Page 37 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Crazy weather we’ve been having.”
I look out the windshield at the blue sky. “Is it?”
“No.No, fuck this, Orok Monroe. I didn’t even get an annoyed groan at my rawball joke, and you’re okay talking about ticket mundanity and theweather?”
I slow to a stop at a red light, grip clenching on the gearshift. “I appreciate you coming to the game. It’s been a busy month; sorry I haven’t seen you much.”
At all.
I haven’t seen Sebat all.
I’m on lockdown. Self-imposed emergency preventative maneuvers.
Which includes, always does, keeping my distance from Seb. The last thing I ever want to do is glom on to him again, make him my safety net even if he swears it’s fine. It’snotfine.
But the biggest preventative maneuver: no excess contact with Alexo either.
Matching the two other games this month, while traveling and home, we had two moredates. One was dinner, one was another coffee meetup at a spot downtown. I was cordial for the cameras I knew were beyond the windows both times, and I paid like a gentleman, but I kept conversation surface level. And I did not look at him too long, did not note how he wore a turtleneck crop top to the dinner date, and it showed his flat stomach and a gold belly chain.
A gods-damnedbelly chain.
It got easier to keep the boundaries up when, at the end of bothdates,that guywas nearby, for the away game, too, waiting to whisk Alexo off.
And each time, as they were leaving, that guy was clearly berating Alexo, and Alexo slumped and just took it. And I couldn’t do anything. Because he’s not actuallymine.
That’s the motto of this lockdown. He’s not mine and I’m not obsessed with him, or anyone, and I am perfectly capable of functioning like a normal, healthy adult because I put in the work, gods damn it.
I hate this.
All of it.
The seeing him, the not seeing him, the letting him leave with that asshole, the self-imposed restraint. I’m clinging to my hard-earned composure by the skin of my teeth, and said teeth are about ground down to nubs.
Seb huffs into the phone. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure. Pushing me away? Putting me in a box? You did it in Vegas but it took me a while to realize youweren’tbusy. We live in the same city now, dude.You aren’t this busy. After the game tonight, I’m going to see you. Face-to-face. For longer than an affablehello. I’m not letting you go all distant and formal with me, O. Not again.”
A car behind me honks when I miss the light change, and I slam on the gas, knuckles white.
No, I want to tell him.I’m not strong enough to see you yet.
I need to get my shit together. I need to not be so gods-damnedneedy.
But I miss him. I moved back in large part because of him, because he’s still half my soul, even when I try so hard to wedge space between us.
“All right,” I concede. “Yeah. That’s—that’ll be good.”
“Try to sound more like you’re getting a root canal.” On Seb’s end, someone calls his name. “I gotta get back to work, but Iwillsee you tonight. Asshole.”
I crack a smile in spite of myself. “I do want to see you. I—” My hand stretches, the leather of the steering wheel groaning. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Love you.”
The slightest pause. It’s minuscule, but I feel it, wide and gaping. “Love you, too.”
Seb doesn’t disconnect right away. “We’re going to talk about this, O” is the last thing he says before he hangs up.
