one of the boys » david dobrik au

forty two

The next morning was hell on earth. I woke up laying on my toilet, still a little drunk, with puke in my hair and on the floor and no energy to move or shower. My head pounded like it never had before, and just the idea of being awake and alive and not with David hurt my heart enough to make me want to go back to sleep forever.

I couldn't do that, though. Jeff came into my room about ten minutes after he heard my shower turn off with a handful of Advils and a cold glass of water. I physically could not deal with the pitying look in his eyes. I couldn't deal with that look in all of their eyes, but especially Jeff's. His, for some reason, hurt worse. Like I knew he was disappointed in me and didn't want to say anything. Like he knew we should've never broken the house rules in the first place. Like he knew all along that I'd end up with my heart in two and David would be frolicking around town with his little girlfriend.

"I wouldn't come out if I were you," he told me once I downed the pain pills. "He's, um, getting some clean clothes. I'm not exactly sure when he's going to leave, but I'll stay in here with you, if you want."

"I don't care," I replied, though the thought of David being just a few feet away from me caused a stinging feeling to erupt in my chest. I was lying a lot these days. "I'm hungry."

"I could make you something," he tried, and I shook my head.

"I'm fine, Jeff, Jesus," I scoffed. "It's not like I'm going to fucking snap if I see him."

"I don't know if I believe that," he tried to stop me, but I slipped by him and out my door anyway. The living room was abandoned, and I quietly made my way to the kitchen.

I started digging for food in our alcohol filled fridge and finally stumbled across some yogurt I could throw some berries into. If Jeff was going to be watching me like a hawk from his place on the arm of the couch, I'd at least make something somewhat healthy.

I heard footsteps on the stairs, and when I looked up, all I saw were sad brown eyes. He didn't smile, didn't wave—not that I expected him to. I just wanted him to. I wanted him to miss me. I wanted him to care.

He looked away as quickly as he looked, said goodbye to Jeff, and left out the front door. Jeff looked at me, uneasy, as I came back into the living room, handing him the bowl of breakfast I made.

"What?"

"Not hungry anymore," I mumbled. "Going to the gym, if you want to come."

"The gym? You need to eat before you go to the gym," he warned. "You're gonna get sick again."

"I'll be fine. And you know what, I'll just go alone."

He wasn't going to let me, that I knew for certain, so I snuck out my window to avoid him. I didn't need him berating me about unhealthy habits.

The gym was pretty busy when I got there, but I managed to find an open treadmill.

I started running. No warm up, no stretching, just running as fast as I could handle until it felt like my legs were jelly that could give out at any second, and then running more. Running like someone was after me. Running like if I kept going and going, I could finally break free of the heart ache.

I was almost there, almost free when I saw a hand start turning my speed down. I didn't even have to look to know it was Jeff, who must have followed me here.

"Jesus, Jeff," I held onto the bars for support as the conveyor belt slowed to a stop. If I let go, I knew I'd go down. My hands could barely hold me up. "What are you doing here?"

"Were you going that fast the whole time?" he asked, a concerned look etched on his face. I was convinced that look would never go away; from now on, it'd always be like this. I'd always be the sad girl they pitied, the roommate who jumped in head first without a backup plan.

"Yes," I answered. It felt like my lungs couldn't fill up fully. If he hadn't stopped me, I would've passed out on that treadmill.

"Holy shit," he seemed at least a little bit impressed. "Fifty two minutes? Holy shit. How are you breathing?"

"I'm barely doing it," I informed him through my wheezes. "Didn't think I was on here for that long."

"We should go home," he told me, and it didn't feel like a suggestion. "You could've seriously hurt yourself."

"I didn't."

"You could have," he said once again. "We're going home, Camilla."

"You're not my dad," I argued, and he rolled his eyes. Truth be told, I was going to be heading home anyways considering my legs were not going to be able to do any weights after a run like that, but I didn't like being told what to do.

"Don't do this, please. I want what's best for you."

"I don't want to go back there," I admitted quietly, and there he was again with soft eyes and a little frown and I wanted to beat him up and tell him to start making fun of me again.

"He's not home. I wouldn't bring you back if he was."

"It's not that," I sighed. "Everything in there reminds me of him. I can't even look at the fucking salt and pepper shakers without wanting to bash my head against the kitchen counter. I hate being there."

And that was true. About two weeks ago, after complaining about how un-aesthetic it was to leave our salt and pepper in the ugly, store bought containers out on the counter for everyone to see, David came home with some vintage shakers he found at the thrift store. They looked like they belonged to a china set and were way too fancy for our kitchen, but the fact that he heard me complain about something so small and did something to make me feel better made my heart want to burst.

I loved him, he loved me, and yet he left. I finally thought I had it right in a relationship, but I had it all wrong. Everything was a reminder of that, and if our house wasn't haunted before, it sure as hell was haunted now.

His presence took over everything. The couch where we slept together, the floor where we played Uno together, the table where we ate together. We played games on the Playstation and sat in the backyard to watch the stars. His clothes littered my floor and his scent stuck to everything he touched, even after room freshener and candles and laundry.

My stupidity was haunting me. My pain was haunting me. He was haunting me. He always said there was a ghost in the house, but I never imagined it'd turn out to be true.

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