I lean back on the couch, running a hand through my hair. My head’s heavy with the dull ache that comes from not eating enough earlier in the day and then too much. I should’ve made plans with someone, anyone, but my coworkers either have kids or want to spend their weekends at cigar lounges pretending they’re forty-five.
As I scroll absently through my phone, a picture from our get-together at the bar flashes by—Tessa, two others, and me laughing by the jukebox. She works a nine-to-five—free when I’m free.
That kiss still sits wrong with me. It was a joke I didn’t stop quickly enough. I should have said something when Robyn asked about Tess. Or about lunch. I palm my chest at the memory. I hate that Tessa kissed me, but Ilikethe reminder that there’s more than your girlfriend hitting pause on our future.Again.
Nothing’s changed between Tessa and me. She still calls about small things—whether she should worry about the outlet that keeps tripping the breaker, or where she should have her tires checked without being ripped off. And I feelusefuldriven by problems I can actually solve.
I look down at the cold, half-eaten piece of lasagna and sip more wine. When I find myself wanting to tell Robyn… It’s not worth upsetting her or ruining a friendship over. I just need to figure out what to do so I’m not counting down the weekends till my girl’s schedule is predictable again.
Robyn’s brilliant mind, the sight of her in our naughty holiday sweaters, the wholeness in the way our bodies fit. She’s…everything. And she’s fighting for something bigger than us right now. I’m proud of her. Especially when I close my eyes and imagine her breath against my neck, or her brow furrowed as she reads stroke studies. I’m so proud she’s mine. I’m just so tired of being proud alone.
I hover over her name in my messages, then slide out of our thread and open a new one.
Me:Hey, you guys still up for watching that midnight screening?
Tessa:I’m on my way there, actually.
I stare at the message for a second too long. My pulse gives a small chagrined kick.Nothing’s changed.
Me:Sweet. See you at the theater.
No typing dots this time. Somehow, that’s a relief. I set my phone face down on the table, grab my keys, and stand. The room tilts slightly; my body feels too tight, too restless.
A stupid movie at midnight is better than another night sitting here missing someone who’s always gone.
About forty minutes later,twenty minutes before the movie starts, I stand underneath the vertical neon sign. The name of the theater, MUSIC BOX, burns red against the black midnight sky. The marquee light spills onto the sidewalk in gold and amber, painting the line of people waiting outside in flickering warmth. Posters line up for their weekly schedule.Trolls 2is there, demanding attention it doesn’t fully deservedespite its cult status.Unless you’re avoiding your empty apartment.
Beneath the marquee, next to the box office, is a familiar face. Andrzej’s already waiting, head bent over his phone, thumb scrolling. The magenta lighting cuts across his face, catching his sharp-blue eyes when he glances up. His hair’s cropped short, a little longer on top, disciplined but not square, kind of like him.
I step up, and he blinks then grins, and we greet the way we always do—a quick clasp of hands and a clap to the shoulder.
“Hey, man,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You and Robyn out for date night?”
I furrow my brow. “No. I’m here forTrolls 2with the whole group.”
“The whole group?” He gestures with his hand.
“Yeah. Are you not here for that?”
He shakes his head, frowning. “Nope. I’m here with friends—you haven’t met them. I needed to get the fuck out after what’s probably the saddest movie I’ve ever seen. They’ll be right out.”
I blink. “But Tessa said everyone was coming toTrolls 2.”
Andrzej exhales a sharp laugh, somewhere between disbelief and pity. “Dude, was thereanythingabout it in our group chat?”
I rub the back of my neck, heat creeping up under my collar. “Well, no. But I figured she must’ve talked to people separately. You know… like she did me.”
“Tessa planned this?”
“I guess. I thought it was something organic. You know we used to watch these back in college.”
He goes still, a dry, unimpressed look settling over his face. “You’re smarter than this, Nate.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tessa planned this ‘group outing,’” he says, making air quotes with one hand. “And I’d bet good money everyonecoincidentallycanceled.”
I let out a scoff, trying to sound amused. “What are you trying to say?”
