Forget Me Not

chapter one: crazy, stupid, love

     "well, the A they're both wearing I think it stands for 'asshole'. wanna know why? because they fell in love and love is for stupid assholes. and this book is just about a bunch of assholes who fell in love, like assholes then had to die, like assholes. I'm sorry about all the 'assholes'."
                     - crazy, stupid, love

      Oliver Prescott was having zero luck with romance. It wasn't that he couldn't find a girl, in fact, he had his fair share of women enter into his life. He chalked down his particular fortune in that aspect primarily to his defined cheekbones and the shade of his blue eyes which made many people oftentimes define him as "beautiful". But he was struggling primarily with finding anyone worth staying. As cliché as it sounded, he desired someone to make some sort of an imprint on his life. Nothing dire or permanent but in the form of an extra toothbrush in his toothbrush holder, some fruity smelling shampoo lined up next to his on the rim of the bathtub, something that indicated that Oliver had a second part, another person whom warranted miniscule toiletries littered throughout his life.

      It was a thought that passed grievously through his head as he ate his Lucky Charms – two parts milk and one-part marshmallows. As he dipped his spoon back underneath the murky, whitened surface of the cereal, he wondered if it had something to do with him, perhaps his blue eyes couldn't quite accommodate for enough. Brock would have laughed at him. Then again, his roommate Brock laughed at mostly anything Oliver had to say. Perhaps due to the fact that Brock played rugby and had had his head bashed around enough to cause something to come loose within.

      Oliver often wondered what desired Brock's mother to give him such a weighted name. As though when she was handed her ten-pound, eleven-ounce baby, she decided "Well, he'll have enough to deal with anyways, may as well just name him Brock." In comparison, now twenty-year-old Brock Anderson was two hundred and seventy pounds of muscle, love handles, and sprout-like blond hair.

      Speaking of the rat-bastard, he chose that particular moment to emerge from the confines of his room, smelling outstandingly like an eighth-grade change room. He was one of those people who never grew out of his belief that male body spray smelt good. In fact, he determined that the more he used the better. Oliver wondered if Brock's girlfriend suffocated from the smell in her sleep. He reckoned he certainly would if he was in that close proximity. Following behind him, the top of her head barely grazing Brock's elbow, was Katie. If Brock was considered large, then his girlfriend, Katie, was quite the opposite. She was a spritely ginger, one of those former kid geniuses who appeared on every single educational competition show until she developed an alcohol addiction and an affinity towards very stupid men (see Brock).

      "Good morning, Oliver." Katie smiled at him, ever polite, likely a result of the whole kid genius thing.

      "Morning asshat." Brock greeted him in turn, his own brand of politeness. He yawned then, stretching enough so that Oliver had a full view of his painstakingly pale stomach where his jersey no longer met the waist of his jeans.

      "Good morning." Oliver said in return, rather in response to both of them at once, continuing to drag his spoon through the milky murk on the table in front of him.

      Katie made herself at home, with an air of familiarity that came only from the copious amounts of time she spent at their house, quickly busying herself by popping two bagels into the toaster as Brock lounged against the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.

      "Did Hamilton text you?" Brock asked Oliver, diverting his attention from the wallowing of his cereal. Oliver was about four thoughts away from just sticking his face in the bowl and ending it all.