The Get-Go [Ashton Irwin]

09: Get Help

    Brent Ferraro is a lot of things. Some of those things aren't the best traits – he's annoying, cynical, hypocritical, a drama queen, judgemental… the list goes on. But, like anyone else, he's got attributes that balance that out – he's brilliant, incredibly loyal, generous, and right now, as cheesy as it sounds, he's the best friend I've got.

    The first person I see once outside is him, brown hair even more mussed than before, eyes nothing but worried. We collide, and he wraps me tightly in his arms, not even a foot from where I basically called him an idiot for saying Garrett was planning something. I'm pretty sure that was fifty billion years ago.

    Have you ever had a quasi-traumatic experience, and then just sort of… existed after? It's kind of a numb feeling, like being on some weird human form of autopilot. The world goes on around you, hell, it even tries to interact with you, but… you just don't.

 

    It's that state that somehow gets me from outside the DH, to somehow being curled up on the sofa in the spare room of Brent's double suite. Since all Grads are entitled to singles if they ask for them, and they ran out of singles, they had to give him a double. It might also help that Brent’s parents consistently make sizeable donations to the school, but that’s beside the point.

    The second bedroom in Brent’s suite is set up as an entertainment room. I’ve been there about a million times before today, usually to study or work on projects with him, and even a few times just to take a nap during a spare. Dr. Chase is the ‘dorm father’ for Brent’s section, and Cory, the dorm monitor, is basically useless, so the whole ‘no girls allowed’ thing is pretty moot.

    A lucky thing, too, since obviously, I’m not in any state to deal with any bullshit about not being able to curl up on Brent’s L-shaped sofa and sob into his chest.

    Either Sam’s taught him well, or my best friend has some innate knowledge that enables him to realize that the best thing he can do right now is just stroke my hair and hand me tissues when I need them. He doesn’t say much, except maybe a few muttered death threats against Garrett, and a few “let it out, Wynny”’s, while I soak the front of his black uniform polo with salty tears.

 

    Like the cliche I am, I somehow managed to cry myself to sleep. Surprisingly, when I wake up, Brent’s still there, still occasionally running his fingers through my hair absentmindedly as he watches something in French. I lay there for a moment, my head still resting on his chest as the steady rise-and-fall of his breathing soothes my still-frazzled nerves. The soft cotton of the aforementioned tear-soaked polo smells like gummy candy and the wrong kind of cologne, which only makes me want to start crying again. It’s Ashton’s cologne and Ashton’s sweat and Ashton’s t-shirt that I want to be smelling. I want his weirdly large hands fiddling with my hair. I want to hear him chuckling at French-language programming.

    Then again, the reason Ashton would be laughing (the fact that he has no idea what they're talking about) would be completely different than the reason Brent's laughing (he actually thinks what they're saying is funny). But still, I'd much rather the former than the latter.

    It strikes me now that this is the first time I've ever really felt like I needed my boyfriend. I've told you about how we're normally fine when we're apart, but from the moment I woke up today, I've genuinely wished that he was here or I was there. And now, after lunch… it's that much worse.

    I reach up to rub at my raw eyes, and Brent looks away from the TV to check on me. "Hey, you. Feeling better?"

    As I slowly sit up and separate myself from my best friend's warm hold, I try my best to smile and nod convincingly. It turns out, he's watching an episode of Desperate Housewives that's been dubbed in French, and even in my current emotional state, I can't help but giggle. "What the hell, B."