A Story Called Philophobia

By Ayla Starr

Published by Ayla Starr at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Ayla Starr

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Ren Taylor.

Renny-Benny. Reginald.

Reginald. Reginald Frank Taylor.

Right now, you are in your speech class. The class is conversing in small groups while the next
speaker gets ready. But you are not talking to anyone. Instead, you are saying his name repeatedly
in your head. No particular reason, you tell yourself. It’s just out of boredom.

And as you say it, it sounds like a rhapsody. But it shouldn’t, because while you repeatedly say
his name in your head, you are also staring directly at Sir Reginald.

He is looking at you with his thin lips in a firm line, and his downcast green eyes almost glaring.

Do something. Either of you. Smile. Frown. Sing. Sing while frowning…

He shifts, and raises his hand. His middle finger sticks right at you, while he continues to wear his
bored, tired expression.

You flick him off, too.

No, don’t do that. Text him and tell him you don’t mean it. Tell him you’re kidding.

You raise your other hand, and flick him off with both your middle fingers.

Coward.

**

“Jeez, could you be any more of a dill hole?” He chews his sandwich slowly, as if he’s savoring
every bite.

The two of you are sitting on the school steps, eating lunch together.

“What’d I do now?” you ask, tossing grapes into your mouth.

“Giving a speech about friendship? Who the hell does that?”

“Um. People who know a thing or two about it?”

“Pssh. Then why’d you give it again?”

You turn to look at him, and find he’s staring at the pavement with a fixed gaze. His black hair
looks soft and tousled under the gray hat he always wears, and his cheeks look flushed from the
cold fall air. His jacket is thin and matches the light gray of his hat.

Reginald, you can’t help but think.

“Mad cause I didn’t mention you?” You raise your eyebrows and smirk, waiting for his reaction.

It’s not the one you want, the one you crave.

He stops chewing, throws his stuff in his book bag, and gets up abruptly.

“Go to hell, dill hole,” he mutters. He won’t look at you, can’t look at you. Instead, he keeps his
eyes down as he retreats back into the school.

You force yourself not to chase after him.

**

In art, he sits on the other side of the room. Plugs his headphones in and sketches furiously,
conveying a message of, I don’t want to speak to anyone.

You want to talk to him.

While everyone around you shouts and chats noisily about football and the mall, you stare at your
phone as if hypnotized, wishing he’d text you or you could gather up the courage to text him, or
something in the middle.

Halfway through the block, you turn to look at him, and he’s still drawing with vengeance. His
bangs cover his eyes, so that you can’t see them, but you imagine what they look like beneath the
hair. Right now, they are probably dark and furious, with a devilish glow about them. His cheeks
are probably pink from the words he won’t say, can’t say, and you imagine his heart is beating as
fast as his feet are tapping.

Your heart sinks.

Three-quarters into the block, your chest hurts too much, so you cave and send him a text.

I’m sorry.

Almost ten seconds later, as if he was waiting for the text, he replies.

Fuck you, asshole.

Your heart sinks again, and you figure it’ll be a good two or three days before he talks

to you again. You lay your head on your arm, an image of defeat.

The bell is two minutes from ringing when your phone vibrates. You shoot up like
you’ve been electrocuted.

…Buy me food and ill forgive u.

You turn to look at him, and sure enough, he’s sitting with his cheeks pink, and his

eyes soft, but trying to be angry.

The rhapsody continues.

**

“You really piss me off, sometimes.”

He’s eating the cheesecake you bought him. Bite by bite slides out of his mouth with a

slow ease, and for whatever reason, you feel compelled to watch. Then you realize
he’s more-or-less just insulted you.

“How so?” The weather is cold, and your jacket isn’t nearly thick enough to keep you

warm. You slide closer to Ren and tell yourself it’s because you need warmth. The
patio swing shifts slightly, and you see Ren tense for a brief second, and then relax.

He shrugs, looking down at his long fingers. Everything about him is long. His hands,

his legs that extend and give him the appearance of a gazelle, his eyelashes that dash
over his green eyes so cruelly, and his neck. They make him look like an animal of

some sort, and you decide if it’s any animal, it’s an ostrich mixed with a messed-up
looking flamingo.

“You just do,” he says now.

“Not like you’re any better,” you retort.

He turns to glare at you with his green eyes that look almost gray right now. “What the

fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you piss me off, too. All the time, actually.”

He snorts. “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, actually, you do.”

“Nope.”

“The fuck?”

“I don’t. I know you don’t get pissed with me.”

This time, you snort, even as your face turns a brilliant shade of red and your
heartbeat increases. “What makes you think that?”

“You always text first.”

“So? That doesn’t mean you don’t piss me off, per say…”

“Well, that, and…and even when I do shit that should piss you off, you just look at me

like…”

“Like what?”

Now, he’s blushing furiously, and biting his lower lip, and tugging at his hat, and
squirming. “Never—never mind.”

Your throat feels dry, and it almost burns to swallow. There’s an inner conflict within

you. Should you say it, or not? Risk upsetting him, or smirk like nothing’s wrong? You
open your mouth. “Like…the opposite of hate?”

Shit, you said it.

His breath catches, and all at once, he loses it. His eyes widen, the plate of

cheesecake falls with a soft, mushy sound, and his blush multiples by ten.

You sit with your heart beating in your throat, and your fingers shaking from something
that isn’t cold. You stare forward, waiting for him to speak, say something—anything.

You count to fifty before he talks again.

“I hate you.”

It’s hard to breathe right now. Or talk, for that matter. You force words out. “That so?”

“I do. I really, really hate you.”

For some reason, the words lack power. Lack the actual feeling of hatred, and when

you turn to look at him, his eyes are soft and watery and heated at the same time, and
the wind is blowing his bangs around his head, and it looks wonderful.

“I hate you, you fucking bastard…” he says again, his lips shaking as his voice cracks.

You nod, noting how cracked your lips are. You count to ten before you feel his body
heat next to yours, his face nestling into your neck, and his breath warm on your skin.

His tears embrace your skin and contradict the heavy breathing. Everything is warm.

“Hate you,” he whispers, and still, his voice breaks.

It breaks and, in the process, reveals.