Spoiler
Involves gay-romance. So all of you who no-likey, no-ready. 
“Fuck you.”
It’s hard living with someone. Niceties, like “Thank you” or “You’re welcome” fly straight out the door to be replaced with words like, “I didn’t want this” and “Just bloody take it.” My best friend and I’ve been living together for a year now. We’re in uni, doing two completely different courses.
I don’t know what makes us friends anymore. Seriously, we don’t hang out and we barely even talk to each other. We didn’t drift apart, one day Sam just suddenly became a complete asshole. And… well, I had this revelation the other day – in reaction to this, I’ve turned into my mother. This is an example of our daily conversations:
“Why weren’t the clothes hung up?” One of the only times we exchange words anymore is when we complain about each other.
“I was gonna do it this afternoon.” Sam would reply, sipping casually at some coke which somehow he forever had in his hands.
“You realise they’ve been there for three days?”
“If you knew that why didn’t you hang them up?” Queue offended look.
“Because it’s your bloody turn!”
This particular tasty morsel of our life was exactly the time I realised I was turning into mum. A horrible realisation that was, because really I’ve never connected that well with my mother. Dad, however, Dad was fun. He understood me better than most people ever did.
The only other times Sam and I converse was when we fought, like a second ago, when I swore at him. His silence is more annoying than a reply.
No one ever truly understands me, not even Sam – though we used to get along really well. The only person who had come close was my older brother, but I don’t talk to him much these days. He’s probably in some different country every single week of the year so contacting him is pretty much impossible. His name is Kent. I miss him sometimes...
Oh, yeah, I’m Kyle. My parents had it in for the “K” names. I’ve got a little half sister who Mum was going to call Katherine, but my step-father didn’t think it was very original and instead they called her Mischa. Which I have to admit is a very pretty name for a five year old.
“Hey, what’s for dinner?”
That’s a surprise, after I swore at him I hardly expected him to want to talk to me; let alone eat dinner.
“I don’t know, what do you want?” I was going to play my anger low now, I don’t usually swear and Sam knows that I’m pretty much infuriated right now.
“How about spaghetti?” He asks, his emerald green eyes catching my own.
I have bad memories about spaghetti. In fact, drunk bad memories about spaghetti. What made them worse was that they were blurry I never even knew who it was… I resisted the urge to shudder, forced a smile, one of countless others I’ve done over the past few weeks, and shook my head, “I don’t want spaghetti. What about fried rice?”
“Why not spaghetti?”
I try to smother the frown on my face. The memories come back. I force them down and fake another smile, “I don’t want spaghetti. I’m not in the mood.”
“Why not?” he asks, his thin eyebrow lifting, and then he pauses for a second and adds as an after-thought, “Want some coke?” His hand drifts forward with the bottle I swear is glued to his fingers.
“Just because and nah, I’m alright. I just had some OJ.”
“Just because? Are you avoiding spaghetti or something?”
His questions are beginning to irritate me, I can feel the anger writhing in the pit of my stomach and I know that if he doesn’t stop with the interrogation things aren’t going to end good. My frown escapes my control and my eyes narrow at him, “Or something.”
“Dude, loosen up. Have a few beers or something. Then we’ll talk about spaghetti more.”
It’s then I realise he must be completely drunk or more likely high. Like seriously, it looked like I could’ve smashed a porcelain plate over his head and I don’t think he’d be more than relatively amused. I can’t smell alcohol on him anywhere. Drugs then. I didn’t know he’d been dealing again.
A smile, real this time, creeps onto my face. Maybe I’d take advantage of this situation; ask a few questions myself.
“Why have you been such an asshole lately?”
“I could ask you the same question. I mean, come on, spaghetti isn’t that hard to make.”
I don’t know what’s got him so focused on spaghetti. I don’t want to eat any not only because of bad memories, but because I could never make it well. I’m Asian, give me a break. I cook fried rice better than any restaurant can and he wants something bloody tasteless. Besides, last time I made it he said it was disgusting…
Last time I made it? Did Sam have some? Did he… know?
“Sam, why do you want spaghetti for?”
Well, bloody huff and puff and blow me down; he’s got me focused on spaghetti now. Perhaps… I don’t want to think it. He catches my eye, one of his black curls resting just on his eye lash, “I just want it.”
God, people on drugs are so hard to talk to. Even though you’re much more yourself when you’re drunk or high, the release is usually too much to take. I’m actually surprised he’s coherent right now. Usually when he’s high he can’t get a word through his bursts of giggles. The worst thing about this conversation about spaghetti is that I keep remembering that fuzzy night.
A quick re-cap of the only night I never want to remember clearly, which quite frankly I am glad I was drunk for. Went out clubbing, got piss-drunk, came home with someone, ate spaghetti to try and dull the alcohol, some yelling, got laid, and woke up in the morning with a throbbing headache and an empty bed. I don’t do one-night stands… ever. They thoroughly depress me, because that just means I’m desperate for someone… anyone. Scary thing is though, that I’m pretty sure the person I came home with was a guy.
Thank god for alcohol.
Sam is staring me down now. He must know. My throat constricts and words fail to come out of my mouth. I can feel my face burning. Oh god. Bloody hell. This is so shameful. I can’t believe he’s known all along… In fact, now that I think about it… the dates coincide. Sam became an asshole the day after I accidentally, potentially slept with a guy.
He must think I’m a fag. That’s why he’s been such a bloody pig lately. It all makes sense now. Fuck, I thought that night would be a secret for a long time. You know, something you look back on when you’re old, married and have grandkids and you tell them it with a laugh.
I’ve been standing this entire time, so I drag a chair from the dining table and take a seat opposite him. We sit there in silence. Sam just glares at me, a small smile playing on his lips - something… seems familiar about them, but I ignore it.
“Did you know all along?” I finally manage to get out. My stomach churns with disgust and I feel absolutely nauseous.
Suddenly, Sam leans forward, his eyes intent, “Know what?”
I now know he’s not high or drunk. I can see the clarity of soberness in his eyes. He’s been acting. Fucking acting course he’s in, I should’ve expected it. You’d think being in a psychology class would have helped me to determine if he was lying or not, but nooooo, of course not. Waste-of-money course, they should rename it.
“The last time I made spaghetti, what do you know about that night?”
“What don’t I know is what you should be asking me.” He replies, the smile growing.
It was the smile that broke me, “Okay, I was drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing! I had like… 20 beers or something.” The excuses began dribbling from my mouth; everything I had reasoned with myself to make the faded memory less traumatic.
“So, you regret it?” There’s something in his voice. It’s not what I was expecting. Well, it didn’t help that what I’d been expecting was a deadly beating…
“Why wouldn’t I?! If I knew that you’d act like this after… that unfortunate accident, I wouldn’t have even gone out!” I’m yelling now. My body feels light and I feel like I’m going to faint. It’s my entire fault he’s been such a retard lately. My own fault.
Sam’s expression is unreadable. I can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. His smile is gone, but… that’s probably a good thing, right? He’s taking me seriously for once.
“I thought… you’d been avoiding me so we wouldn’t have to talk about this.”
What? What was he talking about? Maybe he wasn’t high, but he still had the thought process of one who was.
“I have been avoiding you? Are you kidding me? You’ve totally been a dick to me. What was I meant to do, be nice back and let you walk all over me?” Anger is a bad thing. I’ve been suppressing it for a while now…
“Well, you didn’t complain then!” He screams back.
My brain freezes over. I can’t move. A single word stutters out of my mouth, “W-wh-wha-what?”
Sam’s black eyebrows crinkle as he frowns, “What are you so shocked about?”
“What are you talking about?!” I manage to scream.
His silence is answer enough. He looks just about confused as I do, if not even more so. In fact, he looks a little hurt. I’ve hurt Sam? What the hell was this? What the hell was going on? What was Sam implying?
I swallow once, my throat dry and I wipe at the sweat perspiring on my forehead. I suddenly feel cold and clammy and so nervous as I ask, “What happened that night, Sam?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I’m asking because I don’t. Tell me. Now.” My voice slips into the authoritative tone of Mum’s.
Sam looks absolutely depressed now. His shoulders are drooped and his face is down cast as he starts talking and explaining.
“You made spaghetti. That was at about 7, before you left to club. We had dinner. I complained about the taste, because you can’t make spaghetti for crap. Anyway, you got angry and left. I felt bad about it, so I cracked open some tequila… and drank the whole bottle. By the time you got back at around 12 with your friend I was piss-drunk on the longue… You know me when I’m drunk; I can’t handle my emotions well.”
What he really means is that he screams everything and his actions are about fifty-thousand times over-exaggerated. No joke.
“Well, I kind of sat really quiet on the longue while you had dinner again. I don’t know, maybe that’s what made me angry. I mean you made that spaghetti for us. Not for whomever the hell you had invited over. I jumped from the longue and started talking to you both.”
By talking he must mean screaming abuse.
“Your friend got freaked and left. Leaving us… alone.”
By freaked Sam must mean he punched the stranger in the face and by left he means he literally threw him out the window. I know Sam too well to actually know what he perceives he’s doing as opposed to what he’s actually really doing.
“So, that’s all? I didn’t sleep with my… friend?” A sense of relief begins to grow inside of me.
He casts me a sharp and angry look, as he states, “In a way you did… you slept with me.”
Whoa… just whoa. The relief kind of shrivels into a black hole and sucks away my intelligence.
“Wait a minute; my brain is just exploding, alright?”
There was a long stretched out silence as I gain my bearings. Suddenly everything made sense. Everything was insanely logical. I had slept with my best friend… who is a guy. Just the thought of it… Then I replayed my memory of that night.
And I realised something. Why I had thought Sam’s lips had looked familiar before… I felt my face go hot. Like… on fire hot. Insanely, dangerously hot.
“I kissed you first, didn’t I?”
Silence. The look on Sam’s face means yes. I know because… a memory of the night flashes through my head and my face burns even hotter.
And then I remembered the expression on Sam’s face as he asked if I regretted it. And the tone in his voice…
“Did you regret it?” I ask before I know what I’m doing.
“No. I still don’t.”
Oh, fuck it. Screw it all to hell. I don’t care anymore. My brain’s just died and melted into a soft gooey liquid. I wouldn’t be surprised to find some grey slime oozing out of my ears and nose. I feel like screaming and tearing out my hair. I want to cry and throw something at a wall.
But the worse thing is that I don’t do any of these things. Because I realise something. I know I’ve been doing that a lot lately, but give me a break, this doesn’t happen everyday. The truth of the matter was the only reason I had been so ashamed of myself was because the guy I thought I had slept with had been a stranger, someone I didn’t know. That he had been a guy was only the cherry on top of my self-hate cake. And the only reason I’d been feeling so angry at Sam was because I thought he hated me for doing it.
Relief, of a kind, swelled in my chest. I hadn’t been so desperate that I’d slept with a stranger and Sam didn’t hate me. In fact… it was kind of the entire opposite.
So instead of blowing up, instead of killing myself or someone else, I stood up and walked into the kitchen. You see everything made perfect sense. Entirely. Because when you’re drunk you’re always much more yourself – freer, than you’d ever be sober. And I’d kissed him first.
I turned back to him and smiled, somehow every single little bit of anger gone from my system, replaced by intense calm, “So, do you want garlic bread with that spaghetti?”
I like how he finally just opened his arms ---figuratively--- and accepted what had happened and who it was. It was a very very good story.