The Fuck Up

vi.

Harley didn’t come back the next day, or the day after that, or the day after fucking that. I didn’t go look for him either.

I was pissed off, but after all the extraneous anger drained from me, I was more freaked the fuck out.

I stood there and let fucking Harley give me a fucking hickey. I let a man give me a hickey. And what’s worse, he seemed even more fucking willing.

Now that I can look back on it, I wasn’t mad about the hickey. I didn’t care about the fucking hickey, and I didn’t care that it was fucking Harley who gave it to me.

I cared because it was a man.

I never once in my life ever thought I could be gay, and I wouldn’t let myself be.

I couldn’t be gay. I would not fucking allow it. Not after everything I’d fucking went through.

To avoid the stupid hickey-giving prick, I didn’t go back to the bar. Not a day after he left, not a week after, not a fucking month after.

I stayed away from any possible fucking place Harley could be, and he sure as hell stayed away from me. I want to say my life went back to how it had been and that I was fucking glad.

But, no. Oh no, no, no. I was goddamn miserable. More than I usually was. Every single one of my snooty ass coworkers loathed me because of how pissy I was in the office and because I took it out on all of their worthless asses.

I wasn’t sleeping either. I already barely slept before the prick showed up, now he fucking left and ruined the little sleep I had been able to get. And because I couldn’t go to the fucking bar, I couldn’t get piss drunk so I would be able to fall a-fucking-sleep.

Fucking Harley.

But I wasn’t admitting the obnoxiously obvious, because that would mean admitting fucking defeat. I definitely didn’t want Harley back.

After a month, though, I couldn’t take it. I needed the fucking sleep. I drove down to the bar and I sat my ass in a fucking stool, and I chugged down drinks like there was no fucking tomorrow.

Ha. Maybe if alcohol poisoning finally killed me then there wouldn’t be any tomorrow.

I don’t know if I was surprised or not when he finally appeared. I didn’t even have to look when he did. It was like I could feel him; feel his eyes studying my soul.

“Finally made an appearance, huh,” I slurred, sloppily drinking my beer. Some of it spilled out of my mouth and onto my shirt but I gave no fucks.

“I was hoping you were done with coming here,” he muttered softly, causing me to snort.

“Like that’ll fucking happen.”

“Go home, Reed.”

“Why don’t you go home, you turdface?”

He chuckled. “I don’t know how, but I missed your insults.”

I stiffened, and I guessed he noticed that.

“I missed you,” he added, his voice only a whisper.

“Shut up,” I gritted out. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Reed—”

“You’re the one who didn’t fucking come back, so if you fucking missed me that’s your fucking problem.”

“You wouldn’t have let me in if I came back,” he pointed out.

I didn’t say anything. Even I couldn’t deny it.