The exact opposite of me in fact, with me rocking the street bum style, complete with a beard and hair long enough to braid in the back. Longer than I’ve ever had it, and it’s not even a fucking statement of style. I just… don’t fucking care.
Anyway, I honestly don’t have a fucking clue why we like each other, but we do. He borrows sugar and coffee from me so often I wonder if he ever buys any, and sometimes
he drives me to work when I’m too wasted to drive in the morning.
Like today.
“Partied too hard again, huh?” he mumbles between his teeth, as he often does, watching me climb into his sleek Ford Focus, dark and clean and immaculate like his slicked back dark hair with the neat parting on the side.
Too Clark Kent-ish for this early in the morning.
He starts the car, not waiting for an answer, which is a good thing. I guess he knows my moods by now. The bitter dark coffee I had is churning in my stomach alarmingly.
His fault for using up all my sugar, so I am justified in glaring at him as he slips into morning traffic, heading to the city.
He ignores me, mostly, fiddling with the MP3 Player, thankfully not blasting any hard rock at my aching head but a podcast about…something. Not even sure what. Some financial report or other. The male voice droning on about numbers and markets and fuck knows what is lulling me to sleep.
“Hey.” Jared’s voice and his elbow in my ribs jostle me wide awake.
What the fuck, right? Can’t a guy catch a wink around here?
“What?” I mutter irritably, redoubling my glare. “Eyes on the street, buddy. Lemme sleep.”
He ignores me. “Have you heard from your girl?”
My girl? Not… “Mind your own business, dude.”
He also ignores my questionable brand of friendliness – but hey, it’s morning, I’m hungover, and he’s supposed to be doing me a favor, not torturing me.
“Haven? Heidi? What was her name?”
“Fuck you, man.”
“Pretty girl, honey chestnut hair, great rack, long legs?”
“I said, fuck y—”
“And so in love with you.”
I swallow hard. “Whatever.”
“Head over heels. Her eyes would light up when she looked at you. She’d smile, that silly, faint smile you only wear when you—”
“Shut up, Jared.” I scrub a hand over my face, scratch at my beard, avoid his shrewd gaze. “She left, and you know it. Why the hell are you rubbing it in?”
“Why did you split up?”
“She’s the one who left.”
“You drove her away and now you spend your nights moping and fucking around. Was it worth it?”
Jesus fucking Christ. “Wake me up when we get into town. And remind me to take a cab next time.”
Seriously.
Scratch what I said at the beginning about being goddamn friends.
Motherfucker.