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Chapter Seven Divided By One
“The Distance Between Two Hearts (In kilometers)”
Bigg
“Did you see this coming, because I swear I saw this coming! Like, it was bound to happen. Like, there was no way she actually liked Mario. Like, she was evil from the start and it radiated off of her.”
Jeremy was currently pacing his bedroom. We had seen Tina with some guy. And, because he’s Jeremy, he automatically assumed she’s cheating.
I sat at the edge of his bed while he stomped around like an escaped giant ape, climbing on noteworthy buildings with damsels in his hands. “You know, she’s innocent until proven guilty,” I said.
Jeremy eyed me. They were big and round and filled with confusion. It was as if I had told him I was pregnant with his unborn child, and not to make illogical cognitive leaps.
“This isn't Law and Order, Peanut Butter,” was his amazing response; hands on his hips as he stopped in front of me. The vein that appeared whenever he was thinking too much popped out and streaked across the side of his head, from his temple to the side of his hair. “If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck and acts like a duck, then it’s an unfaithful, deceitful whore!”
“Okay,” I chuckled. His face was turning bright red with anger; he was practically emitting the stuff. Just stench-y anger that filled the room with contempt and whatever cologne that was only half-covering up the fact that probably hadn’t showered. Like an angry skunk. “I know Mario would appreciate the whole let’s-burn-her-at-the-stake mentality from one of his best friends, but we don’t know for sure she was cheating on him.”
“She kissed him!” he yelled, flailing his arms and nearly tripping over his sneakers that he kicked off when he got back to his room.
“On the cheek,” I countered, calmer.
He rolled his eyes and kicked the shoes to the other side of the room, next to the window. “That still counts!” he shouted. “It’s like Diet-Cheating, or Cheating with, like, 60% less infidelity or whatever!”
“Okay, that didn’t even make sense.”
Jeremy growled incredibly lowly. And despite what my brain was telling my body to not do, it did it anyway.
So, as he grunted and grumbled in his deep voice and paced around looking all flushed and stuff, the blood flow in my body had decided to take a detour to the south of my boarder and granted me a little stiff fella in my pants.
I, always being the one to think a little quicker, threw a book over my crotch that was lying on Jeremy’s twin bed and rested it in my lap.
“Do you realize how hard this is?” he asked, turning back to me.
“I...may have a clue,” I answered.
Jeremy sighed and fell next to me on the bed, throwing a random arm over my shoulder, and leaning his head on to my shoulder blade. “You know,” he said, as my knuckled all but paled from the lack of blood flow, “My birthday is next week Friday.”
“Uuuh.” This was getting incredibly painful and particularly uncomfortable. “Wonderful.”
He waited a while. “Is that best friend speak for ‘I’m planning something incredible and I can’t tell you or…’”
I shook my head. “No, it’s Price Bigg for ‘don’t be expecting something fancy’.”
J chuckled. I could feel him smiling. “I’m not asking for a lot.” He paused for a beat. “I’d settle for a lap dance.”
My eyes brows lifted. “Then I’d better start taking lessons.”
We both laughed this time. I didn’t even notice that my boner was gone.
J grabbed my fingers, and started playing with them. It was something he did, usually randomly when we were having one of our talks. It had become so second nature, that I don’t know why I noticed it this time, particularly.
“What are we going to do about Tina?” he asked.
“We’re not doing anything, until we gather enough evidence to indict her.”
Jeremy snorted. “This is America, Peanut Butter. We shoot first and ask questions later.” He paused. He was thinking. I’ve known Jeremy long enough to know that when he was silently thinking, he was going to get us both into a lot trouble. “What if we follow her after school on Monday?”
“That’s going to have horrible results,” I said, trying to reason with the tiny, microscopic part of Jeremy’s brain that configures rational thought. No dice.
“But I owe it to him to do it,” he mumbled. His hair was tickling my face. “As a bro, I must. Rule 87 in The Bro Handbook.” He cleared his throat and I knew what was coming next. “Rule 87, paragraph 4, line 6 reads that In the event that a bro catches his bro’s girl cheating, he must collect the relevant evidence and present to his bro.”
I don't think he realized that contradicted what he was saying.
“The fact that you can recite that spiel from memory is frightening, considering the fact that you can’t remember who wrote the Declaration of Independence.”
“My brain only retains the important stuff,” he chuckled, huffing and lifted his head up. I frowned. “You want me to ask Max to get a Pizza or whatever?”
I didn’t look at him, but I answered. “Isn’t it a bit late?”
“It’s never too late,” he responded, and I could hear the laughter in his voice, even though he was practically yawning when he said it. That kind of scared me.
“Sure,” I said. “Peperoni?”
He got up and stretched, running a hand to mess up his already messy hair. “You know it, PB.” He smiled. “Be right back.”
He left and I let out a breath that I didn’t even realize that I was holding. My chest burned and my heart was beating way out of time. My hands were shaking. My face was probably red by how much it burned.
How oblivious his Jeremy?
All of these signs that when he’s next to me and he still hasn’t figured anything out? That’s just crazy. That’s just moronic. Maybe I have a new equation for him. I should write one up when I get home.
One that explains Jeremy’s obviousness and, maybe one that explains my stupidity. Because if there is anyone stupider than Jeremy in this instance, it’s me.
He’s straight. I’m gay. He’s straight. I’m gay. He’s straight. I’m gay.
What the fuck is so difficult to understand about that? Why doesn’t my brain get that? Or other parts of my anatomy, for that matter.
Why do I see his smile whenever I close my fucking eyes? And…and, tell me why the hell do I have to hear his stupid, cute laughing whenever I’m in my room alone? And can GOD HIMSELF get off his throne and explain to me why my knees become cooked noodles whenever he touches me?
And while he’s at it, why doesn’t he explain to me why I’m the only one with these feelings? And what is the point of unrequited love? Who even came up with that idiotic phrase? Who defined that? He should be shot.
And whose bright idea was this things. Emotions. All they do is fuck with your head.
I’m a logical person. Give me numbers, or give me death. Hold the feelings. The emotion. Happiness. The love. Because if all that leads to pain, and it always does, in the end, then keep them away from me. Forever.
I just want to be free of them and of this hold that Jeremy Smalle has on me. But it’s always easier said than done.
I’m aware that I am in the middle of a rant. I am even more aware that it is all for nothing, because I’m a fucking loser who can’t say this shit aloud and to the one person who needs and should hear it. I’m aware of these things. And that makes me more of an idiot than Jeremy will ever be.
I took my phone out and texted Joy.
Can you look up the definition of ‘loser’ for me and text it back? I texted.
It was a cry for help in the most covert way possible. Seeing as I didn’t have any other friends other than Jeremy, Joy was the only other person who I felt comfortable talking with this about.
Unfortunately, Jeremy returned before she replied. Maybe she was one of those people who took hours to respond and then gave you that bullshit about not seeing it.
Jeremy stepped through the door frame, and it was like he had stepped into an alternate reality. His face turned from tasting sugar, to swallowing salt. “What’s wrong?” he asked and jogged his way over and sat next to me, knowing to keep a bit of distance between us.
“Why is there something wrong?” I asked. I kept my head to the carpet. Amazing the things you notice when your eyes are glued to a floor, I thought. You notice that there are stains there that you never quite recognized before. And that stitching? Uuuh, can you say flawless?
“Maybe it’s because you haven’t been able to look me in the eyes since we sat down and the only time that ever happens is when there is something wrong.”
“What kind of pizza did you get?”
“Pineapple. What’s going on?”
“Did you get soda?”
“Coke. Is everything okay with your parents?”
“I hope it’s not diet.”
“It’s fucking regular Coke, Price! With the red label! Now can you please tell me what’s going on with you? Because your eyes get sad and I get really fucking terrified.”
I looked at him. Right in his eyes. There was panic swimming in them, with hints of worry and puddles of hurt. I stared for a moment. Maybe a moment too long, because he huffed. “Nothing’s wrong, Jeremy. I’m…not sad.”
He still looked like he was holding a breath. “Then why aren’t you talking to me?”
“I will…just not now.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re about to eat pizza and I’d rather do so in a good mood.”
He threw his hands up. “Price ‘Peanut Butter’ Bigg, you are the single most frustrating thing on the planet.”
I smirked. “I thought that was maths.”
“Math,” he corrected with a smug look.
I punched him in his gut. He retracted and a breath of air escaped him and hit me in the face. Hot, but somehow cool. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Jeremy groaned a few more times, rubbing his stomach, but bits and pieces of small chuckles surfaced as they spilled out.
The doorbell rang and he clapped his hands. “I call at least four slices!” he shouted and pushed me backwards so he could get up and dash out.
I lied there for a moment. Just stared up at the single, holding my breath. And quietly reminded my brain to keep my heart under control.
Then I got up and jogged after Jeremy. I found him in the kitchen, already with a slice of pizza in his mouth. His parents were here too, as well as his little brother Micah.
He jogged over and ruffled the little man’s hair. He didn’t appreciate it. He smacked my hand away and stared. “I’m not ten anymore, Price.”
Jeremy snorted, and subsequently spat bits of torn cheese all over us.
Mrs. Smalle – Rachel - was a strawberry blonde with Jeremy's eyes, but half of his height. She allowed everyone to call her (including her children) Rachel.
She laughed as she wiped cheese off of Micah’s face, who swatted her hand away. “Keep your microorganisms to yourself, Son #1,” she faux-scolded.
Max (His Dad), who stood an inch taller than Jeremy, and was essentially and older version of himself, laughed along. “Fuck Jer, please keep your dirty germs to yourself.”
Rachel eyed him and he raised his hands. “I apologize for using less than savory words in front of our offspring, wife,” he said monotonously.
Micah sighed. “I’m stuck in a family of freaks and hippies.”
Rachel snorted. “You make that sound like a bad thing, Offspring #2.”
“It is!” He yelled, though it was laughed at. “Like, who allows their preteen on the internet with no filters? And who allows their children to call them by their first names?!” He asked, his voice cracking under the weight of his changing body. “We’re eating pizza at almost eleven at night! It’s anarchy in this house!”
“Sheesh Micah, way to be a Fun Hitler,” Jer commented and got a death glare from his little brother.
Micah turned to me. “Take me home with you?”
“He’s staying over tonight,” Jeremy countered and smirked. “So you’ll have to get those adoption forms signed some other day.”
“You’re literally the worst, and gay.”
Jeremy spat out more pizza. He quickly got some of the Coke and swallowed it down, forgetting the burn that comes with drinking it. He immediately grabs his throat and lets out a pained cry. “I’m not gay Micah – Jesus what’s in this stuff.” He placed down the liter of coke. His left eye twitched. “It’s like tasty death.”
“Now, Micah,” Rachel began, patting her elder son on his back, “Sexuality is fluid. There’s no such thing as gay or straight. Just human.”
Micah rolled his eyes. “Okay, Teresa,” he spat. “I’m going up to my room where the laws of this world apply.” Then he stomped out of the room and up the stairs.
“He’s cranky,” Rachel says and flips her sun-tinged hair. “I better go and check on him.”
Jeremy smirked. “He’s just got his preteen panties into a bunch.”
Rachel eyed him. “And you’re coming with me.”
Jeremy groaned. “What did I even do?”
“You’re going to say you’re sorry for whatever you did to previously upset him.”
“That could take hours,” Jer groaned, as they exited the kitchen and left me and Max alone.
At first it was silent, as it always is between the two of us. Whereas Jeremy could go on for hours talking about nothing, and Micah and I could discuss his family’s incredible weird behavior and Rachel and I could go on about how it’s a travesty that our school doesn’t have a Mathlete team (and how we “should protest that shit out of it”), Max and I never really had anything to talk about.
But tonight, he decided to say something. “Jeremy’s birthday is coming up.”
I was taken a bit off guard by it, but I nodded after I caught that we were about to going to have a conversation (i.e. small-talk, but I never call it that because then I panic). “Next week,” was my offering to the dialoge.
“I think,” he said, and looked back at the door and then returned to me, moving closer to me and talking in a hushed voice, “I think we should throw him a surprise birthday party.”
I blinked. “He’s going to be seventeen, Max.” He blinked. I snorted. “Do you think he really wants a party? If anything, he wants strippers and beer.”
Max looked horrified. “No strippers. If my son’s going to have his lips on anybody, it’s going to be you.”
“That’s…kinda weird coming from you, Mr. Smalle.”
“It’s Max,” he corrected, “and I don’t know why Jeremy doesn’t see it. I mean, maybe he needs to experiment.” He coughed. “Maybe with someone he knows.”
I raised a brow. “Mr. Sm…Max. Are you asking me to have sex with your son on his birthday?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” he chuckled, “I’m not directly saying anything, as that would be completely inappropriate as an adult to say and probably illegal to do…… but I am absolutely going to imply it.”
“I’m not having sex…”
“Inside voices, Peanut Butter,” he mumbled, finger on his lips.
“I’m not doing anything with your son, Max," I whispered. "…not until I at least know he feels the same way about me.”
Max blinked. His mouth twitched. Oh boy. “Price, I'm going to ask you a question and I would appreciate it if you were straight up with me, pun intended.”
Oh Boy. Oh Golly.
“Is there a chance that you are in love with my son?” His voice was soft. Like he just found out he was going to have his first child.
What’s the point of even lying? “There’s a high probability that I am 100% madly in love with him, Max. Possibly. Probably. Definitely. Shit,” I whispered.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow!” he shouted out of a sudden burst of excitement, but calmed down once he noticed how loud he’d gotten, “We’ll meet up tomorrow to discuss how deep this thing goes.”
I swallowed. I really don’t feel like talking with Max about the raging love I feel for his son. “Can it be the day after tomorrow?” I asked. “Jeremy and I have something to do, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”
“Okay,” he said with a nod, “day after tomorrow. I’ll be at the bottom of the house,” he said. “Leaky pipes need fixing.”
“Gotcha,” I answered, and just as Jeremy reentered the room.
Max quickly moved away so that Jeremy could reclaim his spot next to me, but he didn’t. He took the seat at the opposite end of the table. Something was different. He wouldn’t allow his eyes to move from the wood. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were wide and looked panicked.
“Jeremy…is everything alright?” Max asked, eyeing me as he did so.
“Uh. Yeah. I’m…good,” he answered, and looked up at me for a split moment.
And in that split moment, I saw something weird flash through his eyes, and he immediately looked back down.
Uh Oh.