Rules Of The Game: Book 1

33; The Truth Comes Out

𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟷𝚝𝚑, 𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢
Parkers POV

When Wednesday morning comes around, I am beyond miserable. I'm going on two days of hearing nothing but radio silence from Miles. His phone has got to be overheating from how many times I've texted and called him, refusing to give up so easily.

My legs are weak as I drag myself out of bed, my entire physical being weighing me down. Football has been kicking my ass this week, people were treating me weirdly yesterday, I'm mentally drained from having to pretend that I'm okay, and I can't get the image of Miles empty desk chair out of my head. It's all that I can stare at during history class because I'm so used to having him near me.

I drag myself out of bed and put my feet down on the carpet, running both hands back through my tangled hair before standing. It's becoming second nature to tap on my phone screen to double-check that he hasn't gotten back to me over the last two hours I've been asleep.

Nothing. I should know better by now.

I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. I've gone as far as driving by his house before and after school every day. For fucks sake, I couldn't sleep last night, so I sat outside his house for twenty minutes at midnight like a damn psychopath to see if he came home at night. Still, nothing.

It's seriously starting to make me crazy. My anxiety can't take all of this heat. I'm lucky if I have blacked out for six hours over the past two days combined. I'm going to sound dramatic as hell, but if I don't hear back from Miles soon, it might kill me.

My legs bring me to the bathroom, and I hit the switch, squinting at the bright light. I blink and scowl at the kid in the mirror.

Dark shadows are prominent under my eyes, offset by my overly pale complexion. My hair resembles my dads when he stays up all night editing footage for a campaign, or maybe a homeless guy that hasn't touched a comb in decades.

Unfortunately, my energy is maxed out simply by combing my fingers through my hair, splashing cold water on my face, and swishing a toothbrush around my mouth. I'm lucky even to bother changing my shirt this morning.

This whole fight-your-demons-while-fighting-your-sexuality-and-trying-to-find-your-lost-maybe-ex-boyfriend shit is exhausting.

Grabbing my phone off my bed, I recheck it as I walk out of the room. No change.

"Christ, Miles!" I mumble and start down the stairs, guilt gnawing on my conscious. What's worse is that I don't have the leverage to chide him when I'm the one who chased him out of my life.

The empty house is the cherry on top of all this. Usually, I would find solace in talking to my parents, joining in their early morning banter over toast and coffee, but they've been absent for most of this week. My dad got offered a big photoshoot for a magazine down in L.A and my mom tagged along so they could explore the city. I've thought about calling them, except I have a feeling that my mom would end up saying, Sweetheart, didn't I warn you?

Yeah, mom. You sure did, I think to myself and grab an apple from the fruit basket in the kitchen before heading out the door.

Low, dense fog hovers over the neighborhood outside, fresh from the bay. It's impossible to see my aunt and uncle's house next door, much less the street at the end of the driveway.