❝"I don't do straight guys," Art said with the kind of confidence Brady had always wanted.
"I am not asking you to do me." He scoffed defensively crossing his arms over his chest.
"Then why are you looking at me like you want me to?"❝
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Sliding on my faded yellow comic t-shirt as I finish getting dressed for the party. Nerves kicking in. Not sure if it's a reaction to going to a party, or a reaction to being there with Art and Sarah, or both.
All thoughts came to a halt as I remembered our interaction in the car this afternoon, the way he had looked at me. He had to know I could not help it; he had to know that I could not control the way my heart was beating in my chest at the nearness of him. The thought that my slight attention to him might repulse him overwhelmed me. But it seemed so stupid, too stupid even to bring up, to bring up my slit second feelings only to what?
Exactly!
Finishing my thoughts, I head in the direction of the apartment door that would lead me to my car.
"Have fun tonight, honey. But, don't go getting yourself in trouble," I hear my mother announce.
"Thanks." I find myself yelling on my way out the door. A little spark in my chest told me that I was hoping to see Art waiting for me outside. But the pang of dismay about seeing Sarah for the first time since our break up took over that feeling completely.
As I walk closer to the car, I see the familiar scene of Art smoking a cigarette. He looked slightly out of place, wearing a shirt that was not black. But his usual jeans put me at ease, in contrast to the white v-neck short sleeve shirt, which showed off the array of tattoos he had to display. His hair slicked back, and his face displayed his usual menacing demeanour. Not noticing how my heartbreak picked up until it was too late.
"Your comics all dusted?" Art teased while he leaned up against my car, awaiting my answer. Not sure if I should be more embarrassed that he thought I was dusting my comics or the fact that I had been.
"All put away in chronicle order by title and timeline," I find myself telling him even though I knew he didn't care.
"No idea what that means," He tells me, looking like he would rather be anywhere else but in a car with me. My anxiety started to retake control. If only I could think of anything to say.
We used the awkward silence to get inside the car.
Art fiddling with the radio as usual, as I try to think of a good conversation, coming up empty-handed. Every red light, every stop sign was agony. The lull followed by music which did nothing to drown out the nothingness between us. It felt like the first day we had met, and the fact that Art did not seem bothered by it hurt more. Like I was being put in the naughty corner for something I didn't do.
All thoughts of Art left me the moment we pulled up to Sarah's apartment. Memories of the breakup came flooding back, and so did the anxiety of what this night meant. It meant that I would see her again, that we would have to talk, and well, the idea alone caused my joints to seize up.
"Coming?" Art asked from the passenger door, and against my better judgment, I found myself getting out of the car. Every step was like dragging myself through quicksand, and every stair felt like hauling myself up a mountain. Then, quicker than anticipated, we were standing in front of her door.
