Beauty & The Jock - Part 10

Weho

Everyone in this story is 18+

Three months in West Hollywood, and the shine had worn off faster than I'd expected. The palm trees looked the same every day, all sharp edges and filtered sunlight, the sidewalks buzzing with people who moved like they had auditions to catch. I'd settled into beauty school, the cosmetology program kicking my ass in the best way—endless hours blending pigments, practicing balayage on mannequins, memorizing the molecular structure of hyaluronic acid. But Los Angeles? It wasn't all that. The traffic choked everything, the air tasted like exhaust and ambition, and everywhere I looked, people were performing. I missed Kyle. His laugh, the way he'd tug my hoodie strings, the solid warmth of him under my hands. Every night, I'd scroll through our old snaps, his face lighting up my screen, and ache for something real.

My new crowd was nice enough, a pack of beauty school kids who swept me into their orbit on day one. WeHo was their playground—brunch spots with avocado toast towers, rooftop yoga at dawn, juice cleanses that promised eternal youth. They called me "the next James Charles," crowding around my station during breaks to watch me layer a perfect smoky eye or depuff under-eyes with cold spoons. "Babe, you need to go viral," Sasha would say, her lips plumped to cartoon proportions, flipping her rainbow hair. "Your contour game? Iconic. Start a TikTok, yesterday." Tyler, with his cheek fillers giving him permanent chipmunk vibes, would nod furiously, snapping selfies. "We're manifesting your brand, Aaron. Beauty empire by 20."

I smiled, blended another shadow, but inside I was rolling my eyes. I'm just Aaron. Not looking to build an empire of sponsored lashes or drop a makeup line at Sephora. I just wanted my own salon one day—a quiet spot with good lighting, eucalyptus oil in the air, clients who trusted me to make them feel seen. No influencers, no collabs, just steady work and maybe Kyle's face in the doorway, grinning like an idiot.

They were sweet, really. We'd hit Melrose for acai bowls, dissecting the latest filler trends—fox eyes, Russian lips, jawline chisels that turned faces into marble statues. "Health is everything," Mia would preach, her kale smoothie glowing green, her B12 shots lined up like soldiers. "No gluten, no dairy, injectables only from verified docs." They'd drag me to spin classes where instructors screamed positivity mantras, or vegan pop-ups where portions shrank but prices soared. It was fun at first, the energy infectious, but lately it felt... superficial. Conversations skimmed the surface—likes, follows, "Did you see her Botox migration?"—never diving deeper. I'd nod along, sipping my matcha, missing Kyle's dumb football stories, his rants about pineapple pizza, the way he'd ask about me, not my aesthetic.

One evening, after a brutal day of precision cutting (my shears had a mind of their own), I collapsed onto my tiny studio bed, the WeHo skyline blinking through my window like a taunting postcard. My phone buzzed—FaceTime from Kyle. Heart leaping, I answered, propping it against a pillow.

His face filled the screen, all sharp jaw and tired eyes, the dorm room behind him dim and sparse. No posters, no clutter—just a bare wall and his neatly made bed. Alone again. Kyle's socials were just football clips, some hikes through Alabama trails, and his stupid memes which I secretly loved. Never any friends tagging him in party shots, never any dates... Thankfully. But on the other hand, I wanted him to be happy, to be lucky, to find his stride there.

"Hey, gorgeous," he said, his grin a little too quick, not quite lighting up his eyes. "Missed your face."

"Missed yours more," I said, curling up on my bed, the ache in my chest sharpening. We never really defined anything—not becoming an official couple, not breaking up. Both knowing what was coming anyway, we just lived in the moment. That summer had been magic, fucking three times a day, tangled in sheets and laughter, stealing every second before the distance hit. Now it was limbo, sweet but undefined.

"How's Alabama treating you?" I asked, trying to keep it light.

He leaned back against his pillow, the fluorescent dorm light casting harsh shadows on his skin. "It's good, man. Practice is brutal but killer. Threw for 320 last game—coach was stoked." His voice had that bright edge, but his shoulders sagged a fraction as he picked at the edge of his sheet. He sounded alive talking football, but the rest... the dorms, the team stuff... it came out flatter, like he was reading from a script. "Food's trash, though. Surviving on protein shakes and takeout."

"You look tired," I said softly, tracing the lines of his face with my eyes. "Roommates out again?"

He shrugged, the motion small. "Yeah, they do their thing. I'm good, though. Just focusing on the game. How's WeHo? Still the next big thing?"

I laughed, but it came out thin. "Same old. School's intense—nailed a perfect ombre today. Friends keep pushing the influencer stuff, but..." I trailed off, not wanting to unload.

"You'll kill it," he said, sincere, his eyes warming a bit. "Can't wait to see your salon someday. Me crashing on your couch, getting free facials."

"Deal," I grinned, my chest tightening anyway. We hung there in that comfortable limbo, not pushing labels, just... us. "Night, handsome," I said softly.

"Night, beautiful," he replied, his gaze lingering. "Get some sleep."

The screen went dark, and I stared at the ceiling, the city humming faintly outside my window. LA glittered below, but it felt hollow tonight. Kyle's brave face hid something—maybe the grind was heavier than he let on, maybe Alabama wasn't clicking like he'd hoped—but we didn't pry. Not yet. For now, it was enough to see him, hear his voice, hold onto our undefined thing across the miles.