Chapter 14
The next few days drag by in a slow routine of uncomfortable tension, minimal conversation, and guarded expressions. The only time I seem to find enjoyment is through swimming. My endurance is coming back to me, and every practice is better than the last.
But even during my sleep, my dreams seem to feed off my worries and guilt. Roland hasn't spoken a word to me since I told him I was moving out. He goes out of his way to avoid communicating with me during practice, a tactic that a few other teammates are utilizing as well.
Whatever. Their loss.
No matter how much I can shrug off their attitude though, I can't manage to do the same for my best bud. He's in the wrong, hands down. Even so, it's hard not to miss the guy. He's pretty much been the only consistent person in my life over the last year. Not having him around doesn't just feel weird. It feels lonely, too.
I unlock Bennett's front door and nudge it open with my shoulder. Music and heat devour the cold air at the threshold, and I shiver while closing the door behind me. Bennett pops his head around the kitchen wall and nods in greeting.
He has a habit of ignoring my presence at practice...and most of the time at his condo, too. The small greeting takes me by surprise, and I find myself walking into the kitchen because of it. Bennett is standing in front of the stove. Shirtless. His long hair is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and he pushes around whatever meat is occupying the pan with a wooden spoon.
The music streaming from the speaker on the cabinet is a mix between classic rock and pop. It's a tune I haven't heard before, but Bennett bobs his head to the solid beat. My eyes trail along his lean back. Every time he turns the spoon, a muscle tics along his shoulder.
I want to say something so he knows I'm in here with him, but nothing comes to mind. As one song carries over to the next, however, Bennett glances over his shoulder. I tense, preparing myself for whatever antagonizing words he's about to throw my way.
"I'm having a few guys over," he says over the ACDC song, turning back to his steaming pan of food. "So you either need to make yourself scarce or get that pole out of your ass. Your choice."
Hmm. Not nearly as bad as I expected. Some might even call that an invitation to join in on 'guy night.' I slide my gym bag off my shoulder and plop it down on the nearest kitchen chair. Tomorrow will mark a full week since I've been here, and I feel like more of a stranger in Bennett's home than I did on day one.
Of course, being drunk that first night made being here a whole helluva lot more bearable.
Despite how uncomfortable our living arrangement is, Bennett hasn't dropped any hints that he wants me to move out. Not yet, anyway. He hasn't even asked if I've started looking for a place. Then again, anything along those lines would require a conversation – a form of communication that is scarce when it comes to the two of us.
"Who's all stopping over?" I ask, unsure of whether I should sit down or stay standing.
"A few buddies from class. Weston."
"Anyone from swim?"
Bennett turns around to glance at me again. "Roland won't be here, if that's what you're asking."
I drop my gaze, staring at the frayed threads of my gym bag. I didn't think my question was that obvious, but apparently Bennett knew where I was headed all the same. Then again, there's no one else on the team I really talk to aside from Erik and Cameron whenever he wants to hear his own voice.
When I don't respond, Bennett turns back to his cooking. The gritty, raw song pulses against my temples. If it was anyone else standing a few feet away from me I'd compliment them on their taste of music. But it's not. So instead I stand in silence, mentally singing along to the lyrics of one of my favorite tunes.
"What's the deal with you two?"
Bennett throws out the question casually. It sounds so natural you'd think the two of us did this kind of thing on a regular basis. I pull out the middle chair at the kitchen table and take a seat. My burning thighs sigh in appreciation. Even though my endurance is coming back to me at practice, Coach is pushing us harder and harder. Another few practices like today and I'll be taping ice to my thighs while I sleep.
"I went and picked up most of my stuff yesterday when I knew he was out," I answer after a minute of silence. "I'm renting out one of the storage units up the street."
Bennett scoffs under his breath and shakes his head. "I couldn't care less about where you're storing your shit. I'm asking why you moved out in the first place."
Ah.
I scratch along the edge of my jaw. Gruff stubble kisses the pads of my fingertips, reminding me yet again that I'm in desperate need of a shave. Do I trust Bennett with what happened between Roland and me? Fuck no. But I'm not so much of a chicken shit that I feel the need to come up with a fake explanation, either.
"I just need some space," I answer honestly. "Away from him."
"Hmm."
He mulls over my response. I can't very well tell him about the situation with Annie and Roland. Hell, just days ago my ex was draped over Bennett too. Bringing her up in conversation will just make things worse.
"We're gaming tonight," Bennett announces after another stretch of silence. "You game at all?"
He pulls the meat off the stove, sprinkling a few spices overtop of it. He stirs it all together, and suddenly the aroma of tacos tickles my nose. My stomach grumbles on cue. Roland wasn't the best cook in the world, but I got used to his meals. Some days he even had the table set by the time I came home.
Now I'm lucky if I remember to pack myself a peanut and butter and jelly sandwich.
Bennett turns around to face me, leaning against the counter with raised eyebrows. I shrug at his question.
"Used to be. Roland isn't a huge fan of gaming. He thinks they're a waste of time, so when I tried to bring my PS2 into the apartment, he –"
Bennett holds up his hand, stopping me mid-statement. "Again...it was a simple question. Can you game or not? If you can't, we'll make you our kitchen bitch for the night. Making sure we're stocked on beer. If you can, we'll make you player four."
I grit my teeth and glare up at him. "I can game," I argue defensively.
He smirks and crosses his arms against his muscular chest. "We'll see."
_________________________
My fingers fumble over the buttons for the first 20 minutes. At first I complain that my controller's broken. It has to be. But after swapping controllers – twice – I realize that the fault is with my coordination.
I suck.
The other guy on my team grunts with frustration, inevitably leading to a victorious grin spreading across Bennett's lips. Alright, so maybe I haven't gamed in almost a year. How the fuck was I supposed to know that things had changed so much since then?
I attempt to learn as I go, studying the screens of the guys around me in a desperate, last-ditch effort for improvement. Meanwhile my teammate, Dan, huffs from the other couch, clearly disgruntled at tonight's luck for being stuck with the newbie. He runs a hand through his short, brown hair and his nostrils flare.
Weston steals my weapons from me, yet again, and Dan purses his lips with restraint. He doesn't have to say anything aloud, though. It's obvious what he's thinking. And sure enough, only another minute passes before we lose. Again. The game music shifts as Bennett navigates back to the start menu for another game, and Dan stands from the other couch in protest.
"He's on your team this time," he shouts.
Two of Bennett's friends stare at us through the condo door, the outburst loud enough to pull their attention away from the glowing cigarettes hanging off their lips. Weston chuckles beside Bennett, and the noise grates against my nerves.
The guy still hasn't apologized for standing me up for drinks.
I toss the controller to the side and push myself off the couch. I'm not sure why I thought this would be a better alternative than sulking in my room for the evening.
"I'm out," I say. "No need to pawn me off."
Dan mutters something under his breath, and I flip him off without actually hearing what he has to say. I swipe up a beer from the counter on my way to the staircase. Bennett's friends aren't so different from the guys I used to spend my free time with in high school.
And in normal circumstances, I think we'd get along just fine. Or maybe I'd be less sensitive. But right now, knowing their alliances and friendship lie with Bennett, I can't help but find fault in every, single one of them.
I take the stairs three at a time, turning the corner when I reach the landing to go into the guest bedroom. The upstairs is completely black. The only light that manages to cut through the impenetrable darkness is the light of my phone. I flop on the bed and squint at it.
I have a new text.
My stomach tightens as I unlock my phone and open up my messages.
Roland: You left a few things here. Kitchenware mostly.
The tone of his text is so cold. I stare at his words, simultaneously hating that he texted me while also wishing he said more. He's the one who caused this, though. And there's no going back now. Instead of responding, I open up the ESPN app on my phone and start streaming the baseball game live.
Sometime during the seventh inning stretch, another text message pops across my screen.
Bennett: Come back downstairs.
I probably should. My behavior wasn't just that of a man too prideful to lose another video game. It also made me come off as more of a jack ass than I normally am. I crack open my beer and drain half the can before responding.
Me: I will in a bit.
Bennett's response is instantaneous.
Bennett: Come down now. Someone's here to see you.