Mess You Made

40.

Malibu.

I bounce my leg a lot, tugging down the intensely annoying cheer skirt as much as I can and feel it like a dull ache in the back of my head that I haven't heard from him in— a day or so. Last time was yesterday morning, and it's almost 7pm today. Nothing.

"Probably busy." Cristian says from the driver's seat.

I nod but I'm past the pretence of pretending like feeling everything's okay. If it was anyone else, I don't think I'd bat an eye but he's radio silent. Miguel doesn't just go MIA. Not on messages anyways. He responds quick. His silence feels louder than other people's.

"He has a record of not going home." I look at Cris.

He runs a hand over his head, rests his elbow on the open car window as he drives, "Where does he go?"

I shrug— because as far as I'm concerned, recently, when neither of us are particularly happy at home, we somehow find ourselves with one another.  I don't know where he could be now that he's not with me. I never asked if he goes someplace else. If he's not at home, he could be anywhere. Or my rationality's being clouded and he's just— fine. That he's out there somewhere after a party, or a night of drinking, and my head keeps running back to him like I'm pathetic.

I swallow as I look out of the window because I could just be entirely fucking pathetic.

It's an unfamiliar feeling. This one, whatever it is I'm feeling and I suppose it's because I don't pine, and I don't want. Not with boys. Not ever. I was incapable of it so it meant I was never left with any room to look pathetic. There was no emotional turmoil for me, ever— because as mean as it sounds, I never cared enough. I'm not used to the feeling of exposure.

"If something's wrong, he has his brothers." Cristian looks over at me, as if to say there isn't much I can do that they wouldn't do tenfold, and probably quicker.

Because there's nobody more renowned and feared than them— I know that. I know he's protected but the protection's a bit questionable if he never tells them if he's in danger. He keeps things from them more than anyone realises.

I keep my gaze forwards as Cristian drives down the long road towards the large football field where cars are already parked up everywhere, people dressed in football spirit as they all trickle down to the field. He finds an empty spot, swerving into it and pulling the handbrake.

He makes a bit of a face, his gaze forwards too, "We can go home. Watch a game instead of this bullshit."

I look over at him, "I don't like basketball either."

"You're dating Knicks."

I scrunch my nose, "I'm not dating anyone, and he isn't Knicks yet."

Cristian licks away a bit of a smile, shaking his head at me. He nods his chin out of the windshield to where I follow his gaze to see James Avon— stood tall near his girlfriend's car in his football kit. He's playing tonight and he's MVP most games so people come just for him. One of those legacy kids destined for athletic fame too. Cris runs a hand over his jaw, "You still speak to him?"

I shake my head because I don't. Not really.

Cristian nods because it's probably for the best that I don't. We both know how different he is to us. A sort of family that was raised regularly, brunches on Sundays, and he wouldn't raise his fist impulsively in a fight, he wouldn't possess secrets nor would he need to fuck pain away— so all the habits that are slowly harboured from a child that has cracks, that slowly gets more and more cracks over time, James doesn't have that. He's fine china. Unscathed.