January 17, 2013 at 4 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston

"Dangit, Rob. Go the frick... back to sleep." It's so warm and nice and comfy and soft and I don't ever wanna move and go back out in the darude snowstorm that's always goin' on outside. Fudge Canada. I'm stayin' right here. I hear the phone go off again and I know he's not gonna let me sleep in even though it feels like I didn't even sleep at all. I reach over towards him and try to smack the buzzing phone out of his hands to make him stop, but all I feel is cold air and a squishy pillow. I unbury my head from the nice comfortable spot I'd found and frown up at him but there's nothing there. It's just a pillow. That's it. And I'm not even at his apartment anymore – I'm back home at mine.

It's weird being alone after the week I just had. It went from being always loud and always crowded and always having someone screwing with me to being quiet and peaceful and chill but never alone. And now it's just sad and empty, and surprisingly cold. Why am I this cold? I duck back down under the covers as my phone vibrates somewhere on the bed again and it's like I'm back up north again. I'd run out of shampoo and stuff two days before I flew back home and I still smell like his detergent and his soap and shampoo. I think I might be turning jobless, too. I don't even wanna move to get food. I miss not having to wake up to go get my own food, too, even though the only things he can make are eggs and bagels and coffee. I wonder how much it'd cost to fly him down here and kidnap him in the little hall closet by the front door with the vacuum. He'd be like a Roomba but better and cheaper. But I don't think I'd be able to go weeks at a time without beating the crap outta him for being a doodlebanger. He's jobless for a reason and I don't need that kinda nonsense in my apartment twenty-four/seven.

The phone buzzes again and I finally give in and search around for it with my hand. I pull my arm back like it's something long and detached from Detective Gadget and when I see it's just Hannah texting me about something that happened yesterday, I just clear the notification and throw it back over on the empty side of the bed. I don't even care about what happened to me yesterday yet. I'll worry about her day later. I slowly, painfully extract myself from the bed and all I wanna do is climb right back in. The worst part about getting up (besides immediately getting cold) is finding out you have a raging boner you didn't notice before. I look back at the spot on the bed and see there's a big, hard knot of blanket pressed up against the pillow I'd been trying to disappear in. If I hadn't got up when I did, I'd probably hafta change the sheets. I try not to think too much about it as I head to the bathroom to take care of it, but I know what caused it. And I really need to take a shower to wash it off. Next time I'm gonna buy my own freaking soap.

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January 19, 2013 at 9 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

I watch the little dials on the clock move from 9:22 to 9:23, and this minute feels just as empty. I have been laying here for four hours now, tossing and turning and trying to sleep without drugging myself out of my mind. The freezing, silent, still apartment just doesn't feel right without your sweltering body heat, your open-mouthed snores, and your deadly feet swinging on the other side of the bed. I even miss your drool stains on the pillow and the cloud of coffee cups and cans that always seems to surround you. There's just something so endearing about you not putting on a show and not trying to hide your quirks and bad habits. Doesn't it feel good to just be yourself and not try to put up a front? I get so tired of living in front of a camera and standing on a stage for all to see, and I know you do, too. I don't understand why you would be so willing to run right back to that.

God fucking damn it, Preston. Sometimes I get really tired of your childish, idealistic bullshit. You only ever see what you want to see, and only when it fits your needs. As soon as that window of opportunity closes, you act like it was never there, like it never happened. I know I'm crazy, but I'm not so utterly, irredeemably insane that I just spent three days imagining things when you were here. You liked it here and you liked being with me, whether you want to admit it or not. Yes, I will admit I'm jealous of her and her selfish, petty shit, just like yours gets on my nerves and grinds them to the bone. You two might be soul mates after all, with your short-sighted, whiny bitching and your self-centered living in the moment. As soon as you walked into the airport with all of your bags in tow, you left all of the baggage behind for me to deal with while you went on your merry way back to your little pseudo-reality, and me, being the gullible dumbass I am, I bowed down and carried it around for you. It weighs too much, Preston. It hurts for me to always be crouched over, struggling to keep my balance while all of it teeters on my shoulders, ready to fall. Someday, this is going to crush me.

You always see what you want to see and ignore what doesn't fit your perfect little schema. I held your ass cheeks open and popped a gigantic infected boil in your ass crack, then I spent five minutes draining a liter of yellow, bloody pus out of it for you so you wouldn't have to go to the hospital. Meanwhile, Princess Hannah doesn't even notice that your selfies aren't at your apartment, which she has been to and seen for herself, all on your tab, I might add. Yeah, I really wonder who cares about you, Preston. I really fucking wonder.

If I calculated it correctly, you spent three minutes texting her during the whole time you were at my place. That comes out to about a minute per day over a span of three days. Bro, I spent more time talking to my mom about her new diet plan food during that time than you did with your so-called girlfriend over the whole stint. How could you so willingly run back to that with open arms when she isn't even willing to open the door for you or the flowers you sent her? How can you have so much love and affection for someone who could so obviously take you or leave you? That is the definition of unrequited love, my friend, backed up by someone who is beyond familiar with the term. Why would you waste your time with someone like her when there are plenty of other fish in the sea, even if you are still sticking to your 'I'm as straight and sweet as a ray of sunlight' story? Why would you settle for fishing in the fish bowl? A beam of light may be the straightest thing you'll ever see, but as charming as you are, that isn't you; even Jerome can see that, and he gets more laughs out of it than he would at a circus. I don't know who you think you're fooling, but it isn't working on me.

I'm starting to wonder if you're ready to be living out on your own and making your own decisions. Your parents should have kept you at home a while longer. You think that packing up and moving your life to a remote corner of the country is going to help you run away from your inner demons, like hakuna matata is a legitimate lifestyle choice. You've got me there – even The Infamous Nooch hasn't bothered to try that philosophy, and he tries everything at least once. You deserve some kind of award for being the most privileged, immature, spoiled brat on the block, and I know I'm going to be the one to pick up the pieces and carry that baggage, too, when it all comes crumbling down on you and you can't move. You stress me out so much but I can't bring myself to wash my hands of it all. I care about you too much. You talk about the move like you're still trying to convince yourself that it's a good idea, hoping that your plans and everyone else's opinions will magically fall in line with your fantasies. What do you plan to do when you get there? Are you going to sit in your apartment all alone, with no family or friends there to keep you company and pull you out of your pit of self pity? Did you think she would come around as soon as you set foot in Washington? She doesn't even live in Washington, man. That would require her to actually get off of her ass and drive down from her parents' house in B.C. to see you, and this is the same girl who barely even texts you. This sounds like an amazing plan! Yes!

In her defense, you are pushing it way, way, way too quickly for it to be healthy. You met her in August and seven months later you are basically already asking her to move in with you. Any normal person would feel pressured and manipulated by you doing that. I know I sound like an asshole thinking it, but I am going to laugh when you unpack the last box and turn around to see she just broke up with you via text message. What I can't figure out is why you're trying so hard to conjoin yourself with a girl you hardly know and have very little in common with.

Are you trying to hide from something, Preston? Did something spook you? Was it the number of silent conversations we had, talking with just a look or a gesture? Was it you falling asleep on my shoulder for the hundredth time, trying to stay awake long after the caffeine rush had worn off? Was it you finally going to bed and constantly moving farther and farther on my side, trying to stay warm and pushing me to the very edge of the mattress with your violent thrashing? Why does this make you so anxious and unnerved? Why does it make you cringe and back away, like I burned you or infected you? Why do you keep fighting it when it obviously hurts both of us? Is it that bad to just admit you like a guy?

I turn over so I'm not facing the accusing red numbers on the clock anymore, knowing that I still won't be able to sleep when something feels so wrong. I feel empty now, and I know you do, too. I suppose I should just be happy that I didn't make a bet with Jerome about this – I would have lost so much money that I don't have.

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January 25, 2013 at 9 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

"We have to talk," he says the instant I answer his Skype call, his horn-rimmed black glasses perched on his nose and his wild hair pulled back in a curly ponytail. He has that same look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks he has a winning battle strategy for DOTA, and I get the feeling that I don't want to know what is going on in his head. He strokes the pitiful beginnings of a goatee on his chin while he schemes, studying my face for some kind of reaction. I was praying for some kind of distraction today, and I guess I found it. I should be careful for what I wish for.

"What did you do this time, Mat?" He grins and puts his hands up in the air in surrender, like I had just caught him filching something out of my medicine chest. I would wonder what we are going to do about him, but that leads to the question of what we would do without him. For as much as I can't stand the guy sometimes, we can't just let him float off into the sunset on a raft made of plastic bottles and shitty plans.

"Woah, woah, woah! Someone didn't get their milk and waffles this morning!"

"No, I'm just preparing my ears for when the fire alarm starts going off right next to your microphone again. What kind of trouble did you get into this time?" He moves his lips to the side like he is thinking about something, then he looks guiltily up at the camera with just a hint of a smirk playing around his eyes. The only kind of film he would ever be able to act in would be a porno; he has no poker face at all.

"I know it's going to seem kind of sudden, but I just thought I should let you know. You know, before someone else told you. I thought you'd want to hear it from me first."

"What did you do?" He looks around behind him, like he's checking to see if anyone is listening in. He might fool Preston or Vik with his shenanigans but I've known him too long to fall for it. He knows it but he just can't resist.

"I, uh... I'm pregnant." He rolls his chair back into the closet door with a small crash to show me the decorative pillow he had stuffed under his magenta sweater, the buttons stretched out and ready to burst. He rubs it lovingly while he tries to look as innocent and serious as he can, but those are two things that simply don't mix with anything he is. The only time he would be innocent of anything would be if the roof caved in on his head right now, and probably not even then. I just look at him and he looks at me, somehow keeping a stony face. "And it's yours. Well, like sixty-nine percent sure it's yours."

"Are you sure it isn't Jerome's? He might have used his fly hacks to knock you up wirelessly through the Counterstrike server." That gets to him and he breaks down into a fit of giggles, his eyes full of devious laughter as he pulls the lacey pillow out and puts it behind his head. He is the child of Harley Quinn and Bill Nye the Science Guy, logical enough to come up with a maniacal scheme but too brash to wait for it to work. He has something cooked up in that twisted brain of his that he needs me to help him put into action. "What do you want, Nooch?"

"I have a proposal for you, good sir. One I think you might like."

"Oh, really?"

"Seems pretty lonely at your place. Pressy go home?"

"He left last Tuesday. He had things to take care of back home."

"S-uuuure. I bet he did. Did he take care of things there?"

'I am not having this conversation on a Wednesday night with Mat, of all people. Why does he always have to be so sadistic?'

"Nothing happened, bro. Things aren't like that."

"Yeah, but you wish they were. Don't you?" He sees something in my face and he nods with what almost looks like a sympathetic smile. "I can't make him do a complete one-eighty overnight but I can definitely help with that. There's a Mat for that."

"So now you're an app? How would you plan to go about that, exactly?"

"Jealousy is a really powerful cure for heartache, Robbie. Just call me Dr. Nooch."

"It sounds more like Dr. Death." He chuckles and reaches over for a glass of something and takes a long swig of it. I would bet fifty dollars in Steam cash that it is either chocolate milk or hard liquor. Water doesn't register on his list of drinkable substances more than once or twice a year. "I'm out, man. I don't like playing games with people. If it's going to work out, it'll happen when we're both ready for it."

"Oh-ho! So now you believe in fate? When the hell did that happen? I think his god-fearing bullshit is starting to rub off on you." He watches me for a reaction, like he had expected that to hit a nerve. It looks like his plan isn't going to work out like he thought it would. "Putting Preston aside for a minute, the proposal is still up for grabs. If you suck my dick, I'll suck yours."

"What are you trying to coerce out of me?"

"So you're interested?" He smirks and I just facepalm. I knew he would try to pull this shit when I saw him crunching numbers on his phone last weekend at Mitch's house. Math is only ever good for one thing to him, and the answer is only satisfactory when it goes his way. He always finds another formula to use.

"Not in the slightest. I just want to see if I can help you. What do you want from me?" He checks behind himself again and makes sure that his door is shut before he continues, his face more serious and somber than I have ever seen it.

"The other guys can't know, got it?" I nod and he sighs before he continues. "Money. I really, really need cash right now. Things aren't... They aren't going so great. You know my mom has been out for the count for quite a while, and our so-called dad isn't exactly John Cena, ready to fly into the fray to pull our asses out in one piece. It's up to me to make all of the ends meet and I just... I can't do it anymore. It isn't physically possible. I can't do YouTube and school and work a job all at the same time, so something has to give if I can't figure it out. I can't get caught selling term papers again or I'm going to be out on my ass with even less money than I have now."

'Is he actually trying to sell himself out to protect his family? In his own warped, dented, duct taped kind of way, it's kind of touching. He would do anything to take care of his mom and sister, even if it meant going to jail, giving up on his dreams, or selling himself to me. Should I be offended that he thought I would accept his offer, or honored that I was apparently the only one he trusted enough to ask?'

"Mat, I'm almost as broke as you are, and you know that. Why are you asking me to help you? Shouldn't you be asking Mitch or Jerome? They have the funds, not me." He shakes his head and pulls his glasses off, pretending to inspect them and clean them while he talks.

"I don't want to put any more stress on that bridge than I have to. If it gives out, I'm stranded out on Nobody Island without a way to get back. Bugging them for loans isn't going to solve the problem – it'll just put paint and smiles on the symptoms and make another mark against me when I can't pay them back. Everyone knows I have enough strikes as it is. And they don't know what this level of shitty feels like. You do." He puts his glasses back on and looks me straight in the eye on camera, hoping to find something there that I can't afford to give.

"Dude, you know I wouldn't make you do something like that. I pretend to have some semblance of a soul even though I don't believe in the damned things. I would give you the money if I had it, but I just don't have it. I can't even afford to turn my heater on."

"Neither can we. And it's really not helping things with Mom." There is real pain in his eyes that he can't hide and I can't ignore. He came to me for help, and I can't just turn him away; we need to figure something out. "Look, I get that I was a little off the court with my offer, and I'm sorry. But two wrongs don't make a right and two rights don't really make a left, but two poor people can make it to payday."

"Are you suggesting...?"

"How much would you lose if you walked out of your apartment today? Just the damage deposit, or would they make you pay more? What are the sunk costs?" When I don't answer he just blinks dramatically and continues. "You said one time you were paying seven-fifty a month for that shack plus utilities. If you split the internet bill with me, we could upgrade to the better service and I could cut you a deal on the rent. There's an ugly ass attic thing with electricity above the wash room with a little pull-down ladder where no one would bother you. You could put some money back for a savings account while you looked for a better place that doesn't gouge your ass on the rent, and I could vouch for you so Mitch won't be constantly popping his flared nostrils in and sniffing around in your personal life. As long as the po-po doesn't find out, you can pop or smoke or shoot or whatever the fuck it is you do that he doesn't like."

"Okay, wait up a second there. You think I'm a drug addict?" He looks at me for a second before he bursts out laughing with that same laugh he does when he runs circles around a new CoD player just to watch them not shoot him down. It's the kind of laugh a predator would give before pouncing on its prey.

"I mean, it fits, doesn't it? The spaciness, the profound wisdom, the dark little hole-in-the-wall apartment down on the edge of the beautiful, hobo'd Nord. What's not to like, Rob?"

"I'm not a druggie, Mat. I'm on pills, yeah, but I get them from a doctor."

"That's classic Noochonomics, dude. Come take a trip to Dr. Nooch and we'll make things all better," he cackles as he toasts me with his glass of mystery drink.

"No, hold on. Who else thinks I'm a drug addict?"

"You know I can't tell you that. People might get bothered. But what do you think about my deal? Are you in or are you out?" His grin weakens to a dull smile, almost a grimace before I lean back in my chair and stretch, trying to buy myself just a few more seconds.

"I can't promise anything, but I will think it over."

"Twenty-four hours, Rob. That's all I can offer you."

"Don't do anything stupid, bro."

"I'm not trying to. I'm not going to go out and rob a bank, pardon the pun. But you know the story of the Heinz dilemma. We might have to have a modern-day enactment if someone doesn't make it rain." With that, Peeves the poltergeist is gone, along with his laughter and my peace of mind. I close Skype and log in to my bank account to stare at the numbers again, willing a zero to magically appear at the end.