Brandon. Yes, THAT Brandon.

Suspicion and Stress

"You're sweet," Logan smiles into my neck. I hold him close and intake the musky, light shampoo smell of his hair. "I think I'll keep you." I'd laugh, however, I'm feeling serious. Not the bad kind of serious. But the kind that you experience when you've done something worthwhile...when you can't think of anything more important than the boy in your arms.

"I didn't know you spoke French," I sigh. Logan barely sits up, meeting my eyes lazily with a confused look. Even with tousled hair and flushed, sexed out cheeks and lips, he looks angelic. I think I'll keep him, too.

"Mmm? I think in French sometimes. Don't speak it often," he mumbles. His long fingers curl around my wrist, then tickle my palm before he laces his fingers with mine. I don't remember holding hands with many people at all; not Madeline, Lacie, definitely not Conner, barely with Christina. It holds a different impression than sex or kissing.

"You definitely speak in French, too," I sigh.

"Oh gosh," he grunts. "There's something I didn't know. How embarrasing."

"You don't have a French accent," I note. I place my free hand on the small of his back and map small patterns into his skin. "Is it just... well..."

"My mum taught me to speak English when I was one. When I turned two, her and my dad got divorced, so she had to-- I don't want to tell you my life story. I'll bore you to pieces."

"No, go ahead," I encourage.

"My mum found a job, but it took her away from home. My nanny was French, and spoke little English. So, she'd speak to me in French until I understood it. That went on for about seven years. I'd speak English when my mum was home, and French when I was with my nanny. It was easy. Then, my mum got back with my dad, so she didn't have to work as much." Logan nestles closer to me. Our breaths synchronize in a medium rhythm, along with our heart beats.

"So you think in French sometimes? That's cool," I sigh. My phone buzzes in heartbeat rhythm after a few minutes. I try not to pay attention. Its Christina. I run my fingers through Logan's hair. When my phone buzzes again, Logan looks up at me with doe eyes as if he knows it's her. He probably does.

'Hey, what you doing? I think i jumped to conclusions earlier. Can I call you?-Chris :P" Ah, not nearly as bad as I expected. Not bad at all, actually. Chris isn't a drama queen. I've yet to see her overreact about something to the point of me wanting to shake her. You know who does overreact? Conner. I read the second message.

'This years playoff wear: khakis and tanks. Thanks. p. s. not one of you better be late to practice tomorrow. -Derek' . Not what I was expecting. I almost forgot about our playoff tradition wear. For years at West Crimson, the football players will all dress the same in the event of playoffs. Last year, we all wore suspenders and striped shirts. Everyday to school. For two whole weeks. I seriously have a phobia of bad hygiene, so it was good that I had over five striped shirts. Some people, however, did not. I steered clear of them. The year before that, we wore basketball shorts and calf socks. Carter had to loan me like, four pairs of shorts because why the hell would I own any?

Logan gets up and retrieves his clothing.

'My parents are being dumb, I'll call you in an hour.' I reply to Christina. She replies quickly.

'Okay :). No problem :)'. Chris doesn't use smiley faces. Ever. She hasn't once, and now she just used two. Something doesn't smell right. Maybe she has a friend over, texting for her. That makes sense. Girls do weird stuff like that. I have come to not trust anyone in real life, much less with my phone.