Once a Nerd Ch. 08

Editor's Note: I really did miss writing these two, obssessive/oblivious is one of my favorites. The only things I'll mention is I fucked up the month in the last chapter, and this website either doesn't let you edit things after they've posted or I'm too stupid to figure it out, but it's JUNE in the last one, not July. Also, I try to be as accurate as possible, but I had to fudge it a bit. Berkeley and Fresno are like, three hours apart, not less than hour. But I wanted to use those schools specifically, so for the sake of the story, it's less than an hour apart lol

It hurts more than I thought it would watching Dean cross the stage.

He did it, he graduated. His final semester is over. It feels like every person in the school, student and faculty alike, are crowding him, and it's just a bitter reminder that there's no room for me in the brilliant corona he casts. Like a diseased appendage, I need to cut him off for both of our sakes. What he needs now is to focus on his future, as I know it's a bright one. One of the student's is throwing a house party, Dean mentioned, and it's one the faculty is turning their cheek to. He's obligated to show his face, so that leaves me some time to gather my wits tonight.

Dean proved to be as stubborn as a tick. I'm not an idiot, I know simply graduating won't rewire his brain. If anything, it'll make him more confident in his harassment. He'll show up at my house like he always does, and I'll let him in after a little begging, touching, because I'm fucking weak. Hell, he might pull a B&E if I don't grant him entry. I can't be here. I have some extended family upstate, and if we're close enough to exchange Christmas cards, one of them should let me stay for a few days.

I call my uncle on my father's side, verifying there's a bed he'll let me take, and shove a rucksack full of the bare necessities. I'm pulling out of the driveway before ten. Is it running away? Yes. Cowardly? Of course.

But, what would you do?

What would you do if you were in my shoes? I've failed time and time again to put my foot down with him. He tramples all over the boundaries I'm too fragile to uphold. I like him, I'm attracted to him, even though every moral fiber in my body burns like a demon suffering a spritz of holy water. I can't tell anymore if I'm a terrible person or if he's too good to resist. Maybe it's both. It feels like there's no other choice left to me. If I want this to end, I have to put physical distance between us.

My uncle, Rodney Powell, is retired from a relatively successful career as an electrical engineer. He's thrice divorced, though it's not so much a damning critique of his character as it is the biggest example of his gullibility. We were never close, but we're amicable. He was audibly surprised by my plea to hide away in his guesthouse for an unspecified amount of time, but he accepted after a brief, lacking explanation ["I just need to get out of this house for a bit, you know how it is."] He and my father were very, very close, so he understood.

Rodney lives in Springfield, a three hour drive. I'm sure he'll want to fill our time with cheap beer and reminiscence, which I'm not looking forward to. I don't mind remembering my father fondly, but it's the last thing on my mind. The only thing on my mind is trying to keep Dean off of it, and that's certainly not something I can discuss with Rodney 'Trump is the best thing that's ever happened to this country' Powell. My father was only marginally less conservative, and neither did he learn of my orientation before his passing. My mom knows, but again, ethics. I can't adequately describe my hang-ups without bringing up the fact that Dean's a teenage student, and she'd probably report me herself.

The drive feels longer than three hours for how miserable I am, and no amount of upbeat Spotify playlists make it better. Rodney lives in the eclectic, affordable neighborhood of Oak Ridge, where the houses err just on the side of too small and too close. Dear ol' Lincoln is supposedly buried in the Oak Ridge Cemetery, his giant copper bust watching over visitors and ghosts alike. It's not on my sightseeing to-do list. In fact, I'm sure the only thing I'll be seeing is the four walls of Uncle Rodney's shoebox of a guest house, or the inside of my eyelids from sleeping off a catchpenny hangover.

When I pull into his driveway, he's either eager to see me or suspecting there's more to my visit than I initially told him. He hobbles down the steps of his porch, bum leg but too stubborn to use the cane he's prescribed, hollering my name: "Sam!"

"Hey, Uncle Rodney." I accept his impromptu hug. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"Anything for Thomas' boy."

I flatten my mouth into something less than a smile. Thomas' boy, because that's the beginning and end of who I am in his eyes. It's fine, as I don't seek anything like validation or a deep, interpersonal connection from my uncle. Just a refuge from an insatiable, obsessive teenager. It goes much like I expect it to. We share a few stilted meals, small talk that goes nowhere, and he graciously grants me my space. The most depth we achieve is over a nightly twelve-pack and half a carton of Pall Malls that I can't bring myself to turn down.

The conversation often veers to the political, and as his affiliations are on the opposite end of the spectrum as mine, it tends to go in one ear and out through the other. When he brings up my father, he gets weepy. He talks about my childhood, curious things and antics. Trips we've taken together, my flippant aspirations that all children peddle through. He tries to disguise his distaste for my mother, but the drunker he gets, the more it slips out. It doesn't bother me, as we're using each other. Company in exchange for temporary escape.

The quasi peace lasts three days. The third evening, after retiring to the guest house, stumbling and halfway blind off seven cans of Busch Ice, my phone rings. It's an unsaved number, but I know who it is as well as I know the sun rises in the east. I let it go to voicemail as I fight my way out of my clothes. Seconds after the call ends, a text comes through. I put off reading it as long as possible, which is maybe five minutes. Drunk as I am, I can't fall asleep knowing Dean's words are festering in my message threads. It reads:

[12:10AM Answer the goddamn phone]

Like some sort of magic, it rings again as I'm scanning the simple sentence. I stare at it, mumbling to myself: "Don't answer it, Sam, come on. You know better, you know better..."

I manage to let that one go through too, somehow. Seconds later, another text:

[12:17AM If u don't answer, I'm showing my ass at the station]

Well, what choice is there now? I clap the phone against my ear after answering it, closing my eyes. "When did I give you my number?"

"Where the fuck are you?"

Oh, he's pissed. Like, really pissed. I frown, and I'm feeling belligerent. "It's none of your business, asshole. You're not my fuckin' mom."

There's a stunned pause. "Are you...drunk?"

"What about it?"

"Sam," My name is a hiss through the receiver, and it raises the fine hairs at the back of my neck. I'll never, ever admit it, but it turns me on too. Dean's hot when he's pissed, if only because I know he won't raise a harmful hand at me. Oh my God, no, he's not hot, he's a teenager. Maybe I should kill myself. "Where are you? Who are you with?"

He sounds...worried, genuinely. I don't have the heart to torture him. "I'm with my uncle upstate."

"Upstate where?"

"Ha! Like I'd tell you that."

His sigh rattles the tiny bones in my ear canal. "When are you coming back?"

I blink at the open rafters in the ceiling. My eyes feel like cotton balls. I must be taking too long to answer, because he snaps my name down the line again. "I don't know."

"You can't stay away forever."

"I know that."

"...why'd you leave?" The quiet question shakes me.

"Because, I..." Gritting my teeth, I try to string together the right reasons. "...it was the right thing to do. You never listen to me, you don't take me seriously. I'm just...trying to do what's best."

"Don't you think I should hear this shit in person?"

I snap to a sitting position, glaring holes through the sheet. "You have heard it in person! Multiple times, Dean! You ignore everything I say! This has to stop, you need to start seriously thinking about the future. I'm not in it!"

He scoffs, and it's full of acid. "You're such a fuckin' coward, Sam. Come home and say it to my face."

Shockingly, he disconnects the call. I didn't expect him to hang up on me, not in a million years. But, I know exactly what he's trying to do. He's baiting me. If he makes himself sound reasonable, then I might believe there's a chance he'll actually listen this time. He wants me to come home so he can pluck my strings in person, because he can't do it over the phone. He's right, though. I can't stay away forever. I barely like Rodney, I can't stand this suffocating guest house, and there are things that need doing at home. This time, this time I'll be firm.

Of course, he's waiting for me. I almost have a panic attack pulling into my driveway, my headlights brightening up Dean lounged in my wicker furniture. It's my own fault for caving. I told him I'd be back by Friday via text after he kept spamming me. Fortunately, it's late, dark. His truck isn't in front of my house, at least. I strangle the steering wheel and cycle some deep breaths before exiting the car. Snatching my bag from the backseat, I make the walk towards my front door like a man holding his head high as he ascends the gallow's steps.

Dean lifts from the chair, watching as I violently unlock my front door. Neither of us say anything for an uncomfortably long time. He comes in behind me, locking the door, and I almost expect to be grabbed and hatefucked like when he had his tizzy over Jamie. That doesn't happen, and it's...unsettling. Instead, he moves through my home like it's his. He flips the table lamp on in the living room and drops into the couch, while I busy myself in the kitchen with nothing of importance. I chug a glass of water, waiting for the shoe to drop.

He's waiting for me to drop the shoe, apparently. Hardening my resolve, I join him in the living room, but I can't bring myself to sit. I loiter in front of the couch, resisting the urge to pace. He's...throwing me off, hard. He almost looks bored, and it's making me feel crazy. Is that all it took? A week of distance, and he's over it? When it's clear I've become temporarily mute, he waves a flippant hand through the air.

"I'm here, so say it."

Oh. It gives me the lucidity I need, if nothing else.

"This...has to stop."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." I snap. "You said it yourself, just until summer, until you can get it out of your system. That's what I agreed to. Well, it's summer now, you've graduated. I can't keep doing this with you, not when I don't even know if you've made a single fucking plan for--"

"I've accepted an athletic scholarship out of state." He interrupts.

I pull back, stunned. He's...taking this remarkably well, better than I could've dreamed. I've asked him repeatedly about his application status, where he hopes to attend, which universities might have already reached out. He brushed me off every time, and I was starting to worry he'd been putting it off because of...well, me. I was afraid he'd been living in a fantasy land, or that he'd go so far as to skip college and take up some local, dead end job to stay close. He doesn't know I'm leaving, and I absolutely cannot let him squander his future over this...ridiculous crush.

But, if I'm truthful with myself, it hurts. I shouldn't be bothered, but I'm still human. We've spent a lot of intimate time together. Dean's treated me better than any partner ever has. He can be clingy and pushy, sure, but when he behaves that way, it's like a constant reminder of how much he likes me. He acts like it physically hurts him to be apart. He looks at me like...the sun rises and sets out of my ass, like I'm the only thing that matters. No one has ever, ever made me feel so desirable, cherished, and...loved. It blew my mind in the beginning, and I'm still blown by it now.

Dean is so, so, so far out of my league. He's gorgeous, talented, funny, kind, and smart in his own way. He could have anyone he wanted, go anywhere he wants to go, be anything he wants to be. I still can't understand why he acts so lovesick over someone like me, but now--was it...is it truly over? Has it finally worn off? He got it out of his system, maybe, like he said he would. He's realized who exactly he is, and who I am. I suppose thinking he'd forgo college to pine after me was only the musings of my overinflated ego, one he created.

I'm relieved, but also unbearably...sad. Despite the constriction in my chest, I force a little smile. "That's...that's really great, Dean. I'm so glad. You don't have to tell me where if you--"

"CSU, Fresno." He says just as casually, leaning back. He folds his arms across his chest, watching me.

California...?

...Fresno?

That's...less than hour from where I'm attending--

"...you knew?" I whisper.

He doesn't reply, but he doesn't have to. His placid expression, his lazy sprawl. He's been...waiting for a reaction. In my mind, there's a hundred-thought pileup, but the anxious ones outshine anything positive. I fling my arms out, unable to stop the wild gesticulation. "What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?! This...this is your fucking future, and you just picked some random school in California?!"

He shrugs. "It wasn't random. Fresno is one of the best D1 schools in the state, and I'm too stupid for Berkeley."

How does he know? When did he find out? I don't think he'll tell me any of this if I ask. He looks so...unbothered, and I can't wrap my brain around the idea that he's trying to follow me across the country. There's no fucking way it's a coincidence, and over-the-top bullshit like this is on brand for him.

"What...what the fuck are you hoping for? We can never be a normal couple, Dean! No one's going to congratulate us, or even approve. I mean, haven't you thought about any of this? No big wedding, no kids! How many professional football players are in an openly gay relationship?!"

"Like, sixteen, total."

"That's--that's not the fucking point! Do you really think you'll be happy in a relationship you have to hide from everyone, all the time?"

"Yes." His nonchalance is driving me mad.

I turn away, because looking him in the face is making me weak. There's a part of me that tickles, a little thrill. It's stupidly giddy, and I do my best to smother it. Dean has no idea what he's trying to sign up for, and I can't let him take it that far. I can't be selfish. "You're eighteen." I croak.

"My birthday's next month--"

"Living in the moment can be exciting, I understand that. You might want this now, but the world is a big, big place. You're going to see a lot of it, meet a lot of people. You'll grow and change. I'll just be a skeleton in your closet, Dean. Fuck, I already am! This isn't something that can--"

"You done?" His tone has an edge to it now. I snap around to glare at him, because he's treating me like a child he's having to 'gentle' parent. He pushes up from the couch, and I shrink back out of instinct. He's too big, and in moments like this, it makes me nervous. I think everything I've said has slipped through his ears like floss, and it's always like that. I'm speaking objective truths, aren't I? Why is he acting like these concerns aren't worth his time? He towers over me, but he hasn't reached out yet. He's throwing his weight around.

"I'm younger than you, and I know you hate that. That's not something I can change, because no matter how old I get, the gap will always exist. Get the fuck over it, Sam. It is my future, you're right, so I can do whatever I want to do with it. I don't need your permission. As long as I have you, I don't give a shit what our life looks like. Fuck a wedding, I don't give a shit if I have kids. If you want those things, I'll make it happen. I'll follow your lead, whatever you want. I don't care who knows, and I give even less of a damn about who approves."

"If you want to be successful, you need the approval of others!"

Right before my eyes, Dean seems to shapeshift. He gets this look, one so full of confidence, charisma, and borderline narcissism. His eyes, despite being lidded, are unnaturally dark. He's looking down on me, smiling, and it's the kind of smile that could slice a person open. Strangely, I'm reminded of Al Pacino's character in the Devil's Advocate. He doesn't just believe himself untouchable, he exudes it. There's almost a pressure I can feel.

"Sammy..." He starts slowly, like explaining something to someone completely daft. "I could fuck you on live television, in front of the entire world, and I'd still have 'em eating out of the palm of my hand. I'll make your mom, your colleagues, everyone fall in love with me, just like they always have. I'll make it to where no one feels safe or comfortable questioning my choices. The only thing that'll keep me from being successful is if I let you walk away."

Do you know what sort of person it takes to get away with a claim like that? Someone who can deliver such arrogant, nonsensical words and make them sound like an unshakeable fact? Dean pulls it off spectacularly, because I'm inclined to believe him. He can get away with anything under the sun, and he knows it. He'd make an excellent politician. But, where does that leave me? Dragged along in his current? What happens when he inevitably tires of me? I'm already attached, and that growth will spread through every cell in my body if left to culture.

If I sit back and keep letting him do whatever the fuck he wants, how will I handle it when he decides he doesn't want me anymore? I can't share these insecurities with him, though. I can't bring myself to be too vulnerable. I can't let him know just how much of an advantage he has, because I'm sure he'll abuse it somehow.

"I..."

Like a Great White, he scents out my weakness, blood in the water. Finally, he touches me, and God, it takes everything not to melt into it. His arm is a hot band across my lower back, fingers gripping my waist beneath the hem of my shirt. He takes my left wrist, bringing the inside of it to his mouth. Blood pounds harder beneath that thin skin, his teeth gently tracing the blue of veins. He doesn't stop watching me, not for a second. A small, needy sound slips out, and I'm immediately mortified by it. I'm...his puppet. It's both terrifying and exciting--

"Sammy, I love you."

...what the fuck did he just say to me?

I'm sorry?

Excuse me?

What the fuck?

My mouth has dropped, my eyes must be twice their size, and I'm gripping his shirt so tightly, it might rip. I'm more jaded than I realized, because my first thought: this is some sick, twisted form of manipulation. He's been love-bombing me, but now he's finally grown enough balls to actually drop the 'L' word.

"Don't...bullshit me, Dean." I enunciate carefully, working hard to keep an even voice. "You have no idea what you're--"

"What, does being younger than you make me incapable of love?" He replies snidely. "Keep your walls up as long as you can, Sam. If you can tell me to get the fuck out of your life and actually mean it, I'll listen, but we both know you won't. You're gonna keep doing what you've been doing, which is letting me do whatever I want. You'll keep telling yourself I'll get over it soon, move on, because I'm just some stupid, fuckin' kid who can't possibly give a real shit about anyone or anything but himself. That's fine, keep thinkin' that."

My throat tightens with anxiety as I realize...he's got a much better read on me than I thought. How do I even begin to respond to that, when he's completely right? He makes it sound cruel, but isn't it just realistic to think that way? I squeeze my eyes shut and cycle a number of deep, calming breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. "So, what? We just...skip off to California and sneak onto each other's campus whenever we've got a spare minute? We'll both be stupidly busy, Dean, it's...that's completely crazy."