13 • The Obsession

"I can't believe th..."

"Was it gross?" Cain asks, watching Dylan's back as he walks to wherever he can, as long as that's away from us, "Was it disgusting because it was him or because he was a man in general?"

"It wasn't gross at all, it was good," Beau replies, looking up at me with his annoying fücking brown eyes. I hate the way he looks at me, like he knows everything. Like he knew I wanted him to kiss me, not Dylan, "Do you still think I'm homophobic?"

"No, now I think you're an asshole who hates me for some other reason," I answer honestly, making everyone growl one way or another, "Fine! Keep thinking that I'm overreacting. Just don't cry for me when I turn up dead in a ditch because of him."

Beau rolls his eyes and shakes his head as if he's tired of me, taking a step towards his date (surely to get the hell out of here) but realizes Cain is saying something in her ear and stops.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he announces, though he doesn't get much attention. And I know I have nothing to do near him, but I start walking beside him anyway, "What do you want now?"

"I want to go to the bathroom, too," I say, making him look at me suspiciously, "Are you afraid I'll rape you?"

"No, you idiot," he exclaims, stopping to push on my chest. His exaltation takes me by complete surprise and the way he approaches me trying to intimidate me makes me feel something I'd rather not mention, "I just want you to leave me alone."

"No," I answer, taking a step to get even closer to him, "Tell me the truth. I know there's something weird here and I want to know. Why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you! I don't know who you are, I don't care about you at all," he lets out, breathing heavily. He's only a like three inches taller than me, but he feels so much bigger right now, "Leave me alone. Get lost."

"No," I repeat, causing his irritation to grow. He's even more handsome up close, "I won't leave you alone until I find out what you're hiding."

"I'm not hiding anything!"

"Hey, hey, hey," Cain interrupts, coming out of nowhere and stepping between us. His back to me, "Pinky, I think you're the one with the problem here. You need to stop."

I won't... but I can lie.

"Okay, you're right," I agree maybe too quickly, smiling innocently. Beau gives me an incredulous look, "I'm sorry, Beau. I think I'm drunk."

"Don't worry, Timothy. It's all right," he replies, sounding just as fake as I do. He raises his fist to bump it with mine, and I do it

just to keep up the facade.

➿➿➿➿

I was diagnosed with obsessive personality disorder when I was a teenager and my illness manifests itself very commonly in obsessing over certain people, so my therapist forces me to tell him if I am even the slightest bit attracted to someone to deliberate whether I will obsess over that person or not and why.

This time I don't need to deliberate with him, I'm aware that I'm obsessed with Beau, but I'm embarrassed to admit it, so throughout our weakly session we talk about our usual topics and I don't offer up the new event in my life: the arrival of that idiot who won't get out of my head.

When I get to my apartment, I groan at my need to keep thinking about him and head for my office because there are so many things going on at the same time inside me, I need to write them down before I forget.

I grab my markers and walk over to the white board to write what I know about Beau so far from our two encounters, some questions I asked Cain and a three-hour social media research.

Beau. 25 years old. Graduate of the University of Toronto generation 2018-2022 in Business. Started at Lambert as an intern and earned an admin position for six months before magically coming up with a billionaire idea that brought him all the way to Chicago to work closely with Charlie, my best friend's dad.

He has 2,872 followers on Instagram and doesn't interact much with the people who comment on his photos, so they're not his friends but unknown people who follow him because of his physical attractiveness.

I can't blame them.

He has 500 friends on facebook but the last post is from 2017 and it's a picture of him with an older woman he calls "Aunt Martha". There are no pictures of other members of his family, not his father or mother or siblings. There is not a hint of information from them, if they exist.

The day we met he came to Janeiro, sat down at the table across from me and the moment he laid his eyes on mine, I saw something like recognition and fear. As if he knew who I was and that scared him. And after that, disgust. Hence, I thought the most logical thing and assumed he was homophobic but then he proved that wasn't true at all, so there must be some other reason why seeing my face made him go through all those feelings.

Questions I have:

Where is his family? Are they close? Why does he hate me? Does he know me in any way? Does he know anything about me? Do I remind him of anyone?

I walk to my office on Monday, repeating those questions to myself over and over again. I analyze every moment we've spent together and try to find the answers or hidden clues, but there's nothing.

"Good morning, Timothy," someone greets me as I enter the warehouse, making me jump a little.

"Good morning, Joe," I reply, smiling at my employee and walking to my office to sit down to do some of the thousands of pending tasks I have. I rearrange my desk to make myself feel better, write down the itinerary for the day in my agenda and try to focus on them, but even while I'm on an video call with my accountant, or reading the sales reports or planning the next deliveries, I'm thinking about all the questions I have for Beau.

Bernabeu Claude.

And every time my head goes back to him, I get a little angrier. At myself. For being unable to let go of something once I find myself minimally interested. And also for being fucking interested in someone like him in the first place.

As the sun goes down and my chores are finished, I pick up my cell phone for the first time all day and check the hundreds of messages that came in while I was working with my mind elsewhere.

Cain is asking how I am after the strange night we had, but before I can answer him, my stomach makes a rumbling noise and only then do I remember that I haven't eaten anything besides my breakfast.

I was so invested in my thoughts that I even forgot to eat.

My therapist would love to hear that so he could nag me the whole session. That's why I won't tell him.

I don't feel like having a text conversation right now, so I call Cain as I close my office door and walk to my car.

"I'm perfect, thanks for asking," I say as soon as he answers my call.

"So can you tell me what the hell happened to you yesterday? You attacked Beau for no reason."

I squint at my steering wheel and start the car, but I don't start driving yet.

"I mixed weed with alcohol, I'm sorry," I say, ready to continue to give him the impression that I regret how I behaved with Beau. Cain has always been a bit more naive than me, so I'm not surprised he doesn't notice the nastiness in his new friend, "But I do have to apologize to him... I'll visit Lambert tomorrow."

"Oh, really? It would be the first time in a long time that I've seen you three times in the same week," he says, sounding accusatory. And he's right. As good friends as we are and how much we talk, we usually go weeks without seeing each other.

"Shut up, you know I've been busy," I mutter, and it's not a lie. The last two years of my life have been hectic and I'm only now starting to relax a little, "I'll bring something to eat."