Bodies Are Disgusting by S. Gates Page B

your
way downstairs. He balances a plate of toaster pastry on one knee
while he struggles to open a jar of raspberry jam. Feigning
bleariness, you rub absently at one eye as you walk in. "Mornin',"
you grunt.
    He doesn't look up. "Morning. Watch your step,
I just mopped." His knuckles are white where he grips the jar lid.
"Fuck! Did they use a goddamn pneumatic drill to put this lid on?
Christ."
    You ignore his outburst. "Why'd you mop? We
weren't due for a kitchen deep clean for another week,
dude."
    "Gonna have company this evening," Simon
hisses through gritted teeth. The lid of the jar comes free with a
pop. "Got a date."
    Bile rises in your throat, a combination of
memories of the last time you saw Lucien and the words SilentHarper
(or rather, Gavin now) had left on your screen. "When's Luke coming
over?" you ask. A part of you hopes against hope that he'll correct
you, tell you that you've got the wrong name, but your stomach
churns because you're certain that you don't.
    Simon has the good grace to look sheepish. "Is
it that obvious? Hah. Yeah, guess it is. He'll be over around seven
to pick me up. We're going to a movie, but I figured I'd have the
place half-clean just in case. You work tonight?"
    "Nah. JD says tonight's gonna be thin, so
he'll just run it himself. Same with tomorrow." You lean against
the door frame and scowl, trying not to feel nauseated. "Listen, I
don't know if you should be jumping into this thing with Luke. You
told me you wanted my opinion of him before you took me to meet
him, and now I'm giving it to you: I think he's a
creep."
    Simon rolls his eyes. "Don't think I don't see
how you're trying to throw my own words back in my face, asshole,"
he says. "There's a key difference here, though: you're totally
wrong about Luke, and I was totally right about Amanda. She's no
good for you and you've gotta just let her go."
    You bristle, both at the jab at Amanda and the
way he dismisses your warning so casually. "She's my friend ," you say. As if you haven't had this argument
before. As if it would change his mind. "If we're going to play
this game, I'm not convinced Luke isn't an axe-murderer looking to
add another notch in his handle, and I don't think you should be
alone with him." Arms crossed over your chest, your face bunches up
in a scowl.
    "Yeah, sure," he says after a moment. "Anyway,
you mind tackling the bathroom this afternoon? I got a quick shift
down at the bookstore, so I probably won't be able to get to
it."
    A handful of conflicting responses jump to
mind. Your first instinct is to tell him to fuck off, followed by
begging him not to do this. Neither of them seem helpful or likely
to change the situation. Instead, you sigh. "Just promise me you'll
be careful," you say. "Don't do anything stupid, don't let him
corner you alone, nothing like that."
    "All right, Mom ," he replies, drawing
out the last vowel sound to emphasize his reluctance to agree.
"I'll be home by midnight and I swear I will call you if
anything happens, all right?"
    Knowing that it's the best you're going to get
for now, you sigh and push yourself away from the door frame.
"Yeah. Okay. I'm gonna go get dressed. Probably going to go grab
lunch somewhere, maybe meet up with Amanda. You want anything, or
are you good with your jam-and-strudel sandwich?"
    Simon shakes his head, turning his attention
back to the snack in his lap. He reaches into the drawer just below
him and pulls out a butter knife, which he uses to spread the jam
on one of the toaster strudels. "I'm good, man. Breakfast of
motherfucking champions." He mushes the other toaster strudel
against the first and licks the escaping jam off his
thumb.
    "Gross," you say, and then head back to your
room before you have to witness him devour his cloyingly sweet
pseudo-sandwich. Instead, you get dressed. You eschew your binder
and piercings, and pull on a comfortable pair of jeans and two
different sweaters over a threadbare band t-shirt. That done, you
grab your