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I. Little Accidents

I scrutinize the jeans I scrape off the laundry room floor, trying to figure out if they're black or indigo; last week, Logan invited me to a party and said Willow would be there. While we still shared an English class, Willow said she liked to see me in black jeans and green shirts, but the only green shirt I own is dirty. I settle for blue and hope it’s close enough, checking the date on the calendar for the sixth time: Friday, July 18th.

Before I leave, I make sure I say bye to Jackson. He’s on the phone with a customer and waves his hand to shush me. A minute later, he covers the receiver with his hand and whispers, “Call me if you’re staying out. Take my car, I have Kris’s.”

I got my license last month. I could have gotten it sooner, but I'm a wreck behind the wheel. Nothing scrapes my nerves like staring down the street at other drivers who don't seem to realize they're doing something inherently dangerous. Even the tiniest glance to find a pack of cigarettes could mean death, paralyzation, or something else horrible they tell absentminded boys and girls in Driver's Ed. I think I may have been the only person scared into abiding by traffic laws; when I turn at 151st and Harlem, someone cuts me off and honks like I'm the one who's making a mistake by not speeding.

Logan texts me, and I ignore it until he's texted me four times. I pull into a gas station and park in one of the spots meant for people going inside the narrow convenience store to buy cigarettes or junk food. The clerk stares me down, but I look at my phone. The last three texts are all profanities, but the first says change of plans. willows stuck going to some work thing with her dad so lets just hang out at my place.

On the dashboard, amongst a collage of sun-faded photographs, there’s a picture of myself and Logan at the last bake sale we helped run for NHS. I kept it because in the background, Willow’s looking for the last tray of brownies—a scowl fixed on her face, hands on her hips, long caramel legs smooth and glimmering with sunscreen.

I pull out to give my spot to an impatient old man, changing directions after replying sure.

II. White Picket Fences

Mrs. Bertrand answers the door and ushers me inside, taking my jacket and hanging it on the coatrack before I have a chance to. "Brian! Logan's upstairs, but you need to come see me more often. How's your brother doing?"

"Same as always."

I slip off my shoes and run upstairs before she asks anymore questions. Logan’s door is ajar, and I step inside to find him lying on the floor. He stretches his hands toward the ceiling, furling and unfurling his fingers, slow fascination etched in his expression.

“Got anymore?”

“What?” He sits up and grins. “I’m not high, I was waiting for you, honest. I was thinking about what I’m gonna do for my photography portfolio... It's due at the beginning of the year.”

I close the door and sit on the overstuffed couch residing on the far wall, kicking my feet up on stacks of books that double as a coffee table. Logan opens the window, stuffs a towel under the door, and takes a shoebox out from under the bed. In it is the pipe I bought him for his fourteenth birthday—or, more aptly, the pipe I got Jackson to buy him for his fourteenth birthday after a lot of begging and promising that it was just for Logan. At the time, that wasn’t a lie; I didn’t approve of Logan’s habit, but I didn’t want him smoking out of tinfoil, apples, and hastily assembled plastic bottle bongs.

Logan sits beside me and packs the bowl, flicking on the television. There’s a movie playing, but I don’t try to recognize it. Logan has weird taste, but he buys good weed. I don’t really smoke with anyone else—probably because my other friends are AP kids and Willow, who doesn’t hang out with me unless someone else invited her. “So, Willow’s stuck with her dad? Which one?”

“Noel. The lawyer.” Logan lick his lips; they’re perpetually cracked and bleeding. “The one who isn’t sexy.”

He takes the first hit. The pipe and lighter find my hands a few seconds later, followed by a familiar warmth and sting in my lungs. “You should uh... put on a better movie.” My head’s already light; I can’t remember the last time I smoked, but it was with Logan. “Y’know, I don’t really care that you’re gay... but why’s it gotta be old guys all the time?”

“I have insurmountable daddy issues,” Logan quips, wrinkling his nose and rolling his wrist with an exasperated sigh. He pushes himself to his feet, puts on another movie, and sits back down to take another hit.

III. Garage Band

The movie’s over before I can figure out what it’s about. Logan packs another bowl, and I wonder when he started buying so much at a time. I want to ask if he’s dealing, but the pipe’s in my hand. I ask instead, “How’s your dad?”

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Logan shrugs. “He’s, I dunno, like always? S’around when he’s not overseas and overseas the rest of the time. Wanna listen to something?”

I don’t answer, but he stands to turn on the silvery purple radio that looks to have dropped right out of the nineties. The music’s nice but sounds unprofessional. The vocals are too raw, and at times, the instrumentals are out of sync. I tap the dominant beat on my thigh until it feels numb. The room’s sideways when I tilt my head. “So uh.”

“Uh?”

“Shut up. Willow...” I take the pipe and hold it. Gold threads through blue in wiry spindles but the tiger stripes I loved have faded over time. “Do you think I’d have a chance?”

“Just smoke that.”

“I am, but answer my question.”

“I—well, yeah. She wants to fuck you. Don’t tell her I told you that, but she told me last time we hung out, she wants to fuck you, but she’s—I mean, you’re a nice guy.”

“A nice guy?”

“She wants to fuck you,” Logan repeats. “Singularly. She wants to one and done, like she does with guys. Or maybe a couple and done. She’s a slut.”

“You sleep with more guys than her.”

“Yeah, but I’m forward about it. She goes for decent guys and tries to tear them down. Gets something outta—”

“Justin wanted to date you. A lot of people have wanted to be with you. You’re being a hypocrite.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about her, okay? You asked.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t just wanna listen to you—”

“You wanted me to lie, then?”

The music comes crashing to a halt with a drum solo that’s spectacularly unrhythmic; I realize, staring over Logan’s shoulder at the glow-in-the-dark stars that have been stuck to his wall since I first saw his room after the second day of third grade, that it’s meant to be cacophonous.

IV. Cheap Glass

Logan has a bottle of vodka stashed in his closet. He says he got it from the guy he’s seeing, some bisexual adulterer named David. “Listen, let’s just get drunk and pass out, alright?”

I take the bottle by its neck and take a swig. “Alright. You should put on another movie. Your music’s shitty.”

He laughs and turns off the lights, putting on the black lights that line the ceiling. The stars and about a dozen posters glow. “Fuck you.”

My head is too heavy for my neck, so I tip it back and sigh. I don’t want to talk about Willow anymore, but I wish she was here. Maybe I could just fuck her, but I know Logan’s right. If I did, I’d want more, and she wouldn’t go for more. She’d smile crookedly at me and say something about enlightened female sexuality—then something nasty about heterosexual men who sleep around. “Is there really anything good about Willow?”

“What? I mean, yeah. She’s fun to be around.”

“I mean, just. I think I love her, and I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ Brian. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“High, then.”

“Well—just listen, I think I love her. I mean, she’s beautiful—”

“So you’re thinking with your cock.”

“But no, other stuff too. Like, she’s so smart and she’s good with words and she’s dedicated to... all of those volunteer projects and always sticks by her beliefs, but I just. I’m wondering if I’m falling for something that isn’t like... there. I mean, she contradicts herself so much, and then she just... you’re right, man.”

“Willow’s a good person.” Logan moves to the bed and lies down on his side. His eyes are on me. “She really is, and I don’t think you’re stupid. There’s... I mean, it makes sense that you’d like a girl like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like... domineering. You’re a pushover.”

“I’m—” I grimace. “Listen, just... I wanna honestly know, could I be special to her? I wanna mean something to her, even if we do just fuck.”

Logan closes his eyes and shrugs.

V. First Love

The bottle’s empty. I knock it under the bed with my foot and fall on my side. The couch swallows my impact, and I close my eyes, but the room’s still spinning. I open them and lie on my back. On the ceiling, there’s a poster I bought Logan a year ago. I ask him, “Why’s that up. You said you hated it.”

“Dunno.” He’s lying on his stomach, muffled by a pillow. He gets up and crosses the room in a few clumsy strides, sitting on my legs.

I try to tuck them back to give him for room but flail and give up. “When’s the next time your dad’s gonna be home?”

“His tour’s over in... by I dunno, Christmas I guess. You don’t care about that.”

“Sure I do.” Logan smiles and sets a hand on my knee; I bat it away. “Go lie down, I wanna sleep.”

Logan stands but drops to his knees beside the couch. I turn to see if he’s hurt, but he looks alright, even if his eyes are wide. He pulls a hand over his face. “I think Willow’s dumb, cuz you like her so much. S’not all the time that you... you like someone all that much, because you have to... invest in that person and really... really know them but still like them. The more I know people, the less I like them, no matter what—but you, you still like her, even knowing her so long... love her, I guess, and that’s just. Brian.”

“Yeah?”

He twists his hands together before they’re on my fly, his face close to my crotch. I can feel his breath, and for a moment, I just let him because I don’t know what else to do. It’s when his hand is in my underwear, dry and warm, that I shove him away. He falls and lands hard on his back, but I don’t remember trying to hurt him. His whimper is slight, and I ignore, getting my jeans fastened as hastily as my clumsy fingers allow.

“Brian.”

“What the fuck?”

“Brian...”

“I’m going home. Just... don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Please—”

“I said don’t fucking talk to me! You have issues, okay? That’s not fucking okay. Just... I’m going home, fuck.”

VI. Petty Reasons

Logan puked on his bedroom floor; he texted that to me, and I reply that I don’t remember asking Jackson to come get me, which is true. When I woke up on the couch, my brother had to tell me about what an idiot I was—that he had to take the bus so his car wasn’t stranded, that I could hardly make it into the car, that I cried on his shoulder for almost an hour, that I asked where mom and dad were, and finally, that I owe him my life for how long it took him to clean the carpet of every chunk of vomit. Guilt settles in my stomach worse than nausea, but I almost puke again when Logan's next text reads im sorry.

A minute passes; Jackson asks if I want something greasy for breakfast; I reply for what? sorry i dont remember most of the night.