The Fuck Up

v.

To say Harley took that night as an invitation to come over whenever he wanted was an understatement. The shit would come knocking on my door with his studying eyes and his bright ass grin and a fucking bag of food that I couldn’t resist and he’d see me eyeing it and let himself in, setting up a meal for us on the coffee table in front of the couch.

And God, he always wanted to fucking talk about something. He always had some story about his neighbor or his fucking friends or his family or even his fucking toaster and he just didn’t seem to realize that I didn’t give a flying, flaming shit about people. But I listened. I listened to his stories, and I gave rude input despite myself, and I ate the delicious ass food he kept bringing from who-knows-where.

And he was always touching me. His hand always found some way to rest on my arm or his own arm found itself flung over the couch behind me, lightly grazing my neck. I should’ve stressed to him that he should stop fucking touching me but I just…I just didn’t really mind.

And I didn’t notice how, after a while, I stopped drowning myself in drinks at the bar as frequently. Sometimes, though…sometimes Harley would find himself dragging my drunken ass home. He was always there somehow whenever I did decide to get shitfaced, claiming he wasn’t letting me drive home drunk ever again.

Apparently, my answer of, “It’s fine as long as I don’t kill anyone else,” wasn’t reassuring in the slightest.

He experienced two more of my breakdowns, one where we were watching a show and the storyline hit a little too close to home, and one that sprung on me for no reason at all. He held me in his arms during both and I let him during both.

I guess I shouldn’t have trusted the impersonal thing we had going on between us because Harley was just a nosy son of a bastard.

“Why do you think you’re a fuck up, Reed?” he asked in the middle of us watching some talk show I would like to say I hate watching but is actually one of the things that annoy me least.

My hands did this, like, weird lurch type shit as my head snapped in his direction. He was looking at the TV but it was obvious the shit’s attention was on me. I was pissed. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you have to fuck it up every time I just start to think you’re tolerable?”

“Just answer the question, Reed.”

“Fuck you.”

Now he looked at me, and he had this tired look and it fucking did things to me. “I just want to know why you hate yourself so much. It isn’t healthy.”

“Is anything about me fucking healthy?” I spat, standing up and stalking away from the couch. Of course the fucking pisswad followed me.

He stayed in the doorway as I ventured into the kitchen, angry to the point of needing cold water. “No,” he answered without restraint, “and I want to know why.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered a second time, grabbing a glass from the dish rack.

“Stop avoiding the question, Reed, and just face me.”

I let out a frustrated near-scream as I ended up throwing the glass at him. He ducked and it sailed right through the air where his head had been, crashing loudly somewhere behind him.

“Shit, Reed!”

“Why the fuck do you insist on knowing every single aspect of my motherfucking life? I was doing fine before you fucking showed up and you need to just leave me the fuck alone.”

He straightened and stood stiffly, staring straight into my eyes. “Then tell me, Reed. Tell me to leave and never come back. Right now. Tell me to get out of your life and never bother you again. Say it and I’ll go.” His jaw was clenched and his tone was more serious than I’d ever heard it.