This Could Be Anywhere But Here

Chapter Eight

In the midst of a comfortable slumber, my cell phone bursts into song and my eyes unwillingly flutter awake inside of my dark room. I blindly grab for the phone sitting on the nightstand, knocking over an empty plastic cup in the process. I groan, squinting at the bright screen.

It's Kyle, "Hello?" I mumble, and close my eyes again.

"Are you still sleeping?"

"Mhm," The phone falls beside my ear. I hope he doesn't expect me to keep a coherent conversation. Kenny and I were out a little late last night. And by "a little late," I mean 3AM.

"Do you still want to go to that diner today?"

I yawn, "What time is it?"

"8:30."

"Oh God. Dude. Are you kidding me? Why are you calling me so early?"

He laughs lightly, "Sorry. I forgot how early it was. I've been awake since five. I should be back around 11, though. I can come by your house and we'll head over. Cool?"

"Yeah, sounds great," I grumble. He takes the hint and we end the conversation with that. The phone drops to the floor and I curl into my bed, already well on my way to continue with some much needed sleep.

In my room, it's dark. The movie from last night is playing on the wall, covering an old Raging Pussies poster with a car chase. I'm sitting upright on my bed, feet hanging over the side, and I'm not alone.

Kyle is standing in the middle of the room with his back to me and his eyes on the screen. He's seventeen years old, and missing his green hat. Auburn curls cover his head with inconsistent patterns. "This movie is fucking retarded," he says, and then turns to me, his hair bouncing along with his movement, "I know you agree with me."

I just nod my head and he turns back to the screen.

"Worse than a goddamn Michael Bay movie."

I try to stand up, but I feel heavy. I can't move. I look down at my lap and see that I'm wearing all of my snow gear: heavy boots, winter coat and wool hat. It's very cold. Behind me, all of the windows are wide open and snowflakes pepper inside quietly.

All of a sudden, Kyle is our current age again, his short hair and glasses in their usual place. But, we're no longer alone. Travis is beside Kyle, staring at him with his head tilted. He slowly lifts his arm and his hand lands on Kyle's back, between his shoulder blades. It slides down, slowly, following the spine until he reaches the hem of the shirt. His hand slips under the fabric, exposing Kyle's pale skin.

The speed of my heart picks up and breathing escapes me while I watch. The movie reflects off the wall and covers their bodies with the only source of light in the room, flickering back and forth between scenes.

Kyle turns to Travis and his arms wrap around the other's neck, submitting instantly. He pulls the two of them close until their chests meet. Kyle is the one to initiate the kiss and I open my mouth to say something but it's so dry that I can't speak.

I don't even know what I want to say if I could say it.

I suddenly buckle over in pain as my stomach lurches with nausea. Sweat pours over me, soaking my heavy winter clothing. I gag, but nothing follows.

The film flashes behind them and it grabs my attention. A younger form of myself is now peering down at us. I look like I'm about twelve years old, wearing my old snow hat.

My stomach jumps again and my chest rises and falls with long, desperate breaths.

Travis and Kyle are now right beside me, just inches away from the bed, and Kyle's shirt is off. They're making out, and I try to keep an eye on them as I watch the wall at the same time.

"Happy Birthday, dude," twelve year old Stan says on screen, "I know that you're sick and all, but you can't be alone on your birthday, ya know? Check it out," he bends out of frame and when he reappears, he's snapping the band of a surgical mask around the back of his head.

Despite the mask, his smile is still visible, stretching from ear to ear.

I look to my right again and Travis isn't here anymore. He's gone, and Kyle is sitting beside me, his shirt still missing. "Stan," He breathes, his voice low and quiet, and face filled with lust—a look completely foreign that I almost can't recognize him.

But I don't hesitate. As soon as he says my name, I move over and kiss him passionately, like I'd been Travis the entire time. My hands aren't the least bit shy and I tug him close, fingers pressing into his exposed skin with such familiarity like I've done this a hundred times. He leans into me and we fall back onto my bed, each fighting through a consuming hunger.

He tugs away at my winter clothes and we manage to keep our lips locked, desperate to be as close as possible.

His hand grips my wet hair and he suddenly pulls away, lips red and breath heavy, "Stan?"

"What?" I ask, unhappy with the sudden break as I grasp my fingers in the belt loops of his pants, trying to pull him back down.

"Stan?"

"Stan?"

I jump upright in my bed, startling awake. My mouth gasps for air while images of Kyle on top of me are so fresh in my mind that I still feel like I'm dreaming.

"Dude."

I look over in a panic, my heart pumping through my chest and Kyle is sitting on the edge of my bed, holding a bag of potato chips and chewing—like I wasn't just making out with him.

Oh my fuck. Goddamn. He's the last person that I need to see right now.

My stomach is doing back flips and my skin is slick with sweat. I wipe my face and my hand slides from my forehead to my chin. I can't even swallow; my mouth is practically sand.

"You all right? You're really pale."

My chest heaves up and down, trying to slow my breathing down to normal. All I can think about is Kyle without those potato chips and without that shirt.

I look at the Raging Pussies poster on my wall, imagining a younger form of myself still on display.

Kyle shifts closer and puts a hand on my shoulder, "Stan?"

I look at him and all I can see is his expression in my dream—completely filled with lust and heated intentions. His eyes were so intense. I never saw Kyle like that before. Now I'm suddenly, really—really—embarrassed with him right next to me, touching my shoulder. It's not like he knows what I was thinking about, but Jesus Christ, we were just making out seconds ago.

It all felt so real.

My stomachs panics and I'm still just as nauseous as I was in my dream. I lurch forward, head in my hands, and hide my supposedly pale face from the heat that is filling my cheeks.

I have to get my head on straight. Focus. Dream is over—didn't happen—won't happen. Shake it off, Stan.

I swallow again. My stomach bubbles.

Oh fuck.

With zero warning, I puke right into Kyle's lap.

"Aw, sick!" He exclaims, and recoils away from the bed.

I don't wait for any more of a reaction. I hurry and run out of the room, my churning stomach keeping me quick on my heels. I make it to the bathroom, slam the door shut, and fall to the tiled floor in front of the toilet.

I look down into the bowl and spit the acidity out of my mouth. I breathe hard, waiting for more. My stomach gurgles, but I gag out empty air.

I can't get that image out of my mind! What the fuck is wrong with me? The last thing that I need to be thinking about is making out with my best friend—my best gay friend. Let alone thinking about that while he's sitting right fucking next to me.

"Jesus Christ," I echo into the bowl.

Beads of sweat fall down my naked back, sinking into the brim of my pants. Why the hell was I wearing snow gear in that dream when I only fell asleep in pajama bottoms?

I shake my head. That's the last question that I need to be asking myself.

Besides that very fucked up dream, to add to everything, I just puked on Kyle. Not next to him, not in front of him, but right on him. I could've at least turned the other way. Not that this hasn't happened before, but I thought I was done with this problem since I was a teenager. All that random puking and those panic attacks? I swear to God if that comes back, I'm going to flip shit.

I'm turning into a fucking basket case. First the movie theater last night, and now this is happening.

I hear a tentative knock on the door, "Stan?"

I spit into the toilet a few more times, the taste eating away at my tongue and teeth.

Kyle steps inside and closes the door behind him. The lock clicks and he takes a seat beside me on the edge of the ceramic tub. He's right next to me, again.

I can't even look at him. Instead, I heave and gag another bubble of air into the bowl.

"Dude," he starts, "you puked ALL in my chips."

I manage to breathe out a small laugh. Really? That's the first thing that he says to me? I mumble a weak "sorry" and then spit into the bowl again. I really hate the taste of puke.

His hand touches my shoulder, and he gives it a small squeeze.

He's worried about me.

I immediately tense. My hands tighten around the foot of the bowl and I clench my molars together.

I can't keep acting like a weirdo. Not with him right here.

I push myself away from the toilet with stark aggravation from my thoughts, stomach, dreams… just fucking aggravated with this whole situation. My mind, of all things, is starting to fuck up my friendship with my best friend that I finally just got back.

He has no idea, Stan. I mentally say, just to pep talk myself into calming my shit. Just chill the fuck out.

I take a deep breath, defeated, and lean my back against the ceramic bathtub.

Kyle is bent over, sitting on the side of the tub, and I'm next to him, on the floor with legs stretched out in front of me. His hand is still on my shoulder—my opposite shoulder—so he basically has his arm around me.

I swallow, hard. I'm still tense. At least my stomach isn't in my throat anymore. All of my muscles are constricted and there's no way that he doesn't notice. I can't even move right now. My heart is still beating out of my chest, and I've never had to try so hard to relax.

I clear my throat, but I keep my eyes down. I still haven't been able to look at him, "Sorry about the chips, dude." My voice is hoarse, "I didn't get any on you, right?"

He keeps his hand on me. It rocks back and forth over the tip of my shoulder blade, his skin rubbing over my own, "You got some on my jeans, so I stole a pair of yours from your drawer. The bed and my food got the worst of it." He squeezes my shoulder again, "You owe me a bag of chips now, though."

I smirk, finally holding onto a normal pace of breathing, "I'll pick up breakfast."

His hand glides to the back of my neck, and his fingertips graze the bottom of my hair, weaving between strands and the surface of skin. His movement is soft and slow.

"Really? You never bought me shit when you puked on me before. Feel free to do this more often." He lets out a small, unsure laugh.

I go to open my mouth to retort, but I don't. I'm finally calming down. Talking may be easing my mind.

"Did you drink a lot last night?" He asks, going with the most obvious question. Good thing that, 'Hey, were you just mind fucking me in your sleep?' wasn't his first choice.

I nod and it's kind of a lie. I was out with Kenny for a while, but I didn't have much to drink. It's an easy explanation though so I'll stick with it for now, "Yeah, little too much, I guess."

"You want me to get you something? Some antacids? A stomach pump?"

I shake my head, "I'm good...just, give me a second."

I take a deep breath. I need to stop acting like a douche and just fucking go with it. I had a dream about making out with him—so what? It was just a dream. If I'm a fish in one of my dreams it doesn't mean that I'm going to wake up and jump into Starks Pond. And he's rubbing the back of my neck, so fucking what? We did this shit all the time and it didn't mean anything then, so it shouldn't now. It actually feels kind of nice, and considering why I'm in here, I should be freaking out more about this situation...but I'm not. It's oddly soothing.

So, we're a little close. I'm over it. I'm sick of judging everything that I do when it comes to him. It's been constant since we started hanging out again.

I give up and lean my head onto Kyle's lap, admitting defeat. I do feel good right now, and all that dry heaving has worn me out. I could go back to sleep if I wanted to, right here, on the tiled floor, next to my gay best friend. I still feel weak, but more at ease. At least I'm not panicking anymore.

I don't know if my movement surprises him or not because his hand comes to a stop, but it's only for a moment. He reworks his strategy and brushes the black hair out of my eyes, and traces his fingers along the length of it. I smile into his—my—jeans.

He clears his throat, "How're you feeling? You still look kind of pale." His voice is considerably softer than when he was complaining about vomit in his chips.

"Better," I mumble. My eyes close and I focus on his hand, moving back and forth with a tender touch through my hair, to my neck, and lightly over my ear. I notice every inch he covers and relish in it as I try to swallow my anxiety permanently.

The thing that tipped our friendship on an angle is that he's gay. We did shit like this all of the time before—it shouldn't mean anything different now. I'm comfortable. That's all that matters. I enjoy being close to Kyle. I can't do shit like this with Kenny, but so what? I wouldn't want to. This is just me and Kyle.

I don't know how long we stay like this, but I don't move, and he doesn't either. I feel like we're kids again, in our own little world together.

"Stan!"

Kyle and I both sit up, startled out of whatever kind of moment we were just in, and direct our focus to the door.

"Open up! I have a shit the size of New Zealand coming out!"

Goddammit, I hate that this house only has one bathroom. Kyle and I both stand up and when I open the door, my Dad speeds right by me, his legs bouncing back and forth with urgency. He almost runs right into Kyle.

"What were you two doing in here?" He asks, taking a break from his bathroom dance for a second.

"Oh, uh," Kyle begins, and he suddenly looks really uncomfortable.

I don't know why he hesitates, so I answer, "I puked. Kyle was helping me out."

"Are you o—" He interrupts himself, "Shit. Okay! You boys need to get out of here! It's about to get ugly!"

The words are out of my Dad's mouth as he tugs on his stained robe to proceed with blowing up our bathroom. I promptly turn around before I have another reason to throw up.

Back in my room, for some reason, Kyle and I are just kind of standing here. It's awkward again. I went from panic, to puke, to calm, and now we've shifted into some kind of awkward stage. He feels it too, I can tell. He's looking around my room like he hasn't seen it a thousand times. His eyes are everywhere but on me.

"So..." I begin, "I'm gonna get changed...and then we can head over?"

Kyle nods, more than once, "Yeah, dude. Okay. I'll wait downstairs." He thumbs to the door and then makes his way to the steps.

I briefly hear my dad groaning down the hallway. I can't believe that I have to go back in there to brush my teeth when he's done—fuck.

X x x X

Kyle and I don't say much to each other on the way to the diner. The ride is bordering on our usual comfortable silence versus a we-may-be-falling-back-into-that-whole-cuddling-thing silence. I know stuff is a little...off right now. I had that panic attack at the theater, then I had the dream, then I puked on Kyle, and then, to top off all of that shit, I go ahead and get a little too close for comfort with him in my bathroom. And you know what? I'm sick of all this shit. I can't keep going back and forth on how I feel around him. It's been an odd few days, and right now, I'm just excited about seeing Wendy, so my focus is on that.

Inside, the diner is tiny, but it's crowded. When we sit down, Kyle opens his menu but I don't touch mine. I'm too busy looking around to catch sight of Wendy. She did say that she was working this morning, right? I hope that she didn't leave early or anything.

"Holy shit, they have French toast stuffed with cream cheese, dude. I don't even know how that happens, but I'm in. What are you getting?"

I try to peek into the kitchen beside us as I arch my back over the spine of the chair, "We should've asked for a seat in her section."

"Dude," Kyle suddenly says, interrupting my search, "Chill. She's around."

"What? I just don't want to miss her."

"Heya, fellas! How are ya this morning?" Butters greets us out of nowhere with a warm smile and silverware. He gets amazing tips here. All of the old ladies love him. "I'm glad you two finally stopped in! Did ya see the French toast special?" He's clad in his work uniform, with a pin on his white shirt that is nothing else but a smiley face. Where's he getting all this smiley shit from?

Kyle nods, "Yeah, and I'm all over that. It sounds awesome."

"Have you seen Wendy around, Butters?" I ask, somewhat worried that I may have missed her. I forget what time she said that her shift ends today.

He nods, "She's here today. I think she's in the kitchen. I can get her for ya after I take your orders if you two are ready."

"I'm good with coffee."

Kyle cocks an eyebrow at me, "You're not eating? You should probably get something in your stomach after this morning."

"I'm fine," I catch her walk out of the kitchen from the corner of my eye and I give Kyle a brief "I'll be right back" before I make my way over to her. I can't help my smile. It's instant when she turns around and sees me.

"Stan!" She quickly gives me a hug similar to yesterday with a cute little hop since she's so short. "I'm glad you made it. I told the manager all about you. He's in the back if you want to meet him now."

Okay, right down to business, "Yeah, sure."

She grabs my wrist and pulls me along with her. Her fingers are tiny and cool, with a few hair ties decorating her own wrist.

In the kitchen, I go through the whole employment spiel with the manager, Jerry. Just the usual questions—my work history, my schooling history, my availability, etc. I'm just desperate at this point, so I give him what he wants to hear so that I can land this job.

If I take this job, at least I can get some face time in with Wendy. Who knows what could happen? We're both adults now, maybe we can make it work this time. We've always had good chemistry. Years apart can really make you appreciate a person. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? Maybe her heart still has a soft spot for me.

I'm offered the job on the spot, and I get to come in for training on Thursday. That was easy. Then again, it's not like this is an epic position that requires some heavy consideration. But, at least I have something concrete for now while I continue the job search.

Before I return to the table, I walk back over to Wendy first. I place a hand on her back to get her attention while she wipes down one of her tables—just a subtle touch to squeeze myself into her thoughts. "Thanks a lot, Wendy. I appreciate the good word. I'm coming in for training on Thursday."

"Oh, great! That's awesome."

"I'm here with Kyle. Want to say hi?"

Back at the table, Kyle's food already looks like it came and went. Was I really away that long?

He looks up from his empty plate, and puts on a smile when he sees Wendy. "Long time no see," he says cheerfully, and gets up from the table to give her a warm hug.

They play catch up for a moment, and I finally tend to my coffee. It's a little cold, so I really must've been in the kitchen for a while. The guy was nice, though, so that's a plus. It's never fun to work with an asshole.

Wendy is so bubbly and chipper as she speaks with Kyle. She's always had the cutest smile. That's what really kills me about her. She could say the worst possible thing to me, but if she does it with a smile, it wouldn't even faze me.

But when she says, "We'll have to go out for a drink to catch up soon. You can both meet my boyfriend," with a smile, I'm not going lie—it fucking fazes me.

A boyfriend? Are you kidding? And then Kyle has the audacity to ask her how long they've been dating and she says three years. Not only that, but it's apparently going great, and he's such a wonderful guy, and blah, blah, blah. Great. Who gives their number to an ex when they already have a boyfriend? What the hell?

"Okay, I gotta get back to work, but I'll see you two later! Stan, I'll see you bright and early on Thursday." She gives us a quick smile, and then she's off.

I look up, and Kyle looks pissed. What the hell is he mad for? I'm the one who should be upset, not him.

"You all right?" He asks, and his voice is stagnant, like it's not even a genuine question, but he's asking just to ask.

"Yeah, fine." I look down at my coffee. Not even three sips in yet, but I'm ready to go, "Let's get out of here."

In the car, Kyle shuts the passenger door harder than he needs to and looks right at me. "Why'd you even ask me to come with you, dude? If I knew that I had to sit there by myself the entire time while you were with Wendy, I wouldn't have come."

I roll my eyes and start the car. Now this shit? "Why are you complaining? I just bought you breakfast."

"Because you puked on me."

I shoot him an annoyed look as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. It's not like this morning was something that I could control. He can't throw it in my face like that, "What's your problem, dude?"

"My problem? What's your problem? How are you still obsessed with Wendy? It's borderline creepy."

"Obsessed? What the fuck, that's a little extreme."

"No, it's not. As soon as we walked into that place, you were looking for her like a lost puppy. And when she mentioned that whole boyfriend thing? I had to say something to get your jaw off the floor, and now you're all pissed off because of it." He sounds so annoyed right now—which is coming out of nowhere. He seemed fine when we got to the diner and was drooling over French toast. He had to sit and eat by himself for a few minutes, so what?

"I'm pissed off? You're the one who's bitching right now, Kyle. I'm totally fucking fine."

"Yeah, you seem real fine, dude. That's all you say anymore and I can totally tell that something's wrong. I could've hung out with Travis for a little while before he left, not sit there by myself while you drool over your ex-girlfriend."

"Oh, wow. Sorry to interrupt time with your buddy."

"And I'm the one who's bitching?" He crosses his arms, "Why don't you like him? I can tell that you don't. You were so weird last night."

"What! How was I weird? I totally was not weird. You were weird."

Wow, good one, Stan.

"Please, pray tell, how was I the weird one? You stormed out of the movie theater for like a half hour and you barely said a goddamn thing at dinner."

I bite my tongue. I sure as hell don't want to answer that question, "Why the fuck do I have to like him anyway? What does my opinion matter for?"

"Why would your opinion not matter? You're my best friend, dude."

"Yeah? Well, I wasn't a few months ago, was I?"

He pauses—I probably shouldn't have said that. "Dude."

I just shake my head. I don't even know what the hell we're arguing about anymore. "Forget it. I'm sorry."

His arms fall back to his side and his eyes are on the window, "No...it's okay. I'm just...I don't know. I'm sorry, too." He sighs, decides to drop it, and just keeps his gaze outside. We don't even say anything else the entire ride until a few weak goodbyes.

Back home, the entire second floor still reeks of shit, and right when I sit on my bed, my ass lands into a nice pile of vomit. I probably should have cleaned that up before I left.

Well...today's off to a fucking great start.