“Adequate?” Raven finally lifted her sunglasses. “Jett, he didn’t look adequate.”
“Okay, better than adequate. He was good.” I shrugged. “But he’s gone now.”
“Did you even get his number?” Calliope asked.
“He got mine.”
“Which you won’t answer.” Sierra didn’t even pretend it was a question.
“Probably not,” I admitted.
Raven shook her head. “You’re going to die alone surrounded by leather harnesses and regret.”
“Bold of you, darling, to assume I’ll have regrets.”
The waitress came and took our orders: eggs, pancakes, bacon, enough carbs to soak up whatever was left of Friday night. When she left, Calliope leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.
“Real talk.” Calliope set down her fork, which from her was a whole prologue. “Do you ever want more than this? Like… a relationship? Someone to wake up next to?”
The question caught me sideways. “Why would I want that?”
“Because it’s nice?” Sierra offered. “Having someone who knows you.Who stays.”
“Someone who stays is someone who gets bored, or you get bored with,” I countered. “Someone who leaves eventually, anyway. This way, I control when it ends.”
“That’s depressing,” Raven said.
“It’s practical.” I took a sip of water. “I’m happy. I have you weirdos. I have my work. I have fun. What else does a man need?”
“Depth?” Calliope suggested. “Connection? Someone to share your weird breakfast cereal preferences with?”
“I share them with you. You already know I’m a Cinnamon Toast Crunch purist.”
“Not the same.” Sierra’s voice dropped. “We love you, Jett. But romantic love… that’s different.”
“Different doesn’t mean better.” The words came out sharper than I meant. “Look at you three. None of us are exactly winning at relationships. Raven’s still figuring out what she wants. Calli, you went through like two breakups this year alone.”
“Three,” Calliope corrected sadly. “But who’s counting?”
“Exactly my point. Relationships are messy. They hurt. This way…” I gestured at myself, “nobody gets hurt.”
“Except you.” Raven kept her eyes on her coffee.
“I’m fine.”
The food came, and the conversation got easier. Calliope told a story about a Tinder date who’d brought a book to dinner—not to read, just to set on the table, “as a vibe.” Raven was thinking about asking out a girl from her tarot class, the one who always refused to pull her own cards, and reminded us she had a booth at the Bushwick Flea Market next Saturday and we were morally obligated to attend. Sierra talked about a shoot she had next week, light in Prospect Park, the specific hour she liked when the trees did the thing.
I listened. I laughed. I ate my pancakes. I steered around anything thatlooked like sitting still.
“Remember when we thought high school was the hard part?” Calliope swiped a piece of my bacon. “Like, if we just survived being teenagers, everything after would be easy?”
Raven nodded. “How did we even get here? Adults with jobs, rent, and feelings.”
“Speak for yourself on the feelings front.”
Sierra looked at me, and those eyes cut right through me, the way they always did. “We weren’t always like this, though. We weren’t always… whole.”
She was right. We’d been four scared kids trying to survive a world that didn’t have a space for us.
