I Don't Love You

Why The Hell Not?

Day One.

Bob follows behind me, grabbing at every edible dish he can find on the long buffet while I skim the contents for anything that looks like it doesn't have meat. So far, my breakfast plate consists of an orange, a half a slice of apple, and what I believe is a cinnamon roll. When we've reached the end, I frown at my plate and let Bob lead me to a vacant table near a few of the other kids who have woken up this early to claim food before they start exploring the city. Gerard isn't among them, though I see Mikey seated a few tables away, poking a muffin. He's alone.

I nudge Bob and point a finger in his direction. Bob looks up, sees the figure I'm gesturing to, and shakes his head. "Nope."

I sigh. "Come on, he used to be my friend."

"Yeah," Bob says around a bite of food, being courteous enough to swallow before continuing. "Gerard used to be your friend, too."

I glare at him for only a second and then grab my plate and move toward Mikey. Bob groans loudly, but when I sit down with Mikey he's right beside me. Mikey looks up and a smile twitches on his lips. "Hey." He stops dissecting his food long enough to take a bite, glancing between Bob and I curiously. I offer a smile, but silence falls heavily on the table until Mikey clears his throat. "A couple of us are going down to check out the Mob Museum in a few hours, maybe see the Strip, and then we're thinking about hitting up Hard Rock to see whatever local band is playing tonight. Do you guys wanna come with?"

I glance over at Bob, who shrugs indifferently. It's not like either of us really had a plan for today. So I nod and dig a nail into my orange peel. "Yeah, totally."

Mikey smiles again and this time when the silence falls, it doesn't feel as pressuring. It feels sort of like it used to.

It's not until Mikey, Bob, and I are walking up the steps to the Mob Museum that it occurs to me to even ask who else will be joining us on our adventures. At that point, Mikey grimaces with an evasive shrug. "Just a couple friends."

I realize who those "friends" are just as I hear Gerard's voice. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

Near the entrance of the museum, Gerard is leaning against the wall with a cigarette between two fingers. A frown creases his lips. Beside him, I recognize a few of his other friends— One with crazy curly hair, Ray I think, and one who looks like he just crawled out of a sewer, with stringy black hair and dark circles under his wide blue eyes. Ben or Buck or something like that. Regulation class stoner— I'm surprised he's even graduated, but right now that's the least of my concerns.

"Bert," Gerard nudges the greaser. Oh. Bert. That's it. "Here." He hands over his half finished cigarette, taken gratefully by the other boy, and I feel a twinge of jealousy. When we were sixteen, Gerard and Mikey and I used to sit around Mikey's room, passing around a single fag, each taking a drag of the seductive nicotine. It was before any of us were actually old enough to pick up the habit legally and relied on casual stolen cigarettes, shared between us.

Gerard comes to stand before his brother, arms folded against his chest in a defiant manner. He jerks his head in my direction. "Why is he here?"

I roll my eyes. "To piss you off, obviously."

Mikey choses to ignore my response and settles with an indifferent shrug. "He came to see the museum."

Gerard frowns, casting a glance and twisted snarl my way. It amazes me how he used to be my best friend and now he can't seem to even look at me for longer than a second. I hope it's the guilt that eats him alive every time he sees my face, like somehow he knows the hell he put me through.