Jonathan: A Fanfiction Novel

September 30

"Really?" John says to the camera. "Jonathan, seriously, not everything is a fucking clue. Tom was upset, he wanted a drink, I got soda, and forgot to mention it. Stop being so damn paranoid." He grunts.

"Anyway, I went to the store. I got eggs, milk, the usual. I forgot bread though, so you'll have to go get that." He says this kind of bitterly, but softens after a second. "Have a good day, bro."

I go on my run, go to work, leave at 1:30 on the dot, and begin my commute home.

Something makes me pause on the way home, and instead, I make my way to the Rialto. It's a risky thing to do- I've never been here, and if someone recognizes John, I won't know how to respond. Besides being utterly bizarre, it will be painfully awkward for everyone involved for the next few days if that happens. It's not really like I'd know anyone there.

I'm hesitant at the door, and peek in through the glass. If John is going to sketchy, dingy bars with a regular audience of bikers and hooligans, I'd like to know. However, as the name alludes, it's quite nice inside. I go in, wary, and take a seat.

My sweater, button-up and khaki situation still stick out like a sore thumb here, something I didn't realize until I took a look at the barkeep behind the counter. I try to slip out before I get noticed.

"Hey, John!" the barkeep calls. I'm forced to turn around, but wince before doing so.

"Hey," I say as nonchalantly as possible, doing the tough half-nod I imagine my brother doing.

"She's not in until five today. Want a beer?" She?  What is my brother up to?

"Um, no, thanks." I turn to leave again.

"I'll tell her you stopped by," the bartender says.

"No!" I flip around in a panic. He looks at me like I've informed him of a coming apocalypse: he thinks it's crazy, but there's a chance he might believe me. "I mean, yeah, yeah, that's fine. I just wanted to surprise her." This conversation has me entirely off my guard. I need to figure out a way to get out of this before I really screw something up.

"Okay, well, aren't you forgetting something?" It's my turn to look at him quizzically. "The game,"

"Oh, right! Yeah, I'll be there," I say cautiously.

"No, last night's," he chuckles. "I told you the Giants would win." John was here last night too? I'm confused, does John owe him money, is he placing bets? I can't pay it for him, or he'd know I'd been here.

"Yeah, awesome game," I say, and rush home.

Home isn't any better, even when I fix my food and turn on a French lesson. Home is where all the signs of him are. Home is where he told me that he had been once, for Tom. That he wasn't out drinking, and certainly not staying out late, but the barkeep offered him a beer, so obviously not. And football can go late, so he was there, late at night. Home is where he lied to me.

It wasn't just the bar he lied about, but about a girl, too. How do you forget to tell your own brother about a girl you're interested in? Especially one that you share a damn body with?

I'm absolutely fuming that he could so easily lie to me about something like this. We have the rules about run-ins for a reason, and about telling each other everything to keep each informed about what our body has been up to, and a very strict rule about no girlfriends. None. Ever.

I'm furious at him, and I want to punch something, but I can't very well punch him without hurting myself in the process, so I stand there, my hands in taut fists. I keep replaying what the bartender said over and over again. The French lesson keeps playing, leaving me in the dust. A small part of me follows along, trying to calm me down, but then I hear the word 'she' again, and I lose it. I take my bowl off the counter and thrust it to the floor. It shatters satisfyingly.