Page 80 of The Revenge Game

The way it started with a gentle brush of lips. The way he tasted like everything I’ve ever craved. The way his lips had been so red and messy from our kissing.

I can’t do this.

Ethically, morally, I can’t take this further with Justin, can I?

I’ve already indulged Teenage Andrew way too much with the whole revenge plot.

He got the kiss. That’s the one bone he’ll get to savor, put in his little box of treasures to take out and marvel at whenever he wants.

Because Justin kissing me means his treatment of me in high school is extra screwed up. And I shouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot barge pole dipped in disinfectant.

Bones. Poles. My subconscious is really focused on phallic symbols at the moment.

Justin has said enough about his stepfather for me to know there’s more to his story than I ever realized. The way his voice changes when he talks about his stepfather feels like watching someone navigate wounds that haven’t healed.

I grab my phone from my bedside table. Justin’s message from last night sits there unanswered, the words burning into my retinas.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Can we talk?

My stomach clenches.

I know I need to talk to Justin. But what the hell am I going to say?

The truth? Can I actually bring myself to tell him the truth?

Hey, Justin, I really enjoyed kissing you last night. But there’s something you need to know…

The thing is, Justin likes Drew, not Andrew.

But it’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to tell the two apart.

I get up and make myself breakfast, but I can’t swallow more than a few mouthfuls.

After I’ve cleared up my breakfast dishes, I look around my apartment.

I feel…lost.

Usually, by now on a Sunday morning, Justin and I would be messaging each other. Planning our adventures together has been half the fun, especially when it often turned into Justin cooking me breakfast while we joked about the proper ratio of coffee to consciousness required for coherent conversation.

Instead, I’m sitting here pathetically still in my sweats, trying to figure out how to respond to a message that somehow manages to offer the thing I want and dread the most.

Can we talk?

I spend the next several hours in a state of suspended animation, like a character in a video game waiting for the player to press start. I clean my already-clean apartment. I reorganize my sock drawer by color gradient. I even attempt to read, but the words blur together like they’re written in a language I’ve forgotten how to translate.

The hands on the clock seem to mock me with their slow progression. By early afternoon, I’ve exhausted every possible distraction in my apartment and my anxiety has cycled from dread to resignation and back again approximately seventeen times.

To postpone making a decision, I video call my parents.

My mother’s face fills the screen, pixelated at first before resolving into familiar features. She’s in the kitchen, early morning light streaming through the window behind her, and I can see the edge of theHome Is Where The Heart Issign that’s hung on the kitchen wall since I was a kid.

“Andrew! What a lovely surprise!”

“Hi, Mom.” I lean back against the couch, adjusting my glasses. “Is Dad around?”

“He’s out in the garage tinkering with something.” She peers at me through the screen. “You look tired. Is everything okay?”

Her observation brings an unexpected lump to my throat. How many times did she ask me that same question in high school, and I brushed her off with mumbled excuses about being up studying until late? How many times did I hide in my room, pretending to be focused on coding, when really, I was trying to stop myself from breaking down?