Philips (Sequel to De Santa)

Chapter One

"Trevor?" I called out. "Breakfast is ready." I carefully slid Trevor's eggs into his plate alongside his diced fried potatoes, ham, and buttered biscuits. I let out a yelp as a pair of arms wrapped around me and a playful snarl erupted in my ear, sending chills down my spine. "Trevor!" I squealed. "You almost made me spill your food."

"Sorry, couldn't help myself." Trevor purred. His hot, damp body was pressed against mine and the smell of his body wash filled my nose with delight. "I missed you."

"You were only in the shower."

"Yeah, but you weren't there with me." Trevor's hand slowly slid down to the hem of my shirt.

"Trevor." I mumbled.

"Chels..."

~~

"Trevor!" I quickly sat up in bed, soaked with sweat as I gasped for air. I looked around my room and sighed. "Goddamn it." It was another dream. I've lost count on how many that makes. Months have passed since I last saw him at the hospital, haven't heard from him either. Dad said that he's just keeping his distance to insure my safety, but I know it's because he just doesn't care.

I shouldn't be having these dreams, I should've been moved on by now, but I can't forget him. I felt more for him than I have ever felt about any man in my life...and now he's gone, leaving me heartbroken and in a state of deep depression. Dad has tried to get me to hang out with him since I started feeling better. Playing tennis, swimming or chilling by the pool, even watching old movies, but my heart just wasn't in it. He still tries, but not as much.

I looked over at my alarm clock and groaned. It was only three in the morning. I carefully climbed out of bed and slowly made my way to the bathroom to dry myself off. Looking in the mirror was a constant battle for me; I looked dreadful.

I lost a lot of weight due to my liquid diet, enough weight to give me enough skin to use to make my stoma look normal again. I was thankful for Dad paying for the procedure, I hated having what looked like an extra butthole on my stomach, but I hated it even more that it left a scar that made me look like I was shot with a small cannonball at point blank range. I still had my scar from that procedure and the surgery for my stab wounds, but they healed rather nicely.

Once I cleaned myself up, I made my way down the stairs and raided the fridge for a bottle of water and a small bag of grapes. I wasn't on a liquid diet anymore, but the thought of eating was still a problem for me. Between my depression and my stomach shrinking, food was just not on my priority list.

"Hey," Dad softly spoke as he entered the kitchen, shocked that I had left my room in the first place.

"Hey," I mumbled. "Still in the dog house?"

"Yeah," Dad tittered. "Amanda is still damn determined that we won't be moving anywhere."

"And you?"

"We will, I just gotta get that point across. Hell, I even took her to see the place I'm looking at. She loved it, said it was nicer than this place, but she refuses to leave."

"Did she say why?"

"Nothing important. Just her gym and yoga shit."

"Doesn't sound good to me, Dad. Sounds like she might be hiding something in the closet."

"I wouldn't be fucking surprised. She fucking slept with her yoga instructor, tennis coach, Jim's third-grade teacher, a juice seller, a dog walker, our gardener Carlos, my proctologist, some Jesus lookalike hippie, and some homeless nut job who talked about the end of the world."