Match Your Weakness With A Name

Why Is There Twenty-One?

It's not real.

I won't accept it, I won't believe it, everything is the same as it always is. But Awsten's not at the pool the next day. His small friend Otto walks in and sets his towel down, like always, and the hipster mom breaks out floaties, like always, but Awsten's not there.

One thing that grounds me, though, is that Derek has been on locker-room-floor-scrubbing duty every day this week. This is a. something out of the ordinary and b. something that makes me feel a lot better about my field of work. If I concentrate on that, I tell myself, maybe I'll forget about Awsten.

Okay, maybe not. But at least I have a therapy session this afternoon.

My shift is the same as every other shift I've had. Screaming children, asshole teenagers, jaded moms, the only thing different is my emotional state. Nobody drowns (that I know of) and I'm sunburned and lethargic by the time the shift ends.

Ryan is waiting outside the pool gates when I leave for my house, presumably for something relating to Derek Discanio's mouth around his baby dick. I hurry past him, only slightly envious that he's in a relationship. It's not even the free blowjobs-in fact, the thought itself makes me want to puke all over the sidewalk-it's more the fact that he has someone who is his. Derek is there for him, at least I hope so or their couplehood isn't going to last long.

Goddamn it.

If I didn't have therapy this afternoon, maybe I'd call Derek and ask him what he does after a breakup. But it waits until tomorrow, because I have to make time for a lady telling me how to cope with my fucked-up life. Not that I mind. Go to therapy. It's good for you.

Come the next day and I have to wake up at five to get to the locker room with Derek.

Why do I sign up for this shit?

Because I'm closer to Derek than I am to any of my other coworkers, that's damn why.

Today I arrive before him. Surprising-since he's so devoted to lifeguarding I always expect him to be here at all hours of the day. He eventually arrives though, popping out of the back of a dark green SUV I don't recognize. His hair is wet, his face red, his clothes rumpled and mismatched. It's a bit disconcerting, but I smile and wave to him anyway.

"Sup, Geoff," he mutters, brushing through the pool deck, stumbling over every other crack in the concrete.

"Hello," I say as he shoves open the door. "You alright?"

"Huh?" He stops halfway through the doorway. "Oh, yeah, I'm good."

"Uh, well, okay," I say, and hand him a mop.

"Actually, bro, can you mop today? I've done it way too much this week."

"Uh, sure," I say, taking the mop from him. He bends down to start moving towels into the dirty towel bag. Don't ask.

We work in silence, save for the occasional slosh of my mop in its bucket and clatter of a bathroom stall door opening. I'm unsure why I haven't talked to him more, especially now when I really do need the relationship advice. Derek's right there, and I'm sad and don't want to pick up any more unhealthy coping mechanisms.

My therapist, I admit, was actually pretty helpful yesterday. She told me not to isolate myself any more, which I really do need to stop doing. She says I need to reach out to other people when something's messing me up, not keep it all to myself and cut off all contact to society.

"Hey, dude."

I look up, a bit startled. "What's up?"

"This is boring me to death, do you mind if I put on music or something?"

"Not at all, go ahead."

Derek clanks with something out of my field of vision, and moments later a booming guitar chord fills up the musty locker room.

"Who is this?" I ask, not recognizing the song.

"Paramore," he says. "You don't listen to them?"

"Um, sometimes I do," I say, trying to bring one of their song titles to my memory. Misery Business? That's Paramore, right?

"I love them," he says. "They're one of my all-time favorite bands. Get Riot. You'd like them."

"Maybe I will," I say, and turn my attention to a particularly nasty stain on the floor.

It takes a damn fucking long time, but eventually the locker room is presentable enough to display to the public. Derek has cleaned up all the towels and put out nice, fresh new ones, and thanks to my incredible skill, the floor no longer looks like a murder scene. I volunteer to take the cleaning supply cart back to the cupboard on my own, but Derek asks to come with. "You know, just in case you need protection," he says.

"If it makes you happy," I say, and start pushing the cart.

"So..." he says after a few minutes, "how's it going?"

"Uh, kinda terrible, but I'm good," I say. "You?"

"Me too. What's up with you?"

I bite the bullet and say, "How do you get over a breakup?"

"Whoa," he says. "You broke up with someone?"

"He broke up with me."

"Shit," he says. "Well, don't do drugs, and put yourself first. Yanno, the normal self-care shit. Take showers, eat well, stay hydrated, listen to loud angry music, the basics. I mean, that's usually what I do."

"I do all that anyway."

He smiles. "Do it more."

"Alright," I say as I stop the cart and fumble for the supply closet door handle. "Thanks a bunch, man."

"No problem," he says. "I'll text you later, I have something I need to ask you too." He turns to go, but instead of walking out through the front gate, he's headed towards the back of the pool.

"Um, Derek?"

He looks back at me. "What?"

"Where are you going?"

"Uh, I have some stuff I gotta take care of," he says, and walks away faster. I shrug and go out to the parking lot.

Derek said loud angry music, so I put on Sum 41 and figure that's good enough. I can't concentrate on Deryck Whibley's beautiful voice, though-all I can do is wonder what in-real-life Derek wanted to ask me. I don't even have any guesses as to what it could be, wondering what he could possibly want from me is literally the only thing I can do.

I've been on the road for approximately ten minutes when I realize two things. One: it doesn't take anywhere close to ten minutes to get home. Two: I'm on Awsten's street.

Cursing aloud, I make a U-turn into oncoming traffic and slam the gas pedal into oblivion. Fuck my life. I don't want to see him at all, don't want to see any trace of him.

Yet I also want him to be my entire existence. I want him to be with me and never leave, ever.

But I can't have that, I guess.

It takes me an extra ten minutes to get back to my own house, and when I do I stumble up to my bedroom and collapse on my bed, not even bothering to take my shoes off. I can survive a few black stains on my bed frame.

About half an hour passes before I remember Derek wanted something from me. I dig around in my front pocket and pull out my phone, wondering why I didn't get it earlier.

My phone was off. Sighing heavily, I turn it on and open up my texts.

From twenty or so minutes ago:

D: Am I gay?