Paint and Grease

Burning

Mat

Love inside friendship is a delicate thing. It's a paper lantern: one moment you're holding a beautiful warm glow, the next you're left with flaming tatters and a trip to the ER.

That's what happened on April 17 of our high school senior year. That's the day the lantern burst.

The lights were dim, the music loud. Someone had brought one of those cheap projector balls that was painting everyone slightly sick shades of blue and pink. There was beer when there probably shouldn't have been. There might've been shots — but I avoided those. It's not that I'm a lightweight, but I wanted to have a clear head. I only had a beer. Or two.

I had Hazel draped off my arm like a shimmering blue dressing gown, and I think she wasn't too happy because I wasn't paying her much attention. She's used to being the star of the party, but instead she was struggling to catch my wandering eyes.

I was looking for Theo. Or rather, I was telling myself that as I scanned the crowd — it was just out of curiosity; I wasn't looking for any one particular person. Trust me, I like parties. I have some killer stories, I know how to have fun. But no one listens better than he does, even when he's heard the same jokes a dozen times. Really, that's all I was looking for.

He's such a quiet guy. He hides within his slender frame some endless well of patience. It's really amazing how he doesn't scream at the robotics freshmen when they're playing mobile games under the tables, or are about to destroy the bot. Then again, design's an easier task than fabrication. He doesn't have to deal with the shop teacher.

So I'm more than surprised when I hear him call my name. His words are slurred. Not the calm, quiet Theo I know. He's brash, almost trying to be sensual. He's swaying. I have this instinct to just grab him and drag him outside. I could call a taxi. We could crash at my house for the night. He could sleep in my bed. I could help him through the hangover. Must be a pretty bad one; he's not used to parties like this. Maybe he'd even have to stay over the whole next day.

But Hazel's with me, and judging from her whining the last time I tried to leave a party early, I doubt she'd really appreciate that.

I guess my brain must be pretty slow, because it's only then that I realize how close Theo is. I mean, he's been close before, but this is knee-brushing, breath-sharingly close, and I can really smell how drunk he is.

I think I'm still processing that when I feel his hand land on my shoulder, surprisingly firm, surprisingly steady. It snakes around to the back of my neck, and his other hand encircles my waist, almost possessively.

I don't want to think about it being possessive.

This is Theo, sweet, quiet, minimalist Theo. My best friend since freshman year, when we were newbies on the robotics team slaving away threading parts.

He pulls me even closer and I don't want to break away, even though Hazel's right there, staring at me open-mouthed, brown eyes boggling beneath knife-like eyelashes.

Out of the blue, his lips are on mine, and like a moron, I don't stop him. His lips are warm, and his tongue brushes against mine, so soft I want it to never end. It takes Hazel slapping my arm to break me out of my trance. I turn my cheek, stammer something, try to put space between me and him. Theo's grasp is easy to break out of, but my heart makes it so much harder. He's so much warmer than her. So much better than she ever was.

Except he's supposed to be my best friend, and I just kissed him in a room full of people who are probably taking photos.

I think I'm absolutely stone cold sober. I run out of the room, call a taxi, and ride home in the coldest, most Theo-less silence I've ever felt.

As soon as I step inside clothes start coming off of me like I'm shedding my skin. I don't remember where I leave them. I think I end up curled up on the bathroom floor, half undressed, the tiles around my head damp from tears as I try not to think about what happened.

They say that breaking up tears you into a million little pieces. Honestly, I think I was torn up already.

Hazel texts me. She says she'll pick me up at my house, and five minutes later, pulls up in her shiny new BMW. It's an early graduation present, apparently. I guess she likes it more than my Honda.

She drives us to a random cul de sac in a random pocket of suburbia that I'm promptly going to forget. She tells me to check social media. Sure enough, the picture's tearing through our group chats. I really look like I'm having a time. Hazel looks half outraged and half mortified, like she just found out her long term boyfriend was gay.

I can't really blame her. It does look like that.

She grips the steering wheel and watches a squirrel cross the street and climb up the gutter. "I think we should break up," she says.

I'm supposed to be shattered, but instead, I feel a rush of relief. Hazel kicks me out of her car unceremoniously at my doorstep, and I stumble inside, jabbing out texts and leaving group chats en-mass. We pretend that the reason for our breakup is that we're going to different colleges, her on the east coast, me on the west.

In reality, she just doesn't want the embarrassment. Hazel was the only reason I was ever invited into the elite cliques. Now she's dumped me to protect her position in them.

Not that she'd ever say that.

But the rumor still goes around that she was too good for me. Which is probably true, not that I care. Sure, guys would kill to have her, but I wouldn't. I guess I wouldn't for any girl.

I open my chat with Theo, hoping to talk things out with him, then drop my phone on the floor of my bedroom and nearly scream. There's a message from me, last night, that I don't remember sending, that must've been a drunken mistake.

More than a mistake. I never would've called Theo the things I did there. Of course he read the message and didn't respond.

I bite my tongue and tap out a few words. "I didn't mean that. Can we talk about last night?"

He reads, but doesn't reply.

I grab my laptop and wrap myself in blankets. No matter how many I add, I still feel ice shards in my chest. I play the video game Theo used to come to my house to play every weekend, but I have to stop because tears start falling onto my computer. Remembering us, shoulder to shoulder in my bed, soaking in his warmth, his quiet laugh, his soft, steady hands. Theo and I. I just want to see him again.

It's five o clock and he still hasn't responded. I walk to his house, knock on the door, and wait. For fifteen minutes. His dad opens the door and raises one caterpillar-corpse eyebrow. "Theo isn't taking any visitors."

I try to push past the old man, but he blocks me. "I'm a friend," I say, as if he doesn't know that. As if I haven't been to Theo's house a hundred times over.

"Theo isn't seeing anyone"

"Is he home?"

The old man hesitates. He nods. Then he slams the door in my face.

Lies.

I think of all the times I came knocking at his door at two in the morning, when we'd get donuts at the grocery store, then crash on his bed, lips coated with sugar, playing video games. Eventually, we'd fall asleep in his bed, pressed close for warmth, under the quilt stitched with koi fish that his grandma sewed for him.

I miss that quilt. It smelled like Theo, like acrylic paint mixed with machine grease.

I go home. I text him again. "Theo, I just want to talk to you. We don't have to talk about it. Just let me in." I wait until two in the morning for his response. Then I finally decide to sleep.