The weeks after I told my mom were strange. Not bad, exactly. Just hollow in places that used to be solid.
She didn’t call the following Sunday. Or the one after that. I picked up my phone a dozen times to dial her and put it back down every time, because I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t start the same fight, and the silence between us had calcified into something I was afraid to touch.
Ellis was careful with me during that stretch. Not careful like fragile. He knew better than that. But careful the way he was with his plants when they were stressed. More water. More light. He’d show up at my apartment with food he’d cooked at home, packed in containers with actual labels, and he’d sit on my couch without asking how I was feeling, which was somehow exactly the right move. He just existed near me, and most nights that was enough.
Sierra checked in daily. Quick texts, nothing heavy. The Inner Circle closed ranks around me without anyone saying why—Calliope dragged me to a terrible improv show in the East Village, Raven invited me to help her repot some herbs on her fire escape, and nobody mentioned my mom orthe phone call or the word “stupid” ringing in a kitchen in Sunset Park. They just showed up. That’s what they did.
But underneath the careful kindness, something in me had shifted. Not broken. Shifted. Like a bone that heals slightly crooked. I was still me. Still loud, still charming, still the guy who made everyone laugh at movie night. But there was a new frequency running underneath, a low hum of what if she’s right? Not about Ellis being wrong for me. About me being stupid for believing love was simple enough to survive everything I was asking it to survive.
I kept that to myself. Filed it next to all the other things I didn’t say out loud.
Calliope demanded we go out. She’d been pushing for weeks. “We haven’t been to Neon Pulse since forever, Jett. You’re becoming a hermit; hermits don’t have your bone structure.” I’d been deflecting until I ran out of excuses. Ellis had a work dinner that Friday, some team-building thing Marcus had organized, so I had the night free and no good reason to say no.
“Fine,” I told Calliope on the phone. “One drink.”
“Nobody in the history of Neon Pulse has ever had one drink.”
“I’m setting a precedent.”
I met them at eleven. The four of us hadn’t been out together in weeks. Me, Sierra, Calliope, Raven., and the energy was immediate. Calliope had done something dramatic with eyeliner that made her look like a character from a graphic novel. Raven wore all black, as always, but had added silver rings to every finger, which for her was practically a costume change. Sierrawas looser than I’d seen her in a while, laughing freely, her phone lighting up periodically with texts from Lauren that made her duck her head and smile.
The club was packed. Friday-night packed, a crowd where you had to turn sideways to reach the bar and the bass lived in your molars. I ordered a whiskey sour and posted up near the speakers with Sierra while Calliope pulled Raven onto the floor.
“You good?” Sierra leaned close to my ear.
“I’m great.”
“Liar. But you’re here, and that counts.”
I was on my second drink when Darius found me at the bar.
I’d gone to order another one, and he was there, tall, lean, brown skin a shade lighter than mine, hair buzzed short. Good-looking in a sharp, angular way. Smiling at me like he knew a joke I’d forgotten the punchline to.
“Jett.” He said my name like we had a history that mattered. “From, you know. Like, six months ago? Your place?”
Oh.
Oh no.
Darius. Right. A Thursday, maybe. Or a Saturday. He’d been at a friend’s party in Bushwick; I’d met him outside the bar, we’d gone back to mine, and it had been fine. Good, even. He’d wanted to stay for breakfast. I’d wanted him to leave. He’d left.
That had been my whole system. Efficient, clean, no loose threads. Except the threads were never actually clean, I’d just stopped looking at the other end.
“Darius, hey.” I manufactured warmth. “How are you?”
“I’m good. You look good.” His eyes moved over me, flattering and uncomfortable at once, appreciative and familiar, with something possessive underneath. Like he was remembering something specific. “I texted you after, you know. A couple times.”
“Yeah, I, sorry about that. Things got busy.”
“Busy.” He smiled, but it had an edge. Not angry, exactly. Disappointed. The kind of smile people wear when they’ve had six months to process being discarded. “Sure. Busy.”
The bartender set my drink down. I picked it up, hoping the gesture would signal an exit. It didn’t.
“Are you here with someone?” Darius asked. His hand landed on the bar next to mine.
“I’m here with friends.”
“Just friends?” The question leaned in.
