Becoming Brett

25. A $3 Denim Jacket

I wait until Wes starts in on the dials in my wagon before I shift into park and make my way through the nearly deserted parking lot.

He tics, it's not exactly a new tic but I've noticed it's started to repeat itself. His OCD and obsession over even numbers the probable cause.

I ignore it, like I do every other tic he's ever acquired.

"Laurel still coming over?" I ask, maybe a conversation will give him a slight reprieve from his tics.

He cycles through the normal set, a blur of motion to my side.

"I think so." He says. "She didn't.."

And there it is. His head jerks to the left once then repeats. A little moment of hesitation in his muscles before they release him each time. He blows out a breath, wringing his neck with his hand.

I don't need to look at him to know that he's frustrated. I can hear it in the way he sighs. The way it comes from deep inside him, heavy, weighted down by the constant annoyance his tics brings him.

Passing through the town, the roads busy as kids all navigate their way to their extracurricular activities, adults running errands, life going on, I give Wes a minute. To collect himself, reel his thoughts back in.

Sometimes he notices on his own and sometimes his mind gets so off track it's like the original path was never there to begin with.

We get stopped at a stoplight and I glance in his direction, my knuckles wrapped tight around the steering wheel. His hair has fallen slightly over the course of the day, his bedhead not nearly so unruly. His jean jacket that he picked up from a Salvation Army for three dollars on, the denim faded and worn, broken in and comfortable from years of wear and tear.

He looks good in it. I remember when he bought it. We were together and as he pulled it from the rack he smiled at me, that heart stopping one and my heart did just that, it stopped. But it got worst as he pulled the hoodie off over his head and his shirt started to go with it and my eyes feasted on the plains of his abdomen and the way his jeans clung low to his hips. How his skin danced over taught muscles because Wes has never been anything more than lean. And how I wondered what it would feel like to reach out and touch him, his bare skin. Sensitive skin, skin not accustomed to being touched.

I specifically remember how my blood rushed south through my body and how my own jeans became more uncomfortable.

And I specifically remember the panic that followed.

I blame it on the stupid jacket. And also a little bit on Wes too. If he wasn't so...so him, thoughts of touching him, kissing him, loving...

Woah. I snap my head back to the road.

"Is Laurel still coming over?" I dig out the question that both Wes and I have clearly forgotten about. "She seemed a little off after lunch."

She seemed more distant, fearful even after Wes tic-ed at lunch. I had tried to place her reaction among the list of other reactions I've had first hand experience of accounting. Some people gasp, some people look at Wes with judgement in their eyes. Some even look at him with some level of fear. He's an unknown for a lot of people. And even though he can usually pass as mostly normal, sometimes his tics have other motives.

But the look Laurel had, it was different. Her body went rigid, eyes focused on the table but at the same time it was like she wasn't there. Like Laurel wasn't sitting at the table with us after Wes tic-ed. She wasn't at the courtyard, at the same table, in the same seat with the same people she has been for days. She was somewhere else. And wherever that was it didn't look all that fun.

I can feel Wes turn to look at me. I can't bring myself to look back. Not with that memory so close to the forefront of my mind, my embarrassment and fear lingering around it.

"Didn't talk to her much after lunch." He whistles.

He's suppressing, which is odd. I've gotten good at noticing the subtle shift, the crease in his forehead that develops as his eyebrows knit and the tension that makes his nostrils flare ever so slightly as he focuses on holding everything in. I've gotten so good at reading Wes, sometimes I feel like I know exactly when and how he's going to tic.

I know he's not suppressing because of me. Which can only mean that I'm right about his tic crossing a line. He hates new tics, he hates variants of tics. Basically he just hates his tics.

"You think everything's alright?" I ask.

I'm not sure if Wes saw the shift in Laurel's demeanor or not but I don't tell him about it. I don't like to mingle in his love life. It'd get messy.

Besides even though I know Wes and I will never be a thing because Wes is straight, it doesn't change the fact that seeing him with someone else sucks at times. Like I want him to be happy but I know him best. I could love him best.

I shake the thoughts from my head as Wes tics and says "how am I supposed to, fuck! Know?" He lets out a grunt, it's distorted and forced only confirming my thoughts that he is suppressing.

Navigating the side streets to his house, it's only a matter of a few short minutes before I'm pulling into his driveway. He's been tic-ing the whole time, all minor ones, but here's the thing. When he finally stops suppressing he's bound to have an attack. It's the nature of the beast.

"Want me to hang out for a while?" I put the car in park just as his head twists to the side twice.

And without a moments hesitation he says "yeah".

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Oh these two, sort of love them.