Page 82 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

We don’t hold grudges.

Or if we do, we keep that shit bottled up and live in complete denial until we can’t take it anymore.

“We knew you when you were eating sand, bro,” Vince reminds me.

Every muscle in my body unwinds.

“We were there when you and Gray were having ‘who can piss farther’ contests. We watched you throw up in your mom’s flowerpots on the Fourth of July,” Cal adds.

Ironically, the mention of Gray makes me feel ill all over again. It’s as though I could puke everything my stomach contains at any given moment.

“You know us, man. We’re not going to talk to the media or sell your fucking pictures,” Cal guarantees, and to my own surprise, I believe him.

We haven’t seen each other in five years, but I trust these assholes. I trust them a hell of a lot more than any of the vipers I’ve met since I moved to LA.

Vince snorts. “Although, we would make mad bank on those pictures of you and Gray bawling your eyes out that time you got stung in the ass by a jellyfish.”

The memory makes me laugh.

The guys had dared us to go skinny-dipping. It was the middle of the night, and we couldn’t see shit. Gray almost got stung in the dick, and I got stung in my left ass cheek.

Shit, I miss Gray.

Even though I’ve spent the last three years trying to block out any memories I have of him.

Cal and Vince were my friends, sure, but Gray was my brother. We shared a house every summer until I was fifteen. We even shared a goddamn bedroom.

I always suspected he didn’t want me sleeping in his room when we moved in with them—the feeling was mutual—but he didn’t let it show. He knew my mom and I had nowhere to go, and it wasn’t about him.

We were two teenage boys with raging hormones. Neither of us wanted to share a bunk bed while in our “jerking off until my dick falls off” phase.

In the end, I liked sharing a room with him more than I thought I would. We’d stay up late making knock-knock jokes, playing video games, and talking about girls.

Well, he’d talk about girls—mostly cheerleaders he wanted to score with—while I listened, wondering if I should tell him about the girl I really wanted.

I never did.

I was too fucking ashamed to tell him about all the nasty things I was doing to his sister in my head.

I push thoughts of Gray into the darkest corner of my mind. “Sorry, it’s just… I’m fucking paranoid these days.”

Cal nods. “It’s cool. Can’t be fun having people shove cameras in your face every second of every day.”

He has no idea.

I can’t recall the last time I wasn’t on high alert when I left my house. I’m always checking my surroundings, waiting for the paps to jump out of a bush and rob me of my privacy.

They have no boundaries, no respect for the people they photograph, and no concept of compassion.

They crashed Gray’s funeral, for fuck’s sake.

What kind of monsters crash someone’s funeral for a fucking picture?

“You know what you need?” Vince rises off the hammock. “A night off. You need to unwind, have a shot, take a break from being Mr. Celebrity Guy.”

As good as that sounds, my mom’s right.

I need to get my drinking under control before I can even think of getting my career back on track.