A Boy in the Rain

Chapter 3

The profile was on my screen, and I just lay there, watching it. I didn't know what to do. Sure, there's always the option of just following back, but then what fun would that be?

I rolled off my bed over to my desk chair and scrolled down. His profile was carefully curated it seemed, updates on it only twice a week, all about his lifeguarding exploits. This seems improbable since we're technically not allowed phones in the park, but people find their ways.

I scroll down, by memes, selfies, and motivational posts, and chuckle. It seems this young man has quite a sense of humor.

I keep going down the feed, slowly, gently to not accidentally like anything too old. Wouldn't want an existential crisis over a small mistap, now would we? And suddenly, the feed comes to a stop, on a picture of him. He was very young it seemed, no more than 18, fresh out of high school. His hair was longer, his smirk seemed bigger, and his hands softer. Strange how some people change so much.

I have half a mind to comment on the picture, but I hold on to my inhibitions for the moment. There are better things to do. Like, eat. I put my phone down and sat up. My knees crackle as I wheel around to get out of bed, and gently touch the floor. I take a step towards the kitchen, the cold tiles shocking me as I move.

There was nothing in the kitchen as I expected, but that was fine, because I'd made myself survive on nothing for breakfast for many years now, and if I'd eat anything for this meal it would only be cereal.

I make my way over to the couch, slumped down on it, and start to ponder. Dean Jacobs followed me on social media. The lifeguard infamous for apparently not having social media. 'Guess I now have something to pester him with for now,' I chuckle to myself, reaching for the TV remote and Xbox controller.

"What to play, what to play?", I ask myself perusing amongst the games in my data storage, meager but sufficient. I settle on not playing a video game at all but watching a movie. And before you ask, it was 'Mean Girls'.

I couldn't stop thinking about him. Why he would follow me on social media, despite having said he didn't have any? Was he lying, did he make an account just to be able to follow me eventually? That last one didn't make much sense though, so he lied then. And that's not my issue at all, rather that I'm the only person he follows. I know we're friends, but he has tons of them, and he could have followed them but he followed me. If this isn't seeming very protagonist-y let me know, because it does to me, and let me tell ya, I am not protagonist material.

I tried to put those thoughts aside to enjoy the movie but found myself getting bored. How many times had I watched this? How many times would I find it funny, until today? I know it's dumb to think about, but then again, not much else to do today.

The front door thuds, and opens slowly, with the crinkle of grocery bags, as Alyssa walks in.

Alyssa was a friend of Desiree's, she was calm, funny, and mature. Her one flaw was she couldn't keep a job for very long, much like Desiree herself, which is how they met in the first place, both going in to give resignation notices to their supervisor.

If Desiree was a Labrador, then Alyssa was very definitely a Chihuahua, small, fierce, and with more bark than bite.

"Hey, Morgan do you mind helping with the groceries, please? I've still got some bags in the hall," she gasped between steps to the counter, beads of sweat covering her forehead at the strain of the weight.

"You do know you can take more than one trip to the car and back, right?" I futilely asked as I knew she would only respond with:

"Yeah, but multi-trips are for cowards," almost cockily.

I chuckled a bit, as it had become her running catchphrase through the months we'd lived together.

I took the bags into the kitchen and placed them down on the table. I thought about helping Alyssa put the groceries away, but the last time anyone tried helping her, she got iffy about us messing with her 'system', which was just fancy talk for her obsessive need for things to be organized in certain ways. Mind you she was diagnosed with a disorder specifically to do with it, but she would not let up with her small little compulsions.

I sat back down on the couch and picked up my phone, now displaying a different message.

'dean_thel1feguard: Hi'