May 21, 2013 at 7 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

Me: Are you feeling any better?

I check back at the Skype chat with Preston and there is still no answer after three days. He must really think I'm an idiot if he thinks I bought his excuse that he was sick for more than a few hours. Preston is nothing without a computer, like a goldfish without a bowl. I can't imagine what else he could be spending his time doing, other than trolling on Twitter or mass producing videos for his channels, which have both been noticeably empty for the last week. I check to see if he uploaded anything yet today - nothing. His stock and store must have run out the day before yesterday and he hasn't gotten around to recording anything new. He could actually be really sick, but something tells me this is something else.

'What did I do to piss him off this time? When did Preston get so moody and sensitive?'

'This is why you have no job - you can't even keep your best friend around.'

I won't lie: he's starting to piss me off. All he does when I do manage to find him is bitch about how hot and cold his girlfriend is, then he turns around and bites my head off when I defend him to himself or tell him where he screwed up. Regardless of which side I take in his gossip, I'm in the wrong and he sees it as an attack on his precious sweetheart's character and turns it back on me.

'Me, jealous? Of that shitty relationship? Please, Preston.' Of course, saying that to his face didn't help my case, and of course it didn't sink in. He hates it when I don't tell him what he wants to hear. I haven't heard from him in almost two weeks and I ran out of recordings with him shortly thereafter. As if his absence wasn't already obvious, now the comment section on every video I post is full of fans demanding more Poofless. I remember a day when half of my subscribers couldn't stand his ass, and now everyone wants to see him glued to the side of my head in every video. Lately, I think my subs and I have switched opinions.

I check the calendar and see that I'm going to have to clean my disaster of an apartment some time this week so no dust will cling to the wads of dog hair that will be floating across the floor whenever the heater turns on by Saturday morning. I'm a little sour about Toby and his cloud of debris and destruction, yes, but at least the puppy is cute, unlike other nuisances. It makes me wonder whether or not I ever truly liked Preston, or if I was just so desperate for someone to like me that I started crushing on him.

Does that mean that I've outgrown my best friend? Is he still my best friend or has Jake usurped that position from him? I wonder what he would think about our little round robin agreement. He would probably never talk to me again, if he knew, not that he talks to me now.

I ready my fingers on the keyboard but the words don't come. I just have to write something...

Me: Preston?

That doesn't seem like it's enough. It doesn't say anything that I feel, good or bad. Maybe I should just try the truth for once?

Me: Are you okay, bro? I know you're pissed at me but I'm getting worried about you.

I don't know why it sounds like a good idea, but the anxiety gnaws at me all the way through the first recording of the day and I can't stand it anymore. I pull up Jerome's Skype chat and I hesitate for a minute, feeling that I'm betraying Preston by getting the Bacca involved. What else am I supposed to do when he lives on the opposite coast and won't answer me? The phone icon immediately lights up in the corner and within seconds I'm staring at Jerome's devilish grin. I'm already rethinking this plan.

"Hey, Pops. How's it goin'?" There's something I hate about that smile. He knows too much and he is scheming, I can feel it.

"Not a whole lot. Just the daily grind all by myself, no one around to help ease the suffering. Have you heard from Preston lately?" He looks off to his right and I see his eyes flicker back and forth across his second screen, the smile only dimming slightly.

" 'Not I,' said the fox. Says he hasn't plugged his dick in the internet in three days. You think he's dead?" I just look at him and his eyebrows shoot up in mock offense. "Calm down. Je-sus. No one can take a joke around here anymore."

"He won't answer my messages and I can't call his phone. Do you have anyone over there who can drop in and make sure he hasn't starved to death?"

"I have some favors I can call in over there, sure. Whatcha got for me?"

"Haven't I already lived through enough hell for you for one year?"

"I mean... Yeah. But the anniversary's comin' up. You can't use that line forever, Woof. Lemme go make a call real quick." He grabs his phone off of the desk and starts scrolling through it, absent-mindedly reaching up to cut the power from his webcam.

I could have sworn that he just muttered something that I wasn't supposed to hear.

'This's gonna be a good one.'

---

May 22, 2013 at 10 AM, Sumas, Washington: Preston

"Huh?" I think the ringing's still echoing in my ears but I dunno if it was just a dream or not. Ugh... The sunlight's too bright to care. I slide clumsily off the bare, slippery, silky mattress and step over the pile of dirty, crispy sheets and crap piled up on the floor from who knows how long ago. "Crap..." It's really bright out here and I'm really hungover and I wanna crawl in the coat closet and pass out again. Did I forget to pay rent this month? Who the frick's ringing my doorbell? I lean up and look through the peep hole and I'm already not happy but seeing who it is makes it worse. "Oh. It's you. What do you want?" I don't care if he hears me. It's that freakin' weird guy Hannah introduced me to at the convention. I open the door and peer out at him and he looks like he's gonna back up against the wall and run away screamin'. His eyes are all wide behind his black plastic glasses and he doesn't look happy about him being here, either.

"Jerome sent me." Well, good morning to you, too.

"What?"

"Jerome sent me." I squint at him in confusion and he just shrugs like he's offended he has to be here in front of my door right now. "No one tells me anything. He just told Sky to come and Sky didn't want to come so he told Bill to come and Bill couldn't drive so Bill told me to come and I did." Wow, I forgot how much his voice gets on my nerves. And he just gets squeakier the more he gets worked up.

"Chill out, dude. It's fine. I needed to get up, anyway." Why am I comforting this almost-stranger? I thought getting drunk was supposed to make me braver, not wimpier and dumber. Why can't I tell this creep to get his butt and his Space Invaders t-shirt off my frickin' doorstep? He probably has a YouTube channel, though. That's probably how Hannah knows him. And last thing I need right now's more drama. So should I invite him inside? But I don't want him here. I'm still trying to figure out what to do and he's just standing there with his hands in his pockets and his beard and his ponytail fluttering in the breeze. I bet his hair's longer than my girlfriend's. "So did you need anything from me?"

"Wha? No. No. I'm good. I'll just drive the hour and a half back and - yeah, it's just swell."

"Great. So now you're ticked off at me, too." Now he's going into full-panic mode. Dangit, Preston.

"No! It's fine! Really! They just told me to come see if you were alive and call the cops if you weren't and then I could go home and I didn't have to pay for gas! So I'm gonna go and - yep!" I watch him go and I don't feel as guilty as I think I should've. He moves pretty quick for such a big guy. His ponytail sways back and forth as he marches all the way through the parking lot. I check around to see if there're any more surprises out here before I go back in the nice, cool kinda-darkness. My head doesn't throb as much in here. I look around at all the beer bottles from the night with Hannah and from all the days since and I feel embarrassed again.

My life's a mess and I shoulda waited like they told me to because it wasn't good, it was gross. And now it's ruined and I'll never get it back. I've never felt so bad in my whole life. I broke so many promises. I said I wouldn't do it before marriage and I screwed up and-

Skype starts ringing as soon as I make it back to my bedroom but I don't care enough to answer it. Jerome can go frick off after sending Loser McGhee the Basement Creep to come visit me. Like I wanna see him or anyone else first thing in the morning.

And now my phone's ringing and I just wanna punch something before I start crying. But it's Rob's ringtone, not Jerome's, and now I know the whole thing's his fault. He's the one who started the man hunt that led to My Little Pony at my door.

"Preston! Are you-"

"Go away, dude. If I wanted to talk to you I'd be on the computer."

"You can't just disappear for a week and not tell anyone about it! We thought something had happened."

"Yeah. I went on vacation." He pauses and I wish he didn't have that serious voice turned on. I hate when he goes all Dad Mode.

"Vacation? Where did you go on vacation?"

"I pitched a pillow tent in my living room and I took a vacation." He waits for me to keep talking and all I wanna do is hang up and go back to sleep. I climb back up on the bed and flop down on my back before I sigh and keep talking. "Stuff came up and I just needed a break for a while. I'm fine. I'll get back on the grind tomorrow, dude. I will." I have to, if I ever wanna have enough money to go back home. I'm done with girls. I don't wanna do this anymore. They still have people who do arranged marriages, right? I'll just wait a few years and hire them to find me a wife and I'll meet her when I stick a giant diamond ring on her finger and say 'I do.' Dating's too much trouble and all I've done is screw it up big time every step of the way.

"If you need to talk about it..."

"Come on, Rob. You sound like my mom."

"Well, someone has to be an adult here. I thought you trusted me." Now he's gonna be mad again, too. I know I'm just digging myself a hole here, but I'll be breakin' out the jackhammer and diggin' to the middle of the Earth if I tell him what happened. No one wants to hear about that and I don't wanna talk about it. How do I forget it ever happened?

"I do trust you. It's just so much crappiness and I was so stupid and I know you're not gonna get it. You don't think the way I do."

"It's your choice, man. You know I'm always here, somewhere."

---

May 22, 2013 at 1 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

He doesn't want to talk, and who the hell knows what he could have done to reduce himself to a moping, drunken mess this time. He told me once how his biological father was an alcoholic and how he was afraid of going down that path, but he sure as hell isn't doing himself any favors with this. His voice sounded strained a second ago, like he might be trying to hold back tears. What could he have done that he thinks is so unforgivable?

"Preston, are you in trouble?"

"Maybe. I don't know." I wish I could get him to go on Skype so we could have an actual conversation instead of me trying to figure out what he wants me to say.

"Is it serious trouble? You have to tell me what happened or we can't help you." Did he run short on rent and pull a Nooch to make up the difference, then get caught? Did he spend the last few days in jail? Did he try cocaine and get addicted? Did he snap and fucking kill someone?

'Oh, fuck.'

Did he kill his girlfriend?! Did she push him too far and make him lose his shit? I tab over to Twitter while I wait for him to answer, checking his followers to find her username again.

'Please tell me she's still alive. Please tell me she posted something today: a meme, a GIF, a duck face, a bit of wisdom, an emoji, I don't care. Please let there be something.' The page loads and I see that she was streaming something on Twitch late last night but nothing since. I'm afraid to ask him in case something happened with her; Jerome's little agent said he wouldn't let him see into the apartment and refused to let him come inside. That could just be everyday territorial Preston, or that could be evidence for an impending suicide-homicide, or at least a grisly homicide. The more I think about it, the more nervous I get. I can't push him to talk or he'll hang up faster than I called him when I heard back from Jerome.

"I just... don't know anymore. I messed up so bad and every time I think about it, I think of more things I messed up. And now Hannah won't talk to me and I don't know if I wanna break up with her for good or even if I can. I don't know what to do." I wait him out to see if he is going to say anything else and I think I hear a sniffle. It gets awkwardly quiet but he refuses to say anything else.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's your choice. But I need to know if the police are involved." There is a too-long silence and I can feel the smoky feeling of lead weighing down my veins. My fingers are already searching my pocket for a familiar metal tube before I notice that they're doing it. I need a cigarette or five.

"What...? No... Why would I be messing with the cops?"

"You wouldn't say anything, so I assumed the worst." I can hear him cringe with a sharp breath as I click the metal tab on the e-cigarette to light it up. I get up from my chair to go stand outside on Toby's designated balcony. "If you aren't going to go to jail, it can't be that catastrophic, Preston."

"What the frick did you think I was doing? A bank heist? Maybe you need to lay off the fumes, dude." There's that sarcastic bastard we all missed, or at least a shred of him. There's a flicker of hope that he might loosen up a little bit as I step out onto the slightly damp cement and lean against the dusty brown railing and stare at the curtains outlined by yellow light, cut into the plain grey behemoth across the way. That bitter hope fades as the call falls back into silence. I take in a second lungful of smoke, trying to find something to say when he finally speaks. "You ever do something you were so ashamed of you thought you'd die? I mean, besides the... the thing." I can't help but laugh a little at his horror at his own lack of social grace.

"Not counting my suicide attempts? Of course I have regrets. Doesn't everyone?"

"Not just regrets but like... huge life-altering screw-ups? Things you can't take back?"

"Everyone does stupid shit every once in a while, man. It's what keeps us human." I pause to see if he might give up the ghost and confess, but I think he wants to hear about my own travels and travesties first. I check to see if any of my beloved neighbors are freezing their asses off out here with me in the dreary, rainy wind before I really start to think. "Other than the obvious, I haven't done anything that I would call earth-shattering."

'I'm not Darryl, after all, even though I used to wish I was him.' I think for a few seconds before I let out the hazy breath I was holding.

"I helped someone get away with a crime once, something I didn't want any part in in the first place. He would have got off scot-free, either way - no one would have believed me - but it really fucked up my mind for a long time. I still think about it now and then... I regret not doing something about it. It could have been so much worse for me... and there's a good chance he did it again to someone else." I glance inside at the shiny, dark brown leather jacket hanging up where its owner had left it in his hurry to get back home in time to get to work, and I shake my head to try to get the memory of that night back out of my head. I can't live in that dark bathroom anymore, even in my nightmares. I finally got my freedom back, damn it, and I'm going to use it.

'I've never told anyone about that before. Does that mean I still consider him my friend?'

"Did he, like... try to kill you?" I chuckle bitterly and I catch myself shaking my head even though he can't see me. Dad was right: we must play too many video games if both of our minds immediately go to mass murderers whenever we mention anything bad.

"No, but I felt like walking death after it happened." I debate for a second about how much I'm willing to tell him. I don't think he would cope well with the truth, with his child-like naivete and his narrow world view. I don't want this to be what he thinks of when he thinks about me. "I felt like I didn't matter and that there was nothing I could do to be a person anymore. It took me a long time to realize that I wasn't broken; now I think I'm finally okay. But it's not something I can ever forget."

"So how do I make it stop feeling awful like this? I feel like I ruined something," the euphemistic puzzle pieces click together, "and there's nothing I can do to make up for it. What do I do?"

"Did you and Hannah...?"

"Yeah," he answers quickly, not wanting me to finish the sentence. I catch myself scratching the side of my nose in annoyance at his skittishness and his dramatics, and I have to remind myself that this is a much bigger deal to him than it was for me my first time. I thank my parents for the umpteenth time for not shoving religion too deeply down our throats.

"It was mutual, yeah?"

'Please tell me she isn't going to press charges.'

"It was kinda all her idea. I didn't know how to tell her I wasn't ready and now she's all fine and dandy about it but I can't stop thinking how it wasn't supposed to be this way. It... it wasn't right. I just wanna be normal again."

"You know, you didn't lose anything that night. You're still you, and she's still Hannah. It was just a new experience and it's not like you sold your soul to get some."

"Feels like it." I hope for his sake that no one ever decides to sell his soul for their own gain; he would never recover from it. "And there's something else. I don't know how to say it."

I feel his stress stack up on my shoulders as it sinks in: they didn't use protection.

Preston might be having a baby.

He's barely more than a kid himself, and now he might have a baby.

'Shit.'

His career might be over.

We might lose Preston.

He would never let her have an abortion.

They wouldn't be together for a year before his personal life would be all over the Internet.

He wouldn't be able to take care of a family or pay child support on his YouTube earnings.

He would have to give up YouTube.

His life as he knows it might be over.

"Have you talked to her about it?" I say several magnitudes more calmly than I feel. I can't let him know how worried I am for him.

"No, she won't talk to me. I told her I regretted it and she went nuclear and stomped out. But it wouldn't do any good to talk to her 'cause her things are different, you know?"

"What? I'm not following." He lets out a deep sigh and I can imagine how red his face is right now, probably buried in a pillow or his t-shirt.

"When I move it it burns and I try to hold it in so I don't hafta pee but I think that makes it worse." I feel a dark, sadistic glint of glee when I realize that his sweet, pretty, most likely cheating girlfriend gave him an STI, but now isn't the time to celebrate her potential downfall or savor his misfortune.

"You have to get it tested, bro. There's nothing else you can do."

"I'm not gonna go let someone poke and fondle my prick, Rob. That's friggin' weird."

"You have to. Depending on what it is, it could spread to your kidneys, or your brain, or it might cause cancer. You can either let someone poke it now, or someone can cut part of it off in a couple of years. This is why you have to use protection, man."

"I'm not gonna walk in the grocery store and buy... stuff. Then everyone'll know."

"Then you're running the risk of get reinfected every time you have sex. It had to come from somewhere." I shudder when I picture what she could have given him, and he's so clueless about sex that she could have full-blown warts and he wouldn't know the difference.

"Is that why it was so wet?" he asks innocently and I hold back my laughter even though it hurts my ribs. I take a second to drag on my e-cigarette before I answer him.

"Probably not. Preston, have you ever had sex ed?"

"No. I never needed it."

"Everyone needs it. It keeps shit like this from happening." I pause to let that sink in but I doubt it did. Now I get to make this conversation even more unpleasant. "Do you know if she's on birth control?"

"She's a good Christian. Good Christians don't believe in that crap."

'Good Christian, my ass.'

"It isn't a matter of believing. It's a matter of being prepared and growing the hell up. If she gets pregnant, are you actually going to marry her?" He hesitates and I don't blame him - I wouldn't want to date her, either, but he feels so lucky to have found her and so entitled to her affection that he can't seem to let her go.

"Yeah. Of course I would marry her. That's my job. That's what men do."

'So he really does think I'm jobless. Does that mean he also doesn't think I'm manly enough to be responsible? Oh! how the tables have turned!'

"As long as you take responsibility, you didn't do anything wrong. Personally, I like to take care of things beforehand so I have a choice in the matter... Pero que será, será." There's still something that needs to be said, but I seem to be having a hard time with words around him these days. The silence is a little more comfortable this time. "Things will get better. You are a lot more than just your history, Preston. It seems like a really big thing right now because it just happened and you were told it was this insurmountably scary thing... Sex is a lot more complicated than a flap of skin and a promise. What happened wasn't the end of anything. It was just the beginning of you finding out something you never knew about yourself before." I feel like a grade seven guidance counselor, but it seems to be helping him.

"Yeah..." I know he isn't convinced yet because he's still in drunken shock, but eventually he'll understand.

"As for the rest... You need to talk to Hannah about that. She probably has a better idea of what's going on. She might have been more prepared for this than you give her credit for. Everything is going to be fine, man. You know I'll help you out however I can." I visualize myself holding a bawling baby in one arm and a pissing puppy in the other and I need to take another puff to drown out my own mourning. Why do I do shit like this to myself?

"Yeah. Later, though. She won't answer me yet and I think I really need to sleep this off."

"Go to it. But it was good talking to you, man, even though it wasn't the best banter we've ever had."

"Thanks, dude. I'm still freaking out but... coulda been worse. Talk to ya later."

"Hit me up, homie." I hang up the call before I rest my forehead on the gritty handrail and let out a long, slightly minty trail of smoke through my nose. His stress level is so high that it's contagious, and I catch myself absent-mindedly itching my own crotch on my way back inside. "I hope for your sake that it's curable, whatever it is."

---

May 24, 2013 at 9 AM, Clearbrook, Washington: Preston

And I thought grinding out Micro Battles and Hunger Games and parkour maps all day yesterday was bad. This's a whole new level of hell. And it's my own fault I hafta suffer through it. I think going to church later is gonna be worse, though. I don't really know the pastor at the church here and he seems even more over-serious than the guys back home. At least he won't be able to tell anyone I know what I did. I got myself into this, I can drag my own butt back out. I finish signing the medical forms on the worn-out clipboard and I take 'em back up to the desk so the lady in the scrubs can put my crap in the computer. I'm glad I have my own insurance plan now so Mom and Dad won't see I went to a sketchy little rinky-dink health clinic in the next town over or what they did to me here.

For just one day, I don't wanna be internet famous. I just wanna be invisible.

Who the frick goes to health clinics besides drug addicts and people with AIDS? Is that why Rob sent me the address to this place? Does he go to clinics all the time? How does he deal with the embarrassment? I pull out my phone and slump forward in my chair in case anyone else comes in here so they won't recognize me. It'd be my luck for someone to get a picture of me here and post it on Twitter for the whole freaking world to see. The more I wait, the more nervous I get and the hotter it feels and pretty soon I'm sweating my butt off. Now they're really gonna think I'm sick. I wipe my face off and put my right headphone back in and try to calm myself down with some music. Nothing's working.

So how they do this? Do they make me stand next to the table and whip it out for them to stare at? Do they like... stick something up there to look inside? Oh, God. Are they gonna make me bend over so they can stick their fingers up there and feel around? I said I wasn't into guys. Are they even gonna believe me? I'd rather deal with the burning than let anyone do that to me... Rob was joking when he said it'd spread, right? What if they can't get rid of it? Am I gonna have to wear diapers? How would I ever explain that? Guess I wouldn't hafta worry about having a girlfriend ever, ever again. I'm gonna die alone and be a meme face, huh? I'm gonna be Forever Alone. Even Rob and Vik are gonna get married someday and I'm just gonna be sittin' in my empty apartment with like a whole zoo and a bag of Big Macs and cases of beer. Well, Vik will get married. I don't think gay people can get married. For some reason, the idea of Rob having someone and me being all by myself really bothers me. Maybe because he doesn't take dating as seriously as I do? He's probably slept with like... at least five people. If this happened to me the first time, how many times has he got sick from doing it with guys? Isn't that really d-

"A-assment." Okay. I deserved that. Fair enough.

I stop thinking about Rob and whether his chicken tenders itch all the time and I get up and follow the lady in the scrubs down a little green hallway with big stacks of flyers and booklets hanging on the walls and she stops and points me into a room. It's a bathroom.

"Just put this on the counter when you're done," she says quietly as she hands me a clear plastic cup with my name written on the side. I just stand there and look at it. Am I supposed to jerk it in here? If it hurts to pee, I can't imagine how bad that would hurt...

"I don't know if I can."

"You can't pee? If it's that bad, there's nothing we can do about it here. That's what we have hospitals for."

"Oh. Never mind." She looks annoyed even when she smiles and she walks around me and goes back up to the front.

"The doctor will be in in a few minutes." I look at the cup again and my mouth feels really dry all of a sudden. I don't know if I can do it. I pull the door shut and make sure it's locked before I go and stand in front of the kinda grey toilet and... wait. I've done a lotta waiting lately. And knowing there's a doctor out there probably waiting for me isn't helping. I can't relax enough to do it. It's awkward, just standin' here and holding it but I don't know what else to do. I decide to try sitting and apparently that helps because of the pressure. But. Oh. That. Freaking. Stings. You'd think I was peeing pure lemon juice. It hurts so bad it keeps stoppin' and starting and it makes it hurt even more. Why's my body even stupider than I am?

Finally, I creep outta the bathroom and go put the container on the counter and I go back and wash my hands harder than I've ever washed 'em before. I don't want it to spread, whatever it is. And it turns out there was no hurry for me to finish. My phone battery's twenty percent lower before the doctor ever shows up. He knocks for like half a second before he barges in and he looks like there's a dozen places he'd rather be right now. You're not the only one, dude. He's looking between two pages in a tan folder and he goes over to the little computer desk to grab a pen.

"You said the tip of your penis was red and that you were having trouble urinating? Burning? Stinging? Any pain?"

"Yeah." He doesn't even look at me, he just nods and starts scribbling something out on a little white sheet of paper.

"There was bacteria in your urine, just a urinary tract infection. We're going to try antibiotics for a week, one pill a day with dinner, and if that doesn't solve the problem, just come back in and we'll try something stronger. Grab some cranberry juice next you're at the store. Any questions?" He talks so fast while he hands me the prescription I can barely keep up. I shake my head and he gets up and goes outside a grabs a couple little booklets and a plastic bag of who knows what and he hands all of it to me before he holds out his hand for me to shake. I don't know if I want to but I do it, anyways. "Make sure you stock up on these. We don't want this to happen again with something worse." I see him tap on the side of the bag and I turn it and see a neon green condom peeking out at me. Do I really hafta walk out of here with this in my hand? I look up but he's already out the door and around the corner. I stand up and fold all the crap he gave me down and stick it in my pocket so no one else can see it. This's going in the trash as soon as I get home, guaranteed.

I make sure I have the prescription and my phone and I walk back down the hall of shame, making sure I grab some hand sanitizer from the pump on the desk on the way out.

I feel more than one kind of relief right now, but I'm not takin' any chances.

My soccer mom Prius chirps all happy when it sees I actually came out alive to get it, and I start looking up places to eat and then pharmacies. Forget dinner - I'm gonna pop a pill now. The sooner this's over and I can forget it, the better.

Now I've just gotta deal with Hannah. And that might be the worst part.