I spent the entire weekend wondering what happened to the poor bastards the Kingfishers had interrogated at the lake and whether my meddling with football politics by instigating a face off between Lordee and Ryan would change the pact between me and my fuckbuddy. I had his number, and absolutely nothing was stopping me from texting him. But I also knew it was risky. Texting would lead to obsessing, and obsessing would lead to complications, and complications would lead to..well, the end.
Was I mad at him? Was that incident a wake-up call I desperately needed to remind me that we were worlds apart? That we were so different to become a thing even if we wanted to? He was still a budding teenager, taking small baby steps towards becoming a full-fledged man and there was simply a whole shitload of questions I didn't want to deal with. No. I was counting my days, clinging by a thin thread of hope that before the weekend would be over, distance and time would wash away the fog of lust and forbidden desires, making room for rationality and logic.
In simpler terms, we both needed to stop thinking with our dicks and make use of our brains.