He Loves Me - 1. Chapter 1: WARREN AND ME

I am not some quirky character, stuffed into the pages so that someone can win an award. I am not here to delight a person like some manic pixie dream boy. I have agency, I evolve, and I grow. My life does not revolve around one single person, and I am certainly not here to make them have a revelation or some great turning point in their tragic, suburban life. Screw mix-tapes. Screw dream journals. And absolutely screw standing out in the pouring rain in an empty parking lot at three in the morning, tasting the droplets on my tongue after getting a sugar rush on muffins we baked from Granny Katz’s recipe book—a book we nicked from her grandson, Alvin, and his entirely too dreamy, hunky gardener husband.

Nope. That’s not me.

I wear a faded, oversized sweater with sleeve cuffs I chew on when I get nervous, which is constantly. My hair is an unmanageable, tangled mess of dark curls that refuses to obey gravity or product, and I can belch the alphabet, backwards. It’s a parlor trick that won me exactly four dollars in middle school and zero dates in high school. I jerk off twice a day, mostly because I like it, but also because there is quite literally nothing else to do in this town when the Wi-Fi drops out.

I am lazy. I have my own apartment, and it is not a gigantic mess, nor is it spotless. I live there, it works, and I try to keep it clean enough that I wouldn't die of embarrassment if the fire department ever had to break down the door. Whoa. I am boring. I am aggressively, unapologetically boring.

Am I weird? Yes. Probably. So were you at nineteen. I dare anyone to say they were awesome and perfectly put together at my age. Okay, so maybe my ex-boyfriend. But then he was a massive jerk who fell in love with a girl—go figure—and dumped me to go be “normal,” like we were trapped in the middle chapters of some bad gay young adult novel where I was definitely not the protagonist.

Should I be a protagonist? Hell no. I mess up. Like, all the time. I work at a convenience store that smells permanently of burnt coffee and whatever industrial cleaner they use to mop up nacho cheese spills. I can’t talk to boys I think are cute without sounding like a giant, stuttering dork, the kind of guy who forgets his own name and says things like "enjoy your next 24 hours" instead of "have a nice day." And even when I do somehow manage to get the guy of my dreams, he leaves me for a girl.

I know I covered that already, but now I just sound bitter. Whatever. I’m allowed to be bitter. It’s my birthright.

So what am I doing here, talking to you? I am unapologetically nuts, and talking to an invisible audience in my head makes me feel better. It grounds me. Like, you know, I’m some tragic heroine in a TV show where I committed suicide and now I haunt the guy I like, narrating his terrible life choices from the great beyond. Except you’re not a guy I like, and I am not a girl. Some people call me a girl. My dad used to. He did it loudly, and frequently, right up until my mom hit him square in the jaw with a wooden rolling pin. He doesn’t live with her anymore.

Go Mom. Seriously, the woman has an absolute cannon of an arm.

Siblings? Just the one. She’s a bitch. She goes to church, pretends she’s all sweet and pure and good, and is currently sleeping with my ex. Did I mention he’s sleeping with a girl? Yep. He’s sleeping with my sister. She stole him, and I got dumped, and now I have to see his stupid, perfectly symmetrical face at family dinners.

So here I am. I work the graveyard and late-afternoon shifts at the local 7/11. I have absolutely zero prospects. I have a blindingly red spot forming on my chin that throbs to the beat of my own heart, and I possess a tragic Pokémon card collection I really should bury in the backyard and never, ever show a person on a first date. I play street hockey, I get beaten up because I’m scrawny, I eat a deeply unhealthy amount of pizza (which is probably why I have the aforementioned zit), and I just can’t seem to catch a break in this Podunk, dead-end town. A town, mind you, that features a statistically disproportionate amount of gay boys who are all in deeply committed, loving relationships with absolutely everyone but me.

Because I suck.

I leaned heavily against the linoleum counter of the register, resting my chin in my hands, staring blankly at the spinning hot dog roller. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a low, agonizing hum that felt like it was vibrating directly against my skull. Outside, the July heat was melting the asphalt, turning the town into a hazy, shimmering mirage of absolute misery.

So, what’s going to change? Is some mysterious, beautiful new boy going to walk through those double glass doors, lock eyes with me across the display of novelty lighters, and completely rock my world? Is my life finally going to begin?

The chime above the door rang out. I blinked, pulling myself out of my own pathetic spiral.

Sure. He’s standing right in front of my checkout.

With a gun.

Yep. I am totally fucked.

He stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was wearing a heavy, oversized winter jacket that was completely absurd for the ninety-degree weather outside, and a black knit ski mask pulled down over his face. The gun in his hand was neon green, made of cheap plastic, and had a visible seam down the middle where the two halves were glued together.

I stared at him. He pointed the plastic barrel at my chest. The nozzle was bright orange.

"You could rob me, and the store, Warren," I said, my voice flatter than a week-old open can of soda. "Or you can put the water pistol away and I'll buy you a soda."

The masked figure stiffened. The gun wavered slightly.

"Give me all the money from the register," the robber demanded. His voice cracked mid-sentence, jumping a full octave before plunging back down. "And... and... a packet of cigarettes."

I sighed, reached up, and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Warren, you don't smoke. I watched you try, once, behind the bleachers. You turned green, hallucinated a bat, and threw up all over my favorite sneakers. So what soda do you want? Mountain Dew?"

Warren’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The neon green water pistol lowered, pointing dejectedly at the tile floor. "Just... fuck, Tom... come on," he groaned from beneath the wool. "I need to get out of this town."

"Don't we all?" I reached behind me, opened the display fridge, and grabbed a plastic bottle of Mountain Dew. I tossed it across the counter. He fumbled, nearly dropping his weapon to catch it against his chest. "Take off the ski mask, idiot. It's July. You look like a sweaty, confused bank robber who got lost on his way to a snow resort."

Warren pulled the mask off with his free hand, his dark blonde hair sticking up in sweaty, static-charged spikes. His face was flushed red from the heat of the wool, and he looked incredibly, profoundly pathetic. He glared at me; his hazel eyes narrowed in a pout that he probably thought looked intimidating.

"You just... ugh, you suck," Warren muttered, twisting the cap off the soda. It hissed, spitting a little foam onto his fingers.

"I know," I replied, leaning my elbows back on the counter. "Except no one will let me. So I have no choice but to suck here, behind the register, and put up with my dork of a friend trying to rob me with pool toys. Again. This is the third time this month, Warren. The bit is losing its edge."

Warren took a long swig of the soda, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "How did you even know it's me?" he demanded, looking genuinely offended.

"Your voice squeaks," I pointed out. "And I gave you that jacket last winter. It literally has my name written in sharpie on the inside tag."

Warren looked down at his coat, scowling. "I'm a gangster!" he insisted, trying to puff out his chest.

"You're a gangster who has to pull his trousers up when they start to fall down because you refuse to wear a belt," I countered effortlessly. "And you hate turning your hat backwards because it messes with your bangs."

"This place is so lame," Warren whined, leaning against the counter opposite me. All the fake bravado had melted away, leaving him looking like the lost, frustrated nineteen-year-old he actually was. "Come on, Tom. Just give me the money so I can get a bus ticket or something. I need to run away to somewhere cool. Like California. Or at least... Ohio."

"And leave me all alone here?" I scoffed. "Screw that. If you're going to leave, you're taking me with you. I am not manning this slushie machine solo for the rest of my life."

Warren blinked, looking up at me. "Why? You hate me."

"You are the only single guy in this town," I said, deadpan. "Maybe I like you."

Warren practically choked on his Mountain Dew. He coughed, slamming the bottle down on the counter and letting out a loud, obnoxious snort. "I am very heterosexual," he declared, his voice pitching up again.

"Name one girl you've been on a date with."

Warren’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked frantically at the rack of sunflower seeds as if hoping they would feed him an answer. "I... that... that's not the point!" he stammered. "I read my dad's porno mags!"

"The ones from the seventies, with the men and the women in it?" I raised an eyebrow, mercilessly cutting him down. "I know, Warren. We used to jerk off to them together when we were younger. You always spent way more time looking at the guys with the thick moustaches and the big—"

"Shut up!" Warren yelled, his hands flying up to cover his ears. "That was a phase!"

"That was last week," I corrected him calmly.

"You're so LAME!" Warren groaned, dropping his head onto the counter with a dull thud. "Give me the register money so I can run away, become a famous porn star, and bang chicks all day."

"With your looks?" I snorted, reaching out and flicking his sweaty ear. "You'd be a fluffer. Or the guy holding the mop in the background."

Warren picked his head up and glared at me. "You'd do me. You said so."

"Because I am tragically single, hopelessly desperate, and have absolutely no standards," I reminded him, ticking the points off on my fingers. "Did I mention you are like the only single dude in town? The pickings are aggressively slim. It's you, me, and old man Henderson who talks to the pigeons."

"Yeah," Warren muttered, looking away. He picked at the label on his soda bottle. "We're still friends though. And... and it'd be weird."

"Yeah," I agreed, a sudden, familiar ache blooming right behind my ribs. I masked it with a smirk. "Like doing my brother. Still had a wet dream about you once, though."

"Eew, gross!" Warren practically yelled, though his ears turned pink. "I'm like, a three."

"You're a five," I corrected gently. "A seven if you bothered to take a shower more than once a week, and actually let someone cut your hair."

Warren squinted at me, searching my face. "Liar."

I smiled, a small, genuine thing that I usually saved only for him. "Best friend. Supposed to lie for you, and die for you."

Warren stared at me for a long moment, the hostility draining completely out of his posture. He looked at the water pistol on the counter, then back at me. He sighed, a long, dramatic sound, and shoved his hands into the pockets of my old winter coat. "When do you get off shift?"

"Twenty minutes."

"I'll wait outside. It's air-conditioned out there."

"It's ninety degrees outside, Warren."

"Shut up, Tom."

---

An hour later, the oppressive July heat was entirely forgotten, replaced by the cool, stale air conditioning of Warren’s dimly lit living room.

The transition from my miserable shift to his house was a practiced routine. We had walked the four blocks in companionable silence, kicking loose gravel into the street, completely ignoring the fact that he was still sweating profusely in my winter coat. His house was a chaotic, comfortable mess—magazines stacked haphazardly on end tables, laundry draped over the back of the sofa, and the permanent, lingering scent of cheap air freshener and whatever his mom had microwaved for dinner the night before.

Currently, I was sitting cross-legged on his worn, beige carpet, viciously mashing the buttons of a plastic controller. The blue light of the CRT television flickered across the room, illuminating the half-empty family-sized bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos situated exactly halfway between us.

Warren was leaning against the base of the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He had finally ditched the winter coat and the ski mask, leaving him in a faded band t-shirt that had a hole near the collar and a pair of athletic shorts. He was aggressively leaning into the turns on the screen, his entire body tilting to the left as if it would somehow make his digital kart go faster.

"I am just saying," Warren yelled over the frantic, high-pitched 8-bit music, "that I got a girl's number today! I am a total catch. Chicks dig the gangster vibe."

I drifted around a corner on the screen, expertly releasing a red shell that immediately tracked forward and slammed into the back of his kart. His character spun out with a tragic yelp.

"Mrs. Miggins the Florist does not count, Warren," I said calmly, grabbing a Dorito without taking my eyes off the screen. "She is sixty years old."

"Does so!" Warren shouted, mashing his controller in frustration as my kart zoomed past his on the Rainbow Road. "She is a girl! And I have her number! That proves I am out there, mingling. Playing the field."

"She handed you her business card because you dropped your soda on her petunias," I reminded him, crunching loudly. "And she explicitly crossed out the number on it with a black marker so you couldn't call her."

"Still counts!" Warren insisted defensively, leaning forward. "She gave me her card. It’s the first step. Networking, Tom. It’s all about networking."

I paused the game right as we hit the final lap. The cheerful, manic music halted, replaced by the quiet hum of the console and the distant sound of a car driving by outside. I turned my head and looked at him.

"You are aggressively pathetic," I stated.

"I am a masculine icon," he retorted, puffing his chest out.

Before I could tear down whatever fragile logic he was clinging to next, the heavy clump of footsteps echoed from the hallway. The living room door swung open, and Warren’s mom swept into the room.

She was a force of nature, a woman who communicated entirely in bold gestures and floral perfumes. Tonight, she was dressed to the nines—a sharp, dark dress, her hair pinned up elegantly, and a cloud of expensive-smelling vanilla and musk trailing behind her.

"Boys," she announced, adjusting a silver earring as she looked at us sprawled on her carpet. "I am heading out. Michael is taking me to that new Italian place downtown."

"Have fun, Mom," Warren said, not looking away from the paused TV screen.

"Don't wait up," she said, stepping over Warren’s discarded winter coat to grab her purse from the entryway table. She paused, walking over to where we sat. She leaned down and pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to the top of Warren’s messy head. Then, without missing a beat, she leaned over and kissed the top of mine too.

I blinked, the scent of her perfume washing over me. It was such a casual, completely natural gesture. She didn't treat me like a guest; she treated me like I belonged there. Like I was just another fixture in her living room. It made that tight, bitter knot in my chest loosen just a fraction.

"There's leftover casserole in the fridge if you get hungry," she said, checking her reflection in the dark window glass. She turned back to us, a knowing, amused smile playing on her lips. "And boys? If you are going to 'wrestle' again tonight, please try not to be too loud. The Hendersons next door complained about the thumping last week."

Warren froze, his hands still gripping the plastic controller. His face went entirely blank.

"We won't, Mrs. Miller," I said smoothly, not batting an eye.

"Good boys." She winked, grabbed her keys, and swept out the front door. The deadbolt clicked shut with a sharp, echoing snap.

The silence in the living room was absolute. The paused Mario Kart music seemed deafening in its absence. I slowly reached into the crinkling foil bag, pulled out a single, perfectly triangular Dorito, and popped it into my mouth. I chewed deliberately, maintaining direct, unblinking eye contact with Warren.

Warren’s face was currently cycling through the colors of the sunset. Red, then a deep, bruised purple, and finally, a pale, terrified white. He knew. I knew. And Mom definitively, absolutely knew.

"I..." Warren started, his voice a frantic squeak. "I am going to get the magazine."

He scrambled backward, practically army-crawling away from the television toward the couch. He was a complete gay panic disaster. His brain, entirely unable to process his mother’s casual call-out of our "wrestling" matches, was retreating to the only safe harbor it knew: his desperate, flimsy shield of vintage pornography.

"Yeah, you do that, buddy," I sighed, setting my controller down.

I didn't panic. I didn't feel the need to. I knew exactly how this routine played out. I reached down and unbuckled my belt with a quiet, metallic clink. I wasn't doing it out of some uncontrollable urge; I was doing it because this was what we did. When Warren panicked about his sexuality, his immediate coping mechanism was to aggressively prove his "manliness" by initiating mutual masturbation with his male best friend. It was the most flawed, broken logic in the world, and I happily exploited it every single time.

I leaned back on my hands, watching him frantically dig under the frayed bottom edge of the sofa.

"I know it's here," Warren muttered furiously, throwing aside a stray sock and a crumpled receipt. "The 1978 issue. The one with the girls on the boat. It's very heterosexual. So much boating. Boats are manly."

"Take your time," I said, utterly relaxed.

"Got it!" Warren yanked a glossy magazine out from under the couch springs with a triumphant shout. He scrambled back over to the center of the carpet, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. He sat cross-legged opposite me, clutching the magazine to his chest like a holy relic. "Alright. Check out these babes. Prepare to feel the overwhelming surge of straight, manly energy."

He threw the magazine down on the carpet between us, completely blind to the cover.

I looked down.

I didn't see a boat. I didn't see a girl from 1978.

Instead, staring up at me from the glossy, modern cover was a deeply tanned, incredibly muscular man with a thick mustache, entirely nude, draped seductively over a massive faux-bearskin rug. The bold, pink letters across the top read: PLAYGIRL: BURT BARES IT ALL.

I stopped breathing for a second. The metallic clink of my belt buckle suddenly seemed very loud in my own ears. I looked from the cover of the magazine up to Warren’s face.

Warren was staring at the magazine. His jaw was slack. The confident, smug expression he had worn a second ago was completely shattered, replaced by the look of a man who had just stepped on a landmine and heard the click.

A slow, delighted grin spread across my face. I lit up, shifting my weight forward. The power dynamic in the room had just flipped entirely. Warren had reached for his safety blanket, and his mom’s reading habits had just ripped it right out of his hands.

"Well, well, well," I drawled, dragging the syllables out. "Look at the babes on this one."

Warren’s mouth opened and closed silently. He stared at Burt. He stared at me. He looked wildly around the room as if hoping a boat full of women would magically crash through the drywall to save him.

"I..." Warren choked out. His brain was visibly sparking, desperately trying to bridge the gap between 'I am a gangster' and 'Let's use my mom's Playgirl to set the mood'.

"Go on," I urged softly, enjoying this entirely too much. "Tell me about the straight, manly energy, Warren."

Warren swallowed hard. He reached out with a trembling finger and tapped the edge of the magazine. "I'm... I'm only going to read the letters," he stammered, his voice higher than I had ever heard it. "They're very informative. And... and intellectual. Wow. What's Burt doing on that rug?"

"I know, right?" I leaned in closer, my shoulder brushing against his knee. "I love this one. Look at the fuzzy chest. Just like you."

Warren practically vibrated. His hands flew to the hem of his t-shirt. "I have the furriest chest!" he announced loudly, practically yelling it into the quiet room. "I am a manly dude. With like, hair! Serious hair."

"I like it," I said, my voice dropping its sarcastic edge, softening into something quieter. Something honest. "It's soft. Especially when you let me pet you like a cat."

Warren didn't hesitate. He hauled his t-shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly behind him. He puffed out his bare chest, sitting up straight. "It's the best," he bragged, though his breathing was shallow and erratic. "I've got the patch in the middle, and the stuff down past my belly button. I'm totally like Burt."

I looked at him. He was scrawny, awkward, and currently terrified, but sitting there under the dim living room lights, trying so hard to be brave, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I reached out slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away. He didn't. My fingertips made contact with his skin right over his sternum. He was burning hot, his heart hammering a frantic, bird-like rhythm against my palm.

"Maybe a little less than Burt," I murmured, gently running my fingers through the dusting of dark blonde hair on his chest. "I mean, it's not nothing... but it's also not exactly enough to weave a blanket out of." I kept my hand flat against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. "Still soft, though. If you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Warren breathed out, his voice shaking slightly. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. "It's the manliest. You're... you're weird that you like it. And also, it's a shame that you're like, completely bald except for your... um... down there."

"Yeah," I whispered, the word slipping out of my mouth before I could stop it. "Total shame."

I was completely lost. The sarcastic, bitter teenager who worked the slushie machine was gone. 404 Tom not found. My entire universe narrowed down to the warmth of his skin beneath my hand, the rough texture of the hair, the steady, grounding thud of his heart. I moved my fingers slowly, tracing the faint line down his stomach, mesmerized by the way his muscles jumped slightly under my touch.

"You're totally weird," Warren mumbled, his eyes still closed. The panic had drained completely out of his voice, replaced by a thick, heavy smugness. He was leaning into my hand now, completely pliant. "I am not a cat."

"Uh huh..." I breathed, my eyes tracing the curve of his collarbone. "Sure... totally... I agree."

"You never listen when I let you do this," Warren said, his voice dropping into a soft, sleepy register. "It's like you're zonked out on Mom's Prozac. Not that I mind. Because, again, it proves I am a man's man. A total alpha."

I didn't answer. I just kept moving my hand, smoothing over the planes of his chest, feeling the tension bleed out of his shoulders. He slumped slightly forward, resting his forehead lightly against my shoulder. The Playgirl magazine, with Burt still baring it all, lay completely forgotten on the carpet between us. The frantic energy of the afternoon, the fake robbery, the Mario Kart race—all of it dissolved into this quiet, incredibly safe bubble.

"You okay?" Warren mumbled into my shoulder. "You're on another planet."

"Heaven," I whispered truthfully.

"Shut up," he murmured lazily, not moving away. "You're such a liar."

I ignored him, lost in absolute bliss. The world outside the living room could burn down, the 7/11 could explode, and my ex could marry my sister for all I cared. Right now, I was exactly where I belonged. We stayed like that for a long time, the only sounds in the room the hum of the television and our synchronized breathing, until the edges of my vision grew heavy, and we slowly, inevitably, collapsed sideways onto the carpet together.

---

The morning sunlight was brutally bright, slicing through the gap in the curtains and hitting me directly in the eyes.

I groaned, trying to turn my head away from the glare. As I moved, I realized two things simultaneously. First, I was incredibly warm. Second, I was entirely tangled up in something heavy.

I blinked my eyes open.

I was lying on Warren’s living room floor. I was curled onto my side, and Warren was plastered flush against my back, his arm thrown heavily over my waist, his face buried deep into the crook of my neck. We were fully wrapped in a thick, floral-patterned quilt that smelled strongly of vanilla and musk.

Mom.

She had come home from her date, found her son and his "best friend" passed out half-naked on the floor, and instead of screaming, or waking us up, or demanding an explanation, she had quietly tucked us in.

I lay perfectly still, my heart doing a complicated, terrifying flip in my chest. The physical evidence was undeniable. We were swaddled together like a pair of exhausted kittens. There was no "wrestling" excuse that could explain away the absolute, domestic intimacy of this.

Behind me, Warren shifted. He let out a low, gravelly groan, his arm tightening around my waist.

"Dude," Warren mumbled, his breath hot against my collarbone. "You're drooling on my nipple."

He shifted his weight and blindly swatted at my shoulder.

I jolted, my brain scrambling to boot up. "What? Where? Who? How?" I stuttered, suddenly hyper-aware of exactly how close we were.

"Get up," Warren grumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He didn't pull away, though. He just buried his face deeper into my neck. "We have to get breakfast. I am starving. And your hand is somewhere weird."

I froze. I looked down. My hand was, in fact, resting quite comfortably against his hip, pressing against the waistband of his shorts. "My hand is warm," I defended weakly. "And... oh... hello."

I felt the distinct, undeniable pressure of his morning wood pressing hard against the small of my back.

"Yeah, morning glory," Warren sighed, entirely unbothered. He didn't shift his hips away. If anything, he pressed closer. "Can you let me go, or do you want to finish what you started last night?"

My brain short-circuited. I stared at the carpet, my face burning. He was treating a deeply intimate, highly compromising physical reality with the exact same weight and urgency as wanting a bowl of cereal.

"Um... errr..." I stammered, completely failing to formulate a coherent, sarcastic defense. "Good morning."

"Ugggh, you're the worst best friend ever," Warren groaned, finally rolling away from me and sitting up. He dragged the floral quilt with him, leaving me shivering slightly in the cool morning air. His hair was a disaster, standing up in every direction, and the crease of the pillow—or rather, my shoulder—was imprinted across his cheek. "Get up. Come on. Toast. You can jerk yourself off later, dreaming about me, Wet Dream boy."

I gasped, sitting up and glaring at him. "That was one time! I should never have told you that last night!"

Warren pointed a triumphant finger at me, his eyes lighting up with sleep-addled victory. "I am going to lord this over you forever! It is my absolute right! My gay best friend dreams about me! I am a total—"

He stopped mid-sentence. His finger slowly lowered. The gears in his head finally clicked into place.

I watched his realization play out in real-time. He realized that bragging about his male best friend desiring him completely, fundamentally shattered his desperately guarded heterosexual gangster persona. He couldn't brag about it to anyone without explaining why it was a compliment.

"...Wait," Warren muttered, his eyes widening in horror as the logic caught up to him. "No... so... never telling anyone about that. Ever."

I let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension snapping and dissolving into the morning air. I pushed myself up off the floor, grabbing my t-shirt from where it had been discarded near the television stand. "Yep. You're a jerk. Toast!"

Warren scrambled to his feet, tossing the quilt onto the sofa, the momentary panic already fading behind the immediate, pressing need for carbohydrates. "Toast!"

We walked into the kitchen side-by-side, bumping shoulders as we navigated the narrow hallway, the brutal reality of the world and the 7/11 and the Podunk town waiting outside the front door, firmly held at bay by the smell of burning bread and the chaotic, undeniable mess of whatever it was we were doing.