HEARTLESS─── RAFE CAMERON [1]

chapter two

I like to consider Michael as my brother. I wouldn't be surprised if we were siblings born from different mothers. We could even look alike, if you really put your mind to it.

He's seen every side of me. The good, the bad, the ugly. In fact, there isn't a side of me he hasn't seen. He knows me better than anyone. He knows me inside and out. I could even say I know him better than Brie.

So when I wake up in Michael's bed, in one of his faded t-shirts, and next to a softly snoring Michael, I don't give it a second thought. Instead, I stare out of the window through the small sliver of curtain.

I can't remember what happened last night. I remember trying weed for the first time, and liking it. And I remember Rafe.

Rafe.

I push Rafe out of my head and instead think about the elephant in the room: Aaron.

I've told myself countless times that there is something wrong with me, for thinking about him like this. Despite Brie's best efforts at telling me that this is normal, I just can't believe her. And it's not even that I don't want to. I do want to. But I can't.

Quietly, as not to wake Michael, I slip out of his bed. His snores are soft, but I can hear them from across the room. His parents are not home. Of course they're not.

Michael's parents are...to say the least, different. I can't remember the last time Michael must have spent a birthday, Thanksgiving, or Christmas with his parents. For most of the year, Michael's mother and father are on various business-trips overseas. At least for 300 out of the 365 days in the year. Occasionally, one of the two will make a pit-stop in Outer Banks for a day or two.

Because they are never together, I'm certain they are both secretly having affairs. Michael jokes about it a lot, but something about it makes me think he doesn't find it very funny.

Michael has grown up on his own. No mother, no father. Not really, at least. They are always there— but never here.

Until he was eleven, he had a babysitter called Luisa. But when she died, Michael was heartbroken. So heartbroken he wore black, head-to-toe, for over seven months, even in scorching months like July and August.

Luisa was the closest thing Michael had to a mother. She was the one who taught him how to do his own laundry, the one who taught him how to tie his shoelaces. She was the one who celebrated his birthdays with him.

So when his mother finally flew in to find another babysitter, he threw a fit. He refused to have anyone else take care of him, unless it was Luisa. And Luisa was never coming back. They both knew that.

As if she wanted to prove a point, Michael's mother, Laurie, packed her bags and left. She didn't leave anything in order for Michael. She left him to fend for himself.

Michael survived for three weeks on his own before my father eventually found out. He doesn't like to talk about it. I still don't know how he did it.

When my father found out, he was furious. Furious at Michael for not telling anyone, furious at his mother and father for leaving him here. With a stern look on his face, he ordered Michael to pack his things.

He was coming to live with us. And he did, till he turned sixteen and my parents finally agreed that he seemed mature enough to be on his own.

Since he was eleven years old, Michael's mother and father have seen Michael less than twenty times. Somehow, though, Michael's parents never forget to send in a steady supply of cost to cover everything required for him by the government.