The Real Scömìche

Mitch

That day was blissful. Scott and I never left the apartment, simply spending all day together. We would sit beside each other, on our laptops or watching Spongebob, stealing little kisses until we wanted the other so badly we would return to the bedroom. Each time, I grew more happy, in love. And I was in love. Scott was unexplainable, unbelievable, just amazing. I loved his pale hair, the way it glistened in the sunlight like a halo. I loved his body, tanned and chiseled, revealing his muscles. I loved his voice, the way he whispered my name.
"Mitchie...."

We were reluctant to leave each other, telling the stories of how long we each longed for the other. I almost refused to go to Texas, a trip to visit my family that had been planned for months, but Scott talked me into it persuading me to see them. He knew how guilty I would feel, even though he admitted he didn't want me to go. We spent very possible waking moment together, walking to Starbucks every morning, making each other breakfast, kissing, hugging, making the most of every day. The night before my plane was due to leave for Texas, we made the most of it, wrapped up in Scott's sheets together, my lips frantic for the taste of Scott's Chapstick, and his hands grasping at my arms, urgently pulling me closer. As we lay, out of breath, afterwards, I heard Scott's phone alert us of a text. I thought nothing of it until he checked it, and sat up bolt upright. The covers fell off his bare body as he read and reread the text.

"Scott," I said, abandoning my nickname for him, knowing he was concerned. "What's wrong?" I sat up next to him, my hands sneaking around his waist. I kissed him on the neck, deeply, passionately, urging him to tell me.

"It's him, Mitch. He texted me."