The air was hot and stuffy which was quite unusual for an Autumn Friday afternoon out here. I begin to regret wearing this long-sleeved grey flannel shirt I found in my 'clean' pile; the one that made my forearms really itchy. I really need to re-evaluate my wardrobe choices.

The sun hits my face as I sit on the stool beside the bins. A part of me was hoping that Parker would appear out of nowhere again and want to talk to me again. I skipped going to Tracy this week, the nerves about tomorrow with Parker would probably make me spill everything to her and I wasn't ready for her to start psychoanalysing me or him yet.              

I relax against the cold metal surface, eating my maraschino cherries and completing an essay on whether Hamlet was destroyed by his impulsiveness or by his uncertainty. If I wasn't too careful I'd end up just like Hamlet, afraid and alone.

It wasn't as if I was getting much done anyway as the image of Parker was circulating in my head every five seconds. Everything still feels too good to be true and I just don't get it. Why do I feel less anxious around him of all people? It's as if someone has put some kind of spell on me.

Another part of me wants to just relish this moment and silence the voice in my head that's led me to believe that I'm not good enough to be anybody's friend. Whenever I feel the wave of self-deprecating emotions, I remind myself to do my daily mantras as if they even help.

I'm just glad someone finally noticed me and what are the odds that that person would end up being someone as genuine and funny as Parker.

The lunch bell rang and I ignore it. I'm terrified of entering the canteen. The last time I walked into a lunch hall was at the beginning of year 9, a little while after Papa died.  

I was going through a rough patch, I felt like I was under some kind of microscope where everyone was judging me for having eyes that were always red and puffy or scrutinising that my hair was always a complete mess. Even though no one knew about my father's death at that point- or even knew me- I still felt like I was being watched and I've always hated being the centre of attention.

The feeling turned out to be too overwhelming and I had a panic attack in the middle of the lunch hall. They had to call the school nurse and ask two year 11 boys to help escort me to her room and calm me down. Now I'm in year 12 and needless to say, I've never been back.

The bell for the end of lunch period was about to ring so I got up and dusted the dirt off the front of my jeans.
No Parker today, I guess.

Just as I was packing my things away, a gorgeous floppy-haired boy appeared from around the corner, visibly out of breath.
This was the same boy in the BHS tracksuit that was waiting for Parker the first time I met him.

"You're Harley-Blair, right?" The boy, who I now recognised as Zacchias Tovi, asks with a shy smile on his face. I have never spoken to him before so it came as a surprise to me that he even knew my name.

I eye him as I nod slowly. What did he want?
Zacchias was the captain of the Swim team. He was taller than Parker which was crazy in itself and athletic with the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. He had naturally tanned olive skin with an array of freckles on his nose and a small beauty mark above his perfectly shaped lips.

Was every boy in this school just ridiculously good-looking?

He was practically attached to Parker's limbs; they went everywhere with one another. He was a part of the group of people who had a higher social ranking than everyone else; the people you naturally think of whenever the elites of BHS are spoken about.

He hangs around with Cassie Thomas and Sander Eke and he was dating the most beautiful girl in school- Jasmin Jelani but I could tell they weren't as heartless and mean like everyone assumed they were. In the past year, he's held 6 drives collecting canned foods and clothing for young homeless people and mothers. He was the only person who would smile at me in the hallways (apart from Parker) even if it was passing, fleeting ones.

He removes a folded up piece of paper from the pocket of his navy Nike sweatpants. Usually, you're not allowed to wear loungewear like tracksuits in the sixth form but because he's a student-athlete he gets an exception.

"Parker said I should give you this," He hands me the note, his finger grazing mine. "He said... this was where to find you." He looks around and slightly turns up his nose in a jokey way. I blush.

"Hey, I don't blame you," His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Raking his long fingers through his shaggy curls. "If I could escape sixth form for a few hours at a time I would, even if it meant enduring the smell of bins."

I silently accept the paper and put it in my pocket without reading it.

"You might be wondering why he sent me instead of coming himself," He quickly shakes his dark hair out of his eyes. "He said you'd know why," He shrugs.                                     
I had told him not to approach me in school and he found a loophole, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself.

He cocks his head at me inquisitively. "I think that's a yes. You don't talk much, do you?"

He turns to head back to school but throws his head back to say, "He also said he thinks you're formidabile," he says in a bad Italian accent and mimes kissing actions like a goofy little kid. He laughs as he races off back into the school building, his long hair bouncing gently against his neck as he ran.

I wait a few seconds making sure he's not coming back out again, before opening the note.

Parker had very neat handwriting that looked like he spent a lot of time making sure it was perfect, it was a slightly rough cursive style. Something I'd expect Shakespeare to have written. I traced my fingers all over the words, hoping to get a feel of Parker.                      
He's arguably the most positively exciting thing that's happened to me. Whenever I walk in the halls and we walk by each other his face lights up and he gives me a smile so warm it gives me sunburn and yesterday he squeezed my hand discreetly. I feel like I'm in primary school again.

He's stuck to the rule of no talking on school grounds but it didn't stop him from trying to talk to me after school. He'd always offer to drive me home and I would always decline. It made my cheeks hurt thinking about Parker because of all of the smiling I do when I'm around him. It doesn't even bother him that people wonder why he's hanging around with a freak like me and that made me like him even more.

The note itself didn't say much apart from his address and phone number and a spider-man sticker that said 'It's your friendly neighbourhood spider-man' on it. I don't even want to know why an 18-year-old boy has that.

I panic, I forgot that I need a phone. How am I going to call him now? And the thought of talking on the phone itself freaked me out. Without seeing their faces and reading their expression, I wouldn't know what the other person thinking and for someone that relies on observational skills, this is extremely frustrating. Talking on the phone means that I have to actually speak, I can't just nod, smile and say nothing.

I guess it was time to ask Pops for a phone.

**                                                                                    **                                                                          **

I open the door to my house. It's a cute medium-sized typical city home, but it's the ugliest colour you can possibly think of. Imagine Santa vomited on the Easter bunny who then threw up again on my house. Papa had been meaning to get it painted but never got around to it before he died and Pops is in no state of mind to finish the job. Inside was as minimalistic as possible with only a few pieces of furniture in each room, but each one was a rare piece that Pops used to collect. He had- has good taste. I must remember that he's the one who stayed not the one who left. I can't take my anger out on him.

I find Pops in the front room, resting on a grey velvet chaise lounge chair. He was staring out of the window looking onto the street with a dazed look on his face. I immediately check the cabinet drawer underneath the TV where I normally keep his pills. I count them to reassure myself that he's taken his dose for today. He has.

"Hey, Pops," I say. He doesn't say anything but he looks back at me with even sadder eyes. He took Papa's death the worse, the love of his life was taken from in such a selfish act. He's been beating himself up over it all these years, he feels as though it was his fault and that he should've paid more attention to his husband's illness but I know it would've happened anyway. His heart was broken- possibly beyond repair.

My parents had me through IVF using Papas genetic material instead of Pops and the womb of a Caribbean woman called Blair. They had a good relationship with her as she used to work with Pops in a fashion agency. That's why when they offered to name me after her she didn't mind. They adopted Silas, my older brother, from Greece when he was 3 and I was still a baby.               
So I'm my dead father's biological child.

I give myself a mini pep talk in my head and braced myself to say what I needed to say. "Pops, I need a phone." Short and sweet, that'll do it.

He cocks his head, confusion in his eyes but he doesn't say anything. He was probably surprised that I spoke more than my usual 5 words to him and even more confused that I asked for a phone.

He points to his wallet on the coffee table. I bend down to kiss him on his forehead, "Thank you, pop pop." I whisper as I take the money out.

*                                           *                                      *

A few hours later, I sat on my messy, cluttered bed stroking Caesar's furry tan neck with one hand. My other hand has been absent mindlessly typing in Parker's number on my new phone over and over again to the point where I've already got it memorised. I just want to be able to hear his voice. It's driving me crazy. I want to talk to him so bad but I can't even push a simple button.

The room starts spinning again. I can feel the dampness under my arm and on my palms, it feels hot and sticky. Like failure. I'm failing not only myself but Parker, Tracy and Papa too.   

A warm salty tear reaches the crease of my lips and I realise I'm crying- correction -I'm all out bawling. The familiar shaking and jittering patterns returning to me as I try to hold back the seething avalanche of tears drowning me but I couldn't. I couldn't.                                                               
The lack of air makes me feel light-headed. I need to gain control. I crawl off the bed and onto the floor, gasping for oxygen like a fish out of water.                                                                                              I manage to get under the bed, lying iron board flat on the ground. Caesar uses his nose to massage my shoulder gently, his wet kisses calming me down a little. This is the type of control I need, I can't sit up because the bottom of the bed is too close to the ground so I'm forced to stay in this position. I needed to focus on something so I count the endless stars I put up here for this exact purpose when I was 12.
Slowly but surely, I could feel myself regaining composure. My breathing returns to a normal pace and my tears start drying up. 

I stay lying down just in case another attack comes. But then my mind starts drifting back to my childhood. Memories of Papa tucking me in at night and singing me soft Jamaican lullabies until I fell asleep. I would always giggle because his deep husky voice never matched the soft tones of the songs.

The memory brought back feelings I've tried to keep hidden. I wish Silas was here, holding me tight like he used to and whispering reassuring things into my ear. Then after he would bring me hot cocoa plagued with mini marshmallows and we'd watch an old 60s movie. But he ran away to a uni far, far away because he couldn't deal with the way Pops had become or maybe even the way I had become.

We may have lost one dad physically but we lost another in spirit...

I was so angry at pops for becoming a lifeless zombie especially when I needed him the most. Yes, papa left him but he also left me too, why didn't he understand that I was hurting just as much as he was. I hear how heartless I must sound but he refuses to get any additional help. Silas must've tried a thousand times to get him to go to therapy before he finally gave up and left us.

I remember when Silas announced that he was leaving to go to Newcastle for university, which was over 4 hours away. I was distraught. It meant that my older brother wasn't going to be by my side anymore, helping me to cope with everything.

He always told me I was strong. Stronger than anyone he knows and the way he would say it, I believed him. But what if I'm not as strong as he thinks? I can't even TALK to people, for goodness sake.

I pick up the phone again, but this time I am determined to go through with the call so I type in Parker's number for the 100th time and press dial.

"Hello?" A soft yet tired voice answers 4 rings later. It sounds like he just woke up or something which was confusing because it was only 7 pm.

"T-t-this is Harley-B-Blair" I pinch myself for stuttering, then apologise to the imaginary voice in my head.

"HB?" His voice gets even more excited, "It's so good to hear your voice,"

Immediately, my insides turn into a melted mess. He has no clue what his voice does to me. I walk to my bed and sit on top of my purple satin comforter. Caesar hops on my lap, happy that I'm happier now.

"Are we still on for tomorrow?" He asks, eagerly. I can hear the sound of a television blaring in the background.

"Of course," I manage to say, feeling much more confident now. "Do you need me to bring anything?"

"Actually, yeah..." He says and I can only imagine the mischievous glint in his eye. I curse my previous nervous thoughts, this isn't so bad after all. I can do this, can't I?