor and Logan are in each other's faces, clearly locked in a heated argument.

Shit .

I shout over the music once we're close enough for them to hear. "Hey, what's going on?"

They both turn in my direction and when Taylor's eyes take in Royce, he freezes. There's a moment where something like pain crosses his features before it morphs into pure, unadulterated rage.

"Who the fuck are you?" He snarls, suddenly in my boyfriend's space.

"Royce. And you are?"

"This is Taylor." My throat closes around his name, so I clear it. "My stepbrother."

Around us, I notice Matthew, Xed, and Christian warily taking in the scene.

"Ah." Recognition sparks in Royce's eyes, and he stares up at Taylor with disdain. "The stepbrother who bullied you and stole your car."

Double shit.

Taylor goes rigid before swinging his eyes to me, hissing. "You told him? "

Yes, I told him. Because he's my boyfriend, and I felt like shit for lying about it.

A familiar voice from behind causes us all to go still. "Is there a problem here?"

Triple shit . This night just keeps getting worse.

Stealing my spine, I plaster on a smile and face my dad, who's sternly eyeing us. He and a few other parents volunteered to chaperone tonight.

"No problem, Dad." I keep my voice as light as possible.

Royce straightens at that, spinning to face my dad with his arm outstretched. "Bishop Davis, hi, I'm Huckslee's friend, Royce."

They shake hands, and it would have been a sweet moment if not for the scoff that shoots from Taylor's mouth. He's still looking at Royce murderously while Logan smirks down at Salem in a way I've never seen him do before. Matt, Xed, and Christian are bouncing their eyes around in anticipation as if this is some sort of thriller, and they even have a bag of popcorn. Where the hell did they get popcorn? I feel like I've entered the fucking twilight zone.

"I'm getting a drink," I mutter, leaving the group behind to stalk toward a banquet table holding food. I don't care if the punch is spiked. Don't care if I've only ever had wine a few times in my life because my heart feels like a jackhammer, and this is too much.

As I'm ladling the red liquid into a plastic cup, my hair stands on end, and I turn to see Taylor glaring at me a few paces away, his arms folded across his chest.

"What's he doing here?" He jerks a thumb over to where Royce and Dad are still conversing. "He doesn't even go here. "

"Neither do you." I sip my drink, keeping my eyes low.

His lips curl incredulously. "What, so he's your fucking boyfriend, now?"

"That's none of your business." Taking a giant gulp with a grimace, I turn away in time to see Salem stomping through the crowd toward the doors, Logan following close behind.

"What's going on with them?"

Taylor watches them go with disinterest, which I find really odd considering how pissed off he was at Logan for looking at Salem five minutes ago. His eyes find mine again, and he opens his mouth to speak, but someone blocks him from view before he can get a word out.

"That for me?" Royce grabs my cup with a grin and downs it, coughing harshly as he swallows. "Jesus. What's in this?"

"Everything, I'm pretty sure. It's nasty."

He chuckles, but the smile on his face quickly disappears when a hand slaps down on his shoulder from behind.

"Excuse you." Taylor steps in between us. "We were in the middle of a conversation."

Royce glances over at me before meeting Taylor's gaze. "I think your conversation is over. Remove your hand, please."

All I can do is gape as the two stare each other down. After several heated moments, Taylor huffs harshly, releasing Royce's shoulder with a shove.

He turns to me and sneers before sauntering away into the crowd. "Enjoy your prom."

My boyfriend leans in close to whisper in my ear as we both watch him go. "What is his deal? Is it because I'm Black?"

Gasping, I whip around with eyes like saucers. "What? N-no, Taylor isn't like that—"

"Relax, babe." His shoulders shake as he releases a full-bodied laugh. "I'm teasing."

"Oh." I chuckle in relief, running a hand through my curls. "You got me."

With a sigh, I gaze over all the dancing bodies, looking for signs of a dark head of hair. "Taylor doesn't really like anyone, honestly. Except his close friends."

"He likes you." Royce's eyes glitter and my heart kicks up as I frown down at him.

"Yeah, no. Pretty sure he hates me."

"Hmm," he hums as he grabs my arm, pulling me away toward the stage. "I saw the way he looked at you. Pretty sure your stepbrother is in love with you, babe."

He... what ?

I stammer, completely flabbergasted, because that's just ridiculous. Taylor has done nothing but make my life hell for years. He's hurt me, not just emotionally but physically. His fist has connected with my face more times than I can count. I may not know much about love, but I know what it looked like for my parents, and you don't do those sorts of things to someone you love. Right?

Royce grins. "I can see how thrilled you are about that revelation."

No, actually, I feel like I'm going to be sick. Because there's no way in hell Taylor fucking Tottman could love anything else other than himself and his bike. That's just who he is.

"He's a narcissistic asshole who uses people," I mutter, wishing I had another drink. "I seriously doubt he can love anyone. "

"We all feel it in our own ways." He tilts his head, studying me, and I drop my gaze because I'm worried about what he'll see. The room starts to feel too hot, too crowded, too many bodies pressed together. Suddenly, I feel adrift, like I've been capsized in a sea of strangers, and they're all watching me drown. I can't breathe.

"Hey, hey." Royce cups my face, his brows furrowed as he searches my eyes. After a long moment, his forehead smooths out, and he nods slowly. "Ah, I see. You love him, too."

" No ." I nearly shout the word, pulling back from his touch with a shaky breath. "I do not love Taylor. I hate him."

Because I do. I fucking hate him for all the shit he's done to me. For the near-constant state of panic I've been in, even if it was my mother's death that started it. His antics sure as hell didn't help. I hate his stupid fucking smirk, and his snarky comments, and the way I can't tell what color his eyes actually are. Hate his ridiculous shirts and angry music, that crooked incisor that only shows when he genuinely smiles, and the messy state of his hair. The way he made me crave him just to fuck with my head.

"I hate him," I repeat adamantly, even if it comes out weak.

Royce smiles sadly. "I believe that, too."

The music switches up, slowing to something rhythmically sweet, and it feels like the floor is shifting beneath me. My skin feels flushed, the wall of bodies beginning to close in. I need to escape.

"Do you want to dance?" I ask him suddenly, nodding at the curtain covering the stage, and he flashes me a warm smile.

"Love to. "

We agree to part ways for a few, so that he can head up behind the curtain first and then I'd follow. When I meet him back there five minutes later, however, I find him with his shoulders slumped, rubbing the back of his head. Looking uncertain. He straightens when he sees me and smiles his usual big grin, but there's less light behind it. And it kills me that I did that to him.

As he holds out his hand, I feel a shift between us when I take it. See the understanding in his eyes. This is goodbye.

"Royce..."

"It's okay." His hands clasp behind my neck, tangling with my curls while my arms wrap around his waist. "Let's just have tonight. Everything else can wait until tomorrow."

But why do I feel like there won't be one?

We slowly dance without speaking, surrounded by dust and band equipment. ‘Lost In Yesterday' by Tame Impala filters in through the speakers, low and melodic. It's dark back here, comfortable. My chin falls to the top of his head as I finally relax, feeling like I can breathe again.

"Do you want him?" He asks quietly, breaking our silence after a while, and I stiffen, knowing who he's asking about.

I want to say hell no, I don't. In fact, my lips part to say the words. But they don't come. Because the truth is that I've wanted Taylor since the eighth grade. Even after everything. There's something twisted about the way I yearned for his attention, even if the attention I got was all bruises and closed fists. How I avoided him, knowing he'd seek me out because I wanted the fucking chase. I just got good at lying to myself about it .

"I don't know." I feel myself shrug. "Maybe. Even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Nothing can come from it. There's too much...history. Too much toxicity."

Plus, there's the little fact that he can't stand being touched by me. So, how would that work?

"I think you two should talk it out."

A dry snort leaves my throat. "Yeah, right. Conversations with us usually end in bloodshed."

Or with his lips against mine as we writhe against each other, followed by a fallout .

There's no middle ground between us, even with my failed attempt at making the backyard track into some sort of neutral ‘Delaware' like an idiot.

Royce's chest vibrates as he laughs. "What did you expect when you fell for your bully? Who also happens to be your stepbrother."

"I didn't—" I blow a curl out of my eyes, sighing. "I don't think I've ‘fallen' for him. It's more like...infatuated." He pulls back to look up at me, unconvinced, and I smile crookedly. "Very strongly infatuated."

Royce shakes his head with a tsk before pulling my forehead down to his. "If you're this stubborn admitting your feelings, I think I'm dodging a bullet."

He says it lightly, like a joke, but I still feel the sting.

"I'm all messed up," I whisper, closing my eyes as our breaths mingle. His nose rubs against mine sweetly, causing my forehead to wrinkle, and he chuckles.

"We're still young, babe. You've got plenty of time to get your head on straight. "

Except it feels like I don't. Something in the pit of my stomach is telling me that a storm is brewing on the horizon, and I don't know if it's my intuition or the anxiety. I can't trust myself anymore.

"How about a kiss goodbye?" Royce's arms tighten around me, and despite my earlier convictions, I want to kiss him. Give him a piece of me to cherish when I'm gone for being kind to me when I didn't deserve it.

So I pull him closer and press my mouth to his, savoring the feel of its softness. We breathe each other in, our lips moving together in a kiss that's not as sexual as it is comfortable, full of understanding and friendship. If I had the time, I would have wanted to keep him. Maybe not as a romantic partner, but as a companion who shared his deepest secrets with me, and I with him. A close confidant. I think he would have liked that.

We hold each other for several moments, still pressed together, when I feel my stomach unexpectedly drop. It's...quiet. Whatever music that had been playing through the gym speakers has stopped. And then comes that feeling skittering across my skin, hair rising in a way that tells you when eyes are watching. Or, in this case, hundreds.

Hundreds of eyes.

Royce and I part with a smack , turning in each other's arms to see the curtain wide open. The entire senior class gapes at us as we stand tangled together on the stage. The blood drains from my face when I realize what they just saw—not only my fellow students but teachers and parents as well.

My parent .

Frantically, my eyes dart around the crowd, praying and pleading that he isn't among them, that he left early or stepped out to use the bathroom or something.

But my prayers go unanswered because I catch him standing close to the stage, staring at me with a reddened, unsettled expression behind his glasses. He's uncomfortable.

My dad just saw me kissing another man, and he's embarrassed. Sickened.

Behind him stands Logan, who looks just as shocked, his eyes taking me in as if I'm a stranger instead of the best friend he's known for twelve fucking years.

No, no, no .

Bile rises in my throat, threatening to make this night worse than it already is by having me puke in front of everyone. Royce says my name, but I barely register him over the pounding in my ears as my heart tries to tear its way from my chest. There's movement in my peripheral, off to the right, and my lungs seize as my eyes snap to the figure standing next to the edge.

Taylor drops his arm from the rope he used to pull open the curtain and slowly backs away, a dead look in his eyes as they meet mine.

Blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue, betrayal so raw and hot burning through me that I feel myself cleave in two.

And my entire being fucking shatters.

It doesn't take long for the silence to break, whispers from my peers battering my ears.

"Bishop Davis, did you know?"

"The running back is a fucking faggot."

"I caught him checking me out once in the locker room! "

Over and over, the fears I've been running from riddle my body in the form of words aimed at me like bullets from the mouths of a community I've been nothing but kind to.

Faggot.

Queer.

Disgusting.

I don't think. Don't speak. Ignoring Royce calling my name, I just turn around and run without looking back. Run from the judgment, the snickers, the looks. Luckily, Logan gave me his keys to hold earlier in the night, and I gun it out of the school parking lot in his car toward home.

I don't even remember the drive, don't even remember unlocking the front door or going to my room—all I know is I'm standing in the bathroom gazing at myself in the mirror. A bottle of pills in my hand. I've been through so fucking many over the last six months that I couldn't even tell you which medication it is, but I'm holding it in a death grip.

And I don't recognize the person in the mirror, the stranger gazing back at me with haunted eyes, tears staining his stricken face. Short, shallow gasps leave his throat, chest heaving as he grips his hair and just fucking screams. This isn't the Huckslee who stands up and sings every Sunday in church or the football player with a scholarship. Not even Huckslee the swimmer, or Huckslee the artist, or anything other than the real me underneath the mask that's finally splintered into tiny pieces.

This is the Huckslee whose mother left him, whose father will disown him, whose best friend will turn his back on him.

Whose stepbrother just broke his fucking heart.

And I hate this Huckslee. Hate the sight of this broken mess sobbing so hard that vessels in his eyes are blowing out. Hate the man cursing a God he no longer believes in for making him this way.

I can't change me. I can't fucking change me.

And I'm tired of trying.

My fist connects with my reflection, shattering the image staring back at me to match my soul, glass, and crimson raining down over the sink.

The distorted, authentic version of Huckslee gazes down at the bottle white-knuckled in his bleeding grip. He's unscrewing the lid, lifting the pill bottle to his mouth as one last sob leaves his throat.

He tips it back. Swallows.

And swallows.

Until there's nothing left of him to change at all.