Page 1 of All That History
Chapter One
It was my own damnfault, that was the galling part.Even if I didn’t want to accept that.Even if I’d much rather have blamed Flynn, for being fucking perfect, or his parents perhaps, for making sure everyone within a half-mile radius knew exactlyhowfucking perfect their baby boy was.
Exclusive scholarship sort of perfect.Top university sort of perfect.Great job, great life in the city, great prospects sort of perfect.I’d started rolling my eyes as soon as I saw the brand new, insultingly-shiny SUV park outside, and they’d only spun faster when I then saw him pulling out beautifully wrapped gift, after gift, after gift.
Even through the closed window, I could’ve sworn I heard his mom cooing with “didn’t my genetics do well” pride.
Flynn was the golden boy, returned home in festive triumph, and it made me want to scream.
We’d been neighbor-friends growing up, which is to say not quite proper friends at all.Companionship through convenience.Racing our bikes up and down the street, and kicking a ball around, and playing video games.Up until high school anyway, when proximity took second place to people who were actually like you in some way.
Maybe if I’d stuck around and pretended Flynn and I had something in common, I’d have been caught in the updraft he rode so high.Done better in classes, scored higher in exams.Been motivated to do more than half a semester at the local community college; found a better job, when I dropped out, than running the nearest thrift store.
I was store manager, officially.A fancy title for someone who spent half his time wearing disposable gloves, because people will donate any gross old thing when they drop a trash bag outside the shop.
It wasn’t like I was dissatisfied with my life, not really.More money would’ve been great, sure, and more things to do in this frustrating midwest town.More choice in the apps, that didn’t involve jumping in the battered old Chevy pickup that used to be my dad’s, and driving over to the nearest city.
Three hours or so, for some all-too-often disappointing sex.It was too bad you couldn’t ask for gas money along with the underwhelming dick.
Still, I couldn’t complain too much.It was only when I had my shortcomings - heck, this whole town’s shortcomings - thrust in my face by Flynn’s much-trumpeted visits, that I started to lose my patience.
He wasn’t going to stick around long, that’s what I figured.The saving grace of his success: surely his life back in the city doing whatever important, well-paid, probably glamorous or at the very least life-saving job he had would need him.A couple of days to shine bright like a diamond to his folks, and then off again.Leaving us mere mortals whispering about the boy-god we’d been lucky enough to lay eyes upon.
Not so much a boy-god now though, mind.If I was twenty-six, going on twenty-seven, then Flynn must be that too.He probably had fancy dinners in restaurants with Michelin stars to celebrate each glorious new year.Here, the only sign of Michelin was on tires, and the handful of my friends still local had taken me to the Dairy Queen to mark my last birthday.
Andstill, it was fine, it was fun.It’s only when you have something so obvious to compare it to that you can’t avoid seeing the cracks.
My ire was practically palpable then, at discovering my mom had invited Flynn’s parents over for post-Christmas drinks.Whether he came with them or not, I knew it was going to be an evening of stories about his success, not-so-humble brags about his intelligence, and pitying comments that didn’t quite come out and say “Oli must be such a disappointment,” even if we all knew that was the subtext.
I let out a small sigh of relief when it was just Flynn’s parents on the doorstep.Apparently golden-boy was still out, and would be “joining us later.”
I poured drinks, and handed round snacks, and generally tried to ignore how the conversation always, magically, came back to Flynn’s achievements.If you listened to his mom and dad, you’d think he was the only person to escape the town.
I tried not to let it get to me, but my blood pressure was rising.And then my mom said she’d like to listen to some Christmas music, and suddenly there was something Oli could actually do.Something vaguely worthwhile.
I’d pulled rank at the thrift store, when the Bluetooth speaker came in.Usually donations were all off-limits - they had to go on the shelves, first, before staff could buy them - but around the holidays we had some extra leeway.Nothing extreme: the bulk of what was dropped off did indeed get sold.But, if there was something you really, truly had your eye on, the rules could be bent just a little.
My mom had always talked about the music she’d grown up listening to.When I saw that water bottle-sized speaker in one of the boxes left on the doorstep, I knew she’d appreciate it.
“Let me hook that up for you,” I told her, and got to bask in her beaming pride as I paired it to my phone and then started a music app.I’d already made a playlist of some of her favorite tracks, and honestly, when I saw her face light up as the first notes played, I felt like the best fucking son in all the world.
We were five tracks in before my position as such was reassessed.
“Get that, won’t you, dear.”My mom waved me to the hallway as the doorbell buzzed.
I could see his silhouette through the frosted glass.Haloed by the porch light, tall and kinda bulky.
That was - ofcourse- one of those fancy padded down jackets, I realized, when I opened the door.
Flynn grinned at me, apparently blithe to my sour expression.“Hey, Oli!Long time no see.”
I grunted a welcome, then stepped to the side so he could come in.
He kicked off his boots, adding them to the row on the long mat.
Dark, wavy hair.Big brown eyes and annoyingly strong cheekbones.Even in his socks, Flynn must’ve still been just north of six foot.As he hung his jacket up, it was impossible not to notice the sleek wool sweater that clung to his healthy physique.
“What’ve you been up to, dude?”
