Topping the Jock

Chapter Sixteen

A.N. A chapter is long overdue, and I was gonna update later but the app was fucking up and I was in town like all day. Anyway, picking up from where we left off, but switching back to MILO's P.O.V so enjoy, and vote and comment if you like it!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - MILO'S PRECIOUS P.O.V

Today was going to be a good day.

I didn't know why, but I could sense it, inside, like I just knew. I knew today was going to be a good day and I knew because I just did. And because I knew this, it would happen. Plain and simple.

"Milo!" My mom had one of those really sweet voices, the ones that were like honey dribbling warmly down your throat, like you could listen to her talk for hours on end and not get bored. But she was a shy woman, and she didn't have that many friends. And with a shitty son like me, it was easy to pity her.

I didn't pity her that much, though, I just felt so sorry for her because she got the shit end of the deal. An abusive husband, a gay son, no money, no family, a shit house, a shit job. She really didn't have much going for her, except for her good looks, of course. But that's really all you need, sometimes.

"What?" I screamed down the stairs at her. Like I said, I'm a shitty son. People don't just change overnight.

"Don't 'what' at me, Milo!" she scalded from down the stairway. The closeness of her voice meant she was right at the mouth of the stairs waiting to drive me to school. "I'm waiting, dear!"

"Good. So keep waiting. Why am I even going in school today, it's after lunch, the day's practically over anyway."

She'd came home from work early and found me ditching school in my bedroom, and was now forcing me to go to anyway, even though the day was practically halfway over.

"Why are you taking so long, Milo?"

"My hair is not yet absolute perfection!" I screamed, mostly at myself in front of the bathroom mirror. Displeased. Displeased with everything. It just wasn't right.

I heard her heels clacking on the wooden staircase, and in seconds, she was at the bathroom door. She tried to scowl, but my mom just had one of those kind faces.

"You never style your hair," she said, leaning casually against the door-frame of the bathroom while she waited, watching me like a hawk, with warm blue eyes, a blue that was much kinder than mine. She watched my every move as I wisped my fingers through my light blond hair, trying to get it to stay in place.

"Yeah, well, everything has to be perfect today, according to plan," I told her, not really focusing on her at all. My attention was drawn to the single strand of hair that just refused to stay in place.

"Why? What's so special about today?" she asked, her eyes prying me for information. Me and my mom hadn't been that close recently, but when Dad was alive, we looked after each-other because he was a total dick. Sometimes, she'd argue with him on purpose. To make sure he'd go for her, and not me. A tactic I later took up to protect her instead. But after he died, we distanced, I grew colder, I guess. I changed. But she never did.

And for a moment, I actually contemplated answering her with the truth, telling her all my troubles and doubts, but that was a momentary lapse of judgement.

"No reason."

"Who's it this time?"

"What ever do you mean?" I asked, batting my girlishly long eyelashes at her innocently.

"Milo, I'm your mother, and I know when my baby likes someone. Who is she?"

"Remy." My heart stopped beating once I realised that I'd actually said his name. She knows. Oh well.