Page 3 of Bro Doll
I’m not watching this, exactly. I’m sprawled on the couch with my feet propped on the armrest and my eyes half-closed,head tipped back, just absorbing the noise. Grant’s voice echoing from the kitchen, Walker’s laugh, Miles’ low muttering, Finn’s relentless campaign to make Miles look at the tortilla cat. Someone’s music is playing, but at least it isn’t Derek’s shit.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, very slowly.
This is what the house is supposed to feel like.
Fuck, man. Life is actually decent sometimes.
By seven o’clock, Walker had relocated the Usman-Jones debate to a whiteboard he liberated from Grant’s room. Miles has finally closed the laptop—a feat that took Finn thirty minutes, two more edibles, and a heated argument about the importance of relaxation. Finn is currently hovering somewhere between buzzed and fully wasted, DMing everyone he knows that the house is celebrating the death of assholery.
I’m still on the couch.
I’ve moved, technically—refilled my water, found a bag of chips, and came back. But mostly I’m just here, feet up, listening to the room vibrate. It’s a different world from the last eight months of Derek’s presence.
Significantly different.
Grant notices me at some point during his third retelling of the protein powder fridge story, which has now evolved to include a subplot about Derek straight-up stealing the stuff.
He points a finger at me.
“Look at this guy.”
I look at him. Everyone looks at me.
“Most relaxed motherfucker on the planet,” Grant says, with genuine drunk fondness. “Derek could be literally shitting in his cereal and Kit would just be like... ‘Cool.’”
Walker tilts his head, considering. “He did the cereal thing, though.”
“He did the thing where he’d take Kit’s cereal, and then left the empty box in the cupboard.”
“Yeah, man, not to defend the prick,” Miles says, “but that’s a far cry from shitting in the bowl.”
“It’sworsethan shitting,” Walker argues. “It’s a violation of the social contract that—”
“I’m just chill,” I say. That makes them stop.
“Chill?” Finn lets out a bark of a laugh. “Bro, you’re not chill. You’re lazy. Huge difference.”
I push up on my elbows, frowning at him. “I’m literally the most patient person in this house.”
Walker scoffs. “Patient, my ass. You can’t even wait for the microwave without talking shit to it.”
“That’s different.” I flop back. “The microwave lies. It says two minutes, but that’s a scam. It takes three. Minimum.”
What follows is the dumbest argument in recorded history. Everyone has a take on who’s the chillest, who’s the laziest, and who’s high-strung. Finn claims he’s patient because he can binge an entire season of a show in one sitting, but Grant points out he talks through every single episode. Miles tries to claim he’s relaxed because he doesn’t get worked up, but Walker reminds him about the time he launched his laptop through the window because of lag.
It’s stupid. But it’s actually fun.
“Okay,” Walker says, pointing at each of us in turn. “Let’s compete.”
“Dude, not everything’s a competition,” Miles mutters.
“Statue contest,” Walker pushes on, ignoring him. “Whoever moves first, or speaks—”
“Speaking is moving,” Finn says.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yourmouthmoves, bro.”
