Guilty Pleasure

2

I'm not Ivy Brown.

Well, not really. My full name is Ivy Marie Brown. My mother is a very poetic person and she thought it'd be nice to have two names for her daughter. It's feminine, she says. But I'm not. What can I say? I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me.

I push the door slowly and it sails over its hinges. I tiptoe towards the stairs and just when I think I'm successful in my mission, papa's voice booms behind me.

"Ivy Marie, where were you?"

I bite my lip and curse myself under my breathe. I hesitantly turn around.
"At the hospital." I find my voice. "I was visiting Jason." I say, a little bit softly. Mom doesn't like it if someone mentions anything about Jase.

"With?" Papa asks as he rounds about his chair and stands in front of me. My father is huge. He has broad shoulders, wide structure and he looks every bit the ex navy officer he is. He has a bushy moustache which is his pride, as he keeps rounding it near the edges. His eyes exhibit calm but he looks very dangerous. Somewhat like those fathers with guns who kill guys who flirt with their daughters. Well, he doesn't have to worry about me though. Because not only does no one give me attention, they receive none of mine as well.

"Stuart." I say.
Dad nods and moves away, once again disappearing behind his library. I breathe a sigh of relief and run up my stairs to my room.

I pull open the latch to my room and walk inside. I love, love, love this place.

If my room could talk, the ceilings adorned with DIY lights would tell you how much time I've spent staring at it, tears streaming down my face as I thought about how unfair life is. The posters on my wall would tell you how patiently and gently I've posted them on the walls, to hide out all the stray pen marks my brother made as a kid, because they remind me of him. My bed would tell you stories about how I dreamt about unrequited love returning my feelings while sleeping, and then my confusion upon waking up, over whether I should laugh or cry.

If my room could talk, it'd tell you how I've spent numerous evenings staring out of the window on the right, counting stars in the night but never giving up when I didn't see any, because I don't let go, no matter how hard they get. My mirror would narrate incidents of how I stood in front of it, trying to pull my short, little nose or applying lipstick and wiping it all away, because it never suited me. My books with their doodles and folded pages would describe how I've tried so hard to understand studies, but history has always remained a mystery I can't solve. My worn out football would tell you how good I play, often beating boys, but it doesn't matter; because football isn't for girls.

My room has my life imprinted in all the nooks, all the corners and it is stained with memories and experiences. It has stories I could never narrate and wishes I wish I could ask for. It is home.

I sit down on my bed and open my phone.

Stuart: I hope you reached home safely. I also hope your father didn't blast when he heard I dropped you home.

A smile creeps on my face as I type back a reply.

Me: Dude, papa loves you. He just doesn't know how to show it.

A reply comes back almost instantly.

Stuart: Yeah right. I'm so honoured ooooo.

I laugh out loud. Stuart continues typing.

Stuart: Well, it's the first day of senior year tomorrow. Meet us three hours before school starts at the ground tomorrow for football. You, me, Alastair and Rol.

Me: Okay.

I keep my phone aside and start some music on the stereo system. Coldplay blasts from the speakers and I lie down on my bed, not bothering to remove my socks or wash my face.

I remember when I first met Stuart. That guy can befriend anyone, he worked his charm on me too. It started off really simple, I was sitting on a park bench, rotating a football in my hands. He appeared out of nowhere nd challenged me to a match. I rolled my eyes and asked him to fuck off.

But he kept insisting. And then we played a friendly match. I don't remember who won, but I do know that he won over me that day. We then went out for lunch later that week. We ordered ten burgers and challenged each other to an eating match this time.

He ate. So did I. Again, I don't remember who won. But then I burped. My hands flew to my mouth. The hottest guy in school is having lunch with me and I do this? But then he burped even louder. We laughed. I've never known loneliness ever since.

Stuart is my best friend. He always will be. Times change and life revolves around situations faster than I can fathom, but he is always there, at the centre of my universe. Every time I fall, he pulls me right back up.

He is weird. A playboy. He has cheated on his best friend. He is called a manwhore. Girls love him. He is the stereotypical, arrogant, bad boy. He breaks hearts. But I'm proud to say that I know the real version of him.

I know how lonely he is. I know how much he regrets the things he's done. He is nice to all the girls not because he wants to score with them, but because he doesn't know how to reject anyone.

It's an honour to have him as my best friend. Stuart and I, we're a team. A bond. More than just best friends, but at the same time, just best friends. I wouldn't ever want to hurt him, and I'm sure he'd never want to do that to me too.

I believe friendship is the best thing you can do with someone you like, or presumably, love. That's because nothing is purer than that emotion. You care for someone, but not like a partner. There are no complications, no expectations, no demands. You can love them even if they probably don't love you back. You can speak your heart out. There's no lust, no mixed signals. Just friendship. Pure and unadulterated. Best thing to gift someone.

We share the most adorable relationship ever. That is, true friendship.

So what if I'm in love with him.