Wanderlust (Kellic)

Chapter 6

I don’t know if he’s sleeping or unconscious. Either way, I can’t help but pull his shoes off and attempt to rest the covers on top of him. I lightly touch his face, immediately feeling the warmth radiating from it, before turning off the lights and climbing back into my own bed.

As I lie awake, I realize that I have not seen every side of Vic Fuentes. I’ve seen the happiness, the friendliness, the enthusiasm—but that’s not all there is to him. I can see another part, one that’s been hiding from me since I met him.

I don’t know all that much about alcohol, but I do know that people who are as drunk as Vic don’t get that drunk from simply having a few shots for the fun of it. This level of drunk is for people with a darker side that they want to get rid of. This level of drunk is for people who are trying to destroy themselves.

—

"I feel like shit," Vic says in the morning. He buries his face in his pillow and groans. "What the hell happened last night?"

"You got wasted," I tell him.

"Are you serious?" He pulls himself to his feet, unsteady, then makes a break for the bathroom. A few seconds later, I can hear him emptying the contents of his stomach.

Well, now we’re even, I think. He’s seen me a wreck after a nightmare (twice), and now I’ve seen him both drunk and hungover.

Vic soon emerges from the bathroom, still in a bit of a daze and wiping sweat off his forehead. “Whoa. Let me get my shit together first. Then we can go to wherever we’re going.”

"Okay," I say, before adding, "Tony called you last night."

Vic falls back into his bed. “Why?”

"He, uh…he wanted to make sure you weren’t out getting drunk or high somewhere."

Vic grimaces. “He knows me too well.”

I want to ask him why he felt the need to do it last night. I want to know more about these other parts of him. But I’m not going to ask him to open up to me when I can’t even open up to him, so instead I stay silent and let him pull himself together.

Eventually, he does, and then he seems to brush it off. It’s kind of concerning, actually, that he’s so casual about what happened. It’s like he’s used to it, and I hate thinking that what I saw is normal for him.

"So, the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center," he says. "I’m assuming that’s where we’re headed?"

"Yeah," I reply, trying to match his now generally upbeat mood. "To find ‘the guy with the hat’. Whatever that means."

"I guess we’ll find out."

It doesn’t take long for us to get there. The Fine Arts Center, huge and professional-looking, is just north of downtown Colorado Springs (if Vic and a GPS are to be trusted), and right out front is a guy wearing a large hat. As we get closer and park the car, I realize that this hat has a specific shape to it.

"Hey, Vic," I say, pointing as we hop out and make our way toward the building. "Is that hat shaped like a dick?"

Vic starts laughing, because I can see it clearly now. “Oh my God,” he says. “It is.” He waves his hand. “Hey! Guy with the hat!”

The guy turns to us, and I think I can see recognition cross his face. “When you’re ready, come and get it!” he sings, to the tune of the Selena Gomez song, before flipping us off and running around the side of the building.

"Hey!" Vic and I yell in unison. We exchange a what-the-fuck look before chasing after the guy.

Most of the people here are inside, but there are a few walking past us that look at us like we’re insane. I don’t blame them—a guy wearing a hat shaped like a sex organ isn’t exactly something you see every day.