Roxie Hart
Ted Nivison x Afab! reader
Jschlatt x Afab! reader
Charlie (Slimecicle) x Afab! reader
Synopsis:
You’re back home after your first year at UCLA with one goal in mind: Return in the fall as the undeniable star of the theater program. Confident. Magnetic. Unforgettable. Step one? Live the part all summer long.
It just so happens your three best friends each have very attractive older brothers. And their attention? Well… that could help you a lot. That’s your excuse, anyway.
Ted should be the easy one, he’s the boy you never really got over, the one with history written into your bones. But your heart might not be ready to risk that again. Schlatt keeps circling with sharp eyes and sharper comments, turning your little act into a game of cat and mouse (you’re just not sure who’s chasing who.) And Charlie? He’s a lovesick puppy every time you so much as blink in his direction. Everything’s going according to plan. Until it’s not. Because some roles cut too close. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And this summer? Might just write a whole new script you didn’t see coming.
A/N: I'm gonna be so real this came to me after listening to 'Best Friends Brother' (yes the one from the Victorious Cast sue me) and uh- I kinda took the idea and ran? it's on going so here's chapter 1! let me know what you think?
TW: none that are coming to mind? but let me know if I need to add any!
Ch.1 (you're reading it!) Ch.2 (coming soon!)
The air is stuffy, thick with sweat, nerves, and the scent of old wood. The stage is packed, bodies pressing forward to get a look at the piece of paper taped to the wall.
You don’t know if you want to throw up or scream.
Maybe both.
Every year at UCLA, it’s tradition: the graduating seniors cast a final vote for what next year’s opening musical will be. This morning, your director made the announcement with a smug little grin like he knew it would cause chaos.
Chicago.
Fucking Chi-ca-go.
The show that made you fall in love with theater. The one you wore out your parents’ VHS copy of when you were twelve. The reason you begged for tap shoes and vocal lessons and learned to wink into a mirror like it meant something.
Then comes the pre-audition chaos—each student scrambling for a shot at their dream role, performing a song, a scene, whatever they can do to stand out. The grads and faculty watch from the audience, trading notes and raised eyebrows. It's less of an audition and more of an informal, chaotic bet on who might carry the show next fall.
And you? You felt good. You felt ready.
You thought this would be your moment. You thought it was finally your turn to be Roxie Hart.
Your name is there. Just not where it’s supposed to be.
Shelby Whitaker – Roxie Hart [Your Name] – Understudy
You blink, like maybe the cast list will rearrange itself. But no. It’s right there, permanent and printed. Understudy.
Your vision blurs slightly as your director’s voice echoes over the commotion.
“Remember! These are just placeholders—preliminary roles based on today’s showcase. Official auditions will be held in the fall. Don’t like where you landed? Work harder! See you next semester!”
You’re still standing there, glued to the floor, staring at that single, stupid word under your name. Understudy. A second choice. A back-up plan. The consolation prize.
Finally, you rip yourself away and hop down from the stage, eyes locking on Casie and Blake—two of the recent grads you’d grown close to this year. They were on the selection panel. Maybe they knew something. Maybe they’d tell you you weren’t bad, just a little off today. Maybe it was a mistake.
“Casie!” you call out, jogging to catch her before she hits the exit. “I really hate to be that girl, but—”
She sighs. “You didn’t get Roxie.”
“I mean… yeah,” you admit, still hoping for some kind of validation. “But I just—what happened? I thought I did okay.”
Blake is the one who answers, softer than Casie, his hands stuffed awkwardly in his hoodie pocket.
“You had my vote,” he says. “Your talent’s not in question. Musically, you killed it. But when it comes to acting…”
He glances sideways at Casie, waiting for her to take over.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“You didn’t have the sex appeal.”
You blink. “My… sex appeal?”
Casie shrugs, already moving toward the door like this is just another Tuesday critique.
“It’s nothing personal. Shelby just is Roxie right now. You aren’t. Not yet.”
Your throat tightens.
This wasn’t about range or stamina or hitting that final note in Roxie. It was about sex. Presence. Command. The one thing you hadn’t practiced in rehearsal rooms or perfected in front of your mirror.
“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Casie says as she steps into the hall. “You want to run lines this summer?”
You shake your head. “I leave for home tomorrow.”
“Oh shit, that’s right,” Blake says. “You’re from New York, yeah?”
You nod. “The big city.”
“Well,” Casie says with a laugh, “lucky you. That’s a perfect place to channel your inner Roxie. Just live it. Breathe it. Become her.”
She turns on her heel, her words light and flippant.
“Method acting,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Best way to win the part next time.”
And then she’s gone. Blake gives you a tiny smile before following.
And you’re left standing alone between rows of dusty red velvet seats, surrounded by the echoes of other people’s dreams coming true.
You exhale sharply and mutter to yourself.
“Right. Just… be Roxie.”
The air in the terminal is cold and stale, thick with old coffee and overhead announcements echoing too loud. You’ve been awake since 5 a.m., half-lucid and stretched across a cracked leather seat by Gate 17, thumb numbly scrolling through Facebook like it’s a muscle memory.
You’re not looking for anything. Maybe just trying to avoid thinking about the cast list. Or the word understudy.
Then a photo catches your eye.
“So proud of my baby girl for getting into her dream school! 💖 Can’t wait to see what you do next, Emma!”
It’s Emma and someone else. A boy. Tall. Familiar.
You blink.
No. Freaking. Way.
You zoom in.
That’s Charlie? Emma’s Charlie?
You have to stare a few extra seconds to be sure. The dweeb who used to host Friday night D&D campaigns in the basement with his little rectangular glasses and Pokémon water bottle? The one who always smelled faintly of Mountain Dew and Sharpie?
What the hell happened?
His hair’s longer now—light brown, styled messy like he woke up perfect. The glasses are gone, replaced by clear blue eyes that pop without the frames. And earrings? Black studs in both ears. What the fuck.
“Okay,” you mutter, tapping his name to open his profile. “What potion did this man drink?”
Your heart skips a beat.
He’s hot.
You immediately hate yourself for thinking it, but you don’t stop.
If Charlie changed, who else might’ve?
You tap over to Angie’s mom’s page. Your nosy inner child is wide awake now.
Angie’s the same as ever. Jet-black hair, winged liner sharp enough to slice glass, her infamous tortured-artist aura practically radiating through the screen.
But then, in an Easter group photo, you see him.
Angie’s brother.
Jonathan Schlatt.
You’ve always remembered him being semi-attractive in a gruff, “I’ll key your car if you piss me off” kind of way. But now?
Now he’s taller. Lanky but broad-shouldered, filling out the sleeves of his t-shirt. His hair’s shorter, sides buzzed a little, but just long enough on top to curl. His expression is the same—bored, mildly annoyed, like someone’s making him pose for this photo against his will.
But those lashes? The moles along his neck and cheek? You can’t look away.
“Jesus,” you mutter.
And because you’re a masochist, you search Katie’s profile next.
She dyed her hair again, now a golden dirty blonde. You scroll past some selfies, a few pictures of her and her boyfriend Ryan, until…bam. Group photo at some film fest in Ithaca. And there he is.
Ted.
Fucking Theodore.
He’s tall. Like tall tall.Not lanky like Schlatt, he fills it out. Shoulders, arms, legs. It’s all there. He’s got those same warm brown eyes behind his round glasses, and hair that’s darker now, almost black, a little longer on top and tousled from wind or maybe his own fingers.
He’s smiling at someone just outside the frame.
And your heart thuds a little.
Mind drifting in to memories you’d long since shut out
You remember that smile. From choir. From tech rehearsals. From that one time he handed you a mic and your fingers touched, and you forgot your next line.
From the summer before he left.
You turn off your phone screen and sit back in your chair.
They all changed.
And maybe… so did you.
You’re not the girl who hides in the wings anymore. You’re not the freshman with stage fright or the understudy holding back tears in the stairwell.
You're different. Stronger. Louder. Sharper.
Roxie Hart isn’t just a role. It’s a mindset. A power. One, you’re not giving up just because Shelby fucking Whitaker can pop a hip and smile like she’s in heat.
So maybe this summer, you become her. Really become her.
Not just in theory. In practice.
You think of Charlie’s smirk. Schlatt’s eyes. Ted’s laugh.
All older brothers of your childhood best friends. All men you’ve crushed on in secret for years. All way too attractive now for their own good.
You’re not going to fall in love.
You’re going to learn how to seduce. To manipulate. To control a room, the second you walk into it.
And if that means kissing…or more, to become Roxie Hart?
Well.
Cue spotlight.
Let the summer show begin.
The plane ride is smooth, all things considered. You get stuck between an old man who falls asleep on your shoulder and a mom with a red-faced baby who keeps shooting you apologetic looks. Every time the baby starts to cry, she mouths, “I’m so sorry,” and you do your best to offer a polite smile, a small nod that says, It’s totally fine. Really.
When you step into JFK, it hits you like a wave—the heavy, humid air, the chaos of rolling luggage and honking horns and people shouting over each other. The city air here somehow smells like concrete, diesel, and home. It’s disgusting. And perfect.
You spot them the second you hit the pick-up area.
Your mom lets out a loud, thrilled squeal like she’s been holding it in for months. “Baby!” she cries, rushing forward and wrapping you up before you can even drop your bag.
You don’t hesitate—you melt into her. The smell of her perfume, the feel of her arms, the tight squeeze like she’s trying to make up for every second lost in your absence—it gets to you. Your eyes sting before you can stop them.
“Oh, look at you!” she exclaims, rocking you side to side. “God, you’ve gotten so—grown. Grown-up. Beautiful. Let me look at you—let me look at you!”
You laugh wetly and pull back, wiping your eyes. “Hi, Mom.”
Your dad’s not far behind. He’s quieter, slower, but the second he reaches you, he pulls you into a solid hug—warm and safe and heavy in the best way.
“Good to see you, kiddo,” he says, voice thick like he’s holding something back too. You nod, blinking fast, and he gently takes your suitcase from you without another word.
The ride back is warm with sunlight and chatter. The car smells like your mom’s favorite vent clip and a little like old French fries. You stop at a local diner—one of those stuck-in-time places with peeling red vinyl booths and syrup already stuck to the table.
It’s past 1 p.m. and your stomach is growling, so you scarf down half a sandwich while your parents fill you in.
“Did you know Mrs. Walters down the street is pregnant again?” your mom says, stirring her iced tea like she’s about to spill government secrets. “Forty-four years old and having another baby—can you believe it?”
You snort. “Yikes.”
“And oh! Angie’s mom said she’s been doing great,” your mom continues. “Staying out of trouble—shocker—and I think she’s working part-time at the bookstore now.”
You nod, chewing, not sure what to say.
Your mom’s smile shifts into something a little more sly. “Have you seen Jonathan, by the way?”
You nearly choke on your sandwich.
She grins wider. “He’s grown into quite the handsome boy.”
“MOM,” you cough, reaching for your water, face already burning. “Jesus.”
“What?” she shrugs, completely unbothered. “He was always cute. But now he’s—what do they say? A tall drink of water?”
Your dad nearly chokes on his coffee.
“Can you not talk about boys I grew up next to like they’re the cover of GQ?”
“I’m just saying,” she teases. “Keep an open mind.”
“Or don’t,” your dad mutters, finally weighing in. “Can we maybe not try to throw our daughter at the neighbors before she’s even unpacked?”
Your mom waves him off, smirking into her straw. “I’m just keeping things interesting.”
You groan, head in your hands. “This is going to be a long summer.”
Your dad pats your shoulder gently. “It’s okay, kiddo. You’ll survive. We’re just happy you’re home.”
And weirdly—you are too.
When you finally arrive home, you swing open the front door with a smile. The air smells like dust, summer, and—somehow—home.
You step inside, taking a slow look around. Everything’s where it should be… but something feels different. Not in a bad way, just… off. Like the furniture had been slightly rearranged a few inches to the right, maybe it’s just that you’ve been gone so long you forgot how everything looked.
You turn to say something but catch your parents exchanging a look. A nervous one. The kind of glance that makes your chest tighten just slightly. The kind that says we’ll talk about it later.
You choose not to ask.
“Thanks, Dad,” you say instead, gesturing to your bags. He gives you a soft smile and ruffles your hair like you’re still a kid.
“Course,” he murmurs.
You smile but say nothing more, grabbing your things and heading upstairs.
Opening the door to your bedroom feels like opening a time capsule. It shouldn’t be, considering it’s only been about a year since you left, but still, every detail feels frozen. Your musical posters still line the walls, your old framed awards still sit proudly on the shelf, and your desk is cluttered with notebooks and water-damaged sheet music.
You move toward the shelf, fingers brushing over the spines of old scores until you find one of your favorites. You open it instinctively, skimming familiar notes, your own scrawled handwriting still visible in the margins—“don’t overshoot”, “louder here!”—and something inside you settles. This, right here, feels right.
You put the folder back. But just as your fingers leave the shelf, something outside the window catches your eye.
Your breath freezes.
Right. Schlatt.
Your window practically faces one of his. You’d almost forgotten. And back then, his blinds were always drawn. You never saw much of him—not that you wanted to.
But today, they’re open.
And there he is.
He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over something with a screwdriver in hand. The light catches the curve of his jaw, the messy crown of dark curls, and for a moment, you let yourself watch. Just for a second. Until he looks up.
You flinch, stepping back and pretending to fiddle with the blinds like you definitely weren’t just staring. Your heart kicks in your chest, too fast, too loud.
You hum to yourself to fill the silence, trying to shake the weird electricity buzzing under your skin.
Unpacking sounds like a good idea, but you can't find the motivation. So instead, you flop onto your bed, sprawled out, staring at the ceiling. It’s almost peaceful—until your phone buzzes against your stomach.
It’s Angie.
Three texts in a row:
‘John said he saw you in your window?’ ‘I told him to stop being a creep and watching you’ ‘But also, you’re home and haven’t come over to say hi? Fuck you.’
The first one makes your cheeks heat. The second makes you snort. The third makes you laugh aloud as you tap out a reply:
‘I haven’t even been home 10 minutes! Give me a second to change and I’ll be over. I look homeless and smell like airport.’
She replies instantly:
‘I’ll still love you, airport smell and all. Hurry your ass up.’
You exhale, looking around your room again.
Biting your lip in thought. If you were going to go along with this ‘method acting’ of Roxie, better to start now right?
It’s time to get Roxie ready.
It takes you far too long to decide what to wear. You almost talk yourself out of this outfit, too—but you turn away from the mirror before you can second-guess it again.
It’s just a plain white tank top. Spaghetti straps. Something soft that shows off your tan shoulders and collarbones. If you lean forward? A hint of cleavage. The denim shorts are light-wash and frayed at the edges—maybe a little too short, maybe just right. Depends on who’s looking.
You leave your hair alone. No time to tame it, and besides, the messiness adds to the effortless look you’re going for. Like LA didn’t just change you, it refined you.
As you slip toward the front door, your mom catches you in the kitchen, asking where you’re going. “I’m just heading over to Angie’s for a bit!”
She glances up from whatever she’s stirring and smiles. “Alright, but be home for dinner. We want to eat as a family.”
You nod, already sliding into your sandals, and tug the door shut behind you—heat rising off the porch, the short walk to Angie’s house ahead.
And if someone sees you on the way there?
Well. That’s the point.
You don’t even bother knocking on the front door; instead, you just swing it open like it’s your own. Familiar smells hit you immediately: paint, wood, the faint musk of old books. That’s just what the Schlatts’ house smelled like.
Looks like someone repainted the living room again. You wonder whose idea it was, Angie’s or her mom’s?
As if summoned by your thoughts, Mrs. Schlatt rounds the corner into the living room, a paperback tucked under one arm and her reading glasses still perched on her head. Her eyes light up when she sees you.
“Well look who the cat dragged in,” she grins, arms opening as she crosses the room. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
She wraps you in a familiar hug, warm and soft and smelling faintly of cinnamon gum and laundry detergent. There’s something grounding about it, something that makes your shoulders drop a little.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, pulling back to get a proper look at you. “How’s school? You liking it out there?”
You nod. “Yeah, I am. UCLA’s been good. Theater program’s no joke though.”
She chuckles. “Well, I’d hope not, with how far from home you went.”
You smile. “Yeah. It keeps me busy.”
She gives your arm a gentle squeeze before settling into the armchair. “Angie said she’s glad you’re back for the summer. She had kind of a rough year. I think having you around again helps.”
Your expression softens. “I’m glad I’m here too.”
Mrs. Schlatt gives a knowing little smile and leans back into her chair, opening her book again but not quite reading yet.
“I swear, something about this house feels more normal with you in it.”
You open your mouth but before you can respond, Angie appears in the room.
“There you are!”
Angie doesn’t really do hugs. She doesn’t do physical affection, period, so you don’t even try. You just smile.
She crosses her arms, silver jewelry glinting in the light, and surveys you from head to toe. Her eyes scan every inch, taking in whatever’s changed in the last year. Then, right as someone else steps into the room behind her, she blurts:
“Damn, you got hot.”
You actually laugh, letting it come out airy and effortless, like something Roxie might toss over her shoulder.
You give her a little twirl for good measure, right as her mom smacks her gently with the spine of her novel. “Angela!”
You don’t miss the presence in the doorway. Neither does Mrs. Schlatt.
“Johnathan! Get in here and say hi, don’t be rude.”
Your eyes find his.
He’s halfway in the room, hovering awkwardly, his dark eyes locked on yours.
You offer him a coy smile, still riding that teasing, Roxie-high energy.
He blinks. You watch his Adam’s apple bob once before he gives the smallest nod of acknowledgment and retreats into the kitchen.
You blink.
Wait—what?
You glance at Angie, who’s already looking at you with raised eyebrows, like, You saw that too, right?
Holy shit. Was Schlatt…..THE asshole, broody Johnathan Schlatt you knew in high school, baseball cap Schlatt…..was he just... nervous?
Angie’s room is almost exactly how you remember it—walls covered in pinned-up sketches and cryptic song lyrics, art books stacked like towers in the corner—but now there are new canvases strewn about. Some of them are darker, rougher, more textured than anything she used to make. Others are soft and pale like a breath caught between shadows.
“So,” Angie says, plopping dramatically onto her bed, arms flopping out to the sides. “Do you wanna tell me what it was like kissing theatre girls’ asses all year, or should I complain about my teachers first?”
You laugh as you climb onto the edge of her bed, sitting cross-legged and facing her. “Listen!” You tuck your hair behind your ears, already grinning. “Yes, I did have to kiss a lot of ass this year. But it was so worth it.”
Angie squints at you like she’s calling bullshit with her eyes. “I’ll never understand the hierarchy in the other arts. Emma says it’s the same in orchestra—like, why are flutes fighting for their lives every week?”
You hum and lean back on your hands, getting more comfortable. Your gaze drifts lazily toward the hallway—and you notice Angie hadn’t bothered closing her door all the way. From this angle, you’ve got a clear view of Schlatt’s door across the hall.
It’s closed.
Unfortunately.
You let the thought pass and turn your attention back to Angie’s complaints. “You’re telling me if you kissed your art teacher’s ass it wouldn’t help your grade?”
She scoffs. “Oh, it would. But I’m not that desperate. My art speaks for itself.”
She grabs a throw pillow and hugs it to her chest. “Well—I thought it did. I barely survived this year. It’s like they take all your creativity and just... crush it. Reduce you to drawing cubes and spheres and sad little fruit bowls.”
You wince dramatically. “A fate worse than death.”
Angie groans and throws the pillow across the bed. “Thank you.”
There’s a lull—just long enough for quiet to settle—and then she gives you a sly glance. “Sooo... any cute boys in your life now? Don’t think I won’t ask.”
You laugh, already anticipating the question. “I mean... there’ve been a few.”
Across the hall, a door opens.
You keep your voice light but just a little louder than before. “But no—I’m not seeing anyone.”
From your angle, you catch a glimpse of movement. Schlatt’s tall figure appears in the doorway across the hall. He’s wearing a navy crewneck sweatshirt, sleeves slightly bunched at the elbows, and loose black sweats. His Yankees cap sits on his head, his curls peeking out beneath the brim. Mitts, the family cat, dangles lazily from one arm.
He doesn’t even glance your way.
Not really.
He just walks into his room.
And leaves the door wide open.
You try not to smirk, keeping your lean exactly where it is—propped on your hands, slightly arched back, like you couldn’t help but have the perfect view into his room. And like he couldn’t possibly have done that on purpose.
But you know better.
His posture is too casual. His movements too easy. Mitts hops off the bed and into the window light while he fiddles with something on his desk—focused, brooding, as if he isn’t listening at all.
Which means he definitely is.
Angie, blissfully unaware of the slow-burn performance happening between rooms, flops back dramatically. “God, you’ve been in L.A. for one year and now you’re talking about having ‘a few’ boys like you’re some seasoned enchantress.”
You grin, eyes still on Schlatt’s open door. “Maybe I am.”
She snorts. “Whatever. You smell like airport.”
You finally tear your gaze away. “Shut up.”
You and Angie keep the banter going, trading stories and complaints like old pros. It feels easy, familiar. You compare professors and art critiques, laugh about mutual high school enemies who are now baristas or trying (and failing) at their chance of fame, and tease each other with the comfort only long-time friendship allows.
But when the clock hits six, you sigh and push up from the bed with a stretch, arms rising above your head, back arching just enough to make a scene if anyone happened to be looking.
You shift slightly, your stance angling more toward the hallway. More into view of the door across it.
“I should probably head home,” you say, letting your arms fall and giving a little shake of your shoulders. “Mom said she wanted a ‘family dinner.’”
Angie winces, dramatic. “Yikes. Since when is that a thing?”
You shrug, stepping into your sandals. “Only when they’re delivering bad news.”
Her frown deepens. “What do you think it is?”
You hesitate, gaze drifting back toward the hall again—not quite looking into Schlatt’s room, just near it. Mitts is stretched across the entryway like a throw rug, blinking slowly at you like she’s got questions.
You laugh a little under your breath. “I’m not sure”
She pauses. “Are your grandparents alive?”
The question is brupt, a chance at jarring humor that rumbles a laugh from your chest.
“I’m sure I’m just being paranoid.”
Angie watches you carefully, but she doesn’t push. “I hope so. Text me after, okay?”
You nod and turn toward the hallway just as Mitts rolls onto her back, belly up and inviting.
The sight makes your smile curl into something sly. She’s practically begging.
“Hey, baby girl,” you coo, crouching low in Schlatt’s doorway to give her the attention she clearly deserves. Your fingers find the soft patch behind her ears, and she rewards you with a satisfied purr.
You keep your gaze trained on the cat, purposefully ignoring the weight of the eyes you know are on you. Only when you’ve decided it’ll have the most impact do you glance up—slow, deliberate—still bent over just enough to give him a perfect view.
“It’s been a while,” you say softly, like it’s just an observation.
He’s exactly where you suspected—seated at his desk, elbow propped, hand curled near his mouth like he hadn’t meant to be caught watching. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes then—recognition, maybe. Something leftover from earlier. But it’s gone almost immediately, shuttered behind a flat, unreadable look.
“Not long enough,” he mutters.
You raise a brow, lips twitching at the corners. Still crouched low. Still petting his cat.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, tone bored. Dismissive.
You hum like you’re really considering it, tracing your finger lightly along Mitts’ belly. “I’m actually pretty comfortable right here.”
Your voice stays low, almost conspiratorial. Soft enough not to carry back to Angie’s room, but just loud enough for him.
His gaze narrows. There’s a tension in his jaw now, something clenched, a subtle shift in his posture like he can’t decide whether to push you out or let you stay just to see what you’ll do next.
“Of course you are,” he mutters. “Hollywood comes back and thinks she owns the place.”
The nickname makes something flicker in your chest. A tug of pride. A warning shot. You sit back on your heels, smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t realize you were keeping such close tabs on me.”
“I’m not,” he says too quickly.
“Right.”
Mitts rolls onto her side, bored of your hand, and you take it as your cue to rise. You smooth your hands over your shorts and glance into his room one more time, letting your eyes sweep the space like you’re deciding how much to say. How much to leave unsaid.
“Well,” you breathe, cocking your head, “thanks for the warm welcome.”
You’re already walking away when his voice trails after you—cool, quiet, just loud enough to catch.
“night, Hollywood.”
You don’t turn around, but your smile widens all the same.
Touché.
Back at home, dinner is even more awkward than you expected. Your parents stumble through questions, grasping for safe conversation, and when you return the favor, asking about them, they go quiet before giving you half-hearted answers.
At the end of the meal, when you start to gather your plate, your dad stops you with a small shake of his head. He takes yours, his, and your mom’s all at once.
“Thank you, dear,” your mom murmurs to him, eyes soft. But he doesn’t meet her gaze.
The alarms in your head ring louder now, pulsing behind your eyes as your mom shifts slightly in her seat across from you. She folds her hands like she’s waiting for something. Or someone.
You clear your throat. “Can I go or...?”
She shakes her head just as your dad returns to the table. “We actually wanted to talk to you about something.”
The way she trails off makes your stomach twist.
You don’t like where this is going.
Your throat goes dry. You reach for your water.
cool glass in trembling fingers.
and just as it touches your lips, your mother speaks.
“We’re getting a divorce.”
The world slows.
You pause, holding your breath for a beat. Then you finish the sip, let the water glide down your throat. It’s the only sensation you register.
The silence after is louder than any scream. Even the sound of your glass returning to the table feels like it echoes.
Your eyes shift to your dad. He’s already looking away, arms folded, jaw tight. His gaze barely touches yours before it skitters off.
Your mother, on the other hand, doesn’t look away. Her posture is straight, almost unnervingly composed. Her hands rest flat on the table, ready to reach for you if you cry. If you break.
You don’t.
You just look at her and think, This is already decided.
Thoughts flood your brain.
What? Why? When did it get bad?
But all you manage to say is:
“Oh.”
She nods slowly, like she’d prepared herself for that response.
“I know you just got home today, but we didn’t want to pretend.” She reaches for your hand, and when her fingers wrap around yours, they’re colder than you remember. More rigid. “Your father, he—”
“I have an apartment across town I’ve been staying at,” your dad cuts in. His voice is quiet, steady. “I’m not actually staying here.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, to soften the blow, but changes his mind. He just shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
Your mom’s grip tightens slightly, drawing your attention back to her. “We both are. It’s just... after you left-” Her hand slips from yours, brushing her hair back as she exhales. “We realized that without you here, we didn’t really have a connection anymore.”
She tries to smile, but it wobbles at the edges.
You stare at her for a long moment.
And all the questions go quiet.
All the movement in your brain stops.
Just one word remains.
“Okay.”
You slip back into your room in a rush, managing to make it up the stairs with calm steps, but the moment your door clicks shut, the composure breaks.
It bangs against the wall, loud and hollow. You don’t care. You slam it shut again, harder than necessary, and lean your back against it.
You don’t turn on the lights. The air feels thick. The walls too tight. It’s like the house is pressing in on you.
You scramble for your window, yanking the blinds up too fast and shoving the glass open with shaking hands.
When the cool evening air slips through, you finally breathe.
Knuckles white on the sill. Eyes closed. Jaw clenched.
You let it hit you.
You let all of it hit you.
The silence. The finality. The way your mother smiled when she said it.
Your parents’ marriage was only held together by your presence, and the second you left, so did they.
Your chest tightens and your eyes sting, but no tears come. Not really.
You’re not a kid. You don’t have to pick sides. You can see them both whenever you want.
That’s what you tell yourself.
You push back from the window, arms lifting over your head in a stretch as your eyes linger out across the dusk-dark street.
You don’t realize who you're staring at until he shifts in his chair, removing the headset on his head.
Schlatt.
Sitting at his desk like nothing’s changed. Like the world isn’t ending anywhere outside the radius of his monitor.
Your thoughts tip sideways.
You’re not even sure what you’re thinking.
Maybe you want to be seen. Maybe you want to be wanted. Maybe you just want to feel in control of something.
And so slowly, you reach over and click on the lamp beside your bed. Warm light spills across your room.
You glance sideways, just a flicker, to see if it worked.
It did.
His eyes flit to his window. And then to your room.
You let him look.
You step into the light, backlit, like you don’t notice him there at all.
You tug off your shirt first, slow, casual, not quite seductive but enough to make a point. The curve of your shoulder. The stretch of your spine.
Then your denim shorts.
Still no rush. Like this is just routine. Nothing new.
You run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall loose around your face.
You stretch again, languid, arms overhead, then turn toward your dresser to find something to sleep in.
You don’t look at him. But you feel it.
You feel the weight of his stare.
And for the first time since dinner, your heart beats fast for a different reason.
You dress slowly and stretch one last time before finally collapsing backward onto your bed, limbs heavy, mind hazy.
The room still feels off-kilter. But quieter now.
You let your phone fall into your hands and just stare at it for a second. The light from the screen glows against your bare thighs.
Then, it buzzes.
Snapchat: Schlatt is typing.
And
Snapchat: From: Schlatt.
You don’t even have to open it to guess.
But you do anyway.
schlatt: close your blinds.
Your lips curl into a smirk.
You lie there a moment longer, letting your legs hang off the side of the bed, one arm slung lazily over your stomach. The glow of the phone lights up your smirk as your thumbs move slowly over the screen.
you: what, didn’t like the show?
You hit send.
The reply is almost instant.
schlatt: oh so it was on purpose?
Another one comes before you can respond:
schlatt: you want my attention that bad?
You bite your lip, hard enough to stop the grin from getting too smug.
The glow of the phone reflects in your eyes as you prop it on your chest and type:
you: if I wanted your attention, I’d ask for it.
You watch from the main screen of the app as the typing bubble appears… then disappears… then reappears.
You can practically see the thoughts pinging around his brain from across the street.
Finally:
schlatt: you sure about that, hollywood?
Your heart gives a small, traitorous flutter at the nickname.
You don’t respond right away. You let the silence linger. Let him think maybe you’re done.
Then, just before you toss your phone aside, you send one last message:
you: sweet dreams, slugger.
And then you stand, moving to the window, and let yourself take in the sight of him on his bed, phone in his hands.
You close the window, pull down the blinds.
Flick off the light
And smile.
Crazy idea
