Title Track

Z leaves the room, shouting about what a shithead I am, how much she hates me; fuck you, Ryan, you asshole.

I roll my eyes and fall back onto the couch. Alex takes out his small plastic bag, filled with my favorite white powder.

“You look like you need a line,” Alex is the tiny devil on my shoulder, and the angel is… I need a line.

I bend down, Alex rubs my shoulders, kisses behind my ears, and I see stars behind my eyelids as the burn in my throat becomes too much and I begin to dry heave.

I love my life.

Before I lose consciousness, I see the face that I’ve seen in my dreams every night for the past three years.

Lips, and lashes, and such smooth skin; Brendon.

“Ryan,” I hear, but it’s not Brendon, because it’s never Brendon, “Ryan! Ryan, wake the fuck up!” It’s Z’s shrill voice, and I think she’s still pissed because I don’t want to marry her. “Quit doing lines on my couch and go home.” she hisses. I loll my head up to look at her and roll my eyes. “Alex is out in you car waiting.”

I don’t want to get married because it’s a waste of time. It’ll just make me want to leave.

//

The pages of my tattered notebook are nearly filled. The day I left Brendon was the day I stopped writing in that thing.

I flip through the pages that haven’t been touched in years, smeared pen, running ink; oh, the memories.

“What are you looking at?” Alex asks, nuzzling his nose into the side of my face.

“Just an old notebook from high school.” I mumble as he leans over my shoulder. I quickly shut my notebook. “So, uh, lunch?” I ask look at his head of messy hair.

“Lunch is good.”

“Text me where we’re meeting in an hour. I need a nap.”

“Sounds good. Later.” He kisses me on the lips, and it tastes terrible, like it always does.

I lay myself down on the couch and close my eyes as Alex slams the front door, like he always does.

I picture a field of sheep, each passing by me slowly.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…

First come the lips; soft, and pink, and so familiar. Then come the eyes; wide, and brown, and full of adoration. Then the Adam’s apple; bobbing up and down.

My heart is beating my throat; it’s like I’m watching from the outside, it’s like I can’t touch him.

Because I can’t.

I wake up, an hour and forty-six minutes later, and I realize how late I am.

I pull into the parking of whichever restaurant this is, rushing in to explain that I’m meeting someone, and I’m really late.

“Hey. Sorry. Late. Traffic.” I huff as I seat myself across from Alex. “Have you ordered yet?”

He chuckles at my frantic state, the asshole, and shakes his head.

“Cool.” I sigh, taking a sip of his beer.

We speak for a while longer before Alex straightens up at the appearance of the waiter.

“Have you decided yet?”

My head shoots up. My heart stops. I’m going to throw up.

I throw up.