Katie flashes back to a few weeks earlier. She was sitting with Quinn on the couch directly ahead of her, across from the stage. Their arms were around each other while Quinn was rating every butch that walked in on her own scale of date-ability. Katie shook her head at the absurdity, but smiled anyway. Quinn would spend time checking someone out, and then end up saying things like, “No, Katie J! She’s not sad enough.” Katie can almost hear Quinn calling her, “Katie J,” a nickname Katie still didn’t understand since there were noJs in her name, a nickname made even more precious and heartbreaking now. No one would ever call her that again.
Katie can almost feel Quinn pulling their bodies together, the way she did whenever Katie would disappear into bathroom stalls with people she didn’t quite approve of, or like when Katie was too drunk to make it up the stairs to her apartment.
* * * *
Still on her knees, Katie bends down and places her lefthand on the floor, flat, still shaking. She places her right hand on her chest as if she is saying goodbye. The final notes of the song hit and tears stream down Katie’s face.
No one moves. No one breathes. No one even notices that most of Katie’s clothes are still on.
* * * *
Riley looks down so no one can see the pain on her face.
“Jesus, Katie,” she whispers to herself.
Five Years Later by Patrick Bryce Wright
Being a Monday afternoon in late April, Conrad Jameson was close to graduation and facing finals at the University of Chicago—or, rather, facing finals and the rest of his life. He slipped into Java Junction, away from the roar of car engines and the squealing of bus air brakes. Java Junction was an old-school diner. The rich, tempting aroma of coffee and sweet scent of pastries wafted over him. The soothing hum of chatting patrons filled the air. People dotted the tables and booths, scrolling on their phones or typing on their laptops. The yellow and blue décor flooded his senses: yellow walls, blue booths and stools, and sunflower and blue jay pictures. Java Junction screamed joy to most everyone.
But not to him.
Finishing his finals and graduating was all right. His real problem was that he was limping his way through a messy breakup. His ex-boyfriend, Brian, wasn’t being mature about the end of their relationship.Just what I need going into finals week: relationship drama.
Approaching the counter, Conrad slipped onto an empty stool. A fellow college student with neon pink hair, wearing Java Junction’s uniform of a white apron, blue polo shirt, and light yellow slacks, bustled over and stood across the counter from him.
“Whatdaya have?” She ran the words together.
“Espresso. Banana nut muffin.”
As she bounced off, Conrad scanned the diner. He knew he was taking a chance. Brian loved Java Junction. At the same time, running away because hemightsee Brian felt stupid, too. He resented the idea of letting anyone, especially Brian, chase him out of a public place.
Since Conrad had been the one to call it off, Brianhad sent him increasingly unhinged texts full of ridiculous accusations. Conrad’s therapist had suggested blocking Brian, but Conrad had tried to explain it wasn’t that easy. If he didn’t know what Brian was saying to his face, he’d have no idea what Brian was saying behind his back.
Movement in the corner of Conrad’s vision drew his attention, and he turned his head. A tall, college-aged man stood from a corner table and smirked at him. He was black-haired, lanky, and swallowed by his brown bomber jacket. He sauntered toward Conrad, carrying his iced coffee with him.
Hunter Sanderson.Conrad’s stomach twisted.The only way this could be worse would be if it were Brian.Hunter was another of his ex-boyfriends, so Conrad knew he was up to no good.
He slid onto the stool to Conrad’s right. In a sense, they were mirrors of each other, both tall and thin and brunet. Some of Conrad’s friends believed in the superstition that gay couples who looked like brothers worked out the best. They’d been shocked when Conrad had dumped Hunter in disgust. However, Hunter’s green eyes carried a cold glint Conrad wished he’d paid more attention to from the beginning.
“Hiya, Con. Haven’t seen you around since we took Music Theory.”
“Hey.” Conrad’s flat tone implied his unasked question:What do you want?
“Heard you’re ghosting Brian Duvall.” Hunter sipped his iced coffee and then grinned at the blue countertop. “Could’ve told you the guy’s a loser.” When he turned his gaze on Conrad, false innocence filled his eyes. “Does that mean you’re free?”
Conrad stifled a groan. In his five years of college, Conrad had dated three guys, and it’d gone bust every time. He hadn’t imagined he’d be graduating from college having batted zero. “And that’s your business why?”
With a snort, Hunter thunked down his glass. “Man, what’s up with you? A guy tries to show you a good time, and you get pissy. You shot me down before I could even ask you out again.”
“I’m not in it forgood timesonly. I’m more of a James Taylor kind of guy and less of a Prince kind of guy.”
“Sex phobe,” Hunter muttered.
Conrad punched him in the upper arm.
Hunter grunted in pain, looked down at his arm, and then up at Conrad with wide eyes. “Hey, that actually hurt!”
“You don’t get to pass judgment on me,” Conrad hissed. “On our first date, you smacked my ass like I was a stripper. I tried to see that as flirting. You only got worse. A boyfriend is more than a cheap lay, you know.”
