newahae

bee. she/they. 24. minors dni.

[wqnwoos]

You didn’t expect to run into your late brother’s best friend tending bar at an illegal speakeasy — or to start falling for him. But when you realize Vernon is involved in the same kind of work that got your brother killed, liking him suddenly feels dangerous in ways you know too well.

⇢ pairing: chwe vernon x f!reader ⇢ genre: angst, fluff, brother's best friend ⇢ wc: 9.2k ⇢ warnings: guns/gun violence (nothing graphic), illegal activities, alcohol consumption, grief + death, there are 100% historical inaccuracies and i am so sorry. ⇢ a/n: thank you to everyone who sprinted w me!! and thank you to jess and em for talking me into actually doing this. this is not the best thing i've ever written by a long shot, but it feels like forever since i've posted so here it is. ⇢ as part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt !

By the time your shift ends, there's a dull ache behind your ears, and your legs are aching from sitting too still for too long. You button your coat, and step back into the night with the sense that you've been standing still for hours while New York rushed past you.

Outside the telephone exchange, the cold cuts clean and sharp. Steam rises from the grates along the sidewalk, blurring the streetlights. You pull your gloves tighter and spot Catherine immediately, pacing near the corner with theatrical impatience, her hat already tilting off-center.

"There you are," she says, relief and accusation wrapped together. "I was starting to think they'd chained you to the board."

"Almost," you say. "What time is it?"

"Early enough that I refuse to go home yet." She links her arm through yours before you can protest. "Come on. Grace is waiting."

Grace is a block away, leaning against a lamppost with the ease of someone who never quite looks like she's waiting for anything. She straightens when she sees you, grinning.

"I told her you'd get out before seven," Grace says to you, and tosses Catherine a triumphant look. "You owe me fifty cents."

Cathy groans. "You're unbearable."

You smile despite yourself. "What's the plan?"

Grace glances down the street, then lowers her voice. "We're having a drink."

"A drink," you repeat, eyebrows lifting. You already know where this is going.

"A real one," Catherine says, daring you to argue.

You hesitate, brief but noticeable. "You know I don't usually."

"That's exactly why we're taking you," Grace beams, threading her arm through your free one. "You work too much. It's unseemly."

You make a face, but don't protest, and that leaves you reluctantly frogmarched by your two friends down the icy streets. Of course, they don't tell you where you're going at first, just guide you down a side street you rarely use, past shopfronts already dark for the night. Ignoring all your questions, of course, dismissing them with casual waves of the hand.

You let them, though, because it's been a while since you've had a proper drink, and anything is more appealing than going back to your lonely room. You already know your aunt will have fallen asleep in her chair by the window, and won't even stir when you let yourself in later on.

The door of the speakeasy doesn't look like anything at all.

That's the first thing you notice — how easy it would be to miss. Just another unmarked stretch of brick and a narrow doorway wedged between a tailor and a shuttered grocer, the kind of place you've passed a hundred times without wondering what's behind it.

Your friends are already laughing, breath fogging in the cold. Grace knocks twice, pauses, then knocks once more. You watch her hand, oddly attentive. A slit opens, a pair of eyes looks you over. Gracie smiles and says a name you don't recognise. The door swings inward.

Warmth hits you first, then sound. Laughter layered over music, conversation pressed close together. The air smells sharp and sweet all at once. Citrus. Alcohol. Wool coats damp from the cold.

"Oh," Catherine says, delighted. "This is good."

"Told you," Grace grins, though she looks just as pleasantly surprised as you do. "My cousin knows all the good spots."

You step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the low lighting, lamps shaded in amber, smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies pressed together in easy familiarity. Jazz hums from somewhere unseen.

"This is so illegal," you say, automatically.

Catherine nudges you. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Someone laughs loudly near your shoulder. Someone else swears affectionately. It's loud, humming with a kind of life that the unremarkable front door conceals impressively. You friends squeeze in at the bar, and you end up slotting yourself in between them, just about close enough to hear each other under the buzz.

The bartender has his back to you, leaning in to hear someone farther down the bar. Dark hair, white shirt, sleeves rolled, and you're watching without any real thought until he turns.

The recognition arrives in pieces. The line of his jaw. The familiar curve of his mouth when he smiles at something the customer says, the way his eyes crease faintly at the corners. He looks older than the last time you saw him, leaner, sharper around the eyes, but unmistakably the same.

Your stomach drops.

Vernon.

For a heartbeat, you're sure he hasn't seen you, and relief flares, sharp and almost dizzying. Immediately, your instinct is to run — let the crowd swallow you, pretend this never happened, but then his gaze lifts, scanning the bar and it lands on your face.

He stills.

It's subtle, but you absolutely see it. His hand pauses, his expression goes blank, then carefully softens. Surprise, clear as day.

You hold his gaze, pulse louder than the jazz, thrumming in your ears. A year and a half collapses into a single moment.

Catherine leans back suddenly, elbowing your arm and lowering her mouth to your ear. "Am I crazy, or is that bartender making eyes straight at you?"

"What?" You barely manage a reply, disoriented. Your mouth seems to move slower, words not fully forming in your mouth.

"Hey," Grace says to the bartender (Vernon, your mind supplies insistently), unaware of the muttered conversation on her right. "Three Mary Pickfords."

He blinks once, glances at you for a beat too long, then nods. "Coming up."

His voice is exactly the fucking same.

He turns away to pour, giving you the barest moment to breathe. You watch him move, the familiarity of him made strange by context, but with all the thoughts rushing into your head, you don't have time to concentrate on his movements. Is he pretending not to know you? Does he actually not recognise you? Did you imagine the way his hands froze and his eyes widened?

He sets the glasses down in front of you, then finally looks at you again. There's a split second where he looks at you, befor he opens his mouth, and instantly you can tell, yes, he knows you. You may have met only a handful of times, but he knows you.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.

Neither of you moves closer. The bar hums around you, and your friends look on with unusual silence.

"I didn't know you…" He stops, adjusts. "I didn't know you — What are you doing here?"

"We just — came out for drinks," you say, and it's awkward, the half-hearted gesture you make towards your friends either side of you.

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That makes sense."

Catherine looks between you. "You know each other?"

Vernon glances at you, giving you the choice — it's not much of a choice, after the conversation you just had in front of them.

"This is Vernon," you say, swallowing thickly. "He is — was — friends with my brother."

Your words stumble into each other, and you drop your eyes from Vernon's for a second. You don't want to see the way his eyes flicker when you correct yourself to past tense, don't want to see that sinking feeling in your stomach reflected in his eyes.

Cathy clears her throat. "Well. I suppose that explains the staring."

Vernon offers a small, careful smile, distributing the drinks without moving his eyes from your face. "It's good to see you."

"You too," you say truthfully, swallowing and managing a smile. Your mouth feels dry.

He slides the last glass toward you. "Three Mary Pickfords," he says, almost gentle. "Shout if you need me."

You take it, your fingers brushing the cool glass. "Thanks."

You drink. It burns, then settles.

The night keeps moving. Conversation carries on around you. Grace tells a story about a woman at her office who cried through lunch over a broken typewriter. Catherine interrupts constantly with her usual bright quips. You listen, humming and nodding where appropriate, but you can't make yourself contribute properly; your mind is still stuck on your brother's best friend.

Vernon is everywhere and nowhere at once, called down the bar, ducking behind shelves, leaning in to hear orders. Every time you think he might circle back, someone else needs him. You catch glimpses of him between people, sleeves damp now, hair slightly mussed. Sometimes he smiles, a quick fleeting thing that lights up his face for a second, before disappearing.

You haven't seen him since the funeral. You haven't really thought about him since the funeral, when he looked at you across the room with serious brown eyes. He'd said something to you, just before he left, but you can't remember now. Everything about that day feels like a blur. You only remember fragments: your aunt wailing, the taste of bile sour in your throat. Your hands were cold, tight-knuckled with the fabric of your skirt between them.

You don't speak to Vernon again for the rest of the night, not really. Just a look here, a brief nod there. And when the night is over, and Catherine's announcing she really needs to get home, and Grace is handing you your coat, you try to catch his eye, to say a quick goodbye, at the very least. Except you can't see him anywhere, and Cathy's tugging on your hand, and so you leave it.

You're halfway toward the door when you feel something brush your coat sleeve. You turn. and he's there suddenly, like he's stepped out of the walls themselves. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Take care getting home," he says, and he looks like he wants to say more.

You don't give him a chance. "I will," you answer. "Thanks."

He nods, and then he's gone. The music swells behind him; you step out into the cold, the door closing softly at your back. The city rushes in, loud and ordinary again.

Behind you, the bar stays hidden, exactly as it was.

The first time you go back, you tell yourself it's because Grace insists.

It's a Thursday, which means you're bone-tired and irritable and not in the mood to argue. Grace corners you at lunch — her office isn't far from the exchange, and the two of you usually stop to scoff down a sandwich for your precious few minutes of lunch break. "Catherine's working late," she says, wheedling. "It'll just be us. We'll tip a few, have a good time!"

"I have work in the morning."

"So do I. That's what makes it thrilling." Her eyes twinkle a little. "Besides, don't you want to see your keen bartender again?"

Your jaw drops and you elbow her. "Stop!"

"What?" she laughs helplessly, dodging you when you aim another. "He's a looker! And he was absolutely making eyes at you, even Cathy said so!"

You give in because it's easier than explaining the tight, restless feeling that's been following you all week. Because you've caught yourself thinking about a pair of steady brown eyes across a bar. Because the memory of his voice, low and familiar, has threaded through your days at inconvenient moments. And you're not sure if it's him, or if it's just you desperately clinging to the last living pieces of your brother.

You don't say any of that to Grace. You just pull your coat on after work and let her lead the way.

Vernon isn't there, in the end, but you spend the evening laughing with Grace and trying to stop your eyes from wandering across the speakeasy like that'll make him appear.

The second time you go back, you don't need convincing.

The door opens the same way. Cathy had coached you through the knock and the password, which you rattle off easily enough. Everything looks the same: warm, laughter ringing out, a few people dancing to the music.

And him.

Vernon looks up almost immediately. There's no visible pause in his movements this time, no falter, but something in his face shifts when he spots you. A small, private acknowledgment.

You take a seat at the bar without waiting to be steered there.

"Evening," he says when he reaches you, his head dipping in an almost comically polite greeting.

"Evening," you mimic, suddenly amused.

He smiles back. "Just you tonight?"

"Grace is on her way," you say. "I'm sure she'll be late, though."

"Well, you want something to get you started?"

You open your mouth to answer, but he's already asking, "Another Mary Pickford?"

You blink. He considers you for a moment, then smiles that sudden, brief smile. "I have a very good memory."

"That's convenient for you."

"It usually is. So?"

"I feel predictable," you say, crossing your arms with a frown. "Now I want something else."

He raises his eyebrows, but something amused plays with the corner of his mouth. "Then what would you like?"

"What would you recommend?"

It seems to be the right question, because he gets to work straight away. You watch him pour and mix without really registering his quick movement, until he sets a glass in front of you. The liquid is pale and clear.

"What is it?"

"Try it."

You do. It's good. Really good, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction.

You look up at him. "Not bad. I'll give you that."

He inclines his head, satisfied. "I'll take it."

He just about finishes his words when Grace appears on your other side, slightly red-cheeked. "Hi, doll," she says, "What's that?" Without waiting for an answer she takes a gulp, swallows. "Swell," she says, smacking her lips. "Vernon, I'll have one of those too, please."

"Of course," Vernon replies, not at all daunted by her sudden familiarity. Grace laughs and drifts away, easily absorbed into a conversation by some lucky admirer. You stay where you are, partly to finish your drink in peace, and partly because, well — Vernon.

For a few minutes he's pulled away again, someone calling for another round, a man waving a crumpled bill, but then, as if the room exhales all at once, there's a sudden lull. A pocket of quiet settles over your stretch of the bar. Grace's lucky admirer has swept her towards where others are dancing and you catch her tilting her head coyly, and snort to yourself.

Vernon returns, setting Grace's drink down where she'll find it when she remembers she ordered it. You take a sip of your drink and smile. "She'll be back eventually," you assure him. "Pretty sure she's stringin' him on to pay for that drink."

He glances over your shoulder. "He doesn't seem to mind."

You grin, trace your fingertip through the condensation on your glass. "She's mostly dragged me here to watch her stuff." You're joking, of course, and Vernon seems to get it, letting a short laugh.

"You didn't want to come?"

"I have work tomorrow," you say, avoiding answering the question. "I work at the telephone exchange."

His eyes spark. "Oh, I remember — " He cuts himself off. I remember you brother telling me, you finish mentally.

You're both quiet for a beat too long, and it's heavy. Then he inhales, keeps going. "How is it?"

You let out a breath that's half a laugh. "Repetitive. But what about you?" you ask, nodding around you. "How did you end up here?"

He glances down the bar, as if to make sure no one's about to interrupt again. "A friend needed help. I was between things."

"Between things," you repeat, dubious.

"Temporary," he says lightly.

You glance around the room, at the crowded tables and the low lamps and the bottle-lined shelves behind him. You lean closer, lowering your voice just a fraction. "You do realise this is wildly illegal."

His mouth twitches. "Is it?"

"Oh, please."

"I thought we were running a perfectly respectable, swanky establishment."

"Of course. With the hidden door and the coded knock."

"Ambience," he replies smoothly.

You shake your head. "I ought to sneak on you."

He actually laughs out loud. "To who? You're going to tell the coppers you stumbled across a speakeasy and accidentally tipped a few drinks down while you were there?"

You open your mouth, then close it again. "That's not the point!"

He leans in slightly, mirroring you without seeming to think about it. "Don't go turning me in now, ___." There's something teasing in his tone, but underneath it, something warmer and slower. His lips linger on your name, you swear it.

You meet his eyes. "I wouldn't."

"Good."

You sit back, lifting your glass again. "You're very calm about all this."

"About you threatening to have me in bracelets?"

"You know I wouldn't!"

"I do." The certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the drink.

A man at the far end of the bar calls his name, and Vernon straightens automatically, but he doesn't move just yet.

"It's good to see you," he says instead. Something in his eyes shifts, and instinctively you know he's thinking about your brother. You almost expect him to say his name, to say something, but all he does is exhale through his nose, stepping back into himself. "Duty calls."

"Go," you say, waving him off lightly. "Your criminal empire awaits."

He huffs a quiet laugh as he turns away. "Careful," he tosses over his shoulder. "That kind of talk will get you banned."

"From a law-abiding establishment like this?" you call after him.

He doesn't answer, but you catch the quick flash of his smile before he's swallowed up by the rest of the room.

On the third visit, Grace doesn't come at all. You tell yourself you're only stopping in for one drink before heading home.

You end up staying until nearly eleven.

The bar is quieter than usual. The band's taken the night off, replaced by a gramophone that crackles faintly in the corner. You sit at the far end of the bar this time, where the light is dimmer and the crowd thinner. Vernon doesn't even seem surprised to find you there.

"You're becoming a regular," he says.

"Is that allowed?"

"Depends. Can you keep a secret?"

"I work at a telephone exchange," you remind him. "If I repeated everything I heard, the city would implode."

You're only kidding, because you don't have time to listen in on every call. But it makes him laugh softly, and something about the sound loosens a knot in your chest you didn't know was there. He leans against the counter, closer now, forearms resting on the wood.

"You look tired," he says, not accusing. Just observing.

"Gee, thanks." You scrunch your nose. He only smiles, and you shrug. "It's been a long week."

He pushes your drink towards you, and you take a sip as silence settles between you, but it isn't strained. The music swells. Someone at the other end of the bar tells a loud joke.

"You still live with your aunt?" he asks after a while.

"Yes."

"She doing all right?"

"She's okay." Your aunt is old, a little ditzy. She barely knows you, really, but still — she's the only family you have left, and she gives you a bed at night and food to eat. "She misses him."

For a moment, the background hum of the speakeasy is drowned out, and you just watch as the words register on his face. All these minutes of dancing around it, but you're the one who brings him up.

The look he gives you is steady, unreadable in the low light.

You look away first, but he studies you for a second longer. "You know," he says quietly, "sometimes when you tilt your head like that, you look exactly like him."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, they sting. You blink. "I do not."

"You do," he insists, softer now. "Right before you're about to argue."

"That's ridiculous."

"There," he says, almost smiling. "That. Same tone."

You open your mouth to protest again, then hesitate. "I don't sound like him."

"Not usually." He pauses. "But when you're teasing someone."

Your throat tightens unexpectedly. "I don't—"

"I'm not saying it to upset you," he adds quickly. "It's just, you know. Familiar."

Familiar. You stare at the rim of your glass. "I don't know if I like that."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not him."

"I know." His voice is steady. "You're not." He huffs out what could be a laugh. "He always said you were much better than him."

You laugh again, but it wobbles at the edges.

"He was ridiculous," you say. "Always acting like I was made of glass."

"You're not," Vernon says. You're not sure if he's humouring you or if he actually believes that, but you let it slide.

"He talked about you a lot," you say after a moment.

Vernon goes still. He's almost painfully stiff — like if he moves, it'll hurt him. "Did he?"

"All the time. Said you were the only one who could beat him at cards. Said you once tried to cook and nearly burned the building down."

"That was one time," he mutters, but there's a reluctant smile forming at the corner of his lip.

You smile faintly. "He thought you were reckless."

"Oh, that's rich."

"But loyal," you add. "He said that too."

The noise of the bar seems to recede slightly.

Vernon looks down at the counter, running the cloth over a spot that doesn't need cleaning. "He was," he says finally, voice low, "a better man than he thought he was."

You nod, because can't quite trust your voice.

After that night, something shifts.

You start noticing small things. The way he sets a glass in front of you without asking what you want, already knowing. The way his gaze tracks you until you're safely seated, until your coat is hung, until you're settled.

You've never gone out to drink so often in your life. Sometimes you don't even drink — sometimes there are evenings you don't talk much at all. You sit at the bar with a book open in front of you, more for appearance than reading. He moves around you, and every so often your eyes meet. Occasionally, he'll stand in front of you during quiet moments, and you'll talk. Rarest of all, you'll talk about your brother,

Just the steady accumulation of moments.

You don't name what's growing between you. You're not sure you want to. But when he leans in to hear you over the noise and you catch the faint scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, when his shoulder brushes yours and neither of you moves away, when he says your name like it's something carefully held, you feel it.

It sits low and warm in your chest.

On a Friday night, the air inside the speakeasy feels thick and bright with laughter. Cathy is with you again, flushed from the cold and already leaning conspiratorially across the bar before you've even taken your coat off.

"You know," she says loudly, as Vernon sets two glasses down in front of you, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you've got a standing reservation."

"I don't," you reply, though you don't miss the flicker of amusement in Vernon's eyes.

"Sure, sweetheart," Catherine says. "And I'm the mayor."

"You'd be terrible at it."

"I'd be magnificent."

Vernon smiles faintly and moves down the bar to answer someone else's call, leaving you and Catherine to bicker good-naturedly. She's halfway through describing the absolute bluenose at her office when a man steps up to the bar.

You only notice him because Vernon's expression changes, ever so slightly. The man is older, broad-shouldered, his hat tipped low though he doesn't bother to remove it indoors. He doesn't glance at you or Catherine or anyone else; he barely glances at Vernon, for that matter. He speaks quietly, leaning in so that his words don't carry.

You try not to stare.

Cathy keeps talking, oblivious. "—and she cried. Actually cried. Over a crossed line."

You nod, but your attention drifts.

The man slides something across the bar. An envelope. It's small and cream-coloured and you never would have noticed it if you hadn't already been watching Vernon so closely.

Vernon's hand covers it without hesitation, as if it's nothing more than a receipt. He doesn't look down. He doesn't look surprised.

He says something back, equally low. The entire ordeal doesn't take more than a minute, and then the stranger is gone, and you realise you've gone silent.

"Sorry," you murmur. "What were you saying?"

"That I'd have smacked her with my heel."

"Of course you would." Your gaze drifts back to Vernon. He's already serving someone else, expression perfectly composed, like nothing ever happened, so you try to shake it off, downing the last of your drink.

He's back in front of you seconds later, expression smooth. "You need another?"

You study him, before deciding to just be blunt. "Who was that?"

If he's surprised you noticed, he doesn't show it. "A customer."

"That didn't look like a drink order."

He meets your eyes evenly. "Not all business is alcohol."

"You have a lot of interesting customers."

He studies you for half a second too long. "It's New York."

"That's not an answer."

He wipes down the counter, unhurried. "It's not meant to be."

There's no bite in his tone, but equally, there's a steel undertone that tells you plainly he's not going to elaborate.

You force a smile. "Very mysterious."

"I try."

Something unsettled coils in your stomach.

You know what your brother did. Not all of it, of course, but enough. He ran messages, delivered things (he'd never tell you what), anything that'd keep the money coming in. "Just small jobs," he'd said, over and over. "Nothing serious."

Until it was serious. Until it ended in a warehouse by the docks and a gunshot.

You don't want to think about that now, so you look back at Vernon, at the steady calm of him, the familiarity. You tell yourself it's nothing. Bars have suppliers, surely. Accounts. You know this place isn't exactly legal, after all. A few shady characters shouldn't surprise you.

You take a drink and let the music swallow your unease.

You want to push. You want to ask about that man, about what Vernon said to him. For some reason, you want to ask him to talk about your brother, even if it's just to say his name to someone who knew him.

You don't. Instead, you ask about the piano player, about how long he's worked here, about anything that doesn't require him to explain that envelope.

The problem is, it doesn't stop there.

Now that you know to look, you notice a lot more. More men who talk to Vernon in hushed tones, mmore papers slid across the bar smoothly. More nights where Vernon disappears in the middle of his shift — sometimes he's back before you leave, with his hair a little windswept and his eyes a little brighter. Sometimes he's not.

You still don't ask. You can tell he knows you want to, that he can see the curiosity, maybe even the reproach in your eyes, but he doesn't let you, and you don't try. Instead, you talk about work and your friends and your aunt and he listens the same way he always has.

The day your brother died, you had been late coming home.

It wasn't unusual. You'd just started at the exchange then, it hadn't been more than a week or two. You'd been so excited when you landed the job, because it meant you could finally tell your brother to quit "delivering messages", with your new wage and all. He'd promised you he would, that he just had a few things to see through.

You had been carrying a loaf of bread under your arm, still warm through the paper, and rehearsing in your head the scolding you meant to give him for finishing the last of the butter.

You knew something was wrong before you reached the top step, only because the door was ajar. Just enough to show the thin seam of lamplight through the crack, but nobody in your family — not you, not your aunt, and definitely not your brother — would forget to shut the door properly. You pushed it fully open with your hip, already frowning, lips already forming his name.

Your aunt had been standing in the middle of the sitting room, still wearing her apron. She looked smaller somehow, as if the air had pressed her inward. There was a man beside her, hat in his hands, the brim bent slightly between his fingers.

You don't remember dropping the bread, but you must have. Later, you would find it crushed against the wall.

The officer spoke carefully, like he was arranging glass on a shelf. There had been an incident by the warehouses. There had been a gun. He used phrases like unfortunate and tragic and a real shame. You watched his mouth move and thought, distantly, that he should have shaved more closely.

Your aunt had begun to cry before the officer finished speaking. You, on the other hand, didn't cry. You stood very still and stared at the scuffed toes of the officer's boots and wished very hard that he would fucking leave.

Your brother was not the sort of person who disappeared between sentences. He left socks on the floor. He left half-read newspapers on the arm of the chair. He never tied his laces properly. He did not simply stop existing.

The officer asked if you wanted to see him. You shook your head.

The house felt cavernous after they left. Every object was suddenly too specific. His coat slung over the back of a chair — he never remembered to take it with him. The faint imprint of his body in the sofa cushion. A glass on the table with a fingerprint still visible in the smudge.

You touched the sleeve of his coat and it swung gently, as if he might walk back in and shrug into it any second. You told yourself he would.

For weeks afterward, you kept expecting to hear his steps on the stairs. The quick, uneven rhythm of them. The way he'd clear his throat before entering a room, as if announcing himself to an audience.

You thought about the last conversation you'd had, the night before he died. He'd been distracted, smiling at something you couldn't see. When you'd asked where he was going, he'd brushed past you, light and evasive.

"Don't wait up," he'd said, as always.

You hadn't.

In the months before, there had been little things. Late nights, a lot of restlessness. Sometimes you'd wake in the middle of the night and he'd be pacing in the sitting room.

At first, you'd thought it was just a girl he was seeing, but slowly, the later he came home, the more money he came home with, you realised you had got it entirely wrong, and when you asked questions, he'd answer as vaguely as possible.

You remember watching him lace his boots horribly one evening, his head bent, his hair falling into his eyes, and thinking that he looked older than he had any right to.

You remember almost saying, Stay.

You didn't. You knew he wouldn't listen. (Family trait, you aunt would sigh, whenever you and your brother argued. Too stubborn to listen.)

You can't ignore how much this — how much being around Vernon feels like the months before your brother died. When you're watching someone else you care about (because you do care about him, it turns out, more than you'd thought) giving you half-explanations and careful smiles, that same hollow space in your chest begins to open again, tight and painful and raw in your chest. You didn't want to draw the comparison, but every time Vernon disappears, it echoes a time you promised yourself you'd never live through again.

As usual, you ignore it.

One evening, Vernon walks you home.

You're not entirely sure how it happens, it just happens. The rain had started, just after nine. Catherine, who had arrived determined to be sensible, abandons that resolve the moment a man with neatly parted hair offers to share his umbrella. You watch her deliberate for less than a second before she beams and loops her arm through his.

"Don't wait for me," she calls to you, echoing something you've heard a dozen times before.

"I won't," you reply, smiling despite yourself.

Grace had already disappeared an hour earlier, pulled into some back corner with a cluster of strangers arguing about baseball. She'd kissed your cheek in passing and told you not to be dull, to "do something about the bartender you're stuck on".

So you're left alone at the bar, nursing the last inch of your drink, listening to the low hum of jazz as the night wears on. Occasionally, you flick your eyes to Vernon, and then tear them away when you realise you've been looking too long. Vernon moves through the space like he always does — steady and quick on his feet. He's got a dish towel slung over one shoulder now, sleeves pushed high, hair slightly curling at the ends from the damp air every time the door opens. You try not to think about how handsome it makes him look. You fail.

When the rain thickens enough to drum faintly against the windows, you decide it's your excuse. You slip from your stool and gather your coat, the fabric cool against your hands. You shake it out, slide your arms through, and begin fastening the buttons one by one.

"You heading out?"

His voice comes from your left. You hadn't seen him approach.

"Yes," you say, casting him a smile when you look up from your buttons. "Before it gets worse."

He glances toward the door, listening to the steady patter. "I'll walk you."

There's a moment — small, suspended — where neither of you quite moves. The bar behind him carries on as usual: someone laughs too loudly, glass clinks against glass. He's never asked to see you outside of here before; neither of you have ever taken the urge to move this, whatever it is, outside.

"You don't have to," you say, at last.

"I know." He's already fumbling into some sort of storage space for his coat. "I have somewhere to be, anyway. I'll walk you on the way."

You hesitate for the length of a breath, then nod. "All right." You don't ask where he's going — you don't want to know.

He grabs his coat from a peg near the back and says something brief to another bartender, who waves him off without question. There's something about that — how easily he steps away, how little explanation he needs to give — that presses at the back of your mind, but you push it aside.

Outside, rain has glossed the streets into mirrors. You pull your collar higher against the sudden sharp wind. Vernon falls into step beside you without touching, close enough to share your umbrella, close that you can feel the warmth of him between your sleeves.

For a while, you just walk.

The rhythm of your steps finds itself naturally, heel to toe in quiet synchronisation. Your shoulders brush once, accidentally, and neither of you comments on it.

"You're quiet," he says after a few blocks.

"So are you."

He considers that. "Fair."

A cab rattles past, wheels sending up a spray that narrowly misses your hem.

"You ever think about leaving?" he asks suddenly.

You glance at him. "Leaving what?"

"New York."

The question lingers between you, strange and unexpectedly intimate. "Sometimes," you admit, something you never thought you'd do out loud. "Usually after a long day. Or when the heat in the apartment stops working." You tuck your hands deeper into your coat pockets, and a smile appears on your face. "I think I'd like to try farm life, you know." You're only half-joking.

He snorts. "You? On a farm?"

"What?" You try to be offended, but end up laughing along with him. "You don't think I could do it?"

"If you're anything like your brother, you'll do anything you put your mind to," he says, shaking his head. "Even if it's stupid."

"What about you then? Don't you ever want to get out of here?"

"Sometimes," he says, his head tilting slightly to the side. "But I don't know what I'd do anywhere else."

"You could cook," you suggest lightly, biting down the grin that threatens to emerge. "Open a little restaurant somewhere respectable. Legal."

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You're hilarious."

"No, I've seen you back there. You look very competent."

"That's because I don't have to eat what I make."

You laugh, and the sound drifts into the damp air and disappears. It's just a small conversation, a harmless one, but something about the quiet street makes them feel weightier.

You pass a bakery long closed for the night. The faint scent of bread lingers even through the rain. A cat darts across the alley ahead of you, vanishing into shadow.

"You're coming round less often lately," he says.

You glance at him, surprised. "Are you keeping track?"

He shrugs. "I notice things." You think the apples of his cheeks are pinking, but that could just be the cold.

"I have to be up before six," you say. "If I'm late twice in a week they start writing it down. Like we're schoolchildren."

He makes a quiet sound of disapproval.

"It's not so bad, though," you add quickly. "It's steady."

"You say that like you're convincing yourself."

You nudge his arm lightly with your elbow. "Don't analyse me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The rain picks up slightly, beading along his coat collar. A curl of dark hair falls forward onto his forehead and you have the absurd urge to reach up and push it back.

Halfway down your block, your foot slips on a slick patch of pavement, and his hand closes around your wrist instantly — his grip tightens reflexively, steadying you. Your breath catches, and for a second you're acutely aware of everything. The pressure of his fingers, your pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, the faint scent of rain and soap clinging to him.

You both go still.

His thumb presses lightly against your wrist before he seems to realise what he's doing.

"Sorry," he says, too quickly.

"It's fine," you reply, though your voice sounds breathier than you intend.

He doesn't let go right away. Neither of you moves for a long second, not until rain slides from the brim of his coat and lands against your sleeve. Somewhere down the street, a door slams, and he releases you.

You smooth your coat unnecessarily. He clears his throat.

"You all right?"

"Yes." You try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels.

"Good."

When you reach your building, the front steps shine wet under the streetlamp. The windows above are dark. Your aunt will already be asleep.

You skip up a step or two, turn toward him, hands still tucked in your pockets to keep them from fidgeting.

"Thank you," you say.

"For what?"

"For walking me."

He shrugs one shoulder. "It's on my way."

You sum up the courage to be a little bolder. "It's not."

A faint smile curves his mouth, not even a little bit flustered. "Doesn't matter."

Rain traces a thin line down his cheekbone. Again, you resist the urge to brush it away. "Do you want my umbrella?" you say, suddenly realising you've left him in the rain. You don't wait for an answer. You hurry back down the steps, shoes slick against the damp stone, snapping the umbrella back open and lifting it over his head. It tilts slightly as you adjust your grip, and in doing so you step closer than you meant to.

The umbrella isn't large. The space beneath it narrows the world to just the two of you — the steady patter of rain above — again, that faint scent of wet wool and soap — the warmth of his body only inches from yours.

Vernon seems to realise the exact second you do.

His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Your breath catches. The hand holding the umbrella trembles just slightly, and he notices — of course he notices.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The city continues around you, rain glossing the pavement, distant wheels cutting through puddles, but it all feels far away.

You're not sure who leans in first.

It's small, almost tentative — a shared decision made without words. His hand comes up, not to pull you closer, just to steady the umbrella where your grip falters. His fingers brush yours, warm and rough, and just as they do, your lips meet softly. A gentle press, testing, as if both of you are making sure the other won't pull away. You don't.

His mouth is warm despite the rain, gentler than you expected. The kiss lingers a heartbeat longer than caution would advise, long enough for something to shift in your chest — something bright and terrifying all at once.

When you part, it's slow. Reluctant.

The umbrella tilts again, rain slipping past the edge and catching in his hair. He exhales, barely a sound, and for a second he looks almost surprised. Then something steadier settles over his expression.

"Get inside," he says gently. "Before you catch something."

You step back toward the door, fingers curling around the handle. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You hesitate just long enough to look at him once more — the lamplight catching in his eyes, the rain settling into the dark wool of his coat — and then you slip inside.

From the narrow hallway window, you watch him walk away.

He doesn't hurry, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. At the corner, he glances back once — not toward the window, but toward the building itself — as if making sure the door has closed. Then he turns and disappears into the sheen of the city, leaving the street quiet behind him.

You lean your forehead against the cool window. You kissed him — you kissed him, so why does you feel so full of dread?

You run into him three days later in the park.

You'd left the house to escape the stale quiet. Your aunt had fallen asleep in her armchair again, knitting pooled in her lap, so you'd taken your book and walked the few blocks to the park, settling onto a weathered bench beneath a tree that hasn't quite decided to let go of its leaves. It's a little damp, more than a little cold, but you'll take anything that gets you away from being cooped up with your thoughts.

You're halfway through a page when a shadow falls across the paper.

"What are the odds?" a familiar voice asks.

You look up too quickly.

Vernon's dressed differently. No rolled sleeves. No apron. Just a dark coat, collar turned up against the breeze, hands tucked into his pockets. Without the bar framing him, he looks younger.

"Is that disappointment I hear?" you ask.

"Devastation," he says solemnly.

You snort before you can stop yourself. "What are you doing here?"

"Walking."

"Just walking?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

You tilt your head. "A little."

He smiles. "Can I?" He gestures to the empty space beside you.

You hesitate for half a second — not because you want to say no, but because your heart has started beating in that uneven way again — and then you nod. He sits, close but not touching, and all you can think about is how the last time you saw him, his lips were on yours.

For a moment, neither of you speak. It feels almost indecently normal, you sat next to him on a bench. Simple — it feels simple. You wish it was.

"You don't seem surprised," he says after a while.

"To see you?"

He nods. You close your book, wrinkle your nose as you think, thumb marking the page. "I was, for a second. But my aunt always says, you know, the city's smaller than we think."

"Or we're worse at staying away than we pretend."

You glance at him. "Were you trying to stay away?"

His gaze stays forward. "Were you?"

You don't answer. A breeze lifts, tugging a loose strand of hair across your mouth. You reach to brush it away at the same time he does — your fingers collide lightly.

He drops his hand first. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

You both look forward again, but something has shifted — a current humming just beneath the surface. "You read much?" he asks, nodding toward your book.

"When I can."

"Is it good?"

"I don't know yet," you admit. "I've read the same paragraph three times."

He huffs quietly. "Distracted?"

"Maybe."

He studies you then, openly. Silence settles again, softer this time, and after a few long moments, he looks away.

A boy runs past chasing a ball, nearly colliding with Vernon's knee. Vernon catches the ball instinctively before it hits the gravel path, handing it back with a faint nod. The boy grins and dashes off again.

You watch the ease of it. "You know, you seem different out here."

"How?"

"I don't know." You search for the right words. "Less guarded."

He goes still at that.

"Guarded," he repeats.

"At the bar, you're always watching and listening and moving."

"And here?"

"Here you just look like a man sitting in the sun. Honestly, I didn't know you could sit so still until now."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Thrilling." There's a moment where he seems to debate saying something, and then he opens his mouth. "You're different too, you know. In the daylight."

"Really?"

"Even prettier," he says, soft. "I can actually see your face."

You swallow.

You can't do this again. The thought arrives sharp and unwelcome, and you stand abruptly. "I should go," you say.

He looks up at you, surprised. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No." You force a smile. "No, I just — I promised my aunt I wouldn't be long."

He rises too. "I'll walk you, then," he says. "If you'll let me."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

You hesitate, and then you nod. The path curves out of the park and back toward the city blocks. You walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally, but neither of you say anything the whole way home.

It's a few nights later, when you see Vernon outside the bar, and something inside you twists.

You hadn't meant to come, but your bed had felt too close, the air too thick with the sound of your aunt's breathing in the next room, the clock ticking too loudly on the mantel. You'd needed air. That was all.

But your feet had turned at the familiar corner without consulting you. Past the bakery, straight past the shuttered tailor, toward the narrow stretch of brick that concealed the door you now knew by heart.

You realise where you're headed only when you see the faint spill of amber light at the end of the block.

You stop.

You could turn around. You probably should turn around.

Instead, you keep walking.

The rain has left the pavement slick and dark. The alley beside the building gleams faintly under a single weak lamp, and you're just about to pass by it when movement catches your eye. Two figures stand half-shadowed against the brick. One taller, shoulders squared. The other angled slightly inward, posture familiar in a way your body recognises before your mind does.

You know it's him before he shifts enough for the light to touch his face.

There's no easy warmth to him here, no softness from lamplight and music, no quick smile sent your way from across the room.

You realise belatedly that the man standing opposite him is the first one you'd noticed weeks ago. Now they're stand close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.

You don't move. (You should go, you think, but you know you won't.) The alley smells faintly of damp brick and stale smoke. Your pulse roars in your ears so loudly you're sure it must be audible.

Reaching inside his coat, Vernon pulls out something wrapped in brown paper — long, narrow, bound tightly with twine. It's too rigid to be anything soft, too carefully held to be casual. He grips it with both hands, angled downward, shielded by his body.

The shape is unmistakable. Even through paper, you can see the outline.

It's a gun.

Your breath leaves you in a thin, soundless rush. You watch as the man steps closer. Vernon keeps his movements controlled, passing the parcel across the small space between them the same way you've seen him hand over a bottle of alcohol countless times.

The man takes it, slipping it quickly beneath his coat, tucking it along his side with familiarity. He adjusts his jacket once, twice, until the shape disappears against his body. They exchange a few quiet words. You strain to hear, but the rain-swollen air swallows the sound. The man gives a single nod, and then he turns and walks toward the mouth of the alley, steps measured, unhurried, merging easily with the dim spill of light from the main street.

Vernon stays where he is. He exhales slowly, the breath visible in the damp air. His hand comes up to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that same absent gesture you've seen a hundred times across the bar.

It's so normal.

So terribly normal.

Then he turns, straight towards you — there's one horrible moment where you think he's seen you, he's known you were there all along. Then your thoughts kick in, you realise it's not possible, and as he walks in your direction, instinct slams through you. You step back hard enough that your shoulder hits brick. The cold seeps instantly through your coat. You press yourself into shadow, willing your breathing to quiet, willing your heartbeat to stop battering against your ribs.

He walks past.

Close enough that you see the rain clinging to his lashes. Close enough that you could reach out and catch his sleeve, if you wanted.

His gaze is fixed straight ahead, and the glimpse you get of his eyes shows them hard, focused. Closed off in a way you've never seen when he's looking at you. There's no softness in it now, no warmth or laughter.

He passes within arm's length, and you let him.

And you stand there, rooted to damp brick, the image of brown paper and the unmistakable outline beneath it burning behind your eyes.

You realise you've stopped breathing. Because once again, it's the same. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, it's the same.

Small things. Harmless things. Just helping someone out. Just passing something along. Just a favor. Just temporary.

You've heard it all before, and standing here with the rain dampening the back of your neck and the wind picking up, you remember deciding not to push. You remember telling yourself it was none of your business.

And you remember the knock at the door, the officer's hat in his hands.

You can't do this again.

The thought lands with such force it nearly steals the air from your lungs, but it blocks everything else out, because it's true — you can't.

You can't stand on the edge of something and pretend not to see where it leads. Because that's what this is, whether he names it or not. No matter how much he insists that he's careful; you know how careful men end up. You know how easily small things become bigger ones.

Your eyes burn suddenly, fiercely, and you blink hard against it. The alley feels too narrow, the walls too close. For a wild moment, you consider calling after him.

Vernon.

You imagine the sound of his name leaving your mouth, sharp enough to make him turn. You imagine his surprise. The explanation that would follow. The way he would soften his voice, step closer, tell you it isn't what you think, maybe even cup your cheek, let you lean into the warmth of his hand.

But you don't want to hear it. You don't want to stand under the weak alley lights and listen to him carve this into something reasonable, because you know yourself well enough to know you might believe him.

You don't follow him.

You don't go back for nearly a week and a half. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since he appeared back into your life.

On the eleventh day, Vernon finds you outside the exchange.

You're startled when he says your name, whipping round so quickly you seem to startle him just as much as he did you. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he says simply.

You fold your arms. "Why?"

"You haven't been by."

"I've been busy."

He studies you, eyes shrewd. "That's not it."

You hold his gaze. "I saw you."

His expression doesn't change. "Saw me."

"In the alley."

A beat of silence, and then he takes your arm, gently — so gently, he's always gentle — and pulls you into a small alcove.

"You shouldn't have been there," he says, his voice lowered.

"That's not an answer."

He exhales slowly. "It's not what you think."

"Then what is it, Vernon? Because to me, it looked like a fucking gun."

He runs a hand through his hair, something uncharacteristically frustrated flickering across his face. "It's nothing serious."

"That's what he said."

Vernon's jaw tightens. "I'm not him," he says quietly.

"I know that."

"Then don't look at me like that."

"I thought you were just bartending," you say. It's not true. You've known for a long time, really, you just haven't let yourself.

"I am."

"And the rest?"

He doesn't answer immediately. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you involved," he says finally. "I didn't want you worrying."

"That's not your decision to make."

"No," he agrees. "It's not." The honesty of it disarms you.

"Why?" you ask, and maybe there's a hint of desperation seeping into your tone. "Vernon, why do you do it?"

"Money," he says plainly. "It's temporary."

You almost laugh. That fucking word again.

"That's what he said," you whisper.

Silence stretches between you. "I'm careful," Vernon says, but he already sounds resigned. "I don't take risks I can't manage."

"You can't manage a bullet," you snap.

The words hang heavy. "I'm not trying to replace him," Vernon says more softly. "And I'm not trying to follow him."

"If you keep going like this, you will," you say, and you have to fight to keep your voice down, and you have to fight even harder to force the tears back into your eyes. "You're going to follow hom straight to the grave." You swallow, hard, raw, painful. "I can't do it again," you say hoarsely.

His hand lifts, thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tear that falls. "Do what?"

"Bury someone else I l— care about," you say. You watch his eyes, softness and conflict swimming in the brown. Your hand reaches up to cover his on your cheek, and you squeeze, feeling the warmth again. "Vernon, please don't make me."

He doesn't say anything, but you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows. "I care about you," he says, finally. "And — I'm sorry."

You leave before he can stop you.

a/n: sad ending i know im sorry!!!!! i never know whether to put it in the warnings bc its technically a spoiler but. idk. i personally don't like seeing it in the tags before i read something but maybe thats just me. "hana will there be a part 2" hana doesn't know. hana is a little bit sick of this fic after rewriting it 4 times and right now hana would like to not think about it for a very long time.

also guys i need u to know its like 1am and i did one quick readthrough for proofreading and every time she says "thats what he said" i couldnt stop laughing. anyway thank u for reading love u all goodbye

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @wondering-out-loud @tokitosun @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm @phenomenalgirl9 @lightnjng @strnsvt @onlyyjeonghan @athanasiasakura @iamawkwardandshy @twilghtkoo @yuuyeonie @lllucere @pearlesscentt @sourkimchi @porridgesblog @rivercattail

[haologram]

everything we are ᯓ h.vc [m]

— synopsis: following an abrupt break-up that has lasted a year, you find yourself standing in front of the very apartment where your past lover sleeps, and where you once used to call home. two birthdays, several holidays and one sullen, teary 'could've been' anniversary later — you're ready to face him and ask the unexpected. – genre: exes to ??? ; angst, smut, fluff. — pairing: ex-boyfriend!hansol vernon chwe x fem!reader – word count: 12k. — rating: 18+. minors do not interact! – warnings: seungkwan plot device! lots of tears, breakups, mentions of food/eating, mentions of alcohol. smoking (weed), swearing, kissing, exes being exes that can't let go. smut warnings: unprotected sex (yeah yeah don't do it), pet names (babe, baby, etc.) ; brief oral/fingering (f.rec), dirty talk (sorry), body worship, slight breeding kink, ruined orgasms, clitplay, creampie. that's about it i think. enjoy? — what to listen to: iris - the goo goo dolls ; the only heartbreaker - mitski ; supercut - lorde ; if you leave me - seventeen ; winterbreak - muna ; perdoname - yoskar sarante ; beg for you (remix) - charli xcx, rina sawayama, a.g. cook, vernon. – author's note: [special thank you to @diamonddaze01, @hannieoftheyear + @ikeukiss for beta-reading most of this before i finished it off tonight!] he's bald! he's bald and he's falling in love with people who have hair! as previously stated, i could not finish off 2025 without thee hansol vernon chwe making his debut on my blog, and i'm incredibly excited to dedicate this one to none other than @sailorsoons ! i'm not going to get sappy because i'm not good at it and i know you don't like it, but please know i love you and i hope your birthday was a blast. here's to you, to 2025 and hansollie's debut on haologram! happy birthday, halali! ♡

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” 

You don’t have an answer for him; your hand clenched inside your jacket pocket, the other gripping the handle of your umbrella. You look up at him from under the rim of the pink shade, his eyes boring into your face. He looks upset, but perhaps...not with you. 

Maybe the circumstances. 

“I’m not sure,” you mumble back, your throat burning as you step back slightly. 

He stays silent as he averts his gaze to your boots, muddy from the rain and possibly jumping in every puddle available. You always liked doing that when the rain was light, and it usually ended up with him offering you a pair of sweatpants when you got home. 

Or, to his apartment. It’s not home to you, not anymore. 

He doesn’t say anything as he moves to the side, opening the door wider for you to step inside. You’re seemingly rooted in place until he turns his head to face the inside of his apartment. Slightly messy, with blankets and sweaters strewn everywhere. Candles burning on his coffee table fill the place you once called home with smells of salted caramel, vanilla and a hint of cedarwood. 

You’re quiet as you slip your feet out of your pink rain boots, your mismatched yellow and purple socks doing nothing to keep you warm from the freezing tile of his foyer. You shake off the umbrella, wrapping it closed and leaning it against the brick of his building. 

“No one will take it, right?”  “You know no one will.” 

You shove your hand in your pocket as you duck into his apartment, feeling the sting of tears prick at your eyes as you look around his living room. He’s got his journal open on the coffee table, the list of films you promised you’d watch together displayed in his handwriting. Smudges of blue and splats of ink from what you presume to be tears cover the page. 

The Netflix account you once shared is paused forty minutes into Mary and The Witch’s Flower. 

“I thought we said—”  “We said a lot of things, let’s not go down that rabbit hole.” 

You suck in a breath, nodding as he shuts the door. You hear the lock click, before hearing him skirt into the kitchen. 

“Drink?”  “Any soju?” 

A scoff is heard, before the familiar clinking of the green bottles you know he hasn’t touched and possibly been sitting since you left. Hansol never did like to drink alone. 

Even if it meant drowning in every sinking thought he had about you. 

He comes out of the kitchen with the bottled gripped between his knuckles, and a bottle of juice in his other hand. It’s new, and it’s one of your favorites. One that he hates. 

“Force of habit, huh?”  “I guess.” 

You inch towards the couch, the Persian rug beneath your feet soft and cushiony. You remember buying it with him, browsing a website he’d gotten from Seungkwan and buying three things while stoned out of your mind. The tiger blanket draped across the couch was one of the three, and a personalized cushion with your initials was the other. 

That was nowhere to be found. 

You perch on the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling hot as he sets the drinks on the coffee table. He still smells the same, soft aftershave and cotton deodorant. 

Cotton deodorant you used to buy for him, in bulk at Costco. 

He had half a stick on the vanity before you left. He’s had to have bought more since. 

He’s almost too close as he opens the bottles, flicking the caps onto the table and leaning back into the couch. Your fingers brush the sweating neck of the soju bottle as you grab for it, cold and slippery. He takes it from you abruptly, a bit of it spilling down his hand as he shakes his head. 

“Wrong one.” 

You look at the bottle in his hand, his fingers just barely covering the word Fresh scrawled on the label. Your cheeks heat as you nod, grabbing for the other one. 

Yogurt. 

“Do you need a glass?”  “No, I’m okay.” 

He hums, picking at the label on his bottle with his ringed forefinger. He doesn’t press play on the movie; he doesn’t move to comfort any sort of awkward situation. Hansol knows you’ll speak when you’re ready. 

“What’s the movie about?”  “The kid’s a witch.”  “Oh, cool.”  “Yep.” 

Silence. 

Agonizing, excruciating, debilitating silence. 

“Do you hate me?”  “What?” 

His eyes are wide as he quickly faces you; your eyes glued to the burning flame of the salted caramel candle on his coffee table. You bought that one. You bought it at a home goods store, and you remember scowling at him when he raised an eyebrow at you when you beelined for it – you'd told him you’d just wanted to get new pillows for the bed. 

Pillows you left behind. 

“Do you hate me, Hansol? I’d hate me?”  “I could never hate you.” 

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the bottle of soju. He sighs, setting his down on the coffee table before running a hand through his hair. Or lack thereof, he’s buzzed it off since – chocolate brown hair you’d run your fingers through before bed or swipe out of his eyes when he was too concentrated on Mario Kart. 

He looks good. 

He looks...tired. 

“I could never hate you.” He repeats, and suddenly, the air feels thicker around you. Everything feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, your chest tight as you force yourself to look up at him. His eyes are rimmed with unshed tears, your jaw dropping slightly as you inch forward. 

He looks away, wiping his eyes quickly before clearing his throat. 

“You did what you thought was best. I can’t hate you for taking care of yourself, that’s what you’re supposed to do.” He mumbles thickly, shrugging his shoulders as he traces the spout of the bottle. You follow his fingers carefully, your heart sinking at the slight tremble in them. 

“I’m sorry I disturbed you tonight, Hansol.” You murmur back, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans, still damp from sprinkles of the rain. He shakes his head, sighing. You’re both staring at the condensation dripping on his coffee table. 

His coffee table that you bought together. His bottle of juice that he’s never going to drink. His television, and the remote that you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. 

His apartment. Speckled with you, everywhere. Everywhere you looked, you saw yourself. 

“You didn’t.”  “I did.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Y/N. I’m so tired of everyone telling me how I feel, or how I’m supposed to feel, or whatever. I’m human, too. I can feel whatever I want. And you didn’t disturb me, okay? I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want to.” 

Your chest aches at the sound of your name from his lips, eyes wide as you look at him; his own still trained on the condensation gathering on his coffee table. You watch him as his eyes follow the drops sliding down the bottles, your tongue darting out slowly to wet your lips. 

“Why...did you?”  “Why did I what?”  “Open the door.” 

“It’s storming. You only like rain when it’s light.” He whispers to himself, before glancing at you. “You still...right? You still don’t like thunder?” 

It’s only been a year, but he acts like it’s been an eternity. 

Maybe it has been. 

Maybe it’s been a millennia for him, as it has been for you. 

“Right,” you nod, picking at your nail polish as your leg starts bouncing. He used to stop you – when he was your boyfriend. He’d splay his hand on your kneecap; his thumb would rub gentle circles into the side before giving it a squeeze. You found solace in the touch. 

Now? He’s more than a cushion and a half away, and the space between you is hot; it’s burning hot. And you so badly want to close the gap, to feel his hand on your knee and feel the comfort of him spread through your body. 

In any way. You’d allow it in any way. 

“It’s been a year. Today.” You clear your throat, and he closes his eyes – folding his hands in his lap as he leans back into the couch. He nods before resting his head on the back of his couch and opening his eyes to look at you. 

“...Is this where we do the whole ‘how have you been’ bullshit?” 

There is a lilt of a smile in his voice, but it doesn’t show on his face. You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders. 

“I don’t know.”  “You don’t know how you’ve been, or you don’t know if—” 

“I miss you, Hansol.” You blurt, wincing inwardly as you shove your hands under your thighs; your fingers cold from the bottle and the rain and the way all the blood in your body rushes to your chest to aid the fire of anxiety in growing. You shift, wondering how long you could stare at the coffee table before your eyes wore holes into it. 

“...Is that why you’re here?” 

You suck in a shaky breath, opting to close your eyes. If you’re going to cry, you don’t want to see his reaction to it. You don’t want to see the flame in his eyes when he tells you to get out, to leave – that you’re too little, too late. 

That he doesn’t want you anymore, and you’ll have to live with the regret of leaving him for the sake of nothing for the rest of your life. 

“I know I don’t get to say that. I know it’s my fault. I left, and I...I’m sorry, Hansol. I’m sorry that I was a coward and I jumped ship when things started getting serious. I was a douche, and you don’t have to miss me. You don’t have to feel anything, I just...” Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, the salty taste of a stray tear coating the tip. 

“I wasn’t even in the neighborhood. I was six blocks away; I’d gotten coffee with Seungkwan. He told me you still lived here, and that you were good. That you were doing well.” 

“And you wanted to...what? Check and make sure for yourself? Ruin it, if I was?” 

There’s no poison in his voice. Hansol has always been diplomatic, respectful. Sometimes you wondered if there was a single bone in his body that ever felt rage. The urge to make everything look like a war zone, the subtle need to want to destroy every relationship he’s ever built from the ground up. 

Sometimes, you feel that kind of rage. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, tightly squeezing your eyes shut as you feel him shift on the other edge of the couch. A roll of thunder is heard outside, your fingers gripping the fabric of the cushion beneath your thighs as it fades. 

You don’t catch the way he instinctively reaches for you, before sinking back into the cushion. 

“I don’t know what I wanted to do. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” 

He hums, and you sniffle. One of your hands reaches to swipe at your face, wiping the tears on your jeans as you face away from him. You open your eyes, looking at the wall through the blur of tears. All the frames on the wall are still the same, and they hold all of your pictures together. Your face is still cemented in the memories, and you wonder how he felt looking at those pictures every single day. 

“Do you want to talk about everything?” He asks softly, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his cheek on his palm. His eyes are just as gentle and understanding as they’ve always been. 

As warm as they’ve always been. 

“It could help you...uh, figure yourself out.” 

Help you figure yourself out. 

“What is there to talk about? I left for no reason.”  “Don’t do that. You left to find yourself. You left to take care of you.” 

“And it was selfish,” you scoff, and he clicks his tongue. 

“You think so?”  “I know so.” 

“I think it would’ve been worse if I kept begging you to stay, knowing you wouldn’t have been happy here. I mean, look around,” he gestures to the apartment. There is so much of you, and so much of him. “Everything in this apartment was a display of what our relationship was. Everything was you and me, me and you and us. It was never just Y/N, and it was never just Hansol. I could not, in good faith, keep you here if it was me that was suffocating you. It was not fair.” 

“You could never suffocate me,” you mumble to yourself, feeling a few tears trickle down your face as you speak.  

It’s silent for a moment. 

“What about you, Sol?” 

The nickname slips from your bitten lips, and he sighs. 

“What about me, Y/N?”  “If the tables were turned. If I had begged the way you did, would you have stayed?” 

It’s not a fair question. You know it’s not, and you can tell he thinks it’s not as his eyes shut, and he silently nods his head. He tongues his cheek, running a hand over his buzzed hair and down his face. 

“That’s not a fair question.”  “I know.” 

You nod, choosing to refocus your gaze on the coffee table. There was a sticker you’d peeled off an apple a few weeks before you left, still stuck to the table leg. It looks glossed over, like it’d come unstuck and somehow been put back. Glue, maybe. Clear nail polish. 

“Why didn’t you change the apartment?”  “In case you ever found your way back.” 

There was a hint of hope in the back of his throat, and you realize that he’s wearing the same hoodie he wore the day you left. Baby blue, over a white t-shirt. You bought it for him, just a few weeks before you decided that things were too overwhelming. That the idea of forever was too similar to the feeling of impending doom, that seeing him so irrevocably in love with you when you couldn’t even understand the ache in your chest when you looked at yourself in the mirror...it felt unfair. It felt unfair to lose yourself in him. 

It felt unfair to have the goodness of Hansol’s heart in the palm of your hand. 

And it was unfair to get to break it into pieces as he knelt in front of you that very day, his forehead pressed against your thighs int he very same jeans you’re wearing now. The way his tears soaked through the material the same way the rain had, and how you bit back your own sobs as you carded your fingers through his hair that night – before untangling his arms from around your knees and walking out of the navy grey door you wish would open so you could bolt out right now. 

“If I beg now—”  “You never have to beg for anything. Not from me.” 

You felt your throat ache as you forced yourself to swallow, holding back a sob as he sighed quietly. 

“Can I...talk about what it was like not having you around?” His voice is tentative, almost like he was talking to a deer he didn’t want to spook. You nod in silence, letting the tears drip onto your pants freely as you continue to stare at the coffee table. 

“I still go by the grocery list you left on the fridge. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam and that gross fucking juice.” 

His words are enough to get a snorted laugh out of you, your hand reaching to dig into your pocket for the napkin you’d taken from the café you’d been at earlier. You wipe the tip of your nose with it, shaking your head. 

“I haven’t used pots or pans. I bought a crappy set from the dollar store to get myself through the days alone. I haven’t used the silverware, but I haven’t polished it either...so it’s just gathering dust in the drawer. I haven’t slept in the bedroom, either. I usually sleep here, on the couch. You left a tube of lipstick on the bathroom counter, and your shampoo is still in the shower caddy.” 

He nods, and you can feel the heat of his gaze leave your face. You peek at him through the corner of your eye, seeing him looking behind you – at the wall of photos. 

“I bought a sample size of your perfume, so the bathroom would still smell like it did in the morning when you would leave for work.” 

You can feel your chest ache; almost like someone had reached into your ribcage and squeezed your heart so tight, it could burst in their hand. 

“I refill the same disposable soap you bought the week you left. The detergent is still the same cotton scent, because you said that the other scents made your head hurt. I bought a new air freshener a few months ago but went back to return it because it was Febreze, and you don’t like Febreze unless it’s the Linen & Sky scent. I replaced the baking soda in the refrigerator, but the only food in there is what I mentioned earlier. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.” 

“And the juice,” you utter, and you can sense a dull ache start to thump at your temples. You bring your fingers up to your face, rubbing slow circles. Your eyes are low as they flicker up to the wall next to the door – his caps are hung up in the exact order they had been when you left. His navy New York Yankees, blue Texas Rangers, black Chicago White Sox and a pink one he rarely wore unless the two of you were going somewhere together. 

It had your initials embroidered on the bill. 

“I left everything exactly the same. I wanted it to still feel like home to you, if you ever came back.” 

You turn to face him, seeing his eyes brimming with tears as he clears his throat, but interrupt him before he can speak. 

“I carry a Polaroid of us in my wallet,” you start, running a hand over your face as you bring your knees to your chest, leaning back fully into the couch. “I carry a Polaroid of us, and I would show it to guys when they asked me if I was dating anyone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete any of our photos, so I put them all in a locked folder and forced myself to never look at it. I’ve eaten so much peanut butter, and it doesn’t even taste good. I hate it, actually. I hate peanut butter.” 

He covers his mouth with his fingers, pursing his lips so as to not let his laughter out. You feel a smile try to fight its way onto your lips, but you swallow it down as you pick at a loose thread on the couch. You used to snip them when you still lived here. You’re sure if you reach just under the middle cushion, the gold pair of sewing scissors would still be tucked away safely. 

“I left, and I was miserable. I was miserable because I was doing everything to let go of something...of someone I was so sure I didn’t deserve. I was trying to erase you from my life, but you were already missing. I would order too much food and wonder what to do with the leftovers. I would see a poster for a new indie movie I thought you’d like, and I’d go to text you, typing in the message box before I realized I couldn’t just do that. It wasn’t fair.” 

“I saw the bubble pop up a lot,” he confesses softly. You must look confused, because he clears his throat before shrugging, “I once opened the chat while I was in the grocery store. I was going to ask you if we needed anything else. You were typing and then you stopped. I cried in the dry cereal aisle, a little girl called me a wimp, and I left without groceries. It’s kind of funny, now that I think about it.” 

“I’m sorry.”  “That’s the last time you say that to me. I’m sick of hearing it.” 

His eyes are serious, no longer glazed with tears. You nod slowly, before you run your tongue over your lips for a third time. It’s suddenly too dry in his apartment, and you feel your skin start to itch as you clear your throat. 

“I miss you, Sol.” 

You feel your eyes flood, a fat teardrop splatting onto your hand. You wipe it off on your jeans, before sniveling one last time and pushing off the couch. 

“Thank you for listening, and for letting me in.” 

He nods silently, before standing up. He doesn’t move towards the door – instead beelining for what used to be your shared bedroom. You wipe at your eyes haphazardly, drying your hands of what few tears were left on the back of your jeans. You can hear him rooting around, and you opt to move towards the hallway mirror to check your reflection. 

In the corner of the mirror’s frame is a Polaroid of you and him. Your cheeks squished together, with your birthday scrawled in blue marker across the bottom in his handwriting. A lopsided heart follows the date. 

It’s been so many years since that photo. It feels like so long ago. 

He’s wearing the same blue hoodie, and your shoulders brave the same hot pink windbreaker. 

He’d spotted it at a thrift store, the windbreaker. And the jeans you have on. And the t-shirt you wear to bed, still sullied with the scent of his deodorant and his toothpaste stain that doesn’t come out no matter how many times you wash it. 

And you realize – that you are entangled. 

You are everything he is, and he is everything you are. You mirror one another – from the love of cinema to the way you find each other in every universe; whether it’s in a baby blue hoodie and a hot pink windbreaker, in bottles of Fresh and Yogurt soju, or in a pink cap with your initials embroidered on it and the locket he got you with his engraved. 

It burns the skin of your chest under your shirt. 

Your bedroom at your mother’s house is riddled with more of him – from the single love letter you took when you left, to the odd collection of his shirt and hoodies you’d stolen from him over the years. He picked the forest green paint on the walls a few summers ago, and he made you a shitload of tchotchkes to line the floating shelves he’d helped you put up. You’d escaped there when you left him a year ago. 

Only a few miles from him. 

From home. 

You bring your hand to your chest, feeling around for the gold locket and finding it twisted in your cleavage. It held two pictures – one of him as a baby, and one of you together. Close to your heart, close to your soul – you carried him. 

You would beg. God, you would beg. 

You would – if it meant you didn’t have to leave. If it meant you could leave your umbrella outside and know that Mrs. Kim next door would borrow it in the morning to get her newspaper before putting it back. You would beg on your hands and knees if it meant that Hansol wrapped his arms around you in this very moment, and let you breathe in the cotton and salted caramel and vanilla and everything he’s ever been. 

You would beg, plead, pray to whatever God was out there to feel the warmth of his lips against your forehead. To hear that he missed you, he misses you. To stay up well into the night watching Princess Mononoke on his iPad in the kitchen while you bicker about how bad he is at polishing the silverware. 

To lay in bed with him and count his eyelashes. To stuff a towel on the windowsill so you can open the window and breathe in the petrichor but not ruin the paint. To throw the duvet off the bed and run your hands under his shirt, likely stained with splatters of kimchi stew and the juice he fucking hates but drinks because it reminds him of the way you taste. 

But it’s much sweeter when he thinks of it that way, he told you once. It tastes a lot better when it’s on your lips. 

He loves that gross fucking juice when it’s lingering on your tongue. 

You sigh, finally looking at your face in the mirror. Hansol is standing behind you, brows slightly furrowed as he seemingly stares at the back of your head. You jump, your hand splaying on your chest as you suck in a breath too quickly. 

“You jerk, you scared me!” 

“I’ll wear a bell next time,” he rolls his eyes, before holding up something in the mirror. Purple with white flowers, yellow with cats – your socks. 

Ones you lost a year ago. 

“Where did you find those?”  “Mrs. Kim next door found them in her basket after she pulled her clothes from the dryer yesterday. She said she remembered you running in your underwear for the newspaper and you were wearing the purple ones.” 

Your eyes widen, “I’ve never run outside in my underwear! And I had shorts on that day!” 

“My boxers do not count as shorts,” he snorts, before holding them out to you. “Underwear is still underwear, no matter who wears it.” 

“Pft. Whatever.” You mutter before hesitating to take the socks. It could mean the end of whatever this was – you would have to stuff them in your pocket and walk towards his front door. You would have to turn his doorknob and hold onto the threshold of his apartment as you slipped your feet back into your wet rain boots. You would have to stand in his stoop as you shook out and opened your umbrella. 

You would have to look into his eyes and say goodbye. 

And for how long? 

How long will goodbye be this time? 

You reach behind you and carefully take the socks, your thumb brushing him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react – only watching as you tuck the socks into the pocket of your windbreaker. His eyes return to the mirror, the Polaroid in the corner catching his attention. 

“I haven’t looked at that photo in so long,” he murmurs, stepping forward slightly. You can feel the heat of his body on your back, before nimble fingers pluck the photo from the corner of the frame. He looks like he’s in pain as he takes it, as if it hurts him to move anything that was there when you left. 

His thumb wipes dust off the photo, particularly off your face. You look at the mirror and see the perfect outline of the Polaroid, formed by the dust. You reach over and wipe it off, before wiping your hand on your jeans. 

I’m ready to come home. 

Please. Ask me to come home. 

He glances up at the motion, tonguing his cheek as he manages to place the picture back perfectly. 

“Nice try.” 

You don’t respond, but he doesn't say anything else, either. He simply stares at the photo before sighing softly. He looks hesitant, and you continue to let your eyes linger on the heart-shape of his smile in the photo as you mutter under your breath. 

“It’s still raining.”  “It’s only going to get worse. I’m surprised you agreed to go out with Seungkwan at all.” 

You nod, before your eyes flit back to the mirror. He’s not looking at the photo anymore – but at you. His eyes are full of emotions you can’t place as he scans the entirety of your face, as if he’s taking you in; as if he can’t believe you’re real. 

As if he can’t believe you’re home. 

“You changed your mascara.” 

You blink, opting to clear your throat as you nod, “how’d you know?” 

“The other one was kind of blue, I think. This one is brown.” He shrugs, “I liked the blue one.” 

“I’ll wear it more often,” you reply smoothly, before realizing it was one of the responses you’d give him when he complimented something you donned during your relationship. The hot pink windbreaker, the jeans you have on, OPI polish in Cos-mo Money on your fingernails. 

“I mean, I didn’t...ugh. Sorry.”  “Mhm.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, and you feel your throat dry as his eyes continue their path around your face. Eyes, nose... 

Lips. 

“I miss you,” he murmurs. 

You feel your back stiffen as he shifts away, hearing his footsteps round the edge of the couch. He doesn’t sit down – instead, blowing out his candles as he gathers the bottles of untouched soju and tucks the unopened juice under his arm as he speaks. 

“I miss you, and I don’t want you to leave. I understand if you have to, and I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.” 

You’re rooted in place as you watch him slink away into the kitchen, hearing him pour the liquor down the drain. The clinking of the bottles is mocking you as he rinses them, before sliding them into the glass-only recycling bin. The sound of the refrigerator opening pains you, hearing the clunk of the heavy juice bottle being slid into the door before it shuts again. 

For what seems like the thousandth time today, you feel your eyes sting with tears. Your nose burns as you wait for him to slip out of the kitchen, your fingers toying with the zipper of your windbreaker before it gets the chance to start feeling too sticky on your skin. You tug it off, bunching it up and tossing it over the back of the couch before running your hands over your face in frustration. 

“Too sticky?” 

He appears next to you; eyes rimmed red as he sidles up. Or at least you wish he would – he's a good foot and a half away. The tip of his nose is pink, and there is a soft sheen on his cheeks – from tears finally spilling, you assume. 

It makes you ache. 

It makes your teeth hurt, the bittersweet pain of watching the man who you were sure put the stars in the sky every night feel like he had to act like you were a stranger while still yearning for you – just to make you comfortable. Why does he do that? 

How can he do that? 

“Hansol?”  “Mmh?” 

You should feel pathetic, selfish, with the way the words crawl up your throat so easily. 

“Can I stay?” 

He doesn’t respond; his eyes glancing at the clock above the television. It was one of the first things you bought together – at yet another thrift store. It had a badly painted version of Shrek and Donkey on the face; the numbers shakily smeared, but the two of you bought it for giggles. It became a statement piece; your friends always commented on how ugly the thing was in comparison to everything else in your home. 

But it was so you, and it was so Hansol. 

So, who cares? 

“Please. Please, let me stay, Sol.” 

“You don’t need to beg. This is your home.” He shakes his head, and you can feel your voice shaking before you can even get the words out. 

“You don’t have to miss me because I miss you. You don’t have to love me, because I love you. It’s not transactional.” 

You almost miss the way he rolls his eyes, before he glances down at you by the slope of his nose. His brow is raised, your skin prickling at the sight. 

“Don’t tell me how to feel.”  “I’m not.” 

He shrugs, perching on the back of the couch. His hands are hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, and the proximity is enough to make your knees grow weak – worsening as a hint of that soft aftershave floats up your nostrils. 

“You are. I’m allowed to miss you, you know. I’m allowed to think about you before I go to bed at three in the morning. I’m allowed to feel the twist in my stomach when I look at the toothbrush you left that I haven’t had the balls to replace, as if you’re still here. I’m allowed to still love you, after all this time.” 

“I was gone for a year. You should hate me.” You lament, absently picking at your cuticles, “an entire year, Hansol. Two birthdays, yours and mine. So many holidays so many special events...all over my own insecurities of not knowing who I was and if I was even worth your time.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head, “a year, ten years, a millennia. My heart has only ever been my own when you’re not the one holding it. Only then, could you have told me how to feel, and I still wouldn’t have listened to you. I will love you even if you do not love me, and even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. Even when you know who you are, and especially when you don’t. Because I know.” 

You feel your lip jut out in a pout as you try to hold back the pathetic sob in your throat, only to see his hand slip out of his pocket and stop you from picking at your skin. He’s warm, like he always is. 

He’s warm, inviting. Comforting. 

You look up cautiously, only to see the same gaze you’d been used to in the mornings just a year ago. Soft, gentle, loving. Unadulterated adoration. 

Glazed over with a hint of uncertainty. Of the present, of the future. 

Of us, and everything we are. Everything we could be, and everything we are. 

You look around the apartment, the weight of his hand on yours seeping into your bones. You take everything in again – the coffee table, the condensation left from the bottles, the remote. The television. The journal, with smudged blue ink. The candles. The hideous Shrek clock. 

Your coffee table that you bought together. Your television, and the remote you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. The journal you bought him at a bookstore while he was preparing to visit his sister in New York City. The candles you bought around the time of that trip, because they reminded you of him – though he smells like cotton and they smell like candy. 

The blanket you knitted yourself when he complained about being cold one evening – it took you four months, but it was well worth it to see the giddy grin on his face when you finally threw it over him before bed. The glass chess set that had been gathering dust in the corner for far longer than you’d been gone – one that you lost three games to him on, and sulked for hours as he peppered kisses all over your face. 

Your bright red coat hung by the window, one that you’d gone frantic looking for as the colder months crept in – right next to his black one. 

Coats you bought together. 

“Can I see the bedroom?” 

He nods silently, pushing off the back of the couch as you nervously intertwine your fingers. He says nothing, only squeezing your hand softly as he leads you down the hall – as if you’d never been there. He twists the doorknob open; the room illuminated only by the gloomy sky outside. 

You reluctantly let go of his hand to step inside, your fingers flexing at your sides as you walk on the soft beige carpet. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and watching you stare at the floating shelves on the walls. Everything is still where you left it – wooden plane models, a few Smiski figurines, a singular LEGO wildflower bouquet. A deck of tarot cards that you used to fool around with him on long nights, stoned and flipping your bar of selenite through your fingers while he actively asked what upright Lovers meant. 

The bed is made – the sage green sheets neatly tucked and folded under the mattress. The pillows are fluffed and stacked exactly the way you left them the day you went out the front door. Your pitcher of water had been refilled, and the glass wasn’t fogged over – it was new water. 

Clean water. 

The window is open, and a familiar pink towel is rolled carefully and stuffed onto the windowsill – the room smells of petrichor and your perfume. You spot the wall still lined with your shared collection of vinyl records, the player still holding Dizzy Up the Girl by The Goo Goo Dolls. 

He bought you that one the day before you left. You remember laying on the floor with him, your head on his stomach while his fingers ran through your hair. You had told yourself you wouldn’t cry that night – but you did anyway, at half past four in the morning as he lay asleep in your arms. 

Your fingers gently run over the needle, before you pick it up carefully and place it on one of the grooves. The first few notes of All Eyes on Me play through the small speakers before you lift the needle and stop it. You let it fall back into its slot in front of the record, before folding your hands behind your back and turning to face him – your eyes immediately dropping to the floor. 

“Are you ready to come home?” 

You look up wearily, feeling your breath catch in your throat. 

“I love you, Hansol.”  “That doesn’t answer my question, Y/N.” 

You move forward abruptly, circling your arms around his waist and tucking yourself into his chest. He reciprocates carefully, almost as if he’s afraid. 

His hands tremble slightly as they ghost over your back, your own fisting the back of his hoodie as you press your face into the fabric. You feel his cheek rest on the top of your head, hearing a sigh slip from his lips as his hand slides up your back. Your voice is muffled as you speak into his chest, but you know he can hear you just fine. 

Hansol has always understood you, deeper than words. 

“I have to pick some stuff up from my mom’s.”  “Y/N. Answer the question.” 

“I’m ready to come home, Sol.” You murmur, before feeling the tips of his fingers move your hair away from your neck. He smooths it down your back with one hand, the other swiping stray tendrils from your forehead. You look up at him, resting your chin on his chest as he pads his thumbs over your cheeks. 

“I hate it when you cry. It makes my stomach hurt.” 

His honesty makes you snort, and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he continues to caress your face. He runs his thumbs over your brows, across your eyelids, down your cheeks... 

On your lips. 

“You cut your hair,” you whisper, and he nods. 

“I was having one of those moments. Like when girls give themselves bangs because they need to feel in control of something,” he shrugs, before his eyes light up slightly. “Didn’t you bleach—” 

“Shut up. You promised me we wouldn’t talk about it after it happened. Plus, you look like Buzz Lightyear. Leave me alone.” 

“I’ll have you know that being called Buzz Lightyear is actually a compliment,” he gloats, making you huff. 

“Yeah, because being compared to a delusional space cowboy is the way to go.”  “You did not just call him a delusional space cowboy, bro.”  “You did not just call me bro, Hansol.” 

He bites back his smile, carding his fingertips through your hair. You close your eyes at the sensation, preening at the way it sends subtle shivers down your spine. 

“Call me babe, or something. Honey. I like doll, too, that was a good one.” You’re murmuring into his sweater, hoping you’ll open your eyes, and he won’t suddenly disappear. Your fingers reflexively tighten around the fabric of his sweater in your fists, and you hear the rickety laughter you’ve missed so much ring through the air. 

“I’m not going anywhere, just relax.” His fingers tug gently at the hair on the nape of your neck, making you scowl. Your lip juts out as you look up at him through damp lashes, eyes full of guilt. 

“Do you forgive me?” The words weigh on your tongue, and you feel the tiniest bit pathetic laying yourself out like this – but it’s Hansol. 

“Nothing to forgive, you know.”  “You don’t resent me at all?”  "Not one bit.” 

Your eyes scan his; narrowing at the hint of mischief in the depth of them as you pull back slightly. Your brows furrow, a scoff leaving your lips as you poke your finger into his chest. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not. If anything...I just missed you.” He admits quietly, pressing his forehead to the top of your head before wrapping his arms around your neck and pulling you close, “I miss seeing you when I come home from work. I miss finding you passed out while folding laundry on the carpet. I miss holding you, like this.” 

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks strands of your hair behind your ears before thumbing at your pierced earlobes. Small hoops loop through them – gold ones, a gift from him many years ago. 

“I miss sleeping next to you, in our bed. That couch has awful cushions, why did we buy it?” 

“...We didn’t. Seungkwan made us take it when you moved out, remember? Because we...you know. On it.” You glance up at him quizzically, his cheeks tinging pink as the memory settles in the forefront of his mind. He grimaces, baring his teeth slightly as he shudders. 

“I still can’t believe he didn’t knock.”  “It was his apartment, Sol.” 

“...And it was his couch, huh?” He snorts, glancing down at you. You nod, letting a smile paint your lips as your laugh slips out. He smiles at the sound, leaning slightly closer. His fingertips tug on your earrings lightly. 

“You missed me, right?” 

“Is this when you fake me out two or three times before you kiss me?” You raise a brow, palms clammy as he shrugs. 

“I could, or I couldn’t. Depends on your answer, and how much.” His face is ever so slightly closer to yours, and you never really know how to react to this side of him – now, or a year ago – despite being the only receiver of it for over half a decade. Everyone views him as someone so cool, so calm, so collected – no one really understands how easily flustered you get at his subliminally flirtatious comments, or the way he looks at you like he could eat you alive...or the way he eggs you on with his provocative insinuations and those stupid eyes of his until you fold like a house of cards. 

He’s an enigma of a man, a lover, a soul. 

“A lot.”  “A lot.”  “So much. I’ll get a billboard and make it say I love Hansol Chwe.” 

“Oh, you missed me so bad.” He chides, making you scoff as you dig your fingers into his sides lightly. He squeals, his hands grabbing your wrists and holding them away from his body, “don’t do that!” 

His eyes are considerably lighter than when you’d arrived – and you feel your cheeks grow warm as he lets your arms go, once more carding his fingers through your hair. 

“You’re still awful at detangling,” he murmurs, before cradling your face in his hands. “Horrible, awful, no good at detangling your hair.” 

“Yeah, well...” you huff, crossing your arms as you look away. “You kind of get used to someone else doing it for you.” 

He hums, “do you need to go get your stuff tonight?” 

You shake your head, glancing up at him with a small smile, “if I go tonight, the silverware won’t get polished. And we need that, so we can have dinner.” 

“I am not polishing silverware tonight.”  “Oh, yes, you are. I can’t imagine how dusty my forks are.” 

“Our forks, first of all. Second of all, we’re not polishing them tonight. We have other things to do,” he rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to your hairline. 

You swallow the hitched breath in your throat, feigning nonchalance as you raise a brow at him. 

“Oh, do we? What other things, Hansol?” 

“The usual, you know.” He plants another kiss to your temple, “first order of business is actually ordering takeout.” 

“Takeout, he says. Have you got money for that?” You close your eyes as his lips brush the soft arch of your brows, your eyelids, forehead...the tip of your nose. “Last I checked, we were very frugal. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.” 

“You made us expand our budget for your nasty ass juice. I think takeout can be an option tonight,” he mumbles against your cheek, and you feel your stomach start to flutter as he brushes his lips against it. “Second order of business is actually a shower. We can listen to that true crime podcast you like while I detangle your hair. This is just unacceptable.” 

“Maybe I should shave my head.”  “I’d hate for you to think that you’re a delusional space cowboy, babe.” 

Your eyes widen slightly at the pet name, but he doesn’t allow you to speak as he presses his lips to yours softly – smooth with the scent of strawberry lip balm. It’s chaste, it’s fast. 

Too chaste, too fast for your taste. 

“Third order—”  “No, no. Kiss me.” 

He raises a brow, but does as you ask. His lips mold against yours, your hands finding home on his chest. He moves to pull back, but you chase after him – pulling him back and deepening the kiss. You feel like you’re on fire as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him; your fingers pawing at his sweater as you slip your tongue into his mouth. 

The groan from his throat still tastes like home. 

He still tastes like home; like strawberry jam and your disgusting juice. Sweet, tart. Loving. 

“I missed you, Sol.” 

He doesn’t reply, his hand gingerly wrapping around your throat as he pulls you back in. The way he kisses you is desperate; holding you against him tightly as he pushes off the doorframe. He starts moving you backward, your hands wrapped around his wrist as the back of your knees hit the foot of the bed. 

“Sol—”  “Shh.” 

His lips never leave yours, his hand moving from your neck to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. He lays you back against the comforter gently, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie. You tug at it as he licks into your mouth, a soft groan falling from your throat as his fingertips breach the hem of your t-shirt and graze over the skin of your belly. 

You pull back from his lips with a quiet pant, your own swollen as you blink up at him. You feel his fingers squeeze your side carefully, eyes searching your face. 

“Y/N?” 

His voice is soft as he hovers over you lightly, his knee slotted between yours, and you feel your throat burn as your hand strokes his jaw. 

“I’m sorry for leaving.” 

He shakes his head, his hands moving to hold your face, “stop it. Stop being sorry for taking care of yourself. I love you. I know you, and I know that if you felt the need to leave...you had to do it. Please stop being sorry. Just...just let me love you, even if you have to leave again in another year. In ten years, in a month...tomorrow.” 

You breathe out shakily, peering at him through teary eyes. His gaze is still everything it’s ever been. 

Warm, gentle. 

Home. 

“Please, just let me.”  “I love you.”  “I know, babe. I know.” 

You sit up abruptly, your hand moving to pull at the hem of his sweatshirt. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side as you move up the bed. His lips find yours again as your head hits the pillow, slower than before. Like he’s savoring the moment, his fingers toying with the button of your jeans before he pops it free. He breaks the kiss briefly, pulling your jeans down with ease. You kick them off the edge of the bed as his hands slide up your thighs slowly, warm and soft. A finger snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip, making you scowl as you swat his hand away. 

“Don’t be mean.” 

“M’not being mean, baby.” He bites back a smile, watching as you sit up on your elbows, feeling the bed sink slightly under him as he hovers over you, the tip of his nose brushing yours. You look up at him through your lashes, moving to bridge the gap as he pulls back slightly. 

“Sol?”  “I love you.” 

Your chest heats as he presses his lips against yours, his hand pushing your thighs apart slightly. It slides up your hip; his thumb rubbing circles into your lower belly before he slips it under the hem of your shirt. He deepens the kiss, pushing your shirt up to the bottom of your breasts as the cool air makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. You move to pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere across the bedroom before pulling him back to your mouth, slipping your tongue between his lips.  

His hands wander, softly clawing at your sides and enveloping your hips in the warmth of his fingers as your own pull at the short ends of his hair. His lips trail up your jaw, soft and feathery, before his teeth nip at your earlobe. Your knee digs into his side as he tugs lightly at your earring, and you twist away from him – only to feel the scrape of his teeth against your neck, earning a whine from your throat as your legs tighten around his hips. 

“Take your pants off,” you whisper, a frown tugging at your lips as you feel him shake his head. 

“Not yet,” he speaks against your skin, his lips trailing down your neck and across your clavicle. His hold on your hips loosens as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them further to slot himself between them as he peppers kisses down your chest – flattening his tongue on your nipple before you can speak. A choked sound leaves your mouth as he rolls his tongue over the sensitive bud, his thumb brushing over your neglected nipple with precision. He’s gentle, your thighs trying to close around his hips as he hums against your skin. 

“Missed seeing you like this,” he murmurs, switching sides and pulling your nipple into his mouth with a soft suck. Your breathing is shaky, embarrassingly shaky – and you feel him smile against your skin, “really? Already? I’m flattered.” 

“Shut up,” you bite, earning a chuckle as he trails his lips back up your neck with a tentative roll of his hips against yours. Your cheeks grow hot, feeling the weight of his cock against your clit through your flimsy underwear. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders lightly as you try to grind your hips up against him, only for him to pin you to the mattress. 

“God, I missed you.” His voice is gravelly, rutting his shaft against you harder before his hand suddenly slips between your legs and slide over the damp patch of arousal soaking through your panties. He presses his fingers against it, a gasp catching in your throat – your cheeks burning as you feel him pull away from your neck. Your fingers move to pull at his sweatpants, but he moves your hand away with a quick shake of his head as his hands slide down your legs. He follows their path with his lips, dragging open-mouthed kisses up your thighs and calves, even pulling your socks off to kiss the sides of your feet. 

His fingertips hook around the cotton fabric of your panties, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he pulls on them gently. You lift your hips to let him pull them down entirely; the fabric flung somewhere across the room as he spreads your thighs, settling between them with a kiss to your hip. You cover your face with shaky hands as his lips trail across your skin, peering up at you through his lashes as he ghosts over your center. You peek out from between your fingers to see him biting back a smile as he shakes his head, “baby, it’s just me.” 

“Yeah, well—” Your sentence is cut short with a choked gasp as he flattens his tongue against your cunt, licking a fat stripe through your folds and gathering your arousal before sucking your clit into his mouth carefully. His eyes flutter shut at the taste, your teeth sinking into your lip to stop the embarrassing whine trying to claw its way out of your throat. He sucks harder, your fingers flying to his hair and tugging the short strands as best as you can before you feel his fingers prodding at your entrance. They slide in easily, your thighs closing around his head with a soft whimper. He forces them apart with his shoulders, pinning your rutting hips to the mattress with his arm as he curls his fingers inside you, his tongue working you over almost painfully slow — and the warmth in your lower just starts to spread as he pulls away.

“Did you touch yourself while you were gone?” His voice is much steadier than you trust your own to be, his fingers expertly working you open as you nodded, feeling his lips trail down your shoulder. “Did you think about me while you did it?” 

“E-Everyday,” you hate the meekness in your tone, your nails digging uselessly into his bicep as he smiles against your skin. His free hand trails up your arm, gently pulling your hand away from his body and kissing your knuckles. 

“Show me.” 

You force yourself to peer at him through your lashes, eyes low as he brings you closer to the edge — only to see him kiss the tips of your fingers, before pulling them into his mouth. Your lips part with a soft groan, rolling your eyes as you feel his tongue slide between them, perfectly coating them with his salvia before pulling them out and snaking your hand between your thighs. His eyes are dark — desperate, even. Needy. 

“Show me.” 

His fingers slow inside you as you swallow hard, dragging your fingertips through your folds, spreading them slightly and circling your swollen clit. His eyes don't leave yours as you cover your mouth with your hand, your thighs twitching at the stimulation. You break eye contact, your body feeling hot as you let your head hit the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut as the mix of your fingers with his bring you closer to the edge. 

“Sol, I’m—” 

He didn’t let you finish your sentence, pulling his fingers out of you just as the taste of your orgasm tried to hit the back of your tongue. You let your lips part, brows furrowing as the feeling died right at his fingertips. His fingers are wet against your thigh, and he has a small smirk toying with the corner of his lip as you pout. 

“Sol…” your voice is whiny as he trails his lips up your body, ghosting over your chest as you huff. “I thought you said you weren’t mad at me.” 

“Oh, I’m not.” He shakes his head quickly, but he’s not looking at you. His hand pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants, low enough to let his leaking cock spring free. It’s hot and heavy against your thigh, your mouth watering slightly as he looks up at you, “I could never be mad at you.” 

“Then why—” 

“Because I can,” he interrupts, wrapping his fingers covered in your juices around himself. He brushes a kiss to your lips, “because I want you to ruin me all over again.” 

Your eyes fluttered as he rolled his hips against yours, his length dragging through your wet folds and his tip bumping your puffy clit with a hiss from his lips. Your hands fist the sheets as he speaks against your jaw, “I thought about you every single day. Just like this.” 

“Sol—” 

“Fucked my hand thinking about you. Every night. Even the smell of your perfume made me want you, I missed you so much.” He’s whispering, and you can hardly hear him over the blood rushing to your ears, “missed seeing your pretty lips all swollen after sucking me off. Will you? Have I earned it?” 

He doesn’t let you respond, his hand gently tilting your chin up to slot your lips with his before snaking down your bodies and wrapping around his cock. He guides himself through your slit, teasing the thick head against your hole as you gasp into the kiss. 

“Please—” 

“Don’t beg.” He mutters against your mouth, “I won’t do anything if you beg.” 

“Sol, please—”  “Y/N.” 

His tone is warning as he circles your entrance, smearing beads of precum on your slick skin before gently easing himself inside you. Your thighs close around his hips instinctively, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he slowly sheathes himself in your gummy walls — before he stops, not even halfway in as he looks you dead in the eyes. 

“Tell me you missed me." His hands hold your thighs tightly, the rings on his fingers digging into your skin. Your mouth falls open as he gives a tentative roll of his hips, but he pulls right back out before you can savor the feeling. He shakes his head with a click of his tongue, "tell me you missed me, Y/N."

"Missed you," you whisper, tears pricking at your eyes as you tilt your head up to kiss him. He lets you, slotting his lips with yours as you wrap one leg around his hip, "missed feeling you. Haven't stopped thinking about you."

The admission is enough to make him grind his cock against you, the fat head bumping your clit over and over as you slip your tongue in his mouth. The kiss is all teeth and tongue as he rocks against you, a groan falling from your throat as you taste yourself all over him and making you clench around nothing. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you roll your hips with his, only for him to pull away with a chaste kiss to your lips, still ghosting over your face as he peered at you through thick lashes.

"I love you." Your hand cups his jaw gently, his own trailing up your arm to wrap around your wrist. He kisses your palm, leaning into your touch as his eyes close, "I love you, Y/N."

You pull him down to you, brushing your lips to his, "I love you, Sol."

He nods, tapping your hip with his hand and squeezing the flesh, "turn around."

You roll your eyes, a smile trying to fight its way onto your lips as his hands slide up your hips, helping you turn onto your belly, "you never change."

"Man of habit, what can I say?" His voice is low as he presses his lips to the dip of your spine, your skin littering with goosebumps as he moves your hips flush to his. He drags his mouth up your back, his fingers caressing the skin of your sides as he moves them up to your shoulders, gently wrapping his hand around your throat with a soft squeeze, "missed you so much. Missed touching you…kissing you. Having you."

"I'm here." You whisper back as he presses kisses to the side of your face, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brush your eyebrow. "Have me."

"M'not gonna last very long," he murmurs against your cheek, your hand reaching back and tugging gently at his hair. His hand snakes between you, wrapping around his cock and dragging it up your slit with a hiss. You push your hips back against him, biting down on your lip as he nudges your clit, his lips pressing kisses to the curve of your jaw, "might not last at all, actually."

"Just wanna feel you," you let him tilt your head back, brushing your lips with his as he pulls you up, your back flush to his chest as he finally bottoms out. You clench around him, his nose buried in your neck as he inhales shakily. His hand falls away from your throat, slipping down to cup your tits, squeezing gently as he gives an experimental roll of his hips. You're embarrassed at the tremble in your thighs, the sharp breath you suck in as he mumbles against your skin, "there she is…missed this."

"Have it…use me," you whisper back, your jaw falling slack as he starts moving his hips into you. He keeps you close as he grabs at your soft skin, kissing up the slope of your shoulder, inhaling deeply at the dip of your neck before gently pinning you to the mattress. Your fingers grip the sheets as he kisses down your spine, hiding your face in the pillows as you meet his thrusts halfway. His rings are digging into your skin as he palms at your ass, the sharp sound of the smack registering before the sting of his palm, soothed by his grip as he kisses your shoulder.

You feel yourself growing fuzzy, your limbs melting into the fabric as he sucks the sweet spot just under your ear — his cock dragging perfectly against your walls and making your skin litter with goosebumps, the pillow absorbing your whines as your skin muffles his.

"Just take it, please…" he breathes out, his fingertips digging into the meat of your hips as his movements grow sloppy, "it's yours. I'm yours."

"M-Mine," you mewl weakly, and he only groans as he pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your back and slotting his lips with yours as he slides back in. Your nails dig into his back, sinking down the expanse of his shoulders as he swallows your whimpers — the kiss is all teeth and tongue as he spreads your thighs with his hands, his lips trailing down your jaw and nipping at your earlobe.

"Should've knocked you up years ago, fuck." He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at the skin there as your breathing grows shaky, your walls clenching around him. He nips at your collarbone, "need to fill you up every day. Make you mine forever…you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Y-Yeah," your voice is full of air as your cunt squeezes around him, earning a spent laugh from his throat. His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your puffy clit and making you jerk as he rubs tight circles into it, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. You let out a shuddered whimper, feeling his lips brushing the column of your throat, "missed this pussy so much, baby. So perfect for me. Made for me."

His lips are frantic, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as your breathless pants fill the room, the air smelling like sex and sweat as you wrap your legs around him. He snakes his slips into your mouth in a sloppy kiss, your thighs tight around his hips as you let go, soaking his cock in your release with a whine pouring into his mouth. He twitches inside you, mumbled reassurance as your thighs tremble, his forehead damp against your shoulder as he spills inside you.

He kisses the dip of it, stamping his lips along the column of your throat as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, squeezing softly as he meets your mouth again.

"I love you," you murmur, cupping his face in your hands as he hovers over you slightly. He nods limply, kissing you smoothly as his hands spread your thighs, holding your knees to your chest as he gives another slow roll of his hips — making you jolt with overstimulation as he lets out a weak laugh.

"Gotta make sure it takes, baby." He speaks into your mouth, kissing you chastely as your legs shake around him, "love of my life. I love you."

He mumbles something else, but it's lost as he kisses you firmly, overstimulating you both as he keeps making a mess between your thighs. You pull away, holding him away from you by the short hair, "what did you say?"

He blinks at you, raising a brow before his cheeks tinge with embarrassment. He shakes his head, trying to brush a kiss to your lips but you move away.

"Don't let me ruin this, Y/N." He sighs, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to yours. He peels them open again, the swirl of adoration and worry circling the light amber of his irises. You give him a pointed look, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, "what did you say?"

"…Please don't leave me again." He buries his face in your neck, your eyes burning as he whispers against your skin, "please, please, please…don't leave."

You pepper your lips to the side of his face, pulling him away from your neck to connect your lips. Tears wet your lashes as you hold him close, your hands pressing against his cheeks as you pull back.

"Don't beg," you mumble, your voice thick as tears brimmed his eyes, "you never have to beg for anything. Not from me, never again."

"I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

YOU'RE ANXIOUSLY SCRUBBING PANS THE NEXT MORNING WITH A JOINT HELD BETWEEN YOUR LIPS.

You know he said you could come back, you know he said that you can stay…but something about it makes you nervous. The way his shirt barely covers the curve of your ass but still smells like him, the way you've relit all the candles around the apartment as he sleeps soundly in your shared bedroom. His lips were pouted when you slipped out of his arms early that morning, your body sore in places it hadn't been in months. The bathroom mirror confirmed the tightness of his grip — bruises littering your hips, nips of his teeth along your ass and thighs, even a mark sucked into the dip of your hip.

You foolishly texted Soonyoung if he could drop off something to take the edge off at the apartment — and you realized you'd forgotten to tell him that you would be there. His jaw had dropped as he held out the bag of pre-rolls, expecting to see Hansol in his comfortable sweatpants glory — only to see you, in the shirt that didn't even remotely cover the black fabric of your underwear. You'd paid him in a wad of cash and closed the door before he could say anything, shooting him a text the moment you lit one of the pre-rolls to please keep his mouth shut.

The vibrations of your phone on the counter, messages from your groupchat and Seungkwan — told you that he hadn't been able to do that for very long.

You'd opened the windows, the sky still gloomy but the air fresh and cool — settling the anxiety in your stomach as you dried the last pan. He'd been right — he hadn't touched them since you left, the dust settled on them from sitting in the cabinet for so long. You fumbled around the kitchen, pulling the silver polish from the top shelf of the pantry when you felt hands on your waist. You jumped, your hand settling on your chest when you realized it was him.

"You really need to get a bell," you mutter, feeling his lips curve into a smile against the back of your neck as he takes the silver polish from your hand and tosses it somewhere on the counter. His arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest as he squeezes gently.

"Called Soonyoung?" His voice is raspy, the way it always is when he's just woken up. You smell mint on his breath, and you figure you must've not noticed when he started moving around in your anxious state. You nod, holding the joint out to him over your shoulder as he sways you both.

"He already ran his mouth, can't keep a secret to save his fucking life." You mutter as you feel his lips brush your fingers, wrapping around the end of your joint and pulling back. He grimaces, "is this that gross ass strain you like?"

"Everything I like is gross to you. My juice, my weed, my favorite PopTart." "I'm not gross, and Brown Sugar Cinnamon isn't even close to being the best." "I'm gonna ignore that, and good thing I don't like you, Sol."

"I know you think that's a compliment and sick segue to say you love me, but not liking me is embarrassing as fuck," he snorts, gingerly placing the gross thing back between your lips. "Keep that shit to yourself."

"You're so fucking annoying," you mutter, smiling despite yourself. Your skin prickles slightly as you feel his hands slide down your hips and bunch his shirt under his palms. He slips his hands under it, thumbs barely hooking on the waistband of your panties before he presses his lips just under your ear.

"You wanna polish all this shit now?" "We didn't do it last night." "I'd argue we did better things last night—"

"Get off me, you little freak." You huff, trying to wiggle out of his hold but failing miserably as he only turns you around. You tongue your cheek, tapping the joint out on an ashtray you'd fished out from under the double-decked coffee table before letting him pull you close again. "You're not getting out of doing this today, Chwe. I mean it."

"Seungkwan invited us to lunch," he murmurs, caging you between him and the counter. You raise a brow, "Seungkwan invited us?"

"You, my girlfriend, and me, your boyfriend. Me and you. Us. We," he gestures between the two of you, "are cordially invited to lunch at the Boo Seungkwan residence. Expect ridicule, badgering and half a cold pizza slice because Soonyoung is already over there and stoned out of his mind."

You stopped listening after me, your boyfriend.

"You love me, right?" You ask softly, tugging at his shirt gently. Another plain white one, but there's a red stain on the collar that belonged to you. Red lipstick that didn't come out after you washed it twice, leaving a lingering of your presence behind.

Just like the bruises that littered your hips, and the toothpaste stain on your shirt that belonged to him. Just like your initials on his cap, the locket around your neck, the windbreaker, the hoodie. His journal, the stickers from your apples stuck to the leg of your coffee table. The sample bottle of your perfume that you'd seen sitting on the bathroom counter, and every single vinyl in your collection. The gross juice in your fridge that he didn't like but you loved, the Shrek and Donkey clock, the chess set…and everything you are. Everything he is.

You and him.

Him and you.

Together, in everything. Lingering, cohabitating, sharing…

Entangled, enamored, bounded by souls not willing to be apart…

Cosmically meant to exist as lovers.

"I do. I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

"…Enough to not polish the silverware tonight?"

HAOLOGRAM © 2025 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[newoozi]

ooh as for my thoughts on jealous!woozi, I definitely can see him getting detached like you said but i almost think he would internalize the jealousy into some sort of a “i don’t do nearly enough for my partner, and they’re going to leave if i keep this up” and start trying to push himself to be overly attentive until you stop him and reassure him that you love him as he is. Cuz i feel like he’s the kind of person who cares deeply for his people so i think he would be scared of losing his person 😭😭

so sorry for getting back to you so late! but the idea of jealous jihoon going into action immediately to do more for you is so on brand for him, actually. i'm obsessed. you have inspired me anon. something is coming soon, hopefully!

[chocosvt]

wait sorry i am back choco because, i was going about my day when i remembered "Time should not have the right to ever separate you; take him away. Your rough, clever, unpolished boy." from the sixth chapter and almost bawled.

PERIOD!!!!!!!

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | finale. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 31k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: bc of t*mblr's paragraph limit my words here are forced into sparsity ;_; BUT PLS KNOW - I HAVE SO MUCH ❤️ IN MY HEART FOR EVERYONE WHO TOOK THIS FREAKIN' 7 WEEK JOURNEY WITH ME! everyone who wrote such thoughtful comments, added such hilarious and or kind reblogs, everyone who expressed their feedback anonymously - you made me feel so comfortable and excited to share this story! it might be a long while before i post another fic, so feel free to go float the universe and come back whenever! 🌈 i'm heading back to uni myself for my final year as a biochem major woooo. it's been a long, twisty journey 🥹 take care of urself above all!

hope everyone enjoys the finale! <3 xoxoxoxo

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PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Gaza Soup Kitchen!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

3 MONTHS AGO.

It was hot. Even the coarse fabric of your jean shorts kept sticking to your skin, and when you thought nobody was looking you would awkwardly readjust everything. Moo’s house had air conditioning—a little white box sticking out his living room window with a flimsy piece of cardboard wedged beside it—but the machine wasn’t on. He liked the heat, moving through the house in beige, baggy shorts armed with numerous pockets, a cargo t-shirt, and a tacky vest that a fisherman might wear if it wasn’t so clearly nibbled at by moths. You watched from your place on the sofa as Moo flopped down into a plaid green armchair and cracked open a sizzley beer can.

He proceeded to make a very loud slurping noise, his eyes skipping around the bright living room, finding you. “Want one?”

You dug out the water bottle that had slipped between a gap in the sofa. The springs dug at you from underneath the cushion. “I have this.”

Suddenly, you heard the house’s rickety front door shutter. In walked Vernon and Moo’s roommate, Snozz, who had gone outside to light for a brief moment, trailing in with them the scent of stale smoke from cheap, old cigarettes. Vernon sunk into place beside you on the sofa. Snozz leaned against the sliding glass door. You wondered if they were feeling the heat. Maybe you wanted Vernon to yell at Moo to use his damn AC unit.

Moo started rocking in his green armchair. “Okay, Vern. Tell us.”

Your boyfriend scoffed, jerked his thumb at you. “She can tell you.”

And your forehead creased. “I can?”

Vernon shrugged. “You were in the club. Not me.”

Moo cackled, pointed his finger. “He can’t get in the club!”

“Shut up,” Vernon coughed back. “Nice gear you fuckin’ loser.”

“Hey! I’m going dock-fishing later! I have worms in the fridge.”

You sucked on your lower lip. “What am I saying?”

Vernon nudged your shoulder, raised his sharp, clean eyebrows. His t-shirt was sticking to your bare arm. “Who did you chat to at Prerogative?”

“Woah, woah!” Moo hollered, sitting up straight in his chair, the flashy tackles on his vest twinkling. “Prerogative? You do insider trading?”

“Uh, no?”

“Dude, shut up so she can talk!” Vernon grunted.

Finally, the roaring waves that had crashed through the living room were now calmly ebbing away. You felt nervous, pinched along the seam of your jean shorts while all the boys stared at you from every angle, and the heat turned heavier. But then Vernon squeezed your shoulder, his fingers resting on your skin like cool stones.

So you spoke up. “Well… last week, I went to Prerogative with my friends. I didn’t get in ‘cause I’m secretly loaded, or doing… insider trading…” you eyed Moo from across the small room, “but I used, erm, someone else’s name. Anyways. Yeah, I talked to Jeonghan—”

Moo squealed, “El Timador?!” while slapping a splotchy hand to his mouth, and you nearly thought there was a ten-year-old girl in the room.

“Yes,” you continued, clearing your throat. “I know that Vernon has an issue with some territories that you guys lost, or something? That were taken over by Jeonghan. So… well… I got Jeonghan to agree… he told me he’s going to arrange some sort of meeting with Vernon, essentially. I’m assuming to work something out. And I know that it wasn’t my business to intervene. Trust me, I already got an ear,” you glanced sideways at your boyfriend. “But Vernon was really bent about it. Anyway, that’s the story.”

The patched armchair sounded a rusty squeak. Moo was leaning forward, nodding at you, his lips pursed with sympathy… gratitude... reverence… you had no idea, really. “Wow, you are so brave,” he said.

“Um… thanks?”

Snozz had been so still and silent by the sliding glass door that you somewhat jumped when he used his voice, much lower and scratchier in cadence, like there were barbs in his throat. “Heard anything, Vernon?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Wait, so, what the fuck does this mean?” Moo questioned, lowering his beer can to the matted carpet. “You want them… back?”

Vernon scoffed. “Yes. What the fuck do you think?”

“But are we sure that’s a good idea?”

And Vernon shrugged. “Dunno. You want more money?”

“Well, always. But—”

Vernon leaned forward, the tattoos along his sunkissed skin flexing, prowling. “Me too. I mean, we don’t have Hylands anymore—Minghao fucked that for us—not to mention we lost Starlight, the whole underground scene at Smog, and that fuckin’ washed up Russian idiot popstar who had us on speed dial for all his celebrity parties. Dude, we were makin’ fuckin’ bank back then. Carryin’ it in duffle bags bustin’ at the zippers.”

Moo didn’t seem to flourish with his usual glow. “I know, but—”

“But, but, but,” Vernon interrupted, teasing him. “But what, man?”

Silence then permeated itself into the slippery folds of heat in the sweltering air, and you wished, for the love of all things holy, that someone would just whack that damn AC and turn it on—even just to hear a rattling hum that could somehow succeed in squashing the nauseating silence.

You watched Moo collapse back into the chair with dejection.

“But that’s when we had Dots…” he added listlessly.

And no one spoke. No one moved. Some drifting clouds had streamed their way over the blurry orange ball in the summer sky and the living room was washed in mournful, hurt dimness. Even you glanced down at your lap, bit the inside of your cheek, and refused to disrupt the atmosphere bleeding over everything in the room. It made you acknowledge how powerful another person’s impact could be, to the point where time visibly slowed at the mere summoning of their name, like the world was suddenly dipped into a clear molasses. You wondered if you were an intruder, spoiling the stillness of their memories to someone you hardly, transiently knew.

Vernon scratched his nose. The gesture was faint, simple, but it was a pair of scissors that sheared the conversation apart from the exhumed hurt. “We can get them back…” he spoke softly. “I know it. Jeonghan isn’t bulletproof.”

“You trust him?” Snozz croaked, his hands now pulled out from his pockets, arms folded stoutly across his chest. “You trust fucking Jeonghan?”

“Dude, this may be as far as we ever fuckin’ get with him. That man’s a ghost, okay? You can’t find him if he doesn’t wanna be found. I think he’s got a penthouse in the fuckin’ Shadow Realm or some shit.”

But Snozz didn’t twitch. “He fucked over Dots,” he said, vitriolic, his nose crinkling and lips peeling. “He fucked over all of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Vernon bit back. “I was fuckin’ there.”

The cool water bottle was pressing against your thigh and you terribly craved a sip from it, but you didn’t want it to crinkle and pop.

Moo’s long fingers were pulling at threads on the armchair as he stepped back into his voice, a calmer shade of blue. “Vern, shit was different then, y’know? We were so much more structured with Dotsy. We had more distributors selling. More people to move product. I mean, yeah, shit was tough when we had to compete with Jeonghan. But we never fell off the rails, right?” He paused, lips rubbing together, contemplating. “Nothing’s been the same since he died. We don’t have the horsepower. Not like we did.”

Vernon sighed. He leaned over, the heels of his palms rubbing into his eyes, and you wanted to stroke his back, but sometimes Vernon’s emotions were thorny and he needed to feel everything first, as it came through him in slices. You wondered if he knew that Jeonghan had submitted that leaf for Dots at Sherwood. Perhaps that was why he seemed to believe so much that Jeonghan might yield. You touched the edge of your face and felt a sticky moisture.

“Then it’s a respect thing,” Vernon suddenly barked. “It’s a fuckin’ respect thing that he gives those territories back. He wouldn’t have them without Dots. He wouldn’t have half the shit he has without Dots.”

You saw Moo frown and your heart ached. “What’s the point—"

“I’m sick of him bein’ gone, and everyone fuckin’ mopin’ around, actin’ like they can’t do shit anymore!” Vernon crackled with electric emotions, his language stabs of thunderbolts. “We can be what we were, how the fuck do you guys not see that? We’re just complacent now, y’know? It’s like we don’t give a fuck. All the hard work. All the sweat and blood.” He collapsed back into the sofa, spreading out his legs and turning up his palms, two roughed surfaces calloused over with hard grit. “It’s just… I don’t wanna be that. I don’t wanna go back to havin’ fuckin’ nothin’ at all…”

And you tensed, realizing that you were hearing a part of him that you had never heard before. The fear of having nothing. Believing he was nothing. Just a spot rubbed away until there was only glaring bareness, falling back into a bubbling pit of black that would swallow him. You saw into him a little more. He was scared.

You thought that was impossible.

Sighing out tenderly through your nose, you reached for his hand, slotting your fingers in between his. “You won’t have nothing.”

He smiled at you, but it was somewhat empty and crestfallen, in a way that might communicate—you don’t understand, you never will, but I do get what you’re saying—and he leaned forward to sweetly kiss your cheek.

Moo sniffled, his bare knees tapping together, the hollow thudding of bone echoing around the room. “What do you think Danny?” He asked.

It was strange to hear. They always used nicknames. Sometimes you forgot they had actual names, actual lives beyond your dwindled snapshots into the brunt of their suspect business. Snozz, Danny, Daniel—he didn’t speak for a moment—looking out the smudged glass door, until he deeply sighed, “let’s just wait and see what happens with this meeting. If it happens.” Then he smacked the shoddy conditioning unit.

It spluttered, squeaked, rattled to life, and you almost threw yourself at his feet in prostration. He walked out the room, leaving behind the mild scent of smoke, his eyes skimming yours lithely, and disappeared.

“Well, that’s freakin’ that,” Moo mumbled. You all sat in silence for a few seconds, staring blankly. “Time for worms!” Moo suddenly shouted, scrambling into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. “Don’t vanish yet, Snoodles! We can fish!”

Vernon rolled his eyes. “He hates fishing.”

“But he’s good at untangling lines and hooking worms!”

With the living room emptied out, you looked to Vernon. “I know it’s difficult. But you really won’t have nothing,” you murmured, admiring the perfect ferns of his eyelashes, dark and earthy. “I must count for something, right?”

“You count for everything,” he answered, pecking your mouth.

Later in the day, when it was a bit cooler, everyone gradually moved outside. You hadn’t realized it the first time you came by Moo’s house, but he lived on a rather sizeable lake, and his backyard had a dock that stuck out onto the water as well as a firepit surrounded by frayed and faded-looking lawn chairs. Trees beaming with all their full, healthy leaves swayed above your head as you sat upon a beach towel laid out in the uncut grass.

A few other people came to the house, seeming friendly. You were nervous, but the lapping feeling subsided when you realized that at least none of them were Kitty.

There was one girl you spoke to more than the others.

She was Moo’s younger sister, around your age, and she came outside in an orange bikini top decorated by hot pink flowers, wearing jean shorts similar to yours. Her hair was woven back in neat, thin cornrows that coiled down the back of her neck. She smelled like sweet sunscreen. She had stopped by your beach towel.

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Oh, I’m new, I guess.”

“A friend? Sibling?”

Your face held onto the heat tightly as you said, “Vernon’s girlfriend.”

Her eyes had widened, and you saw the surrounding leaves of the property's elms and maples reflected in their creaseless brown. “That Vernon?” She gawked, pointing her finger toward the dock, where Moo and Vernon were fooling around with the fishing rods. “I hope my surprise doesn’t offend you! That’s great.”

You had nodded back. “It’s okay. I get that reaction a lot.”

Jade, that was her name. She was pleasant to speak with, and she was surprisingly open about her experiences with the other boys. You didn’t want to interrupt her as she rambled, occasionally pulling at a piece of her dark, coiled hair or grabbing onto her small hand to inspect her plain but well-groomed nails. She told you about getting rides home from Dots. About the time she was yanked into an upstairs closet at their old group house and told to stay put, hearing a few terrifying pops from a gun while she hid. She talked to you about school—a more relatable topic—and you saw some pieces that were reminiscent of Diana in her.

“I didn’t really get along with Vernon initially,” she explained. “I don’t know. He didn’t have much interest in speaking to me. He kinda scared me.”

And you laughed, tossing your head back. “Tell me about it.”

“Auggie is a good brother. He always makes me laugh. And he tries really hard to keep me uninvolved in his stuff. So, y’know, I don’t get hurt. But it’s hard. I don’t always understand it. I want to protect him, too. So it gets frustrating.”

God—you had nearly shaken her hand—“I know right!”

She asked if you wanted to swim with her. But you didn’t have the right clothes, so she nodded and got ready to excuse herself from the corner of your Clifford: The Big Red Dog towel that Moo had tossed you earlier. While she was dusting herself off, Snozz came outside, smiled at her with closed, curled lips as he wandered down flat stones to the dock, the breeze fluffing through his overgrown locks. She watched him for a moment, then looked back to you, her eyes a bit weighted, cloudy, as she whispered, “we used to date. Not anymore. Auggie didn’t like it. But Danny’s so sweet. Honestly, they all are. But there's a lot of stuff there that hurts.”

And then she started running toward the bank. You watched her jump onto her brother’s shoulders, and he swung her around playfully, threatening to dip her in the water cold against the dock.

Naturally, your gaze floated in Vernon’s direction, bent down over a fishing rod laid out on wood, his hands clasped around a black-spotted pike that he managed to unhook and sink gently back into the dark, glittering blue.

“But there's a lot of stuff there that hurts.” You heard Jade in your ear, and your insides stirred with dread that you might lose him.

Vernon might be too much for you, after all.

But you hated to think about it. Hated it like a raw blister.

Inside Mr. York’s kitchen, you, Tara, and Lara were standing around a bare counter space beside two oil vats, picking away at a square tin of sweet potato fries that Costello had hidden in one of the sleek convection ovens. The restaurant was officially closed for the night, the kitchen sanitized, wiped down, mopped, and everything glinted in starry silver.

He had always been a kinder cook, often hiding food for the waitstaff to eat, especially for Lara, whom he had a silly little crush on. But she was on a strict no-dating policy, citing things like: I need to work on myself, I should get back into dance, relationships are so distracting, I know how to please myself better than anyone, I’ve been neglecting a lot, while she came into work with the same patented scowl and sloppy attitude completely untouched. You wouldn’t recognize her otherwise. There were bumpy nicks still visible through her thin eyebrow, the discolouration hidden by makeup. She said it kept getting her attention from masculinely dressed woman with windswept-looking hair and Tara was snickering, grinning.

“Oh! Oh! Guys!” Tara yelped. “Guess what just opened?”

Lara dipped a golden, crispy fry into a tiny plastic cup of garlic sauce. “Your brain?” she muttered, sticking the fry into her mouth.

“Ugh—no—shut up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That new nail place? On Fifth?”

“No,” Tara said, “but that would be amazing, too. Catherine Love’s assistant position is finally open! They started accepting applications this morning. I’m totally sending mine in the second I get home.”

“Wow, awesome,” you acknowledged.

“I know! It is awesome. It’s the definition of awesome.”

Continuing to nod, you pushed over a floppier fry for a dark, flaky one hiding underneath. Its sweetness squished delectably between your teeth. You had helped Tara practice her interviewing skills so much that you betted you could recite almost all her answers just from memory alone. She was more polished than a pearl.

“Maybe I’ll apply, too,” Lara mumbled around a thick, salted fry.

And you laughed. “Me three.”

Tara licked her lips, removing some orange crumbs. “You guys can apply all you want,” she invited confidently. “But I was born to do this.”

Lara grunted. “You were born to be someone’s assistant?”

“Not just someone! She’s an icon.”

“I’ve been looking through her website,” you admitted, deciding to try the garlic sauce that Lara was hogging. “And her exhibits are really gorgeous. I don’t know, but they feel super light. She seems to enjoy art that feels like sunshine on your skin, or a breeze in your hair. Does that make any sense?” The aromatic flavour of the garlic melted buttery on your tongue.

“Can I use that line?” Tara suddenly queried.

You sipped some water from a mason jar. “Uh, sure?” There was a thrumming vibration against your back pocket, so you pulled out your phone to read a text message from Vernon. Quickly gulping the rest of the mild tap water, you swirled out the jar into the large, deep sink. “Okay, chatty time is over for me,” you announced. “Vernon’s here. I’m gonna grab my stuff.”

“Ou la la,” Tara trilled. “Your Dark Knight.”

“To take you away on his impressive, black stallion,” Lara goaded.

After throwing the cinnamon bag over your shoulder, you made sure to poke your head back into the kitchen to blow a raspberry at them, still picking their way through the orange fries. “Goodnight, losers.”

As usual, Vernon was leaned against the edge of his car, so casual, wrapped in the humid gauze of a late summer night. He smiled when he saw you trotting up—still dressed in your work clothes—a hand raking through his dust-black hair while his eyes immediately warmed. Before he could speak, your hands had settled politely on his shoulders, massaging the breezy fabric of his white t-shirt splattered with a band logo. You kissed him, short and sweet, tasting a lingering mintiness from the gum he kept in his driver’s console.

“Hello, there,” you crooned. “How was that for timing, hm?”

He fingered a loose, bulbed button on your shirt, and the way his gaze travelled your body was a delicious longing. “Can’t complain.”

Once you were both settled inside the car, he asked about work.

You shrugged. “Fine. Not a drag. We were eating fries…” and you contemplated whether or not to bring up Catherine Love. Upon cranking the window down slightly, a city breeze flittered in, touching along your temples and baby hairs. “Do you think it would be weird if I applied for something I’m completely unqualified for and have no chance of attaining?”

Vernon’s eyes skipped to yours in the rear-view mirror. “People do shit like that all the time. They were gonna make Moo a project manager for a hotel construction rig. Don’t think he even knows how to use a drill.” He glanced at you for a moment, red light flushing in. “What’ch’ya thinkin’?”

Teeth scraped the inside of your cheek. “It’s stupid.”

“Nah,” Vernon hummed. “What’s the gig, PJ’s?”

“Well, Tara is obsessed with this artist lady. Catherine Love. She sets up exhibits and stuff. Worldwide. Have you seen her stuff before?”

The car smoothly rolled across the intersection. “Uh, dunno.”

You figured he wouldn’t know. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. But she’s opened up a position to be her assistant. I’ve done some research on the building she works from—it’s Skyline—and it’s totally gorgeous. Right along the coastline. The more Tara gabs about it, and the more I look into everything…” you trailed off, unsure. “Would it hurt to apply?”

Vernon shrugged, leafy shadows tumbling in through the street lamps and running over him in flickers. “Why don’t you just do whatever the hell you want.” He tapped the steering wheel. “Who cares what happens?”

“Yeah, but—what if I get an interview?”

“Then you go do the interview.”

“But I’m unqualified.”

“Not that unqualified if you got an interview.”

“Well, I suppose so, but—”

“Dude, why’d you even ask what I thought if you were just gonna shoot yourself down the entire time?” He laughed. “I can’t control you with puppet strings or whatever the fuck. No one can. Only person who can make you do or not do things is yourself. So just shut up and pick one.”

Typical Vernon advice. Straight to the point.

Shuffling up in the chair, you huffed. More wind fluttered inside and you could feel the cool tendrils slipping through little gaps between the buttons on your fresh-ironed shirt. You talked a little more, asked him if he heard anything from Jeonghan, and he said no.

Your street was quiet. Vernon helped you out from the car.

“Staying over?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Can’t. Business. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“What?!” You cried. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“It was recent stuff. An order never got dropped off. I’m gonna go investigate with Snozz. Nothin’ too major. It’s happened before.”

But you still got unusually quiet, your stinging eyes scanning the pavement, panging reverberations aching from deep inside your chest. Your different lines of work already separated you enough.

Vernon stepped closer to you. He cupped your soft face, burning over with hot emotions, in his calloused hands. You met his eyes lined in the ivory moonlight and immediately wanted to cry, shifting your hand over his and strumming at his rough knuckles. “I wanted to spend time with you…”

“I know, beautiful,” he murmured, stroking your cheek.

“Why do you have to leave tonight?”

“Need to be there at a certain time.”

You sighed, bit your lip, choked back a stupid whine. “Okay, fine.”

He chuckled. “I have your approval, is that it?”

“You shouldn’t have it, but you do. Unforch.”

And he clicked his teeth, repeated your colloquialism, “unforch,” in a way that mimicked your tone and made you laugh, smile. He suddenly fastened his arms around your waist, his muscles digging into your plump skin, setting you on the edge of the car’s hood. You giggled, shoved at his chest, could hardly breathe, as he smothered you with kisses—some left tingling on your warm lips, others ticklish down your neck—each pouring more and more reassurance inside you until you were slaked.

“Okay, okay!” You fought to articulate through the breathlessness and contagious laughter. “I-I g-get it!” When your head spilt back, and you saw the black quilt of a night sky with stars speckled across it like salt granules, and breathed in the foggy wind, and Vernon’s thick amber, and felt his hands squeeze into the back pockets on your work slacks, his hair brush your bare skin, his lips pulling bruises to the surface of your pulsing neck, you thought you could be someplace next to heaven. As long as he was there.

“You do, huh? You get it?” He purred.

Draping fingers through his hair to make the locks even messier, you nodded. “I guess you’ll miss me. Maybe. Is that it? The point?”

Then he pulled you off the hood. “Okay, smartass. Go to bed.”

As you stumbled onto the sidewalk, his palm thwacked your bum hard, enough to feel a jarring ripple that made you stagger, gasp.

“Hey!”

“Night!” He called, standing by his door.

You waved him off, smiling lopsidedly, limping up to the building despite trying your best not to. You said goodnight, too, but it was crinkled in the middle as your lower bum positively stung with the weight of his hand.

When Vernon called you, it was midday, Saturday. The summer air was weighted with a greasy humidity. Two whirring fans sat on the coffee table, one pointed at Ruby and another angled at you, while you watched a reality competition show. Neither of you really spoke or moved. The heat had made you drowsy. Some guy tumbled off a log dangling in the air, splashed into the flat, cold lake underneath, and you both groaned, jealous.

You picked up the vibrating phone, yawned, “hello?”

“PJ’s? What’chya up to?”

“Um, nothing, really. Watching people fumbling obstacle courses.”

“Well, grab a bag, pack some water. I’m gonna come get you.”

And you sat up from the indent you’d been making in the sofa, feeling the fan’s breeze tickle at your knees. “Huh? Why? What’s the matter?”

The sound of a car door slamming echoed across the line. “Dude, I got a note. Came outside from the store and it was tucked under my windshield wiper. Only got coordinates on it. Nothin’ else. Now, who the fuck do you think that is?”

You swallowed, touched your lips. “What? Really?”

“Really. Pack your shit. I’ll be there in twenty.” The phone beeped as the call collapsed. You glanced over at Ruby, the tanned glow of her olive skin, to see she was already looking back. “I’m going somewhere with Vernon.”

“If you’re going swimming, you have to invite me,” she huffed.

“Uh, I doubt it’s swimming.”

The heat had made her too lethargic to argue and pester. She was fanning herself with a cork coaster as you scrambled around the apartment, stuffing items into a tiny backpack—two bottles of water, a hydration drink, some sunblock, a change of clothes in case you sweated through your first outfit, apartment keys, and a little switchblade that you bought at a street market sale.

Vernon honked the horn when he arrived.

You said goodbye to your roommate and hurried outdoors, feeling the immediate scorch of the afternoon sun prickle you while the moisture made the air muggy. Escaping inside the car, you were relieved to get blasted by icy air conditioning.

“Here,” you offered Vernon a water bottle.

“Oh—fuck—thanks.”

The bottles crinkled as you each took lustily long sips.

“So—” you exhaled, breathless, “—you check the coordinates?”

“Mm. That’s why I know it’s him.”

“Oh. They go where?”

Vernon sighed, puffing out his chest. “Our old group house…” and there was a faint underbelly of sadness staining his words.

You nodded. “Jade told me about it. Briefly.” Your gaze wandered outside, to the woman trotting clumsily down the sidewalk with a newspaper clasped over her head, to the birds flapping their wings together along a shady tree branch. “Are you okay? Going there?”

He shrugged, running his thumb around the loose cap of the water bottle, a gleam on his forehead. “Dunno. It’ll sting. No two ways about it.”

“Yeah… but I’ll be there, if you need me.”

Vernon smiled.

While he drove to the location, you examined the note that he pulled from underneath his wipers. The paper was lined and margined, with hole punches, and a clear tear running down the side. The coordinates were written in dark purple, with the flakiness of a pencil crayon. Very neat handwriting. You wondered if Jeonghan tore the paper from his daughter’s notebook, used one of her crayons, though you couldn’t imagine he was the one to slide it under Vernon’s windshield wiper. He had people watching.

People watching.

And that made you feel mucky, thick fear in your gut.

The drive was longer than you expected. You passed landmarks you had never seen before, travelled across overpasses that revealed jagged neighbourhoods unfamiliar to your memory. Sometimes the streets were very thin, with the houses in between hardly houses, but scrappy shingles and skeletal structures and tarps that covered windows, doors, and garage openings. Sometimes the streets were wide and sunnily amicable, sprinklers chittering rainbows of spray across lush grass as children tossed beach balls at each other, splashing in their beautiful outdoor pools.

Sometimes there was nothing. Just road and dull, dull land. The liminal stretch that could not be avoided, linking unknowns together.

“We’re almost there,” Vernon said in a heavy, knotted tone.

The car bumped along a gravelly road. Each house was relatively spread apart. Some nicer than others—none well-groomed—but glittering in tiny charms that showed behind smudgy windows and aged patios. You hadn’t realized Vernon was pushing down a driveway until you saw something flicker through the dense trees.

The beginnings of a house.

The car settled. Vernon pulled out his keys. It was quiet.

“So…” you managed to croak. “This is the place?”

He nodded, let his eyes drift loosely. “Once upon a time.”

Your stomach writhed, getting out of the car. It wriggled and crawled and twisted. Swinging the backpack over your shoulder, you followed after Vernon toward the front door. But there was no door, just a bare threshold. Items littered the sprouting, wild grass. Some were mere decomposing lumps of brownish-black-rotting colour that were impossible to identify. Then there were plates, cups, metal rods, bottles, pieces of tile, brass knobs. You saw a broken alarm clock shattered into chunks, and a damn microwave sticking out from the earth at a strange angle, as though it had been thrown from above. When you glanced skyward, you noticed the upstairs windows were broken, embracing the full hail of seasons.

Suddenly, Vernon clutched your hand. “There’s glass,” he warned, nudging you to look at a splatter of hard edges close to your foot.

The humidity followed you inside. Dewiness and tangy, sour odours were hanging everywhere, cloaking you, and you wondered what kind of fever had soaked through the house, sucking things in and then spitting them out in pieces. Everything was positively ransacked.

It was total upturn.

Vernon was quiet, with a buried expression. He glanced into the kitchen but wouldn’t enter, his hand pressing into the peeling, graffitied wall.

You stood back and read the black letters.

G3M1N1 WAZ H3R3

TE EXTRAÑAMOS

More graffiti dried dripping in the rummaged living room.

761-8223 4 CANDY

COME HOME

EL TIMADOR DID IT

Emotions lingered. Certain spaces you walked past, and you could sense the immediate, blustery howl. The emotions were never going to leave. Even without people, the house was still full.

Vernon came up beside you. Together, you stood at the base of a staircase that extended toward a dark rectangle. Something was up there. It held the strongest emotion. Prowling in the decay and moldy blackness.

You swallowed. Hated to breathe the air. “Up there, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Up there.”

When you looked to Vernon, he was not himself. In the dimness and glossy heat, surrounded by fragile memories, he came to mirror a boy as opposed to the rugged, steely man you knew. It was in his blushing cheeks, his uncertain frown, and the vulnerable softness that stirred his eyes like a honey wand. His shoulders were not firm, and his forehead worried.

You touched his back, hoping the sensation was grounding. “I don’t think Jeonghan’s here yet. Should we wait in the car? What do you think?”

Instead, Vernon turned his back to the stairway, sat on one of the sturdier-looking steps, letting his elbows point into his knees. As he mused there in silence, you breathed out the dampness, and decided to gingerly fit beside him after brushing some grit off the step. It wasn’t comfortable at all.

At least not to you.

He clutched onto his hands, wringing them together. “Y’know, it wasn’t me who found him, Dots… it was Moo and Snozz. They went up to his room… saw him in bed with the covers pulled up to his waist. He looked asleep, they said. Nothin’ was weird. But then he just wouldn’t move. And they found the vomit under him. I remember, like, I was at this stupid waitin’ room, sittin’ in there with a bunch of other sweaty, nervous folk. For an interview. A sales position. At a car dealership of all goddamn places. N’ just as I got called into the big ole’ office, my phone started ringin’ off the hook. It was Moo, and he never calls. First thing I hear is ‘he won’t wake up, man—he’s not even breathing—he’s not anything—his heart’s gone’ and I fuckin’ collapsed into this old woman’s lap as she read a magazine about fuckin’ mental health and addiction.”

You watched him bite the nail of his thumb as he laughed, the clogged emotions starchy in his throat. “So I had to go over there, obviously, ditch the whole interview shit,” he sighed. “All three of us were in his room, just, fuckin’ stunned to silence, lookin’ at him in bed, so peaceful. Nothin’ was out of place. But he had the window open. Never. We were never allowed to have windows open or curtains open. It was a whole thing and you’d get slapped silly for ignorin’ it. And, like, the brightest fuckin’ light I had ever seen was comin’ through this damn window while we all stood around his bed, fucked in our heads, couldn’t even cry or talk.

Moo always says it was him comin’ to see us for the last time, spiritual shit like that. But, y’know, I always liked to think it was actually him leavin’, flowin’ away from us. ‘Cause he never should have been there. We knew it was over. We knew once word got out, shit would get hot quick. So we took all our stuff out and flipped the whole fuckin’ house. Ransacked it before anyone else could. I mean, this wasn’t all us. Who knows how many have been here since. But once it was over, we all sat down on the couch together for the last time, knew we’d never be back. That we’d have to accept not bein’ okay with anything, walkin’ around with holes in us, just empty sandbags, y’know? I can’t believe I’m here. It’s just numbness.”

You smiled, appreciating his honesty and openness. Interlocking your fingers through his, you grasped his hand tightly in the humid stairwell of the disembowelled house. “I know you’ll fill up. Drop by drop. Maybe drain a little, too. But that’s balance. I don’t think it ever truly goes away.”

Vernon squeezed your hand in return. “You fill me up well.” And his eyes were brighter, smiling in their own way, pleasant and uncoiling.

“Might I say, that is very, very touching.”

The unsuspecting, velvety voice made you crush together the bones in Vernon’s inked hand. Through the kitchen doorway, you saw Jeonghan, leaned against a dented countertop beside the bare outline of the wall where the fridge once stood. His hair was tied back, though a few loose strands tickled the pale edges of his smirking face. At your side, Vernon stiffened.

“Did you just get here?” You squeaked.

Jeonghan shook his head, and then slid his hands into the pockets of the black slacks he was wearing. “I’ve been here a while. Just wandering the property and that. Sorting through memories. No different than you two.”

Vernon stood up. “You picked a shitty day to do this.”

Upon drifting his way, unburdened, to the doorframe, Jeonghan shook his head. “Your manners are just as refined as I remember them. I think you should speak to the person you desire to negotiate with a bit more wise-mindedly.” Jeonghan flattened out a wrinkle in his glaring white shirt, a breezy button-up of tightly-woven lace, as he continued smiling. “Is that too much to ask, Hansol?”

You saw Vernon’s fingers twitch, his jaw flex.

Jeonghan sighed. “I know this house, too.” His stretched out his arms, clutched the doorway, squeezed the spongey wood in his fingers. “I helped with his body. I took the last look at him. Nothing but skin and bones, by then. Absent was his breath of life.”

And Vernon muttered something particularly guttural to himself that you failed to hear properly. So you let your hand sit on the boy’s shoulder, gave him a squeeze to smooth down his bristles.

“I knew you would bring her,” Jeonghan said, nodding at you. “I am glad to see you again, Clever Girl,” he called you. “I think Hansol must hold you very close to his heart if he’s showing you this place.”

Suddenly, Vernon jerked his head. “Let’s go talk.”

“Where would you like to talk?”

“Basement.”

“Ah, the old locker room. I used to count the money,” he remarked wistfully, letting his fingertip drag along a stain in the wallpaper. “You were never short, Hansol. Never. You were always so efficient.”

He rolled his eyes at Jeonghan, then strummed your arm into his warm fingers. “I think we should talk alone,” Vernon whispered. “I’m sorry, I can’t say how long this might take. He… he’s hard to deal with, always been that way, the cheeky fucker.” You felt something being pressed into your hand, and you noticed it was his bulky car keys attached to the carabiner. “If you need AC.” He kissed your cheek. “I owe you, ‘kay, baby? Thanks for comin’ with.”

“O-Okay,” you stuttered, clutching his keys.

Vernon waved at Jeonghan, and the man proceeded to follow him down the foyer into another room, where they disappeared from sight. You stood there for a moment, unsure, until you decided that the house was speaking too many things and you needed to be outside. But then you wondered where Jeonghan even came from. Upon walking into the kitchen, you noticed another doorway lacking a door. It led to a small porch, the wood stripped of its colour, a circular glass table tipped over and shattered.

Was anything in this house unwounded?

You slipped his keys into a pocket on your backpack.

The sun and heat were still singeing. Your feet moved carefully through the long blades of grass and matted weeds, finding a lighter, a spoon with a burnt underside, some tattered fabrics dried into lumps, and a molted book whose pages thunked lifelessly to the ground when you picked up the sleeveless hardcover. As you crouched down, pulled apart dried, wrinkly papers with faded script, one page was immediately yanked from your hand by a sudden breeze, bouncing and swirling back toward the porch. You stood up, turned around, noticed something astonishing.

A large mural painted to the back of the house, with heavy colours coated meticulously over the peeling boards, demonstrating prayer hands clasping a beaded, dangling rosary. The detail was bright and nimbus. Black font was sprayed under the shadow of the roofing, in a different language.

DIOS TE HA LIBERADO

VERNON.

His world started tilting the minute he got there and it wasn’t going to stop. The dizziness, the heat, the flashes of memories—voices, smells, laughter, and pain—all overwhelming him, like his head was dunked and held underwater. Right when he thought he might catch a breath, Jeonghan was there, with that tricky light in his eyes undimmed, pawing at Vernon’s raw hurt.

They hadn’t grown on each other immediately.

Jeonghan was older. He made rules and then broke them but no one else was allowed the same leisure. He rung aside stiffened curtains and busted open kitchen doors to the smell of burnt plastic and shifted through the downstairs deposits whenever he wanted.

He pickpocketed in elevators, subways, malls, cafés, movie theatres, markets, house parties—even in the line-up for the ATM—with his silkened fingers. He was also a slight lunatic. He reared his first car, a black corvette, into his old dealer’s Corolla for duping him with sugared-down coke, which sent the Corolla rolling into a boggy riverbank. He pulled out Basil’s tooth with pilers and kept it in one of those velvet charm pouches for bracelets after he caught him stealing from the depository.

He said he learned a magic trick and then proceeded to cough up an elusive, small key sticky in his saliva.

No, Jeonghan was fucking insane.

And after a while Vernon had no choice but to like him.

Jeonghan was gunpowder. He turned everyone into his sparks.

“I love you! I fucking love you Hansol Chwe!” He had started weeping uncontrollably into Vernon’s shoulder one night. “You understand me! You’re just like me! You don’t give a fucking fuck.” Then he took the can of compressed nitrous oxide and let the thin nozzle shoot a flushed stream up his nostril, and Vernon saw the glaze suffuse across Jeonghan’s eyes like a heated knife spreading butter.

He stared up into the starry night sky, his mouth hanging open in bliss. “Try it, try it! Holy fuck! Try it, Chwe! I’m fucking tingling everywhere. I’m floating!”

The next morning, with his head splintering into aching, stabbing pieces, teenage Vernon heard Dots yelling at Jeonghan from downstairs. He had never heard Dots yell.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re too wild sometimes, Jeonghan! He’s a fucking teenager. He shouldn’t be snorting fucking compressed air! Your faces are full of bruises! Were you punching the shit out of each other?”

It had trickled back to him slowly. Jeonghan leaning close, nothing in his eyes but twitching, sporadic blackness, entreating Vernon to punch him as hard as he could. So he did it. Right in the lip. The older boy knocked him back, bruising his jaw. And then they were grappling around in the soft beds of thick field grass, choking with laughter, with hoarse screams, with euphoria, as they punched and kicked and scratched and tore, midnight milky and clear overhead.

“Look, I fucking love Chwe. But you can’t save him, Paulo. You should fucking save yourself. He doesn’t want anything else. You can get out but he’ll still be here.”

Vernon looked around the basement. The windows were intact, placed high up the wall to be level with the overgrown grass consuming the outside. Although the light was sparse, it was adequate enough to see, and he observed in utmost intensity through the glowing green haze as Jeonghan grinned at the gaping hole busted into the concrete wall. The lockers were gone; had been for a while. Some people kept theirs. Others were destroyed.

“Do you still remember your number?” Jeonghan asked.

“Yeah.”

“I remember everyone’s. Snozz, Moo, Basil, Yo-Yo, Casper, 8-Ball, Tech, Froggy, Peppermint… when Peppermint kltch—” Jeonghan drew a line across his throat, “—and we had to replace him with Lipsy and we all hated Lipsy because he used to resell Snozz’s Provigil.” He sighed, hands bulging in his pants pockets. “And I remember yours, too.”

“Of all the places to fuckin’ meet, Jeonghan. Why this place?”

“I missed it.”

“You probably live in a fuckin’ castle by now. Hidden behind a waterfall or some majestic shit. Like hell you miss this place. Probably one of your fuckin’ weird mind games. Can’t ever do anything normal.”

“And you can? People look at you and they think a million things. I bet not one of those things is that you’re normal. But you know that. Who wants to be normal, anyway? Who doesn’t want to have a story that makes everyone stop and listen? You’re a walking storybook, Hansol. Everyone who lived in this house is or was a storybook. This house itself is a book.”

“Whatever, man.”

“I like to reread old books. That’s why I came here.”

“Are you gonna give me the territories back or not?”

“I don’t like that question. It’s very demanding. I always wonder how could you have spent so much time with Paulo and not adopt one ounce of his manners. No P’s and Q’s. You’re a man now, Hansol.”

“Oh, I have fuckin’ manners. Just not for you.”

“You know, what I did was not personal.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Then why are you so… angry? Impatient?”

“Maybe ‘cause you brought me to the fuckin’ house my friend died in on a hot-ass fuckin’ day after blue-ballin’ me for two weeks?”

 “That is your surface. But it’s not your insides.”

“What? You become a shrink?”

“No. But I know you Hansol. I know the ribs and the meat of your story. I know anger doesn’t come that easily to you unless it’s something very, very deep. You can be dismissive and cruel but not angry. The way I wanted to run things was different from Paulo. He held onto all of you too closely. He couldn’t get stern with you. He protected all your feelings.”

“S’not true. He just didn’t wanna pull out our fuckin’ teeth with pliers when we did somethin’ stupid, or burn off our fingerprints.”

“Basil never stole again, did he?”

“I don’t care what Basil did.”

“But when Moo lost Hylands? Mr. Shafaee? Prerogative?”

“So? Who gives a fuck! You just shuffle the cards!”

“He shouldn’t have any teeth at all.”

“Fuck off. Auggie doesn’t need this shit, anyway.”

“The only thing I’m pointing out is that while Dots did think strategically, he never put his foot all the way down. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And I didn’t agree. And now I have Hylands. Mr. Shaefaee exclusively tunnels our LSD, and I’ve got Prerogative in between my teeth, like a toothpick, Hansol. I’m not giving you anything. I’m done owing you.”

“Y’know what? Fuck you.”

“Once all this anger is out, maybe you could consider coming to work for me. I know what you’re capable of. I find impressiveness in you, things that no one else will, because—well—you’re a criminal.”

“You never gave a fuck about Dots. You twisted him up.”

“That is a whole other can of worms, Hansol. Don’t open it.”

“He did all the heavy-liftin’ for your sorry ass. Then you fuckin’ stabbed him in the back and took it all out from under him. You’re so damn corrupt. You owe us those fuckin’ territories, you ungrateful freak. I bet he would still be here, y’know? If you didn’t fuckin’ gut him like a fish.”

“Hansol, you don’t know anything about the conversation—”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that! Vernon! Vernon! Not fuckin’ Hansol!”

“Well… Vernon… you weren’t there for our conversation.”

“You killed him.”

“Vernon—”

“You crushed him! And you took away the only fuckin’ person who actually fuckin’ cared about me! You just crushed him up and stole him from us like he was one of your bullshit drugs! He was the only person who thought I could do somethin’ other than this and then you pushed everything down and you fuckin’ ruined everybody’s life in this house!”

“Vernon, I never asked to leave.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No. Paulo. He asked me to go. He didn’t want me there.”

“Bullshit.”

“He did, Hans—Vernon. I knew the ways we did things were different, but that didn’t mean I wanted to leave. I felt the same community you did. I know I’m fucking strange and a mess and I know I did things that were unfair but I was a free spirit, you see? When we were sucking air up our noses and punching each other to pieces, I never wanted it to end. You remember that night. How we had to hold each other. All the blood we leaked over that gas station sink. Then we ate those hot dogs, spilling mustard and ketchup and relish all over our shirts, before we started feeling the pain in our mouths and we swore we were angels. You knocked out three of my teeth and I had them filled with gold caps. I busted the eyebrow you wanted to get your piercing in so you had to pierce the other.

I still think about that night. But Paulo was furious. I didn’t understand how he could be so ginger and protective of you, but then I was getting reamed by the boy I fucking saved from another halfway house and tarps under bridges and picking scraps out of dumpsters. But it was because he was getting you steady. He was giving you responsibility and confidence and trust and all the fancy little dressings that parents are supposed to do, except you never got that. And I was bulldozing through his work. It got too much. I was too much. I had no place there anymore. I told him if I left, everything between us would change, and he said it already had.

You see, I saved him, but I never saved myself. And then the same thing happened to Paulo. He tried to save you. Get you steady. But then he’s a corpse lying beneath his own vomit in the upstairs bedroom of a trap house. So I ask this of you Chwe: if you see yourself staying in this scummy little world we have for ourselves, then you are still my competitor, and I cannot simply hand you anything. But if you want to leave, get away from all this, then I can help you. I will help get you out for Paulo’s sake. I will wire you money earned from your old territories. Not just some little lump. It’ll give you quite the boost. And you can cut it up with Auggie and Danny. But I understand if you don’t want the charity. That’s as far as I’m willing to go, alright? It’s a hefty choice. So think on it. Think about you.”

You returned to sitting on the stairs. It was too hot to stay outside, directly under the sun. The knapsack was creating a line of dampness down your back so you removed it, now flipping through Vernon’s stacked carabiner to keep yourself entertained. You only recognized two: one for his car and the other for his bachelor. There was a tiny silver key with an engrained number, 623, looking a bit scuffed, worn, as your thumb brushed across it.

Maybe for unlocking a suitcase. You weren’t sure.

From around the corner, there was a shuttering sound, and Vernon was suddenly striding up to you with a very blank expression.

“C’mon.” He gestured, limply raising his hand. “Let’s go. I’m gonna fuckin’ melt.”

“Okay—” you stood back up, flung the bag on, “—how did it go?”

“Tell you later.”

“Did you get to see the mural? It’s painted against the house.”

“No. Let’s go, okay?”

There was no room for patience in his stone-flat tone. You assumed the conversation hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to. As you followed him toward the empty front door, studying the rigidness in his sharp shoulders, you heard calm, sweeping footsteps from behind you. Jeonghan.

He placed his hand against the wall, missing chunks of plaster and running in dried paint. A wave. “Goodbye Clever Girl, Vernon.”

You didn’t say anything back, and Vernon certainly didn’t, either. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. But in that moment, as Jeonghan’s palm embraced the fragile wall and his smile touched both sides of his cheeks, left in the house’s dust, rot, and sadness, he looked so perfectly at home. As though he weren’t standing in a boneyard.

You couldn’t say anything.

It was sticky inside the car. You opened the pink hydration drink and took several sips, huffing to Vernon if he wanted any, but he shook his head. The drive back to his apartment was long and silent. Cool air revving through the filters gradually stifled the heat. You unpeeled your bare thighs from the leather seat. Let the air hit them.

Closed your eyes and breathed.

When they opened again, you were rolling into the parking lot behind his building. Vernon didn’t shut the car off, the vibrations continuing to gently shake the vehicle. “Go inside, alright?” He slipped the appropriate key off the carabiner and handed it to you. “I’m gonna hang back a few minutes.”

You knew he wanted space, so you didn’t question him, instead accepting the key wordlessly and pulling up the knapsack from its hiding place at your feet.

“My clothes are full of sweat. Is it okay if I shower?”

“Do whatever the hell you want, PJ’s,” he sighed.

Vernon had the same white box as Moo sticking out his window, with a few brown dials and buttons that you squinted between. You couldn’t imagine him caring that much about the heat in his apartment considering how little time he spent there, and you wondered if he pulled this out from some cobwebby closet just for your comfort. After turning the unit on, you entered his washroom, plopping the knapsack down on the closed toilet lid before craning your neck over your shoulder, examining the rivulet of sweat travelling down the back of your old t-shirt.

You immediately peeled the fabric off, twisted the tight knobs in the shower, let the water spray.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, you couldn’t stop thinking, fingers brushing at your arms and tangling through your sopping hair. What kind of things had they discussed? What had made Vernon so crusted and folded-in? You were worried, but he never liked the suffocation.

Turning around, you let the cool water thrum like trenchant needles against your face, eyes squeezed shut and lips tucked in, sinking fully into the sensation of liquid rinsing the sun’s sweaty film away. Your fingers slid everywhere, swirling and rubbing, until the water began turning colder and colder and you knew it was time to get out. Fuck—you stood there, dripping all over the tiles—without a towel. When you cracked the washroom door open no more than a tentative sliver, about to shout Vernon’s name and pray he had finally come inside, you noticed a towel hung from the doorknob.

You quickly tugged it inside to pat yourself dry, then searched through the knapsack for a palm-sized tube of white lotion with a pleasant lactonic smell. Dressed in a fresh tank-top and airy shorts, you then flung the moistured towel over the shower bar and quietly padded out into the living room, where you found Vernon slumped deeply into the swallowing futon, arms crossed and legs spread desultorily. You stood behind him, eased your fingers into his knotted shoulders and squeezed. “How are you feeling?”

“He made it impossible for me,” Vernon hummed, tired. “I’m supposed to choose. ‘Course it’s a fuckin’ choice. It’s always a choice.”

“How do you mean?” Coming to sit across from him on the coffee table, you let him see the softness in your eyes. “What’s the choice?”

But he didn’t speak again. His gaze was an absent line drifting toward the windows and the grey industrial spots of city. It was taking everything inside you not to press him like he was dough underneath your kneading palms, and every beat of your heart was heavy. Please, you wanted to entreat, please tell me, let me in, let me help you, let me understand. What kind of choice? It felt scary. But you sat there quietly as the air conditioning purred, scraping at the underside of the coffee table, knowing that Vernon’s words always came to him and that he was so uniquely eloquent when it mattered.

You sighed, “can I help you right now? At all?”

His eyes flickered to you, and there was a sudden opening in their cloudiness to the true copper beneath. Then his lips twitched, gentle, leaning into a smile with dizzying prettiness.

“C’mere,” he rumbled, gesturing for you.

So you straddled his lap, sunk down, hands massaging his shoulders to realize their usual looseness. You missed his body so badly. You missed tracing his corded veins and letting your fingers glide along his sharp jaw and feeling the bulb of metal in his lip dig at your mouth. You missed touching his sooty hair, squeezing your arms around his elbow, nuzzling into his black tattoos, intoxicating yourself with his smell. Smoke and amber. He had been so distracted and you had been distracted with his distractedness.

His hands smoothed to your waist, gripped you hard.

You shivered.

And then he pulled your face in close to his. “You know I need you, baby,” he whispered, and every word tingled on your lips like a hundred blended spices. He kissed you, nudging his warm, soft mouth against yours. The heat was still there. Once lingering, now unfurling, as you pushed back, falling into the slippery lulls of tongue, teeth, breath, and rhythm. His hands scooped underneath your bum. You were wrapped around him in threads as he carried you over to his untouched bed, threw you down such that you bounced against the sheets tinged in old detergent.

“That wasn’t nice!” You pouted.

“Whoever said I was nice, Miss?” He replied, proceeding to crawl toward you like a sleek panther, his muscles lean and rolling. There were pulses in your abdomen upon watching and feeling him rub his lips against your ankle, up your shin to your knee, the dampness of a silk tongue licking slowly along your thigh as your hands shaped into fists and you forgot how to act human. He sat back, bracketing your waist. “Look a little fuzzy, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” you mewled, beginning to open your chest with air and pull the sheets into your nervous fingers. “What the heck was that?”

Vernon leaned over you, imposing, obstructing the sunny light with the edges of his body, his favourite gold chain dangling down, feathering in cold strokes along your collarbone the closer he hovered. “You don’t like when I taste you?” He was practically humming the sensual words into your hovering lips. Then the boy gripped your boiling face, pushed his thumbs into your mouth where they pressed against your ribbed teeth. “Taste yourself from me,” he whispered throatily, replacing his thumbs with his tongue, and your chest bloomed up, rubbing against his, as you welcomed the sudden slipperiness that filled your mouth. 

You were jelly. Liquid. Holding form on the bed. His hair was wrapped in between your fingers, and then your arms were hanging around his neck. Anything to keep his mouth on yours, his tongue thickly coating your tongue, tweaking cords in your body like a trained musician. You noticed his palm drifting, and then it engulfed your right breast over the tank-top, no sort of bra to blur the intimate, squeezing feeling. Suddenly, you were back in Kitty’s pale bedroom as the night turned everything deep blue, with Vernon licking your neck and rubbing circles to your nipples.

But this was different.

You needed more. It was terrifying, unfamiliar, but if you were going to make this moment with anyone then you would only allow him.

“Vernon,” came the shaky whisper as his clever tongue receded. He leaned back, allowing you to sit up, your eyes tracing the room.

“You okay?” Vernon asked, brushing some saliva off your chin, the edge of your flushed lips. “Wanna stop? It’s fine with me, yeah?”

If you spoke, it would break everything you built up. Taking in a long breath, you suddenly pinched your eyes shut and gripped the hem of the thin tank-top, beginning to peel it, inch after inch of skin exposing, burning, thrumming, but you kept going until the top was off your body and now a fabric lump discarded to the side. You were tingling, couldn’t open your eyes because what if Vernon was scowling or angry or disappointed or regretting everything—“I’m sorry,” you panicked, reaching for your top, trying to unfold it as your hands shook. “I screwed this up. I’m sorry.”

But then you blinked, and the shirt was fucking gone.

Vernon had thrown it away, somewhere unknown.

Fingers clasped your bare shoulders and you were being pressed back into the bed, the pillow plumping around your head. You tried to find the air. Instead, Vernon’s lips, your cheeks in his hands, a kiss that drew stars to the slates of your eyelids like chalk to a blackboard. He let you breathe while his kisses sunk lower. Something stupid and probably incoherent was on the tip of your tongue, but then you felt his mouth—that fucking delinquent mouth—drape itself onto one of your bare breasts and you hollered. The feeling was completely wet and smooth and comfortingly warm. Suction. As he squeezed his lips and slurped your nipple deep into his feverish mouth, you grasped at his hair like long grass sprigs. “Vernon! Oh my g-god!”

His hand curled around your other breast, kneaded it, then let your swollen nipple slip out from his mouth, dressed in silver threads of connecting, sordid spit. He sat back, gripped each breast, let his fingers dig as harshly as they needed while you squirmed and keened under him. “I waited so goddamn long to see these perfect tits of yours,” Vernon growled. “So don’t you dare fuckin’ tease me, you insufferable fuckin' girl.” He leaned down toward the breast untainted with his saliva. Your mind faded, surging between white vignettes and startling consciousness. Vernon pursed spit from his mouth, watched with leery eyes as it fell to your pert nipple, unable to contain himself from suddenly flicking and laving his tongue.

You squealed again, wrangled at his hair, panted. “I-I just, I didn’t think you would—I thoughttt—” he let his teeth run over your erect nipple, and a spike of sensitivity melted throughout your abdomen like warmed honey. “I always thought you wouldn’t like me.”

Your breasts remained secured and massaged underneath his calloused hands. Another hot kiss smudged your mouth, the feeling of fresh embers. “I would fuckin’ kill someone with my bare hands for you, lovely girl. What the fuck do you mean? You’re so beautiful.” He nudged you with a second kiss, reassurance and light. “N’ your tits fit so fuckin’ perfectly in my hands, baby. So, so soft in my mouth.”

“Don’t,” you giggled, losing your breath.

Your wet nipple was slipped between his fingers and suddenly there was a careful, sweet pinch that made your entire body delightfully careen.

“Hm? Don’t what?” Vernon murmured into your ear, the tune of his husky voice causing you to shiver, grasp onto him. “Don’t like when I play with your gorgeous tits, baby?” He pinched again, a little harder, and it stung. “Then what should I play with? Hm?” The ceiling began to swirl and wobble like a still pool of water after a rock breaks its surface. The tender backs of his fingers swept down your ribs, your tummy, reaching the drawstring on your cloth shorts. “Any suggestions?” And then his hand started to sink, slowly, sliding between your legs. But Vernon stopped for a moment to look into your eyes, which you could only imagine were embarrassingly glazed in pleasure. “What do you think?” He smiled, and it alighted your heart. “You don’t have to let me, okay? You can stop me. Yeah?”

This is real, you thought, your chest drilling, I can ask him to touch me, I can really fucking ask him to touch me. It’s not like that time. I trust him. So you swallowed, nodded, speaking in a runny, scared whisper. “I want to.”

He nodded back. “You want to, baby?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Fuck. C’mere then.”

Vernon sat against the wall, gestured for you to come between his legs. You crawled over, timid, thrilled, afraid, eager, and proceeded to get comfortable leaning back into his chest. He stiffened a little. You were right against his erection. Gosh—don’t think about that—don’t think about how big he is and how he might feel and how much he’s going to stretch you apart.

The way his hands moved were delicate, pulling apart the drawstring on your shorts, getting the hem nice and loose. He rubbed up and down the sensitive, shivering insides of your thighs, the grit on his fingertips threatening to make you a puddle. All those little imperfections you thought would disappoint him, turn him away from you—thick downy hairs and razor bumps and translucent creases in your skin—he didn’t seem to give a fuck about.

He nuzzled your ear. “You touch yourself?”

“What?”

Then he laughed, and it rumbled against your back. “With your fingers. Inside. Just so I know what you’re used to. That’s all.”

“Oh… um…” you didn’t want to answer, so you sat coyly for a minute, fishing the sheets into your hands, thinking. “Sometimes… I mean, only a few times with my fingers. If that means anything to you.”

Vernon nodded. “M’kay, that’s fine.” His inked arms suddenly wove around your waist, his muscles tightening and pressing into you. “I just wanna make sure you’re comfortable, PJ’s,” he murmured.

“I am,” you smiled. “A little nervous.”

“That’s normal. I don’t fault you. Just breathe. You don’t gotta worry much. I’ll make you feel really good. Really fuckin’ good. Okay?” He placed a lingering, soft kiss to the pounding vein in your neck.

Rolling out your shoulders, you went limp as best you could, letting your boyfriend take control. The sunlight outside was dimming. Clouds were pouring in. Large, fuzzy, dark clouds, like smeared ashes in the sky. Vernon was gentle with every movement, his large hand sliding underneath your shorts, dipping down over your pastel underwear. You fisted the cool bedsheets. Let him rub you with the rough flat of his textured palm. Bit your lip because you hadn’t realized how damn slippery and sensitive and aroused you were. The heat from his skin was a pressure. It made your head tingle.

“How’s that, princess?” Vernon murmured. “Feel alright?”

You didn’t want to speak. Just feel. Soak. Instead, you nodded.

Then his fingers started to prod. They curled and pushed gently, moving up and down the damp blotches on your underwear, figuring you out, getting a grasp for your anatomy without being too abruptly invasive.

His thumb pushed against you in just the right spot and you rolled against him, grabbing onto his knees without thought. Vernon smiled at your ear. “Does that feel good, baby?” He exercised the spot in thick, sweeping circles, drawing and drawing, letting you twitch, wriggle, and buck your hips the more he dug. “That’s your favourite spot, isn’t it?” He continued teasing into your burning ear, his voice rubbing through you, invoking desires you had always kept hidden. “I bet you always touch your clit, don’t you, princess? That feels the best, right? So sensitive.” Then two of his fingers slipped your sticky, uncomfortable panties to the side, softly poked at you, stroked the slimy wetness until it was wrapped between the digits. You turned immediately into his neck and huffed a big, deep breath.

Vernon laughed. “Fuckin’ feels good, yeah?” His fingers slid easily between your folds, made silky with arousal. The cold touch of his silver rings quickly warmed, and he nuzzled around your clit, squeezed a little. “Can feel you gettin’ fuckin’ wetter by the second. Hm? Gonna soak through your shorts, baby?”

You shook your head. Still didn’t want to use your voice.

He nibbled at the cartilage cusp of your ear; his words raspy as they slithered off his tongue. “Don’t wanna talk to me?” His entire hand shifted underneath the panties. A finger rubbed carefully at the slit where you leaked from like a broken faucet while his thumb tended to your overwhelmed clit, pushing, circling. “Afraid you’re gonna moan?” He dipped his finger inside you, shallow, just feeling, and you tensed, breathed hot, frustrated, needy air against his amber-scented neck. You felt his finger sink in a little deeper, closer to the knuckle. Your thighs somehow tilted further apart without you realizing. He was holding your throat, now.

Wouldn’t let your head squirm around as he groaned, “slutty fuckin’ girl, wants my fingers in her desperate, virgin cunt.” Pressure pushed through his warm, gripping hand to your beating throat, and your eyelids fluttered, the world ebbing with haze. Little by little, his index finger slid into your slit with a slight, creeping stretch, past his knuckle, stopping at his ring. You whined against his scarred palm, breathed in ragged, untrimmed pieces that were hot and damp. “You like that, baby girl?” The finger stroked you from the inside, hithering. His thumb pushed back on your clit. “Or is this too much for you? Just my fingers?” Vernon began to submerge in another, and the skin of your slit stung dully. “Jesus Christ. How are you gonna take my dick, then? Hm? I can’t split you in half, can I? Or are you such a brainless, dumb girl that you’ll let me? Huh? You gonna let me ruin your pussy, baby?”

The pressure lifted from your throat. Air surged in as you gasped, moaned, scraped down his hard, carved thighs. “Yes!” You gritted into sharp fragments. “I want you t-to—ff-fuck—it’s gonna c-come. I-I think—“ without a damn clue what you were babbling, you braced for the inevitable ripple, building like a shockwave.

But there was no ripple.

Vernon’s hand was gone from your shorts. A second later, he was pulling you back by the hair, then sliding his slimy fingers coated in your tasteful musk inside your own mouth. You couldn’t help but swallow, losing every thought you ever had, as his digits pushed deeper, making you choke.

“My face,” he breathed hotly against your ear, his voice tight and twisted in need. “You’ll cum on my face like a good fuckin’ girl, hm?” The fingers proceeded to pop out your mouth, but not without thick webs of your glistening spit following, your eyes widening at how erotic it was. “Take your shorts off, your panties,” Vernon ordered while nudging you off him, coming to his feet at the bedside, staring at you with an electrical heat. When you were moving too slowly, fingers too shaky, Vernon grabbed your tattooed shin in blatant impatience and roughly dragged you down the bed toward him.

You yelped, could do nothing but observe in a stupefying sense of shock and arousal as he grasped the shorts and panties in his deft, inked hands, peeled them off you with hunger until they were another lump on the floor alongside your discarded top. There you were, stripped to bareness of which there was nowhere to hide, sweating in his dishevelled bed, soiling his sheets with tangy liquids dripping down your thighs. Vernon’s fingers skimmed up to your knee. He wouldn’t stop staring, and his dark eyes seemed like gaping mouths that were drinking you in complete headiness.

Both your knees were in his hands.

Slowly, he began to spread your bent legs open, and you winced, chewed your lip to bruises, as the unfamiliar sensation of intimate exposure tendered you in its powerful grip. His gaze slipped down. You writhed a bit, looked but then didn’t look, looked again, as Vernon’s fingers brushed down the tops of your tremouring thighs. He pulled you a little more, had your soaking, bare centre gingerly meeting the bulge of his clothed erection.

Your forehead creased. The friction was slight yet delicious.

But he wouldn’t say anything. Vernon studied you wordlessly, perhaps confined in his own overlapping musings, much like you.

Still, you felt that flutter of emerging fear. “V-Vernon? Are—”

He dropped to his knees, and your mouth buttoned shut. Then his soft, nimble lips were dusting the interior of your right thigh with the kind of kisses that left invisible burn marks. Your head dropped into the sheets and his name slipped out in a wispy, quiet moan, meanwhile the room darkened into shadows from the swathing rain clouds collecting outside, in the heat.

 “God…” his breath tickled you. “Look at you, PJ’s…” his hands swept up your thighs, pushing them further apart with care, curiosity, eagerness. “Soakin’ my fuckin’ bed with your pretty cunt.” You felt his thumbs, settling down onto your slickened folds, and then he spread you open right there, right in front of his goddamn face that was and always had been way too beautiful for you to compute or handle.

You squirmed, toes curling in embarrassment because your body was gleefully responding in coursing thrums that turned you swollen, sticky, ready for him. “Gosh.” Your teeth grinded, and you started to laugh. “Why do you have to look so freaking intensely?” In a timid gesture, your legs began to close.

But Vernon peeled them back open in a heartbeat, almost flattening them to the bed, his scary strength never quite evaporating. “Fuck off, PJ’s,” he warned. His thumbs opened you again. “So, so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart. You're fuckin' gorgeous. Look at how ready you are for me to taste you. To be inside you.”

The sheets dampened in your perspiring hands as Vernon used the pointed, strong tip of his tongue to lick at a glossy trail along the crease of your inner thigh. Suddenly, the spellbound boy nuzzled into you without hesitation, his nose pressed deep against your clit and his mouth opened, tongue dragging at you, letting everything slowly melt. You turned the sheets in circles around your fists, keened at the ceiling. What was that fucking feeling? What was it doing to you? Why was everything slipping away and numbing apart from the hot, oozing sensation of his heavy tongue tasting you? Again and again, his wet tongue swept, his hands unwavering in their grip.

“Oh, baby, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he slurred into your buttery folds, speaking against skin. “M’gonna fuckin’ die in this cunt.” His lips finally secured around your clit that his nose had kept nudging. Immediate suction overwhelmed you. Sloppy, vibrating with his throaty groans. You almost screamed at the feeling, squeezed your thighs around his head, but then worried you might possibly be suffocating him and let them shakily flutter back open. Vernon laughed against you. “Go ahead, beautiful. You can fuckin’ drown me, alright?” He spoke between thorough, flat licks to your needy clit that plastered you in his bubbly spit. “Let me die with your pussy in my mouth, won’t you?” The boy chuckled again, dug his blunt nails into the tissue of your thigh. “Or give me a new pair of your cute panties so I have somethin’ to jack myself off with when you’re not around.”

Your hips jerked up to his pierced mouth. “D-Don’t talk anymore, holy hell,” you gasped, floating between the coherency for proper words and the pleasure from his skilled tongue working your clit. “Y-You shouldn’t be in jail for drugs. It’s—yy-your—d-damn—” you succumbed, forgot everything, when he pressed his mouth firmly against you, let his tongue flick, faster, faster, until he settled into a pace that was solid and consistent, relentless in the stimulation. The pleasure was causing your back to bend off the mattress, dampness flush to the wrinkly sheets below. Glistering thighs gripped around his head, fingers scraping, while his tongue knew nothing but fast, euphoric taps to your clit that made your eyes reel backward.

And then you burst, screaming his name with the volume of splintering wood because you fucking doubted this was the first time his neighbours had heard it and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In sensitive twitches, you started to relax, unfurl, thighs collapsing wide open. For a brief moment, you were worried about Vernon.

But then he popped up, grinning, chin and lips and nose wet.

“Your mouth,” you finally completed the lost thought circling your buzzing mind. “You should be in jail for your damn mouth…”

“You should come with me,” he breathed laboriously.

“No…” your eyelids were limp, weighted by unseen fingers pulling them down, “never...” However, something slippery started gentle laps that maneuvered your clit and dipped between your folds. You shuddered, wanted to curl up. “Vernon, I can’t.”

“Mmm…” he ignored you, spread you open once more, suckled lazily on your sore clit that still pulsed under his lips. Again, your body jerked, twitched, overrun with fire. “A little longer, baby,” Vernon mumbled. “Be good for me, okay? Relax for a few minutes.” He was being much slower, much slighter, his warm hand pressing into your gut while his thumb comfortingly stroked a fold in your tummy. Another lick. Another suckle. Another kiss. You felt the climb start over, but softer, while you breathed out his name, your chest reaching for more, more, more. “That’s it,” he whispered scratchily. “I’ve got you, baby, okay?” More kisses. More tender suckling. More lentamente licks. “M’gonna take care of you.” A finger pressing in, wriggling deep, squelching. “You can cum for me again, yeah? Can’t you, pretty girl? Let me feel your cunt around my fingers. Get your clit right on my tongue. Wanna feel you, baby. Taste you. Forever.”

Another ripple. The intensity wasn’t as sharp, but strong and clanging, rolling through you like summer thunder. You throbbed hotly against his tongue and clamped onto his thick finger. After a minute—spent faded, loosened, drifting—Vernon had kissed his way back up your body, and now his scuffed knuckles were stroking against your cheek in a tenderness meant only for you.

“I wish I didn’t know why you’re so unfairly good at that,” you huffed, letting a hand pull some dewy sweat off your forehead.

He grinned. “I only care about you.”

It was quiet for a moment. Amongst the humid stillness of your breaths, you heard a sudden spattering noise, and when you both looked toward the windows, rain had started washed the glass. Not an inch of sky was visible. Just very ruffled, grey valleys of clouds.

“Nature’s gotta run its course, huh?” Vernon sighed.

You nodded.

The boy looked back at you, his gaze lightened with sweetness, and brushed your chin. “If you don’t want to continue,” he whispered, “that’s okay. I’m not in a rush. And I don’t want you to feel like it’s a rush. As long as I can be around you. That’s all I need.”

While the rain pattered at the windows, you thought. Fingers then settled at the back of his neck, and you pulled him down, sinking into a kiss that tasted of your star-speckled orgasm.

Your hand brushed past his belt buckle to reach the popping tent in his pants. Gently, you squeezed him, ran your tongue along his bottom lip and nibbled his metal piercing. “I want to.”

Vernon twitched as you continued groping his pants. “Yeah?”

“I think we've both waited enough.”

He chuckled. You proceeded to watch him steadily as he stood on his knees, grasped the hem of his white t-shirt, removed it from his body that always passed by in flitters whenever you dreamt. Oddly enough, you had never wondered if Vernon was tattooed in places other than his arms. But there was a winding vine tattooed at his waist, and it split in different directions, coiling in delicately needled loops of ink that wound from his chest to patterns unknown down his back. You reached up, placing your palm flat to his pronounced clavicle, and then slowly dragged it down his sturdy, lean body, along the definitions in his abdomen. He let the shirt drop.

“Who gave you that?” You asked.

Vernon took off the fragile gold chain, let it spool onto his nightstand. “Snozz,” he said. “A long time ago. In a desert.”

“Hm. Why a vine?”

“Why not?” He smirked. “Start growin’ and don’t seem to stop.”

“Creeping vines used to grow all over the side of our house.”

“Lucky you,” Vernon said.

He started kissing you again, and your hands explored his torso, the smoothness of his back, where your fingertips occasionally bumped over logged scars or dried scratches. His body held so much—you felt it underneath the skin and muscle—and when you started tinkering with his belt you hoped he understood that your touch could be healing. He helped you unwind the belt from his waist, and unbutton his pants, and push the fabric down and off. It was difficult to stop kissing him and breathe. But you were under a spell, you were in love, and as he stood up to kick the boxers from his ankles, your dizzy head spun like a twinkling carousel.

You held your lip in your teeth at his exposure. There were some elder scars on his hard thighs, a few more tattoos that you couldn’t possibly pick apart because gravity was focused someplace else. Vernon crawled back over you. His lips found yours, two opposing magnets, and he kissed you with powerful depth.

You hand reached down to brush him. He was nothing but heat and firmness, so heavy in your clammy fingers, twitching, straining. Trying to remember what you had practiced before, you stroked him, still finding the motion awkward but noticing more rhythm and less nerves. “Am I doing okay?” You asked, hushed. He was getting slipperier in your grip.

“Mmm, yes, baby,” Vernon’s words flushed in a hot breath against your neck as he continued throbbing in your hand. “Such a good job.” You applied more pressure, and your thumb came to circle his sensitive, reddened tip that was beading out premature ejaculate. “Fuck,” he hissed, at last nudging your hand away and swallowing audibly. “M’too fuckin’ hard for that. I’ll bust.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” He grabbed a pillow from his headboard, folded it in half, stuffed it politely behind your head. “Want me to show you somethin’ fuckin’ goddamn magical, sweetheart?” Vernon hummed.

“Okay,” you agreed, your smile loopy and crooked.

His arm braced beside your head. In between your bent, spread legs, he settled, and you felt yourself begin to wriggle and warm with anticipation as he grasped around the middle of his heavy erection. Suddenly, his smooth tip was rubbing against you, slippery in the gloss, and your cheeks pooled with so much heat that you swore they might sluice off your bones. Your arms fastened around his neck for support and closeness. He was biting his lip.

“What the fuck…” you whispered, watching, entranced. Vernon smirked, letting his tip catch your slit ever so slightly before it smeared up through your folds and nudged at your puffy clit. “That should be freaking illegal,” you whined, breathless. “It feels so good.” Going loose, your head pressed into the folded pillow, letting him continue to tease you, rub you, give you small slaps with the flat, hard base of his girth that tingled in a euphoric way you could not admit.

 “I fuckin’ love this,” Vernon said hoarsely. “Don’t even need to fuck you—can just tease you like this, yeah?” He chuckled, tapped his head against your clit again to make you pulse and writhe. “But you need to take it, don’t you?” He leaned closer to your face, rubbed circles into you with his tip until you were dizzy and flickering. “Tell me,” Vernon groaned across your parted mouth, hinged open and desperate. “Tell me you want my dick. Tell me how deep you want it inside your cunt. Tell me it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”

Your heart slammed. “I want it.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Use your big girl words.”

“I-I can’t say what you said…” your eyes stung with water.

“Why?” Vernon murmured. “You never shut up half the time.”

“Y’know… it’s too… dirty.”

He grinned, and his honey-brown eyes were sharp. “But I wanna hear you be dirty,” the boy urged. “What’s wrong with that?” His lips hovered over yours, and there was his tip again, pressing shallowly into your slit, just breaching. “I know how much you like to be good, but I want you to be bad for me, Pyjamas. Just for me.”

“I-I can’t,” you whined, sweltering under him as he turned blurrier.

“Yes, you can, baby.”

“Vernon.”

His mouth was damp against your ear. “You’re gonna fuckin’ say it to me. You can cry if you want to. But you’re gonna say it. Say you want my dick deep in your cunt, that all you want is for me to fuck you.”

You tucked back your tears. “I-I want your dick…” you swallowed, bit your cheek, huffed out, “deep inside my… cunt… and all I want is for you to…” a helpless, desperate, aching sniffle, “is for you to fuck me.”

He stroked the edge of your cheek. “Good girl.” Then Vernon was leaning over to his nightstand, a drawer pulled out, and he rifled around inside until a golden-coloured foil in a square shape was revealed. He tore a strip off the top with his teeth, spat it out, and removed a clear, limp condom. Your fingertips rubbed together as he rolled it on, stretched over his erection, knowing that this was really going to fucking happen. Then he was back over you, his eyes much softer. “I’ll be slow,” he said, brushing a small tear from your cheek. “It’ll sting and stretch the more I push in, but it shouldn’t hurt, and if it does, you need to tell me, baby, hm?” You nodded; butterflies alive in your gut. “I care about you so fuckin’ much, okay? I want this to feel good. It’ll always feel good for me but it’s different for you, so you need to communicate with me, yeah? I’m gonna be real gentle, baby.”

“Yes,” you squeaked, “I know. I know.”

He steadied over you. With your thighs spread open, legs hanging loose as possible, Vernon had enough room to operate. Your eyes closed, and you listened for the constant thrumming of raindrops dappling the windows, the distant thunder that followed forked, glittery lightning. But you were inside. Safe. With a man you loved. A man that cared. A man that was not used to being gentle, or slow, or delicate, when it came to sex, but understood how important you were and how little he mattered in this moment that was about pleasing you. Vernon began to push inside, opening you up inch by inch, his eyes creasing as he fought against his typical antics of rough, lusty, heavy slaps from his hips that broke bedposts and rendered him enough noise complaints to fill a book. You squeezed his arms.

“Okay?” Vernon asked.

“Yes,” you whined. “I’m stretching. It’s stinging.”

He nuzzled your cheek. “I know, baby. Breathe.”

A moment after the pause, and he resumed, pressing deeper into your insides. Your thighs started to tremble; the muscles ached. Vernon was pulsing inside you, to which you felt every vein and groove rubbing. Further, further, the sensation foreign, a bit uncomfortable. He was so hard. You sucked in your bottom lip and tried not to cry, but Vernon told you to communicate, so you scratched his shoulders and sniffled. “It’s a lot. It’s really a lot.” Pressure spread between your hips. “Are you there?”

Vernon kissed your forehead; let you burn his arms with your prickling nails. “Almost, okay? I know it’s a lot. But you’re takin’ it so, so fuckin’ well, baby. It’s gonna settle. It’ll start to feel good. I won’t hurt you.” A few minutes later, Vernon’s hips were clicking against yours. No more room was possible. You were stuffed and weeping, your head full of teased fuzz, while he kissed across your face over and over, his whispers like warm, tickling feathers. “Good girl, breathe. I’m there. No more.” And your tears started to dry up, revealing his sweet, flushed cheeks and foggy golden eyes. “Hey,” he chuckled, kissing your mouth. “You okay? Nothin’ hurts?”

“Okay,” you answered. “It feels weird.”

“I know.”

“But not to you. What’s it like?”

He shook his head. “Dude, I can’t be thinkin’ about that shit too much, or I’ll have you flat under me, poundin' you through the bed.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, licking your lips.

Vernon smiled, the edges dreamy and faint. “Don’t wanna break you just yet, huh? Later, maybe.” Ever so slightly, you felt his hips stir, grind, buck against you, and each time, little shockwaves echoed under your skin, more and more pleasurable. “Just wanna love you,” he whispered against the side of your mouth, cracked open, as his grinding developed more depth and groove, soft moans building in the seamy air. You heard him. The tears that had dried up were dampened over with new tears. Vernon had his knees bent on either side of you, his hips jutting in tender and deep, the angle allowing you to feel something unbeknownst, sensitive. “How’s that?” He rumbled into your ear. “Do you like it, sweetheart? How buried I am inside you?” More rutting. It felt desperate. Passionate. His tip was sinking into a cushy spot that took your voice away, filled your mouth with stones.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Vernon groaned. “This pretty cunt wraps around me so fuckin’ well.” He started to squeeze your chest, pinch and pluck at your sore nipples. When you touched the corner of your mouth, you realized it was runny in sappy drool, and you promptly decided to not give a fuck, curling your arms around him, urging him closer. “If you ever let anyone else inside you, I’ll fuckin' rip them apart. I’ll make sure there's nothin' left of them.” A little harder, he was fucking you a little harder, slippery, sunctiony, smacking noises filling the room, breaking between the raindrops. His bed was squeaking in tandem with every thrust, its legs scarring the floor, practically sanding it down.

Finally, you untangled the words in your throat. “Feels so fucking good,” you choked out, face stinging with tears. “I fucking love you.”

He slotted his mouth onto yours. “Tell me again.”

Another slow, thick, hard rut from his hips. You scratched his toned back, tearing at the skin. “I fucking love you, Vernon.” He was reaching that spot, pressing into it so deeply, over and over, kissing it.

“No,” he grunted. “Hansol. Tell me again. Fuck. Please.”

You swallowed, then fastened your fingers into his hair. “I fucking love you, Hansol.” He reared you especially deep at that moment, the veins of his erection pulsing inside you, pumping, pumping. “I’m so fucking in love with you. I need you. I fucking need you. Give it to me. Please.”

Everything happened so quickly. Your shoulder was digging into the wall, elbow cramped against the mattress, your leg stretched up, ankle resting off his shoulder. He held your waist, fingertips moulding at the skin, fucking you, fucking you, forcing himself deeper, sweat glimmering on his pronounced collarbone, leaking down his chest, his tattoos seemingly crawling. You were a whining, whimpering, gushing mess, hardly able to keep your head up or the drool from tipping over the lip of your mouth like a spout.

“O-Oh, ff-fuck—” Vernon’s throat was dewy, tight, his jaw hinging open. “O-Oh, fuck this sloppy fuckin’ cunt. You pretty slut. Take me. Take this fuckin’ big dick deep in your pussy.” Tears piped down your face. Your hand clawed at the wall you were being crushed into. “Wanted t’fuck you for so goddamn long. Feel your guts around me.” Your leg started slipping off his hard shoulder from the sweat. He grabbed you by the shin, hoisted it back, licked his tongue along your tattoo of bundled rye tied up with ribbon. “If I didn’t have this fuckin’ dumbass condom, I’d fill you up so much, PJ’s. I’d stuff this pretty womb of yours. N’ you’d take it so well, baby, wouldn’t you?” He was bulging up into the base of your gut whenever he thrusted, and you were going weak, losing senses. “Tell me you’d take it.”

“I-I’d take it!” You cried, head thumping the wall.

He shook his head. “I’d take it, Hansol.”

You spluttered out, “I’d take it, Hansol.”

There was finality in it. Vernon kept thrusting, and the pulses you felt from the inside were ringing through you. Another snap. Another hoarse scream, as you clenched, wept, buckled. Where were you? What was happening? Why was there so much dampness underneath your body? How did you suddenly come to feel overwhelmingly empty and cold? Was that a cloth? A warm, wet cloth rubbing over your skin? That felt solacing. Oh—that place was fucking sore and raw—but the cloth was so gentle and there were sweet kisses against your thighs. You were still tremoring. There was a fabric being slipped over your dizzy head. It smelled like fresh, crisp laundry after hanging outside all day on a peg line. Gosh—you loved that—it was a big sweatshirt, you thought. Swallowed you. Now there were arms, lovely arms with storybooks of tattoos wrapping around you. There were lips on your forehead, then some sweet juice being tilted into your dry mouth.

Wherever you were, whoever you were with, you weren’t afraid.

You were safe, adored, and cared for.

The rain continued to pour all throughout the evening and late into the night. You woke up once, unsure of the time, to black in the windows and stormy rumbling echoing outside. Vernon was sat on the futon in the darkness, a small square of white light positioned on his lap, illuminating his face and the photographs he was passing between, and you remembered his furrowed brow, pushed down. You wanted him beside you, but you were too tired and confused. Instead, your eyes fluttered once, twice, perhaps three or four times more, before everything faded away and you were asleep again, your boyfriend’s haloed face the last thing outlined in your mind.

By morning, you were brittle and dry. A line of paste had crusted down your chin. The bright air made your eyes stinging and tender. A bone somewhere in your left shoulder popped when you shifted a little ways up the bed. Your mouth was dehydrated. For a moment, you sat up, rubbing away at your eye and smearing around the tears, until your hand reached backward in search of your phone, only to feel something human.

“Fuck!” You jumped, gasping. “What the fuck, Vernon?”

He was sitting criss-crossed, a pillow propped behind his back. You began noticing the scent of cinnamon and stewed apples. There was a bowl in his hand. A plastic spoon in the other, lumped in sticky oatmeal. “You’re in my bed, dumbass,” he mumbled around the utensil.

You sighed, scraping a line of white substance off your bottom lip, rubbing it away between your fingers. Glancing back, you stared at his bare upper body, decorated in that beautiful creeping vine, a few bruises around his neck, like splashes of red wine. Some thin scratches. You suddenly stroked at the dark green sweatshirt stitched with yellow letters, saw your clothes folded at the very edge of the bed, moved your legs and felt a raw, lingering soreness between the hips. “We had sex… I had sex…” you turned around, stared at Vernon. “I’m not… wait—” peaking underneath the covers, you realized just how damn naked you were. “Oh, shit.” Then back at Vernon. Shyness spread throughout your body, hot and tingling.

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered, beginning to spoon up more oatmeal, though he put the bowl onto his nightstand when you looked frozen in ice. “Feel okay, PJ’s?” Vernon asked, scooting closer to you. His hand brushed along your cheek, which was warm and lined with imprints of wrinkled bedsheets, before he rubbed the dried drool off your chin.

“I’m okay,” you breathed unsteadily, shifting away from his touch.

He frowned, his eyebrows sloping. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…” you tucked the sweatshirt under your bum, surrounded your lap with the puffed covers. “I just can’t believe that happened.”

Vernon kept frowning, eyes a bit shiny. “Why?”

“Well… it’s always seemed so far-fetched in my mind, I guess. I always thought you would… recoil, or get grossed out, or—”

“Grossed out?” He scoffed. “Am I fuckin’ thirteen?”

“No! I mean, like, you wouldn’t find me… attractive. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way. I just—I’ve never had the greatest self-esteem or confidence in my body—so it’s strange to me, still, that you could… feel that way about me. That’s it. That’s what I meant.”

Vernon’s tight shoulders relaxed, caving in. He scooted closer to you, and the knee of his black sweats brushed yours underneath the comforter. His eyes were filled with sweetness in the morning light, ashy curls of hair tickling his forehead. “Last night was the fuckin’ happiest moment of my life. Not ‘cause we fucked—I mean, that’s a great bonus, don’t get me wrong—but ‘cause you trusted me. Enough to let me see all a’ you, touch you, get close to you.” His mouth smoothed into a smile, a perfect line. “That’s what made me so fuckin’ happy, PJ’s. Your trust.” His fingers stroked playfully under your chin and you giggled. “My beautiful girl. N’ don’t turn away from me like that, okay? Scared me a little. Thought you regretted it.”

You nodded, tying knots into the sheets. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.” Then his gaze flitted toward your clothes stacked a few feet away, and he leaned forward to pull them closer. “Need these? Probably make you feel a little comfier.”

Grabbing the shorts from the folded pile, you quickly yanked them under the bed and wrestled them on, meanwhile Vernon fell backward onto his pillow with his hands cupped over his eyes. You proceeded to squirm on top of him, wrap yourself around his warm body like a koala hugging a tree, breathe in deeply the scent of his skin, his hair. He squeezed you back, pressing his thick arms around you so tightly that you felt flattened. Laugher caught in your squished lungs, beating like giddy wings.

“O-Okay!” You squeaked. “Y’re crushing me!”

So he let go, and you puffed back up, an ear cozied against the warm spot of his bare chest where you could clearly hear and feel his beating heart. With a fingertip, you traced a tattooed vine along his pectoral muscle, breathed in, wanted to stay against him forever.

Time slipped by. Hunger reached you. There was an empty cup on his nightstand holding a small tinge of juice, and his emptied bowl of oatmeal. He must have noticed you staring. Vernon set his phone down, tilted his head. “Need food?”

“Yes,” you answered. “I think I slept through dinner.”

He laughed. “Kinda, yeah. I’ll fix you breakfast. Think I have some sesame bagels and cream cheese. You good with that? Maybe a yogurt.”

“I’ll take anything.”

While he sliced the bagel in half at the kitchen countertop, you glanced around the apartment. “Have you seen my knapsack?”

“In the washroom.”

“Too far,” you sighed, collapsing back into his bed.

Vernon made himself a bagel, too. “Okay, you gotta move to the futon or some shit,” he said. “Can’t stand crumbs in my bed.”

“I’m not a messy eater!”

“That’s what every fuckin’ messy eater says.” He snapped his fingers, gestured toward the coffee table. “Move your ass, beautiful.”

Your bare feet planted on the cool, scuffed floor, but when you tried standing up, a sore quiver ran down your thighs and fluttered between your hips, similar to overworking a muscle. You were like a mermaid learning to use their jellied land legs. Vernon smiled at you while setting down the plates at the coffee table, laughed, enjoyed your wobbling. “Gonna get over here today?”

“Shut up!” You barked. “I’m trying.”

“I see that,” he sighed, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky you can even stand. But, as it was your first n’ all, had to dial back a little.”

You huffed. “You’re doing a lot of talking and not a lot of helping.”

He raised his dark eyebrow notched with a piercing, lipped sarcastically, “oh, you want help? Hard to tell ‘cause you didn’t—”

“Okay, okay. Blah, blah. Yes, I would like help.”

Vernon smirked. Before you were ready, he had you swept up in his arms, and you clung to the fabric of the zombie t-shirt he’d slipped on. But he set you down very gingerly on the futon.

“There you go, Miss.”

Together, you ate breakfast, albeit the bagel tasted a bit stale, though you would have noticed it more if you weren’t so hungry and it wasn’t so deliciously slathered in cream cheese. You shovelled the cold vanilla yogurt into your mouth, then threw back some tangy pineapple juice, finished eating long before Vernon. After making him take your knapsack out from the washroom to update Ruby on your whereabouts with a text, you wondered if he would be willing to discuss what had happened last night.

“Hey,” you murmured, petting down the back of his head after he finished eating. “Maybe you don’t wanna talk about it lots, and I get that, but I just gotta know even a little about what happened with Jeonghan.”

Vernon sighed, scraping his spoon around the empty cup of yogurt, tonguing against his inner cheek. “He didn’t give me what I asked for,” he announced in a large breath, shrugging. “Made it some stupid choice.”

Your hand settled atop his wrist, thumb drawing circles to his skin, and he finally stopped dragging the spoon. “What’s the choice?” The air was very still as your question drifted apart into pieces.

Whatever the choice was, it seemed to make Vernon stiff and reproachful, his eyes steadied on the coffee table, hardened. You didn’t push. Just waited in the stillness.

He then leaned forward, putting down the empty yogurt, leaving the plastic spoon sticking out. Vernon faced you, but his gaze didn’t connect, and it cut somewhere distant and unreachable to you. “It’s some moral bullshit, Pyjamas. Either I’m his charity case that got away off his money, or I’m his freakin’ competition and it’ll always stay that way. He told me to choose, think about it. Like he’s so high n’ mighty and not some stupid, fucked up kid at heart, like the rest of us. Smug asshole.”

Your lips pressed together. “He’s going to pay you off?”

“He said he would, if I leave this all behind.”

“Dealing? He doesn’t want you to deal?”

His words hit a wall and Vernon was within another one of his silent, internal conversations, leaving you to study the faint contortions and colours that passed along his face. You had grabbed his wrist tighter, thinking about something he had mentioned before—not wanting to be nothing, slipping back into nothingness, having nothing—and you realized he didn’t know how to place himself inside your trivial society. The things you dealt with were not familiar to him, and vice versa. Maybe you were the outstretched branch reaching between the worlds, a place to cross over, but you didn’t know if Vernon knew that, if he wanted that. It stoked conflict in your belly. But damn it—it wasn’t about you—and that was hard to swallow.

Your tight grip softened. “It’s a big choice.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“But not one you have to make right now. Right?”

“Yeah,” he repeated himself.

“So don’t make it,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his elbow, curling close beside him, cheek nudging his shoulder. “Let’s just sit.”

Around evening, Vernon drove you home. The rain had cooled away much of the slick heat, and small street puddles still reflected the cloudy sky in potholes and dips. It was Sunday and tomorrow was another work week and greedy hours away from Vernon. After last night, you felt more tethered to him than ever before, but you threw back the emotions like a tart shot of alcohol and put on a flaky, thin smile. He had enough to think about. Vernon helped you out the car by offering a hand, which you held onto carefully yet firmly, not wanting to let go, feel him slip away into the pastel summer, but understanding your paths couldn’t always overlap.

“Alright,” you sighed. “Text me tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Before you drifted away, your fingers brushing down the scars of his warm palm, a feathery sensation tickled your throat. Should you say it? You hadn’t talked about it at all. Had it been something momentous? Or was it forever? You hesitated at first, but the tickle got stronger, and Vernon had his index finger wrapped around yours.

“Um… okay. Later. I love you.”

The words made your throat hot and you wanted to fling around, disappear inside the building before he could say anything—or not say anything—and you felt your body already begin to pull away.

Stamp up the cobbled walkway in heavy steps. Breaths getting tangled in your chest. He hadn’t said it back.

Fuck. He hadn’t said it back.

It was momentous, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t going to cross the branch.

Even though you weren’t in the mood to go, you decided to suck it up and attend Soonyoung’s going-away party. He was leaving, after all. And he had been excitedly mentioning it during your shifts together. You weren’t sure if anyone else was bringing gifts—you didn’t really know anybody else there—but you bought one, anyway: a new ballcap in his favourite colourway, purple and red, with the tag still freshly hanging off. It would have been nice to have someone else there with you. Ruby was on another excursion for work. Tara heard that they were going to start releasing call-backs for Catherine Love interviews, and she was too anxious to leave her house. Lara had gotten mono and was out sick for an entire week.

You waited patiently at the doorstep to Soonyoung’s building, staring through the glass door at the tiny lobby area; a wall with silver mailboxes and a dresser scattered in abandoned pamphlets, until you noticed someone inside swagger jauntily down a staircase.

“Damn. Finally here, huh?” Soonyoung said, opening the door.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to be so late. I took the bus.” Inside, the building air felt somewhat damp, smelled like old paper, the walls faded, everything wooden or carpeted. “I brought you something, by the way,” you added, raising up the unassuming brown bag.

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that!” Soonyoung smiled, throwing an arm around your shoulders for a moment, creating a wind of his spicy, vanilla-noted cologne as he squeezed you. “Thanks, though.”

You followed after him up a winding staircase.

“The bus, you said?” Soonyoung questioned, tossing you a look. “I thought maybe you would get a drive from Mr. Bad Boy?” He stopped on the top floor, where you continued down a long hallway with robust, dark wooden doors on either side.

Different doormats passed by you. We Have Cats! Check Your Vibe Before You Come Inside. Stop Throwing My Packages at The Door. Welcome Home! If You Find Yourself Standing Here, You Should Probably Go Away.

“Uh, no, not today,” you answered, smiling smally. For once, Soonyoung seemed like he wanted to ask instead of blathering about his own issues, but you wouldn’t allow it. “Let’s go inside. I’m excited!”

His apartment was much nicer than you were expecting. It was an open-concept, somewhat rustic, with a ceiling that sloped upward and had beautiful, smooth logs of maple from which he draped soft yellow lights. His kitchen was spacious. Wide countertops organized in drink stations and snack bowls, stainless steel appliances, a glass cabinet just for wine bottles.

Numerous people mingled in the heart of the living room. The music was noticeable but not particularly loud. Maybe this would be okay.

“This is really nice, Soonyoung!” You complimented, setting your brown bag in between bowls of sourdough pretzels and cheese puffs, while he filled a blue glass with tap water that he handed off to you.

“Everyone says that. And with a lot of surprise, too. I think they expect me to live in a cardboard box or something.” He shrugged.

“Maybe you give off a cardboard box vibe.”

“Can’t fight it, right?”

A shallow set of steps slightly elevated the kitchen above the living room. Soonyoung had always blabbered names, and somehow, you were able to put some of those names to faces just by inspecting the crowd and their innate descriptors.

You sipped from the water. “Want to see your gift?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Soonyoung chuckled. He pulled the brown bag toward him, carefully removed the ballcap that was concealed in an opaque fibre cover. You squeezed the glass tighter as Soonyoung slid the fibre off the hat, his slanted eyes alight, mouth softly gasping. “Woah! Nice pick!” He reached over to punch your shoulder, but it was gentle. Soonyoung brushed through his ashy blonde hair a few times, smoothing it backward. It was longer now, enough to curl at his ears. “Does it look good?” The boy asked while fitting the ballcap on backward, the tag dangling behind his head.

“Yeah, it looks great. Fits you really well, too.”

“I’ll have to go look in a mirror. Hit some poses. Uh—” he gestured around before walking off, “—make yourself at home. Fashion up a drank or get some snacks on a plate, there. Whatevs. Thanks for the gift!”

Once Soonyoung was gone, you were alone in the polished kitchen, holding the glass of water snuggly to your chest and watching the collected groups in the living room shift. Everyone seemed to know each other. You wanted to move, to involve yourself, to be that person who effortlessly sews their way into a group and becomes part of the seam. But you had never been good at doing that. It made you long for Vernon, who could talk to just about anybody like he knew them for years, because he didn’t care what they might think.

As you glanced between the snacks, unfocused, someone suddenly emerged at the kitchen countertop, standing across from you. He paused, perusing his options, and then ladled some red punch into a plastic cup.

“Hey,” you said, forced.

He went back into the bowl to ladle in a lemon slice and more ice cubes, which rattled inside his drink. “Hey,” he responded. His smile was warm, curled at the edges, and you thought he was a good place to start.

“Uh, I just got here. What’s the punch?”

“It’s Jungle Juice. Got some vodka, white rum, pink lemonade, and I think there might be another juice in there. Can’t remember.” He brought the cup to his mouth, tilted in some liquid. “Tasty, though!”

You nodded. “I’ll try some.” Not wanting him to walk away and leave you lonesome in the kitchen, you pinned him down with another question while mixing the concoction with the ladle. “What’s your name?”

“Josh.” He watched you for a moment, his eyes large and dewy, like melted, black jewels. “Are you chasing it with water?” He then laughed.

“Oh, no! Soonyoung handed this to me. Guess I looked super thirsty or something? Or he thinks I’m an alcoholic. Who knows.”

As you filled a plastic cup with a full ladle of punch, making sure to avoid the citrus slices, Josh laughed. It was delicate. A man could have a delicate laugh? Who knew.  “Soons might be the alcoholic.” “How do you know him?”

“I play recreational volleyball at Cumberland. He was part of our team for a few months, and he was actually pretty good. Saved us from a few losing streaks. A couple of us here are from the team, actually,” Josh said, turning around to glean the room briefly. “There’s Maddy, down there, with the braid. And Olive is here, too. She’s always going to the damn washroom so we tease her. There’s Seungkwan. Yeah. Anyway. It's a lot of fun.” He turned back to you, adjusted the cup to his other hand. “You like volleyball?”

You hadn’t tasted your drink yet, and the condensation from the ice was chilly but welcomed against your palm. “Well, I’m not sure. I played in high school. Because of the gym curriculum. I wasn’t great but I wasn’t awful.” Finally, you sipped from it, and tried not to make a bitter face.

Josh nodded. “Well, we’re always looking for new players ‘cause sometimes things shuffle around a lot. It’s fun. Really. And ‘cause it’s recreational, it’s not all that stressful. Cumberland. If you’re interested.”

“Cumberland. Got it,” you replied, trying to mirror his perfect curly smile that was so friendly but immediately gave up. “Is it all year ‘round?”

“Our team specifically plays in the summer and fall. But there’s multiple teams, so your options are wide. But—obviously—I would prefer it if you wanted to play with us.” Josh laughed again, tracing back a loose frond of chocolate hair that slipped down into his eyes. “No pressure. How do you know Soonyoung? Can’t say that I’ve seen you around before.”

“Co-workers,” you said, “at Common Cents.”

“Oh, shoot! That’s you? Okay, I think Soonyoung might have dropped your name a few times.” Josh placed his drink down, let his hands rest on the reflective countertop. “Said you were dating this mysterious, dreamy bad boy with coarse manners. I think he was a little jealous.”

You didn’t say anything.

He tapped the counter with a fingertip. “Gosh… what was his name... something with… Vernon, right? Weird but I actually know of him in a roundabout way, ‘cause Maddy used to buy weed off his frienddd…” he paused, reaching into the corners of his memory, eyes searching. “Dots? I think? This was a while ago, though. Yeah. Dots. Wonder why he was called that. I don’t really have a nickname. Just Josh, Joshy. Nothing cool.”

“Right,” you answered breathlessly, noticing a tightness pulling your chest into a confined box. The drink was trembling a bit in your hand, so you placed it down, pushed it away. “Where’s the washroom?”

Josh pointed to a corridor beside the flatscreen television. “Down there. Door on the right is Soonyoung’s bedroom, though.”

“Thanks,” you nodded, excusing yourself.

In a hurry, you were slipping down the dark corridor, immediately pressing into the washroom, not bothering to check if it was in use. But the door gave way and you quickly closed, locked it, taking a moment to pace in confused circles, passing back and forth across the sink mirror. The truth was, Vernon hadn’t texted you like he said he would. And you didn’t text him because you were so afraid that you biffed it all up by telling the boy you loved him. It probably made his choice easy. He probably told Jeonghan what he wanted to do already. You were on the curb with your bags. A week had passed. Nothing. Worry made you sick, but then realism grounded you, and you had been fighting between the two each day, unsure, afraid.

To calm down, you washed your hands. Let the cool, surging water gush between your fingers and create pools in your overheated palms. The liquid soap had a sweet melon scent. It was inside a fancy, stone bottle.

You were not going to be the anxious girl who hid inside a damn washroom, fretting, letting the time slowly bleed into wasted, uncollectable whorls. So you dried your hands off, brushed down your shirt, and walked back into the buzzing living room with a false sense of stillness, attempting to spot Josh with his volleyball crew or Soonyoung in his flashy hat.

But they were together, standing by a window housing a neat storage system of what you assumed were vinyls. One was rested flat against the window. You approached them, and were quickly acquainted with Maddy, Olive, and Seungkwan. Mostly, you listened to them talk, because their words flowed and bounced off each other so smoothly that your intervention felt unnecessary. They spoke of such normal things. Maddy was going to a bridal shower. Olive said she was taking a summer course on Ancient Greece, the Myceneans. Seungkwan wanted to go bowling but everyone in the group groaned, grumbling about how terrible they were at the game.

Sometimes you added a comment, laughed along with their jokes that weren’t particularly funny to an outsider but made them squawk, shriek, and slap each other’s arms. At times, they were curious about you, listening to your awkward anecdotes that seemed fitting in the moment, but rushing messily through the details in case they turned bored. It felt right. This was what people did and this was how friends were made and how you got involved. But, somehow, a wall was there, an invisible wall that you might not be able to press against or breathe on to see the spreading warmth, but still noticed. Perhaps it was pessimism, the thought that you were just a passing face through a glaring window, but these weren’t your people.

It could be that Josh, Maddy, Olive, and Seungkwan were supposed to be fleeting. You were never meant to understand their jokes, or tell the perfect story that they related to, or collect all their numbers and keep them close, hoping you had made enough of an impact for them to text you—wanna get a drink? Wanna get breakfast? Wanna come to a movie? Wanna join our next game?

That was okay.

Breathe. It was all okay.

Soonyoung’s party ended right before midnight. Everyone trickled out in groups, and he saw each down the staircase, through the front door.

You were amongst the last to leave. Alongside another girl, you stayed behind to help Soonyoung clean up, trashing plastic cups into a garbage bag, locking unemptied snacks inside fresh containers, throwing beer and soda cans into his recycling under the kitchen sink. Through mild conversation, you realized the girl helping was his cousin, staying over to help him pack up his things and make the move. “So he doesn’t forget anything,” she sighed heavily, shoving a sushi tray into her glimmery garbage bag.

Soonyoung hugged you before you left. He was a little drunk off the flavourful punch and it lingered faintly on his breath. “M’gonna miss you, kiddo,” he mumbled, leaning on you. “Y’re a freakin’ kick ass co-worker.”

Your fingers pushed into his shoulder blades. “So you are.”

“I’ll come visit. All my pals are here.” He pulled back. His hands were thick and warm, grabbing you by the arms, shaking you once, his eyes seeming blurry but focused. “N’listen. Don’t take shit from Patsy, okay? Or from anybody.” His hat was just about slanting off his blonde head. “You can get a little rough with the regulars. They always come back. Huh?”

A stone sat in your throat. The air was suddenly dry, stinging.

You nodded, promised him, “I won’t,” in a quivery voice.

Gosh, you were gonna miss Soonyoung. Why did things have to change just when they felt settled? He said goodnight, waved you off.

Outside in the dull heat of late July, you thought about calling a ride service. The trip to Soonyoung’s building was long and the specific bus you needed to get back home didn’t come frequently. You stood on the final step of the brick building, in between luscious, plump bushes, staring at the map on your phone. From somewhere down the street, you heard laughter.

You stepped onto the sidewalk.

The Camry was parked under a street lamp. Vernon was there, leaned against its side as usual, speaking to a girl with a braided ponytail that resembled the friend from Josh’s volleyball team, Maddy.

Anxiety and anger and confusion fizzled in your body, hot then cool, and back to hot again. Was he supposed to be her ride? Why didn’t she go home with Josh and the others? Did he know you were here? You were tempted to slink away down the shadows of the street, staying close to the frilly bushes until you got around the corner. But the longer you stood and watched them converse so cordially, Soonyoung’s pink, round face placed together in your mind like pieces of a tiled mosaic. No. Go forward.

You got closer, passing under the yellow orbs lighting up the sidewalk, watched Maddy reach out and squeeze Vernon’s shoulder.

She must have heard your stamping footsteps, because she looked your way with a smile that dropped slightly, but recovered. To be fair, you weren’t really upset at her.

She didn’t know your history with Vernon. At least, you thought.

“What are you guys chatting about?” You interrupted, but kept the fiery line of your gaze nailed to Vernon as to avoid scalding Maddy. He didn’t say anything, but stared at you deeply, so damn deeply, that you felt a pulse ripple inside you. It was staggering, disorientating, and you almost touched the cold edge of his car for balance as the night dragged in dizziness.

Maddy stepped away from him, her hands tucked politely at her abdomen. “Oh, we kinda know each other. Long story. I think.” She then pointed down the street, toward another similar looking building. “I live right there, actually. We were just talking about how I moved.”

“Vernon?” You asked.

He shrugged. “What she said.”

God—he was so infuriating—you wanted to take his beautifully featured face that you had missed terribly throughout the week and shove it against the car window. You twitched in anger. “Okay. Night.”

No, you couldn’t handle seeing him.

Once you started to walk away, you hoped, prayed, to feel a hand on your hand, preferably a tattooed hand with tough scars, a hand that had rubbed patterns across your back just like it had tightened around your fragile throat and stroked you from the inside.

But you felt nothing.

And it only forced you to stalk faster and faster, fingers wound up into balls. You rounded the corner, marched up to the empty bus stop placed along the quiet, residential street, sat down on the bench and inhaled the sticky, sweet smell of lilacs shedding behind you.

The moon was thin, a crescent that looked easily breakable. You craned your neck to stare at its gentle glow until someone had slid onto the bench, right next to you.

Husky amber melanged with the lilac.

Neither of you spoke for a few minutes.

Vernon opened his mouth, took in a breath.

“Shut up,” you hissed. “Don’t freaking talk to me.” When you looked his way, he seemed calm and expectant of your anger. “I told you I loved you, you—you take my virginity—or whatever the fucking fuck you want to call it, and then you don’t contact me for a week. Now, you show up down the street of Soonyoung’s going-away party, and you don’t even fucking care that I was there. You’re impossible Vernon. You’re so impossible.” Your arms were folded, squeezing yourself for comfort. “That is so not boyfriend of you. I don’t know what do anymore. Most people don’t have fucking drug dealers for boyfriends. They have boring boyfriends. At least with sense.”

He stayed silent. Your foot bobbed up and down.

After another minute went by, you sighed. “Thanks for the talk.”

Vernon started to smile. “Well, you said don’t talk to you.”

You looked at him again, going stiff.

He raised his eyebrows. “So, can I talk to you, Miss? Officially?”

“Stop calling me Miss! I don’t like it!”

Again, he was quiet, his lips tightened but grinning.

You huffed, annoyed, sinking defeatedly down the bench with your legs sticking out. “Fine, fine, whatever. Talk. You can officially talk to me. I should freaking slap you.” Your finger lurched at him. “Don’t turn that into a dirty joke, either. Or I will really slap you. For real. And don’t turn that into a joke. Don’t turn anything I’m saying into a joke because I’m so—”

He stood up. Grasped you by the hand. In a swift tug, he pulled you up from your slouching, brooding seat, and you found your body tucked close to his, the late, fragrant heat warm around you, melting you both together. His hand was gentle, stroking carefully along the curve of your face as though he were touching something thin and fragile. Instinctually, you pushed into the affection, your eyes beginning to close just to feel him more.

“I’m no good for you,” Vernon murmured.

Your eyes shot back open. His closeness wasn’t a memory anymore, nor the tenderness faint but full in his gaze, and you wanted to stitch your body to his so he could never leave. “Well, it’s just that I’m mad, but…”

“I’ve given Jeonghan’s choice some more thought. I think I know what I might do. I think.” His hands gripped your waist, smoothed along the fabric of your shirt to grasp your lower back, push you closer against him.

“Oh… that’s good. Um, yeah.” You didn’t want to know. “Vernon, I know that I’m upset. I still am. But you are good for me. Just because something doesn’t always feel good doesn’t mean it’s not good. Maybe I scared you a bit when I said it. Maybe it was supposed to stay inside that moment at your place and not go anywhere else. I just—I want you to be ready to say it, and say it sincerely—not feel forced for my sake. So, I guess I’m glad you didn’t say it. But we should have talked about it.” Your hands were resting against his chest, flat and feeling his heartbeat.

“PJ’s…” he said, and the way it caught deeply in his throat made your knees stupidly weak, spaghetti-like. “Come with me, okay?”

So you followed behind him, fingers wrapped in his, returning around the corner to his car parked underneath the foggy lamp. He opened the backdoor. You climbed inside first, and he slid in after you, tugging the door shut.

Everything was so still and silent. The leather buckled and squeaked when you climbed onto his lap. Your breathing was layered in the minty air as his hands drifted up the tingling bareness of your thighs, squeezing. The small, slick, suctioning noises of your intimate kissing was like quiet water droplets. His fingers undid the buttons on your shorts. Then his warm hand was down your underwear, softly feeling around your sticky, flooding centre, massaging between your folds, and pressing into you. His fingers made you gasp and twitch, moan against his ear, burn for more, until your clothes were useless piles sitting abandoned on the leather or fallen to the carpet floors under the backseat. His hands were spread flat to your hips, guiding you to move along the thick shaft of his hard, aching length. Not inside. Just feeling the skin to skin. Anticipating. Knowing. You lubricated him more with every movement. Breathed hard and heavy into his ear. Listened to the wet noises of him slipping between you. Right before you started sinking down, he held your face as opposed to your hips, and his eyes were full of you like a golden, reflective lake.

“I love you,” Vernon said, his thumbs running across your fleshy, hot cheeks. “I fuckin’ love you, okay? N’ I’m sorry I wimped out and couldn’t say it back, even when I knew how much you wanted to hear it. But it fuckin' scares me. I never thought it would but it does.”

You rested your forehead against his. “It scares me, too.”

He chuckled. “Guess you’re not as wimpy as me, huh?”

You smiled, let your thighs fall wider apart so that his tip brushed along the side of your folds, hugged him close. “I just need you. That’s all.”

Vernon took his length back into his hand, began to gently coax himself inside your heat, open and warm and waiting. “I need you, too, baby.”

Together, you went back to your apartment. Vernon took a hot shower while you laid in bed, his maroon sweatshirt draped across your lap, your fingertips rubbing at some of its pilling. You checked emails on your phone, gazing between notifications for old, free subscriptions you no longer cared about—Learning to Budget! Are You Still Interested in Building a Stellar Website? Check Out These Unclaimed Scholarships!—until your thumb paused over something unfamiliar. You sat up, opened the professional email, hardly read an ounce of text until the very bottom, where an electronic signature was twinkling at you.

If you are interested in proceeding with an interview for this position, please contact [email protected] for confirmation and further inquiry.

Small, excited throbs filled your veins. You looked around the room for someone to share your energy with, but it was just you, shaking on the bed, as you processed what had happened. Suddenly, you heard a thumping noise inside the walls, and you knew Vernon had just turned off the knobs for the shower. He came inside your bedroom a few minutes later, rubbing a hand towel from the toiletries closet against his damp, springy hair, bringing in with him a very clean, pleasant smell. You had the phone screen turned into your chest, hidden. The syllables were on your lips but wouldn’t form.

Vernon looked back at you, glanced up and down. “You good?”

“Something just happened,” you managed to exhale.

He squished the hand towel in his lap. “ And what’s that?”

You peeled the phone away from your chest, stared at the email again just to make sure you weren’t hallucinatory and that the words hadn’t morphed, before you handed the device to Vernon. He took the phone, leaned forward with elbows on his knees, and threw the white towel over his shoulder. You tried not to squirm around as he read the tiny printed information which he zoomed in to see better. Once he got to the end, he sat up again, nodded satisfactorily, and gave the phone back to you.

“Well?” You engaged. “Isn’t that… I don’t know? Freaking crazy?”

“Is it? You’re a talented girl.”

“My resume was hardly anything special or stand-outish.” You looked at the email again, smiling. “Maybe it was my cover letter?”

“Who knows, baby. Good news, though.”

For a moment, you wanted to message Tara, but she hadn’t texted you and it didn’t seem appropriate to flaunt the email to her when you weren’t sure if she had received one herself. So you let the phone clatter onto your nightstand. Instead, you crawled over to Vernon and threw your arms around his shoulders, breathing in the mild soapiness of the washed shampoo lingering in his damp hair.

“I have to thank you, ‘cause you motivated me to do it,” you hummed, closing your eyes, hugging him hard.

He said nothing, but grabbed onto your wrist and squeezed.

TWO MONTHS AGO.

You were sitting in a loungeroom at the Skyline. Several people were dispersed throughout the space. Some occupied the leather L-shaped sofa and unwrapped complementary truffles from the potter’s bowl on the coffee table. Others hovered by the countertop, sipping at teas whose soothing fragrance, a bit of rosehip and lavender, remedied the nerves. You were sitting on a stool at the island. The surface was clean, white marble, reflecting the light fixture overhead like still cream. A very small part of you felt prepared. However, the bigger, much more prominent part wanted to hurl into the large palm plant potted in the corner.

Tara was called in ten minutes ago. She left behind a teacup painted with bluebells, still steaming, and you pulled it closer. The warmth soaked through the porcelain and into your palms.

Reminded you to be calm, be steady.

Different strings of quiet conversation zipped through one ear and out the other. No one in the room dressed or looked alike. Everyone seemed to have a unique story. You could see it in how they styled their hair, where they placed their jewelry, the colours draping their bodies, hear it in the particular linguistics that flavoured their sentences. What kind of story did you portray—if any story at all?

Hey Catherine, I’ve spent nearly a year of my life falling in love with a drug dealer, and before that, I was lost, drifting, and probably depressed because my degree wasn’t what I thought it would be and I was too chicken to make a change! Don’t I seem like the perfect candidate to be your assistant?

Really, you didn’t know who she was looking for.

Maybe that would make you more unique than anyone.

The lounge door pushed open.

In walked Tara, her cream pantsuit swaying around her like weightless water. She seemed to have more vibrance in her skin than when she left. The same man who escorted everyone from the building’s ground lobby to the twentieth-floor lounge room was keeping the door held open with his back. Using a thin, white stylus, he made a calculated swipe at the tablet held against his arm, then looked up placidly and called, “Mariam Kestle?”

A woman stood from the couch. She quickly cleaned her fingertips of chocolatey truffle, dabbed at her lipstick, and hurried toward the door.

“Good luck!” Everyone sang collectively, though it sounded thicker than when Tara had gone for her interview twenty minutes ago.

She wasn’t allowed to linger in the loungeroom. You continued grasping her teacup, much cooler now, as she picked up her purse from the stool beside yours. “Don’t stress,” she whispered, her pearl-powdered eyes quickly meeting yours. “It’s easy.” And then she was gone, leaving behind a cloud of elegant, flowery perfume she had been saving for the occasion.

Yes, easy because she was more practiced than a heart surgeon! But you clung onto her words regardless, daring to hope.

Over the hour, nearly everybody in the loungeroom had gone, person after person returning to collect their things. It got quieter, and somehow heavier, each time someone disappeared. You moved to the bare sofa, spoke a little with an older man in a very colourful dress shirt full of popping nineties-esque shapes, until the door opened for the umpteenth time and the attendant finally, finally said your name.

The woman you passed on your way out seemed crestfallen. You tried hard, scrubbing and scrubbing, to erase the imagery of her downturned lips, distracted eyes, and solemn expression on your way toward Catherine’s office. When the attendant knocked, waiting for his superior’s response, you caught the puzzled look he shot your way, and just as she called out, you nearly grabbed his presumptuous little tablet and broke it over your knee.

“Good luck,” he said in his tinny, snotty voice.

You couldn’t help it—your face twisted in annoyance. “Keep it.”

Her office was bright, like it was founded on biblical firmament, and sunlight stung through the windows, rendering you bleary-eyed.

She stood up, reached across her desk. “Hello, there.”

You squinted, pawed at a space in the air and prayed her hand would be there. “Bright in here, isn’t it?” Her cool fingers brushed yours.

“Oh! Right, right. I always forget how bright the sun gets around this time. I love it.” You fumbled and tripped your way into a chair as she proceeded to tug the curtains shut, one by one. “But I also sit behind with my back to the windows. So I forget how the light seems to flashbang everyone who walks in here.”

She tugged on a bulbed chain, and the final curtain unravelled like a gigantic parchment, dropping down over the window. A soft, comfortable dimness touched her office. At last, Catherine settled back into her chair. “Thanks for pointing it out.”

You expected her office to be tidy. The kind that looked seldom used because it was kept so spiffy and neat. But there was clutter. Boxes sat against the walls, stuffed with packed files, papers, canvases, fabrics, a coffee machine, a printer, books, manuals, DVDs, corners and shiny pieces to things you couldn’t identify. Paintings and picture frames were taken down, ordered against one another. She had a shelf, but it was emptied out, and clear circles and squares where knickknacks once stood were surrounded by a faint layer of dust. Her desk was cluttered, too. There was a file split open, assumed to be your file, sitting on top of several thick catalogues.

She clicked on her desk lamp, aimed it down at the file.

“Is that man with the tablet the assistant that’s leaving?”

As she adjusted the lamp, she laughed. “No, no. He’s a substitute for now, until I decide on an assistant who permanently fills the role.”

“Okay, I see.”

You didn’t speak again. Instead, in the quiet and soft light, you let her glance across your file, watched how her eyes, a dark grey, moved lower, lower, until she reached the bottom. Then, she looked up, and her thin mouth adapted a smile that was neither comforting nor cold.

“Your resume doesn’t seem to align with the experience I require in this position, although you do have some lovely qualities.”

Sharpness poked your throat. “I know...”

Again, she said nothing, but flipped a page in the file and continued to read—even started humming—and it was a blended, silky sound that made your focus drift in and out, like a camera lens tinged by salted sea water. She giggled at something she read, brushed her finger over the ink. “Your letter has a sort of charm to it. I can feel you in the words. Your honesty.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

Catherine clasped her pale hands together on the humble-sized desk, not one finger with a ring. But she wore a thin gold bracelet made of links. “So, you say you know art through a friend. A friend lost and then rekindled. You call that rekindling in itself art. Because art makes you feel, think, discover, and question. I find that interesting.” She aimed the desk lamp away from the file, slightly toward your face, as though she were a detective and you, her suspect. “How did this rekindling come to be?”

That was something you couldn’t explain.

Didn’t really expect to be questioned on.

“Uh… well, to save you from a very long story, our friendship hit a fizzle, as those things often do. She had slipped away from herself, and I guess I did a little bit, too. But we had a good talk at your Winter Wonderland show, actually. And that sort of started things up again. She got clean. And I…” you peered into the lamp’s golden rings emanating toward you, let your shoulders drop. “I had to change my perspective. Stop moping around, getting all passive. I want life to come from me, not happen to me.”

She nodded. “Invictus.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good thing to realize. And good on your friend.”

“I wanted her to apply.”

“She never did?”

“Well, I didn’t see her today. Plus, she never said anything.”

“If this round is not successful, we hold another. There could still be a chance for her, if she wishes.” Catherine sat back, bouncing her chair, and tucked some fraying, wispy brown curls behind her ear. “You know, my assistant comes with me when I travel. I support having a tethered life, actually. Because that’s where home is. But this job is not for people who have those tethered lives. Things that hold them to home. Home has to be no more than a place. How do you feel about travel? What tethers you?”

So many pictures fell through your mind like stones dropping out from a sack. But the one picture that kept reappearing more than any other was Vernon—and he was deciding his own tethers.

Your hands tightened, and then released, blood rushing through your fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve never been that adventurous. But that’s changed a lot this past year.”

“Well,” she gestured around her office, at the boxes and paintings and odd spaces of spilling emptiness, “I ask for a reason. Because I’m going to be leaving Skyline for some time. I’m going to Seoul for my next series of exhibitions. But I also have family ties there. I know a handful of applicants were excited to settle into Skyline, but this job is like a magic carpet. It flies you places. It’s fun, but you need to be ready to work.”

Very little of what she said stuck to you. “Leaving? When?”

“By the end of the month.”

“Jeez, that’s—that’s sudden.”

“It is. And I understand that. So I’ve been letting all interviewees know that they have the option to join me in October. I will take Henry with me for the first month instead.” She tilted her head, smiled a little. “I must admit, it’s a bit of a selfish choice. I stayed at Skyline longer than I really should have…” you noticed her grey eyes adrift, lingering on a picture frame turned toward her, the photograph hidden from your curiosity.

“Well, if you have family there…” you laughed, though it sounded awkward and breathy in an unnecessary attempt to be comforting.

Catherine sighed. “I love your story, about losing a friendship and then rekindling it. How rare is that? Don’t you think that when people leave, it’s for a reason? Even if we are not meant to fully understand that reason?” She gripped her chin, shook her head. “I think about it often. How do we know if someone isn’t supposed to come back?”

Your throat was dry. “Wow. I-I’m not sure—” and you started to cough, splatter spit into your elbow, stinging bleariness flooding your eyes, feathers in your throat. Catherine stood up, said something about fetching you some water, before leaving you alone in the tenebrosity of her packaged office. There was a tissue box somewhere on her desk, and your hand reached around cluelessly as the tears in your eyes turned the world disorganized. You grabbed something cold and heavy in your hand, held it up to your hot, flushed face as your vision gradually cleared. Not tissues.

The photograph.

An adolescent boy with braces and shaggy hair holding onto a baby girl wrapped up in a starry pink swaddle. You held the picture underneath the lamp to make sure you were interpreting every detail correctly. Trembling fingertips reached out to touch the glass, its hard but fragile surface, along the boy’s face, his crooked teeth, his eyes. You knew him. You knew him. Hansol.

Catherine returned to the office. From over your shoulder, she sat a mug of water onto the desk. Then she said, “pretty, aren’t they?”

You set the frame down, turned it away from you.

She plopped back in the chair and smiled. There was a glint in her cinder eyes, a lopsided curl in her smile, and it all painfully, vividly, overwhelmingly reminded you of him. “It’s a clean mug,” she said. “Just some water from our machine. Are you alright? Got a tickle?”

The interview came to stand in your way.

You wanted out. Wanted the curtains whipped open again, with the blistering sunlight to turn the room to fire. But you stayed in your seat. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.” You pulled the mug into your grip but didn’t sip anything. “I shouldn’t have looked at your photograph.”

“No, it’s alright. I can’t pack it away just yet. Something inside won’t let me.” She grabbed the frame, angled it in a way she preferred.

“That’s the family you’re going to see?”

“Just my daughter. As you said before, it would be a long story.”

You nodded, teeth aching as though they might fall out. She looked to you again, except you couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Right. Things happen,” you said, attempting to be soothing.

Things happen. Things happen. Things happen.

You became a ticking timebomb in that seat.

Vernon was picking you up after the interview.

As you left behind the miraculous building and its infinite glass capturing the coastline blue, you stared down at your phone, reading his text message. Then you stalked down several blocks to his location, your heels practically grating through the flimsy flats stuck on your feet, barrelling across walkways and shouldering around unhurried people. You found the diner where he was eating a late lunch. Just as he was about to stick a salted, yellow fry in his mouth, you marched up to his booth and slapped it away.

He sat back. “Uh—excuse you, asshole?”

When you said nothing, he grabbed another fry off his plate—stopped to give you an expectant, skeptic look—only to have you smack it from his hand again, where it landed under a table on the checkered floor.

His arm dropped. “What? Your interview suck?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you hissed.

“So, it didn’t suck?”

You dropped down into the seat across from him, feeling the aged, cracked pleats of dark green leather under your fingertips. He must have just gotten his food. The plate was messily surrounded by fries and a big buttery burger with a gleaming bun, a small red flag wrapped around a toothpick sticking out. The interview had ended earlier than you originally surmised.

Vernon sighed, dragging the tall glass of brown soda toward him, dripping in condensation. “Dude, I can’t understand if you don’t tell.”

And you laughed. “Says you!”

“What?”

“Your freaking goddamn mother is Catherine Love!”

The diner wasn’t very full. Just some older folk taking their time perusing newspapers or writing onto notepads. Behind the counter, you could see two cooks, busying themselves in the greasy, steamy air. The blinds at the table were angled shut, patterning the surface in white lines.

Surprisingly, Vernon’s face didn’t change. “Not really.”

You scoffed, “what the hell does that mean?”

He slurped up some soda, swallowed. “Technically, her name’s Catherine Melody. That’s how I know her. It’s different.”

“Vernon,” you urged, leaning forward, shoulders sticking up, “she’s still your mother! Why—I just don’t get why? Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think that’s a huge thing? That I’m going to get interviewed by your mom?” The air fell flat out of you. Grabbing a napkin off the table, you slapped it over your forehead, perspiring with stress, and heaved.

Silence sat between you. Heavier than the loungeroom.

You pulled the napkin off your forehead, stared into him.

He shrugged. “You were excited about this. Why would I tell you that she’s my mom? Wouldn’t you agree it would change things? I wanted you to have that moment without my personal shit gettin’ in the way.”

It had to marinate. You couldn’t just spew up all your conflicted, rash feelings without considering his perspective, too. The napkin was squeezed into a ball in your hand, and you kept massaging it until a sense of quiet unfurled inside you. Letting the napkin open itself on the table, you rubbed down your thighs, glanced at him. “I suppose… you’re right. But I figured it out anyway. I’m sure I biffed it. It was all I could think about for the rest of the interview. Not that I was a fitting candidate from the start.”

Vernon pushed the soda across the table. You sipped from it, closed your eyes, enjoyed the rush of cold sweetness and fizzing bubbles.

He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry, PJ’s. Maybe I should have told you to avoid all this blindsided bullshit.” You nudged the glass back and he sipped, too. “But I didn’t think you would put it together right fuckin’ there. Did she have my goddamn grade school picture collaged to the wall?”

“Not really,” you sighed. “I don’t think I would have figured it out, but I picked up a picture frame off her desk when she left the room, and it was the same picture on your nightstand—you and your little sister—that made it quite obvious.” You noticed that Vernon’s face had started to creep with something that felt dark. It charcoaled shadows underneath his eyes and along his cheekbones. “And now that I think about it, some of the things she said make a lot more sense with context… she’s… going to Seoul.”

Vernon cackled a bit. “Yeah, off to Sofia.”

Was it your place to say more? You were uncertain. He seemed to have lost his interest in eating, so you pulled some fries off his plate, let him brood for a few minutes, stare at the blinds with the filtered sunlight.

“She said something about—” you had his plate now, grabbed the tiny spritzer of vinegar and shook it over the fries, “—about staying here longer than she should have. I think she was hoping to see you.”

“Yeah, so she can judge what I’ve become, no doubt.”

“Well, maybe… maybe not. There was hurt. A lot of it.” Wiping the crumbs off your fingers, you let Vernon have his plate back. “Look, I know it’s a sensitive subject for you, so if I’m overstepping, let me know. But would you ever consider talking to her? You don’t have to forgive, or accept anything she says, but just… to like… hear her? Would you ever do that?”

He dug some fries away from the burger. “Man, I don’t know…”

“I know you have a lot to think about right now,” you said tenderly, twining each word with thought, “but she’s leaving at the end of the month.”

Vernon sighed, picking up his burger and sliding out a crisp pickle to eat. Then he finally took a bite, and you noticed some tension vacate him.

A man stopped by the table. He was dressed fairly casually, but wore a black waist apron stuffed with a crinkled-up notepad. “Can I get you anything?” He asked politely, his hands clasped. After you thought for a moment, eyes trailing the menu, you asked for the ice cream sundae.

Because, damn. You deserved it.

VERNON.

It was quite easy to hang out with Moo. He could entertain himself to no end, which let Vernon be more absented-minded than usual.

Moo used a cube of blue chalk to powder the tip of the lacquered cue. Vernon leaned against the wall, smelled the beer in the air, the fried food, stale smoke. He always liked this bar. The smells comforted him, the sounds of cans being cracked open and hard balls splashing around a felted table were unchanged. Moo finally leaned over, lined up his cue, slid the stick back and then knocked it forward, but the tap was a little too hard.

He stood up, ground down on his cheek. “That’s fucking stupid.”

Vernon reached for his beer on the small table beside him. The glass was cold on his lips, and the beer was frothy in his mouth. “Loser.”

“Shut up, tool. You do better then.”

Vernon shrugged. He grabbed his cue, walked around the table to find the white ball. Similar to his friend, he leaned over, let the cue slide across a groove in his hand, and then struck, pocketing a ball.

Moo swatted his hand through the air. “Easiest shot I’ve seen in my life,” he muttered while picking at his plate of nachos. “Baby could do that.”

“You know a baby?”

“I will. Sharla’s due in three months.”

“Guess we’ll have to wait.”

Vernon sunk another ball, and then another, until he decided he wanted a break and purposefully let his cue falter. Moo rubbed his hands together, delighted to try again, leaving behind his plate of chips, stringy cheese, salsa, and blackened chicken bits. Vernon got comfortable against the wall while Moo studied the table, rubbing his chin.

“Now that I’m thinking about it …” Moo hummed, “isn’t it so fucking weird that Sharla’s pregnant? I mean, I’m gonna be a freakin’ uncle, man, and Jade’s gonna be an aunt, and Sharla’s gonna be a mom. A goddamn mom. A mother. Time flies, man. Straight like an arrow.”

“Yeah… sure does.”

“I mean, it feels like yesterday she would sneak out and make me cover for her, then get me to come pick her up in our dad’s car.” Moo chose a spot, blew at the tip of his cue. “She’s well-rounded and all. But she had a crazy streak dad never knew about.” He bent down, went quiet for a moment as he settled the cue into position. “You guys had a little thing, didn’t you? At one point? Back in the day, as we say. I always knew. She’d smell like you some days.” Then he struck the white ball into another, a loud clacking noise echoing around the bar just as the ball swiftly pocketed. Moo stood back, clutched his fist. “Fuck yeah. You see that angle? Finesse, Vern.”

“And you’re how many balls behind?”

“Slow and steady wins the race. Mrs. Yee’s class type shit.”

Vernon crossed his arms and laughed.

“Anyway.” Moo grabbed his drink and sipped. “I’m looking forward to being an uncle. To be honest, though, I always thought the first kid in my life would be yours.” He rubbed his nose, laughed a little. “But you’re not as promiscuous now. Guess PJ straightened that out.” He approached the table again, quieted down as he focused on making a particularly tricky shot, the edge of his tongue sticking out. The colourful balls scattered and Moo cheered before walking back to his mixed drink for a necessary victory sip.

It was true. Vernon was surprised too that he never got a girl pregnant, although there had been a few scares in the past he still remembered in uncomfortable vividness. Sex had never been multifaceted to him until he met you—it was pleasure and escape, another drug—but the way you grated on him was impossible to ignore. You made him feel things that he thought weren’t for him. Strong things. Things he didn’t always understand. Things that scared him. But things he came to want just like any other human being once he realized how starved he was of it. And then you were the most important thing. But not a thing. You. And he thought of you every day. His body started to ache like a sore tooth.

He was missing you.

“Oh, damn. Just fucked it,” Moo scoffed. “Alright. You go.”

Vernon sighed. “Dude, I can’t lie. I don’t feel like playin’.”

“No—what?! Come on! At least do your turn! Danny’s gonna be here soon and he call fill in for you. At least finish your turn. Please.”

He sighed again and grabbed his cue. Vernon’s shots were aimless and rushed. One ball sank but the other bumped off the side and zoomed down the green felt with no direction at all. After another taste of his beer, beginning to gradually warm, Vernon said he needed a few minutes alone.

Outside, the evening was warm.

The sky was luminous compared to the dusky lighting inside the bar. Calm clouds looked like stirred cream in a baby blue coffee cup. He breathed in. Lost was the scent of foaming beer, cooking oil, and faded cigarette smoke. Instead, there was a weightless nothingness. Vernon took out his phone as well as a toothpick to play with in his teeth, saw you had texted him, and started to smile.

omg! a spider in my shoe!! JPG_387456 i shook it outside i just can’t bear to squish it D:

In his head, he could hear your scream, see the way you jumped, raced around, got all trembly with freight. He could picture you squatted at the edge of the walkway outside your apartment, shaking your shoe to coax the spider out while your face puckered up and your lips got tight.

what a good person u are up to anything? been missing u all day

He walked across the tiny parking lot to his car and leaned against the driver’s door, circling the toothpick around his mouth with a prodding tongue, tasting its wood flavour. You had your interview about two weeks ago. Since that day, you hadn’t mentioned anything about the position again, and Vernon suspected you just didn’t want to stir the pot when it came to his mother as a topic. Which he understood. He hadn’t exactly built her up with much kindness. Hearing you compliment her artwork and exhibitions—it hadn’t been easy to keep a straight face—but your enthusiasm was too flowering and he was too soft about you to uproot it.

Vernon’s phone vibrated in his hand. When he glanced down, he saw an unrecognized number labeled above a text message. Skeptical, he opened the conversation initiated by the strange number.

Ready to make a decision? 709 Dooley Dr. 8pm. Let’s talk.

And he looked up, glancing around the quiet parking lot, then into the dark bar windows obscured with neon signs and dusty shutters.

It wasn’t like Vernon didn’t know who it was. But he wished he didn’t.

Pulling the toothpick out from his mouth, Vernon rubbed it between his fingers while continuing to read the text over again. The group house. He didn’t want to go back there, among the rot, the graffiti, the staleness of memories succumbing to age and seasons. He didn’t want to see Jeonghan’s face. It was like getting belted into a rollercoaster, thrust up a drop, and then over the precipice, pelted by stinging air that was hard to breathe.

Suddenly, his phone whirred again.

Don’t wait too long. Time flies, right?

He shut his phone off, flicked the toothpick aside.

Vernon swung into the car and started its engine. Without knowing what he was going to decide, Vernon followed the familiar route back to a place he once considered home.

He arrived a few minutes before eight o’clock. The sky was a melting gradient. A big ball of gold, stretching into peach, and then a long, long stretch of lilac that convulsed akin to a thin bedsheet fluttering on a peg line. Vernon entered through the broken doorway, careful in his steps, was about to walk past the threshold to the kitchen when he noticed someone there already. Jeonghan was sitting at a table. It looked old, plucked from a curb. The chair left for him to sit on was a scrappy lawn chair that might just rip.

“You’re here.” Jeonghan gestured to the chair. “I brought seats.”

Vernon stayed in the doorframe. “From a dumpster?”

“It matches the house.”

He stepped into the kitchen. The floor was strewn in dirt, dead leaves, scuffs from furniture and equipment being dragged about. It always seemed to be the heart of the house. On good days, where everyone gathered, sharing barbecue and playing music. On bad days, where arguments happened and cupboards rattled when fists came slamming down. Sometimes, a place of mystery that Vernon wasn’t allowed to see, simply because he was too young, even though he knew what was happening,

Vernon hooked his ankle around the chair leg, pulled it further away from Jeonghan and more toward himself. Finally, he sat, and the chair creaked. “If this snaps, man…” he warned, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, mine is much worse,” Jeonghan laughed. “I feel as though I’m about to fall through the bottom any minute now! But I can’t deny there’s a little fun in not knowing. Russian Roulette in shitty lawn chair form.”

“Nice to know you’ve got little informants sprinkled everywhere.”

“You only go to so many places.”

Vernon wanted to roll his eyes. Jeonghan’s power was much bigger than it seemed, but that had always been his allure. Sort of like an iceberg, the top seeming eerie enough, but the unseen much scarier.

“Has it been difficult?” Jeonghan asked. “Choosing?”

His blunt nails scraped the hard plastic of the chair arms, scribbled with crayon. “No,” Vernon scoffed, “it was all cookies n’ cream.”

“I thought it was courteous to ask, Vernon.”

“Well, I don’t really want your fuckin’ courtesy. Did you drag me all the way out here to socialize? I get you told me the truth and all, but I’ve spent so long upset at you that it isn’t really gonna fly away all that quick.”

Jeonghan nodded. “I understand.”

“Not that you really care how I feel about you.”

“I do, Vernon.”

And the boy shivered a little despite the warmth seeped into the kitchen. Jeonghan always called him Hansol. He was never one to use the nicknames they all coined for each other. It was another one of his natural mannerisms that set him apart, above, a discreet way of telling everybody that he knew them inside, not just their surface. But Vernon had exploded at him for continuing to call him Hansol. Was it a mind game or an honest attempt at proving his compassion? Vernon never knew with Jeonghan.

“You know,” Jeonghan said, setting his elbow onto the scratched table and letting his chin sit in his palm, “if you’re really in that much of a rush, then why don’t you just come out with it? What are you going to do?” His eyes were large, black like soaked bark. “I won’t judge you. Safe space and all.”

“Yeah,” Vernon tutted, leaning back in the chair, hearing its metal hinges stretch crustily. “You’re the person I’m worried about judgin’ me.”

“To think you’d worry about anyone judging you is not in your character, is it? Unless you’re thinking something big, Vernon.” Jeonghan smiled, ducked his head a little, and there was a sudden sinisterness.

“Well,” he huffed, “maybe I am...”

The kitchen was silent for a moment. Outside, he could hear the tall grass rustling in the evening wind, and when Vernon looked out the doorway onto the porch, he remembered all those nights in one big rush of nostalgia. Moo always manned the barbecue. Dots always controlled the music. Snozz made the drinks and passed out mint Swishers. Vernon would keep the little bonfire going, and across from him—in the translucent areas of hot flames—Jeonghan would be staring up at the stars, smiling. Before he pushed all those thoughts away, Vernon heard all their different laughs blending together, hoarse with Swisher smoke and then velvety with alcohol.

He closed his eyes tightly. You see, I saved him, but I never saved myself. And then the same thing happened to Paulo. He tried to save you. Get you steady. But then he’s a corpse lying beneath his own vomit in the upstairs bedroom of a trap house.

Vernon opened his eyes again to see Jeonghan, except not through the dancing heat of an alive fire, but in the sunset fragility of a broken kitchen.

Jeonghan tapped his finger. “Did you think about you?”

“I tried to.”

“Good. That’s good. You can’t make a decision like that clearly with anyone else in mind but yourself. What will you do, Vernon?”

He held the answer on his tongue for a moment. “There’s some sort of mural outside, isn’t there? You’ve seen it, yeah?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Would you care to take a look?”

Together, they moved through the kitchen, down the rotten porch where Jade used to do her homework, and around tall heaps of untended grass well-stoked by the summer sun and rain. They each turned around to glance at the back of the house. Vernon admired the paint. The thickness of the colours. How brightly the mural stood against the golden sky. He felt his eyes prick. Little tears had gathered. Jeonghan’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing, as Vernon felt more and more like that misguided teenager isolated into a world that had already decided things for him.

Vernon sighed, “I’ve got to leave. I’ve just gotta.”

The hand on his shoulder slipped off. “I’m glad you finally feel like you can do that now, Hansol,” Jeonghan said, his tone warmer than it ever had been. They studied the mural until the sun seeped into blackness and the yard filled with the intermittent glow of fireflies, carrying flickers of their own charged starlight.

You and Vernon returned to the art shop to finish your pictures. At first, you had overgrown with worry that they threw the paintings out after receiving an email from the business about hitting their deadline. But you emailed them back, and to your relief, they held both your pictures. It was nearing the end of summer and you wanted each other to have something as a memory. The art shop was quieter than usual. Only a few tables were occupied. The air smelled like dried watercolour, acrylic, and soap.

Much like the first time, Vernon was quiet as he painted. The little girl’s apron with the bubblegum pink and stitched butterflies was gone, so he chose a regular black apron that matched his hair. While you suspected the quietness, something about it was different. Vernon would at least swear when he made a mistake, or sigh a lot, set the canvas back onto the easel and glare at it every few minutes. But he was moving along fluidly. You didn’t want to disturb his rhythm so you stayed quiet, too, occasionally pausing to sip from your water bottle or put the brush down to rest your wrist.

He was done before you.

“I need maybe… twenty more minutes? I think?”

“That’s fine,” Vernon said, getting up from the table. “Feelin’ a little warm. Gonna sit outside on the step for a minute. Be right back.”

“Uh, okay,” you answered, unsure of how to respond while watching him push open the door to the art shop. It closed, and he was gone. Sighing, you had to trust he would tell you, and returned to your painting.

Then you were finished. You insisted on showing him the product, an intense labour of love, but Vernon shook his head, told you that it was better to wait until you were back home. The drive was quiet. Your paintings were dried under a lamp at the shop and tucked safely into a paper bag that sat in your lap. Ruby wasn’t there. Vernon wandered into your bedroom before you could offer if he wanted anything (even when you knew how capable he was of getting things himself), so you followed, strangely loathing that sticky quietness because conversation with him was one of your favourites. Laughter. He always made you laugh, get teary.

You plopped down on the end of your bed, bounced a few times.

Vernon leaned against the dresser across from you.

Setting the bag down to the floor, you reached for a stuffed toy behind you. It was filled with so much cotton that you could feel the cloudy lumps under your fingers. “Is everything okay?” You hummed.

He grasped the dresser’s edges. “Yeah, but no.”

“What’s that mean?”

Vernon looked down at his golden chain, shiny against his black t-shirt. He touched it for a moment, then looked to you and smiled, but he didn’t speak. Your fingers pushed harder into the stuffed toy, thumbs pressing the beaded eyes deep into its head until you felt bad.

“PJ’s,” he said, and his voice shook a little. “I’m leavin’.”

You blinked. Put the stuffed toy aside. “Huh? Leaving?”

He nodded, like it was too difficult to speak.

“Uh, okay. Leaving to where? For what?” You wanted to seem calm, levelled, even though you had just burst on the inside like an old pipe, emotions sputtering everywhere, stepping over each other, gripping and crawling, agony. “Is this related to Jeonghan?”

Vernon nodded again. He wiped a hand across his face, and his skin turned a little flushed from the pressure. “Yeah. I talked to him a few days ago.” The hand dropped, his fingers starting to curl in and out, flex their tendons. “I really didn’t know what I was gonna do ‘til I got there and started talkin’ to him. I feel like the answer came from my gut, y’know? It was practically singin’ to me.”

“Well, that’s good,” you said, smiling. “You can’t ignore that.”

“I have to go see my mom. My sister. In Seoul.”

Suddenly, you felt very cold. It was late summer but, in your body, it was a winter storm. Everything started to freeze over. Become hard. You couldn’t look at Vernon. Then you were shaking, wanted to reach around yourself for comfort but found that you were rusted.

“Oh…” you managed to squeeze out. “Yes. That’s important. That’s big. You should do it.”

“PJ’s…”

“No, you should go. This is your life.” You stood up, accidentally kicked the paper bag with your foot and it crinkled loudly, almost a cry. “It’s just really unexpected that’s all. But I want you to go. I do. I really do, and I was the one who made you consider it, and—”

He grabbed your arms and pulled you against him. The frigidness inside you twisted around into nothing but withering heat. For a second, you resisted, beginning to push back on him, push away, shake your head as the stinging sensation engendered water from your eyes. But you gave up the pushing the second you smelled him. It was all too familiar. It was that winter night in the front seat of his car with his bomber jacket pulled up to your chin. When his scent soothed you for the first time. Found its way to an open fold in your memory and slotted inside like a handwritten letter.

“PJ’s, you can be upset,” Vernon whispered, stroking the back of your head tenderly as you sniffled, cried, ached, into his neck. “I didn’t expect you to be okay. If you were, I might be a little fuckin’ miffed,” he laughed, and you pressed your hands hard against his chest to feel that deep, hearty vibration; let it run through his skin and into yours.

“For how long?” You mumbled, closing your eyes.

Vernon held your waist, sighed. “Dunno. As long as I need t’be.”

“And… and… you want to go… alone?”

Your face was gently lifted from the dampness of his shoulder. You saw the emotion in his eyes, full like a fat water droplet threatening to spill apart. His thumbs casted away the tears. “PJ’s, you have steadiness here. A great support circle. Maybe things aren’t always sweet but that doesn’t make it so. I want you to be here and continue leadin’ this beautiful life of yours.”

“But I want to be with you…” you sniffled, grabbing his tattooed wrists, hoping the touch of your soft fingers was a magic spell. “I know you have to go but I just can’t imagine my life if you’re not beside me.”

He nodded. Then Vernon leaned forward, and his lips were kissing the thin, fragile skin of your closed eyelids, still trembling as tears pooled underneath. “I just wanted to tell you. I didn’t want it to be another big secret, hm?” He kissed your forehead, made sure it lasted. “We can talk about it more later. Let’s try to relax.” His hands gripped your weak, sunken shoulders. “There’s some paint on your face,” he said with a tiny smile, “and some more on your arms. I think you need a shower. Want to shower?”

For a moment, you stood and thought, looking off to the side feeling hurt, confused. You let the feelings exist, but took a deep, long breath, and willed them not to control you, such that you finally lost sight of that infinite, dark chasm, bearing a gravitational pull like no other. Vernon led you into the washroom. Water started spraying from the showerhead until there was hot steam dense in the air and fog slicking the mirror. In the misty heat, you both undressed. Vernon got under the water first while you huddled at the end of the tub, wincing at the temperature of the fiery droplets.

“C’mere—” he pulled at your arm.

And you wriggled him off. “It’s too hot you maniac.”

“Feels so good though.” He tugged you again.

You shrunk against his chest, hiding from the water, but it reached you anyway. Vernon gripped your shoulders and turned you around. There was a snapping noise, and then a soapy lathering noise. Before you could ask, his hands were beginning to glide along your body, dressing you in suds that smelled tropical and peachy. Even though his hands were slippery and wet, they maintained their textured roughness, and you couldn’t help but shiver, gasp, whenever they lingered around intimate areas.

His body was firm against yours. You bit your lip while watching his long, thick fingers drag slowly up the centre of your tummy, how they stroked underneath your breasts, gliding with water. He started to kiss along your shoulder, drag his tongue to your neck, press his gritty voice far inside your ear to feel your knees wobble. “I’ll always take care of you, my love.”

Everything was different in the shower. There was more echo, inescapable wetness, dizzying heat in your head and hot water stinging in your eyes and the sloppiest moans you had ever made finding their way up your throat. But he was right. Vernon always took care of you. The shower tiles lost their coolness the more he thrusted into you, pushing your body into the wall. That tattooed hand stayed hard but attentive around your neck.

It got messier and messier, the noises of skin slapping against skin getting louder, but at least you were in the shower. Vernon pulled your head back onto his shoulder, then clutched your hips tight in his fingers, and the fact you could already sense the dermal ache of bruises forming made you grin a little bit twisted.

He kept thrusting. The fullness intoxicated you.

“Good girl,” he grunted, rubbing your throat. “You take this big dick so well now, don’t you, yeah? Moan so loud whenever I get inside this gorgeous pussy.” He hugged you against him, squeezed you. “You don’t understand—” Vernon rasped, his hips intense and working, “—I fuckin’ love you so much, PJ’s. Make me think about crazy fuckin’ shit I never even considered. Gettin’ married n’ buyin’ a stupid house n’ havin’ babies. I love you. Just some shit I gotta do first, right?” Suddenly, he couldn’t manage to speak through the orgasm that throbbed at your insides, filling you deep with heat.

After showering, washing away the stress, you and Vernon spent some time in your bedroom. You thought about cooking or ordering food.

But then his phone started to rumble on your nightstand. He groaned, lifting his head from your stomach, where your fingers had been sweeping through his damp, black tresses. Vernon pulled the phone close to him, squinted at the screen, shoved himself up with a tired sigh.

You watched him stand and pull his t-shirt back on, hiding the hard, gilded lines of his back from your fond eyes that always wandered.

“Gotta take this.” He leaned down to kiss you. “Sorry. I’ll be back.”

Once you heard the echo of the front door closing, you decided to roll off the bed and check what groceries were available in the kitchen for you to cook with. Ruby had been quite busy with work, mostly eating pre-packaged meals she bought from their cafeteria, and you had been neglecting shopping for almost a week now. You touched the loose handle on the fridge, only to be grabbed by your shoulder a second later, and then yanked backward into Ruby’s bedroom that smelled like one of her fragrancy candles.

It happened so quickly you hadn’t time to scream.

“Ruby!” You exclaimed while she shut her bedroom door. “What the heck was that? When did you come home? Have you been here all day?”

“No.” She shook her head, still dressed in her black work pants and a fancy white button-up. But her hair was down, and she scraped her fingers through the molasses-brown strands. “I got home, like, twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh…” you said, your brow coming to furrow. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ruby gawked, rolling her eyes. “Oh.”

Embarrassment unsheathed itself from the base of your stomach and you found that words were running off toward your mind’s distant horizon. You watched them go, blinking into twinkles, gone.

Ruby sighed, walking over to her large candle that she had lit, in a bright fuchsia jar. She inhaled the hibiscus smoke, looked at you. “I mean, I’m not upset! I promise I’m not. It just took me by surprise.” Then your roommate started laughing, unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt. “I’m pleased you two have such a prosperous sex life. At least, it sounds like it.”

Finally, your senses regrew, and you collapsed onto her bed, hands covering your eyes. “You should have slammed the door extra loud!” You cried out, laughing, too, in hiccups. “Like, five times! So we knew!”

The mattress dipped at her weight beside you. “I thought about it, but I’m not sure Vernon would care, actually. And, I consider it proper to leave you uninterrupted after my, erm, experiences in the past.”

Pulling the hands off your face, you saw Ruby’s soft expression peering down at you as she tucked a lock of thick hair behind her ear.

And you puffed out a breath, smiling. “I guess so…”

Ruby was probably your closest friend now. Naturally, you told her just about everything, including your first night with Vernon. At first, you thought it might be somewhat strange to mention it considering she had her own sexual history with him, in a different time, but it wasn’t awkward or weird at all. She wasn’t too picky when it came to detail—she was merely happy to listen as you stumbled through it—and said she would never be shy to offer advice or answer questions. So, despite your embarrassment that she heard Vernon plowing you in the damn shower, you were just relieved it was your roommate that walked in, not anybody’s parents or a friend of hers.

She sat on her side, tucked her knees up. “Babe, I’m literally jealous, if anything. But my dating life has been ultra-dry ‘cause of work.”

You decided to sit up. “What? There’re no cuties there?”

“No,” Ruby pouted, blowing out a stream of air from her lips that made some hair dance off her nose. “I mean, there are a few attractive guys, but their personality is awful, like—I don’t know—tissues.” She peeled off her ankle socks, rubbed at the indents they left against her olive skin. “I hate when attractive people think they don’t need a personality just ‘cause they’re attractive! I mean, look at me, girl. I’m the walking talking truth!”

Together, you laughed. “Never lower your standards, Ruby.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, her smile faint but remaining, “I won’t.” A flash of something reluctant passed across her face, and you noticed the restraint in her expression as she pondered, chewing her lip. But then she seemed to decide there was no reason to avoid it. “Well… I guess it makes the most sense to tell you this…” she began, and the apples of her cheeks suffused with a pretty redness. “But I’m kinda talking to Moo… I mean, he told me to call him August—Auggie—but I guess you call him Moo?”

“Ruby!” You trilled. “Are you really?!”

She nodded, pulled out the phone from her back pocket to show you the proof of a text message conversation. You scrolled through some of it while she cared to explain. “At first, I wasn’t taking it that serious. We started chatting on IG and then he asked for my number. I let the message sit for a couple days, but then I gave in.” Ruby smiled. “He’s just really funny. I like that he can entertain himself, too. And I can get him to do just about anything for me,” she snickered. “I was texting him at work that I was really craving a yogurt parfait for lunch, and those Mediterranean chips we tried one time. Then, like, just as I was about to go on my lunch, I got a buzz from the lobby. He left the snacks there for me. Isn’t that so sweet?”

You handed the phone back. “No, that is really sweet.”

Ruby nodded, put the phone away. “I mean, we’re not serious or anything, still talking and feelings things out. But… I might like him,” she said with a giggle, her hazel eyes alight as she pinched her fingers together.

“I support it,” you said, encouraging her.

“Thanks. TBD, I guess. How’s Vern doing?”

You paused, glancing over her decorative bedspread and pulling at a small thread that was much tighter than you expected it to be. Vernon had mentioned that you were the first person he told, and even though you were surging to tell Ruby—to let your emotions flow and tangle with hers in search of empathy—it wasn’t your place. So you straightened up, brushed at your bare knee, smiled. “He’s well. Like usual. I was thinking of either making dinner or ordering in? What do you think?” You asked.

“Oh, ordering in,” Ruby insisted. “He’ll pay, anyway.”

And so for dinner, Vernon ordered Souvlaki bowls. He was surprised to come back inside and find that Ruby was there, but, unlike you, he hadn’t flickered in one ounce of shame. Together, you ate at the couch and played a movie. You nibbled from your golden boiled potatoes and shovelled creamy, flavourful rice into your hungry mouth alongside a garlicky salad and strips of grilled chicken, at times wondering if Vernon was going to mention anything about his departure to Ruby. But he never said a word.

Dessert was a deep-dish marble cake from the back of the fridge, and you all scraped it apart with forks until you could see the yellow, shiny tin underneath amongst the chocolate crumbs and cheap icing. You tried not to think about how horribly you would miss this, tried to focus on the memory you were in the midst of creating as opposed to how it would feel to leave it behind. Whenever your eyes felt particularly watery, you would bury the feelings with another large mouthful of cake, to which Vernon would remove the icing from your lips with a sweep of his thumb.

Ruby eventually excused herself to her bedroom when she got a phone call from her parents. Once you and Vernon cleaned up the coffee table and kitchen counters, you went to your bedroom, too.

“Oh!” You picked up the brown paper bag. “We still have to do our paintings. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” He sat down next to you on the bed while you held the bag closed. “Should I just reach in and pull one out?”

“Sure.” Vernon shrugged.

“Do you think it will be mine or yours?” You hummed, your fingers picking a random canvas, the dried paint rough and full of texture.

He thought for a moment. “Yours.”

Then you pulled the canvas out. “Oh! It is mine!” You flipped it toward Vernon so he could see, your heart beating anticipatorily.

Vernon raised his sharp eyebrows. “Woah, nice,” the boy complimented, reaching out to take the picture from you. He held the canvas in both his hands, continued staring, as you took pride in the pleased edges of his impressed smile. “The old Camry, huh?” Vernon laughed. “I sent you a pic, didn’t I? I can tell you added some shine on the bumper.”

You nodded. “It was my reference photo.”

“This is fuckin’ great, PJ’s,” he said, meeting your eyeline.

Heat rubbed underneath your cheeks. “Thank you… I’m glad you like it. I know how much it means to you and everything.”

Vernon hummed, agreeing. “Guess mine’s next.”

A smile was wide and bursting on your mouth.

He snatched the brown paper bag from you. “Alright. Don’t look so damn eager, over there. I know you’re ready to see a trainwreck.” Vernon reached inside the bag, then let it drop to the floor between his legs as he pulled the canvas out. “I didn’t get the artsy bone, yeah?”

“I’m smiling so much because I’m genuinely excited!” You countered, proceeding to roughly grasp the painting from Vernon’s hand in retaliation. “I know how hard you worked on it. I was freakin’ there.” And you flipped it over, a hand immediately shooting to your mouth. “Vernon!”

The boy leaned back on his hands, shrugged. “What?”

“What is this even from?!” You exclaimed.

“Can’t you tell?”

“Am I wearing… my pony t-shirt?”

“Yeah. It’s the day I saw you for the first time. When you came outta your room.” He sat up, reached over to tap the picture. “I even drew your juice.” And you saw the funnily outlined pink glass in your hand.

“Why are my eyes so big?”

“You looked surprised as hell. Which I get. It’s not too often you see a face like mine,” he said while winking at you, and you pushed his arm. “I know it’s not perfect n’ all that. But—it’s like—one of my favourite memories. It’s how I think to like of you. Just tryin’ to drink some juice one mornin’ and then your entire life gets turned upside down. Funny, huh?”

“No. It is perfect, Vernon,” you told him, admiring the hues of effort and the gingerly painted-over mistakes and how detailed everything was in a crude mixture. “I love it. Genuinely. It’s amazing.” Then you leaned over to kiss his cheek, which felt warm and soft underneath your lips, like the surface of a blushed peach. “It’s the start of everything. Of us.”

Vernon nodded, a little sigh huffing through his nose. The sound was small but sorrowful. He stared around your room. “Yeah, the start…”

ONE MONTH AGO.

In early September, you said goodbye.

Vernon came to your apartment in the morning. Everything was exceptionally still as the sun began to rise. Its light broke through the dawn like a blossoming flower. But you were already awake, waiting, unable to sleep. In fact, you hadn’t slept properly in about a week. Instead, you dreamt in bursts, with intricate stories crammed into mere minutes of mistiness and restless tossing. But your body didn’t feel the tiredness. It could only feel that something was about to happen, and so it stayed awake in preparation.

Ruby had already said her goodbye. For the past two weeks she had been away in Tuscany visiting her sick grandmother, alongside her parents and some other relatives. Family was paramount to them. She was coming back tomorrow tonight and you planned to surprise her at the airport.

As it turned out, you hadn’t gotten Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara didn’t either, and she came into her shift crying, blowing her reddened nose with a tissue while Lara helped her into the locker room, taking the purse off her friend’s shoulder while you sat next to Tara on the little bench, rubbing her back. She calmed down with you and Lara squeezing her soft, slender hands, and you had to admit it felt strange to hold a hand that wasn’t rough and hardened with earned callouses.

“I’m so lucky to have friends like you guys,” Tara sniffled.

A letter eventually came to your mailbox. You were pulling out crumpled fliers, advertisements, and old subscriptions from unchanged addresses, and you nearly tossed a blank, white envelope addressed to you straight into the mail room’s recycling bin. But you noticed the name at the top left corner, written in neat black pen that looked like perfect computer font—Diana Basu—and you gripped the envelope so tightly that you left behind imprints of your sweaty fingertips. Back in your apartment, you stood at the kitchen counter while recovering a handwritten letter from Diana.

In the first few sentences, she explained her decision to apply for Catherine’s assistant position, and she got the job. Diana wrote about getting ready to leave for Seoul. She wrote about her new sense of freedom and lightness, how she broke up with Darian, how a friend from the Sherwood narcotic’s group had helped her journey into steadfast sobriety, and, finally, that so many positive changes had happened to her because of you. That you had never stopped caring.

She wrote that it was your best quality.

You read the sentence over and over again, feeling the penned words become ink in your eyes glossy with tears. Then you saw her updated phone number written along the bottom of the paper, a small smiley face beside it—the same face she would doodle onto the corner of your notebooks during boring, clock-watching lectures—and you suddenly hugged the letter to your chest like it was her.

Before you came outside the apartment to see Vernon, you quickly stepped into Ruby’s old slippers whose heels were thin and flatly worn. The early air was still holding onto summer’s languorous heat, but there was permeating coolness now, and it felt fresh against your arms and legs. There he was, leaned against the vanilla car, dressed in a prim jean jacket you had never seen before with a white t-shirt underneath. He smiled at you, raised his dark eyebrows, and it somehow felt like the very first time—your heart remembering itself, that it could beat that rapidly for another person.

The morning stillness blurred around you.

His golden eyes embraced you before anything else, his sun-kissed summer skin reflecting the morning light in radiance. “Nice to see the famous shirt before I go. Startin’ to think you burned it.”

“This shirt is literal history. This is its own Library of Alexandria.”

“I’m sure the shirt feels charmed.”

You smiled, and then stood on your toes, attempting to peer around him and into the backseat. “Uh, where’s all your luggage?”

“Didn’t have much. Just a suitcase in the trunk. Auggie and Danny took some old stuff from my pad. And then I sold some other shit.”

You nodded. “Did Jeonghan wire you the money?”

“I told him to wire the guys.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “That’s good. But you didn’t take any?”

Vernon shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got enough. Whatever. But there are some leftovers if you need it. Jeonghan said so. I know you didn’t take the money from Minghao so I doubt you’ll take this. But it’s there regardless”

Crossing your arms, you laughed. “I wouldn’t know how to get it.”

“Just ask Auggie or Danny. And I’m not sure that’s true. You’re a lot fuckin’ sneakier than you let on,” Vernon chuckled, tilting his head.

You approached him, flattened out the collar of his jacket, tried not to breathe in his amber musk but doing so anyway because you never wanted the sentimental smell and all the memories it harboured to dissipate. “I like to call it resourceful,” you answered, flicking your tongue along your teeth. “But sneaky works, too.”

It was hard to stomach that you were his last goodbye.

Vernon didn’t know how long he was going to be in Seoul. He often said he didn’t know if anything was going to work out. Maybe he would see his mother’s face, softened by age, for the first time in years and feel deep in his bones that he was not ready. Or maybe he would sense the relief casting over him like raindrops that he was letting the weight finally fall. Regardless, it was time for his own quest of sorts. One that would not support your relationship as the distance stretched and his world opened in difficult, painful ways.

If Vernon was meant to come back, if you were meant to be, then you trusted the universe to handle your rekindling. You had already cried enough repeating the thought to yourself when nights were especially sleepless. Sometimes it was solacing.

And if not solacing then tormenting.

Like most thoughts were.

“Well,” you hummed thoughtfully, tucking your hands behind your back so he wouldn’t notice how they quivered, “you should get going, considering how terrible you are with time. It would be kinda awkward if you missed your flight and had to reschedule everything and we needed to do this a second time.” You laughed together, his nose crinkled like a rabbit. “Is the Camry coming with you to Seoul?”

“That would be sweet, huh? But the Camry's gonna get signed over to Auggie. He'll pick it up from the airport with Danny. Hey—he said he'd sell it to you for a cheap price, once you get your licence, of course. How's that sound, PJ's? Think you can handle the Camry?”

“Maybe. With a good driving teacher.”

“Ask Danny about that. Moo just grips it and rips it,” Vernon said.

“Sounds no different from you,” you teased.

Vernon cupped your cheek. “You wouldn't like me as a teacher. We'd spend more time in the backseat than the front.”

And you pressed on his chest, leaning back to loudly laugh, only to feel him encase you in his arms, his lips skimming the sensitive skin of your throat. “Okay, okay!” You giggled. “You'll be late!”

“No chance,” Vernon hummed, and his tattooed hands moved to hold your cheeks. “I can be responsible sometimes, yeah?”

You nodded, spoke in a broken whisper, “I know.” Promptly, your hands settled overtop his, brushing your fingers over his fingers, feeling his scuffed knuckles, his scratched skin. Your eyes closed for a moment and you felt the burning embellishment of a new memory, bittersweet, sink deep into your brain. “I’m really going to miss you,” came the fragile confession of total obviousness, half-stuck in your congested throat that was beginning to close up.

“I know, lovely girl. I’ll miss you, too, yeah?” Vernon said.

But the tears stayed in place, sealed by your own will. “And you have to come back at some point. Out of principal. You still owe me molotes and a new canteen. Don’t you dare forget. Moocher.”

He chuckled with an emotional rasp, the edges of his eyes wrinkling, his smile full. “I won’t. Not with your threat hangin’ over me.”

“If you’re going to use my canteen, at least fill it with some quality soju or something. I’ll know if you don’t. I have good spidey senses.”

“Not better than mine.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Smartass.”

“Remember your manners, too.”

“You know I have manners.”

“Yes—optional manners—of which you never choose the option to have manners. You know that Diana will be down there.”

“Is she your informant now?”

“She could be.” You grasped the edges of his jacket and pulled him close, enough to press your forehead against his and spurn out the sunlight from dazzling between unnecessary spaces that were meant for your energies, instead. “So you best behave, Hansol.”

He kissed you, lips flush and sacred on yours. A part of you wanted to kick and scream, tear everything into slivers, crush the sun between your ferocious hands until the fire oozed out like magma and darkness fell like a stage curtain. But another part of you was tranquil, and it felt every second of the intimate kiss, every movement, every emotion that combined into singularity at the warmth of your soft mouths. Your fingers swept down the tattoos on his wrists, touching the ink for the last time, holding their enigmatic stories.

“Okay,” Vernon sighed. “I should hit the road, PJ’s.”

“Yes.” You nodded, beginning to let him go. “Drive safely.”

He opened the door to the car. It suddenly stung, and you struggled to compute that his body had drifted away with the faintness of fog. Then he lowered himself into the seat. The door was pulled shut, and its echo embraced the quietness in the early September air.

You listened to the engine start. Its rumble. One you hated to hear but then grew to love because it meant your person was just outside, waiting for you. Then the car was moving. It started to roll. Roll away. You took a few steps forward, slippers scuffing down the centre of the road, wanted to chase that damn car and the charming, silver-tongued boy inside who had unnegotiably changed your life.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you studied the Camry until it disappeared.

Outside, stillness of movement and sound returned. The summer's dulled heat flirted with the incoming autumn coolness in some sort of persuasion to stay longer. You returned indoors.

While Vernon was gone, you knew part of him would always linger.

Almost like a ghost.

—THE END.

[newoozi]

ooh on the topic of jealous, what do you think jealous woozi would look like? 👀

anon, i have been pondering about this all day!! thank you for sending this in!

i found it quite hard to imagine woozi as someone who is outwardly jealous. i think he would probably become quiet, a bit detached, and you’re confused as to why? is he mad at you? you really can’t tell. you’d have to pry it out of him too, because it’s hard for him to vocalize that he feels jealous. he would hate having to admit it. especially because he knows you would never let him forget it, either.

but i think once you reassure him no one makes you feel the way he does, show him just how much you love him, and only have eyes for him… he would be okay. he revels in your comfort and assurance.

i’ll try to write something on this for you anon! thank you again for sending it in! tell me your thoughts on jealous!woozi too :)

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part six. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 27k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: OKAY i know i have said this abt every gee dee chapter BUT THIS IS ACTUALLY ONE OF MY FAVES bc the lore gets even deeper! can't freakin believe this fic ends next week 😭

LET'S NOT THINK ABT THAT!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

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additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

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VERNON. 16.

It was after school. Vernon had wandered off the property by crossing the athletic yard, paying a brisk notice toward the group of boys dressed in royal blue jerseys, the material glimmering water-like under the sun. Some were sat amongst the grass, tying on cleats, while others bounced a ball up into the air using the edge of their foot, cawing at how many bumps they achieved until losing control.

A boy noticed him from across the field. His arm moved, like he wanted to wave at Vernon, but then he was pulled away toward the goal post and shoved to stand in its centre.

Vernon had made team tryouts in the fall. But he was removed less than two months later for 'poor academic standing' and defiant behaviour. He had also shoved another boy’s cheek into the dirt for looking through his knapsack, an arm pinned behind the boy's back as he squirmed underneath Vernon’s knee like a pinched worm.

“Now that you’ve lost this opportunity, maybe it’ll get you to think a little more about your actions, Mr. Chwe.” His principal was sat across from him, separated by a massive desk that smelled strongly of stained mahogany. A smell Vernon knew more than any other boy.

A thin, graceful hand landed on Vernon’s shoulder. “He will, sir.”

But it was all down the drain. He cared very little about losing his place on the team, and even less about the rehearsed sigh that his mother would perform on her umpteenth invite to the school, trying her hardest to convince everyone that she was still very upset and disappointed in her misfit son, when she was probably beyond a point of caring, too. She only cared about her paints, and going home to feed toddler Sofia cheese sandwiches cookie-cut into star shapes.

After crossing the athletic field, Vernon travelled down the trodden path between a picket fence and the trampled woods, the ground indented and worn from the numerous steps of high school students.

He adjusted his backpack—nearly empty, apart from one binder and a thin pencil case that carried wax gum wrappers and loose change more than school supplies—such that it pressed against his belly. Unfocused on the path, he zipped open his bag, reaching down to grab a thin box stuck underneath his Civics binder. Once he had the box, he maneuvered the bag back to thumping loosely at his tailbone.

But then someone bumped him.

A girl, wide-eyed, pulling off the cheap-looking headset she was wearing to pause her iPod. “Sorry!” She mollified, her cheeks red.

Vernon didn’t say anything, just pushed past the girl despite his unfair caprice to tell her she should watch where she was going. His brows thickly downcast, inexorable in anger, his twitchy lips finding themselves curled back like a teased mutt. Hurriedly, he unsheathed a cigarette from the box, let it hang from the corner of his mouth while he patted out the lighter in his pants pocket. With a few annoyed, vigourous flicks, the cigarette was lit, and he took a long drag, blowing out the fumes into a poisonous, dead cloud.

He had stopped going straight home over a year ago.

Instead, he would waste his time by wandering around town, finding new alleyways and avenues to peruse. Some shops had enticing displays, such as the one with the wicked bicycle, sparkling red, durable wheels, and a fancy, professional break on the handlebar. Not like his old bike, which had grown its own biome of rust after his father kept forgetting to help him fix it up. A summer project continuously postponed until Vernon wondered if he should just toss the bicycle away to test if his father even noticed its absence.

Other shop displays had fine-crafted jewelry. Vernon quite liked watches. The braided, heavy kinds that were for monetary show as opposed to practicality. He frequently imagined himself with a golden watch, not too flashy such that it became cheap, but had just enough spark to make people notice. For quite a while, Vernon pondered stealing. A watch was too ambitious, however, especially from an opulent jewelry store who were used to thieves and scruffy sixteen-year-old boys with oddly empty backpacks.

Then there was the bakery.

The older high schoolers who had privilege to leave school grounds during lunch or spare periods spoke of coming there, gave high praise to their sandwiches of thick, cloudy bread and their signature chocolate chip cookies that were almost too large to finish.

Vernon was old enough to have such a privilege, although it was another opportunity taken away in consequence to his behaviour.

Upon tossing the cigarette onto the street, Vernon shouldered into the bakery, which cued the pealing of a pleasant bell. An older man stood behind the counter wearing a white apron and a hairnet, the surface before him powdered with flour. He was pressing a circular-shaped cutter into a sheet of raw dough—perhaps biscuits—sliding each one onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. He acknowledged Vernon with a slight nod, and Vernon nodded back.

The aisles were few and short. Bagged bread, tortillas, muffins, croissants, puffed buns, and other packaged, baked goods lined him on either side. Something stirred in his stomach. He had nothing but nickels and pennies picked up off the school floors. The air inside was warm, but not sticky, and he felt the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan tickle the dark hairs on his head, meanwhile fluffing through the air the faint scent of yeast frothing in warm water.

Vernon lurked near the aisle’s end, away from the baker. He focused on a tiny plastic container of four biscuits with piped cream and jam in between. When he wasn’t removed from hospitality for eating the food, they made a similar dessert, but with chocolate instead.

He glanced around quick. No one.

The box was tiny and could easily slide into his bag. But it might make noise. It was the kind of thin, sharp plastic that hated being touched.

Maybe he could just hide it against his leg, away from the baker, so he couldn’t see what he was holding. Vernon knew he was overthinking and drawing suspicion. So he grabbed the box and walked perhaps a little too briskly toward the entrance, waving at the baker, somewhat afraid the doors might lock and some alarm would start shrieking and he would be captured inside, forced to confess and then work off the cost of the biscuits. But he felt the door give way, opening into relief and late-afternoon sunlight.

Vernon almost yelped in ebullience. His first theft. Low-hanging fruit, he knew, but it proved he was capable, slippery like liquid. He hustled down a short alley beside the bakery, no longer hiding the biscuits.

“You pay for that?”

He stopped. The ashy, suffusing scent of a smoked cigarette reached his nose, and Vernon suspected he might just get his ass handed to him for stealing strawberry cream biscuits. He looked. A heavy, faded green door with a doodle of indiscernible graffiti. Leaned beside it, a boy dressed in a dark blue apron scattered with powders. He was older than Vernon—he could tell—from the myriad of tattoos along his arms, which had more muscle and thickness and corded veins than Vernon’s did. The alley was silent as Vernon's mind floundered.

But the boy didn’t repeat his question.

His eyes were deep and dark, like wood rubbed with oil, and something about the stillness kept Vernon speared in place.

Vernon realized he was feeling a hotness—shame and embarrassment for his failure. But he would not let the stranger understand this—this taller, harder, relaxed stranger with his mature tattoos and his pierced dimple.

Vernon shrugged. “No, I didn’t. Gonna call the cops?”

“Those are five bucks. You don’t have five bucks?”

“Well—I just stole. Why the fuck would I have five bucks?” He almost wanted to ask if the stranger was stupid, but clamped his tongue.

“You look about sixteen. No job.” It wasn’t a question. He stated it with an evidentiary tone, like it was more obvious than the earth. Cigarette smoke had then curled out from his mouth, very slowly, almost chicly, like he was bending it. Like he knew how cool he was.

Vernon bristled. “And who the fuck are you? Social services?”

“I can give you five dollars. Go back in and pay for it.”

He scoffed, totally aghast by this bothersome stranger and his holier-than-thou audacity. Vernon bared his teeth. Couldn’t find the words.

The stranger stuck the cigarette behind his ear. Then, he proceeded to reach into his back pocket, pulling out a simple leather wallet with some weathered cracks and a sticker of a jewelled red cross. “You’re not a usual,” he said, sifting through a slim pocket filled with paper bills. “They come around at lunch. Loud and laughing. Buy sandwiches and juice. They don’t let you out, huh? What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Vernon nearly growled when he spoke, making sure to sound out the word slower than usual because if he didn’t then that twang—that conglomerated singularity of a travelled boy who never found his home—would soak his voice and that might give the stranger more ammunition to fire. “You don’t know me.”

“Here,” he stuck out a five-dollar bill.

“Shove it up your ass, Jesus. I don’t need your charity.”

“You’re very funny,” he pointed out with warmth.

Vernon froze, his grip tightening around the plastic box of biscuits such that it crackled. The stranger was smiling at him politely. Now closer, too, standing in the fluid of sunlight, Vernon saw that the bronze skin of his face—especially around his nose and underneath his eyes—was scattered with freckles. The fibres of his hair were long, thick and lustrous, appearing dark brown but flashing with more reddish shimmers under the sun. Girls must love him. That must be why so many rushed there during lunch.

He didn’t thank him. “I don’t want the money.”

“Not really for you. For my boss.”

“Then you give it to him.”

“Why would I cover for your shame and dishonesty?” He laughed.

Vernon shrank, packing into himself. For some reason, it hurt to hear this young man, almost his age, suave and collected, poke his feelings, more than his own parents, his school principal. He wanted to snap and sneer at him like a wounded dog backed into a corner.

“Y’know what?” Vernon grumbled. “Take this shit.” He shoved the desserts at the stranger. “You’re weird and this isn’t worth it.”

Looking down at the biscuits, the stranger nodded satisfactorily, and then made his way toward a few stacked crates beside the door. He put his wallet away and sat down. Popped open the box. Picked up a strawberry cream biscuit and ate it. “Good. Made this morning.”

And Vernon almost screamed, fists crumpled, on fire.

The stranger licked some jam off his thumb.

Vernon charged up to him. “You’re a fuckin’ twat.”

He was unbothered at the teenager with splotchy skin and wires along his teeth seething in his face. “You have a very colourful language. I’m sure your great at English. Essays and that.”

Whatever guise of decorum Vernon had left—it was bare particles in his hands now—dust and imagination. Even if this stranger could physically best him in the most humiliating way, Vernon was too emboldened by insecurity and its underbelly of rage. His fingers lurched through the boy’s white shirt collar. He could smell the vanilla flavouring, the sugar and egg whites of a whipped meringue, cloves and nutmeg, all over his skin and clothes. But the cigarette, still burning above his ear, tainted all that sweetness. That was the stranger. A mask. Something Vernon knew.

“I’ll beat the fuck outta you,” Vernon huffed.

But it became an empty, pale husk of a threat.

“Hey!” Someone shouted, grabbing Vernon’s shoulder and lugging him away from the composed stranger. “What the fuck’s all this?”

Vernon stumbled. There was something being pointed at him, but his eyesight had gone momentarily blurry. All Vernon knew was that the object was a dull colour, with a skinny-kinked shape. His heart nearly flatlined when everything reoriented itself and he saw the object was a gun, clasped in one straight-shooting hand of a teenage boy with frumpy, loose brown hair and hollowed out, sunken eyes that made him look like a porcelain doll left out in the rain. He wore a blue apron, too. But it seemed fresh. No stains of any kind.

Without thought, Vernon’s hands flew up.

The stranger shook his head, setting his desserts aside, and spoke in a plain, undisturbed tone that suggested this was nothing new. “Not necessary. I’ll have it back, Danny. Before someone sees, alright?” And then the weapon was forfeited from the newcomer's hand. The freckled stranger tucked the gun somewhere behind his back, in a place unknown and sightless to Vernon. “Go inside and clock-in so he knows you’re here. You’ve been late too many times.”

He lingered. “Who the fuck is that?”

“A kid.”

Even though he was terrified of what the situation had morphed into, his battered ego urged him to correct the stranger. Vernon was certainly not a kid, and it was insulting to be called such when he was likely no less than two or three years younger than these teenagers.

Despite the drained nature of the friend’s hooded eyes, there was a metallic sharpness about them, scraping across Vernon like a wild cat's claw as he began leaving the alleyway, even keeping his head turned to maintain the intense contact until disappearing around the corner.

“Sorry,” the stranger sighed, “bad timing, bad luck. I needed the gun back, for obvious reasons. He’s just loyal, is all. A good friend.”

“I don’t care,” Vernon laughed churlishly, throwing up his hands. “I’m goin’. Whatever. You're fucked up. Keep your cookies.”

His march down the alley was notably hasty. When Vernon finally emerged onto the street, the sky was dense with clouds and the haloing light from before had been snuffed into a greyness. Just as he felt inside. Vernon was not a kid. But he was certainly not whatever those teenagers were, either. The one with the brown dots all over his face—Vernon would not forget him. Maybe there was no mask. Maybe it was just too chilling to realize that people with his unshaken sense walked the same roads as he did.

Just a little bit, Vernon suddenly wanted to be him.

VERNON. 18.

He spent most of his time in a house that wasn’t his. Consistently, the spaces filled with strangers. There were voices he could not recognize, vibrating through the walls, and colognes and perfumes that were foreign to his nose, lingering behind like energy. Very rarely was there ever a moment of quiet. Action popped loose at any time. He wasn’t allowed to sit by the windows. The curtains were never allowed open. Only recently was he allowed to enter the basement without having someone else escort him. If he saw that the doors to the kitchen were closed, then he was better off not entering. He could always smell the acridness. Like degrading plastic caught underneath a burner. Vernon had tried a lot. But never that.

Dots wouldn’t condone it.

Vernon came by the house in the afternoon. It was early September, and so the mornings were rife with freshness. He had taken the Light Rail. It was crammed with university students. Pressed against the wall, Vernon hadn’t had much space to move, and the girl who got on the train at the same time as him had only gotten more and more squished into his body. He could smell her fruity shampoo, peered at the textbook she was holding from over her shoulder.

The Art of Music in Film-Making. 8th Edition.

He had stared at her head, and inside, Vernon couldn’t understand if he was envious or angry. Students exploded out from the train once it hit the university, like a plastic bag filled with water, now punctured and bursting. The girl glanced sideways at Vernon as she was getting off. He wanted to scowl at her, say, “what? It’s not my fuckin’ fault we were trapped against each other for fifteen minutes.” But he didn’t. Maybe she had been wondering if he might get off, too, only for the Light Rail to whisk him away in a smooth bullet.

For once, the house wasn’t crawling with people. A few. But not an onslaught. Vernon had entered through the back door—one of the two leading into the kitchen—as it was already propped open by a dented tin bucket with a brick sitting inside. Two older men sat at the dining table, flicking cards onto the crinkly plastic sheet thrown overtop its surface. With the back door open, the air inside lacked its usual heaviness and potency.

“Hey,” Vernon sighed. “I’m makin’ a deposit.”

One of them removed his cigarette, tapped off its ashes into a tray, and proceeded to point his finger in the direction of the living room.

“He’s asleep,” the other man said.

“No, he’s not. He was walking around. I saw him.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s fine. I just need the key.”

Wandering into the living room, Vernon stopped short of trekking his sneakers onto the carpeting. Nobody else seemed to care about it but him. The two armchairs were sunken yet empty, and the couch wasn’t laboured with a slumped-over bod slurried in drunkenness or euphoria. Fierce sunlight pushed against the closed emerald curtains, and the space was flooded with the sheerness of glowing green.

“Vernon?”

He looked to the staircase. Snozz was hobbling down.

“Uh, hey. Is Dotsy here?”

“No. Business.” That was what everybody said when they were tending to something serious but not serious enough that it needed to be said. Snozz sighed aloud harshly while he stepped onto the floor, and Vernon thought his expression was coiled like wire, as though he were in pain. “What’s the sitch? Are you depositing?”

“Yeah.”

“M’kay.”

He followed Snozz around the staircase.

The boy’s movements were stiffened and listless. Vernon could hear his breathing. Snozz was always having some sort of health problem. Vernon wanted to ask—maybe his asthma was acting up again—but Snozz didn’t talk much. For the most part, he was plain and distant, not speaking unless spoken to, and had the most removed eyes, though they were usually covered by his tufted, chestnut fringe, like he knew and didn’t want anybody pitying him.

After Snozz unlocked the basement door, he handed Vernon a different key that was much smaller. A shiny silver. Vernon then stepped down into the cool basement of the house, to which he could smell the moistness and soil that the forest breathed. No one was allowed to dawdle in the basement. Everything was done quickly. Vernon pushed aside the wooden shelf against the wall, uncovering a square cut into the cement, filled by compact, box-shaped lockers. He opened his, marked by a three-digit number, proceeding to leave inside the money he had just removed from his backpack. Vernon closed up the locker, moved the shelf back, and returned the miniature key to Snozz who was waiting upstairs.

“When is Dots comin’ by?” Vernon asked.

“Sometime tonight. You can wait here if you want.”

“Alright. Thanks. City’s crawlin’ with uni kids. Train was fuckin’ ridiculous. I need a better way of comin’ here, man. A damn car.”

Snozz smiled very loosely at Vernon. “Ask Dots.”

The longer Vernon waited at the house, the more people gradually came and left, flipping past like book pages in a breeze. Some stayed. Sharla, for instance. She was older than Vernon. Twenty-one. An advanced university student who would begin writing her thesis that year, as Vernon had learned through their numerous conversations. She had two younger siblings that often came to the house with her: a nineteen-year-old brother with vitiligo, and a quiet sister who was Vernon’s age. He had spoken to Sharla’s brother before. He was louder, with an energy that could easily engulf a room, talking about almost anything like he was some sort of expert when in reality he only read a few sentences from an article and then a commenter’s critique. “You had to pay for the full thing! Imagine fucking cock-blocking words! How do people get away with that shit?”

It always made Vernon laugh. He enjoyed being around him.

“Call me Moo!” But his real name was August.

Their sister on the other hand, Jade, was small and reticent. She didn’t like coming inside, would rather sit at the glass table on the back patio and do her homework in the shade.

Consequently, Vernon never really talked to her.

He knew Sharla the best out of the siblings. He liked her intelligence; the way she spoke was lentamente and smooth with confidence, and there was an expressional grace in her gentle hand motions. Every now and again she would stop Moo in his blathering, make a thoughtful correction that seemed so obvious even though it was deeply rooted into readings Vernon wouldn’t even know where to find. He would always watch her heart-shaped lips when she spoke, shining with gloss. And when she was distracted, he might have spent a few seconds staring at her chest and how nicely those rounded, low-cut tops framed her body. The black wig she wore was gleaming with expense, reaching down to her waist, scented with hibiscus and something else lush, perfumy, just like her dark skin.

Vernon did know her well.

They had sex for the first time last month.

“I went to the mechanic without Daddy yesterday. You should have heard the way they spoke to me. It was terrible. They would never speak to me like that if Daddy were there, obviously. There was another woman working on an engine or something across the room. She had a very sympathetic look. She wouldn’t let them try to sell me a new air-filter. The oil valve was the problem!”

Vernon nodded along; his face looped in a soft, lost smile. Sharla paused, looking to him expectantly, searching for a response that proved he was listening and not caught in a reverie.

He immediately straightened up, pulling his elbow off the back of the couch. “I’d be a mechanic.”

“Would you?” She laughed in the most heavenly way a person could laugh. “I suppose I could see you doing that…”

“You know I don’t mind gettin’ my hands dirty.”

Sharla shoved his chest and smiled. “Be polite,” she lilted in warning, though a sparkle had jumped through her eyes like a shooting star.

“What’re you up to this Saturday?”

“I don’t know… what are you up to?” With her head rested against a thoughtfully poised fist, and her lips flitting up at the edges, she was already beginning to draw Vernon in.

He could devour her right there on the couch.

But he merely smirked. “Up on you, potentially.”

She had a small black purse sitting on her lap, textured with glazed, faux alligator print. From inside, something started to ring. Sharla rummaged for her phone. “We’ll see,” she acknowledged with an effortless wink, taking the phone to answer privately somewhere upstairs.

Vernon threw himself into a starfish on the couch once she had left, groaning aloud, smelling the juicy, floral tinges of her perfume drift through the air, leaving him frustrated. He wondered if Dots was back yet, even though he hadn’t heard any noise from the driveway.

Sometimes he would be too absorbed talking to Sharla to notice anything. Vernon wandered into the empty kitchen. He approached the back door to the patio, pulled aside the square lace covering the window. Jade was there, at the glass table, a notebook open in front of her scrawled with text Vernon couldn’t read alongside an awfully thick book. Sat beside her was Dots. Leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, seemingly listening intently to something Jade was explaining. Vernon cracked the door open slightly.

“—I don’t mind her as a professor. She explains things well. But she’s kinda old fashioned and uses a chalkboard. And then she’ll erase something as I’m trying to write it down!” Jade laughed into a hand covering her mouth. “It’s mostly review of pre-calculus right now.”

“Are you nervous?” Dots asked her.

Jade paused, taking a moment to glance down at her lap, and then at her notebook, and finally she looked at him. “Yeah. Calc is so hard.”

“It is. But I know you’re smart. And resourceful,” he told her with a tone full of warmth, the kind that was nourishing and sincere.

Vernon wondered when he had come back. And for how long he had been sitting outside, talking to Jade. Nobody in the house really conversed with her apart from a few words, sensing that she probably shouldn’t be there, but was courted along by her sister as she was her usual ride. Dots talked to her. Typically about her school. Her future. Her plans. Her friends. Her life. Sometimes Vernon listened in secret. Her issues were so ordinary that he wondered how they could even be considered issues.

“It’s just hard ‘cause… you know… Sharla is the intelligent, pretty one who makes Daddy proud. Auggie has his humour. And he knows how to hustle,” Jade explained her musings, letting her pencil weakly tap the table. “But I kind of float this space… where I’m not sure what I contribute. Or what people think of me. Probably nothing. Maybe that I’m nice?” She winced.

“What’s wrong with nice?” Dots encouraged. “Nice people are hard to come by in my opinion. I guess it’s a ubiquitous word, so maybe it feels lesser in value. But why have the word if it didn’t have its place? Right?”

She brushed under the glasses resting on her nose. “Yeah.”

“It’s getting late,” Dots said, checking his wrist watch—a braided silver watch that he often wore. “Is Sharla driving you home?”

“I have no clue,” Jade huffed. “She probably wants to stay.”

Vernon’s lips buzzed at the edges with a grin. He hoped so.

Dots scooted his chair backward. “I can give you a ride.”

Jade grabbed her pencil with both hands, eyes flaring open. “You don’t have to do that. It’s only seven. I mean, our house is kinda far and I’m sure if I annoy Sharla with enough texts, she’ll get a clue.”

“Are you sure?” He questioned softly, standing up from the chair and pushing it back under the table. “I don’t mind. Why don’t you think about it? Finish your homework and then come find me inside.”

She sat, staring at her notes, before nodding. “Okay.”

Vernon moved away from the door. He opened one of the aged wooden cupboards and pulled out a glass, which he proceeded to fill with unattractively spluttering water from the kitchen tap. As Dots came inside off the porch, Vernon sipped at the water and had his phone in hand, feigning a little display of furtiveness. Dots threw his car keys onto the dining table and tugged off his dark green sweatshirt with the yellow stitching, letting it bundle into a chair.

Vernon kept drinking the water nonchalantly.

“You’re here,” Dots finally acknowledged. “Deposit?”

Vernon set the water aside. It always tasted horrible. Like a mouthful of grit and coins. “Yeah. Got all the dudes on Gemini.”

“No trouble?”

“Some restlessness.”

“Well, tell them to stop using it so damn fast.”

They both chuckled. Vernon found himself examining the silver watch that his friend was wearing. It wasn’t too gaudy. Just the right amount of shine at the distance he was away, paired nicely with the small diamond studs that Dots often wore in his ears. His style was never overbearing, even if he had the money to be. Vernon appreciated his subtleness.

“You need a ride, too?” Dots asked.

Vernon tensed his shoulders. “Huh?”

“I can give you a ride with Jade.” His eyes darted with a flash of knowingness, and Vernon wanted to become invisible.

“Uh, no. That’s alright…” Vernon laughed to pulverise the suddenly awkward warmth that flooded his face. It was already humiliating enough to realize he had been caught. And sitting in a car with Jade, who he had no interest in speaking with, wasn’t going to make it better. “Actually, though. I was wonderin’ if it’s cool and all… if I stay the night here?”

Dots folded his arms. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His friend paused, letting his bottom lip slip through his teeth, and he gave Vernon one of those earnest, heartfelt stares. “That’s would be your third time this week. If you need to crash somewhere for a while—”

“I won’t anymore,” Vernon interrupted. “I’ll be more… diligent.”

“No—look—I get it,” Dots sighed empathetically, almost like a parent. “You know you can stay here, right? My room is always open. I like sleeping on the couch better, anyway. Snozz wouldn’t care. How do you think he ended up here?” The lambent, gently flickering lights of the buzzing kitchen created a solacing glow that Vernon sensed in his chest. He saw the glow reflected in his friend’s expression, that of wholesomeness. Such openness. Such compassion.

“I dunno…” Vernon murmured, sniffing. An odd bought of shyness had made him stiff. He never felt his age that frequently, and it was difficult to understand that being subject to another’s welcome was not pitiful. He wasn’t built to brave every little thing and do so unbreakably, which his teenage self—used to fighting alone—was finding difficult to accept. “It’s generous stuff, Dotsy. It already sucks enough comin’ here.”

His friend shrugged. “So stay.”

Suddenly, the back door squeaked open wide. Jade was stood at the threshold, pencil twitching between her fingers. She glanced at Vernon for no less than a second. “Hey—sorry to interrupt—I, um, I’ve been doing some thinking and I would really like a ride home… thanks.”

Dots nodded. “Sure thing.”

“I’ll just pack my bag,” Jade said, looking coy. As she let the door swing shut, Vernon found that her gaze seared across him as though he were beaming with radiation. Like she was grappling with the image that someone her age had such a different life than hers, without her ordinary problems. It reminded him of the girl who gave him that expectant glimmer on the train, waiting for him to follow her into campus. And he found that such looks were always spotted with sadness. His life must be so dampened, cold, without parents to guide him and love him, without a hopeful future backed by education or some pertinent trade. Wandering and lacking purpose.

Vernon felt angry the more he thought into it.

“Sleep on it,” Dots said as he readied to leave.

He returned to drinking the glass of horrible tasting water, finding the metallic flavour easier to palate than his creeping temper, looming up from his skin like vines. Vernon’s eyes then flitted over the lip of the glass, watching his friend leave with Jade.

His existence could not be a waste.

But he wasn’t sure how to tell.

Vernon had no idea who she was. A friend of Sharla’s that ended up coming to the house a few hours later, name forgotten mere minutes after being introduced to each other because all Vernon cared about was getting his hands on was the particular strain of weed she had brought. They bunched into an empty room upstairs. There was only a mattress on the floor, and Vernon found himself squished between Sharla and her frisky friend, still dressed in her work attire, steamed black slacks and a white button-down shirt. She smelled lightly of vanilla and subway dust, the gold bracelets on her wrist clacking whenever she moved. In passing, he would have never pegged her to be lighting a spliff at a drug dealer’s house.

The strain was Loud. Vernon immediately understood why. Its potency and sting were punchier than other types of weed, and from the very first hit, he could already sense the euphoria power through him like a careen of howling wind. The flavour lingered in his throat. Burning. Dense. It felt like he was breathing in earthy fumes. He fell backward onto the mattress while Sharla and her friend continued exchanging the spliff. Their giggles formed visible notes that he could identify in the air, a floating sheet music.

“Another hit, Prince Charming?” Sharla enticed as she leaned over him, her pupils full and swirling like two freshly poured shots of whiskey. “Pass me the spliff,” she said, motioning at her friend who was exhaling smoke.

The night only continued to divulge.

Vernon was elsewhere. Weightless as a feather.

At some point, he found Sharla’s pampered lips on his. And then he was kissing her ambiguous friend who felt more like a shadow, fluttering in and out, disappearing and then reappearing, passing through his grip with such hummingbird fleetingness. The room was cloudy and the air was sparse. There were extreme crests of warmth, around him and inside his body. Hairs were stuck to his forehead by sweat. Glimmers of bare skin twinkled past his eyes and pressed up against him, sticky, unforgivably hot.

But then morning came.

The mattress was surrounded by lumps of clothes, discarded jewelry, and two wealthy handbags. Vernon noticed that his cheek was lying against a pale shoulder blade tattooed with an ornate angel wing, whorls of ashen blonde, curly hair tickling his forehead. When he groggily squinted behind him, he saw the effluent flow of a dark wig down a lean, smooth back.

He stared up at the ceiling and grinned.

VERNON. 20.

He sat beside Moo, shoulder pressed to shoulder, on the end of a bed whose sheets were stiff and cold. There was minimal light. Most came from the bubbling fish tank set up on a long, wide dresser, an aquamarine of splashing blue. A small shrimp with translucent edges scurried along the glass. Vernon watched, expression blank, until Moo pulled out his lighter and started sparking it.

Both Vernon and Snozz looked at him. The silence was mutually accepted without communicating, but now broken, by a hissing flame.

Moo glanced between each boy. “What? I’m bored.”

Vernon was bored, too. They had been waiting in the bedroom for almost half an hour, hurried in by Snozz on account of an important discussion that must happen immediately, as soon as Dots arrived back at the house. Snozz wouldn’t reveal much, just leaned against the shut closet doors, arms crossed, staring at some random stain on the carpet. Typically his quietness wasn’t anything alarming; however, Vernon sensed a portent pressure in the room’s atmosphere that made him solemn and pensive.

“Is he buying groceries or something?” Moo grumbled, proceeding to lean forward on his knees, spark the lighter again out of boredom. “He needs to stock the fridge for summer. It sucked major ass when we were out of Freezies. I bet the forty-pack is on sale right now. I saw it last week.”

Snozz stared at him, his glance muddled by shadows, and Vernon couldn’t decipher if he was annoyed or impartial to the conversation. The boy’s feelings were always cloudy—Vernon spent the first two years of their friendship believing that Snozz loathed him—until he realized that he was just naturally distant and circumstantially numb. Vernon’s first few tattoos along his bicep were done by Snozz, either half-price or totally free.

Vernon decided to nudge Moo’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you get em’ then, huh? If you were standin’ right fuckin’ there. Hypocrite.”

“Erm, I was on duty,” Moo answered in a sarcastic, nasally tone.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Shut up, tool. I move more than you,” his friend scoffed. It was another one of their soft-hearted spats. “You were kicked off Country Club.”

Vernon rolled his eyes, half-smirked, and picked at a hang nail on his thumb. “Yeah—you’re better at suckin’ up to rich assholes. Congrats.”

“Mad ‘cause you don’t get free margs?”

“After you wipe down their clubs, Ball Boy.”

They started to giggle. Then, their laughter, completely pulling apart the threads of silence sewn into the air. Vernon slapped his knee while Moo leaned over, snickering to himself, shoulder blades contracting and rippling under his shirt.

Across the room, the closet heaved loudly as Snozz had stopped leaning against the shuttered, aged wood. Keeping his arms folded, the boy took firm steps toward the bedroom door, the countenance thinly moulded to his face stern and unimpressed. “Country Club isn’t yours anymore,” he muttered into the dusk, almost too smooth to hear, the smoothest his voice had been, before he left the room.

Moo’s wiry brows furrowed, staring back at Vernon in confusion and slight amazement, as such hostility from Snozz was rare. Vernon had not a clue, either, demonstrating a limp shrug that hardly moved his shoulders. The room slipped back into silence, the fish tank occasionally bubbling or whirring or making some paucity of gentle noise. Whatever the issue was, he was starting to swallow its occluded weight, and in the very back of his mouth, he tasted the same sourness that Snozz had perhaps tasted.

“What the fuck do you mean Country Club isn’t mine?!” Moo bellowed from the corner of the bedroom, spread out in a cheap swivel chair, hands pressing through his teased afro. “I was just fucking there! Last week!”

Dots was finally back. He had returned to the upstairs bedroom with Snozz, who resumed his post of leaning against the closet doors, observing the befuddlement hit the ground with the force of a meteor. Vernon stayed silent. Dots was sitting behind him on the bed, and he could feel his friend’s weight dip into the mattress, like a bending gravity, as he spoke factually to Moo.

“Nothing’s secure,” Dots said. “You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but—I was just laughing it up with the freaking owner!”

Vernon bit his lip. Moo often confused cordiality with business, which wasn’t particularly a concept in their world, especially when it came to the privatized rich. It was almost worse when someone who was supposed to be your esteemed buyer laughed with you, cut the fresh lime to your cold beer, grabbed onto your shoulder and shook it amicably when the conversation got good. It wasn’t bond at all. It was disposability. A definitive lack of seriousness. And Moo was painfully bad at being serious.

Dots sighed, “that’s the problem.”

“Why’d you even put me on then? Why not keep Vern?”

He tensed, almost wanted to glance over his shoulder and scowl.

“They won’t go near him with a ten-foot pole. His roughness is better on the streets, and with the arrogant college kids. You’ve got prestige because of your father. But you danced around too much. They stopped taking you serious even if you moved good product. How do they know you won’t get flighty when something screws up? That you can sack up. Take charge. They don’t.”

Vernon heard the chair creak. Moo was up on his feet, wandering around the room, pacing through the tank’s blue mirage that was stretching across the carpet like a northern aurora. He knew the feeling. He had lost streets, too. It was disorientating, uprising anger clashing in waves with the ignominy of incompetence. But Vernon always showed his grit, pushing back, taking a stance—something Moo had yet to demonstrate.

After exhaling a deep, long breath, Moo paused, removing the hands that were cushioning behind his head. “So, what’s the sitch? You want me to get Country Club back, right? Which assholes swindled me?”

Dots remained quiet. Vernon glanced back at him, watched him friend stare at the blankness of the beige wall until he huffed, coming to his feet. He walked over to his bubbling fish tank, grabbed a package of flaked food, and shook some inside. Vernon heard tiny nibbles and ripples.

Moo sighed, cheeks blowing out air, “I’m fucked, is that it?”

“No,” Dots said impassively, with stillness. “Moo, Snozz, go downstairs and review the deposits from this week. It’s late.” He proceeded to turn around from his fish tank. “We’ll regroup soon.”

Snozz was already opening the door. But Moo stood in place, frozen for a moment too long, likely understanding that the dismissal wasn’t hiding anything propitious. When Snozz called out to him, Moo begrudgingly left, scratching a white patch on his arm with twitchy, irritated fingers. Once his friends were gone, Vernon felt somewhat awkward about staying behind, especially since Dots seemed more detached and aloof than usual, letting silence thicken the air.

Sometimes things scattered, rolling chaotically, like slippery marbles shooting across a smooth floor, bouncing down stairs, swivelling under beds. And much of the pressure to make things whole again swelled up in Dots’ hands. Vernon shifted, staring down at the carpet.

“You’ll do it,” Dots said.

He stiffened. “Huh?”

Dots sat beside Vernon on the bed, where Moo once sat. His friend opened up his hands, and his palms were coordinates of ghostly, etched scars and welted callouses. When Vernon peeked at his own palms, they looked like the prelude. He saw openness in the spaces where skin was unmarred, like an unplowed field.

“I want you to get back Hylands.”

Vernon closed his hand into a fist. “You took me off.”

“This isn’t about dealing. You know who took Hylands?”

He shook his head. “No idea. Someone from the big leagues?”

“No. He’s around your age. He’s new here, but he’s been creeping his way in little by little. He’s Chinese. You know Mr. Zhang is, too.”

Vernon scoffed, rubbing his knuckles. “Then where’s he gettin’ product? Especially in quantity, if he’s just a one-man show. Sure they can communicate well, but it can’t be talk only. They don’t want promises.”

“He obviously has suppliers. Foreign, likely.”

“Hm… so… what am I supposed to do?”

Dots smiled. “If we get him, we get Country Club.”

“You think he’s free range?”

“Here, he is. For now. Hylands is big money. Moo fucked up. But so did I in believing he wouldn’t fool around. I’m sure there are others thinking the same thing. If he is free range, he won’t be for long.”

Vernon sighed, emptying out the pressure in his chest. “I just don’t understand… like… why are you pickin’ me? What am I supposed to say to the dude? Does he even speak English? How are we gonna communicate?”

“I’ve set up a meeting,” Dots said. Vernon thought he could relax until his friend continued, “’it’s tomorrow. You’ll meet your translator at the coffeehouse—Jitters—she’ll be sitting at the far-left window in a dark purple dress. She’s clever. I’ve contacted her before when we needed to deal with the Yuáns poaching around Bronson. You need to be at Hylands by five o’clock. There’s an old storage house behind the cart corral. That’s where the three of you will rendezvous. I don’t suspect there’ll be much trouble. If he’s new, he’s looking for allies. Just to be safe, though, Snozz will give you one of his Glocks. It’s smaller, fits easily in between your waistband, so a good jacket will cover it. Don’t pull it out unless you absolutely have to. Even then, don’t shoot it. Like I said, I wouldn’t expect much trouble.”

Letting the advice simmer, Vernon stared at the floor, wondering how he was supposed to react, what he should say. This wasn’t the kind of responsibility he was expecting. He was just a dealer with a witty tongue, no different than the slick, contortionist salespeople attempting to sell miraculous weight loss pills over the phone, except with a lot more gutturalness, and the pills weren’t dressed-up lies. The responsibility meant trust, Vernon knew that, but it didn’t make his acceptance any easier.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “Do you want to do this?”

Now he was being given a choice. That almost seemed worse.

Vernon shrugged. “I just don’t know why you picked me. I mean, I do the street deals for a reason. I’m not exactly fuckin’ Shakespeare with my words. I’m workin’ with people who don’t need much convincin’.”

“Exactly,” Dots said. “You’re just you.”

Vernon winced. “And how is that gonna help?”

“Your authenticity. It’s not about the purple prose, right? You don’t pull walls over people’s eyes. You take it or leave it. There’s no ambiguity.”

Vernon didn’t respond. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands pulling down his face. This was a job he was good at. He didn’t need to augment himself into different versions to fit some tacky mold. The money was good. He could talk and dress however he wanted. Most of his work was done alone, which he appreciated, still with a tightknit crew waiting for him to come back. It was the closest to freedom he would ever taste. Vernon was happy where he was. But complacency often made him wary. Adventure sparked at his feet like popping pieces of scorched wood.

Sometimes he did want more.

Even if the ‘more’ wasn’t what most people dreamed of.

He sat back, exhaled loudly. “Okay, Dotsy. I’ll do it.” Vernon looked to his friend and stuck out a pointing finger. “But you can’t throw me out to the fuckin’ wolves if I lose this little twerp. Give them Moo,” he laughed.

Dots had a warm, gleaming smile, a picture of dappled sunlight. He grabbed onto Vernon’s hand and pulled him in close. They both slapped each other’s backs in camaraderie and trust. Dots’ fingers suddenly ruffled through Vernon’s tamed hair with liveliness and the boy wriggled away, pushing his friend’s sturdy arm. “Fuck off. I showered today.”

“I knew I smelled passionfruit.” He smiled again. “You’ll do fine.”

“What’s this dude’s name, anyway?”

“Minghao.”

“And he’s my age?”

“Something close.”

“I bet you that translator chick is gonna turn my words around,” he said tartly.” I’ll sound like freakin’ cotton candy and Skittles.”

Dots shook his head. “You won’t be the easiest person to translate for, but she’ll do her best. Besides, your gruffness doesn’t need translation.”

Vernon traced a path of smooth skin on his palm, marvelling at the softness, before closing his hand concludingly into a fist. “Damn right.”

You stepped out from the hot shower, your body wrapped into a white towel that held floral remnants of sweet oils. Your wet feet left imprints upon the absorbent, spongey mat. While patting yourself down, you couldn’t help but occasionally pick through the expensive items lining the enormous marble of the washroom sink. It was like a beauty store—jellied lip masks and ceramide-protective skin creams and tall, thin spray bottles labelled with exotic scents that you would walk past in those overpriced sections of a mall. 

You opened a tiny lip-sized tin to see a pale pink balm inside and sniffed its cherry blossom aroma. You uncapped the lid to an unused perfume bottle shaped like a ballerina’s slipper and immediately recoiled at the overbearing, sugary notes. You squirted out some peach-toned lotion into your hands and rubbed its whipped, heavy texture down your arm, dazzled by the healthy, moisturized glow it left behind. It was like you were a little girl sifting through your mother’s secretive drawers, when everything felt unusually extraordinary. But the feeling had pleasantly unearthed itself and you were helpless to deny something you had believed was long gone.

By the next morning, you and Vernon said goodbye to Kitty’s coastline manor. You were worried that the cleaners might realize her bedroom had been perturbed, but Vernon said they wouldn’t—and even if they did—they would probably be glad to have something they could fix.

He asked if you wanted breakfast. After unnecessarily contemplating for a moment (because you didn’t want to seem childishly eager), you agreed, and proceeded to sink backward into his passenger seat as he drove further into the sunny estate of villas and reserved, coastal splendors. Vernon took you to a restaurant called Sea Sides. It was circular in shape, with boastful glass windows that ensured you an unnegotiable view of the water. Walking into its chic brightness, you felt like an imposter, with your lazy button-down shirt and wrinkled lounge shorts. A woman sailed past you in a flowing, pale dress, her skin sun-kissed and cheeks tinged like ripe berries. You two perhaps stood out in a rough, jarring way. But Vernon wasn’t concerned.

“Watch this,” he whispered to you as a hostess stopped by.

“Hello! How can I help you two?” Her voice had a polished quality to it, just like her slicked-back hair and clean, shining clothes—so luminous it was difficult to look at without falling into a squint.

Vernon smiled. “We’re here under Pollezna.”

She was behind a tiny podium. Her large eyes reflected the screen of the sleek monitor she was examining. A click later and scroll later. “Oh! Yes, of course!” She grabbed two menus, small and neat, on cream cardstock. “Follow me,” the hostess said. She walked in swift, long steps that you hurried after, weaving between tables laid with white tablecloths and the royalty of orchid centrepieces. “I haven’t seen Miss Catarina in quite a while. Is she doing well?”

“She’s dandy,” Vernon replied. “Off in Europe.”

“Quite the traveller, isn’t she? You must miss her!”

He nodded solemnly; his lips downturned. “Terribly.”

You were in the midst of sitting down when Vernon bumped your elbow, tipping his head toward the opposite seat. Thinking it was associated with the window view, you shrugged, and let him sit where he wanted.

The hostess’s face was a mirror of Vernon’s, softened and empathetic to the imaginary lonesome he was crafting. “You’ll need to come back here for breakfast once she returns. What can I start you both with?”

Vernon glanced at you.

“Uh, water is fine,” you mumbled, forgetting you could speak.

“Same,” Vernon said.

“I’ll get that for you right away!”

Once she was gone, your eyebrows piqued. “What stunt is this?”

He cleared his throat in mocking sophistication, settling the tiny cardstock of dishes before his face. “Friends and family discount.”

You snickered, sliding your menu toward you. “It seems so.”

“I came here enough times that they added me to the Pollezna tab.”

“And she hasn’t noticed?”

Vernon lowered the menu and smirked. “AKA her Daddy’s tab. And he doesn’t give a fuck, anyway. We’re spendin’ pennies, here. Get whatever you want. The Belgian waffles are always a slam dunk. Super fluffy. Gelato’s in-house.”

Your eyes gleaned over the embossed, golden script, and you straightened up in your chair as though you were supposed to be sitting there, stolid and elegant, even though you ate burnt toast most mornings. A moment later, and your hostess returned with a glass carafe. Slices of orange and lemon bobbed around inside. She poured the icy water into both your cups before settling the jug down onto the table coaster. You never understood the trope of citrus in water. It felt meretricious. And sometimes the seeds would slip out and catch in your throat. But you smiled at her and sipped up a tiny bit so she would see you were still appeased.

After placing your orders, the hostess left. You immediately unwrapped your fork from a cloth napkin and used it to spear out the oranges and lemons, which you layered onto a small bread plate.

Vernon snorted, chuckling into his hand. “Gosh, you have less fuckin’ table etiquette than I do, PJ’s. Never thought that would happen.”

“Shush,” you whispered. “You know how I feel about oranges!”

He kept giggling, and you were tempted to fling a wet slice of citrus at him, but you weren’t about to prove his point. No one in the surrounding dining area seemed to notice, anyway, likely too engrossed by their own riveting tales of luxuriant lifestyles. Vernon reached onto your plate to grab an orange slice. You assumed it was tasteless and watery, but Vernon ate pretty much anything you gave him, and he never stopped feeling hungry.

“Much better,” you hummed having removed all the fruit, and took a big gulp without wondering if you were going to start choking.

“Such a weirdo,” Vernon tsked.

Behind him, you spotted a very large painting hung up on the restaurant’s distant wall. It was so large that you feared it may squish flat the diners who were eating their breakfast underneath it. You supposed it fit the theme—a clashing of delicate blue waves spraying mist into the air—and you could see that the hues came alive with the incorporation of dazzling glass bits cut into petite tiles. Beside the painting was a plaque, looking comedically small.

You tipped your finger at the painting. “That’s gorgeous.”

Vernon finishing chewing at another orange slice from your plate and discarded his rind. He didn’t bother turning around. You figured he had already seen the painting before.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, licking his thumb.

“I wish I could create stuff like that.”

He shrugged. “You can.”

“Well, you have to be inspired. And have some skill.”

As he sipped from his water, he scoffed. “Right. It's just practice.”

You suddenly remembered that his mother was an artist. From what he had told you, their relationship was virtually non-existent, and you shrunk slightly into your cushioned chair for the unintended negligence.

Since you ran into Diana outside Mr. York’s that one evening, and saw how much healthier she looked, how much freer she acted, you wondered if she had reconsidered applying for Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara was still practicing her interview skills, but you told her to be wary that she didn’t sound too rehearsed. You remembered Diana saying that you could apply for the position despite your gaping inexperience. Back then, there was nothing you could do but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, knowing you were being undermining to your own skill, but, now, you couldn’t deny that were was something about the job that enticed you.

Maybe it was the idea that you could live a life similar to this.

Or maybe it was to prove your past-self wrong.

Breakfast was served to you off a rolling silver tray that the hostess aligned beside the table. You decided to pick Vernon’s recommendation, two stacked Belgian waffles with creamy coffee gelato and fresh berries scooped on top, while he chose a toasted sandwich that oozed with saucy egg yolks, yellow like mangoes.

Everything that touched your tongue was perfection.

“Are you even chewin’ it? Damn.” Vernon laughed.

There was a mangled piece of waffle stuck in your mouth. It took you quite long to swallow. After gulping down some water and cleaning a smear of gelato off your cheek, you finally had the breath to speak.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I like a girl who eats ravenously.”

“I can’t tell if I should feel offended by that or not.”

“It’s a compliment.”

And you smiled, too. The fact he could sit across from you ripping apart your waffles like a junkyard animal and forking out slices of citrus from your fancy water and having melted gelato sticky on your chin while finding the room to compliment you was a miraculous, freeing feeling. You didn’t need to cosplay anyone but yourself. And you had been morbidly hungry.

But you did slow down, enough to converse. “So,” you cleared your throat, running a strawberry through some syrup, “are you done with your… you know… stuff? Do you still need to get more… stuff?”

He licked his teeth. “Money?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Trust me, that’s not a taboo word here, PJ’s.”

“I just mean what it’s associated with.”

Vernon folded his arms and leaned back. “One more thing.”

“Really?” There was a spike of vigour in your tone.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is it a lot of money?”

“In a way,” he sighed rather desultorily, tongue swirling against his cheek, eyes adrift and chasing seagulls that flocked through the open air in white tufts. His energy seemed different.

When it came to Diana and Minghao, he was pouring with resilience. He was his own gasoline and match. But sitting across from him, you could feel a cleft, like soaring along on a bicycle and suddenly the wheel got trapped. Helping Vernon in the past was a mixed bag for you. It was always fun treading where you shouldn’t, but having the consequence flash a knife from its pocket wasn’t as endearing.

Nonetheless, you wanted things to go well on his behalf.

“Should I be worrying?” You queried, making sure to adorn your lips with a soft smile so he knew not to take the question too literally.

He stared back. “Guess not.”

“That wasn’t convincing at all.”

“You don’t need to worry more than you already do.”

Slipping the strawberry off the fork with your teeth, you began to nod and bite into its sweet juiciness. “Okay. I can work with that.” But you wanted to know more. However, this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

What kind of cleft had Vernon stumbled into?

Before ending breakfast, you and Vernon shared a dessert, which was a plate containing small, puffed buns with delicious cream and fresh jam spread in between. Vernon stuffed an entire one in his mouth, and nearly coughed it back out into his napkin, which made you snort and giggle. Then you tried doing the same, and ended up spitting some jam onto his face.

“Fuckin’ dweeb,” he cursed as you reached over the table to wipe it away with a polite thumb, your mouth still full, as you choked out inaudible apologies. But his smile was lazy with ease and fondness.

The hostess returned, again wearing her polished, tight expression, not a single thread to her uniform or brushed hair out of place.

Vernon picked up your hand as he helped you out from the chair, and then grinned at the hostess.

“You can put that on Miss Catarina’s tab.”

4 MONTHS AGO.

When Soonyoung told you he was planning on leaving Common Cents, you nearly lost your hearing, and the disorientation had you stumbling around until you gripped the supplement shelf for balance. You wanted it to be a joke. Soonyoung made many jokes, and none of had ever been funny, and that would take the cake as his unfunniest by far. But his expression was betrayingly flat, like a paper sheet glued and hardened over his face, and you deflated. You forgot Soonyoung had a degree. It was seldom mentioned because he enjoyed talking about his social life too much.

“I’m going to work with several cat species at a rehabilitation clinic. I start at the end of July. I’m gonna get some friends to help me pack. And I’ll probably throw a shindig at my place for one last hoorah. Feel free to come. Just don’t get too cramped.”

And you smiled at him like your lips were made of thin strings. He couldn’t leave. What were you supposed to do five mornings out of your week without him there to boss you around and engage you in shiny gossip and overexplain his bizarre sexual encounters with older men? You always made him deal with the nitpicky regulars. You often subjected him to your personal qualms because there was a time when he felt like the only person who couldn’t possibly judge you. Who would have the audacity to replace his coarse bleached hair and oversized shorts and splashy backward caps and his terrible, terrible hearing? Such thoughts hung over you in a palling manner—they chased you around the store like cackling witches—and suddenly you realized that Soonyoung had become important to you.

On your break, you wanted to text Vernon.

You sat out back on an upturned bucket and used a TV-dinner table that Soonyoung dragged over from across the street to place your food on. Tikka Masala—still steaming—so you let it rest. The thing was, Vernon hadn’t been very present lately. He sometimes went hours without responding to your messages, and his appearances at the apartment began dwindling. When you were together, he didn’t act all that different. Maybe there was a soft wind of distraction in his eyes that carried him away every now and then, but once he looked at you, he refocused. You pondered asking. You wanted there to be no more secrets. But part of you was very anxious to peel him back too many times and confront something that was better off staying unbeknownst. It drove you to restlessness.

After your break was over, you replaced Soonyoung at the cash register so he could take his lunch—an energy drink in an eclectically designed can and a packet of salted peanuts—where you continued contemplating whether or not to text Vernon. Your previous messages were about glow-in-the-dark mini-putting, though he ended up cancelling the night before, citing some trouble a spoiled college student was giving him.

The worry nettled you all over.

Was he lying? Was it worse to know or not know?

“Hey! PJ!”

You shoved your phone away. For half a second, you wanted to believe the person chiming out your nickname so smoothly was him.

But it was Moo.

“Oh, hey,” you answered, smiling awkwardly, not sure what he was doing at a convenience store so far from where he lived. “How are you?”

He sauntered up to the counter in his usual swagger, a frame of loose shoulders and casual glances to every corner, like he was trying to spot someone he knew without making it obvious. No more was his fluffed afro. Instead, his hair was tucked into tight, neat cornrows that flowed down to the back of his neck. He wore a blue and white windbreaker with some flashy red patches. He picked up ginger-flavoured mints in a compact tin, sniffed. “Just hanging.”

And you nodded back. “Cool.”

Moo put the mints down. “Didn’t know you worked here.”

You almost laughed.

There was basically nothing he knew about you—not even your real name—just that you were close to Vernon. But he said it so effortlessly, in a way that made it seem like you were more than acquaintances and that was just a simple grey area. “Over a year.”

“That’s awesome,” he sniffled, sounding genuine. “Yeah, thought I’d come in and get a drink or something. Never been in here before.”

“Well, drinks are in the back.”

His nails started tapping a rhythm against the plastic cover for the lottery tickets, a beat that existed for only a transient moment, before he glanced at you with his wandering eyes and asked, “Ruby—how’s she doing?”

You wondered if that was his intention from the start. “She’s been doing well. She got back from a corporate trip, twoish weeks ago?”

Moo nodded. “I still feel bad about you guys leaving early. At the party-thing I threw. Uh, sorry, and shit.” Your head tilted in astonishment. “I feel like I didn’t get the chance to really know you guys. Maybe you can come over another time. I’ll get the barbeque out this summer. Sound fun?”

“Uh,” you swallowed, contemplating. “Sure.”

“It won’t be a huge thing. Vernon said you don’t like crowds.”

At his name being mentioned, your chest tensed.

“You guys are dating? Is that it?” He continued, scratching his scalp. “I haven’t seen him much lately. It’s crazy. I never thought I’d see the day that Vernon gets a girlfriend… before me! Actually, I did have a girlfriend last fall, but it was rough. She stole from me, and—”

“How’s he doing?”

“Vern?”

Your fingers furled up, and you nodded. “Yeah.”

Moo sighed, long and large, let his elbows tumble down onto the counter as though he were at his favourite bar after a hard day’s work. “Busy with some shit, I guess. Snozz talked to him a few days ago.” His brown eyes perused over the lottery tickets. “Is something wrong between you guys?”

“No,” you were quick to clarify. “But he’s been a little distant.”

“Yeah, he gets like that,” Moo huffed, tapping his fingers again, this time a different rhythm reminiscent of a song you heard before.  “Just kinda goes off the grid for a bit. Usually when he has to catch a big fish.”

“What’s that mean? A big fish?”

“Like, if he has to close a big deal, or handle some bullshit.”

“Oh…” you murmured, letting your curiosity dampen and drift, and then a cloudy weight sinking into your chest, like soaked cotton. And you wondered how much Moo knew of Vernon’s business. He seemed rather guileless, talking to you without restraint, as though you were now part of their shadowy world and therefore had access to whatever files you wanted. But was it wrong to meddle simply because you cared? Would it benefit you to know? Sucking your teeth, you sighed, “a big fish indeed.”

“Shit’s not all sugarplums and fucking fairies, right?”

“Uh… yeah. True.”

“Well, I’m gonna grab my drink.”

You watched him continue his lazy, practiced saunter, arms swaying jauntily. He stopped by some candy, picked up a yellow chocolate bar, and flashed it to you. “Charleston Chews! These are old school!”

There were glimmers of Vernon in him.

It was unalloyed torment.

Moo returned to the counter with a soda bottle. As you rang up his drink, he pulled out a bill from his wallet, and you returned the change. He cracked the bottle open right there at the counter, took a sip that sounded like bubbles popping in his throat, and swallowed densely. “I love me some orange cream.”

“Hey, is it okay if I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “Just treat me like your search engine.”

“Uh—” you laughed nervously, “—do you know what Vernon’s been up to? I’m just a little anxious. He’s been slow texting back.”

“Well, I don’t know all the deets. He’s been trying to set up a meeting or something. With this guy. We don’t like saying his name,” Moo laughed, taking another swig from his bottle. “Like Voldemort!” When your face remained stiff and hollowed in with unnerved tension, Moo coughed against his fist and continued. “Uh, but his name’s Jeonghan. Sometimes we call him El Timador for code. Our friend coined it. Means trickster or tricky or some shit. Anyway, he’s this huge kingpin that’s been fucking over some of our territories for a while now. Vernon has issues with it.”

You forced a cheap, bent smile. “Oh, cool. Thanks.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t worry,” Moo soothed. “Vern’s clever. And he’ll get back to his normal self once it’s off his plate. Does that help?”

“Yeah.” No. It didn’t help at all. It was like pushing salt deep into cuts you didn’t know existed, and now each one was tingling hot in pain.

Moo nodded, satisfied. Then, he proceeded to lean forward, squinting at something on your bright red uniform shirt. “Hmm… so, that’s your name,” he said in an assured tone, taking another bubbly sip from his soda. You realized he had discovered your nameplate.

“Okay, I should go.”

Moo left.

And he took every thread of your composure with him.

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. When he first arrived, you tended to him almost suffocatingly, a hand ruffling through his black locks to feel for bumps on his scalp, then your fingers squeezing his chin, turning his head from side to side to look for scratches, and having him splay open his palms for your fastidious inspection. He swerved away from you, seeming tightened like a jar, as he joined Ruby in the kitchen.

Later on, you all watched a comedy film in the living room.

You weren’t the biggest fan of comedies. But you were wary to begin the action-thriller that Ruby suggested in case it impeded too heavily on Vernon, though you hadn’t said anything because he was acting touchier than usual. He sat next to you on the sofa. Your arms curled around his elbow. Even though his skin felt warm, there was a coldness emanating from the boy’s bones, his movements few and far between, creaking metal.

When your head laid against his shoulder, he sighed a cumbersome sort of sigh that summoned a hard lump upon your throat, and rather than smelling his characteristic amber, you smelled the bitterness of stress, cigarettes and stale coffee. He excused himself halfway into the film to smoke. Ruby stayed inside with you.

Despite your implacable burn to ask her if she was sensing his distance, you remained silent, because you already knew you wouldn’t like her answer. When he returned from outdoors, he didn’t even ask what he had missed—just collapsed back down in his seat, arms stretched out behind the couch, but never reaching around your shoulders to pull you closer like usual. At that point, your eyes began to sting, and a sharp, demanding fire crackled in your mouth. But you swallowed it down until the movie ended.

Ruby wished you goodnight. She slipped into her bedroom.

Vernon said he needed to make a call and disappeared again, the wind of his iciness drawing chills. You waddled into your bedroom moodily, sat back against your headboard, and hugged a stuffed toy into your chest, hating how timid and afraid you felt to question him.

He came into your room about twenty minutes later, the door clicking shut softly, as you laid on your side away from him so you could stare out the window, at the glitters of small bugs around a street lamp. 

The mattress dipped, and his hand was on your hip. “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t say anything since your throat was too tight. Even if you wanted to speak, each word would splinter like an axe coming down on a dry log of wood. You would start to cry.

He sighed. This time, it lacked encumbrance. His hand drifted to your shoulder, so heightened and pointy, a mountain. And then he kissed your temple with such tenderness, the sour of his smoking now stitched into his clothes, but you breathed it in deeply anyway. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, massaging your shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Clearly, you haven’t,” you managed to pronounce waspily, the rumble of emotional thunder toiling in your chest. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. His forehead pressed into your hair.

For a moment, you bit your lip, and while you felt fearful, you pushed its burring aside. “I don’t appreciate being treated that way.”

“It was my mistake.”

“Yes,” you said, peering over your shoulder to glare at him, ensuring he felt the scorch that was solar in your narrow eyes, “it was.”

He was grinning at you. Laid comfortably on his side. Hand supporting his head. A malleable depth created liquidness in his golden eyes, and so they glimmered, and the twisted vestiges of bitterness digging inside your throat unwound. He leaned forward, proceeded to cup your cheek, and a kiss was sweetly moulded to your lips with expert care. “I missed you, baby.”

You sniffled, gulped. “I hate how many times I’ve cried over you.”

“Wanna cry in a different way?” He purred, squeezing your hip, letting his teeth graze along the cusp of your tingling ear.

Quickly, before you could feel lust surround you with its tendrils, you shoved his hand away. “No. Never.” And turned back on your side.

He chuckled. “Never?!”

You nodded. “Never.”

“I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Bye.”

He chuckled again, taking pleasure in your dryness, how you refused to fold, keep him on the outside like a pacing dog. Vernon then slipped further down the pillow, adjusting himself tightly behind you, one arm sneaking underneath your waist while the other caged overtop in a sling. He squeezed you, nuzzled at your hair. “And for how long will you be mad?”

Sighing, you slotted your fingers through his. “Are you stressed because of the money thing? How do you normally deal with stress?”

He shrugged. “Drugs and sex.”

“You know that’s not healthy.”

“Thank you, Harvard medical graduate.”

Your elbow jutted back, finding the sinewy flesh of his ribs. “Shut up. I’m asking because… well… I think it would be better if we talked things out more, you know? Even just a little bit…” Glancing down at a thick, silver band on his finger, you began playing with it, twisting the ring around while you mumbled, “it hurts when I feel like your stress is targeting me. And right now, I can’t give you sex, and I definitely can’t give you drugs.”

Vernon breathed in the scent of your hair. “I know, PJ’s.”

“So… is everything alright?”

“Not entirely. M’tired. It’s just hard to get a hold of this guy. He’s slippery, and all his people are slippery. It feels like chasin’ an eel.”

“The guy you need money from?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Need any help?”

His entire body jerked with laughter. “Uh, no. This really isn’t somethin’ you should be gettin’ involved with, PJ’s. I’ll figure it out, alright? I want you away from this stuff. I don't want you thinkin' it's a playground and shit. You've done enough.”

You stroked along his arm, running over years of intricate ink, and took in a deep breath that rolled through you from top to bottom while recalling your conversation with Moo. Vernon didn’t know that you spoke to him. He didn’t know that you knew the mystery’s name.

Jeonghan. The kingpin. El Timador.

Angling around, you slipped an arm behind Vernon’s head and moved your fingers fluidly through his velvet hair. You pushed into his forehead and softly moved your lips against his, feeling him immediately perk in response, the pressure around your waist tightening. The tartness of a smoked blunt had never smelled so desirable on somehow, and his slick tongue was impressively gentle, always eager to taste you. His hand squeezed up your flaming body, his fingers coming to curl at the beating base of your throat, and if you weren’t still clamped onto that angry red kite, you might have let him submerge into you, drink you from the inside out.

But you didn’t.

“Why don’t you rest a bit?” You murmured, licking off his sheening spit that smeared your lip like a constellation. “Would that hurt?”

He stared at you with a wild, cosmic infatuation. “No.”

This isn’t really somethin’ that you should be gettin’ involved with.

You wanted to listen.

But you could not. Would not.

It seemed that all you had done your entire life was listening. The words of others had continuously filled you like droplets from a bamboo spout, and you had lugged around the sloshing weight sensing it was there but not wanting to believe it. Consequently, you were pruned on the inside, wrinkled and sodden, from never letting the water drain, and now you needed to dry yourself out under a lovely, dappled heat. Unfortunately, that meant you must meddle.

Even if Vernon did not want it.

He didn’t need to know. At least not for now.

Tara was brushing out her long, pearlescent strands of syrupy hair at her locker when you asked if she was willing to help you with a strange favour. She kept brushing her hair, eyebrows raised, as she waited for you to elaborate. When you told her you wanted to a drive to the Kichesippi scarp yard, the baby pink hairbrush that she had likely preserved since girlhood days in Farringdon nearly flew out of her hand. You understood it was an odd request, and you couldn’t be too generous detail-wise, and for a long moment, she gathered her things quietly, face contorted with the heft of an internal dialogue.

But then she agreed.

“You’ve helped me a lot with my interviewing… I guess I can.”

To which you almost leapt on her in relief.

She drove you to the scrap yard that weekend.

You shot past the abandoned hanger that you and Vernon had waited at, when you were twisted up inside with emotions, a canon ready to sizzle and pop. The fields were greener, with a refreshed shimmer, and the forest was much denser, almost overflowing in regrowth, compared to your last visit.

“There’s the gate,” Tara said. “What should I do?”

“Stay here,” you told her. “I’ll be back soon. I think.”

Her fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and she peered at the tall fence with her slim brows worried. “How are you going to get in?”

Upon thrusting open the car door, you shrugged. “I’ll climb it.”

You could only imagine Tara’s expression as she watched you approach the fence, your fingers curling at the metal, the tips of your shoes wedging into every little space, until you reached the top. It wasn’t easy. You were still breathless coming down the other side. But you wanted this to be quick, and so you did it the only way you knew how. Marching past the distributed piles of abandoned rubbish, you approached one trailer in particular, caught in the shadows cast by monstrously sized conifers. Without letting yourself think too much, you knocked on the door, which rattled loosely as though it could be pushed open with a limp shove.

About a minute passed. Maybe no one was there.

You noticed a curtain fall back in place. The door suddenly opened.

It was not surprise that controlled Minghao’s face. Rather, an absence of anything. His countenance was flat, dull. Uninterested. And you would have felt offended if not for the fear fumigating your other emotions.

“What do you want?” He said, his tone a deft line.

Your lips were dry, and you could not stop pulling at the skin with your teeth. Licking them off, you smiled, very weak. “Can I come in?”

“No,” Minghao answered immediately, like a slap. “Leave.”

He attempted to close his flimsy door, but you stepped forward, stopping him. “Please, just for a few minutes. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

Finally, a split in his paper expression. A brittleness. “You are only trouble,” Minghao said. “You and your boyfriend.” He tried the door again.

You stopped him. Again. “Vernon—I-I know he stole from you, or he was stealing back what you stole—I know there’s some bad blood. The bottom line is I need to speak to someone. And I think you might be able to help me. Please. I’ll never bother you again. Cross my heart.”

“Girl, you need to leave,” he hissed, pushing back on the door.

“I need to speak to Jeonghan.”

And Minghao slightened. His colour became that of bleached bones. You felt the door give away, and it swung open silently until it banged the wall. An aroma of fragrant herbs touched your nose. Earthy sage, burned. A fresh and lemony tinge. Minghao muttered something under his breath in an unfamiliar language while pressing his fingertips against his nose. There were red prints left behind as he made a soft rumbling noise in his throat. “Okay.”

“I can come in?” You squeaked.

“Come in. Quick.”

And so you fluttered inside Minghao’s trailer like a curious, timid butterfly, still on edge, still skittish, but enjoying the relief. All his curtains were dark orange, drawn tightly shut, turning the dust in the air to a desert sand. His walls were covered with canvas’s, each smeared in unique patterns of paint where colours messily clashed and faces were hidden between thick strokes, though they might stop looking like faces if you stared too hard. He had a metal bowl sitting on his small dining table, a charred powder at its bottom, with twirling smoke ablaze. You breathed in the herbs and lemon.

He pulled out a chair from underneath the table, used his foot to kick out the chair oblique to his, the one you settled into, uncomfortably.

You flashed him another nervous, teethless smile. “It’s nice in here,” despite knowing he had very little interest for your prevaricating.

Minghao folded his long, lithe arms. There was a hooded narrowness weighing down his eyelids as he observed you like some sort of bad curse staining his abode with your energy.

“Why speak to Jeonghan?”

“Um…” you exhaled, swallowing. “I just need to, I guess.”

“Are you turning on Hansol? You need him dead?”

Your foot kicked the table leg especially hard in hysterics and the metal bowl quivered, the cinder smoke wobbling in the dusk. “No!” You spluttered. “No, no, no. Gosh no. Nothing like that. It’s hard to explain. But it… it has nothing to do with you.” Unfurling your tense fingers, you inhaled the flavourful odours. “I’m not turning on anybody. I just need to talk to him.”

Minghao leaned closer, the orange glow of the cloth curtains shining like ribboned fire in his cherry hair, while the moons beneath his eyes darkened. “You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die.”

Paste dried on your tongue. A horrible, chalky paste that you wanted to scrape off because it felt so thick. Minghao allowed the intensity of the moment to hover, to seep, before he leaned back, his chair creaking.

You rolled out your shoulders. “Then… I guess it’s a deal.” Looking to him and his stone-face, you continued. “Where can I find him?”

His brow raised and his round bottom lip pursed, perhaps a flash of impressiveness that you were not shaken off like a flea from a dog’s coat. “Do you know what you’re doing?” He said. “El Timador plays no-fun games.”

No-fun games.

Something about that stuck to you, webbed under your skin. “I don’t know,” you admitted, clammy hands rubbing together beneath the table, smooth and warm. “But I have to. I don’t know how else to explain.”

Minghao was quiet, his attention moved to the curdles of smoke rising from the metal bowl and its charred ingredients. You were urged to keep speaking and pleading your case, but you knew better than to bulldoze the moment. The silence kept lasting. It was astonishing that Minghao could sit so still, like he had taken out his heart, his insides, and was nothing but a husk of flesh stuffed with grain. A doll. But then he shifted, reaching behind him to a kitchen countertop, where he placed a metal lid over the bowl.

He sighed. “You know Paulo?”

That name again. You nodded. “No, but yes. Not personally.”

“Everything scattered when he died. Everything. I was scared. I sold off product that was not mine. I thought moving back to China will fix the mess. I always argue with Hansol back then. The way he talks and does things. I don’t like it.” Minghao bit his lip, and it lost some colour. “But he is good. He brings me into a safe place, back then. He helps me adjust. He warns me to stay away from El Timador when they approach me and ask me to work for them. Hansol said that to me: you do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. But in his stupid way I cannot understand very well. Now, I am under El Timador’s thumb because I try to harm you. I just wanted the money. But now I cannot care.” His eyes flickered up, unexpectedly glossy. “You see why you are trouble?”

In that moment, you became frozen, just like he was. To hear the slight rasp develop in Minghao’s tone, notice the shine splotchy in his eyes. His mistakes unravelling at his feet like dropped, unorganized film, because he was scared, and confused.

You softened up. You weren’t fearful anymore.

And you smiled. “I’m glad I came to speak with you. I promise, I won’t be the reason Jeonghan plays games. You shouldn’t worry.”

Minghao shook his head. “Naïve,” he mispronounced.

Perhaps true. You accepted it. “Where can I find him?”

Another beat of silence passed by. Minghao’s final moment to ponder, and you saw his chest rise and fall deeply. He reached behind him again, grabbing a pen and a magazine. With the pen in his teeth, he tore off a strip from the magazine's corner and proceeded to write something. “Here—I cannot say this word to save my life.”

You accepted the torn corner. “Prerogative. What's that?”

“A club. Once a month, he has business meeting in the basement.”

“Do you know when?”

“Try end of the month.”

“Okay. Thanks.” You nodded satisfactorily.

Tara had sent you a text, asking if you were alright. You messaged her you would be back shortly and took the torn paper in your pocket.

As Minghao walked you to the door, you stopped, turning around to examine him. “I really like your octopus graffiti.”

His face creased, marginally; the edges of a shy smile. “Me too.”

It was amusing to behold Vernon out of his element, and adorable that he was trying so hard. You sat across the table from him. Rather than letting his canvas sit on the easel like most refined people in the studio, he was gripping it at an odd, stabbing angle to his chest, clasping the paintbrush like it hurt, while he focused hard enough on his work to make heat come from his eyes. You were so enraptured in watching him that your small canvas was noticeably bare, mottled with few dabs of vibrant colour.

Ruby introduced you to the studio not long ago. They hosted weekly paint nights for adults. There were various wines, complicated Hors d’Oeuvres organized on lazy Susans, mellow music threaded with daintily-pressed piano keys, and an entire wall dedicated to acrylic paint swatches in the form of dried, ceramic tiles.

You didn’t care for wine, and neither did Vernon.

But he got up from his seat only ten minutes in to slosh himself a glass that had a woman with curled hair, a purple beret, and flashy spectacles pompously side-eyeing him. You urged him that this wasn’t supposed to be stressful. That it didn’t matter if his art looked messy.

He grumbled, “it’s for you, PJ’s. It has to look perfect.”

And that had made you swell up with joy like a helium balloon.

Since he was putting in the effort to paint you something, you wanted to return the favour, and so you settled on a photo of his Camry that he sent you a while back upon buffing out some of its rusted age. Your phone was rested against a container filled with different sized brushes.

“How’s it coming along?” You asked.

Vernon was quiet—quieter than he ever had been—while the tip to his very thin brush stroked so timidly on the surface of the canvas. You had given him a tiny elastic from your bag when he kept complaining about the hair sloping down over his eyes. Now he had a black, sooty tree sprouting from the crown of his head. All the modest aprons were taken. He was wearing an apron that was bubblegum pink, stitched with daisies and honeybees. You took a picture with your phone when he was busy choosing his canvas size, giggling at how paradoxical it looked.

“Can’t… talk…” he mumbled. “Focusin’… hard…”

“If only you could see yourself.”

As you began shaking a bottle to mix the paint inside, Vernon suddenly slammed his detailing brush onto the table. “Fuck!” He shouted, collapsing back into his seat. “I fucked up the fuckin’—ah—fuck it.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to disappear behind your canvas while squirting out the sky-blue paint onto your palette. The thing with Vernon was that his gutturalness never really turned off. Sometimes you loved it. Sometimes it was complicated. He could be in the most high-class restaurant, eating with kings, and he would still not forfeit his untrimmed spirit.

The lady sitting at the table beside yours—the same lady who watched him pour his wine like it was a beer keg—reached over to tap him on the shoulder, and you could only suck in your teeth.

“Excuse me? Could you please refrain from that sort of language? This is a public space. It's shared. It’s important to be polite.”

“Lady, I’m in the middle of some serious shit, alright? Fuck.” He dismissed her slim fingers and long, coffin nails off his shoulder, sighing aloud while squinting at his canvas. “Guess it’s not that fucked up.”

She proceeded to throw you a very specific look, almost sympathetic, mournful, as if to express her condolences that you were perhaps trapped with this profanity-mouthed man and his concerningly full wine glass. But you didn’t return the look in any capacity.

You were happy.

“If you get kicked out of Wine and Paint, I’m never taking you anywhere, ever,” you warned him, smiling, from over your canvas.

Vernon grabbed onto his glass and sipped at the red wine, to which his face instantly puckered and he shook out his head. “Tastes like batteries.”

“You shouldn’t have poured so much.”

“Help me finish it.”

Swirling your brush around in the blue paint, you cackled. “Nope!”

He groaned, setting his canvas back on the wood easel. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t make me tell the art teacher.”

Vernon got up, stretched out his arms and their silky gilded tattoos, the tight, youthful pink apron squeezing around his waist. “Can we get ice cream after this? Otherwise I’m gonna need a line off your tits.”

“Okay! Shut your mouth, first of all,” you gritted. “Second of all, behave. Or else.”

He narrowed his gaze at you. “N’ that means what?”

You eyed the lady at the table beside you and smirked.

Vernon swatted his hand at you dismissively, then pressed into his lower back. “Whatever. I’m goin’ to the washroom.” He started walking away, but turned around. “N’ don’t peek at my canvas while I’m gone!”

Without him being so distractingly cute, you managed to make some actual progress on your painting, filling the white space with an eggshell blue sky, stippling in fluffy grass, attempting to create the street even though it looked very amateurish. But you did like to paint when you were younger. Without the strict regulations of a teacher. As your brush swirled a liquidy yellow sun into the cloth, you thought of Diana and how much she would enjoy doing something like this.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed someone approaching the table, and you assumed it was Vernon returning from the washroom.

Upon picking up some creamy paint on your detailing brush, you glanced up and smiled, expecting to see the tree of hair on his head and his pink apron.

But it was not your Vernon.

It was Lee.

And a thousand feelings collapsed, bones snapping like tightwires, as your emotionally intact infrastructure suddenly smashed to the ground. Your chest and lungs became spongey. They absorbed and absorbed but they did not give back. You were gripping the paintbrush as though it were a weapon.

“Hey!” He chirped, a friendly sound. “I thought that was you.”

Now he knew it was you.

What the hell was Vernon doing in the washroom? You hoped to god he hadn’t smuggled in a blunt. The woman’s washroom had a window in the last stall, although you would need to stand on the toilet to reach and open it. Maybe it was the same for the men’s. Maybe Vernon would sense your distress, how it glimmered on your skin like an oil, smothered the air.

Lee cleared his throat. “I know this is probably a little weird…”

A little? You wanted to shriek. You had your filthy hands dipping and diving all over my body! You treated me as though I were some lifeless shell! But you did not say anything of the sort. “It is,” you sighed, and it was shaky. “Very weird.”

He didn’t look much different physically. Nonetheless, you sensed something. Your gut was suddenly inside your mind, and it granted you a sort of power to see through him, at his tangled intentions and the unattractive miasma festering within. Though his words were soft, slipping off his lips like fallen petals, his eyes were gritty and unclear.

Lee laughed. “Yeah! Trust me, I get it.”

You deadpanned, “is there something you want?”

And Lee’s smile hung a little crooked. “Well… we really haven’t seen each other in a while. I guess you blocked me. Ruby doesn’t answer my texts. So I wanted to know if we could… well… talk about it?”

“Here?”

“No,” he laughed again, swallowed tightly. “Not here.”

The paintbrush twitched in your fingers; the acrylic pressed into its bristles beginning to dry. “No thank you. I’m not interested.”

He scoffed. You wanted to slap him, hard enough to leave a sizzling, stinging imprint of your hand chaffing his cheek. “Not interested? Can you explain that to me, or something… because I feel like it would help us—”

“Help you. Not us. I know what happened. You should figure it out on your own.” Turning back to the canvas, you nearly touched the cloth.

Nearly.

“Well, no offense, but that’s kind of fucked up.”

Your mouth was about to drop open. But then you noticed Vernon, how he sidled up to Lee with his tongue prodding at his cheek, his eyes cool, settled, but with a craftiness underneath the copper. He proceeded to slip his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. It hung there loosely, but could fasten in an instant.

“Hey, look at you Suits. Been a while, yeah?”

Lee glanced at him. You weren’t sure how else to explain his expression apart from the kind of paleness you see of dead, stiff limbs. “Uh, Vernon. Hey…” he attempted to laugh, though it turned to fleeing breaths.

Vernon’s hand gripped his shoulder, shook it. “Thought I might go outside.” His eyes were bullet holes into Lee’s head, a smirk forming. “You wanna come? No wind in the back alley. Easier to light.”

Lee shook his head. You shouldn’t let Vernon subtly tease and threaten him. But you didn’t want to move or speak. “No—uh—that’s fine. I was just catching up. We haven’t seen each other in a while—”

“But you haven’t seen me in even longer. C’mon. Let’s step out.”

“I’m here with a friend. I should get back to our table.”

“Your friend, huh? They a lawyer, too?”

“Well,” Lee gulped. “He’s not. We’re still in school.”

“Shit. This will be good fuckin’ practice then. Let’s bring him outside with us.” Vernon jutted his finger into Lee’s chest, his eyes changing tone, flashing with streams of electricity. “And I’ll have him mock up my defense trial after I beat the fuck out of you, you spineless cunt.”

“Vernon, enough.” You stood up. “I’ll talk to Lee outside.”

Surprisingly, he listened, and sat back down. His index finger was tapping harshly on the table. There was no hiding what he was thinking as you pulled Lee outside the studio, into the evening’s gentle warmth.

Immediately, the boy shivered, and the colour gradually seeped back into his once blanched and hollow face. “Did I almost just die?”

You exhaled, enjoying the sensation of the calmer sun rays tingeing your skin, instilling you with a deep, pulsing strength. “Lee, I was being serious back there. I don’t want to talk to you about what happened. I have no interest in digging it back up. I have no interest in being the one to make you feel better about a shitty thing you did. The truth is, you need to sack up, alright? Because I know you’ll feel a lot lighter afterward.” He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was strange, a clouded look; a look you give to a stranger who said something you struggled to catch because it sounded like syllables chopped up in a blender. But you knew that he heard you.

He just wasn’t aligning such striking boldness to his memories of you. In a way, you were a stranger.

Lee kicked a stone at his feet. “Vernon is your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

Again, he said nothing. Only hung his head, rubbed off his nose, and walked back into the mellowness of the painting studio, making sure to avoid Vernon by taking a sharp turn. You let the sun energize you for another minute, and then said goodbye to its sweet tangerine rays.

When you approached Vernon, who had been diligently waiting for you, tense in his seat, you bent down and kissed his cheek. “Not your best, but still very good behaviour,” you whispered into his ear, plucking out the elastic tying up his hair in order to adoringly ruffle the strands between your fingers. “I think we can go get some ice cream.”

You sat on the hood of the car, running the plastic spoon through vanilla and chocolatey, rich syrup. It was your favourite flavour, a childhood comfort, and its taste had never changed. Vernon preferred his mint chocolate chip—a polarizing choice—one that suited him. Since neither of you got to complete your paintings, the studio offered to hold them until you could book another session. You were ineffably curious to know what had been giving Vernon so much trouble. Or perhaps it was merely his ineptness with a paintbrush and having to execute fine detail.

He was standing in front of you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” you mumbled around the spoon in your mouth. “I’m sure.”

His eyes studied you, carefully flitting. “He should die.”

A lump of ice cream was sucked into your windpipe and you started to cough into your elbow. “Vernon!” You spluttered. “Uncalled for!”

“I’m just sayin’, you know.” He shrugged, dragging his spoon around the flurry of pale green mint and small chocolate chunks. “I don’t like the idea of someone so slimy, who caused you so much pain, walkin’ around on the same Earth as you. He’s so fuckin’ privileged and he doesn’t even realize it.”

Sighing, you scraped some hot fudge onto your spoon, tried not to smile and condone his morbid perspective but smiled anyway. Vernon didn’t fit into the unspoken conformations of life the way others did, or forced themselves to, and as much as his roughness perplexed you, you would never ask him to change.

You couldn’t imagine him any other way.

“That was pretty funny,” you hummed, planting your shoes onto the car’s newly furbished chrome bumper. “Getting all scary with him when you had your hair in a palm tree and a little girl’s apron on.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s my Power Puff fit.”

And you giggled, staring up at him through your lashes, turning him into a portrait against the pulpy clouds and daffodil sky. You let your ice cream sit on the car’s vanilla hood and hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, admiring the faint crests of pink dusting his cheeks, the robust amber smell on his clothes.

“I’m so thankful for you,” you told him.

Vernon took a scoop of chilly mint chocolate chip and shoved it in your mouth. You laughed, half-swallowing, half-choking, until he kissed you and everything splendidly melted into the late spring heat.

Ruby couldn’t believe that you wanted to go to a club. You mentioned it about a week in advance while you two were cooking in the kitchen—Ruby was browning up ground beef while you chopped ingredients for a fresh pico de gallo—and she immediately started laughing and snorting like a pig, bending over the stove top. For a moment, you let her enjoy the joke that was only a joke to her, and then blinked at her flatly. “I’m serious, I want to go to Prerogative,” you said. Ruby straightened up, her luminous hazel eyes widening as she pursed her lips. “How do you know about Prerogative?”

She went on to explain that it wasn’t a typical club. The atmosphere was stuffy, its patrons being the rich and shady, that it was rather difficult to get inside unless you knew someone who was a needle mover with moneybags. Those who weren’t accustomed to their snide, supercilious culture usually stuck out like sore thumbs, becoming raw roadkill circled by eerie vultures dressed in designer brands. Ruby had gone twice, though she said it was a long time ago, when she was still friends with a wealthy businesswoman’s daughter. But she no longer had the connection.

You had pushed your diced red bell pepper into a mound. “I think I know someone who might be able to get us inside,” and Ruby glanced from side to side, uncertain, desultory, like your roles had suddenly flipped.

“I mean, I’ll go with you. Just… why?”

“I can tell you afterward.”

“This reeks of Vernon.”

But you didn’t say anything, instead tossing the chopped vegetables into a bowl and squirting in some tangy juice from a lime wedge. In between slower periods at work, you asked Tara and Lara if they were interested in coming along, too. Tara squealed, “I haven’t been out in so long!” while Lara played with the tips of her soft hair, her nose wrinkling. “Isn’t that the place where all the fancy, pretentious rich people go? Purse Dog Lady will be there, I bet.”

She still agreed to come.

However, you desperately needed an outfit that wasn’t a loose, flappy t-shirt and weather-bleached jean shorts. That weekend, you and Ruby went to the one of the larger malls, slipping in between stores, your head aching from the obsessive use of fluorescent lights, your nose overwhelmed by the gaudy perfumes the sales staff wore, and your patience falling out from under you like suspended tiles. You would waddle out the changerooms, disgust ample in your face, as some tight-fitting fabric clung to your body akin to a moth silkily wrapped into an inescapable, sticky spiderweb. Ruby would excitedly clap whenever she adored an outfit, squinch up her nose when she wasn’t a fan, and give you a mild half-smile when the outfit was passable. You bought a few, to have options.

Except you didn’t really like any of them.

It was merely to play a part.

When the night finally came, you spent such a long time thinking in the shower about what an awful, terrible idea this was, that the water began running ice cold and you had to hop out with half your conditioner unwashed. Ruby helped with your makeup. She didn’t play any music like usual—when you were that anxious, you needed silence—anything else was irritating and grating and salt-to-wound on your nerves. Once she was finished, she took a tiny bottle and started misting your skin with a product that had a synthetic yet fragrant smell, enough to make you cough.

Then she let you see yourself in the washroom mirror.

“Holy shit,” were the first words from your rouge mouth, made slippery by a gloss. “I hardly recognize myself…” fingers drifted lightly at your skin, hidden underneath foundation, concealer, cream contour, blush, as though you were touching a costume mask that could be unwound and removed. “Are you sure these lashes won’t fall off? They feel a little heavy.”

Ruby shook her head. “Trust me—you could get dunked upside down into a pool and they wouldn’t fall off. This is, like, illegal lash glue.”

“How will I take them off?”

“Just peel! And then some makeup remover on a Q-tip.” She gave you a push out the door. “Put your dress on!”

Back in your room, you opened up your closet, removing the hanger that the spandex dress hung from—the colour of a dark, succulent cherry—and sighed. It wasn’t that you hated dresses. You loved them, just on other people. Like Ruby. Like Tara and Lara. Their bodies were the reasons people made dresses in the first place. You always thought your body was built for aged, wrinkly t-shirts and non-accentuating pants that made you look somewhat like a little boy. So putting on the dress was hard. You constantly plucked, pinched, and readjusted the material to make sure you could be reminiscent of them, Ruby and Tara and Lara, even though you never would be, not even in a faraway dream where reality blurred.

Ruby clapped ecstatically when you left your room. “I love it! I knew that was the one! How do you feel? Because you look so sexy.”

You shrugged, fingers rubbing together. “I feel fine.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t wear a lot of dresses, so it’ll feel strange.”

“I guess so.”

“Where are your kitten heels?”

You pointed to the closet space by the front door. While sinking down on the couch, unhelpful, you watched Ruby search for them.

“They aren’t even out of the box!” She exclaimed, scurrying over to you and sitting on the coffee table.

“I forgot.”

Ruby tossed aside the frilly layers of cream tissue paper. “So adorable, right?” the girl fawned, handing you one to examine.

Your fingers ran along its smooth, sleek texture, black and slim. It was unbeknownst to you how you were going to survive with these strapped to your feet all night. Your soles were made for dirty sneakers and tennis shoes. A flash of your reflection appeared in the kitten heel, distorted by ebbing, pale light, and when you could not find comfort in the lost expression that was supposed to be familiar to you, tears pushed, stung, burned your eyes. Ruby was setting the matte box aside when you squeaked out a high-pitched whine of frustration, and it felt like your throat cracked.

“What’s wrong?” She cooed.

Sniffling, your head wrung back and forth. “I’m so ugly, Ruby.”

And she gasped with such immediate sharpness that it nearly cut you. “No!” Ruby said, exasperated, tucking back her hair. “No, you’re not!”

“Even this makeup can’t hide it. I think it’s making it worse.”

For a moment, your roommate quieted. The living room rippled with the pained, insecure hymns of your crying. But then Ruby sighed, and she sat down on the rug, and laid her head on your lap. One arm wrapped around your legs and squeezed them.

You suckled in, confused, laughing, wiping carefully at your runny nose. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not ugly. You’re gorgeous. And I will keep you here all night by your legs until you agree. And give yourself some damn grace.”

She always smelled of jasmines. A subtle sweetness, and then a deep, powerful richness, like a garden leading down into a moonlit cave. There was something in the scent that grounded you, similar to Vernon’s amber musk, and your wet eyes closed to enjoy the weighted warmth of Ruby’s crimson hair spilling on your lap. After a minute, you stroked her head, smiled, noticed that you weren’t itching from the inside out as though you had swallowed a poisonous plant. “Thank you, Ruby,” you sighed.

Her eyes glinted; two green summer ponds drifting with yellowed gingko leaves. “Do you feel better?” She asked, patting your knee.

“I think so…” your fingers pinched at the spandex to massage the stretchy fabric. “Don’t take offense to this—you did such an amazing job and I think you might have sprayed twenty dollars on my face—but this makeup is kinda suffocating me. Would it matter if I took it off?”

“I think you feeling comfortable is top priority.”

“Okay,” you said with a relieved exhale. “I’ll remove it.”

About an hour later—after rubbing soaked cotton pads of witch hazel to your face—you and Ruby rendezvoused with Tara and Lara, who were already downtown, each dressed in a sultry black dress. Tara’s dress was very short compared to Lara’s, hers adorned with a halter design that hugged over her hips but flared gently at the legs. They had been waiting outside a pub. Lara was smoking a cigarette, which turned the air acrid and sharp.

“I’m so excited!” Tara rallied. “I’ve never been to this club.”

Lara’s arms were folded unenthusiastically, her shoulders slumped forward. “You are going to have rich nepotism children fighting the urge to spit on you because you don’t work a six-figure job,” she explained while taking a puff from her cigarette. “Proceed with caution, Tars.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Tara quipped back. She was practically wearing her sparkly optimism like a cloak. “We’ll stick together! It’ll be fun!”

You smiled, not letting the honesty of your bumpy seams show.

“Should we start heading over?” Ruby asked.

“I think so! Who knows how long the line is,” Tara pointed out.

Lara looked to you, her eyes low, tracing. She made sure to get one lasting, long inhalation of bitter smoke before chucking her cigarette onto the street, where it fizzled into orange, peeling paper like a fading firefly. “Fine,” Lara sighed.

Ruby and Tara took the lead, striding and chatting. You walked beside Lara. “I’m sorry if Tara forced you into this,” you murmured.

She hummed. “No need to be sorry. I know you’re scheming.”

And you choked a bit. “Scheming?”

“Nobody willingly goes to Prerogative.”

That made you snort. “Rich people.”

“When I say nobody, I mean us regulars. The Averages of the world.”

“Lara, you’re far from average.”

She glanced at you, quirking her groomed eyebrow, and the way her lips calmly reached into a smile was charming. “So are you, it seems.”

“Then I suppose we’ll fit right in.”

While waiting in Prerogative’s long line, you understood very quickly the specific archetype of people that belonged here. They almost didn’t seem human. Most were tall, thin, as though beneath the dapper suits and eccentric dresses, there were only ivory bones for the wind to whistle through. Their movements lacked fluidity. It reminded you of a flip-cartoon with frames removed, such that you would suddenly blink and find them contorted into another stiff, waxy facial expression, eyes like marbles; polished, shiny, but lifeless. Standing amongst them, you felt as though you were not alive in the same way they were. And they could smell it. The sticky city plumes on your skin, the cheap perfume tangled into your hair, how smoothly your face could move. Stares lingered. Empty yet deep.

Upon reaching the front of the line, you were met by a single bouncer whose chest was wide enough, sturdy enough, to land a jet. Tinted glasses were shifted down to the tip of his big nose. He didn’t speak. A machine. Waiting to hear a human’s call before it could activate.

“My ID,” you showed him.

He glanced at it, uninterested, saying nothing.

Stay calm, you reminded yourself. “We’re with the Polleznas.”

Thick, bulging arms folded overtop his chest. “Who?”

“Georgio and Catarina Pollezna, to be exact.”

The bouncer’s eyes skipped between you. He stood up straighter, and the entrance behind him swallowed. “Don’t look like it.”

“I was just there, at their beach house,” you explained. “We all went, actually. Have you ever been up Windermere Boulevard? There’s the blue house—big, like a colosseum—the seafoam green one, and the one with all those pretty grey bricks belongs to the Polleznas. Backyard pool. Gigantic yellow curly slide. Has the turrets and baskets of bright pink Hibiscus. Anyway, Catarina’s visiting Georgio in Italy right now. He’s been working on a new shoe design with his leather suppliers.” Pulling out your phone, you showed him a photograph, the same photograph of Kitty and her friends partying in Italy, which you downloaded from her social media. “This was us at Blanco Beach.” You don’t let him glean for too long. “And she has to board a flight tomorrow, to Florence. She tests the shoes!” You grabbed Ruby by the arm, lugged her forward. Her parents were from Italy, and she even knew how to speak the language, though it wasn’t perfect and tended to degrade the less she was around them.

Ruby smiled. “Sì signore. Come stai? Piacere di conoscerti?”

The bouncer was unmoving, until he pushed the tinted glasses further up his nose. In a husky voice, he gestured at Ruby. “ID?”

A few moments later, you were all let inside the black, glassy building, and you nearly stumbled over each other—hips bumping, arms smacking, heels wobbling—in a buzzing, livewire excitement. You rounded a long, curved hallway with matte silver walls and elegant streams of violet lights that flowed along the ceiling like galactic water. “I can’t fucking believe that actually worked!” Tara squealed. “I almost forgot how to speak,” Ruby giggled, nerves still breathy in her voice. “The lady behind me kept stepping on my heel and I almost tore her breast implants out,” Lara spat.

You were so relieved to be let inside the club that you nearly forgot the reason you were there. But it emerged, bobbing at the surface of your consciousness, and you felt the edges crafting your exhilarated smile dampen slightly. Different sized globs of people consumed the room, all stuck to each other like gum, refusing to mingle, as though brushing shoulders with someone outside their circle was essentially reinstituting the plague. The bar was quite large and easy to identify. Its counter was glowing white, something of a spaceship, and numerous bartenders swarmed behind it, handling bottles and glasses and shakers. The music was simply a deep, thrumming beat without lyrics, high energy, full of magnetic pulses.

“Who wants a drink?!” Tara offered.

Ruby agreed. “Let’s check it out.”

She held your hand as you grooved in between bodies. Though the atmosphere was dim and people’s faces were powdered in smoky shadows, that didn’t seem to stop the occasional preened onlooker, glancing you over from top to bottom, their eyes metallic in the seedy, sensual light.

You all squeezed against the bar’s glowing countertop, lined up like awkward ducklings while your elbows dug into each other.

Almost immediately, a pale man swooped in from what you assumed was a rift in the staunch air, his lips thin and pink, his eyebrows dark and thick, and his voice a low, errorless purr. “Who’s going first?”

“What’s your special?” Tara asked.

“Can I have three shots of tequila?” Lara muttered.

“I’d love a vodka cran!” Ruby chirped.

You said nothing. Instead, your head swivelled around the room, refusing to let any detail go unmissed. Two walls were bracketed by staircases that led to the balcony, and you couldn’t help but wonder if that’s where he was lurking. Above ground, tracing the murkiness, alert to everything and everyone. But it didn’t feel right. Too obvious.

Ruby nudged your side. “You want a VC?”

“What’s that?”

She laughed, “vodka cran!”

“Oh, uh, sure.” It was hard to care about which shitty alcoholic beverage you were going to be forced to sip for the rest of the night when you had much, much bigger concerns. The bartender slid you a glass filled with dark pink liquid, a black straw, and balls of ice. You took a shallow sip from the straw while tilting your phone against the fancy card reader, and bristled slightly upon tasting the expensive vodka’s lingering sterileness. “Let’s wander around,” you suggested, shrugging. “Maybe we can sit somewhere.”

“These people look like aliens,” Lara grunted.

“It’s called face fillers,” Ruby said. “And botox.”

“The bartender’s teeth were literal piano keys!” Tara exclaimed.

“Don’t you play piano, Tars?” Lara asked. “Why not practice a tune on his blinding teeth. Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy? Fur Elise?”

Tara’s face wrinkled. “I haven’t played in a year!”

“For how long did you practice?” Ruby questioned.

“I’ve been playing since I was eight. Started ballet at nine.”

“I knew the ballet part,” Ruby laughed. “That was one of the first stories I remember you explaining. You started doing pliés and relevés beside the hot plate! I thought you were going to get fired right then!” 

“She likes to relive her glory days,” Lara muttered.

“Like you don’t!” Tara shot back, playfully slapping her friend’s arm. “When I came to your flat for the first time, the first thing I saw was a gigantic poster of yourself when you headlined The Nutcracker! And you keep your original ballet slippers in a glass display case!”

Their squabbling began to disintegrate, fall through your ears like sprinkling sand, and no longer were you listening to Lara and Tara argue whose pirouette was better while Ruby refereed their biased quipping. You saw another staircase, except it led downward, was secured by red rope, and had a bulky guard with an earpiece standing right in front of it.

You shrivelled.

How on earth were you supposed to slip past him?

Lacing your arm around Ruby’s elbow, you tugged her off to the side while Tara and Lara continued to hopelessly blather at each other. She pressed the straw of her drink between her lips, sipped, eyebrows lifted.

“I need to get down there,” you said, nodding toward the stairs.

Ruby swallowed, glanced at the guard. “Uh… there?”

“Yes.”

She sipped from her drink again, then stirred around the spherical ice cubes. “I think that might be for VIP’s, babe.” The ice clinked against the glass. Ruby suddenly furrowed her brow. “Do you know a VIP?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging. “No… but I need to meet one.”

“Who?”

“It’s… well… I can’t really tell you. Not yet. It all depends on if I can get downstairs or not. But how am I supposed to get past the guard?”

Ruby’s expression folded with skepticism. “This doesn’t feel like a good idea… this does have something to do with Vern, doesn’t it?”

In that moment, you wanted to snap at her. Ruby spent the entirety of her career getting wasted, making stupid choices, and wreaking havoc on the city with her substance-snorting friends. She had cooled down the rambunctious behaviour over a few months, put more focus into her job, and while you were immensely proud, now was not the time for her to tell you that something wasn’t a good idea. So you breathed, and breathed some more, and tried to wrestle down your feisty tongue that was ready to exhale your vodka into a blue flame. “It does,” you admitted. “Because I love him.”

She looked like someone had just popped a balloon in her face. Both her hands white-knuckled around the glass. “Wait… are you being serious?”

You smiled at her. “The seriousest.”

And Ruby squealed. She hugged you. “Have you told him?!”

“Uh, no…” you responded awkwardly, noticing a few dark blotches on your dress from the slightly spilled drink in your hand. “Not yet.”

“You gotta tell him!” She urged, passion alighting her like sparks.

“I will, I will.”

“I know he feels the same way,” Ruby remarked. “He’s never been like this about anyone. And… actually… I’m so freakin’ proud of both you guys. I see how you’ve impacted each other. This is, like, destiny.” She proceeded to sigh dreamily, nursing another savoury sip from her drink.

You started to smile at your roommate, but then you noticed something unraveling over her shoulder, and a weight smacked the pit of your stomach in one gigantic earthquake.

Ruby seemed to notice, too.

Lara, her lips peeled back in contempt, engaged with another woman who stood concerningly close. She looked older than Lara, with flat black hair trimmed to unnegotiable precision around her chin, short bangs, and a face that seemed as though it were carved from white wood. There was a taunting, antagonizing flicker in her eyes. You gathered Ruby and rushed toward Tara, who was standing off to the side, nibbling at her nails.

“What’s happening?” You queried.

Tara sighed; gaze pinned to her best friend, her vitriolic flare. “It’s that woman who was stepping on Lara’s heel when we were outside, waiting in line. She bumped into Lara and, of course, Lara wouldn’t let it go.”

Ruby frowned. “She’s not… a fighter… is she?”

The look on Tara’s face was deadpanned. “Gosh. I wish.”

Suddenly, there was an audible soundwave of gasps that emanated from the crowd the two women were garnering. Each stranger looked like an oilifed painting as they stood in shock. Strobing light cascaded around the room, occasionally glittering off bejewelled watches or rhinestone necklaces.

“What the hell happened?” Ruby dared to question; her jaw taunt.

“I think Lara just threw a drink on her!” Tara cried.

The next thing you saw was the glimmer of a pale, bony fist swinging toward Lara, and within seconds, the entire room swayed—a  rocky platform riding a dastardly wave—and you had nothing to hold.

Everything moved in flashes. Tara started unhooking her earrings.

“Uh—what are you doing?” Ruby stuttered as Tara poured them into her hand. “Are you—shouldn’t we—what the fuck is going on?”

She tightened her ponytail. “Lara would do the same for me,” was all Tara said, gulping in a breath, the anxiousness in her eyes suffusing into something so stern it almost made you shiver. Both you and Ruby watched, mouths agape, as Tara started elbowing her way through the crocheted crowd, swinging, before she seemingly got sucked down into a whirlwind of fists and screams. You froze, feeling the warm strobe light pass over you.

But then Ruby bumped your side. “Go!” She whispered harshly.

“What? Go where?”

“The stairs!” She grabbed your chin and turned it toward the red rope, waiting for you to slip underneath, without the looming bouncer and his craggy scowl.  “He’s trying to stop the fight! Go right now! I’ll hold your drink since I’m already holding fucking everything at this point.”

And so you didn’t think. You ran toward the stairs, budging in between a few strangers and their stick-like bodies. Lithely, you slid underneath the rope, and with your kitten heels quivering on every step you took, your sweaty hands lurched for the banister.

There was a long, disorientating corridor waiting for you. Tiny bulbs of blue light bordered the floor, leading down, down, down, without an end in sight. A sharp kink twisted inside your stomach, as though someone was turning a corkscrew, and you needed a moment to breathe like a mother on the verge of giving birth. But you couldn’t wait forever. The opportunity, while unplanned and terribly concerning, had fallen right at your feet and you could not afford to squander it. So you gulped in the thick vapour of your own fear and started progressing down the corridor, moving through the foggy orbs of blue light.

The further you walked, the less you heard the pulsing club beat, until nothing remained but a faint echo tickling your ear’s outer shell. You noticed the air became moister. Cooler. You walked until you reached a dark metal door perimetered by bolts, and you felt something like an explorer outside an ancient tomb filled with oracular secrets.

Behind that door… you almost wouldn’t allow yourself to imagine it.

You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. At that point, you wanted to die from anxiousness.

“How sneaky of you.”

 You whipped around, gasping up your entire soul.

A man was standing behind you. Not uncomfortably close, but closer than you’d like him to be. A beautiful man, with the dewy, pearlescent skin of a siren, and deep, rich brown eyes, almond-shaped, that seemed to swim with darkness you would not find above ground. His hair was lengthy, swooping elegantly above his shoulders in black rivulets. Interestingly, he smelled of sterile, pure nothingness—a complete lack of existence—like he was a void. In that moment, terror grabbed you with its cold, icy hand.

“Jeonghan,” you said.

And he said your name back to you.

Not a nickname. Not a mispronunciation. Not a mix-up.

You.

“I was—I thought—”

“Yes, I was on the balcony,” he said, and his smile was wicked.

El Timador plays no-fun games.

Your throat was paper-dry. All you could mumble was, “oh…”

“That fight. What a commotion. And—how very clever of you—to slip away so delicately. Like a loose fish. I almost didn’t catch you going underneath the rope.” He tilted his head. “Good thing I did.” And then he took a step forward, his movements eerily silent. Your head cocked at him, the sheer intensity of his closeness, how consuming he was. “Do you know what would have happened if you knocked on that door?” He asked you in a low, slithering whisper. He didn’t blink. His dark eyes bulged as though they were being pressed on.

“N-No…” you choked out, lips trembling.

Jeonghan pulled a hand down his face, though it paused to cover his mouth, and it stayed there for a slow, ticking, nauseating moment. But then he quickly removed his hand, sharply turned his sculpted face away, and stepped around you.

“Nothing,” he said. “There’s no one in there.”

You felt lightheaded.

He now had a key that he slid into the door’s lock.

Another shiver tingled down your spine.

The room he revealed was bare; not one person inside. Jeonghan waltzed straight in, but you hovered at the threshold, your eyes probing the space with snowballing apprehension. There were two white, glowing platforms elevated from the ground, each with a shiny pole, but no dancer to work the room. And then the booth against the wall, black leather, tight like snakeskin. Jeonghan slid himself into the booth until he was sat in the very middle, his hands clasped together, laid on the golden wood of the broad tabletop, as he smiled at you, waiting to see if you would enter.

He tilted his head. “I promise, there are no tripwires that trigger swinging axes or pits full of spikes. But you are welcome to stand there, if that makes you feel…” his wispy voice drifted off, “comfortable.”

And so you stepped inside. Paused. “Should I… close the door?”

“Well, are doors made to be open or closed?”

You stared at him, your heart pattering heavily. “It depends.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes, it does. Do you want us to have an easy, smooth conversation with the door closed? Or a conversation that is stilted and terribly lost because the only thing you can think about is how fast you will bolt to that open door if something goes South between us?”

So you closed the door, watched the blue, hazy lights fade outside in the hallway, knowing it was all a game of trust, or perhaps a gullible cage you had just locked yourself inside because this man had all the control. You approached Jeonghan, hands flattening over the thighs of your spandex dress, and proceeded to slide your way across the leather.

But he stopped you. “Stay right there.” You were not beside him, but at an angle. “If we sit beside each other, I cannot see your face. You know, I always make my men sit right where you’re sitting, instead of those who come to make deals. I can read my men’s face faster.”

The inside of your mouth was sticky. “Keep your friends close...” you sighed, only half-finishing the saying because your breath was falling fast.

“Yes,” Jeonghan agreed. “And your enemies closer. Literally!” He started chuckling, and it was such a sweet sound, childlike, nasally, the tinkling of windchimes. It reminded you of when Vernon laughed especially hard—all his prickled edges became bright clouds on a sunny day—and there was some warmth that found its way inside you, a beam of courage to hold your ground.

“I was told something,” you said.

Jeonghan nodded. “I’m sure you were.”

“That one only goes to you to make a deal, or for someone to die.”

He tossed an arm around the booth. “Ah—is that what the kids are saying these days?” His other hand dug into his pocket. Out came a slim, tiny cardboard box, which you assumed to be cigarettes. Instead, he pulled out a hard candy, popped it into his mouth. “Would you like one?”

“Uh… what are they?”

“Hong Yuan candies. Guava.” He let the green candy move from cheek to cheek. “My daughter quite likes these. I’ve grown fond, too.”

You could not help your face flickering in astonishment. “A daughter?” And then immediately regretted that you had let the absentminded question slip. There was no ring on his finger. Given the fact the room had two poles for dancing, you weren’t sure if he was in any sort of committed relationship, either.

Jeonghan grooved fingers through his hair, the colour of a raven’s feathers, and you watched how the strands fell calmly back into place. “Yes, she turns eight this year.” He stared at you, held out the very small box assorted with different flavours of candy. “Would you like one?”

“No, that’s alright.”

He shrugged, placing the box into a pocket on his suit jacket. “And what are you here for then?” Jeonghan murmured. “A deal?” He settled his clasped hands back onto the table. “Or for someone to die?”

“Um… a deal.”

“You should say it with conviction.”

“I’m here for a deal,” you repeated, forcing the sternness into your voice while you held the gravity-like power of his gaze. He let a palm fall open, and it was impressively soft-looking, akin to the surface of an untouched pillow. It was a simple gesture for you to continue. “I would like you to speak with Vernon. He wants to see you.”

“Okay. And?”

Your shoulders felt heavy. “And… that’s it.”

“Ah, see, that is not a deal,” Jeonghan was swift to correct, and he pocketed the fruity candy into his cheek. “When I make a deal, there is an exchange. Contraband for money, most likely. But you have not come to me with a deal. What you have, is a request. And I don’t do requests. Even to make someone disappear, I must receive something in return.”

“I just—I don’t know what I can give you.”

“Interesting.” His hands clapped his thighs. “Well, you should have thought of that before you dragged yourself to an insufferable, staunchly club where everyone believes you are the equivalent of a dirty plastic bag floating down an exhaust-soaked street.” He made a dilated pause. “Do you agree?”

Your throat was sewn shut. It ached and stung.

Jeonghan wouldn’t let his gaze falter for even a second. He stared you down, his dark, dark eyes a suckling abyss, and you were circling the swallow, helpless, spluttering, crying out for a hand to save you, pull you to dry land. His fingertip began tapping the tabletop, and you imaged a gothic piano before him, where he continued to press that one shrill, eerie key. The imagined sound crawled through your bones in a cold, spidery sensation, and when you glanced down at your lap, you realized just how tightly you had the succulent cherry spandex wrapped into your grip.

“Silence tells me everything you are not,” Jeonghan murmured.

“Did you kill Dots?”

He sat back. His eyebrows twitched. “Pardon?”

“Paulo. Vernon’s friend. He was all their friends.”

“Whose friends?”

You swallowed. “Moo, Snozz. Others, I assume.”

Something spilt into Jeonghan’s eyes, like a bumped-over inkwell, and when he spoke, his voice was grittier, the texture of rubbing sand between your fingertips. “You mean August and Daniel.”

“Their real names?”

“Yes. And what do you know of them?”

“Well… nothing, really.”

“I can tell you a little about them. They are fascinating people.”

The conversation's direction seemed to be whirling, a compass confused. But you were in no position to act mighty. You didn't want to become a shadow. Before you could think to answer, Jeonghan rolled back his shoulders, cleared his throat.

“August. I always think about him. His father was once CEO of an extremely powerful bank in Kenya, you know? Silver spoon. Extravagance. The things we tend to envy. But he was not allowed any handouts, and this turned him to a series of transient jobs. He is boisterous, loud, but has an odd charm that still persists even when he is terribly wrong about anything and everything, but believes he is right because obliviousness is mighty. Why does someone like him need to deal in the first place? Because he wants to. Simply that.

Daniel, my poor Daniel, was damned from the start. Sometimes I awake at night and feel myself still ache for him. His mother was in an abusive relationship. His father almost cut his mother’s throat with a shard from a beer bottle, and poor Daniel had to strangle his father using a utility cord from behind their television. He has stumbled a lot. I'm sure he'll stumble many more times. You will know him best for his silence, but he is always watching, and his loyalty to those who show him grace is commendably strong.

Now, Mr. Hansol Chwe. Mr. No-Manners. We have always had a tumultuous sort of relationship, to say the least. We never mixed that well, but when we did it was always trouble of the most fun kind. He was pulled all around the world by his struggling parents who desperately needed a break. Nothing ever lasted. The ground constantly shook under his feet. He was a snowball that never stopped snowballing until he was essentially wandering the streets at sixteen with enough anger to collapse a town, while his little sister was paraded as a blossom. Sofia. I hear she goes to school in Korea, now. He is rough and jagged. He is not meant for society. But he will always find a way because his world never stops moving.

Paulo... he is most difficult to speak of... he moved between halfway houses and clinical facilities like a coin toss. His parents disappeared, and so he was his own parent. I caught him stealing half-eaten sandwiches from a coffeehouse dumpster when he was fifteen. I was eighteen at the time, in university, working at the coffeehouse, Grit. He was scruffy and dirty. But he was sharper than I would ever be. And no matter how unliveable his life became you could not remove his humanity and kindness. Together, we were pure energy.

I found Paulo behind a dumpster. Paulo found Daniel cooking cough syrup on a car engine. Daniel found August hustling gullibles in street games. And then Paulo found Hansol stealing from a bakery. Before you knew any of those boys existed—Dots, Moo, Snozz, Vernon—selling weed, and dope, and pills, I was there. I protected them. They were like my little brothers. Before I knew your street-rat boyfriend, and the depressed narcoleptic, and the vitiligo lunatic, I knew Paulo. And now, my friend, my beautifully polka-dotted friend with the dappled eyes, he is gone forever.”

You shifted, and the booth made a horrible squeaking noise, and you suddenly wanted to rip the entire thing to shreds. “I’m sorry.”

“Paulo and I did not agree on things as we got older. He was tender inside. Everyone was his friend. But in a business like this, your dealers are your dealers, not your friends. And so we split apart, a bifurcated road.”

“And you started taking over his territories.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes.”

“I think Vernon wants them back.”

Finally, Jeonghan crunched the hard candy, and it splintered in his mouth to sugary shards. “I know he does. But he will not have them.”

You sighed, palms humid and damp, pressing an outline of your fingers into the flexible dress. “I don’t know… but it feels like you two are fighting for pieces of the same person. A person you shared.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrow quirked. “Do you think that’s it?”

“Well, I-I’m just, you know, don’t take that too literally—”

“No,” Jeonghan interrupted with gentleness. “I am genuinely asking. The way you put it—I had never thought of that before.”

You weren’t sure what to say. In the low-lit, misty-aired room, far away from the club’s stifling arrogance, you both maintained a mutual silence. Jeonghan opened up his palm, moved his thumb across a mapped line, and you watched him, wondering what he was lost thinking about.

Finally, he sat back. “I did not kill Paulo. But I have often thought I contributed indirectly. By creating this empire with him. And it was a formidable empire. He could have gone to school. I bet he had the ability to become an astrophysicist, or a renowned professor. Though I see him choosing a quieter path. Like a librarian.” He smiled, his ivory face becoming warm in the dimness. “I do miss him. It never stops hurting.”

For a moment, a sharp thought cut into your brain. You found that you were leaning forward, arms squishing against the table. “Did you…” he looked your way curiously. “Did you submit a leaf for Paulo at Sherwood?”

“Sherwood Hospital?”

“Yes, by their recreation room.”

“How would you know?”

“Well… I guess I don’t. Vernon goes there.”

“To Sherwood?”

“Yeah. He sits and looks at the big tree. I never asked if he did it because it seemed so personal. But my friend saw him there, during one of her narcotics meetings—said he stared for a really long time.”

For a moment, Jeonghan slipped into a different skin. His solid, stern shoulders seemed to melt, and the little smirk that never really left his mouth was finally at ease. You saw in his eyes a brightness as the abyss shrunk, revealing a marvelous sun underneath. He glanced at you. “I submitted the leaf a week after his death. But I told no one. I wonder how he discovered it… he does tend to travel about. Never still.”

You swallowed in nettles. “I don’t think he stops hurting either.”

Jeonghan nodded. “It seems so.” Again, silence was threaded delicately through the air. “Okay,” he then huffed. “I will see him.”

A spark jumped to life in your stomach. “You’ll see Vernon?”

“I will.”

You damn near threw your body over the table to hug him. Relief and glee and fondness was soaring in circles, from your head to your toes, to the point you were surprised you weren’t floating. Instead, your hands clenched together, and you spewed out a thank you that made him squint.

“So,” Jeonghan hummed. “You are dating Chwe, hm?”

Nodding, you said, “yes,” with a little too much excitement.

“He is gritty, isn’t he? Like a handful of gravel. We got along better than I let on, actually, back then. Always egging each other on. We reconnected when he asked me that special favour. I realize he’s still got that cocky attitude.”

“I know,” you answered, smiling lopsidedly.

Jeonghan seemed to inspect you, his fingers again tapping the golden tabletop, head falling to the side along with full, thick ribbons of his velvety hair. “You are not what I was expecting Chwe to like.” That faint smirk returned to his hydrated lips. “I remember you, from many months ago. You ran in front of my car to chase the bus and we almost flattened you into an animal hide. Such a helpless nature about you, I thought. You will get chewed up and spat out many times. But you don’t seem so helpless now.”

“Holy fucking shit…” the words tumbled out in dense blocks, bereft of any grace. “That was you? That’s batshit crazy. I can’t believe it.”

“Funny how the world works.”

“No kidding.”

“Well,” Jeonghan huffed while pushing up from the table, making a shooing motion with his hand, so you slid out the booth hurriedly, “I hope the best for you two. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still.”

You nodded, following Jeonghan to the door. “Maybe.”

Ruby, Tara, and Lara had all been kicked out the club.

Following the address from Ruby’s text message, you found them inside a packed bar, all slumped together at a table, surrounded by glasses of alcohol and a huge basket of chicken tenders with checkered paper, each girl gobbling away, grease shiny on their mouths. The music was bursting and the lighting was terrible. A stranger touched your shoulder in the corridor to tell you she loved your dress. When you greeted them, they all exploded into an overlapping quarrel of questions, and you didn’t understand even one.

Lara’s eyebrow was already beginning to swell. Tara had scratches on her arms. Ruby said the black-haired woman with the bob was also thrown out, and that Lara had stolen some money from her handbag.

“To pay for the tenders,” Lara mumbled while eagerly devouring the accompanying potatoes wedges that came on the side. And you apologized for the awful chaos. “Not your fault,” Tara mollified, her eyes cheery. Ruby let you have a sip of her iced tea. “This was actually a pretty great night,” she said.

An hour later, you and Ruby waved goodbye to the British twins huddling together in the backseat of a yellow taxi. She asked if you had met your VIP, and you told her yes, and that if she saw him, she would be swooning for a month straight.

“Please don’t tempt me,” she grumbled back.

When you returned to the apartment, Ruby didn’t waste any time half-heartedly showering and promptly throwing herself into bed. There were times she came home at dawn, heels deserted across the kitchen floor, outfit still adorned, face-planted into a makeup-stained pillow. You always worried about her back then. But now she could hardly make it to midnight.

However, you weren’t tired. Jitters of anxiety and relief still quivered in your muscles, plucked like guitar strings. The inherent dulcetness of Jeonghan’s tone lingered in your ears. His playful grin. How he manoeuvred between power and empathy with such easy flicks. How well he knew the boys, each with their own story and scars, as if they were his, too. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still. You chewed on those words. They settled in your teeth.

Maybe he will finally be still.

But as you sat on the edge of your bed, still pinching the stretchy spandex in your restive fingers, you wondered how Vernon would feel. Would Jeonghan tell him that you were there, at Prerogative?

He didn’t want you involved, and you understood why, and yet, you did not listen. That, he would not like. Not at all.

Suddenly, there were knocks banging at your window. You lurched, gasping, feeling over your heart—a hurdling stampede of horses.

He knew. Oh, gosh. Oh, fucking hell. He knew.

And you prepared to get weathered.

Shucking aside your curtains and lifting open the window, Vernon was hopping inside and over your desk with polished habit. He was mad, you could sense it in the air, how it crackled around his body, as he began pacing back and forth, smelling like cool smoke.

You didn’t move or speak.

He dragged a hand through his hair, already disheveled. He pulled his adored gold chain between his teeth and grinded it. He rolled up the sleeves to his black windbreaker. Finally stopped pacing. Then he looked at you, and his eyes were a soaked mixture of cinders.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He seethed.

You didn’t say a word, hands behind you, gripping the desk.

Vernon raked his bottom lip into his mouth with wolfish teeth. “You had no fuckin’ right.” He proceeded to spit. And suddenly you understood Jeonghan with striking clarity when he had said Vernon was a handful of gravel—roughened edges, uneven yet sharp, cutting as clean as knives—his street grit. “You put yourself in that fuckin’ conceited shithole of a club, to talk to him, that slippery fuckin’ snake, on some bullshit I could have done myself.” His breath was harsh, flaring out his nostrils, as though his belly was boiling rocks.

Behind you, your hands squeezed together. “I got you what you wanted,” came the soft tremble of your voice, and for some reason, your own words sounded so distant and echoing, like there were seashells covering your ears. “He’s going to see you.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Vernon bellowed, and you feared that Ruby might hear everything. “I don’t give a fuck, do you understand?! That wasn’t your authority to handle! That's not a choice you get to fuckin' make for me! It's my goddamn business at the end of the day! How the fuck do you not understand that?!”

Your lips separated, dry, afraid. “I do understand, but—”

He stepped closer to you. “Fuckin’ bullshit you do.”

“I told you that—that I won’t be able to stay out—”

“So smarten the fuck up!” Vernon chastised. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stupid thinkin’ every little thing’s always gonna go your way, especially shit you have no fuckin’ knowledge about.” He tongued his cheek, grasped at his frayed, stressed locks of sooty hair. “But that’s you, huh? Everything fuckin’ goes your way.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose, smirking, but it lacked his supplemental warmth. “You’re so fuckin’ lucky. All your damn issues are so mundane and simple. You’re just some outsider lookin’ in, thinkin’ you can play around, move things like dolls. But you’ll never understand.”

There was a deep, throbbing pain in your throat, as though something was there, digging. A small part of it was from his anger at you, but the majority was from the cataclysmic hurt, rumbling down around him like surges of breaking earth. So many wounds you couldn’t see, wounds that had barbed his interior since childhood and had been wearing him down from the inside progressively. And you, a perceived safety, a relief, now swiftly taking it all away.

You swallowed bitterly. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to make everything easier. I-I thought I was helping.”

Vernon glared at you. “Then learn when it's time to fuck off.”

A sharp sensation in your gut. Something was pulling, moving its way up your stomach, into your esophagus. You wanted to cut it free, but you didn’t know how. Your eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“Leave me the fuck alone, is what it means!”

“You’re the one in my bedroom.”

He pinched his nose, irritation singeing off him like a flame eating up a waxy candle wick. “Don’t get fuckin’ smart with that mouth of yours. You know exactly why I’m here.” Moonlight shone through the window, bathed him in silver, made his chain glint and sparkle.

You paused, about to rescind the jeering urge back into yourself. But your body wanted the urge gone. Refused to let it settle.

“Did you not just tell me to smarten up? Which is it?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, what the fuck is wrong with you?” There was a spear down your throat, splitting you open, unearthing a sap full of unspoken, smothering weight. “I fucking told you that I wouldn’t be able to stay out of your business! I fucking told you! How come you get to break rules when it comes to us? Why don’t I get that?!”

Vernon's teeth flashed. “You could fuckin’ die you idiot! You could get caught in the middle of some stupid bullshit! I know when it’s okay to let you, and when it’s not okay! But you don’t fuckin’ listen!”

“If I’m ruining your life, then just tell me.”

“God—even now—you’re not fuckin’ listenin’, you stupid girl.” He tossed up a helpless hand, chuckled in frustration. “You fuckin’ stupid spoiled people. Playin' house with people's issues. Playin' fuckin' doctor. Thinkin' you can come in and open us up like a broken toy and fix everything you think is wrong and we'll just accept it.”

“I never asked for you to change!”

“So stay the fuck out of my business!”

The feeling was a wilted rose head, finally snipped, and the weight of holding back disappeared with a windy whoosh of wrinkled petals.

Without control, you shoved his contoured chest.

He hardly moved.

You shoved him again, again, again, started pounding your fists against the boy while he just stood there like a stable mountain and absorbed your every furious shock. “Fucking hate you!” you cried aloud into the silver-stained room, your eyes pinched shut to avoid seeing his expression. “You fuck off! I fucking live here!” His smell consumed you—that heady amber, the tangy smoke, the sweetness tangled in his thick strands of dark hair—and with one final shove, you bumped past him, cheeks glazed in a sheen of tears.

But he refused.

“Let go!” You hollered, swinging your elbow about haphazardly while his fingers lodged into your skin. “I freaking hate you! I’m never doing anything for you ever again! You, you—"

Vernon lurched you closer. “Shut your mouth,” he hissed.

“No! No! You shut your mouth!”

He wrestled with your arms. “God, you annoyin’ fuckin’ girl.”

“And you’re a drug dealer! I should report you!”

But then he had your warm, fleshy arms pierced to your sides, his fingers pressing deep into the skin and rubbing bone. He was everywhere in your senses. His nose an inch from your nose. His eyes seething into your eyes. And suddenly, you wanted him to grind you up into a crystally, scintillating powder, like the ones he snorted so casually, have you inside his blood, kicking his synaptic receptors.

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth, stared into your soul. “Is that what you’re gonna do, you fuckin’ psychotic girl? Gonna go run your fuckin’ dumb mouth, huh? That’s all you're good for, isn’t it?”

“You’re the—” you grunted, twisting, “—psychotic one.” His skin was melting into your skin. “M’never gonna speak t-to you again.”

And then, he let go.

You stood there, clueless, confused, splotchy in tears.

Vernon flicked his head. “Go. Tell. Get me fuckin’ arrested.”

For a moment, you froze. His heat was gone. His smell. His rough voice so close to your skin. Everything was gone.

You felt empty and dull.

So you dared push him again.

And he had your lower back hitting the curve of your desk. You squealed aloud at the sudden pain, but Vernon’s mouth dampened it.

He had never kissed you so hungrily. Your arms wrapped around his neck, tugged him closer, eager to float in his addictive scent and submit to his touches. The boy’s weight pushed you harder into the desk. It only opened your lips wider, left more room for his hot tongue to fill your mouth and stroke you sloppily from the inside. You started to scratch and claw. You were desperate. So, so desperate. So blitzed in passionate, surging feelings that you could think nothing.

“You stupid girl,” he groaned. “You stupid, stupid girl.” His slippery lips suckled you, then his daggered teeth bit you. “My stupid girl,” he breathed across your mouth in a fluttering huskiness, which was already swelling, tender. “Why don’t you fuckin’ listen to me? Hm?”

“I do,” you whined. “I promise I do. I fucking promise.”

His calloused, tattooed hand was pressing at the base of your aching throat, soft pressure, and his eyes were hooded in a lascivious way that you had never seen. He hovered close to your glossy face. “Then prove it to me,” Vernon’s warm, whispered words tickled you, though, for not a moment longer. He gripped behind your neck, shoved you down onto your knees in a smothered thud. You gulped, peering up at his intention evident in the moonlight. Your lashes danced with nerves, anticipation. He gripped your chin. “Suck me off. Now.”

You paused. Never had you done anything like this.

He knew that.

Even if the desire had crossed your mind.

The hardened tent in his pants was making you dizzy, and you were right at eye-level with it, the moisture between your cheeks desiccated. Choking down a lump in your throat, you glanced up at him again to notice some softness in his steely gaze.

He reached out, fingers brushing over your raw lips with a sort of tenderness you wanted to greedily swallow. Vernon hummed, “do you want this, baby?” as his thumb feathered across a stinging split in your bottom lip. “You can say no. Hm?”

But you didn’t want no.

You wanted him in deep, dark, twisted ways that made no sense.

Afraid but willing, you licked at his thumb, grabbed his wrist, pushed the digit further into your warm, slippery mouth. “I want this,” you mumbled, and tested circling his thumb.

He smirked. Removed his thumb from your wet mouth, drawing along a shiny thread of your spit that you tried not to grimace at. You breathed in the room's defining warmth, watching him take hold of his belt, the rings flashing on his fingers, as he started the process of unbuckling it. And then he popped his button, grabbed his zipper, started pulling it down. The air was so ineffably dense in your nose that you struggled to breathe, and your lungs were dried fruit.

There was another sweet, lentamente brush along your cheek, drawing you into groundedness. “Relax, PJ’s,” he whispered, and the sound of your coined nickname rolling so naturally off his tongue alleviated some tension. “Just relax. I’ll help you, baby. Yeah?”

So you nodded obediently. “Yes.”

He smirked. “My good girl.”

Nothing else in the universe mattered as Vernon dug an inked hand underneath his black pants, grunted a bit, pulled himself out. You wanted to scream. Human nature was… biased. It stuck a fork into your brain and scrambled it into a fluffy pile of mush. Vernon was big. He was big and thick and certain engorged veins were curving along his daunting length to his flushed tip. You couldn’t do anything but stare, stare, stare, breathe, breathe, breathe, gulp, gulp, gulp. And then his hand, starting at his shaft and gripping upward, pushing out something milky-looking from his tip.

You finally glanced up at him.

And he shrugged. “Can’t make it any smaller. Your fault.”

“Vernon,” you said nervously, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His brows mellowed. “I know. Give me your hand, okay?”

You were shaking. He took your clammy hand, had it wrap delicately around him, and you immediately squeaked, “you’re so hard.”

His chuckle was deliciously raspy. “I know.” His toughened hand laid over yours, and slowly, he began to guide your motions, having you stroke him, feel him, his heat and texture and the odd pulses. “Like this, yeah?” He hummed. But then his grip tightened, made your hand twist in more skillful demonstration. “That’s good, too. But you can explore a bit, see what you do best.” His hand fell away and your stomach lined with fear—now left to your own novice.

“What if what I do doesn’t feel good?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“But what if you don’t like anything I do?”

“Don't scare me like that, PJ's. Not a whole lot you really gotta do to suck a dick well. What kind of fucked up porn are you watchin'?”

“I'm not watching—I just mean, l-like—what if I'm bad at it?”

“I'll guide you.”

“But what if that's not—”

He tossed his head back, snorted with dry laughter, ruffled his loose hair. “God, shut up! Do you not see what the fuck’s in front a’ you? Do you not see how good I’m clearly fuckin’ feelin’? I trust you, alright?”

You nodded. “Okay, sorry.” Flexed your fingers around him, remembered to breathe. “I’m just a little scared that you won’t like it.”

“Only a little, huh?” He abruptly tickled your cheek and you couldn't help giggling. “I know. I hear you, beautiful. But I’m gonna cum from just lookin’ at you on your damn knees, so please start.”

Really? That seemed to motivate you. Fill you with warm, liquid, oozing heat. So you began stroking him, up and down, up and down, at times attempting to incorporate that snappy wrist trick but finding it unusually awkward for you to accomplish. When you glanced up for a moment, saw how he was staring at you with such wild dilation in his gorgeous eyes, you prickled with something adventurous. You moved forward, refused to breathe, and let your tongue lick over his tip. His hips suddenly twitched. Vernon’s bottom lip pulled through his teeth and he groaned, tilting his head back, revealing the hard column of his neck. You loved the reaction, so you tried it again, ignoring the saltish taste and gluey texture of his leaking semen.

“Fuckkk,” he moaned, crackly and deep, stirring up your insides. “Give me more of your perfect mouth, sweetheart,” he cooed.

You listened, slacking your jaw, tampering with his size pressing in past your lips, getting in a little ways before it felt too big, too much, too strange, and you had to slip him back out. “Sorry.”

“Try again. Take a big breath. Close your eyes.”

Determined, you heeded his advice, getting him further into your trembling mouth, feeling his grooves and veins glide along your tongue. An urge lurched in your throat to spit him out from the intruding thickness and length, but you willfully ignored it, eyes squeezed shut, kept pushing your head down.

“Yes, yes,” he breathed so raggedly, “fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

But then his tip hit the back of your throat and you gagged, coughing up slimy spit that forced him back out. You wiped your mouth, hacked into your elbow. “Can’t fit—wasn’t even close,” you panted.

“M’not expectin’ that on your first go,” Vernon chuckled. “That was so fuckin’ good. Don’t wanna cum yet but you make it so hard.”

You smiled. Prepared yourself to try again.

Letting your sore jaw fall loose, you closed your eyes and held onto him, directing his girth back into your mouth. The spit from your previous attempt had lubricated him, made him easier to slide. Hot tears were pushing against your eyes and your throat irritably hitched, but at that moment you managed to swallow rather than messily choke. Vernon shuddered. The silkiness and warm pressure must feel indescribable. Lightly, your teeth grazed him, and then you felt his hand cradle the back of your scalp. “Let me push your head, baby girl,” he mumbled, “just a bit.” You let him.

Tears drifted down your cheeks and lined your chin like morning dew droplets. Why was it so delicious? Allowing him such control over you? Your jaw was aching terribly, his leaking cum dripping down your throat, but you didn’t want any of what he was doing to stop.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Vernon praised you for his pleasure, his thumb delicately stroking your head. “Let me inside your mouth, pretty fuckin’ girl.” He was suffocating you. Saliva flooded your hollowed cheeks, trickled from your stretched lips, and you felt a vulnerable ugliness. “God—you look so fuckin’ dirty like this, hm? On your fuckin’ knees, gettin’ that loud mouth of yours stuffed with dick.”

He chuckled with a possessive darkness, pressed your head deeper, let you whimper and drool. “Dressed in that tight, tight dress. Shows off your tits and your ass for those inflated, braindead fuckin’ rich pricks.” Your hands braced against his hard, muscular thighs. Tears were overwhelming your slimmed cheeks, tiny silver streams. “You slutty girl, hm? I bet you’re a fuckin’ freak. I should fuck you over this desk n’ make your pussy cry until you’re just a sloppy mess of my cum. Make you mine.” He suddenly tensed. Then his hips bucked forward, and you couldn’t handle it anymore, but his grip on your head was too focused, strong. You cried and shrivelled around him, scratched his thighs with your nails. He started to wickedly pulse.

Gone.

He was outside your mouth. Coldness replaced him. You breathed in like your lungs were tasting air for the first time, gasped and whimpered while feeling a metaphorical winter freeze you over.

But then something was being squirted onto your ruined, glistering face—white ropes, slippery—in your hair, along your lips, down your dress. And you just kneeled there, stupefied, accepting it.

“Fuck, fff-fuck,” Vernon swore, pumping himself intensely.

A moment later, and you collapsed back against the desk.

It was over.

Leaving you an absolute soiled, seamy mess.

Your bed was a cloud. A cushioned cloud. No hard floors. No sharp edges. Just cotton blankets that breathed around you and plump pillows. He was there, too. His arms opened for you, and you crawled into them, immediately softening into his embrace and his rich, luxurious amber scent. Your skin was pampered due to a hot shower.

No more sweat or drool or your boyfriend’s sticky ejaculate. Only the moisture from a jojoba oil lotion. Clean hair.

But still an aching jaw and a very sore throat.

He held you, pressed kiss after kiss into your temples, your dampened locks that smelled like lush hibiscus, and you held him back, fingers skimming his tattoos, a thumb running reassuring circles over the scars engrained into his palm. You wanted to tell him—I love you, I fucking love you Hansol Vernon Chwe—but you stayed silent because the moment was meant to be only tender kisses and warm brushes of bare skin and eased smiles as you relinquished the infatuation from each other.

Vernon murmured against your forehead, “you know I need you.”

You listened to his heartbeat through his chest. “Yes. I know.”

He paused, breathing in your shampoo. “But I’m no good at relationships. I’m no good at anger. I dunno. I just care about you. If you get hurt, I’ll never forgive myself, you know that, right? You’re an angel. You’re such an angel.”

“We can’t fight like that,” you sighed, letting your fingertips drift along the sliver of warm, downy skin above his waistline. Was it terrible that you would let him take control of your mouth again, at that very moment, even though your jaw was pounding and your throat was too taunt? “Do you really think that I’m…spoiled? That I’m trying to change you, or fix you?”

His fingers squeezed the top of your shoulder. “Our lives are just different,” he mumbled, the words vibrating through his hard chest. “I know, it was shitty of me to say that. You’re not spoiled. Sometimes I just get frustrated by the lucky cards other people have, y’know? Most times, it never bothers me. I’ve always managed to get by. I make my own luck.”

Your lips flattened into a small smile. “You do.”

“But you really don’t listen,” he laughed quietly.

You stared up at him, scrunched your nose. “I told you!”

He muffled you with a kiss. “I know, yeah? Brat.”

“Shush,” you mumbled back, proceeding to rub your hand down his chest, following the path of his lean, well-tended muscle. He had been with so many women. But it was only you he adored. Maybe that thought shouldn't cushion you. Nonetheless, it did. “I wonder if Ruby heard any of that,” you sighed. “If she’s tired enough, she would sleep through a freaking house fire.”

Vernon snickered. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I really did it because I care so much. Are you still mad?”

“Does it look like I’m mad, PJ’s?”

“No. But you were so hurt before.”

“When you go so long without lettin’ people hurt you, you kinda forget how to deal with it when it comes back.” He grabbed the top of your head, shook it playfully. “It was a stupid idea. Dolt.”

You smiled, giggling as he toyed with your hair, scattering his hand away. “Whatever.” You then looked up at him. “How the hell did you even figure out I was there? I didn't think you would know so fast!”

“Dumbass. You don't think I know Jeonghan has little meet-ups at Prerogative? You don't think I can get eyes there to scope things?”

“I was faster.”

“Stupider, too.”

Rolling your eyes, you curled back up against his chest. It was almost three in the morning. His hand brushed caresses along your back, so smooth, comforting, and you took in a long, slow, blissful breath. You wanted to be with him forever. Time should not have the right to ever separate you; take him away. Your rough, clever, unpolished boy.

He bent down, his lips pressing drifting, soft kisses to your jaw, the metal through his mouth warm, ticklish. “You’re so beautiful on your knees.”

Your lower abdomen fluttered. “We are never having sex,” you grinned, nuzzling his t-shirt. “You are too big. My mouth almost fell off.”

“That’s your mind sayin’ that. Not your body.” But he still kissed your jaw again with a sort of apologetic grace, wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, as though to press out the sensitive pain. “Sorry, baby.”

I love you, you wanted to say. But you didn’t.

“That’s okay.”

—END OF PART SIX.

[newoozi]

jealous!vernon, established relationship, some kisses, suggestive content, mdni

Vernon has come over to spend the night in your apartment. You’re in the washroom, brushing your teeth and doing your skin care while he’s resting against the headboard on your bed, scrolling on his phone. That’s when he notices it’s darker in your room than usual.

You enter the bedroom in your pajamas, switching off the lights and climbing onto bed to sit next to him. That’s when he points it out to you.

“One of your lightbulbs is out.” He mentions, his arm coming out from under the covers to wrap around your hair and shoulders, pulling you closer.

“Oh yeah!” You roll your eyes at yourself lightly, once again having forgotten to get it changed, “Remind me to text Chan. He usually changes them for me.”

Vernon is taken aback. “Wait… what?” he asks, a slight chuckle in his voice. Vernon knows you’ve known Chan for years, and the two of you are very close. He is the one who introduced the two of you. And no way is Vernon threatened by your friendship with him! Nuh-uh!

But the thought of Chan fixing stuff around your apartment, or helping you with any errands you were running, makes his gut clench. It fills him with a nervous energy he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.

Vernon prides himself on not being a jealous person. He has never been the type to compete—not for attention, not for praise, and definitely not for anyone’s affection. This thing he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach? It’s so new, and completely unlike him. It makes him a little icky to think… it’s almost childish.

“I know, I know. I can change a lightbulb myself. It’s just… Chan knows exactly which ones to get, and when he brings them over, he always offers, and you know what he's like, never taking no for an ans—”

“No, no, I mean...” he cuts you off, “I can change the lightbulb for you.”

You look up at Vernon, your smile all-knowing. He’s avoiding your eyes, staring at his phone. The Instagram application is open, reels playing softly in the background. He’s trying to act nonchalant but you know he’s feeling insecure.

You and Vernon have talked about this in the past. He knows you’re independent, knows you can handle doing things on your own. But he wants to be boyfriend-ly. Wants to carry your bag for you, or tie your shoelaces when you can’t. He wants to help you. And over time, you’ve been able to ease up a little and depend on him. To know you’ve so easily let Chan fit that role in the past hurts him enough to never admit it to you.

And you’re going to give in. You know you will. You always repent, as one does, in the face of love. But not before you have a little fun with him.

“Really? You know how to change a lightbulb?”

You notice the tips of his ears turning pink. “Of course I know how to change a lightbulb! I’m an adult!” He practically squeaks. You suppress a giggle.

“Okay, Bob the Builder,” Vernon rolls his eyes at you, and pinches your arm, “just ask Chan where he gets those LED bulbs from, please? They’re really durable.”

The pit at the bottom of Vernon’s stomach starts to ease up. But your voice still has that little edge to it, and he can tell you’re not done having your fun.

The two of you are looking at his phone as he scrolls through the endless number of animal videos and restaurant vlogs on his feed for a while in silence, when you break it and say, “You know, sometimes when Chan comes over, he’s wearing those fitted t-shirts, and they make his arms look so good. Once, during the summer, he even wore a tank top–”

“Stopppp!” He whines, eyebrows narrowing and crows feet forming at the corner of his eyes.

“–and when he holds his arms up to change the bulb,”—you mimic the action sitting next to Vernon—“his t-shirt lifts and if I’m lucky, I get a peek of his abs–”

“I’ll do it shirtless if you shut up.”

You laugh loudly, bumping your head against his chest. The tips of his ears are especially pink now. “Thank you for offering to help, baby,” you whisper against his skin before giving him a kiss on the cheek. “But please don’t do it shirtless. That seems like a health hazard.”

“Just… please don’t ask Chan again, okay? Whatever you need, I’m here.”

He’s being so sincere, your heart aches for having teased him so much. You nod, pressing another kiss against his jaw. You snuggle closer, breathing in his scent.

“Has he helped you with anything else over the years?” He whispers against your hair.

“Hansol…” you groan.

“I’m just curious!”

“If I tell you, will you stop with the one-sided dick measuring contest?”

“Promise,” Vernon responds far too quickly, “but for the record, you know my dick–”

“HANSOL!” You lift yourself off from his body to give him a smack across his chest. “Don’t be a child!”

“Okay okay, just tell me.”

“Ummm…” you think out loud, “he got my washing machine installed when I first moved in. Sometimes, he helps replace the bottles on my water cooler. Just little stuff like that.” You admit to him. Vernon nods slowly, his lips curving downwards in a small pout.

“You have me now though,” he reassures you, “I can do those things for you.”

The next evening, as promised, Vernon comes home with enough lightbulbs to light all of Seoul, stands on the little ladder you own, and makes sure to show off his arms and his chest as he changed all the lightbulbs in your bedroom. You’re a giggling and blushing mess for him.

Still, you have trouble asking him first when you need help around the house. But one of Vernon’s strong suits is noticing. So he becomes proactive. He’ll pay attention to when your kitchen sink is leaking, or when your drain is clogged, and solves any issues before you can even take notice of them.

A week later, while you’re at work, it takes him watching a few YouTube videos, and one 20 minute call to Jihoon (he was definitely not going to call Chan!) to figure out how to stop your sink from leaking, but he manages. A surprise for you. Just what you needed coming home after your long day. You litter him with kisses. On his eyelids, his jaw, the apple of his cheek, until he’s the one who is a giggling and blushing mess. It relieves him of any jealousy he had left in him from last week's conversation.

The next time Chan comes over, he’s finally not complaining about the water droplet noise your tap is making. And it’s all thanks to Vernon.

my ask box is open for anybody who wants to leave some thoughts :)

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part six. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 27k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: OKAY i know i have said this abt every gee dee chapter BUT THIS IS ACTUALLY ONE OF MY FAVES bc the lore gets even deeper! can't freakin believe this fic ends next week 😭

LET'S NOT THINK ABT THAT!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Provide Hygiene Products for Gaza Women!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

VERNON. 16.

It was after school. Vernon had wandered off the property by crossing the athletic yard, paying a brisk notice toward the group of boys dressed in royal blue jerseys, the material glimmering water-like under the sun. Some were sat amongst the grass, tying on cleats, while others bounced a ball up into the air using the edge of their foot, cawing at how many bumps they achieved until losing control.

A boy noticed him from across the field. His arm moved, like he wanted to wave at Vernon, but then he was pulled away toward the goal post and shoved to stand in its centre.

Vernon had made team tryouts in the fall. But he was removed less than two months later for 'poor academic standing' and defiant behaviour. He had also shoved another boy’s cheek into the dirt for looking through his knapsack, an arm pinned behind the boy's back as he squirmed underneath Vernon’s knee like a pinched worm.

“Now that you’ve lost this opportunity, maybe it’ll get you to think a little more about your actions, Mr. Chwe.” His principal was sat across from him, separated by a massive desk that smelled strongly of stained mahogany. A smell Vernon knew more than any other boy.

A thin, graceful hand landed on Vernon’s shoulder. “He will, sir.”

But it was all down the drain. He cared very little about losing his place on the team, and even less about the rehearsed sigh that his mother would perform on her umpteenth invite to the school, trying her hardest to convince everyone that she was still very upset and disappointed in her misfit son, when she was probably beyond a point of caring, too. She only cared about her paints, and going home to feed toddler Sofia cheese sandwiches cookie-cut into star shapes.

After crossing the athletic field, Vernon travelled down the trodden path between a picket fence and the trampled woods, the ground indented and worn from the numerous steps of high school students.

He adjusted his backpack—nearly empty, apart from one binder and a thin pencil case that carried wax gum wrappers and loose change more than school supplies—such that it pressed against his belly. Unfocused on the path, he zipped open his bag, reaching down to grab a thin box stuck underneath his Civics binder. Once he had the box, he maneuvered the bag back to thumping loosely at his tailbone.

But then someone bumped him.

A girl, wide-eyed, pulling off the cheap-looking headset she was wearing to pause her iPod. “Sorry!” She mollified, her cheeks red.

Vernon didn’t say anything, just pushed past the girl despite his unfair caprice to tell her she should watch where she was going. His brows thickly downcast, inexorable in anger, his twitchy lips finding themselves curled back like a teased mutt. Hurriedly, he unsheathed a cigarette from the box, let it hang from the corner of his mouth while he patted out the lighter in his pants pocket. With a few annoyed, vigourous flicks, the cigarette was lit, and he took a long drag, blowing out the fumes into a poisonous, dead cloud.

He had stopped going straight home over a year ago.

Instead, he would waste his time by wandering around town, finding new alleyways and avenues to peruse. Some shops had enticing displays, such as the one with the wicked bicycle, sparkling red, durable wheels, and a fancy, professional break on the handlebar. Not like his old bike, which had grown its own biome of rust after his father kept forgetting to help him fix it up. A summer project continuously postponed until Vernon wondered if he should just toss the bicycle away to test if his father even noticed its absence.

Other shop displays had fine-crafted jewelry. Vernon quite liked watches. The braided, heavy kinds that were for monetary show as opposed to practicality. He frequently imagined himself with a golden watch, not too flashy such that it became cheap, but had just enough spark to make people notice. For quite a while, Vernon pondered stealing. A watch was too ambitious, however, especially from an opulent jewelry store who were used to thieves and scruffy sixteen-year-old boys with oddly empty backpacks.

Then there was the bakery.

The older high schoolers who had privilege to leave school grounds during lunch or spare periods spoke of coming there, gave high praise to their sandwiches of thick, cloudy bread and their signature chocolate chip cookies that were almost too large to finish.

Vernon was old enough to have such a privilege, although it was another opportunity taken away in consequence to his behaviour.

Upon tossing the cigarette onto the street, Vernon shouldered into the bakery, which cued the pealing of a pleasant bell. An older man stood behind the counter wearing a white apron and a hairnet, the surface before him powdered with flour. He was pressing a circular-shaped cutter into a sheet of raw dough—perhaps biscuits—sliding each one onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. He acknowledged Vernon with a slight nod, and Vernon nodded back.

The aisles were few and short. Bagged bread, tortillas, muffins, croissants, puffed buns, and other packaged, baked goods lined him on either side. Something stirred in his stomach. He had nothing but nickels and pennies picked up off the school floors. The air inside was warm, but not sticky, and he felt the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan tickle the dark hairs on his head, meanwhile fluffing through the air the faint scent of yeast frothing in warm water.

Vernon lurked near the aisle’s end, away from the baker. He focused on a tiny plastic container of four biscuits with piped cream and jam in between. When he wasn’t removed from hospitality for eating the food, they made a similar dessert, but with chocolate instead.

He glanced around quick. No one.

The box was tiny and could easily slide into his bag. But it might make noise. It was the kind of thin, sharp plastic that hated being touched.

Maybe he could just hide it against his leg, away from the baker, so he couldn’t see what he was holding. Vernon knew he was overthinking and drawing suspicion. So he grabbed the box and walked perhaps a little too briskly toward the entrance, waving at the baker, somewhat afraid the doors might lock and some alarm would start shrieking and he would be captured inside, forced to confess and then work off the cost of the biscuits. But he felt the door give way, opening into relief and late-afternoon sunlight.

Vernon almost yelped in ebullience. His first theft. Low-hanging fruit, he knew, but it proved he was capable, slippery like liquid. He hustled down a short alley beside the bakery, no longer hiding the biscuits.

“You pay for that?”

He stopped. The ashy, suffusing scent of a smoked cigarette reached his nose, and Vernon suspected he might just get his ass handed to him for stealing strawberry cream biscuits. He looked. A heavy, faded green door with a doodle of indiscernible graffiti. Leaned beside it, a boy dressed in a dark blue apron scattered with powders. He was older than Vernon—he could tell—from the myriad of tattoos along his arms, which had more muscle and thickness and corded veins than Vernon’s did. The alley was silent as Vernon's mind floundered.

But the boy didn’t repeat his question.

His eyes were deep and dark, like wood rubbed with oil, and something about the stillness kept Vernon speared in place.

Vernon realized he was feeling a hotness—shame and embarrassment for his failure. But he would not let the stranger understand this—this taller, harder, relaxed stranger with his mature tattoos and his pierced dimple.

Vernon shrugged. “No, I didn’t. Gonna call the cops?”

“Those are five bucks. You don’t have five bucks?”

“Well—I just stole. Why the fuck would I have five bucks?” He almost wanted to ask if the stranger was stupid, but clamped his tongue.

“You look about sixteen. No job.” It wasn’t a question. He stated it with an evidentiary tone, like it was more obvious than the earth. Cigarette smoke had then curled out from his mouth, very slowly, almost chicly, like he was bending it. Like he knew how cool he was.

Vernon bristled. “And who the fuck are you? Social services?”

“I can give you five dollars. Go back in and pay for it.”

He scoffed, totally aghast by this bothersome stranger and his holier-than-thou audacity. Vernon bared his teeth. Couldn’t find the words.

The stranger stuck the cigarette behind his ear. Then, he proceeded to reach into his back pocket, pulling out a simple leather wallet with some weathered cracks and a sticker of a jewelled red cross. “You’re not a usual,” he said, sifting through a slim pocket filled with paper bills. “They come around at lunch. Loud and laughing. Buy sandwiches and juice. They don’t let you out, huh? What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Vernon nearly growled when he spoke, making sure to sound out the word slower than usual because if he didn’t then that twang—that conglomerated singularity of a travelled boy who never found his home—would soak his voice and that might give the stranger more ammunition to fire. “You don’t know me.”

“Here,” he stuck out a five-dollar bill.

“Shove it up your ass, Jesus. I don’t need your charity.”

“You’re very funny,” he pointed out with warmth.

Vernon froze, his grip tightening around the plastic box of biscuits such that it crackled. The stranger was smiling at him politely. Now closer, too, standing in the fluid of sunlight, Vernon saw that the bronze skin of his face—especially around his nose and underneath his eyes—was scattered with freckles. The fibres of his hair were long, thick and lustrous, appearing dark brown but flashing with more reddish shimmers under the sun. Girls must love him. That must be why so many rushed there during lunch.

He didn’t thank him. “I don’t want the money.”

“Not really for you. For my boss.”

“Then you give it to him.”

“Why would I cover for your shame and dishonesty?” He laughed.

Vernon shrank, packing into himself. For some reason, it hurt to hear this young man, almost his age, suave and collected, poke his feelings, more than his own parents, his school principal. He wanted to snap and sneer at him like a wounded dog backed into a corner.

“Y’know what?” Vernon grumbled. “Take this shit.” He shoved the desserts at the stranger. “You’re weird and this isn’t worth it.”

Looking down at the biscuits, the stranger nodded satisfactorily, and then made his way toward a few stacked crates beside the door. He put his wallet away and sat down. Popped open the box. Picked up a strawberry cream biscuit and ate it. “Good. Made this morning.”

And Vernon almost screamed, fists crumpled, on fire.

The stranger licked some jam off his thumb.

Vernon charged up to him. “You’re a fuckin’ twat.”

He was unbothered at the teenager with splotchy skin and wires along his teeth seething in his face. “You have a very colourful language. I’m sure your great at English. Essays and that.”

Whatever guise of decorum Vernon had left—it was bare particles in his hands now—dust and imagination. Even if this stranger could physically best him in the most humiliating way, Vernon was too emboldened by insecurity and its underbelly of rage. His fingers lurched through the boy’s white shirt collar. He could smell the vanilla flavouring, the sugar and egg whites of a whipped meringue, cloves and nutmeg, all over his skin and clothes. But the cigarette, still burning above his ear, tainted all that sweetness. That was the stranger. A mask. Something Vernon knew.

“I’ll beat the fuck outta you,” Vernon huffed.

But it became an empty, pale husk of a threat.

“Hey!” Someone shouted, grabbing Vernon’s shoulder and lugging him away from the composed stranger. “What the fuck’s all this?”

Vernon stumbled. There was something being pointed at him, but his eyesight had gone momentarily blurry. All Vernon knew was that the object was a dull colour, with a skinny-kinked shape. His heart nearly flatlined when everything reoriented itself and he saw the object was a gun, clasped in one straight-shooting hand of a teenage boy with frumpy, loose brown hair and hollowed out, sunken eyes that made him look like a porcelain doll left out in the rain. He wore a blue apron, too. But it seemed fresh. No stains of any kind.

Without thought, Vernon’s hands flew up.

The stranger shook his head, setting his desserts aside, and spoke in a plain, undisturbed tone that suggested this was nothing new. “Not necessary. I’ll have it back, Danny. Before someone sees, alright?” And then the weapon was forfeited from the newcomer's hand. The freckled stranger tucked the gun somewhere behind his back, in a place unknown and sightless to Vernon. “Go inside and clock-in so he knows you’re here. You’ve been late too many times.”

He lingered. “Who the fuck is that?”

“A kid.”

Even though he was terrified of what the situation had morphed into, his battered ego urged him to correct the stranger. Vernon was certainly not a kid, and it was insulting to be called such when he was likely no less than two or three years younger than these teenagers.

Despite the drained nature of the friend’s hooded eyes, there was a metallic sharpness about them, scraping across Vernon like a wild cat's claw as he began leaving the alleyway, even keeping his head turned to maintain the intense contact until disappearing around the corner.

“Sorry,” the stranger sighed, “bad timing, bad luck. I needed the gun back, for obvious reasons. He’s just loyal, is all. A good friend.”

“I don’t care,” Vernon laughed churlishly, throwing up his hands. “I’m goin’. Whatever. You're fucked up. Keep your cookies.”

His march down the alley was notably hasty. When Vernon finally emerged onto the street, the sky was dense with clouds and the haloing light from before had been snuffed into a greyness. Just as he felt inside. Vernon was not a kid. But he was certainly not whatever those teenagers were, either. The one with the brown dots all over his face—Vernon would not forget him. Maybe there was no mask. Maybe it was just too chilling to realize that people with his unshaken sense walked the same roads as he did.

Just a little bit, Vernon suddenly wanted to be him.

VERNON. 18.

He spent most of his time in a house that wasn’t his. Consistently, the spaces filled with strangers. There were voices he could not recognize, vibrating through the walls, and colognes and perfumes that were foreign to his nose, lingering behind like energy. Very rarely was there ever a moment of quiet. Action popped loose at any time. He wasn’t allowed to sit by the windows. The curtains were never allowed open. Only recently was he allowed to enter the basement without having someone else escort him. If he saw that the doors to the kitchen were closed, then he was better off not entering. He could always smell the acridness. Like degrading plastic caught underneath a burner. Vernon had tried a lot. But never that.

Dots wouldn’t condone it.

Vernon came by the house in the afternoon. It was early September, and so the mornings were rife with freshness. He had taken the Light Rail. It was crammed with university students. Pressed against the wall, Vernon hadn’t had much space to move, and the girl who got on the train at the same time as him had only gotten more and more squished into his body. He could smell her fruity shampoo, peered at the textbook she was holding from over her shoulder.

The Art of Music in Film-Making. 8th Edition.

He had stared at her head, and inside, Vernon couldn’t understand if he was envious or angry. Students exploded out from the train once it hit the university, like a plastic bag filled with water, now punctured and bursting. The girl glanced sideways at Vernon as she was getting off. He wanted to scowl at her, say, “what? It’s not my fuckin’ fault we were trapped against each other for fifteen minutes.” But he didn’t. Maybe she had been wondering if he might get off, too, only for the Light Rail to whisk him away in a smooth bullet.

For once, the house wasn’t crawling with people. A few. But not an onslaught. Vernon had entered through the back door—one of the two leading into the kitchen—as it was already propped open by a dented tin bucket with a brick sitting inside. Two older men sat at the dining table, flicking cards onto the crinkly plastic sheet thrown overtop its surface. With the back door open, the air inside lacked its usual heaviness and potency.

“Hey,” Vernon sighed. “I’m makin’ a deposit.”

One of them removed his cigarette, tapped off its ashes into a tray, and proceeded to point his finger in the direction of the living room.

“He’s asleep,” the other man said.

“No, he’s not. He was walking around. I saw him.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s fine. I just need the key.”

Wandering into the living room, Vernon stopped short of trekking his sneakers onto the carpeting. Nobody else seemed to care about it but him. The two armchairs were sunken yet empty, and the couch wasn’t laboured with a slumped-over bod slurried in drunkenness or euphoria. Fierce sunlight pushed against the closed emerald curtains, and the space was flooded with the sheerness of glowing green.

“Vernon?”

He looked to the staircase. Snozz was hobbling down.

“Uh, hey. Is Dotsy here?”

“No. Business.” That was what everybody said when they were tending to something serious but not serious enough that it needed to be said. Snozz sighed aloud harshly while he stepped onto the floor, and Vernon thought his expression was coiled like wire, as though he were in pain. “What’s the sitch? Are you depositing?”

“Yeah.”

“M’kay.”

He followed Snozz around the staircase.

The boy’s movements were stiffened and listless. Vernon could hear his breathing. Snozz was always having some sort of health problem. Vernon wanted to ask—maybe his asthma was acting up again—but Snozz didn’t talk much. For the most part, he was plain and distant, not speaking unless spoken to, and had the most removed eyes, though they were usually covered by his tufted, chestnut fringe, like he knew and didn’t want anybody pitying him.

After Snozz unlocked the basement door, he handed Vernon a different key that was much smaller. A shiny silver. Vernon then stepped down into the cool basement of the house, to which he could smell the moistness and soil that the forest breathed. No one was allowed to dawdle in the basement. Everything was done quickly. Vernon pushed aside the wooden shelf against the wall, uncovering a square cut into the cement, filled by compact, box-shaped lockers. He opened his, marked by a three-digit number, proceeding to leave inside the money he had just removed from his backpack. Vernon closed up the locker, moved the shelf back, and returned the miniature key to Snozz who was waiting upstairs.

“When is Dots comin’ by?” Vernon asked.

“Sometime tonight. You can wait here if you want.”

“Alright. Thanks. City’s crawlin’ with uni kids. Train was fuckin’ ridiculous. I need a better way of comin’ here, man. A damn car.”

Snozz smiled very loosely at Vernon. “Ask Dots.”

The longer Vernon waited at the house, the more people gradually came and left, flipping past like book pages in a breeze. Some stayed. Sharla, for instance. She was older than Vernon. Twenty-one. An advanced university student who would begin writing her thesis that year, as Vernon had learned through their numerous conversations. She had two younger siblings that often came to the house with her: a nineteen-year-old brother with vitiligo, and a quiet sister who was Vernon’s age. He had spoken to Sharla’s brother before. He was louder, with an energy that could easily engulf a room, talking about almost anything like he was some sort of expert when in reality he only read a few sentences from an article and then a commenter’s critique. “You had to pay for the full thing! Imagine fucking cock-blocking words! How do people get away with that shit?”

It always made Vernon laugh. He enjoyed being around him.

“Call me Moo!” But his real name was August.

Their sister on the other hand, Jade, was small and reticent. She didn’t like coming inside, would rather sit at the glass table on the back patio and do her homework in the shade.

Consequently, Vernon never really talked to her.

He knew Sharla the best out of the siblings. He liked her intelligence; the way she spoke was lentamente and smooth with confidence, and there was an expressional grace in her gentle hand motions. Every now and again she would stop Moo in his blathering, make a thoughtful correction that seemed so obvious even though it was deeply rooted into readings Vernon wouldn’t even know where to find. He would always watch her heart-shaped lips when she spoke, shining with gloss. And when she was distracted, he might have spent a few seconds staring at her chest and how nicely those rounded, low-cut tops framed her body. The black wig she wore was gleaming with expense, reaching down to her waist, scented with hibiscus and something else lush, perfumy, just like her dark skin.

Vernon did know her well.

They had sex for the first time last month.

“I went to the mechanic without Daddy yesterday. You should have heard the way they spoke to me. It was terrible. They would never speak to me like that if Daddy were there, obviously. There was another woman working on an engine or something across the room. She had a very sympathetic look. She wouldn’t let them try to sell me a new air-filter. The oil valve was the problem!”

Vernon nodded along; his face looped in a soft, lost smile. Sharla paused, looking to him expectantly, searching for a response that proved he was listening and not caught in a reverie.

He immediately straightened up, pulling his elbow off the back of the couch. “I’d be a mechanic.”

“Would you?” She laughed in the most heavenly way a person could laugh. “I suppose I could see you doing that…”

“You know I don’t mind gettin’ my hands dirty.”

Sharla shoved his chest and smiled. “Be polite,” she lilted in warning, though a sparkle had jumped through her eyes like a shooting star.

“What’re you up to this Saturday?”

“I don’t know… what are you up to?” With her head rested against a thoughtfully poised fist, and her lips flitting up at the edges, she was already beginning to draw Vernon in.

He could devour her right there on the couch.

But he merely smirked. “Up on you, potentially.”

She had a small black purse sitting on her lap, textured with glazed, faux alligator print. From inside, something started to ring. Sharla rummaged for her phone. “We’ll see,” she acknowledged with an effortless wink, taking the phone to answer privately somewhere upstairs.

Vernon threw himself into a starfish on the couch once she had left, groaning aloud, smelling the juicy, floral tinges of her perfume drift through the air, leaving him frustrated. He wondered if Dots was back yet, even though he hadn’t heard any noise from the driveway.

Sometimes he would be too absorbed talking to Sharla to notice anything. Vernon wandered into the empty kitchen. He approached the back door to the patio, pulled aside the square lace covering the window. Jade was there, at the glass table, a notebook open in front of her scrawled with text Vernon couldn’t read alongside an awfully thick book. Sat beside her was Dots. Leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, seemingly listening intently to something Jade was explaining. Vernon cracked the door open slightly.

“—I don’t mind her as a professor. She explains things well. But she’s kinda old fashioned and uses a chalkboard. And then she’ll erase something as I’m trying to write it down!” Jade laughed into a hand covering her mouth. “It’s mostly review of pre-calculus right now.”

“Are you nervous?” Dots asked her.

Jade paused, taking a moment to glance down at her lap, and then at her notebook, and finally she looked at him. “Yeah. Calc is so hard.”

“It is. But I know you’re smart. And resourceful,” he told her with a tone full of warmth, the kind that was nourishing and sincere.

Vernon wondered when he had come back. And for how long he had been sitting outside, talking to Jade. Nobody in the house really conversed with her apart from a few words, sensing that she probably shouldn’t be there, but was courted along by her sister as she was her usual ride. Dots talked to her. Typically about her school. Her future. Her plans. Her friends. Her life. Sometimes Vernon listened in secret. Her issues were so ordinary that he wondered how they could even be considered issues.

“It’s just hard ‘cause… you know… Sharla is the intelligent, pretty one who makes Daddy proud. Auggie has his humour. And he knows how to hustle,” Jade explained her musings, letting her pencil weakly tap the table. “But I kind of float this space… where I’m not sure what I contribute. Or what people think of me. Probably nothing. Maybe that I’m nice?” She winced.

“What’s wrong with nice?” Dots encouraged. “Nice people are hard to come by in my opinion. I guess it’s a ubiquitous word, so maybe it feels lesser in value. But why have the word if it didn’t have its place? Right?”

She brushed under the glasses resting on her nose. “Yeah.”

“It’s getting late,” Dots said, checking his wrist watch—a braided silver watch that he often wore. “Is Sharla driving you home?”

“I have no clue,” Jade huffed. “She probably wants to stay.”

Vernon’s lips buzzed at the edges with a grin. He hoped so.

Dots scooted his chair backward. “I can give you a ride.”

Jade grabbed her pencil with both hands, eyes flaring open. “You don’t have to do that. It’s only seven. I mean, our house is kinda far and I’m sure if I annoy Sharla with enough texts, she’ll get a clue.”

“Are you sure?” He questioned softly, standing up from the chair and pushing it back under the table. “I don’t mind. Why don’t you think about it? Finish your homework and then come find me inside.”

She sat, staring at her notes, before nodding. “Okay.”

Vernon moved away from the door. He opened one of the aged wooden cupboards and pulled out a glass, which he proceeded to fill with unattractively spluttering water from the kitchen tap. As Dots came inside off the porch, Vernon sipped at the water and had his phone in hand, feigning a little display of furtiveness. Dots threw his car keys onto the dining table and tugged off his dark green sweatshirt with the yellow stitching, letting it bundle into a chair.

Vernon kept drinking the water nonchalantly.

“You’re here,” Dots finally acknowledged. “Deposit?”

Vernon set the water aside. It always tasted horrible. Like a mouthful of grit and coins. “Yeah. Got all the dudes on Gemini.”

“No trouble?”

“Some restlessness.”

“Well, tell them to stop using it so damn fast.”

They both chuckled. Vernon found himself examining the silver watch that his friend was wearing. It wasn’t too gaudy. Just the right amount of shine at the distance he was away, paired nicely with the small diamond studs that Dots often wore in his ears. His style was never overbearing, even if he had the money to be. Vernon appreciated his subtleness.

“You need a ride, too?” Dots asked.

Vernon tensed his shoulders. “Huh?”

“I can give you a ride with Jade.” His eyes darted with a flash of knowingness, and Vernon wanted to become invisible.

“Uh, no. That’s alright…” Vernon laughed to pulverise the suddenly awkward warmth that flooded his face. It was already humiliating enough to realize he had been caught. And sitting in a car with Jade, who he had no interest in speaking with, wasn’t going to make it better. “Actually, though. I was wonderin’ if it’s cool and all… if I stay the night here?”

Dots folded his arms. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His friend paused, letting his bottom lip slip through his teeth, and he gave Vernon one of those earnest, heartfelt stares. “That’s would be your third time this week. If you need to crash somewhere for a while—”

“I won’t anymore,” Vernon interrupted. “I’ll be more… diligent.”

“No—look—I get it,” Dots sighed empathetically, almost like a parent. “You know you can stay here, right? My room is always open. I like sleeping on the couch better, anyway. Snozz wouldn’t care. How do you think he ended up here?” The lambent, gently flickering lights of the buzzing kitchen created a solacing glow that Vernon sensed in his chest. He saw the glow reflected in his friend’s expression, that of wholesomeness. Such openness. Such compassion.

“I dunno…” Vernon murmured, sniffing. An odd bought of shyness had made him stiff. He never felt his age that frequently, and it was difficult to understand that being subject to another’s welcome was not pitiful. He wasn’t built to brave every little thing and do so unbreakably, which his teenage self—used to fighting alone—was finding difficult to accept. “It’s generous stuff, Dotsy. It already sucks enough comin’ here.”

His friend shrugged. “So stay.”

Suddenly, the back door squeaked open wide. Jade was stood at the threshold, pencil twitching between her fingers. She glanced at Vernon for no less than a second. “Hey—sorry to interrupt—I, um, I’ve been doing some thinking and I would really like a ride home… thanks.”

Dots nodded. “Sure thing.”

“I’ll just pack my bag,” Jade said, looking coy. As she let the door swing shut, Vernon found that her gaze seared across him as though he were beaming with radiation. Like she was grappling with the image that someone her age had such a different life than hers, without her ordinary problems. It reminded him of the girl who gave him that expectant glimmer on the train, waiting for him to follow her into campus. And he found that such looks were always spotted with sadness. His life must be so dampened, cold, without parents to guide him and love him, without a hopeful future backed by education or some pertinent trade. Wandering and lacking purpose.

Vernon felt angry the more he thought into it.

“Sleep on it,” Dots said as he readied to leave.

He returned to drinking the glass of horrible tasting water, finding the metallic flavour easier to palate than his creeping temper, looming up from his skin like vines. Vernon’s eyes then flitted over the lip of the glass, watching his friend leave with Jade.

His existence could not be a waste.

But he wasn’t sure how to tell.

Vernon had no idea who she was. A friend of Sharla’s that ended up coming to the house a few hours later, name forgotten mere minutes after being introduced to each other because all Vernon cared about was getting his hands on was the particular strain of weed she had brought. They bunched into an empty room upstairs. There was only a mattress on the floor, and Vernon found himself squished between Sharla and her frisky friend, still dressed in her work attire, steamed black slacks and a white button-down shirt. She smelled lightly of vanilla and subway dust, the gold bracelets on her wrist clacking whenever she moved. In passing, he would have never pegged her to be lighting a spliff at a drug dealer’s house.

The strain was Loud. Vernon immediately understood why. Its potency and sting were punchier than other types of weed, and from the very first hit, he could already sense the euphoria power through him like a careen of howling wind. The flavour lingered in his throat. Burning. Dense. It felt like he was breathing in earthy fumes. He fell backward onto the mattress while Sharla and her friend continued exchanging the spliff. Their giggles formed visible notes that he could identify in the air, a floating sheet music.

“Another hit, Prince Charming?” Sharla enticed as she leaned over him, her pupils full and swirling like two freshly poured shots of whiskey. “Pass me the spliff,” she said, motioning at her friend who was exhaling smoke.

The night only continued to divulge.

Vernon was elsewhere. Weightless as a feather.

At some point, he found Sharla’s pampered lips on his. And then he was kissing her ambiguous friend who felt more like a shadow, fluttering in and out, disappearing and then reappearing, passing through his grip with such hummingbird fleetingness. The room was cloudy and the air was sparse. There were extreme crests of warmth, around him and inside his body. Hairs were stuck to his forehead by sweat. Glimmers of bare skin twinkled past his eyes and pressed up against him, sticky, unforgivably hot.

But then morning came.

The mattress was surrounded by lumps of clothes, discarded jewelry, and two wealthy handbags. Vernon noticed that his cheek was lying against a pale shoulder blade tattooed with an ornate angel wing, whorls of ashen blonde, curly hair tickling his forehead. When he groggily squinted behind him, he saw the effluent flow of a dark wig down a lean, smooth back.

He stared up at the ceiling and grinned.

VERNON. 20.

He sat beside Moo, shoulder pressed to shoulder, on the end of a bed whose sheets were stiff and cold. There was minimal light. Most came from the bubbling fish tank set up on a long, wide dresser, an aquamarine of splashing blue. A small shrimp with translucent edges scurried along the glass. Vernon watched, expression blank, until Moo pulled out his lighter and started sparking it.

Both Vernon and Snozz looked at him. The silence was mutually accepted without communicating, but now broken, by a hissing flame.

Moo glanced between each boy. “What? I’m bored.”

Vernon was bored, too. They had been waiting in the bedroom for almost half an hour, hurried in by Snozz on account of an important discussion that must happen immediately, as soon as Dots arrived back at the house. Snozz wouldn’t reveal much, just leaned against the shut closet doors, arms crossed, staring at some random stain on the carpet. Typically his quietness wasn’t anything alarming; however, Vernon sensed a portent pressure in the room’s atmosphere that made him solemn and pensive.

“Is he buying groceries or something?” Moo grumbled, proceeding to lean forward on his knees, spark the lighter again out of boredom. “He needs to stock the fridge for summer. It sucked major ass when we were out of Freezies. I bet the forty-pack is on sale right now. I saw it last week.”

Snozz stared at him, his glance muddled by shadows, and Vernon couldn’t decipher if he was annoyed or impartial to the conversation. The boy’s feelings were always cloudy—Vernon spent the first two years of their friendship believing that Snozz loathed him—until he realized that he was just naturally distant and circumstantially numb. Vernon’s first few tattoos along his bicep were done by Snozz, either half-price or totally free.

Vernon decided to nudge Moo’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you get em’ then, huh? If you were standin’ right fuckin’ there. Hypocrite.”

“Erm, I was on duty,” Moo answered in a sarcastic, nasally tone.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Shut up, tool. I move more than you,” his friend scoffed. It was another one of their soft-hearted spats. “You were kicked off Country Club.”

Vernon rolled his eyes, half-smirked, and picked at a hang nail on his thumb. “Yeah—you’re better at suckin’ up to rich assholes. Congrats.”

“Mad ‘cause you don’t get free margs?”

“After you wipe down their clubs, Ball Boy.”

They started to giggle. Then, their laughter, completely pulling apart the threads of silence sewn into the air. Vernon slapped his knee while Moo leaned over, snickering to himself, shoulder blades contracting and rippling under his shirt.

Across the room, the closet heaved loudly as Snozz had stopped leaning against the shuttered, aged wood. Keeping his arms folded, the boy took firm steps toward the bedroom door, the countenance thinly moulded to his face stern and unimpressed. “Country Club isn’t yours anymore,” he muttered into the dusk, almost too smooth to hear, the smoothest his voice had been, before he left the room.

Moo’s wiry brows furrowed, staring back at Vernon in confusion and slight amazement, as such hostility from Snozz was rare. Vernon had not a clue, either, demonstrating a limp shrug that hardly moved his shoulders. The room slipped back into silence, the fish tank occasionally bubbling or whirring or making some paucity of gentle noise. Whatever the issue was, he was starting to swallow its occluded weight, and in the very back of his mouth, he tasted the same sourness that Snozz had perhaps tasted.

“What the fuck do you mean Country Club isn’t mine?!” Moo bellowed from the corner of the bedroom, spread out in a cheap swivel chair, hands pressing through his teased afro. “I was just fucking there! Last week!”

Dots was finally back. He had returned to the upstairs bedroom with Snozz, who resumed his post of leaning against the closet doors, observing the befuddlement hit the ground with the force of a meteor. Vernon stayed silent. Dots was sitting behind him on the bed, and he could feel his friend’s weight dip into the mattress, like a bending gravity, as he spoke factually to Moo.

“Nothing’s secure,” Dots said. “You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but—I was just laughing it up with the freaking owner!”

Vernon bit his lip. Moo often confused cordiality with business, which wasn’t particularly a concept in their world, especially when it came to the privatized rich. It was almost worse when someone who was supposed to be your esteemed buyer laughed with you, cut the fresh lime to your cold beer, grabbed onto your shoulder and shook it amicably when the conversation got good. It wasn’t bond at all. It was disposability. A definitive lack of seriousness. And Moo was painfully bad at being serious.

Dots sighed, “that’s the problem.”

“Why’d you even put me on then? Why not keep Vern?”

He tensed, almost wanted to glance over his shoulder and scowl.

“They won’t go near him with a ten-foot pole. His roughness is better on the streets, and with the arrogant college kids. You’ve got prestige because of your father. But you danced around too much. They stopped taking you serious even if you moved good product. How do they know you won’t get flighty when something screws up? That you can sack up. Take charge. They don’t.”

Vernon heard the chair creak. Moo was up on his feet, wandering around the room, pacing through the tank’s blue mirage that was stretching across the carpet like a northern aurora. He knew the feeling. He had lost streets, too. It was disorientating, uprising anger clashing in waves with the ignominy of incompetence. But Vernon always showed his grit, pushing back, taking a stance—something Moo had yet to demonstrate.

After exhaling a deep, long breath, Moo paused, removing the hands that were cushioning behind his head. “So, what’s the sitch? You want me to get Country Club back, right? Which assholes swindled me?”

Dots remained quiet. Vernon glanced back at him, watched him friend stare at the blankness of the beige wall until he huffed, coming to his feet. He walked over to his bubbling fish tank, grabbed a package of flaked food, and shook some inside. Vernon heard tiny nibbles and ripples.

Moo sighed, cheeks blowing out air, “I’m fucked, is that it?”

“No,” Dots said impassively, with stillness. “Moo, Snozz, go downstairs and review the deposits from this week. It’s late.” He proceeded to turn around from his fish tank. “We’ll regroup soon.”

Snozz was already opening the door. But Moo stood in place, frozen for a moment too long, likely understanding that the dismissal wasn’t hiding anything propitious. When Snozz called out to him, Moo begrudgingly left, scratching a white patch on his arm with twitchy, irritated fingers. Once his friends were gone, Vernon felt somewhat awkward about staying behind, especially since Dots seemed more detached and aloof than usual, letting silence thicken the air.

Sometimes things scattered, rolling chaotically, like slippery marbles shooting across a smooth floor, bouncing down stairs, swivelling under beds. And much of the pressure to make things whole again swelled up in Dots’ hands. Vernon shifted, staring down at the carpet.

“You’ll do it,” Dots said.

He stiffened. “Huh?”

Dots sat beside Vernon on the bed, where Moo once sat. His friend opened up his hands, and his palms were coordinates of ghostly, etched scars and welted callouses. When Vernon peeked at his own palms, they looked like the prelude. He saw openness in the spaces where skin was unmarred, like an unplowed field.

“I want you to get back Hylands.”

Vernon closed his hand into a fist. “You took me off.”

“This isn’t about dealing. You know who took Hylands?”

He shook his head. “No idea. Someone from the big leagues?”

“No. He’s around your age. He’s new here, but he’s been creeping his way in little by little. He’s Chinese. You know Mr. Zhang is, too.”

Vernon scoffed, rubbing his knuckles. “Then where’s he gettin’ product? Especially in quantity, if he’s just a one-man show. Sure they can communicate well, but it can’t be talk only. They don’t want promises.”

“He obviously has suppliers. Foreign, likely.”

“Hm… so… what am I supposed to do?”

Dots smiled. “If we get him, we get Country Club.”

“You think he’s free range?”

“Here, he is. For now. Hylands is big money. Moo fucked up. But so did I in believing he wouldn’t fool around. I’m sure there are others thinking the same thing. If he is free range, he won’t be for long.”

Vernon sighed, emptying out the pressure in his chest. “I just don’t understand… like… why are you pickin’ me? What am I supposed to say to the dude? Does he even speak English? How are we gonna communicate?”

“I’ve set up a meeting,” Dots said. Vernon thought he could relax until his friend continued, “’it’s tomorrow. You’ll meet your translator at the coffeehouse—Jitters—she’ll be sitting at the far-left window in a dark purple dress. She’s clever. I’ve contacted her before when we needed to deal with the Yuáns poaching around Bronson. You need to be at Hylands by five o’clock. There’s an old storage house behind the cart corral. That’s where the three of you will rendezvous. I don’t suspect there’ll be much trouble. If he’s new, he’s looking for allies. Just to be safe, though, Snozz will give you one of his Glocks. It’s smaller, fits easily in between your waistband, so a good jacket will cover it. Don’t pull it out unless you absolutely have to. Even then, don’t shoot it. Like I said, I wouldn’t expect much trouble.”

Letting the advice simmer, Vernon stared at the floor, wondering how he was supposed to react, what he should say. This wasn’t the kind of responsibility he was expecting. He was just a dealer with a witty tongue, no different than the slick, contortionist salespeople attempting to sell miraculous weight loss pills over the phone, except with a lot more gutturalness, and the pills weren’t dressed-up lies. The responsibility meant trust, Vernon knew that, but it didn’t make his acceptance any easier.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “Do you want to do this?”

Now he was being given a choice. That almost seemed worse.

Vernon shrugged. “I just don’t know why you picked me. I mean, I do the street deals for a reason. I’m not exactly fuckin’ Shakespeare with my words. I’m workin’ with people who don’t need much convincin’.”

“Exactly,” Dots said. “You’re just you.”

Vernon winced. “And how is that gonna help?”

“Your authenticity. It’s not about the purple prose, right? You don’t pull walls over people’s eyes. You take it or leave it. There’s no ambiguity.”

Vernon didn’t respond. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands pulling down his face. This was a job he was good at. He didn’t need to augment himself into different versions to fit some tacky mold. The money was good. He could talk and dress however he wanted. Most of his work was done alone, which he appreciated, still with a tightknit crew waiting for him to come back. It was the closest to freedom he would ever taste. Vernon was happy where he was. But complacency often made him wary. Adventure sparked at his feet like popping pieces of scorched wood.

Sometimes he did want more.

Even if the ‘more’ wasn’t what most people dreamed of.

He sat back, exhaled loudly. “Okay, Dotsy. I’ll do it.” Vernon looked to his friend and stuck out a pointing finger. “But you can’t throw me out to the fuckin’ wolves if I lose this little twerp. Give them Moo,” he laughed.

Dots had a warm, gleaming smile, a picture of dappled sunlight. He grabbed onto Vernon’s hand and pulled him in close. They both slapped each other’s backs in camaraderie and trust. Dots’ fingers suddenly ruffled through Vernon’s tamed hair with liveliness and the boy wriggled away, pushing his friend’s sturdy arm. “Fuck off. I showered today.”

“I knew I smelled passionfruit.” He smiled again. “You’ll do fine.”

“What’s this dude’s name, anyway?”

“Minghao.”

“And he’s my age?”

“Something close.”

“I bet you that translator chick is gonna turn my words around,” he said tartly.” I’ll sound like freakin’ cotton candy and Skittles.”

Dots shook his head. “You won’t be the easiest person to translate for, but she’ll do her best. Besides, your gruffness doesn’t need translation.”

Vernon traced a path of smooth skin on his palm, marvelling at the softness, before closing his hand concludingly into a fist. “Damn right.”

You stepped out from the hot shower, your body wrapped into a white towel that held floral remnants of sweet oils. Your wet feet left imprints upon the absorbent, spongey mat. While patting yourself down, you couldn’t help but occasionally pick through the expensive items lining the enormous marble of the washroom sink. It was like a beauty store—jellied lip masks and ceramide-protective skin creams and tall, thin spray bottles labelled with exotic scents that you would walk past in those overpriced sections of a mall. 

You opened a tiny lip-sized tin to see a pale pink balm inside and sniffed its cherry blossom aroma. You uncapped the lid to an unused perfume bottle shaped like a ballerina’s slipper and immediately recoiled at the overbearing, sugary notes. You squirted out some peach-toned lotion into your hands and rubbed its whipped, heavy texture down your arm, dazzled by the healthy, moisturized glow it left behind. It was like you were a little girl sifting through your mother’s secretive drawers, when everything felt unusually extraordinary. But the feeling had pleasantly unearthed itself and you were helpless to deny something you had believed was long gone.

By the next morning, you and Vernon said goodbye to Kitty’s coastline manor. You were worried that the cleaners might realize her bedroom had been perturbed, but Vernon said they wouldn’t—and even if they did—they would probably be glad to have something they could fix.

He asked if you wanted breakfast. After unnecessarily contemplating for a moment (because you didn’t want to seem childishly eager), you agreed, and proceeded to sink backward into his passenger seat as he drove further into the sunny estate of villas and reserved, coastal splendors. Vernon took you to a restaurant called Sea Sides. It was circular in shape, with boastful glass windows that ensured you an unnegotiable view of the water. Walking into its chic brightness, you felt like an imposter, with your lazy button-down shirt and wrinkled lounge shorts. A woman sailed past you in a flowing, pale dress, her skin sun-kissed and cheeks tinged like ripe berries. You two perhaps stood out in a rough, jarring way. But Vernon wasn’t concerned.

“Watch this,” he whispered to you as a hostess stopped by.

“Hello! How can I help you two?” Her voice had a polished quality to it, just like her slicked-back hair and clean, shining clothes—so luminous it was difficult to look at without falling into a squint.

Vernon smiled. “We’re here under Pollezna.”

She was behind a tiny podium. Her large eyes reflected the screen of the sleek monitor she was examining. A click later and scroll later. “Oh! Yes, of course!” She grabbed two menus, small and neat, on cream cardstock. “Follow me,” the hostess said. She walked in swift, long steps that you hurried after, weaving between tables laid with white tablecloths and the royalty of orchid centrepieces. “I haven’t seen Miss Catarina in quite a while. Is she doing well?”

“She’s dandy,” Vernon replied. “Off in Europe.”

“Quite the traveller, isn’t she? You must miss her!”

He nodded solemnly; his lips downturned. “Terribly.”

You were in the midst of sitting down when Vernon bumped your elbow, tipping his head toward the opposite seat. Thinking it was associated with the window view, you shrugged, and let him sit where he wanted.

The hostess’s face was a mirror of Vernon’s, softened and empathetic to the imaginary lonesome he was crafting. “You’ll need to come back here for breakfast once she returns. What can I start you both with?”

Vernon glanced at you.

“Uh, water is fine,” you mumbled, forgetting you could speak.

“Same,” Vernon said.

“I’ll get that for you right away!”

Once she was gone, your eyebrows piqued. “What stunt is this?”

He cleared his throat in mocking sophistication, settling the tiny cardstock of dishes before his face. “Friends and family discount.”

You snickered, sliding your menu toward you. “It seems so.”

“I came here enough times that they added me to the Pollezna tab.”

“And she hasn’t noticed?”

Vernon lowered the menu and smirked. “AKA her Daddy’s tab. And he doesn’t give a fuck, anyway. We’re spendin’ pennies, here. Get whatever you want. The Belgian waffles are always a slam dunk. Super fluffy. Gelato’s in-house.”

Your eyes gleaned over the embossed, golden script, and you straightened up in your chair as though you were supposed to be sitting there, stolid and elegant, even though you ate burnt toast most mornings. A moment later, and your hostess returned with a glass carafe. Slices of orange and lemon bobbed around inside. She poured the icy water into both your cups before settling the jug down onto the table coaster. You never understood the trope of citrus in water. It felt meretricious. And sometimes the seeds would slip out and catch in your throat. But you smiled at her and sipped up a tiny bit so she would see you were still appeased.

After placing your orders, the hostess left. You immediately unwrapped your fork from a cloth napkin and used it to spear out the oranges and lemons, which you layered onto a small bread plate.

Vernon snorted, chuckling into his hand. “Gosh, you have less fuckin’ table etiquette than I do, PJ’s. Never thought that would happen.”

“Shush,” you whispered. “You know how I feel about oranges!”

He kept giggling, and you were tempted to fling a wet slice of citrus at him, but you weren’t about to prove his point. No one in the surrounding dining area seemed to notice, anyway, likely too engrossed by their own riveting tales of luxuriant lifestyles. Vernon reached onto your plate to grab an orange slice. You assumed it was tasteless and watery, but Vernon ate pretty much anything you gave him, and he never stopped feeling hungry.

“Much better,” you hummed having removed all the fruit, and took a big gulp without wondering if you were going to start choking.

“Such a weirdo,” Vernon tsked.

Behind him, you spotted a very large painting hung up on the restaurant’s distant wall. It was so large that you feared it may squish flat the diners who were eating their breakfast underneath it. You supposed it fit the theme—a clashing of delicate blue waves spraying mist into the air—and you could see that the hues came alive with the incorporation of dazzling glass bits cut into petite tiles. Beside the painting was a plaque, looking comedically small.

You tipped your finger at the painting. “That’s gorgeous.”

Vernon finishing chewing at another orange slice from your plate and discarded his rind. He didn’t bother turning around. You figured he had already seen the painting before.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, licking his thumb.

“I wish I could create stuff like that.”

He shrugged. “You can.”

“Well, you have to be inspired. And have some skill.”

As he sipped from his water, he scoffed. “Right. It's just practice.”

You suddenly remembered that his mother was an artist. From what he had told you, their relationship was virtually non-existent, and you shrunk slightly into your cushioned chair for the unintended negligence.

Since you ran into Diana outside Mr. York’s that one evening, and saw how much healthier she looked, how much freer she acted, you wondered if she had reconsidered applying for Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara was still practicing her interview skills, but you told her to be wary that she didn’t sound too rehearsed. You remembered Diana saying that you could apply for the position despite your gaping inexperience. Back then, there was nothing you could do but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, knowing you were being undermining to your own skill, but, now, you couldn’t deny that were was something about the job that enticed you.

Maybe it was the idea that you could live a life similar to this.

Or maybe it was to prove your past-self wrong.

Breakfast was served to you off a rolling silver tray that the hostess aligned beside the table. You decided to pick Vernon’s recommendation, two stacked Belgian waffles with creamy coffee gelato and fresh berries scooped on top, while he chose a toasted sandwich that oozed with saucy egg yolks, yellow like mangoes.

Everything that touched your tongue was perfection.

“Are you even chewin’ it? Damn.” Vernon laughed.

There was a mangled piece of waffle stuck in your mouth. It took you quite long to swallow. After gulping down some water and cleaning a smear of gelato off your cheek, you finally had the breath to speak.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I like a girl who eats ravenously.”

“I can’t tell if I should feel offended by that or not.”

“It’s a compliment.”

And you smiled, too. The fact he could sit across from you ripping apart your waffles like a junkyard animal and forking out slices of citrus from your fancy water and having melted gelato sticky on your chin while finding the room to compliment you was a miraculous, freeing feeling. You didn’t need to cosplay anyone but yourself. And you had been morbidly hungry.

But you did slow down, enough to converse. “So,” you cleared your throat, running a strawberry through some syrup, “are you done with your… you know… stuff? Do you still need to get more… stuff?”

He licked his teeth. “Money?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Trust me, that’s not a taboo word here, PJ’s.”

“I just mean what it’s associated with.”

Vernon folded his arms and leaned back. “One more thing.”

“Really?” There was a spike of vigour in your tone.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is it a lot of money?”

“In a way,” he sighed rather desultorily, tongue swirling against his cheek, eyes adrift and chasing seagulls that flocked through the open air in white tufts. His energy seemed different.

When it came to Diana and Minghao, he was pouring with resilience. He was his own gasoline and match. But sitting across from him, you could feel a cleft, like soaring along on a bicycle and suddenly the wheel got trapped. Helping Vernon in the past was a mixed bag for you. It was always fun treading where you shouldn’t, but having the consequence flash a knife from its pocket wasn’t as endearing.

Nonetheless, you wanted things to go well on his behalf.

“Should I be worrying?” You queried, making sure to adorn your lips with a soft smile so he knew not to take the question too literally.

He stared back. “Guess not.”

“That wasn’t convincing at all.”

“You don’t need to worry more than you already do.”

Slipping the strawberry off the fork with your teeth, you began to nod and bite into its sweet juiciness. “Okay. I can work with that.” But you wanted to know more. However, this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

What kind of cleft had Vernon stumbled into?

Before ending breakfast, you and Vernon shared a dessert, which was a plate containing small, puffed buns with delicious cream and fresh jam spread in between. Vernon stuffed an entire one in his mouth, and nearly coughed it back out into his napkin, which made you snort and giggle. Then you tried doing the same, and ended up spitting some jam onto his face.

“Fuckin’ dweeb,” he cursed as you reached over the table to wipe it away with a polite thumb, your mouth still full, as you choked out inaudible apologies. But his smile was lazy with ease and fondness.

The hostess returned, again wearing her polished, tight expression, not a single thread to her uniform or brushed hair out of place.

Vernon picked up your hand as he helped you out from the chair, and then grinned at the hostess.

“You can put that on Miss Catarina’s tab.”

4 MONTHS AGO.

When Soonyoung told you he was planning on leaving Common Cents, you nearly lost your hearing, and the disorientation had you stumbling around until you gripped the supplement shelf for balance. You wanted it to be a joke. Soonyoung made many jokes, and none of had ever been funny, and that would take the cake as his unfunniest by far. But his expression was betrayingly flat, like a paper sheet glued and hardened over his face, and you deflated. You forgot Soonyoung had a degree. It was seldom mentioned because he enjoyed talking about his social life too much.

“I’m going to work with several cat species at a rehabilitation clinic. I start at the end of July. I’m gonna get some friends to help me pack. And I’ll probably throw a shindig at my place for one last hoorah. Feel free to come. Just don’t get too cramped.”

And you smiled at him like your lips were made of thin strings. He couldn’t leave. What were you supposed to do five mornings out of your week without him there to boss you around and engage you in shiny gossip and overexplain his bizarre sexual encounters with older men? You always made him deal with the nitpicky regulars. You often subjected him to your personal qualms because there was a time when he felt like the only person who couldn’t possibly judge you. Who would have the audacity to replace his coarse bleached hair and oversized shorts and splashy backward caps and his terrible, terrible hearing? Such thoughts hung over you in a palling manner—they chased you around the store like cackling witches—and suddenly you realized that Soonyoung had become important to you.

On your break, you wanted to text Vernon.

You sat out back on an upturned bucket and used a TV-dinner table that Soonyoung dragged over from across the street to place your food on. Tikka Masala—still steaming—so you let it rest. The thing was, Vernon hadn’t been very present lately. He sometimes went hours without responding to your messages, and his appearances at the apartment began dwindling. When you were together, he didn’t act all that different. Maybe there was a soft wind of distraction in his eyes that carried him away every now and then, but once he looked at you, he refocused. You pondered asking. You wanted there to be no more secrets. But part of you was very anxious to peel him back too many times and confront something that was better off staying unbeknownst. It drove you to restlessness.

After your break was over, you replaced Soonyoung at the cash register so he could take his lunch—an energy drink in an eclectically designed can and a packet of salted peanuts—where you continued contemplating whether or not to text Vernon. Your previous messages were about glow-in-the-dark mini-putting, though he ended up cancelling the night before, citing some trouble a spoiled college student was giving him.

The worry nettled you all over.

Was he lying? Was it worse to know or not know?

“Hey! PJ!”

You shoved your phone away. For half a second, you wanted to believe the person chiming out your nickname so smoothly was him.

But it was Moo.

“Oh, hey,” you answered, smiling awkwardly, not sure what he was doing at a convenience store so far from where he lived. “How are you?”

He sauntered up to the counter in his usual swagger, a frame of loose shoulders and casual glances to every corner, like he was trying to spot someone he knew without making it obvious. No more was his fluffed afro. Instead, his hair was tucked into tight, neat cornrows that flowed down to the back of his neck. He wore a blue and white windbreaker with some flashy red patches. He picked up ginger-flavoured mints in a compact tin, sniffed. “Just hanging.”

And you nodded back. “Cool.”

Moo put the mints down. “Didn’t know you worked here.”

You almost laughed.

There was basically nothing he knew about you—not even your real name—just that you were close to Vernon. But he said it so effortlessly, in a way that made it seem like you were more than acquaintances and that was just a simple grey area. “Over a year.”

“That’s awesome,” he sniffled, sounding genuine. “Yeah, thought I’d come in and get a drink or something. Never been in here before.”

“Well, drinks are in the back.”

His nails started tapping a rhythm against the plastic cover for the lottery tickets, a beat that existed for only a transient moment, before he glanced at you with his wandering eyes and asked, “Ruby—how’s she doing?”

You wondered if that was his intention from the start. “She’s been doing well. She got back from a corporate trip, twoish weeks ago?”

Moo nodded. “I still feel bad about you guys leaving early. At the party-thing I threw. Uh, sorry, and shit.” Your head tilted in astonishment. “I feel like I didn’t get the chance to really know you guys. Maybe you can come over another time. I’ll get the barbeque out this summer. Sound fun?”

“Uh,” you swallowed, contemplating. “Sure.”

“It won’t be a huge thing. Vernon said you don’t like crowds.”

At his name being mentioned, your chest tensed.

“You guys are dating? Is that it?” He continued, scratching his scalp. “I haven’t seen him much lately. It’s crazy. I never thought I’d see the day that Vernon gets a girlfriend… before me! Actually, I did have a girlfriend last fall, but it was rough. She stole from me, and—”

“How’s he doing?”

“Vern?”

Your fingers furled up, and you nodded. “Yeah.”

Moo sighed, long and large, let his elbows tumble down onto the counter as though he were at his favourite bar after a hard day’s work. “Busy with some shit, I guess. Snozz talked to him a few days ago.” His brown eyes perused over the lottery tickets. “Is something wrong between you guys?”

“No,” you were quick to clarify. “But he’s been a little distant.”

“Yeah, he gets like that,” Moo huffed, tapping his fingers again, this time a different rhythm reminiscent of a song you heard before.  “Just kinda goes off the grid for a bit. Usually when he has to catch a big fish.”

“What’s that mean? A big fish?”

“Like, if he has to close a big deal, or handle some bullshit.”

“Oh…” you murmured, letting your curiosity dampen and drift, and then a cloudy weight sinking into your chest, like soaked cotton. And you wondered how much Moo knew of Vernon’s business. He seemed rather guileless, talking to you without restraint, as though you were now part of their shadowy world and therefore had access to whatever files you wanted. But was it wrong to meddle simply because you cared? Would it benefit you to know? Sucking your teeth, you sighed, “a big fish indeed.”

“Shit’s not all sugarplums and fucking fairies, right?”

“Uh… yeah. True.”

“Well, I’m gonna grab my drink.”

You watched him continue his lazy, practiced saunter, arms swaying jauntily. He stopped by some candy, picked up a yellow chocolate bar, and flashed it to you. “Charleston Chews! These are old school!”

There were glimmers of Vernon in him.

It was unalloyed torment.

Moo returned to the counter with a soda bottle. As you rang up his drink, he pulled out a bill from his wallet, and you returned the change. He cracked the bottle open right there at the counter, took a sip that sounded like bubbles popping in his throat, and swallowed densely. “I love me some orange cream.”

“Hey, is it okay if I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “Just treat me like your search engine.”

“Uh—” you laughed nervously, “—do you know what Vernon’s been up to? I’m just a little anxious. He’s been slow texting back.”

“Well, I don’t know all the deets. He’s been trying to set up a meeting or something. With this guy. We don’t like saying his name,” Moo laughed, taking another swig from his bottle. “Like Voldemort!” When your face remained stiff and hollowed in with unnerved tension, Moo coughed against his fist and continued. “Uh, but his name’s Jeonghan. Sometimes we call him El Timador for code. Our friend coined it. Means trickster or tricky or some shit. Anyway, he’s this huge kingpin that’s been fucking over some of our territories for a while now. Vernon has issues with it.”

You forced a cheap, bent smile. “Oh, cool. Thanks.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t worry,” Moo soothed. “Vern’s clever. And he’ll get back to his normal self once it’s off his plate. Does that help?”

“Yeah.” No. It didn’t help at all. It was like pushing salt deep into cuts you didn’t know existed, and now each one was tingling hot in pain.

Moo nodded, satisfied. Then, he proceeded to lean forward, squinting at something on your bright red uniform shirt. “Hmm… so, that’s your name,” he said in an assured tone, taking another bubbly sip from his soda. You realized he had discovered your nameplate.

“Okay, I should go.”

Moo left.

And he took every thread of your composure with him.

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. When he first arrived, you tended to him almost suffocatingly, a hand ruffling through his black locks to feel for bumps on his scalp, then your fingers squeezing his chin, turning his head from side to side to look for scratches, and having him splay open his palms for your fastidious inspection. He swerved away from you, seeming tightened like a jar, as he joined Ruby in the kitchen.

Later on, you all watched a comedy film in the living room.

You weren’t the biggest fan of comedies. But you were wary to begin the action-thriller that Ruby suggested in case it impeded too heavily on Vernon, though you hadn’t said anything because he was acting touchier than usual. He sat next to you on the sofa. Your arms curled around his elbow. Even though his skin felt warm, there was a coldness emanating from the boy’s bones, his movements few and far between, creaking metal.

When your head laid against his shoulder, he sighed a cumbersome sort of sigh that summoned a hard lump upon your throat, and rather than smelling his characteristic amber, you smelled the bitterness of stress, cigarettes and stale coffee. He excused himself halfway into the film to smoke. Ruby stayed inside with you.

Despite your implacable burn to ask her if she was sensing his distance, you remained silent, because you already knew you wouldn’t like her answer. When he returned from outdoors, he didn’t even ask what he had missed—just collapsed back down in his seat, arms stretched out behind the couch, but never reaching around your shoulders to pull you closer like usual. At that point, your eyes began to sting, and a sharp, demanding fire crackled in your mouth. But you swallowed it down until the movie ended.

Ruby wished you goodnight. She slipped into her bedroom.

Vernon said he needed to make a call and disappeared again, the wind of his iciness drawing chills. You waddled into your bedroom moodily, sat back against your headboard, and hugged a stuffed toy into your chest, hating how timid and afraid you felt to question him.

He came into your room about twenty minutes later, the door clicking shut softly, as you laid on your side away from him so you could stare out the window, at the glitters of small bugs around a street lamp. 

The mattress dipped, and his hand was on your hip. “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t say anything since your throat was too tight. Even if you wanted to speak, each word would splinter like an axe coming down on a dry log of wood. You would start to cry.

He sighed. This time, it lacked encumbrance. His hand drifted to your shoulder, so heightened and pointy, a mountain. And then he kissed your temple with such tenderness, the sour of his smoking now stitched into his clothes, but you breathed it in deeply anyway. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, massaging your shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Clearly, you haven’t,” you managed to pronounce waspily, the rumble of emotional thunder toiling in your chest. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. His forehead pressed into your hair.

For a moment, you bit your lip, and while you felt fearful, you pushed its burring aside. “I don’t appreciate being treated that way.”

“It was my mistake.”

“Yes,” you said, peering over your shoulder to glare at him, ensuring he felt the scorch that was solar in your narrow eyes, “it was.”

He was grinning at you. Laid comfortably on his side. Hand supporting his head. A malleable depth created liquidness in his golden eyes, and so they glimmered, and the twisted vestiges of bitterness digging inside your throat unwound. He leaned forward, proceeded to cup your cheek, and a kiss was sweetly moulded to your lips with expert care. “I missed you, baby.”

You sniffled, gulped. “I hate how many times I’ve cried over you.”

“Wanna cry in a different way?” He purred, squeezing your hip, letting his teeth graze along the cusp of your tingling ear.

Quickly, before you could feel lust surround you with its tendrils, you shoved his hand away. “No. Never.” And turned back on your side.

He chuckled. “Never?!”

You nodded. “Never.”

“I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Bye.”

He chuckled again, taking pleasure in your dryness, how you refused to fold, keep him on the outside like a pacing dog. Vernon then slipped further down the pillow, adjusting himself tightly behind you, one arm sneaking underneath your waist while the other caged overtop in a sling. He squeezed you, nuzzled at your hair. “And for how long will you be mad?”

Sighing, you slotted your fingers through his. “Are you stressed because of the money thing? How do you normally deal with stress?”

He shrugged. “Drugs and sex.”

“You know that’s not healthy.”

“Thank you, Harvard medical graduate.”

Your elbow jutted back, finding the sinewy flesh of his ribs. “Shut up. I’m asking because… well… I think it would be better if we talked things out more, you know? Even just a little bit…” Glancing down at a thick, silver band on his finger, you began playing with it, twisting the ring around while you mumbled, “it hurts when I feel like your stress is targeting me. And right now, I can’t give you sex, and I definitely can’t give you drugs.”

Vernon breathed in the scent of your hair. “I know, PJ’s.”

“So… is everything alright?”

“Not entirely. M’tired. It’s just hard to get a hold of this guy. He’s slippery, and all his people are slippery. It feels like chasin’ an eel.”

“The guy you need money from?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Need any help?”

His entire body jerked with laughter. “Uh, no. This really isn’t somethin’ you should be gettin’ involved with, PJ’s. I’ll figure it out, alright? I want you away from this stuff. I don't want you thinkin' it's a playground and shit. You've done enough.”

You stroked along his arm, running over years of intricate ink, and took in a deep breath that rolled through you from top to bottom while recalling your conversation with Moo. Vernon didn’t know that you spoke to him. He didn’t know that you knew the mystery’s name.

Jeonghan. The kingpin. El Timador.

Angling around, you slipped an arm behind Vernon’s head and moved your fingers fluidly through his velvet hair. You pushed into his forehead and softly moved your lips against his, feeling him immediately perk in response, the pressure around your waist tightening. The tartness of a smoked blunt had never smelled so desirable on somehow, and his slick tongue was impressively gentle, always eager to taste you. His hand squeezed up your flaming body, his fingers coming to curl at the beating base of your throat, and if you weren’t still clamped onto that angry red kite, you might have let him submerge into you, drink you from the inside out.

But you didn’t.

“Why don’t you rest a bit?” You murmured, licking off his sheening spit that smeared your lip like a constellation. “Would that hurt?”

He stared at you with a wild, cosmic infatuation. “No.”

This isn’t really somethin’ that you should be gettin’ involved with.

You wanted to listen.

But you could not. Would not.

It seemed that all you had done your entire life was listening. The words of others had continuously filled you like droplets from a bamboo spout, and you had lugged around the sloshing weight sensing it was there but not wanting to believe it. Consequently, you were pruned on the inside, wrinkled and sodden, from never letting the water drain, and now you needed to dry yourself out under a lovely, dappled heat. Unfortunately, that meant you must meddle.

Even if Vernon did not want it.

He didn’t need to know. At least not for now.

Tara was brushing out her long, pearlescent strands of syrupy hair at her locker when you asked if she was willing to help you with a strange favour. She kept brushing her hair, eyebrows raised, as she waited for you to elaborate. When you told her you wanted to a drive to the Kichesippi scarp yard, the baby pink hairbrush that she had likely preserved since girlhood days in Farringdon nearly flew out of her hand. You understood it was an odd request, and you couldn’t be too generous detail-wise, and for a long moment, she gathered her things quietly, face contorted with the heft of an internal dialogue.

But then she agreed.

“You’ve helped me a lot with my interviewing… I guess I can.”

To which you almost leapt on her in relief.

She drove you to the scrap yard that weekend.

You shot past the abandoned hanger that you and Vernon had waited at, when you were twisted up inside with emotions, a canon ready to sizzle and pop. The fields were greener, with a refreshed shimmer, and the forest was much denser, almost overflowing in regrowth, compared to your last visit.

“There’s the gate,” Tara said. “What should I do?”

“Stay here,” you told her. “I’ll be back soon. I think.”

Her fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and she peered at the tall fence with her slim brows worried. “How are you going to get in?”

Upon thrusting open the car door, you shrugged. “I’ll climb it.”

You could only imagine Tara’s expression as she watched you approach the fence, your fingers curling at the metal, the tips of your shoes wedging into every little space, until you reached the top. It wasn’t easy. You were still breathless coming down the other side. But you wanted this to be quick, and so you did it the only way you knew how. Marching past the distributed piles of abandoned rubbish, you approached one trailer in particular, caught in the shadows cast by monstrously sized conifers. Without letting yourself think too much, you knocked on the door, which rattled loosely as though it could be pushed open with a limp shove.

About a minute passed. Maybe no one was there.

You noticed a curtain fall back in place. The door suddenly opened.

It was not surprise that controlled Minghao’s face. Rather, an absence of anything. His countenance was flat, dull. Uninterested. And you would have felt offended if not for the fear fumigating your other emotions.

“What do you want?” He said, his tone a deft line.

Your lips were dry, and you could not stop pulling at the skin with your teeth. Licking them off, you smiled, very weak. “Can I come in?”

“No,” Minghao answered immediately, like a slap. “Leave.”

He attempted to close his flimsy door, but you stepped forward, stopping him. “Please, just for a few minutes. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

Finally, a split in his paper expression. A brittleness. “You are only trouble,” Minghao said. “You and your boyfriend.” He tried the door again.

You stopped him. Again. “Vernon—I-I know he stole from you, or he was stealing back what you stole—I know there’s some bad blood. The bottom line is I need to speak to someone. And I think you might be able to help me. Please. I’ll never bother you again. Cross my heart.”

“Girl, you need to leave,” he hissed, pushing back on the door.

“I need to speak to Jeonghan.”

And Minghao slightened. His colour became that of bleached bones. You felt the door give away, and it swung open silently until it banged the wall. An aroma of fragrant herbs touched your nose. Earthy sage, burned. A fresh and lemony tinge. Minghao muttered something under his breath in an unfamiliar language while pressing his fingertips against his nose. There were red prints left behind as he made a soft rumbling noise in his throat. “Okay.”

“I can come in?” You squeaked.

“Come in. Quick.”

And so you fluttered inside Minghao’s trailer like a curious, timid butterfly, still on edge, still skittish, but enjoying the relief. All his curtains were dark orange, drawn tightly shut, turning the dust in the air to a desert sand. His walls were covered with canvas’s, each smeared in unique patterns of paint where colours messily clashed and faces were hidden between thick strokes, though they might stop looking like faces if you stared too hard. He had a metal bowl sitting on his small dining table, a charred powder at its bottom, with twirling smoke ablaze. You breathed in the herbs and lemon.

He pulled out a chair from underneath the table, used his foot to kick out the chair oblique to his, the one you settled into, uncomfortably.

You flashed him another nervous, teethless smile. “It’s nice in here,” despite knowing he had very little interest for your prevaricating.

Minghao folded his long, lithe arms. There was a hooded narrowness weighing down his eyelids as he observed you like some sort of bad curse staining his abode with your energy.

“Why speak to Jeonghan?”

“Um…” you exhaled, swallowing. “I just need to, I guess.”

“Are you turning on Hansol? You need him dead?”

Your foot kicked the table leg especially hard in hysterics and the metal bowl quivered, the cinder smoke wobbling in the dusk. “No!” You spluttered. “No, no, no. Gosh no. Nothing like that. It’s hard to explain. But it… it has nothing to do with you.” Unfurling your tense fingers, you inhaled the flavourful odours. “I’m not turning on anybody. I just need to talk to him.”

Minghao leaned closer, the orange glow of the cloth curtains shining like ribboned fire in his cherry hair, while the moons beneath his eyes darkened. “You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die.”

Paste dried on your tongue. A horrible, chalky paste that you wanted to scrape off because it felt so thick. Minghao allowed the intensity of the moment to hover, to seep, before he leaned back, his chair creaking.

You rolled out your shoulders. “Then… I guess it’s a deal.” Looking to him and his stone-face, you continued. “Where can I find him?”

His brow raised and his round bottom lip pursed, perhaps a flash of impressiveness that you were not shaken off like a flea from a dog’s coat. “Do you know what you’re doing?” He said. “El Timador plays no-fun games.”

No-fun games.

Something about that stuck to you, webbed under your skin. “I don’t know,” you admitted, clammy hands rubbing together beneath the table, smooth and warm. “But I have to. I don’t know how else to explain.”

Minghao was quiet, his attention moved to the curdles of smoke rising from the metal bowl and its charred ingredients. You were urged to keep speaking and pleading your case, but you knew better than to bulldoze the moment. The silence kept lasting. It was astonishing that Minghao could sit so still, like he had taken out his heart, his insides, and was nothing but a husk of flesh stuffed with grain. A doll. But then he shifted, reaching behind him to a kitchen countertop, where he placed a metal lid over the bowl.

He sighed. “You know Paulo?”

That name again. You nodded. “No, but yes. Not personally.”

“Everything scattered when he died. Everything. I was scared. I sold off product that was not mine. I thought moving back to China will fix the mess. I always argue with Hansol back then. The way he talks and does things. I don’t like it.” Minghao bit his lip, and it lost some colour. “But he is good. He brings me into a safe place, back then. He helps me adjust. He warns me to stay away from El Timador when they approach me and ask me to work for them. Hansol said that to me: you do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. But in his stupid way I cannot understand very well. Now, I am under El Timador’s thumb because I try to harm you. I just wanted the money. But now I cannot care.” His eyes flickered up, unexpectedly glossy. “You see why you are trouble?”

In that moment, you became frozen, just like he was. To hear the slight rasp develop in Minghao’s tone, notice the shine splotchy in his eyes. His mistakes unravelling at his feet like dropped, unorganized film, because he was scared, and confused.

You softened up. You weren’t fearful anymore.

And you smiled. “I’m glad I came to speak with you. I promise, I won’t be the reason Jeonghan plays games. You shouldn’t worry.”

Minghao shook his head. “Naïve,” he mispronounced.

Perhaps true. You accepted it. “Where can I find him?”

Another beat of silence passed by. Minghao’s final moment to ponder, and you saw his chest rise and fall deeply. He reached behind him again, grabbing a pen and a magazine. With the pen in his teeth, he tore off a strip from the magazine's corner and proceeded to write something. “Here—I cannot say this word to save my life.”

You accepted the torn corner. “Prerogative. What's that?”

“A club. Once a month, he has business meeting in the basement.”

“Do you know when?”

“Try end of the month.”

“Okay. Thanks.” You nodded satisfactorily.

Tara had sent you a text, asking if you were alright. You messaged her you would be back shortly and took the torn paper in your pocket.

As Minghao walked you to the door, you stopped, turning around to examine him. “I really like your octopus graffiti.”

His face creased, marginally; the edges of a shy smile. “Me too.”

It was amusing to behold Vernon out of his element, and adorable that he was trying so hard. You sat across the table from him. Rather than letting his canvas sit on the easel like most refined people in the studio, he was gripping it at an odd, stabbing angle to his chest, clasping the paintbrush like it hurt, while he focused hard enough on his work to make heat come from his eyes. You were so enraptured in watching him that your small canvas was noticeably bare, mottled with few dabs of vibrant colour.

Ruby introduced you to the studio not long ago. They hosted weekly paint nights for adults. There were various wines, complicated Hors d’Oeuvres organized on lazy Susans, mellow music threaded with daintily-pressed piano keys, and an entire wall dedicated to acrylic paint swatches in the form of dried, ceramic tiles.

You didn’t care for wine, and neither did Vernon.

But he got up from his seat only ten minutes in to slosh himself a glass that had a woman with curled hair, a purple beret, and flashy spectacles pompously side-eyeing him. You urged him that this wasn’t supposed to be stressful. That it didn’t matter if his art looked messy.

He grumbled, “it’s for you, PJ’s. It has to look perfect.”

And that had made you swell up with joy like a helium balloon.

Since he was putting in the effort to paint you something, you wanted to return the favour, and so you settled on a photo of his Camry that he sent you a while back upon buffing out some of its rusted age. Your phone was rested against a container filled with different sized brushes.

“How’s it coming along?” You asked.

Vernon was quiet—quieter than he ever had been—while the tip to his very thin brush stroked so timidly on the surface of the canvas. You had given him a tiny elastic from your bag when he kept complaining about the hair sloping down over his eyes. Now he had a black, sooty tree sprouting from the crown of his head. All the modest aprons were taken. He was wearing an apron that was bubblegum pink, stitched with daisies and honeybees. You took a picture with your phone when he was busy choosing his canvas size, giggling at how paradoxical it looked.

“Can’t… talk…” he mumbled. “Focusin’… hard…”

“If only you could see yourself.”

As you began shaking a bottle to mix the paint inside, Vernon suddenly slammed his detailing brush onto the table. “Fuck!” He shouted, collapsing back into his seat. “I fucked up the fuckin’—ah—fuck it.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to disappear behind your canvas while squirting out the sky-blue paint onto your palette. The thing with Vernon was that his gutturalness never really turned off. Sometimes you loved it. Sometimes it was complicated. He could be in the most high-class restaurant, eating with kings, and he would still not forfeit his untrimmed spirit.

The lady sitting at the table beside yours—the same lady who watched him pour his wine like it was a beer keg—reached over to tap him on the shoulder, and you could only suck in your teeth.

“Excuse me? Could you please refrain from that sort of language? This is a public space. It's shared. It’s important to be polite.”

“Lady, I’m in the middle of some serious shit, alright? Fuck.” He dismissed her slim fingers and long, coffin nails off his shoulder, sighing aloud while squinting at his canvas. “Guess it’s not that fucked up.”

She proceeded to throw you a very specific look, almost sympathetic, mournful, as if to express her condolences that you were perhaps trapped with this profanity-mouthed man and his concerningly full wine glass. But you didn’t return the look in any capacity.

You were happy.

“If you get kicked out of Wine and Paint, I’m never taking you anywhere, ever,” you warned him, smiling, from over your canvas.

Vernon grabbed onto his glass and sipped at the red wine, to which his face instantly puckered and he shook out his head. “Tastes like batteries.”

“You shouldn’t have poured so much.”

“Help me finish it.”

Swirling your brush around in the blue paint, you cackled. “Nope!”

He groaned, setting his canvas back on the wood easel. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t make me tell the art teacher.”

Vernon got up, stretched out his arms and their silky gilded tattoos, the tight, youthful pink apron squeezing around his waist. “Can we get ice cream after this? Otherwise I’m gonna need a line off your tits.”

“Okay! Shut your mouth, first of all,” you gritted. “Second of all, behave. Or else.”

He narrowed his gaze at you. “N’ that means what?”

You eyed the lady at the table beside you and smirked.

Vernon swatted his hand at you dismissively, then pressed into his lower back. “Whatever. I’m goin’ to the washroom.” He started walking away, but turned around. “N’ don’t peek at my canvas while I’m gone!”

Without him being so distractingly cute, you managed to make some actual progress on your painting, filling the white space with an eggshell blue sky, stippling in fluffy grass, attempting to create the street even though it looked very amateurish. But you did like to paint when you were younger. Without the strict regulations of a teacher. As your brush swirled a liquidy yellow sun into the cloth, you thought of Diana and how much she would enjoy doing something like this.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed someone approaching the table, and you assumed it was Vernon returning from the washroom.

Upon picking up some creamy paint on your detailing brush, you glanced up and smiled, expecting to see the tree of hair on his head and his pink apron.

But it was not your Vernon.

It was Lee.

And a thousand feelings collapsed, bones snapping like tightwires, as your emotionally intact infrastructure suddenly smashed to the ground. Your chest and lungs became spongey. They absorbed and absorbed but they did not give back. You were gripping the paintbrush as though it were a weapon.

“Hey!” He chirped, a friendly sound. “I thought that was you.”

Now he knew it was you.

What the hell was Vernon doing in the washroom? You hoped to god he hadn’t smuggled in a blunt. The woman’s washroom had a window in the last stall, although you would need to stand on the toilet to reach and open it. Maybe it was the same for the men’s. Maybe Vernon would sense your distress, how it glimmered on your skin like an oil, smothered the air.

Lee cleared his throat. “I know this is probably a little weird…”

A little? You wanted to shriek. You had your filthy hands dipping and diving all over my body! You treated me as though I were some lifeless shell! But you did not say anything of the sort. “It is,” you sighed, and it was shaky. “Very weird.”

He didn’t look much different physically. Nonetheless, you sensed something. Your gut was suddenly inside your mind, and it granted you a sort of power to see through him, at his tangled intentions and the unattractive miasma festering within. Though his words were soft, slipping off his lips like fallen petals, his eyes were gritty and unclear.

Lee laughed. “Yeah! Trust me, I get it.”

You deadpanned, “is there something you want?”

And Lee’s smile hung a little crooked. “Well… we really haven’t seen each other in a while. I guess you blocked me. Ruby doesn’t answer my texts. So I wanted to know if we could… well… talk about it?”

“Here?”

“No,” he laughed again, swallowed tightly. “Not here.”

The paintbrush twitched in your fingers; the acrylic pressed into its bristles beginning to dry. “No thank you. I’m not interested.”

He scoffed. You wanted to slap him, hard enough to leave a sizzling, stinging imprint of your hand chaffing his cheek. “Not interested? Can you explain that to me, or something… because I feel like it would help us—”

“Help you. Not us. I know what happened. You should figure it out on your own.” Turning back to the canvas, you nearly touched the cloth.

Nearly.

“Well, no offense, but that’s kind of fucked up.”

Your mouth was about to drop open. But then you noticed Vernon, how he sidled up to Lee with his tongue prodding at his cheek, his eyes cool, settled, but with a craftiness underneath the copper. He proceeded to slip his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. It hung there loosely, but could fasten in an instant.

“Hey, look at you Suits. Been a while, yeah?”

Lee glanced at him. You weren’t sure how else to explain his expression apart from the kind of paleness you see of dead, stiff limbs. “Uh, Vernon. Hey…” he attempted to laugh, though it turned to fleeing breaths.

Vernon’s hand gripped his shoulder, shook it. “Thought I might go outside.” His eyes were bullet holes into Lee’s head, a smirk forming. “You wanna come? No wind in the back alley. Easier to light.”

Lee shook his head. You shouldn’t let Vernon subtly tease and threaten him. But you didn’t want to move or speak. “No—uh—that’s fine. I was just catching up. We haven’t seen each other in a while—”

“But you haven’t seen me in even longer. C’mon. Let’s step out.”

“I’m here with a friend. I should get back to our table.”

“Your friend, huh? They a lawyer, too?”

“Well,” Lee gulped. “He’s not. We’re still in school.”

“Shit. This will be good fuckin’ practice then. Let’s bring him outside with us.” Vernon jutted his finger into Lee’s chest, his eyes changing tone, flashing with streams of electricity. “And I’ll have him mock up my defense trial after I beat the fuck out of you, you spineless cunt.”

“Vernon, enough.” You stood up. “I’ll talk to Lee outside.”

Surprisingly, he listened, and sat back down. His index finger was tapping harshly on the table. There was no hiding what he was thinking as you pulled Lee outside the studio, into the evening’s gentle warmth.

Immediately, the boy shivered, and the colour gradually seeped back into his once blanched and hollow face. “Did I almost just die?”

You exhaled, enjoying the sensation of the calmer sun rays tingeing your skin, instilling you with a deep, pulsing strength. “Lee, I was being serious back there. I don’t want to talk to you about what happened. I have no interest in digging it back up. I have no interest in being the one to make you feel better about a shitty thing you did. The truth is, you need to sack up, alright? Because I know you’ll feel a lot lighter afterward.” He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was strange, a clouded look; a look you give to a stranger who said something you struggled to catch because it sounded like syllables chopped up in a blender. But you knew that he heard you.

He just wasn’t aligning such striking boldness to his memories of you. In a way, you were a stranger.

Lee kicked a stone at his feet. “Vernon is your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

Again, he said nothing. Only hung his head, rubbed off his nose, and walked back into the mellowness of the painting studio, making sure to avoid Vernon by taking a sharp turn. You let the sun energize you for another minute, and then said goodbye to its sweet tangerine rays.

When you approached Vernon, who had been diligently waiting for you, tense in his seat, you bent down and kissed his cheek. “Not your best, but still very good behaviour,” you whispered into his ear, plucking out the elastic tying up his hair in order to adoringly ruffle the strands between your fingers. “I think we can go get some ice cream.”

You sat on the hood of the car, running the plastic spoon through vanilla and chocolatey, rich syrup. It was your favourite flavour, a childhood comfort, and its taste had never changed. Vernon preferred his mint chocolate chip—a polarizing choice—one that suited him. Since neither of you got to complete your paintings, the studio offered to hold them until you could book another session. You were ineffably curious to know what had been giving Vernon so much trouble. Or perhaps it was merely his ineptness with a paintbrush and having to execute fine detail.

He was standing in front of you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” you mumbled around the spoon in your mouth. “I’m sure.”

His eyes studied you, carefully flitting. “He should die.”

A lump of ice cream was sucked into your windpipe and you started to cough into your elbow. “Vernon!” You spluttered. “Uncalled for!”

“I’m just sayin’, you know.” He shrugged, dragging his spoon around the flurry of pale green mint and small chocolate chunks. “I don’t like the idea of someone so slimy, who caused you so much pain, walkin’ around on the same Earth as you. He’s so fuckin’ privileged and he doesn’t even realize it.”

Sighing, you scraped some hot fudge onto your spoon, tried not to smile and condone his morbid perspective but smiled anyway. Vernon didn’t fit into the unspoken conformations of life the way others did, or forced themselves to, and as much as his roughness perplexed you, you would never ask him to change.

You couldn’t imagine him any other way.

“That was pretty funny,” you hummed, planting your shoes onto the car’s newly furbished chrome bumper. “Getting all scary with him when you had your hair in a palm tree and a little girl’s apron on.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s my Power Puff fit.”

And you giggled, staring up at him through your lashes, turning him into a portrait against the pulpy clouds and daffodil sky. You let your ice cream sit on the car’s vanilla hood and hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, admiring the faint crests of pink dusting his cheeks, the robust amber smell on his clothes.

“I’m so thankful for you,” you told him.

Vernon took a scoop of chilly mint chocolate chip and shoved it in your mouth. You laughed, half-swallowing, half-choking, until he kissed you and everything splendidly melted into the late spring heat.

Ruby couldn’t believe that you wanted to go to a club. You mentioned it about a week in advance while you two were cooking in the kitchen—Ruby was browning up ground beef while you chopped ingredients for a fresh pico de gallo—and she immediately started laughing and snorting like a pig, bending over the stove top. For a moment, you let her enjoy the joke that was only a joke to her, and then blinked at her flatly. “I’m serious, I want to go to Prerogative,” you said. Ruby straightened up, her luminous hazel eyes widening as she pursed her lips. “How do you know about Prerogative?”

She went on to explain that it wasn’t a typical club. The atmosphere was stuffy, its patrons being the rich and shady, that it was rather difficult to get inside unless you knew someone who was a needle mover with moneybags. Those who weren’t accustomed to their snide, supercilious culture usually stuck out like sore thumbs, becoming raw roadkill circled by eerie vultures dressed in designer brands. Ruby had gone twice, though she said it was a long time ago, when she was still friends with a wealthy businesswoman’s daughter. But she no longer had the connection.

You had pushed your diced red bell pepper into a mound. “I think I know someone who might be able to get us inside,” and Ruby glanced from side to side, uncertain, desultory, like your roles had suddenly flipped.

“I mean, I’ll go with you. Just… why?”

“I can tell you afterward.”

“This reeks of Vernon.”

But you didn’t say anything, instead tossing the chopped vegetables into a bowl and squirting in some tangy juice from a lime wedge. In between slower periods at work, you asked Tara and Lara if they were interested in coming along, too. Tara squealed, “I haven’t been out in so long!” while Lara played with the tips of her soft hair, her nose wrinkling. “Isn’t that the place where all the fancy, pretentious rich people go? Purse Dog Lady will be there, I bet.”

She still agreed to come.

However, you desperately needed an outfit that wasn’t a loose, flappy t-shirt and weather-bleached jean shorts. That weekend, you and Ruby went to the one of the larger malls, slipping in between stores, your head aching from the obsessive use of fluorescent lights, your nose overwhelmed by the gaudy perfumes the sales staff wore, and your patience falling out from under you like suspended tiles. You would waddle out the changerooms, disgust ample in your face, as some tight-fitting fabric clung to your body akin to a moth silkily wrapped into an inescapable, sticky spiderweb. Ruby would excitedly clap whenever she adored an outfit, squinch up her nose when she wasn’t a fan, and give you a mild half-smile when the outfit was passable. You bought a few, to have options.

Except you didn’t really like any of them.

It was merely to play a part.

When the night finally came, you spent such a long time thinking in the shower about what an awful, terrible idea this was, that the water began running ice cold and you had to hop out with half your conditioner unwashed. Ruby helped with your makeup. She didn’t play any music like usual—when you were that anxious, you needed silence—anything else was irritating and grating and salt-to-wound on your nerves. Once she was finished, she took a tiny bottle and started misting your skin with a product that had a synthetic yet fragrant smell, enough to make you cough.

Then she let you see yourself in the washroom mirror.

“Holy shit,” were the first words from your rouge mouth, made slippery by a gloss. “I hardly recognize myself…” fingers drifted lightly at your skin, hidden underneath foundation, concealer, cream contour, blush, as though you were touching a costume mask that could be unwound and removed. “Are you sure these lashes won’t fall off? They feel a little heavy.”

Ruby shook her head. “Trust me—you could get dunked upside down into a pool and they wouldn’t fall off. This is, like, illegal lash glue.”

“How will I take them off?”

“Just peel! And then some makeup remover on a Q-tip.” She gave you a push out the door. “Put your dress on!”

Back in your room, you opened up your closet, removing the hanger that the spandex dress hung from—the colour of a dark, succulent cherry—and sighed. It wasn’t that you hated dresses. You loved them, just on other people. Like Ruby. Like Tara and Lara. Their bodies were the reasons people made dresses in the first place. You always thought your body was built for aged, wrinkly t-shirts and non-accentuating pants that made you look somewhat like a little boy. So putting on the dress was hard. You constantly plucked, pinched, and readjusted the material to make sure you could be reminiscent of them, Ruby and Tara and Lara, even though you never would be, not even in a faraway dream where reality blurred.

Ruby clapped ecstatically when you left your room. “I love it! I knew that was the one! How do you feel? Because you look so sexy.”

You shrugged, fingers rubbing together. “I feel fine.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t wear a lot of dresses, so it’ll feel strange.”

“I guess so.”

“Where are your kitten heels?”

You pointed to the closet space by the front door. While sinking down on the couch, unhelpful, you watched Ruby search for them.

“They aren’t even out of the box!” She exclaimed, scurrying over to you and sitting on the coffee table.

“I forgot.”

Ruby tossed aside the frilly layers of cream tissue paper. “So adorable, right?” the girl fawned, handing you one to examine.

Your fingers ran along its smooth, sleek texture, black and slim. It was unbeknownst to you how you were going to survive with these strapped to your feet all night. Your soles were made for dirty sneakers and tennis shoes. A flash of your reflection appeared in the kitten heel, distorted by ebbing, pale light, and when you could not find comfort in the lost expression that was supposed to be familiar to you, tears pushed, stung, burned your eyes. Ruby was setting the matte box aside when you squeaked out a high-pitched whine of frustration, and it felt like your throat cracked.

“What’s wrong?” She cooed.

Sniffling, your head wrung back and forth. “I’m so ugly, Ruby.”

And she gasped with such immediate sharpness that it nearly cut you. “No!” Ruby said, exasperated, tucking back her hair. “No, you’re not!”

“Even this makeup can’t hide it. I think it’s making it worse.”

For a moment, your roommate quieted. The living room rippled with the pained, insecure hymns of your crying. But then Ruby sighed, and she sat down on the rug, and laid her head on your lap. One arm wrapped around your legs and squeezed them.

You suckled in, confused, laughing, wiping carefully at your runny nose. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not ugly. You’re gorgeous. And I will keep you here all night by your legs until you agree. And give yourself some damn grace.”

She always smelled of jasmines. A subtle sweetness, and then a deep, powerful richness, like a garden leading down into a moonlit cave. There was something in the scent that grounded you, similar to Vernon’s amber musk, and your wet eyes closed to enjoy the weighted warmth of Ruby’s crimson hair spilling on your lap. After a minute, you stroked her head, smiled, noticed that you weren’t itching from the inside out as though you had swallowed a poisonous plant. “Thank you, Ruby,” you sighed.

Her eyes glinted; two green summer ponds drifting with yellowed gingko leaves. “Do you feel better?” She asked, patting your knee.

“I think so…” your fingers pinched at the spandex to massage the stretchy fabric. “Don’t take offense to this—you did such an amazing job and I think you might have sprayed twenty dollars on my face—but this makeup is kinda suffocating me. Would it matter if I took it off?”

“I think you feeling comfortable is top priority.”

“Okay,” you said with a relieved exhale. “I’ll remove it.”

About an hour later—after rubbing soaked cotton pads of witch hazel to your face—you and Ruby rendezvoused with Tara and Lara, who were already downtown, each dressed in a sultry black dress. Tara’s dress was very short compared to Lara’s, hers adorned with a halter design that hugged over her hips but flared gently at the legs. They had been waiting outside a pub. Lara was smoking a cigarette, which turned the air acrid and sharp.

“I’m so excited!” Tara rallied. “I’ve never been to this club.”

Lara’s arms were folded unenthusiastically, her shoulders slumped forward. “You are going to have rich nepotism children fighting the urge to spit on you because you don’t work a six-figure job,” she explained while taking a puff from her cigarette. “Proceed with caution, Tars.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Tara quipped back. She was practically wearing her sparkly optimism like a cloak. “We’ll stick together! It’ll be fun!”

You smiled, not letting the honesty of your bumpy seams show.

“Should we start heading over?” Ruby asked.

“I think so! Who knows how long the line is,” Tara pointed out.

Lara looked to you, her eyes low, tracing. She made sure to get one lasting, long inhalation of bitter smoke before chucking her cigarette onto the street, where it fizzled into orange, peeling paper like a fading firefly. “Fine,” Lara sighed.

Ruby and Tara took the lead, striding and chatting. You walked beside Lara. “I’m sorry if Tara forced you into this,” you murmured.

She hummed. “No need to be sorry. I know you’re scheming.”

And you choked a bit. “Scheming?”

“Nobody willingly goes to Prerogative.”

That made you snort. “Rich people.”

“When I say nobody, I mean us regulars. The Averages of the world.”

“Lara, you’re far from average.”

She glanced at you, quirking her groomed eyebrow, and the way her lips calmly reached into a smile was charming. “So are you, it seems.”

“Then I suppose we’ll fit right in.”

While waiting in Prerogative’s long line, you understood very quickly the specific archetype of people that belonged here. They almost didn’t seem human. Most were tall, thin, as though beneath the dapper suits and eccentric dresses, there were only ivory bones for the wind to whistle through. Their movements lacked fluidity. It reminded you of a flip-cartoon with frames removed, such that you would suddenly blink and find them contorted into another stiff, waxy facial expression, eyes like marbles; polished, shiny, but lifeless. Standing amongst them, you felt as though you were not alive in the same way they were. And they could smell it. The sticky city plumes on your skin, the cheap perfume tangled into your hair, how smoothly your face could move. Stares lingered. Empty yet deep.

Upon reaching the front of the line, you were met by a single bouncer whose chest was wide enough, sturdy enough, to land a jet. Tinted glasses were shifted down to the tip of his big nose. He didn’t speak. A machine. Waiting to hear a human’s call before it could activate.

“My ID,” you showed him.

He glanced at it, uninterested, saying nothing.

Stay calm, you reminded yourself. “We’re with the Polleznas.”

Thick, bulging arms folded overtop his chest. “Who?”

“Georgio and Catarina Pollezna, to be exact.”

The bouncer’s eyes skipped between you. He stood up straighter, and the entrance behind him swallowed. “Don’t look like it.”

“I was just there, at their beach house,” you explained. “We all went, actually. Have you ever been up Windermere Boulevard? There’s the blue house—big, like a colosseum—the seafoam green one, and the one with all those pretty grey bricks belongs to the Polleznas. Backyard pool. Gigantic yellow curly slide. Has the turrets and baskets of bright pink Hibiscus. Anyway, Catarina’s visiting Georgio in Italy right now. He’s been working on a new shoe design with his leather suppliers.” Pulling out your phone, you showed him a photograph, the same photograph of Kitty and her friends partying in Italy, which you downloaded from her social media. “This was us at Blanco Beach.” You don’t let him glean for too long. “And she has to board a flight tomorrow, to Florence. She tests the shoes!” You grabbed Ruby by the arm, lugged her forward. Her parents were from Italy, and she even knew how to speak the language, though it wasn’t perfect and tended to degrade the less she was around them.

Ruby smiled. “Sì signore. Come stai? Piacere di conoscerti?”

The bouncer was unmoving, until he pushed the tinted glasses further up his nose. In a husky voice, he gestured at Ruby. “ID?”

A few moments later, you were all let inside the black, glassy building, and you nearly stumbled over each other—hips bumping, arms smacking, heels wobbling—in a buzzing, livewire excitement. You rounded a long, curved hallway with matte silver walls and elegant streams of violet lights that flowed along the ceiling like galactic water. “I can’t fucking believe that actually worked!” Tara squealed. “I almost forgot how to speak,” Ruby giggled, nerves still breathy in her voice. “The lady behind me kept stepping on my heel and I almost tore her breast implants out,” Lara spat.

You were so relieved to be let inside the club that you nearly forgot the reason you were there. But it emerged, bobbing at the surface of your consciousness, and you felt the edges crafting your exhilarated smile dampen slightly. Different sized globs of people consumed the room, all stuck to each other like gum, refusing to mingle, as though brushing shoulders with someone outside their circle was essentially reinstituting the plague. The bar was quite large and easy to identify. Its counter was glowing white, something of a spaceship, and numerous bartenders swarmed behind it, handling bottles and glasses and shakers. The music was simply a deep, thrumming beat without lyrics, high energy, full of magnetic pulses.

“Who wants a drink?!” Tara offered.

Ruby agreed. “Let’s check it out.”

She held your hand as you grooved in between bodies. Though the atmosphere was dim and people’s faces were powdered in smoky shadows, that didn’t seem to stop the occasional preened onlooker, glancing you over from top to bottom, their eyes metallic in the seedy, sensual light.

You all squeezed against the bar’s glowing countertop, lined up like awkward ducklings while your elbows dug into each other.

Almost immediately, a pale man swooped in from what you assumed was a rift in the staunch air, his lips thin and pink, his eyebrows dark and thick, and his voice a low, errorless purr. “Who’s going first?”

“What’s your special?” Tara asked.

“Can I have three shots of tequila?” Lara muttered.

“I’d love a vodka cran!” Ruby chirped.

You said nothing. Instead, your head swivelled around the room, refusing to let any detail go unmissed. Two walls were bracketed by staircases that led to the balcony, and you couldn’t help but wonder if that’s where he was lurking. Above ground, tracing the murkiness, alert to everything and everyone. But it didn’t feel right. Too obvious.

Ruby nudged your side. “You want a VC?”

“What’s that?”

She laughed, “vodka cran!”

“Oh, uh, sure.” It was hard to care about which shitty alcoholic beverage you were going to be forced to sip for the rest of the night when you had much, much bigger concerns. The bartender slid you a glass filled with dark pink liquid, a black straw, and balls of ice. You took a shallow sip from the straw while tilting your phone against the fancy card reader, and bristled slightly upon tasting the expensive vodka’s lingering sterileness. “Let’s wander around,” you suggested, shrugging. “Maybe we can sit somewhere.”

“These people look like aliens,” Lara grunted.

“It’s called face fillers,” Ruby said. “And botox.”

“The bartender’s teeth were literal piano keys!” Tara exclaimed.

“Don’t you play piano, Tars?” Lara asked. “Why not practice a tune on his blinding teeth. Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy? Fur Elise?”

Tara’s face wrinkled. “I haven’t played in a year!”

“For how long did you practice?” Ruby questioned.

“I’ve been playing since I was eight. Started ballet at nine.”

“I knew the ballet part,” Ruby laughed. “That was one of the first stories I remember you explaining. You started doing pliés and relevés beside the hot plate! I thought you were going to get fired right then!” 

“She likes to relive her glory days,” Lara muttered.

“Like you don’t!” Tara shot back, playfully slapping her friend’s arm. “When I came to your flat for the first time, the first thing I saw was a gigantic poster of yourself when you headlined The Nutcracker! And you keep your original ballet slippers in a glass display case!”

Their squabbling began to disintegrate, fall through your ears like sprinkling sand, and no longer were you listening to Lara and Tara argue whose pirouette was better while Ruby refereed their biased quipping. You saw another staircase, except it led downward, was secured by red rope, and had a bulky guard with an earpiece standing right in front of it.

You shrivelled.

How on earth were you supposed to slip past him?

Lacing your arm around Ruby’s elbow, you tugged her off to the side while Tara and Lara continued to hopelessly blather at each other. She pressed the straw of her drink between her lips, sipped, eyebrows lifted.

“I need to get down there,” you said, nodding toward the stairs.

Ruby swallowed, glanced at the guard. “Uh… there?”

“Yes.”

She sipped from her drink again, then stirred around the spherical ice cubes. “I think that might be for VIP’s, babe.” The ice clinked against the glass. Ruby suddenly furrowed her brow. “Do you know a VIP?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging. “No… but I need to meet one.”

“Who?”

“It’s… well… I can’t really tell you. Not yet. It all depends on if I can get downstairs or not. But how am I supposed to get past the guard?”

Ruby’s expression folded with skepticism. “This doesn’t feel like a good idea… this does have something to do with Vern, doesn’t it?”

In that moment, you wanted to snap at her. Ruby spent the entirety of her career getting wasted, making stupid choices, and wreaking havoc on the city with her substance-snorting friends. She had cooled down the rambunctious behaviour over a few months, put more focus into her job, and while you were immensely proud, now was not the time for her to tell you that something wasn’t a good idea. So you breathed, and breathed some more, and tried to wrestle down your feisty tongue that was ready to exhale your vodka into a blue flame. “It does,” you admitted. “Because I love him.”

She looked like someone had just popped a balloon in her face. Both her hands white-knuckled around the glass. “Wait… are you being serious?”

You smiled at her. “The seriousest.”

And Ruby squealed. She hugged you. “Have you told him?!”

“Uh, no…” you responded awkwardly, noticing a few dark blotches on your dress from the slightly spilled drink in your hand. “Not yet.”

“You gotta tell him!” She urged, passion alighting her like sparks.

“I will, I will.”

“I know he feels the same way,” Ruby remarked. “He’s never been like this about anyone. And… actually… I’m so freakin’ proud of both you guys. I see how you’ve impacted each other. This is, like, destiny.” She proceeded to sigh dreamily, nursing another savoury sip from her drink.

You started to smile at your roommate, but then you noticed something unraveling over her shoulder, and a weight smacked the pit of your stomach in one gigantic earthquake.

Ruby seemed to notice, too.

Lara, her lips peeled back in contempt, engaged with another woman who stood concerningly close. She looked older than Lara, with flat black hair trimmed to unnegotiable precision around her chin, short bangs, and a face that seemed as though it were carved from white wood. There was a taunting, antagonizing flicker in her eyes. You gathered Ruby and rushed toward Tara, who was standing off to the side, nibbling at her nails.

“What’s happening?” You queried.

Tara sighed; gaze pinned to her best friend, her vitriolic flare. “It’s that woman who was stepping on Lara’s heel when we were outside, waiting in line. She bumped into Lara and, of course, Lara wouldn’t let it go.”

Ruby frowned. “She’s not… a fighter… is she?”

The look on Tara’s face was deadpanned. “Gosh. I wish.”

Suddenly, there was an audible soundwave of gasps that emanated from the crowd the two women were garnering. Each stranger looked like an oilifed painting as they stood in shock. Strobing light cascaded around the room, occasionally glittering off bejewelled watches or rhinestone necklaces.

“What the hell happened?” Ruby dared to question; her jaw taunt.

“I think Lara just threw a drink on her!” Tara cried.

The next thing you saw was the glimmer of a pale, bony fist swinging toward Lara, and within seconds, the entire room swayed—a  rocky platform riding a dastardly wave—and you had nothing to hold.

Everything moved in flashes. Tara started unhooking her earrings.

“Uh—what are you doing?” Ruby stuttered as Tara poured them into her hand. “Are you—shouldn’t we—what the fuck is going on?”

She tightened her ponytail. “Lara would do the same for me,” was all Tara said, gulping in a breath, the anxiousness in her eyes suffusing into something so stern it almost made you shiver. Both you and Ruby watched, mouths agape, as Tara started elbowing her way through the crocheted crowd, swinging, before she seemingly got sucked down into a whirlwind of fists and screams. You froze, feeling the warm strobe light pass over you.

But then Ruby bumped your side. “Go!” She whispered harshly.

“What? Go where?”

“The stairs!” She grabbed your chin and turned it toward the red rope, waiting for you to slip underneath, without the looming bouncer and his craggy scowl.  “He’s trying to stop the fight! Go right now! I’ll hold your drink since I’m already holding fucking everything at this point.”

And so you didn’t think. You ran toward the stairs, budging in between a few strangers and their stick-like bodies. Lithely, you slid underneath the rope, and with your kitten heels quivering on every step you took, your sweaty hands lurched for the banister.

There was a long, disorientating corridor waiting for you. Tiny bulbs of blue light bordered the floor, leading down, down, down, without an end in sight. A sharp kink twisted inside your stomach, as though someone was turning a corkscrew, and you needed a moment to breathe like a mother on the verge of giving birth. But you couldn’t wait forever. The opportunity, while unplanned and terribly concerning, had fallen right at your feet and you could not afford to squander it. So you gulped in the thick vapour of your own fear and started progressing down the corridor, moving through the foggy orbs of blue light.

The further you walked, the less you heard the pulsing club beat, until nothing remained but a faint echo tickling your ear’s outer shell. You noticed the air became moister. Cooler. You walked until you reached a dark metal door perimetered by bolts, and you felt something like an explorer outside an ancient tomb filled with oracular secrets.

Behind that door… you almost wouldn’t allow yourself to imagine it.

You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. At that point, you wanted to die from anxiousness.

“How sneaky of you.”

 You whipped around, gasping up your entire soul.

A man was standing behind you. Not uncomfortably close, but closer than you’d like him to be. A beautiful man, with the dewy, pearlescent skin of a siren, and deep, rich brown eyes, almond-shaped, that seemed to swim with darkness you would not find above ground. His hair was lengthy, swooping elegantly above his shoulders in black rivulets. Interestingly, he smelled of sterile, pure nothingness—a complete lack of existence—like he was a void. In that moment, terror grabbed you with its cold, icy hand.

“Jeonghan,” you said.

And he said your name back to you.

Not a nickname. Not a mispronunciation. Not a mix-up.

You.

“I was—I thought—”

“Yes, I was on the balcony,” he said, and his smile was wicked.

El Timador plays no-fun games.

Your throat was paper-dry. All you could mumble was, “oh…”

“That fight. What a commotion. And—how very clever of you—to slip away so delicately. Like a loose fish. I almost didn’t catch you going underneath the rope.” He tilted his head. “Good thing I did.” And then he took a step forward, his movements eerily silent. Your head cocked at him, the sheer intensity of his closeness, how consuming he was. “Do you know what would have happened if you knocked on that door?” He asked you in a low, slithering whisper. He didn’t blink. His dark eyes bulged as though they were being pressed on.

“N-No…” you choked out, lips trembling.

Jeonghan pulled a hand down his face, though it paused to cover his mouth, and it stayed there for a slow, ticking, nauseating moment. But then he quickly removed his hand, sharply turned his sculpted face away, and stepped around you.

“Nothing,” he said. “There’s no one in there.”

You felt lightheaded.

He now had a key that he slid into the door’s lock.

Another shiver tingled down your spine.

The room he revealed was bare; not one person inside. Jeonghan waltzed straight in, but you hovered at the threshold, your eyes probing the space with snowballing apprehension. There were two white, glowing platforms elevated from the ground, each with a shiny pole, but no dancer to work the room. And then the booth against the wall, black leather, tight like snakeskin. Jeonghan slid himself into the booth until he was sat in the very middle, his hands clasped together, laid on the golden wood of the broad tabletop, as he smiled at you, waiting to see if you would enter.

He tilted his head. “I promise, there are no tripwires that trigger swinging axes or pits full of spikes. But you are welcome to stand there, if that makes you feel…” his wispy voice drifted off, “comfortable.”

And so you stepped inside. Paused. “Should I… close the door?”

“Well, are doors made to be open or closed?”

You stared at him, your heart pattering heavily. “It depends.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes, it does. Do you want us to have an easy, smooth conversation with the door closed? Or a conversation that is stilted and terribly lost because the only thing you can think about is how fast you will bolt to that open door if something goes South between us?”

So you closed the door, watched the blue, hazy lights fade outside in the hallway, knowing it was all a game of trust, or perhaps a gullible cage you had just locked yourself inside because this man had all the control. You approached Jeonghan, hands flattening over the thighs of your spandex dress, and proceeded to slide your way across the leather.

But he stopped you. “Stay right there.” You were not beside him, but at an angle. “If we sit beside each other, I cannot see your face. You know, I always make my men sit right where you’re sitting, instead of those who come to make deals. I can read my men’s face faster.”

The inside of your mouth was sticky. “Keep your friends close...” you sighed, only half-finishing the saying because your breath was falling fast.

“Yes,” Jeonghan agreed. “And your enemies closer. Literally!” He started chuckling, and it was such a sweet sound, childlike, nasally, the tinkling of windchimes. It reminded you of when Vernon laughed especially hard—all his prickled edges became bright clouds on a sunny day—and there was some warmth that found its way inside you, a beam of courage to hold your ground.

“I was told something,” you said.

Jeonghan nodded. “I’m sure you were.”

“That one only goes to you to make a deal, or for someone to die.”

He tossed an arm around the booth. “Ah—is that what the kids are saying these days?” His other hand dug into his pocket. Out came a slim, tiny cardboard box, which you assumed to be cigarettes. Instead, he pulled out a hard candy, popped it into his mouth. “Would you like one?”

“Uh… what are they?”

“Hong Yuan candies. Guava.” He let the green candy move from cheek to cheek. “My daughter quite likes these. I’ve grown fond, too.”

You could not help your face flickering in astonishment. “A daughter?” And then immediately regretted that you had let the absentminded question slip. There was no ring on his finger. Given the fact the room had two poles for dancing, you weren’t sure if he was in any sort of committed relationship, either.

Jeonghan grooved fingers through his hair, the colour of a raven’s feathers, and you watched how the strands fell calmly back into place. “Yes, she turns eight this year.” He stared at you, held out the very small box assorted with different flavours of candy. “Would you like one?”

“No, that’s alright.”

He shrugged, placing the box into a pocket on his suit jacket. “And what are you here for then?” Jeonghan murmured. “A deal?” He settled his clasped hands back onto the table. “Or for someone to die?”

“Um… a deal.”

“You should say it with conviction.”

“I’m here for a deal,” you repeated, forcing the sternness into your voice while you held the gravity-like power of his gaze. He let a palm fall open, and it was impressively soft-looking, akin to the surface of an untouched pillow. It was a simple gesture for you to continue. “I would like you to speak with Vernon. He wants to see you.”

“Okay. And?”

Your shoulders felt heavy. “And… that’s it.”

“Ah, see, that is not a deal,” Jeonghan was swift to correct, and he pocketed the fruity candy into his cheek. “When I make a deal, there is an exchange. Contraband for money, most likely. But you have not come to me with a deal. What you have, is a request. And I don’t do requests. Even to make someone disappear, I must receive something in return.”

“I just—I don’t know what I can give you.”

“Interesting.” His hands clapped his thighs. “Well, you should have thought of that before you dragged yourself to an insufferable, staunchly club where everyone believes you are the equivalent of a dirty plastic bag floating down an exhaust-soaked street.” He made a dilated pause. “Do you agree?”

Your throat was sewn shut. It ached and stung.

Jeonghan wouldn’t let his gaze falter for even a second. He stared you down, his dark, dark eyes a suckling abyss, and you were circling the swallow, helpless, spluttering, crying out for a hand to save you, pull you to dry land. His fingertip began tapping the tabletop, and you imaged a gothic piano before him, where he continued to press that one shrill, eerie key. The imagined sound crawled through your bones in a cold, spidery sensation, and when you glanced down at your lap, you realized just how tightly you had the succulent cherry spandex wrapped into your grip.

“Silence tells me everything you are not,” Jeonghan murmured.

“Did you kill Dots?”

He sat back. His eyebrows twitched. “Pardon?”

“Paulo. Vernon’s friend. He was all their friends.”

“Whose friends?”

You swallowed. “Moo, Snozz. Others, I assume.”

Something spilt into Jeonghan’s eyes, like a bumped-over inkwell, and when he spoke, his voice was grittier, the texture of rubbing sand between your fingertips. “You mean August and Daniel.”

“Their real names?”

“Yes. And what do you know of them?”

“Well… nothing, really.”

“I can tell you a little about them. They are fascinating people.”

The conversation's direction seemed to be whirling, a compass confused. But you were in no position to act mighty. You didn't want to become a shadow. Before you could think to answer, Jeonghan rolled back his shoulders, cleared his throat.

“August. I always think about him. His father was once CEO of an extremely powerful bank in Kenya, you know? Silver spoon. Extravagance. The things we tend to envy. But he was not allowed any handouts, and this turned him to a series of transient jobs. He is boisterous, loud, but has an odd charm that still persists even when he is terribly wrong about anything and everything, but believes he is right because obliviousness is mighty. Why does someone like him need to deal in the first place? Because he wants to. Simply that.

Daniel, my poor Daniel, was damned from the start. Sometimes I awake at night and feel myself still ache for him. His mother was in an abusive relationship. His father almost cut his mother’s throat with a shard from a beer bottle, and poor Daniel had to strangle his father using a utility cord from behind their television. He has stumbled a lot. I'm sure he'll stumble many more times. You will know him best for his silence, but he is always watching, and his loyalty to those who show him grace is commendably strong.

Now, Mr. Hansol Chwe. Mr. No-Manners. We have always had a tumultuous sort of relationship, to say the least. We never mixed that well, but when we did it was always trouble of the most fun kind. He was pulled all around the world by his struggling parents who desperately needed a break. Nothing ever lasted. The ground constantly shook under his feet. He was a snowball that never stopped snowballing until he was essentially wandering the streets at sixteen with enough anger to collapse a town, while his little sister was paraded as a blossom. Sofia. I hear she goes to school in Korea, now. He is rough and jagged. He is not meant for society. But he will always find a way because his world never stops moving.

Paulo... he is most difficult to speak of... he moved between halfway houses and clinical facilities like a coin toss. His parents disappeared, and so he was his own parent. I caught him stealing half-eaten sandwiches from a coffeehouse dumpster when he was fifteen. I was eighteen at the time, in university, working at the coffeehouse, Grit. He was scruffy and dirty. But he was sharper than I would ever be. And no matter how unliveable his life became you could not remove his humanity and kindness. Together, we were pure energy.

I found Paulo behind a dumpster. Paulo found Daniel cooking cough syrup on a car engine. Daniel found August hustling gullibles in street games. And then Paulo found Hansol stealing from a bakery. Before you knew any of those boys existed—Dots, Moo, Snozz, Vernon—selling weed, and dope, and pills, I was there. I protected them. They were like my little brothers. Before I knew your street-rat boyfriend, and the depressed narcoleptic, and the vitiligo lunatic, I knew Paulo. And now, my friend, my beautifully polka-dotted friend with the dappled eyes, he is gone forever.”

You shifted, and the booth made a horrible squeaking noise, and you suddenly wanted to rip the entire thing to shreds. “I’m sorry.”

“Paulo and I did not agree on things as we got older. He was tender inside. Everyone was his friend. But in a business like this, your dealers are your dealers, not your friends. And so we split apart, a bifurcated road.”

“And you started taking over his territories.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes.”

“I think Vernon wants them back.”

Finally, Jeonghan crunched the hard candy, and it splintered in his mouth to sugary shards. “I know he does. But he will not have them.”

You sighed, palms humid and damp, pressing an outline of your fingers into the flexible dress. “I don’t know… but it feels like you two are fighting for pieces of the same person. A person you shared.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrow quirked. “Do you think that’s it?”

“Well, I-I’m just, you know, don’t take that too literally—”

“No,” Jeonghan interrupted with gentleness. “I am genuinely asking. The way you put it—I had never thought of that before.”

You weren’t sure what to say. In the low-lit, misty-aired room, far away from the club’s stifling arrogance, you both maintained a mutual silence. Jeonghan opened up his palm, moved his thumb across a mapped line, and you watched him, wondering what he was lost thinking about.

Finally, he sat back. “I did not kill Paulo. But I have often thought I contributed indirectly. By creating this empire with him. And it was a formidable empire. He could have gone to school. I bet he had the ability to become an astrophysicist, or a renowned professor. Though I see him choosing a quieter path. Like a librarian.” He smiled, his ivory face becoming warm in the dimness. “I do miss him. It never stops hurting.”

For a moment, a sharp thought cut into your brain. You found that you were leaning forward, arms squishing against the table. “Did you…” he looked your way curiously. “Did you submit a leaf for Paulo at Sherwood?”

“Sherwood Hospital?”

“Yes, by their recreation room.”

“How would you know?”

“Well… I guess I don’t. Vernon goes there.”

“To Sherwood?”

“Yeah. He sits and looks at the big tree. I never asked if he did it because it seemed so personal. But my friend saw him there, during one of her narcotics meetings—said he stared for a really long time.”

For a moment, Jeonghan slipped into a different skin. His solid, stern shoulders seemed to melt, and the little smirk that never really left his mouth was finally at ease. You saw in his eyes a brightness as the abyss shrunk, revealing a marvelous sun underneath. He glanced at you. “I submitted the leaf a week after his death. But I told no one. I wonder how he discovered it… he does tend to travel about. Never still.”

You swallowed in nettles. “I don’t think he stops hurting either.”

Jeonghan nodded. “It seems so.” Again, silence was threaded delicately through the air. “Okay,” he then huffed. “I will see him.”

A spark jumped to life in your stomach. “You’ll see Vernon?”

“I will.”

You damn near threw your body over the table to hug him. Relief and glee and fondness was soaring in circles, from your head to your toes, to the point you were surprised you weren’t floating. Instead, your hands clenched together, and you spewed out a thank you that made him squint.

“So,” Jeonghan hummed. “You are dating Chwe, hm?”

Nodding, you said, “yes,” with a little too much excitement.

“He is gritty, isn’t he? Like a handful of gravel. We got along better than I let on, actually, back then. Always egging each other on. We reconnected when he asked me that special favour. I realize he’s still got that cocky attitude.”

“I know,” you answered, smiling lopsidedly.

Jeonghan seemed to inspect you, his fingers again tapping the golden tabletop, head falling to the side along with full, thick ribbons of his velvety hair. “You are not what I was expecting Chwe to like.” That faint smirk returned to his hydrated lips. “I remember you, from many months ago. You ran in front of my car to chase the bus and we almost flattened you into an animal hide. Such a helpless nature about you, I thought. You will get chewed up and spat out many times. But you don’t seem so helpless now.”

“Holy fucking shit…” the words tumbled out in dense blocks, bereft of any grace. “That was you? That’s batshit crazy. I can’t believe it.”

“Funny how the world works.”

“No kidding.”

“Well,” Jeonghan huffed while pushing up from the table, making a shooing motion with his hand, so you slid out the booth hurriedly, “I hope the best for you two. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still.”

You nodded, following Jeonghan to the door. “Maybe.”

Ruby, Tara, and Lara had all been kicked out the club.

Following the address from Ruby’s text message, you found them inside a packed bar, all slumped together at a table, surrounded by glasses of alcohol and a huge basket of chicken tenders with checkered paper, each girl gobbling away, grease shiny on their mouths. The music was bursting and the lighting was terrible. A stranger touched your shoulder in the corridor to tell you she loved your dress. When you greeted them, they all exploded into an overlapping quarrel of questions, and you didn’t understand even one.

Lara’s eyebrow was already beginning to swell. Tara had scratches on her arms. Ruby said the black-haired woman with the bob was also thrown out, and that Lara had stolen some money from her handbag.

“To pay for the tenders,” Lara mumbled while eagerly devouring the accompanying potatoes wedges that came on the side. And you apologized for the awful chaos. “Not your fault,” Tara mollified, her eyes cheery. Ruby let you have a sip of her iced tea. “This was actually a pretty great night,” she said.

An hour later, you and Ruby waved goodbye to the British twins huddling together in the backseat of a yellow taxi. She asked if you had met your VIP, and you told her yes, and that if she saw him, she would be swooning for a month straight.

“Please don’t tempt me,” she grumbled back.

When you returned to the apartment, Ruby didn’t waste any time half-heartedly showering and promptly throwing herself into bed. There were times she came home at dawn, heels deserted across the kitchen floor, outfit still adorned, face-planted into a makeup-stained pillow. You always worried about her back then. But now she could hardly make it to midnight.

However, you weren’t tired. Jitters of anxiety and relief still quivered in your muscles, plucked like guitar strings. The inherent dulcetness of Jeonghan’s tone lingered in your ears. His playful grin. How he manoeuvred between power and empathy with such easy flicks. How well he knew the boys, each with their own story and scars, as if they were his, too. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still. You chewed on those words. They settled in your teeth.

Maybe he will finally be still.

But as you sat on the edge of your bed, still pinching the stretchy spandex in your restive fingers, you wondered how Vernon would feel. Would Jeonghan tell him that you were there, at Prerogative?

He didn’t want you involved, and you understood why, and yet, you did not listen. That, he would not like. Not at all.

Suddenly, there were knocks banging at your window. You lurched, gasping, feeling over your heart—a hurdling stampede of horses.

He knew. Oh, gosh. Oh, fucking hell. He knew.

And you prepared to get weathered.

Shucking aside your curtains and lifting open the window, Vernon was hopping inside and over your desk with polished habit. He was mad, you could sense it in the air, how it crackled around his body, as he began pacing back and forth, smelling like cool smoke.

You didn’t move or speak.

He dragged a hand through his hair, already disheveled. He pulled his adored gold chain between his teeth and grinded it. He rolled up the sleeves to his black windbreaker. Finally stopped pacing. Then he looked at you, and his eyes were a soaked mixture of cinders.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He seethed.

You didn’t say a word, hands behind you, gripping the desk.

Vernon raked his bottom lip into his mouth with wolfish teeth. “You had no fuckin’ right.” He proceeded to spit. And suddenly you understood Jeonghan with striking clarity when he had said Vernon was a handful of gravel—roughened edges, uneven yet sharp, cutting as clean as knives—his street grit. “You put yourself in that fuckin’ conceited shithole of a club, to talk to him, that slippery fuckin’ snake, on some bullshit I could have done myself.” His breath was harsh, flaring out his nostrils, as though his belly was boiling rocks.

Behind you, your hands squeezed together. “I got you what you wanted,” came the soft tremble of your voice, and for some reason, your own words sounded so distant and echoing, like there were seashells covering your ears. “He’s going to see you.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Vernon bellowed, and you feared that Ruby might hear everything. “I don’t give a fuck, do you understand?! That wasn’t your authority to handle! That's not a choice you get to fuckin' make for me! It's my goddamn business at the end of the day! How the fuck do you not understand that?!”

Your lips separated, dry, afraid. “I do understand, but—”

He stepped closer to you. “Fuckin’ bullshit you do.”

“I told you that—that I won’t be able to stay out—”

“So smarten the fuck up!” Vernon chastised. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stupid thinkin’ every little thing’s always gonna go your way, especially shit you have no fuckin’ knowledge about.” He tongued his cheek, grasped at his frayed, stressed locks of sooty hair. “But that’s you, huh? Everything fuckin’ goes your way.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose, smirking, but it lacked his supplemental warmth. “You’re so fuckin’ lucky. All your damn issues are so mundane and simple. You’re just some outsider lookin’ in, thinkin’ you can play around, move things like dolls. But you’ll never understand.”

There was a deep, throbbing pain in your throat, as though something was there, digging. A small part of it was from his anger at you, but the majority was from the cataclysmic hurt, rumbling down around him like surges of breaking earth. So many wounds you couldn’t see, wounds that had barbed his interior since childhood and had been wearing him down from the inside progressively. And you, a perceived safety, a relief, now swiftly taking it all away.

You swallowed bitterly. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to make everything easier. I-I thought I was helping.”

Vernon glared at you. “Then learn when it's time to fuck off.”

A sharp sensation in your gut. Something was pulling, moving its way up your stomach, into your esophagus. You wanted to cut it free, but you didn’t know how. Your eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“Leave me the fuck alone, is what it means!”

“You’re the one in my bedroom.”

He pinched his nose, irritation singeing off him like a flame eating up a waxy candle wick. “Don’t get fuckin’ smart with that mouth of yours. You know exactly why I’m here.” Moonlight shone through the window, bathed him in silver, made his chain glint and sparkle.

You paused, about to rescind the jeering urge back into yourself. But your body wanted the urge gone. Refused to let it settle.

“Did you not just tell me to smarten up? Which is it?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, what the fuck is wrong with you?” There was a spear down your throat, splitting you open, unearthing a sap full of unspoken, smothering weight. “I fucking told you that I wouldn’t be able to stay out of your business! I fucking told you! How come you get to break rules when it comes to us? Why don’t I get that?!”

Vernon's teeth flashed. “You could fuckin’ die you idiot! You could get caught in the middle of some stupid bullshit! I know when it’s okay to let you, and when it’s not okay! But you don’t fuckin’ listen!”

“If I’m ruining your life, then just tell me.”

“God—even now—you’re not fuckin’ listenin’, you stupid girl.” He tossed up a helpless hand, chuckled in frustration. “You fuckin’ stupid spoiled people. Playin' house with people's issues. Playin' fuckin' doctor. Thinkin' you can come in and open us up like a broken toy and fix everything you think is wrong and we'll just accept it.”

“I never asked for you to change!”

“So stay the fuck out of my business!”

The feeling was a wilted rose head, finally snipped, and the weight of holding back disappeared with a windy whoosh of wrinkled petals.

Without control, you shoved his contoured chest.

He hardly moved.

You shoved him again, again, again, started pounding your fists against the boy while he just stood there like a stable mountain and absorbed your every furious shock. “Fucking hate you!” you cried aloud into the silver-stained room, your eyes pinched shut to avoid seeing his expression. “You fuck off! I fucking live here!” His smell consumed you—that heady amber, the tangy smoke, the sweetness tangled in his thick strands of dark hair—and with one final shove, you bumped past him, cheeks glazed in a sheen of tears.

But he refused.

“Let go!” You hollered, swinging your elbow about haphazardly while his fingers lodged into your skin. “I freaking hate you! I’m never doing anything for you ever again! You, you—"

Vernon lurched you closer. “Shut your mouth,” he hissed.

“No! No! You shut your mouth!”

He wrestled with your arms. “God, you annoyin’ fuckin’ girl.”

“And you’re a drug dealer! I should report you!”

But then he had your warm, fleshy arms pierced to your sides, his fingers pressing deep into the skin and rubbing bone. He was everywhere in your senses. His nose an inch from your nose. His eyes seething into your eyes. And suddenly, you wanted him to grind you up into a crystally, scintillating powder, like the ones he snorted so casually, have you inside his blood, kicking his synaptic receptors.

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth, stared into your soul. “Is that what you’re gonna do, you fuckin’ psychotic girl? Gonna go run your fuckin’ dumb mouth, huh? That’s all you're good for, isn’t it?”

“You’re the—” you grunted, twisting, “—psychotic one.” His skin was melting into your skin. “M’never gonna speak t-to you again.”

And then, he let go.

You stood there, clueless, confused, splotchy in tears.

Vernon flicked his head. “Go. Tell. Get me fuckin’ arrested.”

For a moment, you froze. His heat was gone. His smell. His rough voice so close to your skin. Everything was gone.

You felt empty and dull.

So you dared push him again.

And he had your lower back hitting the curve of your desk. You squealed aloud at the sudden pain, but Vernon’s mouth dampened it.

He had never kissed you so hungrily. Your arms wrapped around his neck, tugged him closer, eager to float in his addictive scent and submit to his touches. The boy’s weight pushed you harder into the desk. It only opened your lips wider, left more room for his hot tongue to fill your mouth and stroke you sloppily from the inside. You started to scratch and claw. You were desperate. So, so desperate. So blitzed in passionate, surging feelings that you could think nothing.

“You stupid girl,” he groaned. “You stupid, stupid girl.” His slippery lips suckled you, then his daggered teeth bit you. “My stupid girl,” he breathed across your mouth in a fluttering huskiness, which was already swelling, tender. “Why don’t you fuckin’ listen to me? Hm?”

“I do,” you whined. “I promise I do. I fucking promise.”

His calloused, tattooed hand was pressing at the base of your aching throat, soft pressure, and his eyes were hooded in a lascivious way that you had never seen. He hovered close to your glossy face. “Then prove it to me,” Vernon’s warm, whispered words tickled you, though, for not a moment longer. He gripped behind your neck, shoved you down onto your knees in a smothered thud. You gulped, peering up at his intention evident in the moonlight. Your lashes danced with nerves, anticipation. He gripped your chin. “Suck me off. Now.”

You paused. Never had you done anything like this.

He knew that.

Even if the desire had crossed your mind.

The hardened tent in his pants was making you dizzy, and you were right at eye-level with it, the moisture between your cheeks desiccated. Choking down a lump in your throat, you glanced up at him again to notice some softness in his steely gaze.

He reached out, fingers brushing over your raw lips with a sort of tenderness you wanted to greedily swallow. Vernon hummed, “do you want this, baby?” as his thumb feathered across a stinging split in your bottom lip. “You can say no. Hm?”

But you didn’t want no.

You wanted him in deep, dark, twisted ways that made no sense.

Afraid but willing, you licked at his thumb, grabbed his wrist, pushed the digit further into your warm, slippery mouth. “I want this,” you mumbled, and tested circling his thumb.

He smirked. Removed his thumb from your wet mouth, drawing along a shiny thread of your spit that you tried not to grimace at. You breathed in the room's defining warmth, watching him take hold of his belt, the rings flashing on his fingers, as he started the process of unbuckling it. And then he popped his button, grabbed his zipper, started pulling it down. The air was so ineffably dense in your nose that you struggled to breathe, and your lungs were dried fruit.

There was another sweet, lentamente brush along your cheek, drawing you into groundedness. “Relax, PJ’s,” he whispered, and the sound of your coined nickname rolling so naturally off his tongue alleviated some tension. “Just relax. I’ll help you, baby. Yeah?”

So you nodded obediently. “Yes.”

He smirked. “My good girl.”

Nothing else in the universe mattered as Vernon dug an inked hand underneath his black pants, grunted a bit, pulled himself out. You wanted to scream. Human nature was… biased. It stuck a fork into your brain and scrambled it into a fluffy pile of mush. Vernon was big. He was big and thick and certain engorged veins were curving along his daunting length to his flushed tip. You couldn’t do anything but stare, stare, stare, breathe, breathe, breathe, gulp, gulp, gulp. And then his hand, starting at his shaft and gripping upward, pushing out something milky-looking from his tip.

You finally glanced up at him.

And he shrugged. “Can’t make it any smaller. Your fault.”

“Vernon,” you said nervously, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His brows mellowed. “I know. Give me your hand, okay?”

You were shaking. He took your clammy hand, had it wrap delicately around him, and you immediately squeaked, “you’re so hard.”

His chuckle was deliciously raspy. “I know.” His toughened hand laid over yours, and slowly, he began to guide your motions, having you stroke him, feel him, his heat and texture and the odd pulses. “Like this, yeah?” He hummed. But then his grip tightened, made your hand twist in more skillful demonstration. “That’s good, too. But you can explore a bit, see what you do best.” His hand fell away and your stomach lined with fear—now left to your own novice.

“What if what I do doesn’t feel good?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“But what if you don’t like anything I do?”

“Don't scare me like that, PJ's. Not a whole lot you really gotta do to suck a dick well. What kind of fucked up porn are you watchin'?”

“I'm not watching—I just mean, l-like—what if I'm bad at it?”

“I'll guide you.”

“But what if that's not—”

He tossed his head back, snorted with dry laughter, ruffled his loose hair. “God, shut up! Do you not see what the fuck’s in front a’ you? Do you not see how good I’m clearly fuckin’ feelin’? I trust you, alright?”

You nodded. “Okay, sorry.” Flexed your fingers around him, remembered to breathe. “I’m just a little scared that you won’t like it.”

“Only a little, huh?” He abruptly tickled your cheek and you couldn't help giggling. “I know. I hear you, beautiful. But I’m gonna cum from just lookin’ at you on your damn knees, so please start.”

Really? That seemed to motivate you. Fill you with warm, liquid, oozing heat. So you began stroking him, up and down, up and down, at times attempting to incorporate that snappy wrist trick but finding it unusually awkward for you to accomplish. When you glanced up for a moment, saw how he was staring at you with such wild dilation in his gorgeous eyes, you prickled with something adventurous. You moved forward, refused to breathe, and let your tongue lick over his tip. His hips suddenly twitched. Vernon’s bottom lip pulled through his teeth and he groaned, tilting his head back, revealing the hard column of his neck. You loved the reaction, so you tried it again, ignoring the saltish taste and gluey texture of his leaking semen.

“Fuckkk,” he moaned, crackly and deep, stirring up your insides. “Give me more of your perfect mouth, sweetheart,” he cooed.

You listened, slacking your jaw, tampering with his size pressing in past your lips, getting in a little ways before it felt too big, too much, too strange, and you had to slip him back out. “Sorry.”

“Try again. Take a big breath. Close your eyes.”

Determined, you heeded his advice, getting him further into your trembling mouth, feeling his grooves and veins glide along your tongue. An urge lurched in your throat to spit him out from the intruding thickness and length, but you willfully ignored it, eyes squeezed shut, kept pushing your head down.

“Yes, yes,” he breathed so raggedly, “fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

But then his tip hit the back of your throat and you gagged, coughing up slimy spit that forced him back out. You wiped your mouth, hacked into your elbow. “Can’t fit—wasn’t even close,” you panted.

“M’not expectin’ that on your first go,” Vernon chuckled. “That was so fuckin’ good. Don’t wanna cum yet but you make it so hard.”

You smiled. Prepared yourself to try again.

Letting your sore jaw fall loose, you closed your eyes and held onto him, directing his girth back into your mouth. The spit from your previous attempt had lubricated him, made him easier to slide. Hot tears were pushing against your eyes and your throat irritably hitched, but at that moment you managed to swallow rather than messily choke. Vernon shuddered. The silkiness and warm pressure must feel indescribable. Lightly, your teeth grazed him, and then you felt his hand cradle the back of your scalp. “Let me push your head, baby girl,” he mumbled, “just a bit.” You let him.

Tears drifted down your cheeks and lined your chin like morning dew droplets. Why was it so delicious? Allowing him such control over you? Your jaw was aching terribly, his leaking cum dripping down your throat, but you didn’t want any of what he was doing to stop.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Vernon praised you for his pleasure, his thumb delicately stroking your head. “Let me inside your mouth, pretty fuckin’ girl.” He was suffocating you. Saliva flooded your hollowed cheeks, trickled from your stretched lips, and you felt a vulnerable ugliness. “God—you look so fuckin’ dirty like this, hm? On your fuckin’ knees, gettin’ that loud mouth of yours stuffed with dick.”

He chuckled with a possessive darkness, pressed your head deeper, let you whimper and drool. “Dressed in that tight, tight dress. Shows off your tits and your ass for those inflated, braindead fuckin’ rich pricks.” Your hands braced against his hard, muscular thighs. Tears were overwhelming your slimmed cheeks, tiny silver streams. “You slutty girl, hm? I bet you’re a fuckin’ freak. I should fuck you over this desk n’ make your pussy cry until you’re just a sloppy mess of my cum. Make you mine.” He suddenly tensed. Then his hips bucked forward, and you couldn’t handle it anymore, but his grip on your head was too focused, strong. You cried and shrivelled around him, scratched his thighs with your nails. He started to wickedly pulse.

Gone.

He was outside your mouth. Coldness replaced him. You breathed in like your lungs were tasting air for the first time, gasped and whimpered while feeling a metaphorical winter freeze you over.

But then something was being squirted onto your ruined, glistering face—white ropes, slippery—in your hair, along your lips, down your dress. And you just kneeled there, stupefied, accepting it.

“Fuck, fff-fuck,” Vernon swore, pumping himself intensely.

A moment later, and you collapsed back against the desk.

It was over.

Leaving you an absolute soiled, seamy mess.

Your bed was a cloud. A cushioned cloud. No hard floors. No sharp edges. Just cotton blankets that breathed around you and plump pillows. He was there, too. His arms opened for you, and you crawled into them, immediately softening into his embrace and his rich, luxurious amber scent. Your skin was pampered due to a hot shower.

No more sweat or drool or your boyfriend’s sticky ejaculate. Only the moisture from a jojoba oil lotion. Clean hair.

But still an aching jaw and a very sore throat.

He held you, pressed kiss after kiss into your temples, your dampened locks that smelled like lush hibiscus, and you held him back, fingers skimming his tattoos, a thumb running reassuring circles over the scars engrained into his palm. You wanted to tell him—I love you, I fucking love you Hansol Vernon Chwe—but you stayed silent because the moment was meant to be only tender kisses and warm brushes of bare skin and eased smiles as you relinquished the infatuation from each other.

Vernon murmured against your forehead, “you know I need you.”

You listened to his heartbeat through his chest. “Yes. I know.”

He paused, breathing in your shampoo. “But I’m no good at relationships. I’m no good at anger. I dunno. I just care about you. If you get hurt, I’ll never forgive myself, you know that, right? You’re an angel. You’re such an angel.”

“We can’t fight like that,” you sighed, letting your fingertips drift along the sliver of warm, downy skin above his waistline. Was it terrible that you would let him take control of your mouth again, at that very moment, even though your jaw was pounding and your throat was too taunt? “Do you really think that I’m…spoiled? That I’m trying to change you, or fix you?”

His fingers squeezed the top of your shoulder. “Our lives are just different,” he mumbled, the words vibrating through his hard chest. “I know, it was shitty of me to say that. You’re not spoiled. Sometimes I just get frustrated by the lucky cards other people have, y’know? Most times, it never bothers me. I’ve always managed to get by. I make my own luck.”

Your lips flattened into a small smile. “You do.”

“But you really don’t listen,” he laughed quietly.

You stared up at him, scrunched your nose. “I told you!”

He muffled you with a kiss. “I know, yeah? Brat.”

“Shush,” you mumbled back, proceeding to rub your hand down his chest, following the path of his lean, well-tended muscle. He had been with so many women. But it was only you he adored. Maybe that thought shouldn't cushion you. Nonetheless, it did. “I wonder if Ruby heard any of that,” you sighed. “If she’s tired enough, she would sleep through a freaking house fire.”

Vernon snickered. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I really did it because I care so much. Are you still mad?”

“Does it look like I’m mad, PJ’s?”

“No. But you were so hurt before.”

“When you go so long without lettin’ people hurt you, you kinda forget how to deal with it when it comes back.” He grabbed the top of your head, shook it playfully. “It was a stupid idea. Dolt.”

You smiled, giggling as he toyed with your hair, scattering his hand away. “Whatever.” You then looked up at him. “How the hell did you even figure out I was there? I didn't think you would know so fast!”

“Dumbass. You don't think I know Jeonghan has little meet-ups at Prerogative? You don't think I can get eyes there to scope things?”

“I was faster.”

“Stupider, too.”

Rolling your eyes, you curled back up against his chest. It was almost three in the morning. His hand brushed caresses along your back, so smooth, comforting, and you took in a long, slow, blissful breath. You wanted to be with him forever. Time should not have the right to ever separate you; take him away. Your rough, clever, unpolished boy.

He bent down, his lips pressing drifting, soft kisses to your jaw, the metal through his mouth warm, ticklish. “You’re so beautiful on your knees.”

Your lower abdomen fluttered. “We are never having sex,” you grinned, nuzzling his t-shirt. “You are too big. My mouth almost fell off.”

“That’s your mind sayin’ that. Not your body.” But he still kissed your jaw again with a sort of apologetic grace, wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, as though to press out the sensitive pain. “Sorry, baby.”

I love you, you wanted to say. But you didn’t.

“That’s okay.”

—END OF PART SIX.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part four.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 25k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: a bit of an earlier upload since i have work in the morning :( but when you finish this part it means we are officially more than halfway through the series! that is kraziness.

thank you again for all the kind comments & reblogs <3 i didn't expect many ppl to actually get into this fic bc of its length and subject matter so i'm glad there are readers willing to take the journey with me teehee.

also, i rly do encourage yall to check out ghana's many hopes. they do AMAZING things for young girls rescued from trafficking! they get to learn skillsets and have opportunities to build support systems!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Ghana's Many Hopes!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

You stopped by the apartment to grab a few things. After leaving the pastry behind in the fridge for Ruby, you shoved pyjamas into your knapsack—checkered bottoms and the pony t-shirt, as you had been coming to the end of your clothes—and some skincare from the washroom.

It didn’t take as long as you remembered to reach Vernon’s place.

The small, frisky dog with cataracts was barking at you two, scratching against the shutters, just like last time. Someone had finally fixed the broken doorway, replacing the wooden board with glass. You repeated the same tiresome trek up the winding staircase until reaching the fourth floor, where you released an audible breath of repose upon entering his cozy bachelor. No plain grey walls, no stiffness, no apprehension.

“Do you mind texting Ruby?” You sighed, handing Vernon your phone. “She’s asking about what happened. Just tell her I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and not to worry too much.” It was torturous to open your messages and see Lee’s unopened notifications pleading at you. “It is okay if I use your bathroom for a second? To change and wash up?”

Vernon looked down at your phone, then back at you. “Sure.”

The washroom wasn’t in great shape, but it was still better than what you imagined—at least for someone who was hardly there to clean it.

Most of the damage didn’t seem like Vernon’s fault, but rather the cheap costliness pertaining to the landlord. A crappy patch job in the shower, chips in the porcelain sink, peeling, faded wallpaper beginning to curl from the corners.

You set your knapsack down on the toilet, unzipped it, and pulled out your face product, which you soaked onto a cotton pad. Staring yourself down in the water-stained mirror, underneath the ghostly sterileness of the washroom’s pale lighting, you began wiping off all the dried tears and grime that stippled your skin. Every swipe of the cotton pad only made you focus with more intensity on yourself, until you felt so unbelievably and wildly unattractive that you couldn’t bear to stare into the mirror any longer.

With an exhausted sniffle, you unbuttoned your jeans. One leg at a time, you kicked them off, before removing the shirt overtop your head, tossing your bra onto the clothes you left bunched on the floor. Before you could catch a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror, every little detail under the light’s harsh dissection, you quickly jumped into your pyjama bottoms and wrestled on the loose t-shirt to unaesthetically match.

A deep breath before going back out to face Vernon.

He was lounging on the futon. You dropped your knapsack onto the coffee table, gave him a queasy, weak smile, and collapsed next to him.

Vernon tilted his head toward you. “Need anything? Water? There isn’t much in the fridge and I’m a shitty fuckin’ cook, but I can make a pretty gnarly grilled cheese. Takeout is fine, too. The world’s your… uh… oyster.”

But you shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He then held out your phone, which you dropped into your bag. You didn't want to read anything. You didn't want to know anything.

“I told Ruby what you said,” Vernon mumbled. “She responded a few times. Didn’t read it.” He proceeded to shrug. “Well, didn’t answer it.”

“I’ll set aside some time to text her tonight.”

He nodded, looking out the apartment window for a moment or two before Vernon turned his attention back to you. There was a reluctance in his expression, a withdrawal, like he desperately wanted to ask but felt tentative in case his queries were too intruding. You appreciated his sensitivity. His eyes flicked you up and down a few times in thought.

And then he pulled the trigger. “So? I get to know anything?”

You were curled up closer to him than usual, your cheek just barely grazing the boy’s shoulder. It was solacing to feel his heat, smell the outdoors on his clothes, the tinges of flavoured smoke. Your body untied itself.

Then, you were drawing in a long, long breath. “I tried breaking up with Lee…” you started, speaking quietly, “and it turned to… shit.”

No antagonizing remarks. No comical digs. He stayed silent.

“I didn’t expect it to be that hard. He was being so nice to me the second I stepped in the door. I just… couldn’t get the words out, y’know? It was torture.” Pulling your knees closer into your chest, you stared down at the open space of Vernon’s lap, his strong thighs. “Once he was done his homework, he came right next to me on the bed…” it was suddenly harder to speak, your throat automatically tightening up. “I was so stupidly nervous that I couldn’t articulate enough. Lee started kissing me… on my neck… he started moving his hand down my shirt…” your eyes began to sting again, blurring your vision into a cloudy vignette. “He tried to touch me, you know, in between my legs,” you breathed out in a trembly voice, “but I got too scared and stopped it. It’s like he was completely missing the signals I was giving. He was like, pulling me back down onto the bed and I freaked out even more. I had to leave. I couldn’t—I felt like I was on fire—like he was trying to trap me. I-I don’t know. It was all so quick.”

You started looking around for a tissue box.

Vernon reached underneath the coffee table to grab you one.

Pulling out two tissues, you fought to capture a structured breath, taking a moment to dry your eyes and blow your nose. “Then…” you huffed, skin irritated and wet, “I couldn’t help but think it was my fault, y’know? That I should have been upfront. I’ve just been so nervous and uncomfortable about intimacy with him. I don’t know why. But… maybe if I was more vocal, he would have understood, and, like…” bringing another tissue to your face, you blotted up the tears, sniffling louder and louder. “I just feel like, so useless. So dumb.” Blinking at the crumpled tissue squeezed into the flesh of your sore hand, you wanted to shrink, to disappear, as the embarrassment flushed through you.

Vernon shook his head. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded. “I-I know. It’s just hard not to think that way…”

“No, PJ’s, look at me.” Vernon angled himself on the futon so he could face you more intimately, capturing your fullest attention, until the brilliant rings of his earthen irises were all you could gauge. “What he did was completely not your fault. There’s no excuse for it. Someone who actually has your best interests at heart is not gonna treat you like that,” he reaffirmed you, his tone much more serious, unnegotiable. “He was countin’ on your discomfort to keep you quiet, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn’t bein’ oblivious, or missin’ your signals. Bet he knew what was comin’ and figured gettin’ inside you could change your mind. That’s real slimy fuckin’ behaviour. I should kill him for that. But you stood up for yourself, right? And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault.” Vernon reached his arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder as his firm reassurance only sparked another onslaught of waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” you spluttered, piling all your used tissues onto the coffee table before pulling the collar of your t-shirt up against your cheek, letting it absorb all the dampness. “I’m such a mess.”

“Fuck that,” Vernon laughed, pulling you closer into him. “You can be a mess when you’re with me, yeah? You really think I give a fuck?”

A smile broke through your lips. “N-No.”

“Exactly.” He nudged his nose against your hair. “I’ve been around you enough to know how dramatic you are. Usually you’re dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter,” Vernon chuckled. “But I like it.”

Your head slid into the crook underneath his chin. “So, I’m being perfectly dramatic about this. Is that what you’re saying?” You teased.

“Hey, you be the master of your emotions, alright? Don’t let anyone else dictate anything without good reason.”

“How are you so randomly eloquent and insightful?” You let out a half-hearted giggle, snuggling your face in closer to his neck. That’s where his cologne was most concentrated. Rich amber filled your nose and floated to the centre of your head.

The backs of Vernon’s fingers stopped at your elbow. After what felt like an oddly long pause, he rubbed his nose and chuckled, “dunno.”

Silence followed, soft enough to touch.

And you couldn’t have embraced it more.

Closeness with Vernon felt so easy that you wondered why you ever bothered grasping at straws when it came to Lee. The way you slotted against his side was like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. His calloused fingertips drifting along your bare arm was equal parts soothing and arousing. Having the weight of his chin rested on your head made you feel so protected, as though nothing in the world could reach you. With his other arm lax in his lap, you took the opportunity to meet your fingertip with a vein underneath his prettily inked skin, which you proceeded to trace until it disappeared into the elbow's crook. His shifted his hips as you touched him and nothing had ever made you want to jump across his thighs more.

Swallowing, you retracted your hand. “Was it good?”

Vernon casted back his hair, humming. “What?”

You repeated yourself, more audibly this time. “Was it good?”

 “Was what good?”

Biting your lip, you eventually came to murmur, “the head?”

“Oh,” Vernon laughed, snorting. “Uh, fuck, it was fine.”

You stared up at him through your lashes. “Is she a friend?”

There was a prominent stiffness to his rising adam’s apple, sharp against his throat, like an arrowhead. “Not really. I know her name, where I met her, and that she fucks heavy with ketamine. But she’s not that nice around the privates, you feel? I try to tell her what I like but she just fuckin’ operates my dick like she’s drivin’ a damn stick,” Vernon chuckled, shrugging. “You’re easy priority over that.”

Looking back down, you smiled. “I guess that’s nice to know.”

“Shit—even if it was the best fuckin’ brain I ever got—I still would have come got you,” Vernon asserted, slipping his hand underneath your arm, his fingers pressing deep into your ribs. “Lucky you, huh?”

You nodded, adjusting the knees against your chest.

Vernon cleared his throat. “Why don’t I throw on a movie?”

“Okay,” you obliged. “What kind?”

“Let’s look on my Netflix—well—not mine. I’ve been bummin’ off the dude who lives underneath me. But I give him mint weed. So it’s fair.”

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on his flat-screen television, which took a moment to start up. You assumed he didn’t use it much as you both watched the spinning loading circle.

Vernon smirked. “Is it really comfy to sit like that?”

You frowned. “Like what?”

“With your knees against your chest. You always sit like that. Why don’t you spread out more?” He offered. “Put your legs across my lap.”

A weight hit your throat. “Are you sure?”

“No, I gave you that option so I could take it back three fuckin’ seconds after I said it,” he sighed, chuckling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Naturally, you obeyed, untucking your legs and resting them across the boy’s thighs. He was right. It felt way more leisurely.

“Why don’t you pick the movie? Show me one of your favourites.”

While you operated the remote, Vernon had his palm lying flat against your knee. The smile that shot to your face was immediate, unbridled twitches dancing in your cheeks, though you attempted to hide it. Whenever he touched you, no matter how faint, it set off unstoppable fireworks from the base of your abdomen, fulgurant and hot and sizzling with desire that was near impossible to quench.

“There,” you sniffed. “Wall-E.”

“Oh, that’s a banger. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

You grinned into his neck. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

It was difficult not to fall asleep as the movie played.

The apartment grew dimmer and dimmer over the hour, with the sun setting outside, pulling all the baby blue out from the winter sky until it was an unsaturated cloth. Your head was in such a comfortable position, cradled against Vernon’s shoulder, and you had only curled up more such that you were a ball half-supported in his lap. His body heat was pulling down your eyelids and the strokes of his hand along your thigh’s underside was so lulling. You didn’t even realize the movie had ended. It was Vernon’s fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face that rekindled your senses, and you began to stretch, watching the film’s credits through the apartment’s hazy darkness.

“It’s over?” You yawned.

Vernon laughed. “It’s been over.”

“Oh…” you blinked, still wearing off your brain fog. “Why didn’t you wake me up for my favourite part?! When Eve gets Wall-E to remember everything! And they hold hands! It always makes me cry in happiness!”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

You ignored him, falling back against his shoulder. Staring out the wide windows, gazing across the last embers of sunlight buried far against the horizon, you sighed, “that’s my absolute favourite part…”

Vernon picked up the remote. “I can go back.”

“No, it won’t be the same.”

“Don’t fall asleep then.”

“Uh? Wake me up then?” You retorted. “Dumbass.”

“Aren’t you gettin’ all relaxed with the language?” He snickered, rubbing his thumb to your thigh in such a way that you nearly purred. “I’ve never heard you drop so many swears. Should I call your mom?”

“Hey—I’ve had an awful day—I can drop all the swears I want.”

“M’kay, fair.”

Your eyes stilled on the empty fish tank that caught your curiosity when you first visited. It seemed like it had been sitting on the shelf for months. The glass was cloudy, uncleaned, with some tubes left curled up against the bottom. If it never belonged to Vernon, you couldn’t help but wonder who. Maybe the presumed sister shown in the photo frame on his nightstand. The tank was large, likely fitting a decent number of fish. It must have required a notable deal of commitment and responsibility. Vernon hadn’t spared much information when you originally asked him, though you were tempted to ask again, even if it got you nowhere.

“If the tank isn’t yours, then whose is it?”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Is it a secret?”

“Not… exactly…” Vernon answered, sounding hesitant. “It just belonged to someone who was really important to me, y’know?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He breathed out for a moment, and you could feel the shallowing of his broad chest underneath your hand. There was a subtle increase in his heartbeat, each thud gentle but quickened. “I’ll show you something, actually,” Vernon said. “But you gotta move.”

You smiled, shuffling away from his heat. “Sure.”

Vernon got up from the futon. He turned on a light belonging to a ceiling fan above his bed, then approached one of the drawers on his dresser and started rifling around through its unorganized contents.

Oh my gosh, it’s happening! It’s happening! You were shrieking inside your head, jumping up and down like you’d just won an insane lottery.

He’s actually going to show me something personal!

He trusts me! He’s opening up!

As he sunk back into the futon, you noticed that Vernon had a few photographs in his hand. They looked like polaroid images based on the fuzziness and white-cast. You straightened up, practically vibrating with anticipation, while he arranged them a certain way.

“So, for context’s sake: this dude was my best friend for years. I met him when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, at the time. You could call it a double-edged knife—” (sword, you thought), “—but he showed me everything I know. When it felt like no one else gave a fuck about me, if I lived or died, he was, like, the hand on my shoulder, y’know?” At last, he gave you one of the glossy polaroid images. It was taken on a concrete staircase belonging to an aged-looking brick house. Vernon was on the right, dressed in his thick bomber jacket and throwing up a peace sign. The young man beside him wore a dark green windbreaker. His complexion was much tanner than Vernon’s, his rusty hair slicked back and a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his mouth. You stared at the stranger intently, bringing the photograph closer to your face. Vernon sighed. “That’s him.”

“What’s his name?” You wondered.

“Everyone called him Dots.”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah,” Vernon said, nodding. “It’s hard to tell in that picture, but his cheeks, across his nose, was all covered in freckles. Y’know, dots.” He began to laugh as his eyes roamed the other image in his hand. “Girls fuckin’ loved that. It was the first thing they’d compliment—your freckles are so pretty—and he was always so polite. But his real name was Paulo—the other guy that Minghao asked you about.”

Vernon passed you another fuzzy polaroid, though he didn’t feature in the shot this time. His friend occupied the image, likely taken at a house party judging from the bedazzled strangers frozen in time behind him. He was wearing glittery New Year’s Eve glasses shaped just like the number, a red solo cup in one hand, a smoking cigar packed with herb in the other. There was something so irritatingly familiar about Vernon’s friend. It was akin to an itch you just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard you stretched.

“Yeah…” Vernon hummed, “he was a sweet guy. Pretty mellow, actually. Not that into parties, clubs. He had a lot of interests, too. That fish tank was one of ‘em. He kept all kinds of shit in there. Snails, little shrimps, all these fishies whose names I can’t fuckin’ remember. He liked to read books a lot. He even showed me how to press flowers one time when we got bored in the summer—no clue where the fuck he learned how to do that—he just kinda knew stuff.”

You laughed. “Probably from all his books.”

Vernon nodded. “Good point.”

“So… he does what you do?”

“Kinda. When I first met him, he was just a dealer. But he knew all the right people. And he was super charismatic. So it was easy for him the climb the ranks and get the right promotions. Instead of pullin’ the shots, he was callin’ them, y’know?” Vernon let the last photograph slip into your hand, which you brought close to your inspection. “He was more of a distributor. He got people to move product. I did that for him. At one point I wanted to be more, but he told me it wasn’t worth it. Low profile is better in the long run. Especially if you want to get out. Makes it way easier.”

It wasn’t a polaroid image.

The detail was much crisper, with a full spectrum of vivid colour. You recognized the Camry. The two boys were sitting atop its hood, rough sneakers on the silver bumper (then, without a spot of rust), elbows weighted against their knees. Vernon was in his cherished bomber while his friend wore a jacket, green-checkered fleece. Without the polaroid glare, you could see all the details of his freckled face, from the big, dark brown eyes to the piercing in his dimple.

You knew him.

You had seen him before.

“That shitty car I drive,” he snorted, “that used to be his. But he sold it to me for a cheap buck. I always wondered why. That car went everywhere he went. Sentimental type shit. I was honoured, though.”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, your eyes widened. “I met your friend, Dots.”

His forehead was quick to wrinkle. “Really? No bullshit?”

You cast through the photos again, your certainty only becoming stronger, the memories crawling out from the deepest recesses of your mind like the dead unearthing from tombs. “He came to Mr. York’s, I think over a year ago,” you started explaining. “I was newer, having a super hard night… I thought he was gonna be another customer to shove me around but he was sweet. He even… drove me home.” The memory was uncompletely unthawed. Everything rushed back to you: missing the bus, chasing after him down the dewy street, getting into the car, feeling nervous but relieved. There was a softness about him that you had never experienced from anyone else, a certain trustworthiness that sat so right in your gut. “I remembered asking for his name, too. He didn’t tell me.”

“Shit—he drove you home?” Vernon was astonished, immediately pressing for more information. “When was this again?”

“Over a year ago. Not this recent fall, but the one before it.”

“At… where?”

“Mr. York’s,” you laughed. “Where I work, as a server.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I never saw him again,” you admitted, suddenly becoming overwhelmed with forlorn. How funny that one encounter with a complete stranger could evoke such powerful yearning, as though he had been a dear friend, someone like Diana. You supposed it was the unexplored possibility of everything ahead, a road never taken, a bridge never crossed. Lives skimming by but never blending.

“That’s crazy as fuck,” Vernon rasped, dragging a hand through his loose, shiny hair, grinning formidably bright. “You and Dotsy, huh?”

“Wow—you have a nickname for his nickname?”

“Of course.” His hands fell back into his lap. Vernon started prodding at the cuticle of his thumb. “It makes sense, though.”

You looked between the photographs again. “What makes sense?”

“Why he drove you home.” Vernon sunk lower into the futon, spreading out his legs and folding his arms, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “He liked shy, awkward, weird girls like you."

“Gee,” you coughed. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grabbed your knee and shook it. “It’s a good thing. I think people like that feel the sincerest, right? It’s not an act. That’s just how they are. They can’t help it.”

You pursed your lip, appreciating the nuance of the idea, and the comfort it harboured. “Maybe… I never thought about it like that.” At last, you set the three photographs onto the coffee table, leaving the particular polaroid of the two boys relaxed against the concrete stoop on top, and joined Vernon in leaning back into the futon. Rubbing your lips, you thought for a moment. “Are you guys still friends?”

Vernon tilted his head at you, laughed heartily. “He’s dead.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

But he casually dismissed your sympathy. “No need to apologize.”

“That’s really upsetting,” you sighed, grabbing onto your ankles. “I would have loved to know him better. I mean, he seemed so kind.”

“He was. He did his job well, but he never should have been there. I’m sure you two would have got on well. I mean, already seemed like it.”

Your smile beamed at him, like a gleaming rainbow.

Fiddling with the collar of your sock, you wavered on whether or not to ask about the gloomy specifics. The smile began to drift from your countenance, replaced by teeth nervously chewing your lip. “Am I allowed to ask how he passed? You don't have to tell me.”

“Overdose,” Vernon answered. “Gruesome stuff.”

He didn’t mention if it was accidental or not.

Either way, you sensed the distant hurt underneath his firm tone.

Picking up the photographs, Vernon took them to the privacy of his dresser, setting them down into the cabinet space with gentleness, as though he were handling a delicate flower bouquet. “Talk later, Dotsy,” he lilted before shutting the drawer. “Miss you every day.”

You were woken up much earlier than preferred by the daylight glaring in through the windows. At first, you assumed you were in your own bedroom, where you almost always kept the curtains shut because your view was a parking lot. Hence your confusion to pull the covers off your face and realize there was a ceiling fan directly above you, in addition to a series of posters against the wall that definitely weren’t yours. Shuffling to sit upright, you saw Vernon sprawled across the futon with a grey blanket half-pooled onto the floor, exactly where you had left him the night before.

He was holding a phone above his face, thumbs tapping away, rogue bits of hair sticking straight up. It was unbelievably strange to awaken in a bed that wasn’t yours. At least it was a Sunday.

You had nowhere to be.

Rubbing the bleariness from your eyes, you yawned. “Morning.”

Vernon poked his head up. “Oh—you’re awake. Sleep alright?”

While adjusting the blankets in your lap, you nodded, glancing around the apartment and noticing how subtly the morning light impacted its appearance. Everything felt cooler, softer. “Yeah… I think I conked right out, to be honest.” You grabbed your phone, making a quick pitstop of your messages. The notification to Lee’s had disappeared. Ruby had texted you a few times around midnight. “Have you been up long?”

He shrugged, guesstimating. “Uh, maybe an hour?”

“I can’t believe you’re an early-riser. It doesn’t fit you at all.”

“Why?” The boy snickered, continuing to dawdle on his phone, throwing his leg over the back of the futon. “You think I’m lazy? That us drug dealers just mooch around all day, stoned and fuckin’ brainless?”

“Well, you don’t have the best portrayals through media.”

Finally, he slapped his phone down. “I’m glad I can be a little science experiment to you. Contact with the specimen is critical, huh?”

Your eyes rolled, and you reached for the water glass that Vernon left you atop his nightstand, taking a brief gulp. Most of his glasses were dusty, but the water tasted pure. “I wonder if the specimen will prove his productive nature by making breakfast? Science has to know.”

Vernon pushed himself to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs.

He ruffled a hand through his fuzzy bedhead, attempting to calm the hectic tangles but somehow only making them worse. “Is that your fancy-smancy way of askin’ me to make you a meal? You’re a demandin’ scientist.”

“Science is always demanding. It’s serious stuff.”

Grinning, you watched Vernon lethargically drag himself over to the kitchenette, pulling out a frying pan from one of the cabinets that he clanged onto the stove. He made you a grilled cheese, paired with orange juice and a vanilla yogurt that you double-checked the expiry date on, the ensemble served to you in bed, with a dramatic bow from Vernon and the flap of the kitchen towel landing over his shoulder. “There you go, Miss. Is it to your utmost liking?” He asked in a quaint, smooth British accent, attempting to mimic a natural poshness.

“It is,” you answered. “Your productivity has been noted.”

Vernon didn’t at all rush you through breakfast, though you suspected he had somewhere to be judging from the change of clothes and quick self-pampering in the washroom. He plopped himself back down on the futon after fixing his whirlwind hair and brushing his teeth. “Mintiness is next to godliness or whatever the fuck,” he had said, sticking a Listerine strip on his tongue.

He drove you home about an hour later.

It was the worst car ride of your life—not that it was actually terrible in any sense—but chiefly because it meant your night with him was over, long gone, flicked away to the ephemeral past. He had been so supportive, so reassuring, so polite, more than you could have expected. You never would have thought those qualities of Vernon when you first met him back in the fall, though time and trust had eased you two closer, and in the process, your understanding became enriched. He was stubbornly himself in ways that others could never grasp or accept, not that it mattered to him.

The good, the bad—it wasn’t separate—but an interwoven whole.

As the car stalled outside the curb to your apartment, you gave the boy an earnest, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Vernon. Seriously.”

“All good.” He shrugged. “Talk later, PJ’s.”

Your heart was heavy, watching him pull away, disappear into whatever venture awaited him next. It felt like your connection was a thread that tied you two together, and whenever he left, the thread was unraveling, being pulled, aching at the strain of your accumulating distance.

Entering the apartment, you jammed to a holt upon noticing Ruby sat on the sofa, arms folded crossly. She was clad in a hot pink bathrobe and her sleek-furred designer slippers, wet hair pulled into a bun, bright white cream smeared underneath her eyes.

She bobbed her ankle up and down.

You smiled at her, sheepish. “Heyyy…”

“Don’t ‘heyyy’ me,” the girl snapped, regurgitating your awkward tone of voice. “My phone has exploded with text messages from Lee, saying how badly he needs to apologize to you—apologize for what—I have no fucking clue! Because you left me out to dry! I’ve been worried sick! And then I realized you’re not even home, you’re sleeping over at Vernon’s?!” She gestured at you, babbling on. “Dressed in your pyjamas?! I mean, walk of shame, much? Please, please, please tell me you didn’t—”

“No,” you laughed, pulling off your lazily-adorned coat and throwing it on the rack, “we did not have sex. All I did was sleep over.”

Ruby furrowed her faint brow, eyes boring into you with the strength of flying knives. Giggling, you dragged your knapsack over to the sofa, plopping down beside her and settling your hand over top hers, which was splayed on her knee. It actually felt nice to get scolded by Ruby, to defrost her mellowness and sense the depth of her care.

She proceeded to dramatically whip her hand away. “I want to be even meaner, but considering I don’t know what happened… I’m dialing back much of the meanness…” sighing, Ruby softened her gaze. “What the hell happened? Lee’s texts have been worrying me to death.”

You hated having to rehash the ugly details. Once already felt like enough, but the second time was just unabashedly painful. Guilt was scribbled all over Ruby’s face, and while it was impossible to blame her, you knew she was deeply upset about being the one to introduce you and Lee. He was her friend, too. Someone she trusted and regarded highly enough to suggest a relationship with her roommate. But you were adamant that she shouldn’t criticize herself so undeservingly, and after the exchanges of comfort between you, the girl was furious, stomping around the living room.

“I should call his mother!”

“I should throw a bucket of molasses over his windshield!”

“I should superglue his law textbook shut!”

You decided it was best to let her vent.

Until Ruby finally came to a pause, dropped open her mouth, and looked at you quizzically. “Wait—you told this to Vernon, too, right? What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was a sweetheart. Really nice about everything.”

Ruby jutted out her hip, readjusting the straps to her flashy bathrobe before slicking her hands against her damp hair. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Where did he go, after he dropped you off?”

You shrugged, settling back against the sofa. “I’m not sure. I assume he has, y’know, drug dealy stuff to do. He didn’t linger, just took off.”

“Oh,” Ruby said with a breathy, faltering smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to, uh, get dressed. We can do whatever you want afterward!’ She scrambled to grab her charm-decorated phone off the coffee table, slippers scuffing fast across the floor as she burst into her bedroom.

Weird. 

Holding your breath, you listened intently to the silence.

But then you heard your roommate’s voice echoing at low from her room, and you knew she was on the phone. Using your tiptoes, you pranced over to Ruby’s door, ever so subtly pressing your ear against the crack. Yes, you were being a gigantic sleuthing snoop, but something about it felt warranted.

“Vernon, just listen to me, this isn’t going to help—okay, yes! It’s going to help you feel better, but what about her? You never think things through… I understand what happened, she just told me… he is a piece of shit! I agree with you, but—I care about her, too! You don’t think I want to dent Lee’s face in for how he made her feel? … Please, please, please, for the love of God, you already get into enough trouble! Don’t add another freaking battery charge to your already insane resume of illegal activity! You seriously won’t get out of prison, you idiot! … Yes… Yes, I get it… I know how much you care for her… thank the fucking holy fucking ghost. You made the right choice, okay? I know it.”

Hearing Ruby hang up the call, you sped away from her door and settled back onto the couch, fingers twiddling anxiously in your lap.

Was Vernon going to do something to Lee?

You couldn’t be sure about the situation without admitting you had eavesdropped on Ruby. When she came out from her bedroom, you reminded her she still had cream under her eyes. She started rubbing it in, sighing aloud, like she had just adverted an assassination attempt. You weren’t sure what to think, what to feel, just that you couldn’t shake Vernon from your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what you did.

“Honey Buns, wow, I haven’t had these in a lifetime.”

“Doesn’t that technically mean you’ve never had it?”

Soonyoung’s voice sounded from over your shoulder, followed by the rustling of plastic. “Dunno—they’re good, though.”

You were helping him stock some of the snacks. It was opening and the morning crowd would start trickling in soon. While Soonyoung worked on more of the individually packaged foods, you were refilling the candy bars. The Twix and KitKats were almost completely empty.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung mumbled, “back to my story…”

Since he was stocking the aisle behind yours, you could freely roll your eyes without worrying about being rude, unlike Soonyoung, who would roll his eyes straight to your face. But you always listened to the babblings of his weekend antics because he always listened to your incessant qualms about the universe and your issues—it was only fair. Half the time you tuned him out, anyway. It was typically the same stuff: getting drunk or high, stirring up trouble, running into a handsome guy, and then they’d end up having sex some place unorthodox, like a porta-potty, or a toolshed.

You tore open another box of chocolate bars.

“… and I was, like, starting to get nervous, ‘cause I promised everyone I would get them tablets, but my plug wasn’t answering. So, I had to, like, keep assuring them and shit, right? I’ve had this specific acid tablet before so I knew it was good, but the thing is, I can only get them from this mysterious Chinese dude who kinda looks like a punk rock vampire. That’s beside the point, though. Anyway, at the last second, he comes through—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning around and brushing the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Are the tablets from Minghao?”

Soonyoung stopped stocking his Honey Buns. He looked at you, sun-bleached eyebrows strung high up his forehead. “You know Minghao?”

“Uh, not really… but I’ve been trying to, uh… it’s complicated…”

You couldn’t believe it! So, maybe it wasn’t Darian that told Minghao about you and Vernon, maybe it was Soonyoung all along. He did have a pretty big mouth… you wouldn’t be surprised if he let something stupid fly off the cuff. It somehow made too much sense.

Even though you wanted to holler, you tried to stay relaxed.

He adjusted his backwards cap. “Shit, you’re trying to buy?”

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. “Not at all. But, uh, did you know he was the one who was spray painting the building? Those octopuses? Octopi? Whatever.”

He scratched behind his neck, adverting eye contact. “Maybe…”

You gasped, “and you didn’t tell me you figured it out?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, before you have a cow, I didn’t say anything because I handled the situation and I just wanted it to be behind us. Once I realized it was him, I just slipped the dude some extra cash so he’d stop with the doodles. And—would you look at that—he stopped!” Soonyoung defended.

This time, you rolled your eyes to his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“I solved the problem, alright?”

“Those doodles had my arms limp and lifeless. I had to work cash hardly being able to lift a damn thing! Do you know how dehumanizing it was to ask men to tilt their beer to the side so I could scan it? I’ve never been called sweetheart, cupcake, and honey more in my entire life!”

“Well, I apologize,” Soonyoung tutted. “But it’s in the past.”

You huffed, turning back around to continue cramming chocolate bars onto the shelf, chewing your inner cheek. But you didn’t get very far in the task. “So, you’re familiar with him? Where does he stay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Soonyoung scoffed, bending down to grab another box and bumping you. “I just meet the dude in random ass places.”

“Does he ever mention anything specific?”

“Like what?” He groaned.

“I don’t know, like, clues to where he might live?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Soonyoung retaliated, laughing as he tore open the box in his hands. “Gonna get him back? Pull a prank on him? Finger-paint all over his windows?”

“No,” you grumbled, pausing to think of a reason. “It’s for… Ruby. She’s interested.” Oops, sorry Ruby, you winced. “They hit it off at the club. Minghao gave her an address on a slip of paper, but she can’t read his handwriting. She has no trail. It’s a real crisis.”

Soonyoung paused. “Really? Why aren’t you mad at her?”

“She genuinely didn’t know, nor did she pretend she never met him!”

He sighed, utterly drained. “Jeez.”

“Yeah. She’s super upset about it.”

“I thought Minghao had a girlfriend.”

“My guess is that they’re broken up,” you attempted to answer quickly, before he could think too hard, unaware of what Soonyoung actually knew about Minghao. “She flew back to China, apparently…”

“Damn… well…” he shoved more packaged sweets onto the shelf, taking a moment before speaking again. You dared not speak. Once Soonyoung lost a thought, it might never return. “One time, he mentioned a trailer.”

“A trailer?”

“Yeah… after we finished our deal last weekend, he told me he needed to get back to his trailer. That’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Like, a trailer park?”

“Maybe.”

Okay, it wasn’t the best lead, but it wasn’t the worst. You could work with that, even if it was ambiguous. It was definitely more than what you and Vernon had been able to scrounge up the week before. Upon organizing the last few chocolate bars onto the shelf, you heard the tinkling bell above the front door ring out.

“I better get to cash,” you said, ultimately satisfied with your play.

One socked foot was pulled onto the edge of the bench.

You left your elbow propped onto your knee, helping to secure the phone before your face as you scrolled through a citywide map. It was closing time at Mr. York’s, and since you were responsibly finished with all your cleaning duties, you were supposed to be getting ready to leave for the night.

Lara slipped into the locker area, standing behind you. As she fiddled with the combination, she mumbled, “what are you searching?”

You sighed in frustration. “Nothing, at this point.”

She took out her purse and a pair of tall, luxury winter boots from her locker. Realizing the bench was strewn messily in your coat and tote bag, you moved the items aside so she could sit next to you.

“Tonight genuinely sucked,” Lara complained, tugging off her work shoes one by one, letting them bounce rubbery against the tiles. “That fancy business lady—she makes me want to put a shotgun in my mouth.” She then began massaging her feet, blowing a tuft of long hair from her face. “The way she orders me around, makes all these cunty, unnecessary comments…”

“Oh, I know,” you chided, setting your phone aside. “And then the entire group stands out front, smoking, blocking everyone’s way.”

Shoving her foot into one of the black boots, Lara nodded. “I hate the fact she’s becoming a regular...” Lara tugged up the zipper and grabbed the other boot, rubbing some dirt off the white-fur detailing. “You think if I gave Costello a handie, he’d slip, like, a laxative in her food in return? Or something that makes her fade away?”

You giggled, returning to putting on your own boots that you had left scattered on the ground. “He’s really into you. I think it might work.”

Lara shrugged, reaching behind her to snatch a pretty coat out from her locker. “A little too into me. That business lady sucks but at least she gave me a decent tip for once. Costello is useless apart from having good timing on the meat section.” After buttoning up her chic coat, Lara flipped the shimmery strands of her dark brown hair from underneath the collar, sighing. “I’m getting damn sick of men. And women. I am a terrible person.”

“Can’t you stick it out until we can confirm the laxative thing?”

She pitted a very unsatisfactory glance in your direction.

“Only kidding,” you teased.

Lara stood up, grabbing her purse. “Do you need a ride home? Tars is warming up the car. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra person.”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

As you gathered together the rest of your things and shut your locker, Lara picked up your forgotten phone, her eyes narrowing in inspection at the map you had pulled up. “Seriously? What’s this for?”

You grabbed the phone back, stuffing it in your pocket, still disappointed at the sparse results. Lara had to pull you in the direction of the back door when you automatically veered for the front entrance. The parking lot was behind the restaurant.

You were used to the bus.

“I’ve been trying to find trailer parks that are close by.”

She chuckled while shouldering open the door. “Jeez—is the pay here really that damn bad? Don’t you work two jobs?”

“No!” You laughed, following Lara across the empty lot. “It’s for another reason that’s hard to explain. But I’m not having much luck.”

Lara opened the passenger door of Tara’s car, bending down to greet her friend before gesturing to you, standing awkwardly behind her, arms folded to help protect yourself against the biting wind.

You could hardly hear what the two girls were saying—Tara was blasting electronic pop music while taking off her lipstick with a makeup wipe—and you could only hope that maybe she would turn the volume down a tad. Vernon played his music quite loudly, too. Sometimes he would compromise, sometimes not. It depended on how much he liked the artist.

“Hop in,” Lara then said. “She’s fine with it.”

You smiled, pulling open the back door and sliding in behind Lara. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that you nearly coughed.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Tara shouted over the music. “Apologies—the backseat it a little messy—you can just push all those magazines over!”

“Oh, no problem!” You shouted. “Thanks for the ride!”

“What was that?!”

You set your tote bag beside you, swallowing tightly as the music vibrated through the car’s speaker system. “I said thank you for—"

Suddenly, everything went dead silent.

“Gosh, Tars,” Lara grumbled, wriggling out from her coat. “You don’t need it that fucking loud. The concert was five months ago. And there’s a guest in your car. I think she appreciates having intact ear drums.”

You giggled breathily, nervous. “It was a little loud.”

“Don’t sugar coat it,” Lara groaned.  “She needs an intervention.”

“Okay, whatever!” Tara yelled, loosening her scarf and pulling out her phone. “I get the point. Where do you live? For the GPS?”

“2269 Roxbury.”

“Perfect—we’ll drop you off first.”

“Oh, by the way,” Lara began, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, “I’ve seen a few trailers, but it wasn’t necessarily a park.”

You brightened up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Right before it got super cold, my friends and I meshed with this other random group at a bar. We ended up going to a scrap yard, I think it’s called. There were old cars and motorcycles everywhere. A few trailers, too. Anyway, stuff was definitely getting passed around. I tried this LSD gummy and then got on a rusty bike. Got a super nasty cut on my leg. Had to go to the doctor and everything.”

“Oh,” Tara hummed, focused on the road. “I remember that. I had to come pick you up! That cut was awful! You’re lucky you had your shots!”

“Where was it, do you remember?” You pressed for information.

“I remember,” Tara sighed. “It’s along Kichesippi Woods. It’s a big scrap yard that doesn’t really get used any more. If you’re wondering about the trailers, I think there were three. People definitely lived in them. I guess they're used to people sneaking around.”

You were already making notes in your phone, excited to share the news with Vernon later on. “That’s amazing! Thank you both!”

Tara poised a polite expression. “Why are you so curious?”

“It’s a secret,” Lara answered in your place.

You shrugged, smirking ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. He made himself comfortable on the couch, already prepared with an extra pillow and a pink blanket (he usually preferred Ruby’s black blanket that came with a special heating remote, but you thought the fairy pink was much better), in addition to slapping on his casual clothes—grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt—which truly wasn’t that different from his everyday attire. You were anticipating having him over, considering the fact you had been sitting on some very pertinent information all week. While waiting for your tea to finish steeping, you and Vernon were chatting up random topics.

Ruby wouldn’t be home until later.

Vernon had rolled himself a blunt. You never liked the astringent smokiness of the smell, how it stuck to everything, but after enough rendezvous with Vernon, you were unfortunately used to it. Ruby was into weed as well. She always puffed out her bedroom window.

“I’m actually so excited to tell you what I figured out!” You exclaimed, unable to stop fidgeting in your seat on the couch.

He eyed you up and down. “I can see that.”

“No, like, I’m really proud of myself.”

“Congratulations.”

It felt like being a child the night before the big birthday party, knowing your parents got you a specific gift, being ecstatic to rip it open, having an ear-to-ear grin plastered on your face akin to a mask.

Vernon exhaled a cloud of billowing, smooth smoke. He made everything look so effortless. You were a coughing, spluttering mess the last time you tried a basic joint, rolled courteously by your high school best friend. To be honest, you just never had much interest in it. Although you were probably smoking cheap, dull strains.

“When can I know the news?” He asked, keeping the blunt secured between his fingers as his hand fell upon his lap. “Why the big wait?”

“My tea,” you answered. “It has to finish steeping.”

The boy groaned, rolling his head against the sofa, frustrated at the delayed gratification. You looked along the column of his throat, noted the skin's bareness, without dark purplish-brown bruises pressed like flowers. There hadn’t been any marks for a few weeks. At least none you had noticed or seen—not that you were keeping track.

“Who cares?” Vernon grunted.

“I care!” You smacked his thigh with an embroidered pillow, a gift from Ruby’s seamstress mother. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“Is your special tea the equivalent of this?” Vernon inquired, holding the blunt up to his lips. The next time he spoke, the thin smoke crawled out from his mouth, as though he was a fire-breathing dragon. “Then I could understand. You gotta ride the wave.”

“Sure, it’s exactly like that. It’s probably done, actually.” Getting up from the couch, you checked the tea that you left steaming on the counter, stirring the bag around a few more times for good measure before plopping it in the trash. Once you rejoined Vernon in the living room, you snuggled against your end of the sofa, legs stretched out and daring to poke into his space. “Okay, are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Floor’s all yours.”

“Can I please have some more excitement?”

Vernon sighed. He tucked the blunt behind his ear and cleared his throat. Then, the boy was leaning over you, grabbing your shoulders and rattling them. “Oh, please, please, please won’t you tell me your awesome secret!” He fake-pleaded, squinching his eyes shut. “I’ll genuinely kill myself if I don’t get to know!”

Giggling, you pulled up your foot and lightly shoved it against the edge of his ribs, prodding him to sit back down. “That’s much better, although it didn't seem very sincere. Anyway, okay I'll tell you. Whew, this is really good. Okay, okay... I know where Minghao is!”

“Do you?” Vernon engaged, entertaining himself with another intake of smoke. “And where would that be? Burlington Coat Factory?”

“There’s a scrap yard along Kichesippi Woods,” you explained, tightly gripping your tea. “He lives in one of the trailers there. I’m positive.”

“Kichesippi Woods? Didn’t a guy get murdered there last year?”

You leaned forward, willfully ignoring him. “And guess how I figured it out? Through my savvy investigation skills! It was Soonyoung! He gets tablets from Minghao. I figured he was the one who blabbed about us, knowing his big mouth and all, so that’s how Minghao knew I was familiar with you. Apparently, Minghao mentioned getting back to a trailer, so, naturally, I think—” you paused, blowing on your tea and taking a shallow sip to test its flavours before continuing, “—I think he lives in a trailer park, but there’s hardly any around the city.

So, I’m working a closing shift at Mr. York’s a few days later, and I get a major scoop from Tara and Lara. Lara went to a scrap yard with this big group of people to do drugs or get drunk or steal a rusty bicycle or something—I don’t really know—and she tells me she noticed trailers there. Tara backed her up. One has to be Minghao’s! The yard’s along Kichesippi Woods!”

Vernon was squinting at you, his eyes slim and red. You assumed it was a boatload of information to absorb at once, and you hadn’t exactly held his hand and waltzed through everything at a gentle pace. But you had collected all the evidence—even a location!

The boy nodded. “That’s good news, for sure.”

Letting the tea sit between your legs, you clapped at him. “Who’s pulling the weight now, huh? I did all that handiwork myself!”

“Handiwork?” Vernon scoffed, itching his studded eyebrow. “You have destiny on your side. Everyone you fuckin’ breathe around is tangled up in this bullshit, somehow. Not that I’m complainin’.”

You fell back against the arm of the couch, pouting. “Why can’t you let me win? Did I still not do a good job? Did I not help us out?”

“No, 'course you did a good job,” he assured you. “And you helped us a lot. You’re right. I should celebrate your wins more.”

Feeling the hot tea begin to burn your inner thighs, you picked it back up and nodded at him in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, when should we check it out? Tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head, fixing his tattooed arm around the back of the couch. “Can’t,” he muttered, “I’ve got business.”

“Ugh, you’re so boo.” You frowned, slipping down the sofa. Holding the tea against your stomach, feeling a circle of heat sink through your shirt, you began nibbling your lip, different ideas forming bubbles in your mind as you examined the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Forget it,” he chuckled. “You’re not goin’ by yourself,”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” you corrected him. “The only thing I wanna do is check it out. I can’t help being curious. Maybe Tara would—”

“You don’t go if I don’t go,” Vernon stated, shrugging a shoulder.

Lifting your head to rest against the sofa, you scowled at him. “I don’t think that choice falls into your authority. I can do what I want.”

“Oh, can you?” He goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What a big girl.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Vernon said. “I don’t want you there without me. Minghao’s snakey. I know how to deal with him.”

You sighed in capitulation, wriggling your toes. “Fine.”

He gave you a stern but entreating glance. “Promise?”

Sitting up, you set the tea onto the coffee table. “I promise.”

Vernon held out his pinky finger.

You wrapped yours around his and shook on it.

Curling your legs underneath you, playing with a thread of the pink blanket now pulled onto your lap, you began to smile. “I can't help but find it weird when things actually go my way."

He chuckled. “It only feels weird ‘cause you think the world’s against you. But it’s not.” Vernon exhaled another wispy cloud. “It’s just the world. Plus, you’re high-strained enough to start up a car battery.”

“I am not!”

The boy tossed his eyes in a circle. “Your delusion charms me.”

“Actually, I think I’ve calmed down a lot…” you hummed, winding the thread around your finger. “Compared to when we first met.”

Vernon nodded. “Maybe.”

“You don't believe me? That I've mellowed out?”

“Somehow, I think it's the opposite. You talk a fuckin' lot.”

“I do? All my report cards said I was too quiet.”

“Maybe I just bring it outta you, huh?” He chuckled, letting the blunt nestle between his lips. The papery tip singed its orange glow as he puffed, more smoke drifting throughout the living room. You noticed the burnt odor lingering for longer than usual, though you weren’t particularly concerned. Maybe you were half-high. “Spike?” He was suddenly holding out the blunt, thick in his fingers and packed with an earthly, musty smell, and your heart restricted, frozen at the offer.

“Uh…” you swallowed, a deep fire rising from the base of your throat that made the words difficult to pronounce. “I’m not sure if…”

He moved it away before you could decide, drew in more smoke that soon streamed out his nose and rolled from between his lips like a waterfall of weightless clouds. “I knew your ass wouldn’t do shit.”

“Because you pressured me!”

He almost choked on his own splitting cackle. “Fuckin—how?! All I did was hold the damn thing out in front of you! You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“You set up a pretense for me to be pressured!”

“No—that was you,” Vernon chuckled. “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Grumbling, you stayed hunched over the blanket, continuing to play with the baby pink thread by feeding it between your fingers.

“Unless,” Vernon sang, “you actually did want a spike?”

You glanced up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

He nodded his head. “I don’t care if you do, PJ’s.”

Sighing, you reached out, though you paused midway, your fingers twitching in the air. No—you couldn’t. There was too much unspoken tension with him watching you. What if you started hacking up a lung like back in your high school days? You were never good at holding the breath in—the part that was crucial to feeling the high—without your eyes sprouting tears from the heated dryness.

Then, shaking your head, you refused. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s been too long…” you worried, forgetting the thread and lying back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna look dumb, or something.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? It’s just me.”

“And you’ll make fun of me.”

“Well, I won’t mean it.” He smirked, giving you another moment to twiddle your thumbs and think. Suddenly, Vernon grabbed your knee and squeezed it. “I won’t say a damn thing, okay? I promise.”

“No.”

“Yes, c’mere,” he encouraged. His textured fingertips squeezed into the flesh of your arm, pulling you to sit back up despite all your grouchy, reluctant noises. “Swear I’ll be good.”

Staring him square in his pretty face, you shook your head.

“How ‘bout I make it easier, then?” Vernon suggested an unknown compromise, the dark hues of his golden eyes softening. “You trust me?”

At that moment, your skin thrummed with heat. You felt its pulse, travelling like a crashing ocean wave, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from narrowing as you traced the crests and contours of Vernon’s scheming expression. You coughed slightly. “What does that mean?”

He pursed his lip. “I’m askin’ if you trust me.”

You sniffled, nodded your head. “I do… but—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?” The nervousness of not knowing his intentions caused your mind to flitter like paper birds. You did trust him, but that didn’t exactly quell your timorousness with one easy sweep. “I-I just… you’re making me… nervous.”

“I know,” Vernon said, smiling. “I’m not gonna do anything you won’t like, yeah?” He brushed his fingers along your knee, and you took in a long, quivering breath. “Just keep relaxed. That’s it. And at any point, if you don’t want to, then stop me. Sound good?”

“Okay.” You nodded, your voice a squeak.

He put the blunt between his lips. Grabbing his lighter off the coffee table, you leaned back as he crisped the end with a few sparks, feeling the flame’s warmth ever so gently against your cheeks. Once Vernon was satisfied, he tossed the lighter and gave the blunt a quick, obligatory puff, making sure to politely blow the smoke away from your face. “Alright,” he sighed, “you ready, PJ’s?”

Gulping, the only thing you could do was nod, too afraid to use your voice again in case it embarrassingly cracked. Vernon reminded you to close your eyes. As soon as the room went dark, your heartbeat leapt tenfold.

You felt his hand touch your knee, attempting to soothe you with massaging circles. “Relax, okay?” He whispered. “You’ll like it.”

There was the faintest sound of a crackle as you heard the boy inhale, taking his time to let the smoke settle right. Then, you sensed his fingertips drift against your tingling cheek, curling behind your ear, and your nails scraped the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. He was holding the edge of your face, so close that your atmospheres seemed overlapping despite the sheer, unmoving blackness.

Softly, his nose bumped yours and you gasped. That’s when you felt the fantom breeze—his pierced lips delicately mouthing over your own—his fingers dancing to fasten your chin, the smoke crawling inside you, spilling against the back of your throat like a breath of prickly fog. The sensation was overwhelming. You didn’t know where it came from, but you mewled, wanting to chase Vernon’s touch like a swaying, golden reed. His hand skimmed down your waist, pulled along your thigh, and then the smoke had vanished.

Holy hell—you were going to pass out.

Everything around you felt fuzzy, dream-like.

There was so much heat inside you that it was no wonder your tissues and bones weren’t melting into each other, bubbling, fusing.

But then you realized what had happened. Your eyes flung open, and you scrambled backward until you were pressed against the arm of the sofa, gawking at the clever, smirking boy. “Why the hell would you do that?” You admonished.

Vernon relaxed back into his spot, arms crossed, blunt tucked behind his ear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Made you feel good, yeah?”

Yes, yes!  You had never felt anything so electric! Sparks had coursed the lengths of your sensitive skin like flying livewires. They were ticklish and molten and crackling with pleasure.

“No! It did not!”

He bit his lip, shrugged. “Fine, it didn’t.” But then he tilted his head at you. “Thanks for moanin’ into my mouth, by the way. That was hot.”

“Shut up!” You recoiled off the sofa. “No I freaking didn’t!”

“My word against yours, beautiful,” Vernon countered, winking.

“I can’t believe this!” You fretted, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, fingernails running against your teeth. “Why on earth would you do that? I don’t understand! Are you trying to trick me?”

He spoke through a haze of smoke. “Trick you how?”

“By damn near kissing me!” You cried. “Why would you do that!”

Vernon didn’t seem as concerned. “You like me,” he stated.

“So?!” At that point, it didn’t even matter. He obviously knew. You were terrible at hiding it—big surprise—but you had gradually stopped caring about how obvious you were being because there had been the boundary of his feelings diverging from yours. You were safe in a world of fantasy. There was nothing else to worry about. He would never reciprocate. “That isn’t something you can do, Vernon! It doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me!”

“Who said it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Your feet tripped on the shag carpet at the shock of his questioning and you slammed to an awkward, confused stop. He was still reclined against the sofa, hands tucked behind his head, one holding onto his blunt that produced a finite tail of smoke into the air.

“What?” You gasped. “And what the hell does that mean?”

He bit his lip ring, stared at you. “What do you think?”

“No,” you choked, shaking your head. “No, no, no, no!”

“No, what?” Vernon laughed, leaning forward and splaying out his hands. “Why is this suddenly such a bad thing? I can’t like you?”

You sat on the coffee table, squeezing your scalp in agony.

He moved closer to you, reaching his touch underneath your knee.

“It’s not the same…” you sniffled, wiping off your runny, wet nose.

Vernon shrugged, sweetly rubbing your leg. “How come?” He murmured, attentive to your overflowing sensitivity. “Explain it to me.”

You sighed, gulping in a breath. “It just isn’t. When you didn’t like me back, I could like you even more, as much as I wanted! Because I thought you would never like me! But if you’re being serious… then it changes things! It puts… realism… on the table… and there’s just no realism with us!” Tears beaded down your cheeks, but you wiped them away before Vernon could get his hand back to your face, before you could melt all over again. “I’ll want more, I’ll want a relationship. But you won’t because you’ll get bored in a relationship—that’s why you only have unattached sex! And you’re a freaking drug dealer! How am I supposed to introduce a drug dealer to my parents, o-or survive without worrying about you, or stay out of your business no matter how many times you tell me to. I won’t!”

“Jeez,” Vernon chuckled, his voice becoming hoarse from the potency of the Indica. “That was quite the speech.”

“But did you listen?!”

“Yes, yes, I listened.” Vernon put the blunt behind his ear, then eased your anxious buzzing by grabbing onto your shaky hands and surrounding them tightly with his warm, rough, calloused ones. “I listened, PJ’s. Alright? I think you have valid worries. But why do we have to focus on the uncertainty right now? Why can’t we just… I dunno… go where the wind takes us? Huh?”

Your shoulders sunk. “Do you really like me?”

The boy smiled, flashing a glimpse of his sharp teeth as a response.

“Well… I think you’re lying. We’re friends.”

No matter what he told you tonight, your mind was solidified. It was not going to accept that this boy was being truthful. It was not going to accept that your fantasy was threatening the bounds of real life.

Vernon shook his head, moved aside some sooty hairs tickling his eyes. “Y’know what? Sure. We’re friends. Let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’ll just think about you every wakin’ fuckin’ second of my goddamn day, and you’ll think about me, and we’ll just call it even. Right?”

 Nipping anxiously on your bottom lip, you nodded. “Right.”

Vernon took the blunt down from his ear. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Once Ruby came home, she could clearly tell something was off between you, though she refrained from being vocal about it. You were certain she noted how distant you were from Vernon, not just metaphorically, but also physically, cramming yourself against the opposite end of the sofa like you were attached by hot-glue.

Most of your responses were minimal and squeaky. She sent you a text before bed, when you came out from the washroom and screamed at Vernon innocently waiting his turn.

WTF is going on???

You sent her a text back.

I’ll explain tmo… you won’t BELIEVE it…

7 MONTHS AGO.

The next morning, you decided to take Ruby out for breakfast to explain the situation. Vernon was gone by the time you awoke. Strangely, the pink blanket was folded nice and neat on the couch as opposed to the usual lump he would leave behind in his haste. You placed the blanket on the corner of your bed prior to heading out, giving it a long, confused stare.

Ruby loved Get Cracking. It was her favourite breakfast restaurant in the city. No matter your age, they left you pencil crayons and a colouring book to work on while awaiting your food. It made for a very interesting exposé as you shaded in the bejewelled crown atop your princess’s curly hair.

“No… I don’t even know how to start…” you sighed.

Your roommate was colouring a frog perched on a lilypad. “Just come straight out with it,” Ruby encouraged. “That’s the best way.”

“Well, I’ll set up some background first…” you murmured, replacing your bright yellow pencil with a deep purple one to colour in the crown’s amulets. “So, basically… Vernon almost freakin’ kissed me.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, harsh snap. Ruby had broken the lead to her blue pencil. “Uh—” she swallowed, hard, bulging her golden-green eyes at you like saucers “—so much for background information!”

“It gets worse!”

“Jesus. How?”

Collapsing your shoulders, taking a timid glance around the restaurant, you proceeded to lower your voice and whisper, “because, then he told me… he essentially told me that he liked me! I almost fainted!”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you freaking serious? Like, on your life? You’re being serious? He said that?”

You nodded gravely. “No, I’m being so serious. The seriousest.”

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t know! That’s how serious this is!”

She couldn’t produce even a sound. Instead, Ruby dropped her broken pencil and sunk back into the booth like she was just delivered the most devastating news, her tongue circling around her inner cheek. To be honest, you were still reeling from the moment. It consumed your mind without mercy for the entire night. You saw Vernon in your dreams. You touched him. You caressed him. You felt him in ways you couldn’t confess.

After a palatable silence, Ruby shifted from her stony, stiff position that made her seem almost corpse-like. She casted fingers through a silky red streak of her dark hair, puffing out from deep within her chest. “Damn…”

“That’s all you have to say?” You whined. “I need guidance!”

“Well—jeez—I need to process it!” Ruby defended.

“I thought that silence was you processing it!”

“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That was me talking myself down from buying ten Screwdrivers!”

Squeezing the pencil in between your fingers, you tried desperately not to let yourself spiral. After all, you were the master of spiralling. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, but it was terribly exhausting to come back down and grasp the extent of mental wreckage. Ruby was far better at composure, though she seemed most keen for a drink before you went any further.

You grabbed a pink pencil for the princess’s dress. “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that it’s confusing… if he’s being honest about it, then I don’t understand why he likes me. We’re so different in every aspect.”

Ruby sighed, grabbing her blue pencil and attempting to colour with it again, only to remember it was broken. She took another shade from the assorted cup, blowing some shavings off it. “I’m not gonna pretend to fully understand how the guy’s mind works…” she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never liked anybody romantically. He’s always been a free spirit, you know? Doesn't like to be tethered. I think the fact you are so different from him, so beyond what he’s used to… maybe it’s refreshing?”

Frowning, you pushed harder on the pencil, outlining the princess’s dress in a darker hue of hot pink. “Yeah, and then he’ll get totally bored of me. I’ll lose my refreshingness! I feel like I’m just a phase, you know?”

“I wish I could give you a clear answer.”

You wished for that, too.

But if someone were to plop a miraculous crystal ball into your hands and harness the undeniable truth, that would be too easy, and your life was certainly not founded on easiness. Sucking in your cheeks, you continued colouring, noting more streakiness through the thin paper as pressure flooded your hand and cramped your fingers.

“How did he try to kiss you?” Ruby asked.

You let the pencil roll away. “It was a tricky trick.”

“What kind of tricky trick?”

The memory remained sharp in your mind. Every little sensation, breath, gliding of fingers, nervous words—you could recreate it with clay and make a damn movie! Having to explain the situation to Ruby turned you hotter than the fresh plate of browned, buttery pancakes the waitress had just delivered to the table.

Ruby pulled the waitress’s attention. “Can I ask for one Screwdriver, if that’s okay? With a raspberry flavour shot?”

As you spilled the warmed, smooth syrup around in circles, you sighed aloud. “He had a blunt, and asked if I wanted a hit. I said I couldn’t because it had been too long since I last smoked—I didn’t wanna look like a gigantic fool—what if I started choking to death or something?” Setting the pitcher back down, grabbing hold of your utensils, you continued. “So, whatever, I let him take control of the situation. He asked me to close my eyes, right? Then… he gets close to me… he has his hand on my face and his lips are like, feathering over mine, and he’s blowing the smoke into my mouth!”

Ruby brought a hand to her face, gasping.

“The worst part…” you whispered, embarrassment fizzling up your chest as you leaned further toward your roommate, “I moaned!”

“You what?!” She shouted, beginning to cough. “You moan—”

Picking up a napkin, you shoved it against her loud mouth before the entire diner could hear your intimate, inappropriate details while in the midst of eating breakfast. She used the napkin to wipe some crumbs off her lips. “S-Sorry—” Ruby spluttered, “—I just—holy fuck. He kinda got you.”

“He was so damn cocky about it!” You flustered.

“Well,” Ruby sighed in a helpless breath, cutting across her pancakes. “That’s Vernon for you. If he gets a reaction, he runs with it.”

Prodding at your food with a fork, you again thought back to the dreams running rampant through your imagination last night. How vivid each sensation felt, to the point that the little hairs on your arms began bristling in response. His rough hands all over you, pulling, kneading, smacking. The ghosted recollection of what it might feel like to be filled by him, a warmth and fullness you couldn't make sense of. There had been sweat shining off your body with the glow of a newborn star. There were moans, loud and then soft, weak.

You hadn’t realized you were staring into space.

Ruby’s lips tightened. “Uh… what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your pupils are telling me.” When you didn’t entertain the topic any further, Ruby smiled, her expression comforting. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay to think about him in ways that feel… not okay.”

You stabbed a sliced piece of banana onto your fork. “How is it okay, though? You always freak out about us potentially having sex.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, but that was before I knew all this, how he feels about you. I would hate for your first time to be with someone who isn’t on your wavelength romantically.” She paused as the waitress stopped by with her orange Screwdriver. “Things could have changed once he got to know you. I mean, clearly, they did. It’s just… you might not be ready for the same things.”

“We definitely aren’t. I can’t… be with a drug dealer,” you whispered.

She chuckled. “Most people would probably say the same.”

Letting your chin rest in your palm, you glanced at your roommate from across the table. “Do you think he’s serious? He really likes me?”

Ruby grabbed her beverage, taking a sip. “I know he’s serious,” she confessed after settling the glass back down. “Dude, he was gonna beat the shit out of Lee. I had to talk him out of it. He laughs and smiles so much when he's with you. I think he genuinely cares about you. And I bet you’re all he thinks about.”

You started to smile, your eyes fluttering. “That’s sweet…”

“I really can’t tell you what to do,” Ruby admitted with a defeated shrug, spearing some fruit onto her fork, “since you know yourself best. But I bet the answer will come to you when you’re least expecting it.”

After bringing the sliced banana to your mouth, you began cutting into your pancakes frustratedly, nodding. “My god. I hope so.”

Before you and Vernon could jump into investigating the scrap yard, he told you that he had a deal planned right around lunchtime. Of course, this was mentioned after you had already sat down in his car, and since you weren’t in the mood to bail out into a pile of pebbled, greying snow and concrete, the best thing you could do was begrudgingly cross your arms and sigh.

Now, you didn’t know where you were.

It was a gigantic, empty hanger graffitied to hell with large garage doorways. Probably some sort of warehouse left to complete abandonment years and years ago, turned to an ideal location for Vernon to sell his friends drugs. How forward thinking.

The air was still and frosty, the surrounding land barren, lumped, and dead, with nothing but a coarse field to stare at from across the quiet road. While Vernon sat on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth grumble from the running engine underneath, you were stiffly leaned against the threshold of the garage doorway. Ever since the second incident (taking name after the now labelled first incident AKA the failed confession), you couldn’t help but make it weird.

Vernon acted the same as he always did.

Unfortunately, you weren’t hardwired that way.

Kicking at a stone, you sighed, “when is he coming?”

“Soon.”

“Can I have a time?”

Vernon stared at you. “12:12.”

“No, I mean, like, the time that he’s supposed to show up.”

“Well, if I had the time for that, I would have said it.”

Displeased at the unproductive exchange, you turned around, keeping your arms folded, and took a few steps inside the industrial-sized hanger. There were some gashes in the metallic roofing, letting through thick beams of white light that staggered against the ruined cement floor. You then looked right, saw a huge slew of black, graffitied letters dried dripping above a hole broken through the infrastructure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GLORYHOLE!

Promptly, you turned back around. “What a lovely place this is.”

Vernon scoffed, stretching out his hands behind him. “I know you wanna leave. It won’t be much longer, alright? Moo’s good at that.”

“Not me to me, he’s not. Did you guys not discuss a time? Or do you just throw out arbitrary numbers and show up when you feel like it?”

“Ease the attitude. Damn.”

Your eyes rolled. It was impossible not to give attitude.

Giving attitude was the only way for you to place distance that was more than just physical in between yourself and Vernon. It was your only means of putting up a barbed front. You were not an attitude person by nature. But being around him just pulled it straight out of you like a child yanking their loose, wriggling tooth.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit here.”

You made a sour, repulsive face. “Mmm… no.”

Vernon shook his head, chuckling. “I knew you would do this.”

Rolling a rock underneath your heel, you muttered, “do what?”

“Make it fuckin’ awkward.”

“No—” you argued back, instantly tense and hot, “—you made me make it awkward! And since you knew I would be awkward about it, my awkwardness right now is completely and unequivocally your fault!”

Vernon shrugged, pressing against a sore spot on the side of his neck, beginning to yawn. “I can’t be bothered t'give a fuck.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He shuffled backward, reclining against the car’s windshield, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. “The not givin’ a fuck part didn’t kick in until just now. Can you hit the radio? I want some tunage.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Prick,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“Idiot,” you mumbled back, punting the rock.

Vernon’s friend appeared about ten minutes later, ripping into the lot with a concerning level of speed. He pulled his all-black car right next to the rumbling Camry. It looked like something salvaged from the early 1990’s with its small, square lights, short hood, and compact structure. Vernon greeted his friend, Moo. He was sporting a thin black zip-up, some track pants, and weathered white sneakers. His hair was a fluffed-out, wispy afro and you were quick to notice that some splotches of skin on his hands and neck were pale in comparison to his dark complexion. Vitiligo. You remembered the name since one of Diana’s cousins had the condition.

Unsure of what to do as Vernon and Moo cordially conserved, you returned your attention back toward the hanger, scuffing your shoes and hearing the consequential echo. Until Vernon called you.

“PJ’s—this is Moo. Old buddy a' mine.”

Shuffling over, you leaned against Vernon’s car. “Hello.”

Moo smiled, sticking out his hand. Vernon always dapped up all his friends, and you assumed it would be no different with Moo, hence his quirky laughter when the attempted handshake was met with you scraping at his palm and clutching his fingers.

“Oh, shit,” Moo chuckled, rubbing his nose as you reclined into yourself, embarrassed. “Didn’t know you were cool like that.”

“I’m sorry. Vernon always does it and—”

“Hey, I’m throwing something this weekend,” Moo suddenly interrupted your bumbling, returning his attention to Vernon. “Kitty’s finally back from Europe and she brought some crazy freak shit they’ve been smashing in those underground clubs. Said it’s cut with stardust. What a fucking liar, huh?” He smacked Vernon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Anyway, if you’re free, you should swing by.” Moo looked at you. “And you, too. If you're into that”

Vernon nodded, returning the gesture and giving his friend’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “Alright, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Moo waggled his tiny baggies full of white powder, seeming satisfied that he delivered forth the message. “No worries, street rat. I'll make sure this gets to Mish, the lazy bastard.” He plopped back into his car, saluted you both. “Later guys.”

Upon his friend tearing out from the parking lot, Vernon slapped the money against his hand. “Okay, the treacherous, scary deed is done.”

Squirming into the warm car, you asked, “are you going?”

Vernon tucked the money into a black knapsack that he proceeded to toss into the rear of the car. “Yes, yes, holy shit—can you give me a fuckin’ second to at least breathe the air? Jesus Christ…”

“No!” You shouted. “I meant are you going to the party?”

“Oh,” he sighed cumbersomely, puffing out his cheeks. “Uh, probably. And it’s not a party.” He stretched on his seatbelt.

You undid the buttons on your woolly coat. “Then what is it?”

“Nothin’ that you’d give a fancy fuck about,” he chuckled while proceeding to steer the car out from the lot. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Well, what if I want to go?”

Suddenly, Vernon smashed the breaks.

In the midst of putting on your seatbelt, you were shot forward like a rock in a slingshot, ramming into the dashboard. Shaking your head, you glared at him, feeling the crookedness in your arm. “What the hell!”

The boy’s brow was heavily contorted in bewilderment. “Please, tell me you did not just say that, Pyjamas,” he implored. “There’s no way.”

With a grumble, you adjusted yourself back into the chair, ensuring your seatbelt was safely secured before you dared say anything else. Vernon's stare was crisply burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, and it became increasingly harder to put a sentence together.

Rolling out your shoulders, you nipped, “stop staring at me.”

“I wanna understand why you wanna go. I mean, it makes absolutely zero fuckin’ sense. There’s nothin’ there that appeals to you.”

“Can you just drive?”

Vernon obliged, peeling out onto the long road bordered by stiff country fields and pearl blue sky. “I think you’re tryin’ to pull my chain.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughed again. “Seriously, though. What’s this about?”

With the industrial hanger being pulled away from your peripheral, you had nothing to stare at but the encompassing fields, prickled and ice-crusted with frost. Honestly, it was quite pleasant to take in such openness after habituating to the crowded city life. Your childhood home had been right across from a farm.

Vernon’s elbow bumped your arm. “Eh? What’s the deal?”

You took in a breath, keeping your tone calm. “I don’t know… I just don’t get the fuss about me wanting to go. I mean, I get that it doesn’t really suit what you think of me… but there’s no harm in trying new things.”

“Okay,” Vernon huffed, “but people say that about, like, tryin’ a new hobby or some shit. You’re wantin’ to put yourself in a position where you straight up know you won’t have a good time. Like, seriously.”

“Because you can only have a good time when you’re high?”

“No—because you’re gonna be around other high people—and as a sober person, that’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck real fuckin’ bad.”

Your head rolled along the seat such that you were staring at him while he drove, an eyebrow tweaking in question. “And I can only assume you’re going to be in the high population. Not the sober.”

“What the fuck do you think?” He chuckled.

“I still want to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I feel like there has to be specific a reason you’re so against me going…” you hummed in contemplation, crossing one leg over your knee and beginning to bob your foot. “I think I know what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just told you—you’re gonna hate it.”

“It’s because you want to screw around with a girl.”

The boy cackled, leaning forward in his seat, rubbing a hand through his soft, black locks. “Jesus Christ, you’re killin’ me, you know that?”

“I see…” you muttered, folding your arms. “No denial…”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly,” Vernon laughed.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, then just be honest.”

“Okay, fine,” he declared with a shrug. “I’ll play your game, PJ’s.”

“There’s no game,” you chastised him, rolling your eyes.

But he ignored your insistence. “Say there was a girl. And I did fuck her while you were there. Loud enough that you could hear every time the bed frame hit the wall. Hear every single one of her moans. Every single time I smacked her ass.” He glanced over you slowly from top to bottom while you sat rigid in your seat, likely taking pleasure from how you squirmed. “How would that make you feel?”

Your entire mouth and throat were papery dry.

Truth be told, you would hate it.

In fact, you would probably start crying. The silence was louder than any crash or clap. You didn’t want to answer the question. You didn’t want him to know how utterly heartbroken that would make you feel. Just the fact that he had even asked such a question, knowing how it would stab you, made you get teary-eyed.

Swallowing gruffly, you squeaked out, “well… if that’s what you want.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s not at all what I want!” He paused for a moment, a sparkle darting through his eyes. “Unless the girl is you.”

You couldn’t help but make a twisted, flustered facial expression.

His hand then found the top of your back and he started rubbing in circles, easing the emotions colliding inside you that had packed into a knot between your shoulders. “If you went and fucked someone else in the house, I’d care, too! I’d fuckin’ want to murder the guy!”

You sniffled. “Really?”

Squeezing your shoulder, he smiled at you, full of confidence and conviction. “A hundred percent, PJ’s. I said I liked you, 'member?”

Shuddering out a breath, you felt Vernon’s touch leave your body, and the loss of physical consolation seemed so cruel. No one had ever communicated something like that to you before. At least not in a romantically-inclined way—Ruby did say from time to time that she would gladly throttle anyone who upset you—and you appreciated the sentiment from both sides of the coin. Maybe Vernon really did feel something for you. Maybe.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” you sighed, heavy in thought as the sparse fields started thickening with conifers, casting out the light and pushing in shadows that webbed the dark ground. “Can we sit in silence until we get there?”

“Whatever you need,” Vernon answered, shrugging a shoulder.

The entrance to the scrap yard was very unassuming. It was a mere dirt road that veered off from the pavement, leading downward, between a continuous brigade of tall, still pine trees. You couldn’t help but think back to Lara’s story about being brought here by a group of strangers—you would think you were getting murdered—though you were also a complete worrywart. Lara was definitely more adventurous by comparison.

Vernon seemed pretty assured that Minghao wouldn’t be there since it was a Saturday, and Minghao was apparently a very busy bee on Saturdays, dealing drugs no doubt, or painting buildings—you weren't sure. But soon the dirt road and trees opened up until you came to a clearing. There was a large, tall fence, caged around the scrap yard. Vernon pulled the car off to the side, taking out his keys.

“Is it locked?” You asked.

He pushed open his door. “Probably.”

“So, what does that—”

Vernon had already shut the door.

Grumbling to yourself, you threw off your seatbelt and hurried after him. He was inspecting a large, hardy padlock secured around two posts of the fence with chain links.

“I’m guessing it’s locked,” you sighed.

“No, it’s wide open.”

You scowled at his unhelpful sarcasm. “I was just asking!”

“I can pick the shitty locks, but this isn’t a shitty lock.”

“Shame.”

Vernon looked up. He placed two hands on the fence and shook it, hearing the metal rattle. “Seems stiff enough. And not electric. Bonus.”

Instantly, your stomach surged with trepidation. His thinking was obvious. And you were not mentally nor physically prepared to hop aboard. Taking a step back, you scoffed, “no—no way.”

Vernon laughed, gesturing innocently. “What? I told you it’s not electric! There’s not even any barbed wire up top. It’s askin’ to be climbed!”

You gagged; mouth slacked. “So, what? You talk to fences now? I am not climbing that! It’s dangerous! And tall as heck! I’m not doing it.” For emphasis, you crossly folded your arms and stood firmly in place. “If you want me over that, you’ll have to drag me.”

Rolling his eyes, Vernon mirrored your hardened stance. “Okay, honestly, what did you expect, PJ’s? That we’d just be able to skippy-doodle-doo our way in here? You should have learned by now it’s never that easy.” He waved his hand toward the fence. “Now, stop bein’ a spoiled princess and get your ass over here so we can get this show on the road.”

But you didn’t move. “No.”

“Holy shit. You’ll be fine,” Vernon drawled, his tone beginning to bleed from patience and amusement to annoyance. “Nothin’ is gonna happen. All’s you need is a tetanus shot and opposable thumbs. Thumbs may even be optional.”

“Ah, but I have a brain. You’re better off.”

He seemed done with the stalling. Vernon stalked toward you, eyes steely, his hand grooving around your elbow, beginning to tug you.

“Hey!” You hollered, attempting to thrash free. “Don’t—even—”

But Vernon was strong. He was dragging you a little too easily. “Don’t make me fuckin’ throw you over my shoulder,” he grunted in warning, forcing you to move closer and closer toward the fence.

At last, you capitulated. “Fine, fine! I’ll climb it!” He let go of your elbow, to which you rubbed down your arm sorely. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed. He then grabbed your hand and slapped it right onto the cold fence, curling your fingers around the metal wiring. “You’re more prepared than I am. You’re the rock climber.”

“Don’t make me remember that,” you gritted. “Also, the fact you’re making me go first is so… you should be ashamed, abhorred—”

“Shut the fuck up and do it.”

Upon spearing him a glare, you decided to bite the bullet. At least when you had been rock climbing there was a safety harness, and helmet, and ropes to catch you in the event you slipped. Trying not to harp on the dangers, your teeth clenched tight into your inner cheek as you began to climb, ignoring how horribly icy the metal felt as your fingers wrapped around the wires.

The higher you scaled, the more your heart raced, until you reached the thick bar on top and you had a perfect vantage point across the entirety of the scrap yard. Right in the middle was three RVs. You knew to get over the fence you had to straddle the bar, though the task seemed impossible. Swallowing densely, you took a moment to breathe in the brisk, sharp air, smell the earth and the pine. Grunting and trembling, you managed to get one leg over the bar.

Choosing to peer down at Vernon, recall the safety of solid ground, you gulped. “This sucks ass!”

“You’re doin’ great!” He called, sticking out a thumbs-up to demonstrate his pride. “And you gave me a great view from down below.”

“Shut up!” You nagged him, though you were smiling widely.

Soon enough, your feet were back on the dirt.

Vernon smirked at you from across the fence. “Easy, right?”

“Even easier if you knew how to pick that lock.”

“Boohoo,” Vernon said. “Let me pull out my YouTube tutorial.”

Suddenly, he had hopped onto the fence, and in a few fast, swift movements, the boy was already scaling the top. Once he climbed down about halfway, he leapt off, landing neatly in the spot beside you, clapping off his calloused hands like he’d just shoved a pie into a warm oven.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“Always,” Vernon said with a click of the teeth.

He proceeded down the shallow hill toward the inner bowl of the scrap yard, and you supposed there was no other choice but to follow him, hurrying to match step with his stride. The junk piles were organized for the most part. Broken bicycles, car doors, and odd metal contraptions tossed into one mound, while others were slightly more miscellaneous but seeming tended to. You walked past a sewing machine that didn’t look too rough.

“Oh! Ruby would love this!”

Vernon stopped to glance at the machine. “Yeah? It looks like shit.”

“It’s just dirty,” you answered, nudging it with your foot.

“Let’s go shoppin’ later,” he insisted, picking up your hand and continuing to pull you in the direction of the RVs. “No distractions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Together, you perched behind a rusted, red-striped fishing boat lifted off the ground by a steel trailer. Vernon let your hand drop, brushing something off his nose. The series of RVs were about twenty feet away, with reasonable distance in between them, their colours mostly ugly beiges and bleached creams with no discernible detail. You expected Minghao’s RV to have some freaky aquatic design painted across it—anything that might suggest which belonged to him—but there was no graffiti in sight.

With your fingers anxiously digging into your knees, you looked in between the RVs and back to Vernon. “How should we do this?”

“Cautiously,” he stated, and you giggled in response.

“That’s not a word I’d expect you to know.”

“Blame yourself,” Vernon rasped. “If you weren’t here, I could go about this any way I wanted. But we’re a unit now.”

“How sweet,” you muttered.

“Okay, this is what we’ll do,” Vernon announced. “I’ll take the trailer in the middle; you take the one closest to us. Start by lookin’ around the area, see if there’s a thing or two that gives Minghao vibes. Try to look in the windows if you can, but be careful, obviously. Listen for TVs, runnin’ water, couches squeakin’, doors openin’—anything that could indicate someone's inside—and we should have a signal if there’s a spat.”

“Like what?”

“How about a whistle? Can you whistle?”

“Barely,” you commented, forming the appropriate shape with your lips and blowing air through your teeth, hardly any noise.

“What the fuck was that?” He sneered.

“I was whistling!”

“You sound like a fuckin’ busted teakettle, man. That got ran over, and dragged for a kilometer. Okay, change of tactic. Ah—can you do this?” He layered his hands together, made a small opening between his thumbs, and proceeded to blow inside, mimicking the elegant sound of a loon.

You scowled at him. “If I sound like a busted teakettle, what makes you think I can make a freakin’ bird noise? Are your neurons okay?”

“Whatever—fuck the signal, actually. Let’s just get in and out.”

Vernon went around one side of the fishing boat while you crept along the other. He was quick, darting off to the central RV while keeping low, and you got the suspecting, blaring sense this was far from his first time hopping a fence or spying through another’s window. Moving slower in comparison, you approached the first RV. Your stomach was an unsettled hive of buzzing, frantic bees.

What if someone really was inside?

The vehicle wasn’t in the best condition. Worn wheels were sagging and the headlights were busted. Treading airy steps, you paced the perimeter of the vehicle. There were lawn chairs spread out in the back, propped between a plastic, cheap table sitting an ash tray and a few crushed beer cans. A makeshift firepit displayed the remnants of ashy, grey logs and charred newspaper, tiny pieces fluttering loose in the chilly breeze like snowfall.

Was this Minghao? Did this seem like him? Beer cans and ash trays?

Vernon knew him better. You should have requested insight.

You approached the RV, gliding your hand along its cold, smooth surface, until you stopped underneath a window. It was too tall to glance in, so you decided to grab one of the lawn chairs for assistance. The fabric didn’t seem very reliable. Letting your foot press deep onto the surface, the entire chair squeaked, seeming to bend inward on itself. But you took a breath, subtly applying more weight until you were fully standing on it.

“Jesus Christ…” you sighed quietly to yourself, fingers clasping the windowsill. “If this breaks, I’m never standing on anything again in my entire life.”

The curtains were closed apart from a tiny sliver down the middle.

It took all your concentration to not make a single noise as you attempted to peer through the opening. From your inspection, no one was inside. There was a sink with some fancy glass cups splayed around it. Basic wooden cupboards, tinted by age. A cuckoo clock near the door. An armchair embroidered by a dated pattern of roses. Whatever’s Minghao aura was, this didn’t seem to match. You thought back to his luxurious, long-swept coat, his chic, cherry-red hair, the chunky rings agleam on his fingers.

Stepping off the lawn chair, you knew this couldn’t be his RV.

You wondered if Vernon was having any luck. As you walked over to the RV centered in the yard, head cocked in an attempt to find where he had disappeared to, the boy suddenly exploded into you, grasping your hand and tearing you flush against the trailer’s wall.

“What the hell—”

His palm pressed over your mouth, muffling your voice.

“Shh!” He whispered. “There’s someone in this one!”

You grabbed his wrist, peeling away the contact. Hiding behind the RV didn’t seem very practical. “And you got their attention?”

“I was lookin’ in the front window, and this cat hopped up on the sill, started battin’ at me through the glass. Then this woman appeared from nowhere to grab him. I ducked. Dunno if she saw me or not.”

“And what are we supposed to—”

His hand was on your mouth again. “Shut up! You hear that?”

You were still as stone, listening. Apart from the blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline beginning to twitch throughout your body, you heard a noise echo from the front of the vehicle, a squeak, as though a door had opened. Vernon slowly removed his hand from your lips. You two exchanged a wrought look. Your chest was heaving in deep breaths.

“Did you see something, Mr. Big? Hm?”

A few seconds later, you heard a sharp, loud meow, almost demanding in its cadence. Vernon was chewing on his lip ring, hands placed flat to his waist. Instinctively, you pushed yourself closer against him, searching for a trace of his warm, smooth scent to keep your heart grounded.

“Okay. Show Mommy where.”

“Fuck,” Vernon cursed. “Little kitty’s gonna bust us.”

You grabbed onto his hand. “What do we do?”

An orange, plump cat with faint burnt stripes had padded its way around the corner of the RV, its long tail sticking up and flicking. Paw after paw, the cat started to approach you in a slow stride, and your nails dug straight into the inked skin of Vernon’s hand.

You knew you should run.

“Go away Mr. Big,” Vernon gritted his teeth and hissed at the approaching cat. But then the cat butted its square, flat head into Vernon’s leg, purring aloud, rubbing its cheek against his pants. You wanted to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey!” A lady stood at the corner, fists on her hips.

You and Vernon froze against each other.

She was older, her hair a greyish-brown, curly mess flipped over to one side, dressed in flipflops with fluffy green fur and a drooping night gown. While the cat continued persuading Vernon for attention, the lady opted to squint heavily at the two of you, the skin by her eyes wrinkling intensely.

“Qian?” The lady barked, her tone strict and cutting. “Is that you?”

You exchanged a worrisome, confused glance with Vernon. He looked down at the orange cat, gulping heavily, contemplating something.

“Qian!” She snapped again, taking a step closer. “Is that—”

“Uh, yes?” Vernon answered, wincing. “It’s me.”

“Who the hell is Qian?” You whispered, squirming with nerves.

Vernon spoke very lowly, “Minghao’s friend.”

“I told you; you can’t give sardines to Mr. Big anymore!”

“My apologies, m’mam…” he stuttered in response.

She paused, tilted her head. “Qian, you sound different.”

Vernon’s complexion turned pale. “Uh, that’s—”

“Your English has certainly come a long, long way. You barely spoke a word of it when I first met you.” She started to walk closer, her flipflops scuffing across the dusty ground. “Is that Mr. Big down there, by your feet? He thinks you’re about to give him another sardine. I left my glasses in the washroom, you know. I thought there was—” she immediately cut herself off, a gasp flushing out from her mouth. “Is that Biyu?!”

Her reference was clearly aimed at you.

Before you could even decide to speak, Vernon beat you to it.

“It is.”

“And what are you doing behind my trailer?”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “We’re—”

“Well, I’m sure Minghao will be impressed! Knowing his closest friend is out lollygagging around with his ex-girlfriend!” She babbled on and on, as though she hadn’t spoken to anyone in months apart from her cat, the words flowing out in a critical, fast-paced tone. “Have you no shame, the both of you? And you thought behind my trailer was a good place to start?”

Vernon scratched his head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I better hope not! Or else I’ll tell him straight away!”

At last, Vernon bent down, picking up the chunky orange cat that had been sitting at his feet, licking a paw. He gave the cat a few scratches behind its tufted ear before handing him off to his owner.

“There you are, Mr. Big,” she cooed. “Come back to Mommy.”

Your lips pressed together tightly.

While she kept the cat wrapped up against her chest using a single arm, bouncing him like a baby, she had suddenly gripped onto Vernon’s wrist. Moving away from the trailer, your heart plunged.

“Lord—when did you get all this ink?!” She exclaimed. Vernon wasn’t given the opportunity to answer. It seemed to be dawning on her that perhaps the young man with golden-brown eyes, facial piercings, an undeniable gruffness in his voice, and plentiful tattoos wasn’t Qian.

She opened her mouth, thin lips stretched, the breath in her throat hitching. “You… you aren’t Qian…” the lady’s words warped with confusion and shock. “And that isn’t…” keeping the tubby cat cradled against her chest, she pushed around Vernon to approach you. “That can’t be Biyu.”

You felt magnetized to the wall of the trailer. Her eyes were slimmed to a permanent squint as she seemed to be taking in your every detail, the floral, piney scent of her perfume overwhelming your senses, the deep wrinkles of her skin twisting. “No! You can’t be Biyu! She’s much prettier!” The lady whipped around, her cat meowing sharply, as she glared at Vernon. “You two are lying trespassers!”

“No, I’m Qian,” Vernon persisted, smiling.

Shooting him straight-faced daggers, you couldn’t believe he was deciding to push his luck. Everything was totally, undeniably screwed.

“You are not!” She stuck a finger in his face. “Who are you?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. I think you need your glasses before you start with the accusations.” He proceeded to shoulder around her, sliding his arm along your waist, as you stood stiffly, still offended that this lady in her lime-green flip flops and dusty nightgown had called you unattractive in a roundabout insult. “They have chains for em’, no? So you can’t lose ‘em?”

She flung out her arm. “Leave! Right now!”

Vernon clasped his fingers around yours, beginning to pull you away. “I’ll get you a pair for Christmas!” He shouted. “You’ll love it!”

You two began running back up the sloping path that had led downward into the scrap yard, refusing to look back. Digging your nails into the warm skin of Vernon’s hand, you grumbled, “why did you push it?!”

“I didn’t push it!” He laughed.

“She figured out we were lying! And then you got smart!”

At the fence, you two paused to catch your breath.

Vernon smirked at you. “Still want that shitty sewin’ machine?”

Your eyes rolled. There was no point in going back and forth, and so you refused to wait for him, clutching onto the fence and beginning to haul yourself up impatiently, feeling humiliated.

“So, that’s a no?!” He yelled as you reached the top.

If you had the sewing machine, you would have dropped it on him.

“I don’t get what you’re so ticked about. We know the last trailer has to be Minghao’s. And, so what we got busted? That lady can’t see two feet in front of her. For all she knows, I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka.”

“Oh, yeah,” you retorted dryly. “Because who else could it be? A tattooed, face-pierced liar and a random, apparently very unattractive girl sleuthing around Minghao’s home. Oh, wow,” your voice pitched in a sarcastic tone, hands slapped to your face in mock dramatics. “He’ll be so puzzled! Who could it be?”

Vernon kissed his teeth, keeping his sight on the flat, long road that the car shot down. “Minghao’s probably hardly ever there. Can’t see him bein’ real eager to dish about life with his youthful neighbours.”

“We could have so easily screwed everything up.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” The frustration belted out in a cry.

The boy shook his head, reaching for the stereo. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, reaching for the knob on his radio. A crackle vibrated through the tired speakers; his phone plugged into the radio using a stringy cable that looked like it might electrocute whoever touched it. “I need my brain to be completely empty.”

“Great…” you muttered, head tilted woefully in the direction of your window, the corners still tinged with frost. “I hate hearing, anyway.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s ‘cause you have to listen to yourself.”

If it weren’t for the finest string of self-control that you unspooled from your insides, then you would have kept up the bickering until he capitulated, and that was rarer than a flying pig. At that point of your relationship, it was almost second nature to chastise each other. You still couldn’t tell if it was making you more or less sensitive.

By the time you arrived back to your apartment, you were surprised the universe wasn’t ringing. Vernon loved to blast his music like the angels were eager to hear every word from heaven, though he had played it notably quieter than usual. You tossed him a lacklustre thank you for his chaperoning duties, beginning to shove outside the car, but the boy’s hand was on your shoulder and he was pushing you back into the seat.

“I have work tomorrow,” you whined. “What is it?”

“And you go to bed at three o'clock? Wow, you really are a loser.”

You smacked his arm. “And you made me climb a fence!”

“Okay, you’re not usually like this,” Vernon took it upon himself to point out, leaning against his door while squinting at you intrusively. “I mean, you can be annoyin’ about things, but this is different.” He started rubbing his chin, pinching at his adam’s apple. “What’s the matter?”

The simple question sparked your laugh. “Yes, let’s discuss it.”

He gestured at you, nodding. “Let’s.”

“That was sarcasm, dummy,” you clarified. “Nothing’s the matter, except for the fact I wanna take a hot bath.” Again, you attempted to open your door, but Vernon was quick to lean over, pulling it shut. When you tried again, he wouldn’t let it open even an inch.

“Hey!” You yelped.

“C’mon, talk to me,” he encouraged, his voice warm.

“Vernon, I’m serious. There’s nothing to—”

“Is this ‘cause of the party? The fact I said you shouldn’t go?” He resumed touching his chin, his head tilted in question. “Is that the problem?”

You couldn’t help scoffing.

His eyebrows leapt upward, and he hummed. “Ahh, so that’s it.”

“Well, you know what, actually…” purposefully keeping your delivery soft and vulnerable, you started to entertain him. “Maybe it was the fact your friend was twenty minutes late, you absolutely hated the idea of me going to a party with you, you made me climb a fence, twice,” your tone started to strip itself of the daintiness, “only to potentially ruin our entire game plan! And then I basically got called ugly by some reclusive lady who smells like a funeral home and whose best friend is her cat! And now I know the entirety of No Hands from start to finish and it’s going to keep me up at night because all I can hear is R-O-S-C-O-E, Mr. Shawty-Put-It-On-Me, I be going HAM, shawty upgrade from bologna! And it’s all your fault!” The breath was beating against your lungs, causing your chest to noticeably shrink and expand.

Vernon’s lips twitched into a smile. “I knew you liked that song.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it!” You shouted while rolling down your window using the crank, feeling the chilled breeze. “It’s just catchy!”

“Well,” the boy cleared the rasp from his throat, proceeding to sit up straighter, focusing his attention. “Do you understand why I was insistent you shouldn’t go? Because I know for a fact you’ll hate it.”

“Okay!” You cried out, shrugging. “So I’ll hate it! So I’ll be miserable! Don’t you think I can assume some of that myself? What if I wanted to hear ‘I’d love it if you were there, but you should know…’ blah, blah, blah. But you just shot me down! You made it seem like—like—you would hate it if I were there. That you wouldn’t want to see me at all…”

Vernon leaned forward, shaking his head, while your fingers twisted together anxiously in your lap, your lip quivering, eyes delicately burning.

“No, PJ’s,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“But that’s what I heard,” you urged him. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Vernon answered. He set his hand atop your wrist, gave you a reassuring, comfortable squeeze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that,” the boy admitted, his voice gritty but gentle. “It doesn’t matter where we are—whenever I see you—I get this soarin’ feelin’ deep in my chest. And then it flows everywhere in my body. Makes me feel like I can grow wings. It’s like… I dunno… you give me a weird high that no other drug could ever do. And I want it more and more, every day.” He paused, his fingers finding their way in between yours, laced together, gripping your sweaty hand so firm and strong. He bit his lip. “I want you more and more.”

Immediately, your face cracked into a smile. All that irritability thinned out, gone like a dense morning fog when the sun catches its blaze. Adverting your timid stare away from his sincere, straightforward eyes that dilated more with every second, you giggled out, “stop…”

He let go of your hand to brush something off your cheek with a few soft strokes from his thumb. “Stop what?” Vernon teased. “Hm?” He then slid his hand around the back of your neck, and you could feel the massaging, warm pressure from the boy’s rough fingertips. The muscles in your thighs automatically clenched. “If you tell me I can’t want you, I’ll only want you more,” he laughed. “You know, I hate goin’ back to my place even more than I did before. Can’t stand the sight of my bed without you in it.”

Your gut was insistent that you give in. But your cautionary heart and mind were ringing the alarm bells. Playfully, you shoved him away, though the sensitive skin of your neck was still sizzling hot from his touch, and you crossed one leg overtop the other, sealing up yourself tightly.

“I’m sure that line was recycled from five other girls,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. “So you can kindly recycle it back into your mouth.”

“But I never meant it with them.”

Your chuckle was short and dry. “Sure.”

“Well… if you want to go to Moo’s shitshow, then be my guest.”

“Really?” You responded in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

Vernon sighed. “Please bring Ruby.”

“I was gonna do that anyway.”

He leaned over to push open the car door. “You’re fuckin’ free, Pyjamas. Go take your hot bath. Send me a picture, yeah?”

Upon stepping outside onto the curb, you bent down for a goodbye, smiling. “Yes, I will send you a fully clothed picture of myself fresh from the bath with all my acne patches on. I will make it my utmost priority.”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, flashing you a teething, dirty smirk, though his honeyed eyes were far too shining and pure for it to be anything other than his honest excitement. “I’ll text you the info when I know it.”

As expected, Ruby didn’t show as much hesitance to the idea compared to Vernon. She had been attempting to get you clubbing ever since she had known you, and although that triumph was still far away, the opportunity currently presenting itself was much more idealistic. Nonetheless, she was still cautious to indulge you. Ruby didn’t know all of Vernon’s acquaintances—merely a small droplet in a gigantic bucket—but from what she did know, it was enough to prompt her careful lecturing. When you told her that you knew what Vernon was like high, she cackled flippantly directly into your face before highlighting that Vernon dazed off a blunt was much different than him off three lines of coke. You knew she had a point.

The closer it came to Saturday night, the more nervous you became, and the more doubt infested your insistence that had seemed so unshakeable. You thought about how much you still didn’t know when it came to Vernon, the fact you only observed pieces of his life through flashes, like seeing your transient reflection against a speeding car. But now you were taking a much deeper step. What if everything changed? What if you couldn’t handle it? What if this was all just a disguised test to understand if you could really visualize yourself patched into Vernon’s life, despite all the evidence against it? However, you ignored those thoughts very willfully.

And then it was Saturday night.

Ruby was getting ready in the washroom while you went through the clothes in your closest. Your styles and personalities were quite distinguished from each other in almost every sense. When Ruby got ready, she would bring her wireless speaker with her, letting it sit on the sink countertop amongst the widespread mess of her expensive makeup and brushes, singing along to the lyrics of her favourite R&B artists. When you got ready, you pretty much sat in silence at your desk, keeping any touch-ups to your face minimal because you never really learned how to do makeup and it seemed too difficult to figure out now.

You could hear Ruby’s tone-deaf singing. “Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter?” Her grating voice was actually pleasantly distracting.

Unsurprisingly, your roommate took her sweet time getting ready, urging you not to worry since, “who the fuck shows up to a party on time?” But once she was done, presenting you the final look, you applauded her prancing around the living room accordingly. Unlike you, Ruby had been experimenting with her hair and makeup consistently, since she was a tween, her flawless skin and thick, loosely curled hair looking like velvet. She then forced you to watch an episode of her soapy drama before booking the ride to Moo’s place, somewhere far, where there was more swamp and grass and mosquitoes than houses and people.

It wasn’t until you were strapped into the backseat that you felt sick.

“Moo?” Ruby squawked, looking down at her phone. “Who’s he?”

You swallowed; your mouth dehydrated. “He’s the host, Ruby.”

“Oh, well, he just requested to follow me on IG. I wonder if Vernon gave my handle to him… he’s a bit cute… but these pictures—feeling myself like I lost my keys—interesting caption. But that Hellcat is definitely not his!” She continued to babble, mostly to herself, during the car ride to Moo’s house. You listened on occasion, caught between engaging her talkative splurges and contemplating how hard the driver might judge you for rolling down the window and upchucking your lunch onto the road.

Finally, you arrived.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” Ruby chirped aloud to the driver who seemed to pull off questionably fast. She started walking up the driveway, but you grabbed her wrist, drawing the girl into a wobble.

“Wait,” you said worriedly. “How do I… look?”

Ruby licked her thumb and smoothed it along one of your eyebrows, and then adjusted the spaghetti straps to the top hidden underneath the long coat you borrowed from the girl’s wardrobe. “Stunning.”

 “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her hands were suddenly gripping your shoulders, her hazel eyes accented by the smoky flare of an umber powder sharpened into knife-like points. “Look, I know it’s easier said than done, but even if you have to fake it, confidence is key! This crowd is definitely not what you’re used to, and even for me this is a stretch, but the great thing about high people, they only care about getting higher. So, in a way, no one cares about you.”

 You were able to laugh at her comment. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Ruby removed her hands from your shoulders. “Besides, as long as you’re there, I’ll be there. If you need me at any point, I won’t be far.”

Appreciating your roommate’s comfort, you proceeded to breathe out your anxious thoughts, even giving your body a jitter to physically shake off the nerves. Together, you walked up the driveway. The house seemed small from the outside. An open window allowed you to hear distant music and excited, jumbled layers of conversation, smell the burnt, stingy aroma of marijuana. Ruby knocked a pattern against the door, loud and certain.

It didn’t take long before you recognized Moo.

“Hey!” He shouted, a beer bottle clasped in one hand, his cheeks rounded in a welcoming smile. “Fuck—uh—you’re Ruby, right?”

Your roommate nodded. “Indeed.”

“Anddd,” Moo sang while turning to you, squinting one eye shut, his forehead creased and his brow raised in thought. “PJ? Did I get it?”

While you did consider correcting him on the nickname, you decided it was best to just stick with what he already knew. “That works.”

“Fuck yeah. Well, enter the pad, ladies.” He stood aside, keeping the door held open as you and Ruby shuffled into the front foyer—a narrow hallway—the walls blanketed in jackets, the floor swathed with shoes toppled over each other.

Ruby shrugged off her coat, chuckling, “are there any hooks?”

“Oh, certainly!” Moo exclaimed just before he set the beer bottle to his lips. “I think there’s one near the back, right on the left!” As Ruby primly set her coat onto the hook, you couldn’t help but note how Moo’s eyes started to drag down her body, practically bulging at her bum. “Damn!”

She turned around, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Uh,” Moo coughed into his elbow. “Sorry—just—stepped on something! Can’t lie, haven’t vacuumed this rug in a dog’s age.”

You held your lips in a flat, downturned line.

“Oh,” Ruby hummed. “Good to know, I guess.” She then looked at you, gesturing for the coat folded in your arms. “I’ll find a place for it.”

Moo encouraged you to join him in the kitchen once you were ready, to which he disappeared through the threshold in the slim, dark hallway. Once he was gone, you instantly told Ruby, “he gagged at your ass!”

She tossed the hair over her shoulder, snorting, “I know.”

“Men are pigs!” You quipped.

“And we’re in the pigpen,” Ruby answered, giggling.

The kitchen was just on the other side of the front foyer. It was a fairly small, intimate space, with the dining table opposite from it, and a bigger opening into the living room, where most people seemed to congregate. From your flying, uneasy glances between faces, you had yet to see Vernon, and that seemed to make your stomach drop like a brick. The kitchen countertops were crowded with empty cans, cutting boards, rolling papers, ash trays, and opened bags of salted snacks. Moo swung open the fridge, reaching around inside before he offered the both of you a drink.

“I’ll take anything spicy,” Ruby said, making sure to raise her voice so she could be heard over the living room’s vivacious, bubbly chatter.

You swayed on the balls of your feet. “A water is fine.”

“What about juice?” Ruby offered, brushing down your arm.

“Sorry,” Moo apologized, pulling out a beer can. “We just used the last of the juice for drinks. Cups are to your right. Tap water’s all I got.”

Teeth gnawed at your inner cheek as you opened Moo’s concerningly loose cupboard, pulling down a dusty, plastic cup. You squirmed around him to reach the sink. Water didn’t start spraying from the tap until you had turned the knob several times, to which a rumbling, guttural noise sounded from the pipes. Attempting not to make it obvious, you sniffed the water before drinking it, noting a strong mineral scent.

“So, Ruby?” Moo leaned against the counter. “Is that ‘cause of the red streaks in your hair? Which are very pretty, by the way.”

Your roommate shrugged. “Well, thank you, but I’m pretty sure I was named Ruby before I ever had red streaks in my hair.” She cracked open her beer. “It’s the stone associated with my birth month—July.”

He gritted his teeth, chuckling off the embarrassment. “Ah, you make a good point. I love that. What’s my birthstone? I’m born in May.”

The girl laughed, “I don’t know the others, just my own!”

“See, I’m gonna have to Google that later.”

“Please, don’t hesitate,” she answered, fluttering a sweet smile.

At that moment, someone else squeezed into the kitchen, a man whom smelled like firewood and rich cologne. He was tall, cutting in between you and Moo with the height of his body.

Moo hardly noticed, keeping the sparks of conversation lit with Ruby, while you were ungracefully separated by the stranger digging through the fridge, his large back all you could see. Upon pulling out a silver can, he shimmied his way out. You sighed, plucking some lint off your top, before reinserting yourself into the conversation that you hadn’t been a part of, anyway.

“No, no, that’s my dad’s…” Moo was saying, rubbing his neck.

Ruby cackled. “I knew it!”

“Does this place look like it should have a fuckin’ Hellcat in the driveway? Nah, I got my Nissan fuckin’ Micra. Pussy magnet.”

She sipped from the beer; eyes kept trained to Moo as he only inched his way closer toward her. “Humble king,” Ruby commented.

“If you ever wanna take a spin in it,” Moo enticed, lifting up a shoulder and tugging at his bottom lip, “you can be my humble queen.”

Oh, god.

You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to find Vernon, wherever he was tucked away. Dumping the remaining water into the sink and leaving the plastic cup with it, you nodded briefly at Ruby while escaping the kitchen, assuming she knew what you had in mind. Nobody slumped at the dinner table seemed coherent, so you tapped on the arm of a girl sat at the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, her eyes a watery, stinging red. Smoke rolled out ghostily from between her lips.

“Sorry to bother,” you squeaked. “But, uh, you know Vernon?”

The girl nodded. She then dug into the couch cushions, pulling out what resembled a small, black container with an attached mouthpiece.

Swallowing nervously, you asked, “where would he be?”

While she fixed her mouth around the attachment and started to slowly, deeply breathe in, the girl flicked a finger toward the hallway behind her, with a door planted at the very end. You smiled, thanking her, although you weren’t entirely sure what do next. Was it a bedroom? Were you allowed to just waltz in? Could Vernon be in there… with someone else?

You stood at the door, noticing a mild trembling in your hands.

But you didn’t sink into the doubt. Instead, you hailed Ruby’s words of encouragement, straightened out your shoulders, fixed your chin high, and pushed the door open. Simultaneously, you were braced to see the absolute worst. However, it wasn’t what you expected. The room was dark apart from a television’s fuzzy, twitching glow that washed across the carpet and bed in faint, blue hues. Someone was sitting in an armchair poised close to the TV, seeming completely dissonant, a smoking blunt of some sort caught in their fingers. There were two people relaxed on the bed, a cutting board in between them, a woman you had never seen, and… Vernon.

She dipped her head down after arranging a small, neat white line using a pocket knife. Vernon flipped her long hair to one side as she reached the board, sucking the powder up her nostril with a casual, easy quickness. “Fuck,” the woman cursed, her voice gritty, wiping off her nose with a finger and smearing whatever powder stuck across her tongue. “That’s fuckin’ sharp. I'm gonna be on the moon.”

Vernon smirked. “They cut with fuckin' crystals.”

She laughed, flipping back her hair. “That’s pure ice, babe.”

You definitely felt as though you were interrupting something private, but it would have been more awkward to simply stand there, watching, until someone noticed you. Letting the door fall shut, you forced on a crooked smile and stepped closer into the bedroom, clearing your throat to make your presence known.

Both Vernon and the woman looked your way. For a slow, trudging moment, Vernon didn’t recognize you, and he looked annoyed.

She huffed. “Sorry, sweets. I’d give you a lick but this shit cost me a motherfuckin’ arm and a leg to get. You’re better off, anyway.”

The twinkling aura of the light reflected off her arms and her pronounced chest, the skin needled with tattoos that wrapped around her like snakes made of black ink. She had similar facial piercings to Vernon, though her nose was pierced, too. Just from her temperament, you could tell she was a bit older in age, perhaps in her late twenties, and assumed she must be the one Moo referenced in their conversation at the hanger, the one who took that vacation to Europe and was able to scoop something good.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Vernon shook his head. “PJ’s?”

You started to smile, hands wringing together. “I’m here.”

“No shit,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. Cemented to your place on the shoddy carpet, you let Vernon approach you, one arm weaving around the back of your neck while the other wrapped your waist, pulling you into his firm body. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Timidly, you held onto him, fingers feeling along the fabric of his white t-shirt, your smile refusing to fade. “I haven’t been here long.”

“No?” He mumbled in question, letting his hands fall onto your hips as he began to rescind the closeness. It was right then that you noticed the difference in his eyes—those pupils were extremely dilated—dark like the ocean without any moonlight, almost… shimmering, twitching, coursing with energy that made you stiffen ever so slightly. Vernon sunk his thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, hooking you, dragging you further into his chest. “You look so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, the husk in his voice thicker than usual. “I’ve missed you all week. What kinda bullshit is that, huh?”

You giggled, lips pressing together, taking in the close-up beauty of his gentle features, how such softness seemed to betray him. “Me too,” you answered, sniffling. “I’ve never seen your eyes like this.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never seen me off coke.” Vernon then turned around, gesturing to the woman who was now sprawled on her side across the bed. “Especially the fuckin’ wild shit this lunatic gets. This is Kitty.”

“Uh, hi.” You waved at her, feeling small under her piercing gaze.

Kitty nodded, tilting her head. “Your next girlfriend, Vernon?”

You gulped while Vernon shot back at her, “you’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Quel surprise.” She winked a hooded eye, tongue prodding along a glimmering tooth in her mouth. “But I guess you would know better than most.” Kitty slid off the bed, proceeding to straighten out her short, skin-gripping skirt that didn’t leave much to be revealed. “I’m gonna use the washroom, you know, to freshen up.” She sauntered past you, out the door, leaving behind a whiff of her strong, powerful aroma, like a dark cherry.

Vernon groaned. “She’s a fuckin’ psychopath.” He returned to the bed, flopping beside the cutting board. There was a baggie left on it.

Continuing to hold your place, you exhaled nervously, looking around the bedroom and its unusual blankness. “Who’s that?” You asked, pointing at the guy in the chair with the burning blunt. He hadn’t moved an inch since you walked in the room.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Vernon answered, coughing against his elbow. “That’s Snozz, Moo’s roommate. Dude’s got narcolepsy.”

Your lips pursed. “Are you serious?”

Vernon folded his arms. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know… I feel like it’s a bit… inconvenient.”

“So are the pills he pops every fuckin’ week. Dude’s got every battle there is. But we keep an eye on him.” He wriggled up against the wooden headboard, propping an arm across his bent knee. “Now, come sit with me,” Vernon invited, nodding toward the available space. “Hard to see how gorgeous you look when you’re so far.”

While approaching the bed, you couldn’t help but take another glance at Moo’s roommate, Snozz, sunken into the armchair. His head was collapsed awkwardly onto his shoulder, fronds of long, brown hair masking his eyes, a slight fissure between his lips. You wondered how long he had been asleep; his blunt was still glowing but the television was jouncing static.

You sat beside Vernon, the cutting board in between you.

He picked it up. “Don’t need this shit anymore.” And placed it on the adjacent night table. “Unless you wanna finish Kitty’s pixie dust?”

Squishing up your tight shoulders, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Despite the heavy shadows, you could see the soft grin develop on his face, however, you also noticed him pick up the small baggie off the cutting board. There was hardly any powder left inside it, but that didn’t deter Vernon from dragging a finger along the inside of his cheek and using the moisture to collect the rest. You watched him rub the powder across his gums, wondering how much was already in his system, waiting to activate, already activated.

“Shouldn’t you have left the rest for Kitty?”

Vernon cackled, scratching his eye. “Hell no! She owes me. I busted my ass last year to get her the purest shit on the market for New Year’s.”

“Hm.” You nodded, curling your legs underneath you.

He slid down the bed sluggishly until he his head was cushioned on a pillow, proceeding to tuck his arms underneath it. The boy stared up at the ceiling as though it were a night sky scattered with iridescent galaxies, beginning to grin, bite onto his lip, giggle. “She thinks she’s such a peach, gettin’ this fancy European shit for us, but she’s a moocher to her core, always lookin’ for scraps. Damn—fuckin’ Snozz took one line and now he’s incapacitated!” He flung an arm out toward the chair. “He went off his meds for this shit! She should be in here babysittin’ his narcoleptic ass.”

Unsure of what to say, you merely clasped onto your hands harder, smiled like your mouth was being pulled back by someone else’s invasive fingers. This side of Vernon was foreign to you, not to mention extremely unnerving.

“Was Moo alright?” Vernon asked.

For a moment, the unstable catch in his words was gone, and you managed to breathe a little easier. “He was kind,” you answered, smoothing a hand along your jeans. “Definitely more interested in chatting up Ruby.”

“Shit!” He yelled, suddenly slamming upward. “I fuckin’ forgot Ruby’s here!” Rapidly patting down his pockets, Vernon then pulled out his phone, incorrectly thumbing the passcode in several times. You observed him open his text messages, select your roommate’s contact, and type out a string of mismatched letters that he struggled to send her. “Fuck—I can’t believe I forgot she was here! Aw, I miss her, y’know?” He buckled into a concerning haze of coughing and laughing, leaning over his elbow while his back shuddered like shifting plates. “She parties hard. I fuckin’ miss that, dude. I think a bit of you’s leaked into her. Fuck, she used to get so dirty. She’s vanilla now.”

Wincing, you tried not to let your disconcertedness bleed through, although your heart was noticeably heavier in your chest, pumping hard, making the air feel denser to breathe. “Uh…” you prodded in a weak, uncertain tone, nails digging into the bed. “Meaning what?”

Vernon slid off the bed. He started swaying, massaging the knobs of his scuffed, scabbed knuckles. “She has limits now—I’ve gotta be home by eleven, I can only take three shots, I’m just smokin’ for an hour—she didn’t give no fucks about that before.” He marched over to Snozz, removing the dulled, orange blunt from his fingers. “When she worked at Puttin’-Edge, she was a fuckin’ deviant. She’d take almost anything, man. You couldn’t tear her away from the function until she was on the verge of blackin’ out.”

Inadvertently, your eyebrows furrowed together. “That sounds healthier to me. I’m proud she’s winding down a bit. She’s still herself.”

“I know, I know,” Vernon muttered, sounding almost agitated as he puffed Snozz’s blunt. “Not fuckin’ sayin’ she’s a goddamn prude, just that I miss her crazy.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, tousling the black tresses. Then he was pulling a lighter out from his pocket, keeping the blunt held between his lips while he crisped it using the strong flame. “Fuck, I’m stargazin’ now, PJ’s,” he laughed hoarsely around a cloud of smoke.

You didn’t know what to do.

Vernon’s energy was disseminating throughout the room. It was like a sparkler, drawing hectic, amorphous shapes into the dark that remained in place for only a second before fading.

And you couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly, the door burst open. In paraded Kitty, twirling herself around the room, holding onto a small, black box with a mouthpiece, very similar to the girl’s from before. You heard her singing, words slurring into each other, careless in every sense. While you were utterly lost, Vernon seemed to recognize her messily constructed melody, singing along with her as they grooved in circles.

“C'mon, Snozz!” Kitty shouted, dropping to her knees in front of him as he remained fast asleep. “Let’s hear you sing!” She continued her musical number, grabbing Snozz by his shoulders, then holding up his head by tufts of fluffy hair, pressing the lyrics into his ear.

You were dead stiff.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo!” Vernon cackled.

Kitty tossed her hair back, laughing deliriously. “He needs fun!” She stumbled over to the bed where you were huddled akin to a sopping wet kitten caught in a flash freeze, watching her collapse onto the covers, praying you were invisible. Kitty breathed in, her device crackling, and exhaled a thick, rolling smoke that had a distinct, sweet smell. “Especially you,” she purred, capturing you in her enlarged, misty eyes. “You need fun.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Vernon and Kitty are in the bedroom!” Someone shouted, interrupting your non-existent rebuttal after popping their head into the room.

And then the floodgates broke. About six or seven people streamed into the dark space, squawking over each other, muddling the air with a concoction of bitter smells and escalating the temperature to an uncomfortable warmth in a matter of mere seconds. Somebody found the remote control for the television. In a few blips, there was a music channel playing, the volume cranked until a consistent, rhythmic club beat was all you could hear. It was terrible. Wanting to spend some time with Vernon away from the chaos had morphed into a gathering for the completely inebriated.

Now, the chaos was taunting you at every angle.

Kitty crawled closer, holding the box between her teeth.

She proceeded to sit clumsily on her knees, legs opened wide, enough to see her underwear if you were curious to look. But she had such blissful unawareness, taking in another huff from her vape, letting the burn settle in her throat before blowing everything out. Your wrinkled, displeased face caught the brunt of a manufactured flavour you didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Seriously, babe,” Kitty drawled, scooting herself closer toward you, her knees nudging yours. “I have tablets. And they’re low dose. Easy.”

“Uh, that’s fine.” Gosh—your tone was so blatantly fragile—it sounded like your voice was thin glass. “I really don’t want any.”

“Yeah,” Kitty laughed, gasping for air, but instead lifting the vape to her round, full lips. “You don’t want them! I can see that!” She took another restless hit. You made sure to hold your breath. “But you definitely fuckin’ need ‘em, baby girl! It’ll take the edge off! I’ll even half the price!”

Abruptly, another body flopped onto the bed, toward the foot. Kitty turned around, and together, you watched a girl climb her way onto a man’s lap, arching her back smoothly as she bent over him, the tips of her fingers tickling down his face before their lips brushed in a kiss.

“Ew!” Kitty screamed around the mouthpiece to her vape. “Get a fuckin’ room, you sick freaks!” She pushed against the girl’s tiny arm, though it was a frivolous, teasing touch without scalding intention.

As you anxiously rubbed the back of your hand against your thrumming forehead, you felt a slickness, quickly realizing that the crown of your hair was dampened with sweat. Vernon blended into the crowd well. It seemed there were more people in the room, and no matter how intensely your eyes sorted between the dazed faces, none were recognizable. You attempted to shuffle off the bed, but Kitty had caught you, luring you sit back down. And you did, despite your gut hollering in vehement protest.

“I wanna know—,” she sang, pulling at a long loop of dyed hair close to her ear, “—and don’t take offense to it, sweetheart. But why come here if you weren’t planning on getting fucked up?” Almost to emphasize her point, she returned the vape to her lips. “Like, are you a masochist?”

Huddling away from a man standing a little too close to the bed, you rubbed along your arm in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. “I-I, I don’t really…” you couldn’t think, and watching Kitty’s wide, unmoving eyes delightfully swallow your fear had you frozen. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Vernon?”

You couldn’t answer.

She suddenly cackled, head tossed back. The device hissed while she secured her lips around the mouthpiece, sucking in. When Kitty elaborated through a drifting screen of smoke, you couldn’t be bothered to hold your breath at the smell—you needed to breathe—your body wasn’t giving you a choice. “That’s cute,” the girl giggled. “Although, are you sure you’re completely sober? I know Vernon’s type…” her gaze subtly flickered over you in a heartbeat, “and I’m not sure how well you tick the boxes.” She flipped the hair off her shoulder, laughing. “You must be nasty in bed, then.”

When you swallowed, smudging your lips together, they felt drier than old, strained leather. It was near impossible to speak. Every word quivered, leaving your twitching tongue with such timidness and dread. “I-I don’t know…” you laughed brokenly. “I just—I think I’m gonna—"

“Know what I miss most about Vernon?” Kitty interrupted, her head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing her shoulder as though she were reminiscing a memory so magnificent and tender. But then her stare shot toward you, hardened, challenging, devilish. “How he would fuck me until my brain melted.” You swallowed, trembling. “He told me I was the best at taking him, that no one would ever compare.” Kitty started smirking, dragging a hand up her thigh, slow and flirtatious, as though she were retracing a sensual touch. “No pressure or anything!” Her taunting façade vanished, the smirk replaced by a smile, the challenging tone replaced by a nonchalant, almost encouraging warmth. But you knew it wasn’t genuine. Not at all.

“Thanks for sharing,” you sighed, completely deflated.

A part of you bristled with the urge to be more assertive as opposed to reclusive, but it was a very small part, enough to feel yet not enough to follow through with a vengeance.

Understanding the conversation was done now that Kitty had put you in your place with a calculated slash of humiliation, you slid off the bed, pushing around the bodies packed into the room. Regret had never raised so fast from the depth of your stomach. You could taste the acridness tangy in your mouth, feel the moment’s inertia, how the atmosphere seemed to be pulling you down with every step. How on Earth could you think this was a good idea? That you could somehow fit into Vernon’s life like a perfect building block? Were you really that delusional? That naïve?

Entering into the living room, you weren’t able to make it far without someone stepping into your way. So—he had left the bedroom.

“Where’re you off to?” Vernon asked.

You were too miserable to feign any softness. “I’m leaving.”

As you attempted to weave past him, Vernon opposed you. He tucked the blunt behind his ear, the edges of his lips furling into a disbelieving smile. “Fuck, you just got here PJ’s. Can’t be leavin’ so soon.”

“Well, I am,” you answered matter-of-factly. “Goodnight, Vernon.”

Again, he cut you off, stepping into your way. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay… so you’re headin’ out early 'cause…?”

“Because I want to. Now, can you please move?”

Predictably, the boy ignored your plea. He still wasn’t himself, and he wouldn’t be for a while. You didn’t want to speak with him regardless of his intoxication. The stinging, draping heaviness of your misjudgment was like a smothering blanket and Vernon was merely keeping the hot fabric trapped around you. His gaze seemed lost, refusing to connect the pieces.

You watched him shake his head. “No… somethin’ happened. And now it’s got you all upset, and you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”

Groaning, you shouldered past him forcefully. “Thanks, detective!”

He grabbed your wrist.

You whipped around, wresting for it back. “Vernon!”

“Let’s talk outside.” He nodded at the sliding glass doors across the carpeted living room. “No one’s out there. C’mon.” When you resisted his pulling with a deep scowl, he immediately opted for a different technique of zero patience, one that involved sweeping you off your damn feet and carrying you in his toned arms like a newlywed bride.

“Vernon!” You hollered; your cheeks aroused with heat. “Put me—p-put me down—you freaking idiot!” People were looking, but they didn’t seem to assume much, even stepping aside to let Vernon through the open sliding doors onto the cement platform. He dropped you down, and you stumbled, wobbling into a plastic lawn chair. “What the hell is your issue!”

“Okay,” he huffed, closing the curtains before pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Now that we’ve got some real privacy—” he turned toward you, “—let’s talk.”

“Talk about what!” You yelled. “I said I wanted to leave!”

“And you can,” Vernon encouraged, “as soon as you tell me—”

“It doesn’t matter what happened!” Standing behind the white lawn chair to place distance in between you, your head swung adamantly. “I’m glad it happened, actually. Because now I understand how stupid and delusional I've been!” You refused to look at Vernon, flickering your glassy eyes toward a buzzing lantern along the brick, trapped with dead leaves.

“Okay,” he hummed. “About what?”

“Stop,” you demanded.

He laughed, throwing out his arms. “Stop what?”

The answer didn’t come to you.

Nothing was. Inside your head was loud, overpowering static that deflected every possible thought, from the articulate to nonsensical, just like the television inside the bedroom. Not even the brisk, feathering cold of the pure night could penetrate you.

Vernon grabbed onto the lawn chair, moving it aside. You let him press into your melancholic aurora because you would and always have let him do just about anything. He pulled the most delicate strings inside you that you had never sensed before. He sparked feelings your body and mind had never experienced. It was like riding an unbelievable wind that refused to let your feet touch the ground, keeping you petrified but addicted to the freedom. And when you were back on Earth, it wasn’t long before you hated it, before you desperately wanted the rise, the gust, the weightlessness.

He told you that you were like a drug to him.

It was only now that you truly understood what he meant.

But you had never used drugs, and you weren’t about to start.

Vernon stood close enough to breathe you in; his arms folded; his warmth palpable. “Your eyes are all teary,” he murmured with concern.

“How do you not get it?” You whispered while staring down at the cracked slabs of cement. “We’re never, ever going to work. Not as friends, or as anything else—” your voice split, and you needed a moment to pause, reabsorb the pain. “It just won’t ever happen.”

He exhaled deeply, fingernails puncturing into his arms.

You quickly wiped off your own tears.

That was the moment Vernon finally caught your eyes. Everything about his stance shifted. It was like someone administered him a dose of clarity. “PJ’s…” he murmured, grabbing onto your arms, sliding his rough palms down your skin until your hands were gathered in his. “You’re fuckin’ jumpin’ to conclusions, you know that, right?” There was a squeeze against your fingers. “You’re seein’ the worst of everything, diggin’ a hole.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?!” You snapped, tearing your hands out from his solacing, sweet grip, beginning to pace around the cold patches of textured cement. “This is such a big part of your life! You love the freedom, the adventure, the high. You don’t want the lesser, boring, mundane stuff that everyone else has going on. And that’s exactly what I am, what I always will be!” After rubbing away the thin trails of tears scurrying down your cheeks, you bit back a futile, immature whine. “I can’t fit into your life and you can’t fit into mine! It’s that simple! There’s no meeting in the middle, no compromising. Nothing that could ever make us gel!”

Vernon stopped your pacing by shoving you at the shoulder. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, PJ’s?” He deadpanned. “We make us gel! We like each other! You just fuckin’ tiptoe around it, avoidin’ us at every turn. Doesn’t that just enforce our differences even more?”

“Likeness isn’t enough!” You told him, pushing off his hand. “How am I ever supposed to be okay with you snorting coke beside a girl you have sexual history with! How am I ever supposed to be okay that you’re affiliated with all these shady, dangerous weirdos! How will I ever get over the inevitable fact you’ll just get bored of me! We make absolutely no sense!”

Vernon chuckled irritably, tonguing against his cheek. “To you.”

“I-I can’t make it any clearer,” you admitted, exasperated.

“So, what now?” He snorted.

“Now,” you sniffled, wiping underneath your eye, “I’m leaving.”

Vernon removed the blunt from his ear. It was hardly smoking at that point, though he still attempted a puff, shaking his head. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he laughed, exhaling swiftly. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Goodnight,” you pronounced to the boy sharply.

Throwing the glass door back open, you stalked into the kitchen, finding your roommate in the exact place you had left her, with Moo exactly where you had left him. Their conversation seemed animated and jovial, and you would have felt awful about interrupting them if you weren’t so high-strung from arguing with Vernon.

Every inch of you was vibrating.

You sighed aloud cumbersomely. “I’m sorry if you guys are having fun, but I need to go home.”

They both paused, taking in your appearance.

Ruby raised her eyebrow. “Uh… sure.”

Moo wrinkled his nose. “Damn, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, fanning your sweltering face.

He checked the time on his phone, his expression bulging. “You guys have hardly made a dent here! C’mon! You can’t leave this early—”

“I want to go home!” You shouted, glaring him into a stupefied silence.

Ruby swallowed, unable to hide her shock that such a booming, aggressive statement could come from such a docile person. But it was the flash of desperation she needed to see, immediately understanding that something had gone wrong and you were in the process of crumbling.

“No, we gotta leave,” Ruby said tersely. “Thanks for the drink.”

Moo followed after you into the corridor, his head tilted against the frame. Ruby helped you into her cushiony coat before reaching for her own. “Can I at least order your Uber?” He offered, hopeful.

Ruby brushed some hair off her lip. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got a friend who’s just coming off work. She’ll be way faster. And no payment needed.”

“Ah, okay,” Moo nodded, his tone dragging with disappointment, although you assumed it was due to losing Ruby and not yourself.

Outside, the cold suddenly felt way colder than it had when you were filled to the brim with heat, arguing. Now, you sensed every nip and bite from the wind. Ruby hurried after you to the base of the driveway, scurrying along the rough gravel as she texted her friend. Once you reached the dented mailbox sticking out from the ground at an odd angle, Ruby had finally caught up to you, the concern in her expression evident.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning.

You didn’t know how to respond, standing silently while the wind whipped the bottoms of your lengthy coat. The only thing you could squeeze out was a self-deprecating croak of regret. “I’m so stupid, Ruby,” you cried, the water flooding your eyes instantly, turning the night a blur. “I always make the dumbest choices!” 

“No you don’t!” Ruby was quick to correct you.

“Is this not proof enough?” You rebutted, throwing your arm in the direction of the house. “I mean, what the hell am I doing here? It’s because a made a stupid choice, about a stupid guy, and I followed it, stupidly!”

Your roommate sighed, pulling some fluttering crimson tresses away from her tinged, blushed cheeks. She then stood next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing you against her warm side. Honestly, you weren’t looking for a lecture, another back and forth, a pep-talk about how you were treating yourself too unfairly. She seemed to understand that, opting to comfort you with her closeness instead, and you leaned into her jasmine scent gratefully.

Although, the relief was only temporary.

You could only surmise how much it was going to hurt later.

—END OF PART FOUR.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part two.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 26k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: woowee :3 part two! don't have much to preface except for ty for reading and i hope u enjoy! this is acc one of my fave parts bc it's like the first clear shot into mc and vernon's dynamic.

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Care For Gaza!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: chapter one gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

“Hey, where were you last night?”

Damn it.

You thought you might be able to avoid breakfast without your roommate digging into your absence, but you thought wrong. Ruby had been napping when you left for Herongate, and she was still asleep when you returned later in the evening, but you supposed all it took was one bleary trip to the washroom for her to realize that your room was oddly empty on a Saturday.

Standing over your toast, you made a stupid blip of blankly holding the peanut butter while your mind flurried like snowflakes. Not only were you lacking an excuse, you were quite terrible at lying on the spot, and having Ruby leaned against the counter a mere few feet away, licking expired Nutella off a spoon, didn’t exactly give you much breathing room.

Shoving the peanut butter back into its cabinet, you realized you might not need to lie, but rather omit detail instead. “Uh, I decided that I would go to Herongate. Remember how much I loved the big globe?”

Ruby suckled off the spoon, head tilted. “That’s all you did?”

You avoided eye contact. Picking up your plate, you nodded in response and beelined for the couch. Tossing the spoon into the sink, Ruby followed suit, bouncing herself into the spot right next to you.

Flicking through the different streaming apps on the TV, you could hardly think about what you wanted to watch. Ruby was digging her green-gold gaze right through your cheek, a smile creeping bit by bit along her mouth the more you continued to ignore her in obvious fashion. You were halfway through an episode of a new Netflix drama, so you decided to throw that on, hoping that the noise would fill the stiflingly awkward space between you.

Readying the toast before your mouth, you were just an inch from taking a bite, though Ruby’s grin lingering outside your peripheral was like an invisible force preventing you from following through.

Slapping your toast back down, you shot the girl a scowl. “Okay! Enough with the ogling, already! I can’t eat my breakfast when you’re looking into my DNA.”

“You’re lying to me, roomie,” Ruby sang, her voice gilded with smugness. She pinched your cheek. “You’re lying and it’s oh so cute.”

Swatting at her hand, you grumbled, “lying about what?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

You were digging a hole. Still, you couldn’t admit it. You couldn’t frame it into words that you were helping Vernon. “Well, you seem much more informed than I could ever be, so how about you tell me?”

Ruby paused, tilted her head. She had her knees pulled up to her chest with her hands clasped around them like a toddler huddled on the classroom carpet during storybook time. “Okay,” she popped out nonchalantly. “I know you went to the mall to see Vernon.”

Dread sluiced throughout your body. You snapped to stare at her.

“Am I right or am I right?” Ruby goaded, wriggling her thin eyebrows. As if you didn’t hear her the first time, she shook your shoulder sternly. “You went to the mall to see Vernon!” And then she was soaring to her feet, jumping around in circles on the couch while singing, “you went to the mall to see Vernon! You went to the mall to see Vernon!” as though you two didn’t pull this sofa off the street after the woman before you warned it was broken underneath. Her voice mirrored the cadence of a teasing schoolgirl.

With your face turning to flames, you grabbed the back of Ruby’s knee and squeezed at the fluted bones until she buckled back down to the cushions.

“I can understand that this is very cathartic for you, but I swear, it’s nothing like what you’re thinking. I’m doing this solely to get him out of our house.”

“I’m aware,” Ruby admitted, folding some hair behind her ears. “I talked to him on the phone at like, four in the morning. You’re gonna help him find Diana, and if you succeed, then he’ll stop coming here.”

Jeez—had he really aired the entire comprise just like that? You thought Vernon might be more gracious in allowing you the latitude, but here you were, crediting him for thoughtfulness he clearly didn’t have. It was worthless to fight it.

You sighed, “that’s the premise.”

Ruby simply hummed.

You looked at the plate of toast sitting in your lap, the peanut butter melted and runny. Settling it onto the coffee table, you then leaned back into the sofa with arms folding across your upset stomach.

“Oh, come on, Miss Dramatic. Loosen up,” Ruby laughed, curling her knees underneath her and grabbing hold of your elbow. “Don’t take my teasing too seriously. I understand why you’re doing it…” you felt her nail brush some stray hairs from the surface of your hot cheek as she stared at you. “I’m happy, honestly. You need to get out more—and I mean getting out in a way that doesn’t revolve around work—and Vernon’s good at getting people out of their comfort zone. Just… you gotta be a little careful with him.”

“I think I could figure that much,” you huffed, pulling at your pony-adorned t-shirt. “Promise that you’ll bail me out if I’m arrested?”

Ruby chuckled, squinching up her nose. “Of course! But that’s not what I mean…” she swallowed, and then proceeded to sit straighter against the sofa, hands collecting in her lap. “What I mean to say is that Vernon is… well… he’s quite charismatic, let’s say that. He’s one of those guys that make you feel really, really good and that’s great! But you can’t… misinterpret it.”

“Misinterpret… what? What are you saying?”

She stared at you, teeth worried into her bottom lip, almost like she was gazing upon a fragile little bird who had never left its twigged, tufted nest. Yes, you needed it spelled out because you refused this inscrutability and the nauseous flailing of your stomach.

“He’s not a relationship guy, is what I’m saying.”

Oh, you thought.

A beat of silence, and your expression faded.

Oh, you thought again.

“No, no, no, no, no—” the protests flew off your tongue before your mind could make sense of what you were thinking, “—no, no, no. This is not—I’m not—I would never even—” you took in a large breath, having moved yourself to the very edge of the sofa such that you were half-hanging off it at that point. “That’s not my intention at all, Ruby. This has nothing to do with… with trying to make something out of it… I’m not trying to be in a relationship! Especially with Vernon. No, no, no. Gosh, absolutely not.”

“Alright,” Ruby answered, shrugging. “I hear you. But I just thought it might be worth it to let you know. ‘Cause I’ve been there.”

“Been where?”

“I crushed on him at one point,” she admitted, and your mouth felt like grainy stubble. “When we first started messing around. This was back when we worked at Putting Edge. But I realized pretty quickly he’s not that type of guy. Not about relationships at all. Which is fine. It didn’t keep me down for long. It helped me learn to separate my feelings from sex and everything.”

“Oh…” you nodded, grasping tightly at your shorts.

“Vernon just has this weird, charming aura that somehow flips a switch in people. Girls flock to him. I’m not saying all girls. I’m not saying you. Anyway, I don’t want to smother you. You get the point.”

“Yeah, I get the point…”

How could Ruby think that was even something worth bringing up to you? It was almost insulting. Vernon was the exact opposite of everything you sought for in a person, let alone a romantic partner. He was a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. Your decision to help him find Diana was motivated by very little apart from needing him gone and out of your life. All he did was disturb things.

Nothing would change that.

Nothing.

“Are you sure you don’t need directions?”

“PJ’s, I told you a zillion times. I don’t need any directions. Society did just fine and dandy without super-thinned pixelated screens tellin’ everyone where to go. We used maps and shit. And my map is my memory.”

“Well, that was the… never mind.”

“The what?”

“Nothing… you just missed the turn.”

“See—I don’t even remember takin’ that turn. In fact, I think that’s a new street. Yeah… that street definitely wasn’t there before. Crazy.”

You knew it wasn’t the grandest idea, letting Vernon rely solely on his patchy memory to find the Thai restaurant in question, although it had been a losing battle since you first strapped yourself into his car. The directions were open on your phone, and it was almost comical—silently watching Vernon ignore every turn, reroute, and roundabout that the GPS could possibly suggest—all in favour of his memory that was apparently so magnificent, he was an hour late to picking you up.

So much for having his number.

After your very thorough and investigative research, (which required about ten operational brain cells and being quite handy with the Google search engine), you were able to conclude the Thai restaurant that you and Diana ate midnight supper at was called Burning Dragon. They had quite a few locations dotted around the exterior of the university campus, but you picked the one that felt the most right, and Vernon seemed more than convinced once you told him the street name. You weren’t exactly sure what you two were meant to uncover, though the mystery was proving tempting.

“Fuck, I should have filled my tank,” Vernon groaned, head thumping back against the seat rest. “Look out for any gas stations.”

You picked at the edge of your phone case, smiling. “Well, not to be that person, but if you didn’t take so many… unnecessary turns—"

“Woah, woah, woah.” He jammed the breaks upon reaching the crosswalk, crowded groups shuffling. “But you are bein’ that person.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You know, you’re pretty damn chirpy for someone hitchin’ a ride in my car. Street’s right there. Don’t trip over the curb.”

Crossing your legs and folding your arms, you hid the stupid little grin you refused to let him see in your shoulder. His ego didn’t need any extra quenching from your metaphorical watering can.

Vernon rubbed a frustrated hand through his hair, thumbs then proceeding to tap the steering wheel. “God—these people walk so fuckin’ slowly. C’mon, Mr. Briefcase… I know you’re not too eager to get those divorce papers home, but let’s trot with some urgency, here.”

Your eyes rolled and you sarcastically lipped, “yeah, how can these random people not sense the dire nature of our situation? It’s like they have no idea or inclination into our lives. It’s making me sick.”

“Feel free to roll down the window.” Vernon smirked.

“Ah, yes. The joy of a window that actually opens,” you mumbled an ode to the horrible memory of being trapped in Vernon’s stuffy back seat while he drove home you and Lara from Mr. York’s.

To your utmost relief, Vernon finally managed to find the restaurant a few more confused turns later. The parking lot was decently crowded for a Saturday evening. As you two walked around the front of the building, you paused to look at the artwork in the window frame—the hand-painted dragon, detailed from thin red brush strokes vibrant against the clean glass—and sighed at how different things felt. Vernon didn’t seem quite as interested in the nostalgia. The boy was already inside the restaurant waiting to be seated as you soon joined him, leaving the brisk wind of November behind.

“It’s warm as fuck in here,” Vernon said, biting his lip.

You shrugged. “It smells good.”

“So, let’s figure out how we’re gonna do this,” he murmured under his breath. “Charge the kitchen? Kidnap a server into the closet?”

A hostess began approaching you with a pinned-up smile, to which you elbowed the boy in his rib. “How about we get a table first?”

“How borin’ of you.”

“More like how perfectly legal—hi!” You were quick to heighten the octave of your voice and mirror the hostess’ welcoming demeanour as she invited you into the dining area, presenting a booth against the window. It was comfortable seating. Artistic lanterns provided a hazy sort of red glow that you remembered enjoying.

“I’ll be your server tonight,” she announced, sliding two laminated menus down onto the dark wood table. “My name’s Cindy. Can I start you guys off with anything to drink? Some waters, maybe?”

You nodded. “That would be great!” Once she disappeared into the kitchen, you removed your wool coat, letting it bunch behind your back. Then you inhaled. Smelled grated ginger and tangy broths.

“Damn. She look familiar at all?” Vernon inquired.

“No.” You shook your head. “I can’t remember our waitress at the time. That wasn't really our point of focus.”

“So, what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“Gee, I don’t know. That’s a tough one.”

“Okay,” Vernon sighed, leaning himself against the window and plopping an elbow onto the table. “That’s not what I meant, PJ’s.”

You picked up the menu. “Let’s not rush into things, okay? I’m surprised you’re not hungry. There’s some really good stuff here.”

Vernon didn’t seem entirely pleased that he was now subject to spending an hour with you, eating cheap Thai food that he never tried before, rather than getting his answers served to him on a silver platter. You tried not to take his sparse enthusiasm as an insult, knowing you weren’t exactly Vernon’s ideal portrait of fun, nor the first person to come to mind when considering how he might spend a Saturday evening. But he mimicked you, picking up the creased, aged menu and flapping it lifelessly before his face.

“I’m getting the Khao Soi,” you said. “It’s delicious.”

“M’kay—looks good in the picture,” Vernon answered. “I’ll try it.”

After being served your waters and having Cindy take down the two orders of Khao Soi, you couldn’t help but awkwardly twiddle your thumbs at the situation. You were nervous. Your stomach was in knots. Your palms were getting damp. And you hated that the feeling was only stoked further every time you looked across the table at Vernon. His crisp white t-shirt hugged his torso so fittingly, and the thin gold chain around his neck was a nice pop of colour you hadn’t noticed before. With his slightly mussed-up hair and faded pink cheeks, your heart tightened like someone was squeezing it. You gulped down a heavy lump when he finally put his phone aside and settled his arms onto the table, demonstrating his collages of tattoos.

“You’re right,” he huffed. “I am hungry.”

“I knew you would be.”

He smiled at you.

Your knees pressed together. “So… um… how did you get to know Ruby so well? I heard you worked together. Putting Edge.”

Vernon leaned back, tilting his head. “You really wanna talk to me about your roommate right now? You can get the scoop from her.”

Jeez. That felt humiliating.

“Okay, well, I just thought that—”

“Why’d you and Diana fall out?”

You stumbled. “F-Fall out? We didn’t fall out.”

Vernon raised a shoulder. “What would you call it, then?”

Folding your arms and scooting back into the booth, you spent a moment eyeing the table, becoming insecure at the confrontation. You studied its numerous scuff marks. Someone had poorly etched their name against the edge in pale, carved lines. “It’s just… I feel like saying we fell out implies there was a fight. And there was no fight.” Sometimes you wish there had been. “It was more like a fizzle.”

“Hm,” Vernon hummed. “Someone has to start the fizzle.”

“Yeah… I definitely got fizzled on.”

Vernon laughed, “damn.”

“But, like, at one point, I was also getting in on the fizzling. Because it kinda sucks to talk to someone who doesn’t wanna talk to you. I felt like, weird, about always being the one to reach out to her. It’s like when your absent father tells you the phone works both ways. Except you’re not eight years old. You’re basically adults who should be able to communicate.”

“So, you got no closure about it,” Vernon stated. “That sucks.”

“Yeah…” you exhaled, running your thumb along the stranger's name, feeling the subtle grooves, remembering how defeating it all felt. “When there’s a big fight, at least you have something. You can point at it and blame it on everything. But when there’s no fight, no tension, no nothing… all you can look at is mismatched pieces that won’t give you an answer no matter how you arrange them.”

“Sure,” he agreed, shrugging. “But you can’t dwell on it forever.”

A bit later, and your waitress was returning with two hot, steaming bowls of Khao Soi that made your grief become a little less harrowing. As eager as you were to eat, you watched Vernon slurp some of the noodles and broth first, gauging his reaction. You felt unusually happy when he proceeded to wipe off the corner of his mouth and nod in satisfaction.

It somehow made your own Khao Soi taste better.

By the time you finished eating, it was pitch black outside as wind winnowed down the street in aggressive lashes, although it only made the interior of the warm restaurant and the glow of the red lanterns feel that much cozier. You were fiddling with the paper wrapping that came around your chopsticks, giggling, as Vernon recounted the story to how he got that gigantic, ugly crack in his phone.

“Once I realized I dropped it, I had to slam the car in reverse and fuckin’ sadly backtrack along the side of the road. Shit was all smashed to hell. But I got lucky. Last time I ever gave his ass a ride again.”

You smiled, rolling the paper into a ball between your fingers. “I feel like you’re trying as hard as possible to blame this on your friend, when you were the one who decided to stick your phone out the window.”

“He basically forced my hand.”

“Not really!”

“Alright, pipe down. You weren’t even there.”

With the tip of your finger, you sent the tiny paper ball flying smack into the boy’s forehead, chuckling as it bounced off and fell under the table.

“Okay. Someone thinks she’s a big girl, huh?”

You smiled at him, smitten, your cheeks hurting. “Precisely.”

Cindy suddenly came by the table with the printed bill. “I’ll be a second, I forgot to get change,” she said, smiling, while sliding it toward Vernon. He quirked an eyebrow at her once she walked away, only to pick up the receipt and gag at it. “This shit isn’t separate! Why did she put our orders together!" He sat back against the booth. "And then fuckin’ hand it to me? What the hell is this?”

Covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, you watched Cindy return to the table. “Okay, are we ready to pay?”

Vernon scratched his temple. “Uh, so... the bill isn't separate.”

She nodded very matter-of-factly. “Yes!”

He sighed. “Well… it’s just that—”

“Oh, shoot. You guys aren’t together? My mistake! I thought—”

“No, we’re not.” Vernon shook his head. “But—fuck—y’know, it’s fine, alright? I’ll put my gentleman pants on. I’ve got some cash, here.”

“That’s fine!” She chirped. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

You smiled at her. “It’s perfectly fine.”

Vernon opened his wallet. He smoothly slid out the correct amount of bills to the waitress and told her she could keep the change. Your heart was beating like a drum in your chest after observing the magnitude of money he had been sifting through—where was all that cash when he needed a cinnamon bun and didn’t even have a five-dollar bill on him?

“Hey—” Vernon then knocked your ankle under the table and swayed his head toward Cindy, “—fuckin’ ask her,” he whispered harshly.

“Oh, uh—hey! Can I ask you something before you go?”

She turned back, smiling. “Sure.”

“Well, I’m sorry if this is a weird question… but do you or anyone you work with ever remember a girl named Diana? Diana Basu?”

Cindy paused, biting her rosy lip, as she thought. “Diana Basu?”

“Yeah.”

“Right when I started working here, a year ago now, there was a girl named Diana. She was a server. But she ended up… um… leaving.” Cindy used quoted fingers. “I don’t know where she went afterward. Maybe another server would know better. Is there a reason you’re asking?”

You swallowed, and it tasted like sour sap. “Uh… she’s just an old friend that I haven’t heard from in a while. I’m worried about her.”

Cindy frowned, fiddling with the plasticky bills in her hand. She then glanced around the dining area, at the guests gently blowing steam from ornately painted bowls or sharing quiet conversation. “I can ask for you, if that helps.”

“Yes, that would be amazing!”

“Okay, be right back.”

Vernon grinned. “Nice work, PJ’s.”

“What do we do once we get our next lead?”

He picked up his drink, sipping from it. “What do you think?”

“What if it’s a dead-end?”

Settling his cup back down, Vernon shrugged. “What if it isn’t?”

You gulped nervously. “What if—”

“Enough with the what if’s,” he interrupted, crossing his arms and letting his head thunk against the booth. “You need a downer?”

While waiting for Cindy to come back, you stared past the dragon painted to the window and at the dark city street. At least you had one single tidbit of information. Diana used to work at Burning Dragon. The job seemed uncharacteristic of her. She was shy and socially anxious. But you supposed she was probably trying to accomplish the same thing as you, and money was quite influential when you were particularly lacking it.

“Okay, I got some info from my friend who worked with her—” Cindy announced as she returned to the table, “—so, they don’t know where she is now, unfortunately. But I bet you her ex-boyfriend might. His name is Kenta. My friend knows him. He works at that indoor climbing gym, Rocky Road.”

“Sweet,” Vernon exclaimed. “Appreciate it, Cindy.”

“No problem. I hope you guys find her.”

You truthfully didn’t know whether to agree or disagree.

Back outside in the nippy cold, you fixed your wool coat back on, huffing out a visible breath that the wind picked up and carried away into the black night. Together, you and Vernon headed into the parking lot, thinned out of vehicles, mostly drifting with trash.

You both huddled into your coats as he let the car warm up.

“That went better than expected,” he said, checking his phone.

“Rocky Road?” You moaned as your nose pressed into your thick wool collar. “Where the heck is that? Are you Googling it?”

“No.” Vernon shook his head.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Hey—you’ve got a phone, huh? Why don’t you try takin’ it out, openin’ up the freakin’ internet, and Googlin’ it your damn self?”

Your eyes rolled. “Okay, fine. Don’t need to be so callous.”

Vernon scoffed. “I don’t even know what that fuckin’ means.”

“Okay… it’s not far… but it’s obviously closed.”

“We’ll regroup then.”

Sighing, you clicked your phone off and shoved it into your pocket, stretching out your legs as much as you could manage. The heat blowing back into your face was making your eyelids feel particularly heavy. Your stomach was warm with flavourful soup.

“Guess I gotta take your ass home,” Vernon mumbled.

You nodded. “That would be nice.”

“I can’t believe I paid for your damn fuckin' dinner.”

In response, you cackled, nibbling on your cheek. “Hey—I saw all that money in your wallet. Don’t act like I was breaking the bank.”

“What colour do you think looks best on me? There’s this dark purple, kind of aubergine-coloured. And then… there’s this one. A nice cheeky bright red. Both satin. The red has the plunging neck.”

Tara grabbed a dark olive trench coat from her locker, fitting her slim arms through the holes as Lara shoved a phone in front of her face. She squinted at the pictures her friend swiped in between while continuing to collect her things, humming thoughtfully, until she came to an opinion. “I like the aubergine better. It grips your silhouette. It’s mature but still sexy.”

“Hm,” Lara replied, staring at the photos. “You think?”

“Yes. And it totally compliments your hair.”

“Alright, I can see what you’re saying, Tars.”

You were listening, although you hadn’t said anything. After untying the laces to your work shoes, you slid on some fresh wool socks and promptly crammed your feet into a pair of black boots. Lara almost clipped you in the back of the head with her purse as she swung around, lowering her phone right before your eyes and subjecting you to develop an opinion. Why she would even care what you thought seemed unusual, but then she opened her mouth and suddenly it all made sense.

“What are your thoughts? Which would Vernon like better?”

The scoff you held back tickled your throat like dust. Convincingly, however, you coughed it away. “Uh, they’re both gorgeous.” You weren’t lying—Lara was just a naturally beautiful woman—she had those long, toned ballerina legs, supple curves in all the right places, and the most healthy, dark hair to frame her delicate, willowy features. Reaching for your coat, you shrugged. “But, you know, it’s Vernon. I doubt he’ll honestly care about the outfit. I think he’s just more interested in the underneath.”

Lara giggled, moving the phone away from your personal space and back into her own bubble. “I’m sure there’s truth to that. But I feel like I should start taking us more seriously. I guess the purple is better for dinner.”

At that, your eyes mooned. “Dinner?” You gasped, finally getting up from the bench and turning around to face the Lara and Tara twins.

They were leaned against their lockers, smiling at each other.

Lara nodded. “Yes. I’m going to ask him out to dinner.”

“Oh…” you exhaled, feeling your skin dramatically warm as all the individual blood vessels contracted. “That’s… wow. I hope it goes well.”

Turning back around to hide your twitching, restive face, you retrieved your bag from the locker, biting down hard on your bottom lip as you couldn’t help but recall Ruby’s warnings to you about the boy. He was not the relationship type. He didn’t care for commitment. He was just there for the physical deed and wasn’t the type to nurture come morning time—no breakfast in bed or hot baths—just a cold dent in the wrinkled bedsheets where he once laid was the only tribute to his presence.

But Lara’s tone had been optimistic. You didn’t want to be the pin that popped her balloon. It could be that she was changing his mind.

“Well, I’ve got to catch the bus,” you said while waving goodbye to your two coworkers, still relaxed against the lockers and looking at more outfit photos on Lara’s phone. “I do like the purple by the way.”

She smiled quite brightly in response, a stark contrast to her usual gloom while being confined to work, tucking hair behind her ear.

“Thanks.”

You had never been to Rocky Road before, nor had you ever heard of it until hanging out with Vernon at the Thai restaurant last week. An indoor climbing gym wasn’t exactly enticing to you. It likely stemmed from a childhood memory: your twelfth birthday at one of those fun centres that always smelled like pizza and had flashing lights and loud arcade noises stimulating you from every corner. They had a small rock wall that you climbed to press a button and win a stuffed toy. You were about halfway up the wall, when out of nowhere, this awful, paralyzing fear found its way into your chest and gripped you like a second skin, making you afraid to move even an inch. Too nauseous to climb back down, an employee had actually sent your mother up the wall to help soothe you, since you refused to be aided by anyone else. Blubbering into her arms, they gave you a toy seal.

To this day, you never understood where that fear came from.

But it had certainly made you wary of becoming a rock climber—not that it was ever something you legitimately considering being.

For some reason, Vernon had you two sitting inside his car, watching the building from across the empty parking lot. Just about everything was dressed in a very thin coating of midnight snow, though it was beginning to melt as the sun garnered its strength. The time was just creeping up to ten in the morning on a slow Saturday.

You didn’t peg Vernon as an early riser, yet he was acting more awake than you were. While fighting another yawn, your head limply fell to the side in order to stare out the car window at anything even relatively interesting to keep your mind alert, opting to watch tiny droplets of water bulb from thin, naked tree branches. At a certain point the sun had crawled directly into your eyes, and you let them flutter shut a little too easily, enjoying the heat soak across your face like a cat warming up its thick fur.

As you were right on the edge of sleep, you heard a few solid knocks tap against Vernon’s window. It was enough to have you bursting awake, sitting up straighter than a hair, realizing there was someone at the car. You were sure it was a man, unrecognizable to you, wearing a large winter jacket and a toque practically pulled down over his eyebrows. Vernon then proceeded to open his window, a gust of cold air flowing into the vehicle, finding you in pinpricks.

“What’s up? Cash?”

“Yeah,” the man mumbled, handing Vernon some coloured bills that he flaked through. “Swear it’s all there. Counted it like ten times.”

“All good,” Vernon laughed, opening the middle console and depositing the clean money inside. “Here.” He handed the man two small baggies of something you could hardly see. “Go crazy, Mish.”

“Thanks.” He pointed at Vernon in recognition, smiling with his teeth that clearly needed some work. The man’s eyes quickly shifted to you for no less than a second before he wandered off into the lot.

It took you a moment to even process what happened.

“Uh, Vernon?” You side-eyed him, too appalled at the circumstances to even turn your head. “What the heck was that?”

“What the hell do you think it was?”

Digging into your thighs with blunt fingernails, you snapped to look at him, still slack-mouthed. “You just made me an accessory to a drug deal!”

Finally, he turned off the car’s exhaust. The lack of rumbling made the atmosphere silent and fragile. Vernon adjusted his jacket and shrugged. “So?”

“Uh—what do you mean so?! So, I could get arrested! So, I could go to court! So, I could get a criminal record! Is that enough so’s for you?!"

“Shit. It’s ten in the mornin’, alright?” Vernon winced, wriggling a finger into his ear. “Why are we shoutin’? I’ve got tinnitus now.”

Arms folded, you huffed, the clear blue sky acting as the perfect canvas to picture your life going down the drain. Though, you couldn’t imagine losing a whole lot. “I’m surprised you even know what that means.”

“Ouch. Rude.”

Your eyes rolled. “Oh, like you care.”

“Nothin’ is gonna happen, PJ’s. That’s Misha. He’s a good dude. We used to work together back at the golf place. I wouldn’t have done anything with you in the car if I didn’t think so, alright?” He sighed.

Flicking off your seatbelt, you groaned. “How is it so possible for a point to go so entirely over a person’s head? I mean, was that cocaine?”

“It’s—”

“Actually, don’t tell me. Don’t ever tell me.” You stuck out a hand to prevent him from going any further. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

Inside Rocky Road, you were greeted by a single employee seated behind a service desk, sipping from a coffee cup. He glanced up through his glasses. “Good morning. Are you two here for a climbing session?”

Your brow furrowed. “Well, we’d really like to speak to—"

“Yes,” Vernon cut you off. “We’re here for a climbin’ sesh.”

You shot him daggers, lips pushing together in fury.

The employee made a click with his mouse. “Okay, I’m assuming it’s the ten-fifteen slot. And who is your instructor for the session?”

“Kenta,” Vernon said.

Another click of the computer mouse, and a quick flick of the scroll wheel. The employee smiled again. “Oh—you’re Justin and Taryn?”

“Damn right.”

“Okay, can I get you to sign in right on this sheet? If you go through those doors back there, that’s the gym. There’s also a locker room just down the hall for any items you want to keep safe, although you do need to supply your own lock. Kenta should be there shortly.”

“Cool, thanks.” Vernon grabbed the pen attached to a paper weight, proceeding to scribble something onto the attendance clipboard.

You were going to explode at his nonsensical charade.

What was the purpose? In that moment, you were rooted to the floor, refusing to sign the clipboard as your heart boomed in your chest and your eyes burnt him up.

“C’mon. Sign it,” Vernon urged, pointing his head at the sheet.

Your fingers balled into compact fists. “Vernon—”

“Vernon is meetin’ us after, alright?” He answered, gritting his teeth slightly and raising his brow. “I know you’re scared, but this will be fun.”

“In what world?”

“Sign it,” he was on the verge of growling, shifting his eyes incredibly suggestively at the clipboard. You wanted to tackle him.

“It really is fun,” the employee added, bringing the coffee cup back to his lips for a sip. “Lots of people are scared, but end up loving it.”

You weren’t in the mood to fight the situation any more than you had been in the mood to be a witness to a drug deal, which you attributed to morning slurry. Sighing, your hand stuttered as it reached for the ballpoint pen, adjusting it between your fingers in a transient second of contemplation and forthcoming regret. You proceeded to make a scribble under Vernon’s. A weight sat in your stomach.

While walking into the gym, you elbowed his side. “I hate you.”

“Hate’s just as passionate as love, baby girl,” he snickered.

You took a deep breath. That was all you had.

Vernon threw off his jacket into the corner. The gym was rather large, with somewhat scuffed but still shiny wooden floors that reflected the fluorescence overhead. Different rock walls of various heights and complication surrounded you, prompting your nervous gulp as you unbuttoned your coat and apprehensively shimmied out the sleeves. Letting it lump overtop Vernon’s, you cradled yourself while peering around, noticing it was only the two of you inside the gym.

Walking up to the nearest wall, Vernon put his hand on the protruding grip and tugged it. Then, you watched him raise a foot to tug off his brown Marten, followed by the other, which he carelessly tossed aside. Little by little, Vernon started to climb the wall, leaving you to anxiously pace around while fretting about how terrible the entire compromise was. “I can’t believe this,” you groaned. “This was such a dumb idea. What are we supposed to do if those people actually show up? We’re impersonating them! Isn’t that a crime? Gosh. Add that to the list. At this rate, I’m gonna be living the rest of my life in the slammer! With nothing but a sad little tin cup to rattle for dramatic effect. Ugh… I shouldn’t have followed you! I should have just spoke for myself! I’m so pathetic. I—”

“PJ’s, look! I’m almost at the top!”

Tilting your head back, you glanced skyward up the wall, grimacing as you noted just how high Vernon had climbed during your rant.

“What the heck are you doing?! That’s beyond dangerous! Get down!”

“This shit is so easy.”

“I don’t care! Get down!”

Surprisingly, Vernon heeded your braying and slowly began making his way back toward the floor. When he was close enough to safely push himself off, Vernon was dropping down with a thud.

You glared at him. “You’re so irresponsible, it’s insane.”

“I’ve got crazy grip strength. Think I’m part gorilla?”

“Part lunatic, more like.”

Vernon smiled. “That works, too.”

Across the gym, two doors pushed open with a metallic squeak, and in walked a young-looking man dressed in athletic wear: dark shorts and a compression shirt. He was tall, with very straight but nicely styled black hair, and the kind of the muscle you would expect from someone who enjoyed climbing rocks every day. Strung over his shoulder was a large duffle bag.

“Hey!” He called. “You guys are the ten-fifteen?”

Gosh. Were you really going to play along?

Vernon nodded. “Yeah. Took a crack at the wall already. Got pretty far up with just my hands. How ‘bout that, huh? You’re Kenta?”

“Sure am,” the man answered, letting the bag slip off his shoulder and hit the ground. He smiled. “Remind me of your names again?”

“Justin.”

You were silent for a moment, fingers curling at your sides. Unable to look Kenta in the eyes, you stared off to the side, mumbling, “Taryn.”

“Cool. Alright, well, you guys signed up for the hour-half session. I’ll introduce you to some of the equipment in this bag here, and then we’ll get you up on this wall to the right for practice. Once you’re comfortable, we’ll move onto some more fun walls. They’ve got obstacles and such.”

Kenta unzipped the bag, pulling out some tangled harnesses and protective helmets. Your stomach was shredding itself into pieces. Did part of your plan really need to involve climbing a rock wall? Vernon hadn’t wanted much part in playing along at the Thai restaurant, yet here he was, grinning, as Kenta discussed the equipment and safety parameters. Maybe rock climbing was some weird objective to scratch off his bucket list.

You had no idea.

“Who wants first?” Kenta asked.

Vernon raised his hand. “I’ll do it.”

Once he was prepared, helmet strapped on and harness secured, Kenta gave him some chalk to help with managing the grips. You stood back, chewing on your lip, while Vernon proceeded up the wall quite easily with Kenta holding onto the ropes.

“First time climbing?” Kenta spared you a soft glance.

Folding your arms tight, you nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. But once you get past that resistance in your gut, it’s pretty fun. Your friend’s doing a great job.” He pulled more of the rope through his hands as Vernon progressed further up.

“I just have a bad memory of it.”

“Really? That’s a shame.”

You didn’t want him to pity you too much. “It was a long, long time ago. My twelfth birthday, actually. But I was a super dramatic kid.”

“No worries,” Kenta answered, smiling. “Do what you’re able.”

He seemed sweet. And his defined, handsome face was certainly a pleasure to look at. You thought he was a wonderful candidate for Diana’s boyfriend—kind, physically fit, and very pretty—although you had never known her to be with anybody in particular when you were friends in university. She had silly crushes now and then, but the girl’s shyness always held her back from initiating anything.

You could relate to that.

“Alright! Got it!” Vernon shouted from the top, triumphant. “Is this the part where I get to feel like James Bond comin’ back down?”

Kenta laughed. “Everybody loves it.”

Holding onto the rope, Vernon pushed off from the wall as Kenta helped to gradually lower him to the floor. “That was tight,” he said, unbuckling his helmet and ruffling out his smushed hair. “N’ thanks for not droppin’ me on my face. My shit’s in its prime, y'know?”

“No problem. It’s my job.”

“M’kay.” Vernon proceeded to smile at you. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

He thrust his helmet into your chest. “C’mon, T-baby. Wall’s not gonna climb itself. Stop geekin’ out and go touch the stars.”

Begrudgingly, you soured at him. “Don’t T-baby me.”

“Okay. How’s World’s Biggest Wimp instead?”

“You better hope you’re never in a situation where you need to climb something and I’m the one holding your ropes. I’m not going to let you down all nice and gentle. I don’t think I’ll let you down at all.”

“Assumin’ you could even hold me in the first place.”

“Listen, I’ll—”

“Okay! Our time is precious.” Kenta edged you away from Vernon and gave you a harness to wear. “Let’s get you ready.”

Chewing the interior of your cheek, you turned your back as to avoid seeing Vernon’s antagonizing expression. While placing the helmet atop your head and clipping the strap together, Kenta helped you step into the harness, making the necessary adjustments until the material felt tight but not uncomfortable. He then attached the appropriate latches to the carabiners. Lastly, he offered you some white chalk to dust on your hands, thin and powdery.

It was the beginner wall, strictly for practice, but that somehow didn’t make you feel any better. You walked up to the grips, swallowing hard enough to break a hole through your throat, and contemplated which one to try first. Out of all the things you could find yourself doing on a Saturday morning, rock climbing was just next to skydiving.

How you’d much rather be wrapped up in bed, toasty, content, and not perspiring at the thought of reliving a humiliating memory from a childhood birthday party. You reached for a pink grip, letting your fingers anchor into its mould.

Wherever she was, you hoped Diana might appreciate all the effort you were putting into finding her—having her ex-boyfriend assist you up a rock wall under the guise of being a complete stranger—just to coax out even a breadcrumb of knowledge. Sucking in a deep breath, you began to climb, choosing each grip you picked with the meticulousness and care of a brain surgeon.

“That’s it!” Kenta called. “Take your time! You’re doing great!”

When you reached the halfway point, you refused to look down for even a second. Your profuse sweat was wearing the chalk off your palms and the grips were feeling increasingly slippery, though you continued climbing.

“C’mon, PJ’s! You’re almost there!”

The bones of your fingers ached as they curled loosely around another grip. Unfortunately, the harness only supported your weight so much, and your upper body was feeling the strain. Wedging your foot atop another tiny rock jutting from the wall, you stretched out your arm as far as it would go to reach the next closest grip, whining at the burning physicality.

Vernon cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out to you as though you couldn’t hear him perfectly fine already. “Ain’t gonna lie, our hour'll be up if you don’t put some gas in the tank! Reach for—”

“Shut up!” You snapped. “I’m going as fast as I can!”

“Just tryna help your slow ass!”

Somehow, you actually began to move with more vigor and speed until you had successfully reached the ultimate height of the wall, though you suspected the feat was less to do with skill and more to do with your voracious urge to jump Vernon and wrap impressively adhesive tape over his mouth so he couldn’t speak. Still, it felt rewarding to accomplish something, and you couldn’t help a relieved smile as you let your muscles go partially lax while Kenta helped lower you back to the floor. He loosened up your harness as you unbuckled the helmet, which you tossed onto the duffle bag.

“How fun was that?” Vernon grinned at you; his arms folded.

Your eyes rolled. “Again, we have different versions of fun.”

“Hey, don’t gotta lie to me—I saw that smile.”

“That’s ‘cause I was envisioning myself punching your lights out.”

“Whatever motivates you.”

The corners of your mouth twitched. You could sense yourself wanting to smirk at his response, though you steamed it out, refusing to let him feel any part triumphant in his contribution to your success. Though, maybe you were underestimating Vernon and his comprehension of others. Things were never black and white.

“So, Kenta, you’re a pretty cool instructor. How long have you been doin’ all this?” Vernon inquired, helping to push along the duffle bag.

“Thanks. I’ve been climbing since I was sixteen. But I’ve only been an instructor for about two years now. I just really like teaching people.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Shit, I bet a ton of cute girls come through here, and you get to be the one to teach em’. That’s my kinda job.”

Kenta laughed, brushing a timid hand through his hair as his cheeks turned pink, meanwhile you bit your lip to stop yourself from making an audible scoff. “I mean, that’s true. But I’ve gotten zero girls from this gig.”

“No way!” Vernon gagged, to which you assumed his short-lived interest as an instructor likely just disappeared. “What if I told you Taryn was interested?”

“Hey!” You shouted, whacking his arm. “I never said that! I am definitely not interested.” Your expression was quick to flinch as you realized the implications. “Uh—no offense, Kenta. You are totally handsome.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “Oh, no worries at all. I know it seems like a good place for that. It’s just… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel…”

“Professional?” You offered.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Vernon rubbed his nose, laughing. “Damn. Couldn’t be me.”

“Alright, here’s the next wall. Not too much harder than the last. Just a bit taller with some trickier grips. You guys can do some stretching if you want. I’m gonna grab my water bottle. It’ll only take a minute.”

You and Vernon got on the gym floor, entertaining yourselves with stretches that you weren’t even sure were useful. He made a poor attempt of reaching for his wriggling toes while you arched an arm over your head.

Vernon smiled. “You can climb.”

“Uh! No way!”

“Yes way.”

Leaning over the opposite direction, you huffed. “You’re crazy.”

“It’ll give me time to work some information out of Kenta.”

“Why can’t we just ask him about Diana?”

“That’s his ex, Pyjamas! We don’t know how poorly the fuckin’ relationship ended. This is a careful process. It should be a man-to-man thing. I can crack him open like a cold beer but I need time to work.”

Sitting criss-cross, you clasped both hands together above your head and straightened out your back, reaching upward in order to feel the delicious stretch travel down your spine. “So, I’m the one who has to suffer?”

“All for the cause.” He clicked his tongue.

“You’ll distract him and he’ll drop me.”

“Nah, this dude’s a professional. You worry too damn much.”

As your hands slid across the floor behind you, a sigh hollowed out from your chest. “I can’t believe this… you… you owe me, you know that?”

Vernon grinned, brushing a hand through his soft hair, still a bit sticky-uppy from the helmet. “I just tried to set you up with somebody, and you shot it down. I was tryin’ to owe you.”

“Yeah! Trying to set me up with my old best friend’s ex!”

The gym doors squealed as Kenta waltzed in with his large water bottle. Getting into a low squat, Vernon winked and snapped his fingers at you. “Can’t say I didn’t try. Now, strap up.” He paused, smirking. “Taryn.”

You grumbled, dragging the duffle bag closer.

At least you stretched.

Five walls.

Five goddamn walls.

The human body was not built to endure that kind of physical requirement, nor the heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping fear that accompanied it—at least, not your body.

In fact, you never understood those people, anyway. Climbing skinny metal infrastructures in the middle of deserts and hanging from jagged clifftops by just a single hand. You liked the ground. You liked your bed. You liked when you weren’t dangling at a preposterous angle, breathing hard, and fighting to cram your fingers in the questionably distanced grips.

As you maneuvered around the slanted obstacle, you spent a moment just clinging to the wall, letting breath after breath fill your sore lungs. From the floor, you heard a laugh.

Great. How lovely was it that Vernon and Kenta were getting along while you were pressed against a gigantic plastic rock twenty feet in the air. The moment you came down, Kenta hadn’t even helped you loosen the harness like he usually did. Either he supposed you just miraculously got the hang of everything now, or his conversation with Vernon was simply too enthralling. You assumed it was the latter. Tossing the helmet onto the duffle bag, you removed the tight harness yourself (climbing five walls had actually made you somewhat proficient, you unfortunately realized), and sat yourself on the scuffed floorboards, wiping the sweat from your eyebrow.

“Hey—that was your fastest wall yet!” Kenta exclaimed. “Not to mention the hardest one you’ve done. I got the sense you’d be good at this.”

“Yeah? What sense was that?” You puffed out, deciding to lay on your back and stare up at the fluorescent lights that were blending together with optical looseness.

“It’s usually people that are the most nervous that do the best. Their adrenaline refuses to let them fail. They turn into wall-climbing spiders.”

Inhaling deeply, you muttered, “gee, sounds exactly like me.”

“I’ll go get you some water. The session’s over, anyway.”

As Kenta proceeded to leave the gym, a face soon hovered above you, blocking out the bright light such that it fuzzied around his head like a white halo. He bit onto his lip ring and smiled. “You’re a G, PJ’s.”

“I think all my limbs are gonna fall off.”

Vernon bent down, grabbing onto your arm and raising it. The instant he let go, it practically collapsed akin to an overcooked, soggy noodle. He chuckled. “We’re gonna need a gurney for you, huh?”

“Please tell me you were able to figure out something useful.”

Standing back up, Vernon clapped off his hands like he just finished a long day at the construction site. “Fuck yeah, I did. I’ll tell you once we’re in the car. Gotta wait for Prince Charmin’ to grab your water.”

“I can’t believe the real Justin and Taryn never showed up.”

Vernon shrugged, a sly grin trudging across his mouth. “Well… while you were busy climbin’, I might have wandered out to the service desk and saw that dude was gone. And I might have looked up their number from the computer. And I might have called them from the phone and told them they needed to reschedule their session. I mean, they were already late! Talk about inconsiderate.”

You could only produce a breathless, exhausted laugh. “I want to be so, so angry at you. But I’m gonna fall apart like a Mr. Potato Head.”

Kenta came back with a plasticky cardboard cup full of water. You slurped it lustily. The two boys then helped you to your feet.

“A hot bath will fix you right up,” Kenta said. “And lots of rest.”

“That couldn’t come any sooner,” you chuckled.

“I just hope you two had fun.”

“I had a blast,” Vernon answered, picking up his jacket and reaching his arms through the holes. “What about you, Taryn?”

After a brief pause, you swallowed hard and nodded. “Me too.”

It felt quite nice to step into the cold. The warmth from inside the gym as well as your copious physical effort had turned you hotter than the sun's surface. With your coat left unbuttoned, you stood at the edge of the curb, breathing in the crisp, dry air. Your body was already feeling the looming soreness, and though you could only assume it would get worse, your mind seemed way less foggy than it had this morning. It felt clear like the sunlight.

Back in the car, you waited for Vernon to get settled and spend a few minutes checking his phone before you bombarded him with questions.

“M’kay, I’ll give you the bullet points,” he said. “So, they didn’t date for long. It was only three months, I think. Diana wasn’t his usual type but he thought he’d give it a shot, anyway. She was actin’ kinda shady, like, a month into the relationship. Turns out, she was stealin’ money from him, and that’s why they broke up. But not even two weeks after, she’s with another dude! So, he told me he thinks she was already seein’ him. He doesn’t know much about either of them, now. But he told me the dude was an assistant manager at good ole' Cinema Hut. Name’s Darian or some shit like that.”

“So…” you mumbled, looking down at your legs. “This means?”

Vernon gave your shoulder a mindful nudge before proceeding to shift the car in drive. He shrugged. “Hope you like movies, PJ’s.”

“Hey! Lookie here! This ground beef is on sale! Holy shit. Oh… but we’d have to use it by tomorrow… it should be fine if we freeze it, right? I can make Spaghetti Bolognese. I mean, I can’t make it, but I can look up how. Shouldn’t be too hard… are you even listening to me?” Ruby put the package of ground beef back into the clearance cooler.

Eyes lured to your phone, you nodded. “I am listening.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

A second later, and Ruby had swiped the phone straight out of your hand, immediately abandoning your half-filled grocery cart as she hurried down the aisle with you hot on her trail.

“Ruby! Don’t be a jerk!” You grumbled to her, attempting to pin the girl against the door to the frozen chicken wings. “Give it back!”

“Waiting on a text from Vernon, I see?” Your roommate chided, biting onto her lower lip while a smirk stretched wide across her face—one that made your stomach plummet. She capitulated the phone to you. “Okay, relax—take the phone, babe—I couldn’t help myself.”

Shoving the girl meekly in her arm, your head shook. “You’re such a little kid sometimes.” Though she had been right.

You weren’t listening.

“So are you! Acting like a school girl with a crush. It’s so cute.”

After making it back to your grocery cart, Ruby proceeded to throw in the package of ground beef she had been eyeing. Her comment took a moment to even register in your mind, until it was time to start pushing the cart and suddenly you were deadbolted into place, mouth falling open. She walked a few steps in the direction of the bakery, her loose bun wrapped in sleek brown and red tresses only continuing to get looser, though she was quick to realize you weren’t following. You were still gaping at her.

Ruby turned around while adjusting her hair. “What?”

Then, you started laughing. “How could you say that?!”

“Say what?”

“The school girl thing—the crush!”

She grabbed the end of the cart and began pulling it down the aisle, walking backward to hold your gaze. “I was only teasing.” A spark jumped into her eyes. “But judging from your reaction, is there some truth to it?”

“Nope,” you stated in utmost confidence, popping the syllables for emphasis. “There’s absolutely no truth. There’s negative truth, in fact.”

Ruby stopped. “Isn’t negative truth just lying?”

Regaining the cart’s control, you sighed. “I guess. But that's not what I meant. Do you want these?” You picked up a cardboard package off the shelf. “Wagon Wheels.”

“Oh, love those. And we need bread.”

Watching Ruby wander further into the bakery section, you decided to stay with the cart near the outside. Again, you pulled out your phone to check your text messages, although you made it much more discreet.

Vernon was texting you pretty fluently on your way to the grocery store, but now he wasn’t answering at all. Of course, the boy would disappear when you were trying to coordinate a stupid date and time to go see a movie at Cinema Hut. It was hard enough getting an answer out of him. But Ruby was just exaggerating, blowing things out of proportion—it’s not like you were obsessively lurking on your phone, haunting your text messages with Vernon, desperate to see that little grey bubble pop up and—oh! Finally! You heaved out an unusually big sigh you didn’t know you were holding—then you actually processed the text and your face twisted up.

soz. get back 2 u later.

Under your breath, you read the message to yourself.

Gosh, he was so polarizing—it made you want to rip out clumps of your hair and then turn them to pyre flakes. At the last second, you saw Ruby coming back with the bread and immediately hid the phone in your jacket, even if you were fuming with the incessant itch to berate Vernon five more times over text message for being so evasive. What on earth was he doing that he wasn’t able to provide you with something as simple as a date and time?

Ruby grabbed the cart again, pulling it forward.

You groaned. It was probably best you didn’t know.

“Okay, got everything,” Ruby said. “What about you?”

“Yeah. Let’s just pay.”

As you two stood in line for the cash register, Ruby turned to you with an inviting smile. “I’m going out tonight. Wanna come?”

Your nose scrunched. “Going out where?”

“C’mon, you know!” She elbowed your rib. “The klerb.”

Pushing the cart forward a few inches, you braced your shoulders tightly. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m just not a club person.” You returned your roommate’s sweet smile. “And you won’t turn me into one.”

“Last week I asked you to go painting with me and you said no to that, too!” She flicked the zipper on her lowcut sweater, starting to pout.

“Because my entire body felt like jelly!” You laughed.

She slapped a divider onto the conveyor belt and threw on her package of chocolate Wagon Wheels. “What if I said Vernon was going?”

“Nice try.”

“You wouldn’t consider it? Even a little?”

With a big huff, you set down a bag of apples and angled an annoyed glance at the girl. “What’s with you and this Vernon stuff?”

Ruby shrugged. “I should be asking you that.”

“I already told you; I’m doing it so—”

“So he’ll crash somewhere else. I understand.”

“Well, that’s all it is,” you insisted in a curt tone while continuing to help your roommate place more items onto the conveyor belt. “Just because I’m waiting on a text from him doesn’t mean I got shot by Cupid’s arrow.”

“But that’s not all it is…” she mumbled.

You immediately straightened up, hands shooting to your hips like a disapproving mother about to scold her child. “And what does that mean?”

Ruby was about to open her mouth, but then the employee behind the cash register greeted you and began scanning your items. She cleverly altered whatever she was initially going to say, giving the employee an amicable smile, and fluffed out of your reusable bags to start packing away the groceries. The conversation turned to water under the bridge. Besides, you didn’t really want to know her observations, anyway. You felt the same and acted the same as you always did, at least from your perspective.

Friday nights typically weren’t your preference for going out—it was your last work day of the week, the restaurant was at its busiest, and you wouldn’t get off the clock until after eleven, once all the cleaning duties were accomplished—your mind wouldn’t be able to entertain much else apart from sandwiching yourself between the comfortable sheets of your bed back at home. But Vernon mentioned that he wouldn’t be in the city for the weekend, and somehow that pigeonholed both your availabilities.

Fortunately, you weren’t feeling that tired. Vernon came to pick you up outside Mr. York’s once you had finished cleaning. It was quite nice, not having to worry about missing the bus, consequently standing outside the shelter in the cold simply because the drunk man inside was trying to engage you about government conspiracy theories. You had actually grown a notable appreciation for that vanilla Camry, even if the interior did smell like cannabis on occasion. Though, you would never admit that to Vernon.

“So, what movie did you pick?” You asked him.

Vernon grabbed his phone out from the cupholder and handed it to you, shrugging. “Can’t remember. Online tickets are in my emails.”

“Oh… you picked… Little Miss Sparkle’s Big Princess Party?”

“What?” Vernon grunted. “Little Miss Sparkle’s Big—what?” He immediately swiped the phone back. “No the fuck I didn’t.” Squinting down at the screen, his expression morphed from one of preposterousness to flickers of relief and annoyance. “Oh. You’re fuckin’ makin’ a joke.”

Your teeth were biting all over your bottom lip, attempting to quell an eager smile as Vernon shut the phone off and let it slip back into the cup holder.

“Got an issue with Little Miss Sparkle’s Big Princess Party?”

He shook his head. “No. But that’s not what I paid for.”

“Yeah. You paid for some prison break movie.” Folding your legs, you let your head fall toward him. “Are you going to be taking notes?”

Vernon chuckled. “I know the law. You got a notepad, though?”

Opting to roll your eyes very exaggeratedly, you instead looked out your window, noticing that wisps of snow were beginning to illuminate under the street light. You weren’t entirely sure what the plan was for tonight, though you two never really seemed to have a plan, or be on the same page ever for that matter. But somehow the lack of coordination was working, so you chose not to question it and overcomplicate things.

After arriving at Cinema Hut and showing the clerk your tickets for the night, you were free to kill time. You wandered around the snack section while Vernon answered an impromptu phone call off in the corner. The theatre wasn’t particularly busy, either because everyone was already watching their movies or most people found there were much better things to be doing at midnight on a Friday, although you were fine with where you had landed. Picking up some Swedish Fish from the rack, you stared at the colourful lime package, not entirely sure what you were craving.

“Those are good.” Vernon was suddenly next to you. “But these are better.” He reached for a candy that was right beside yours. “Sour Patchies.”

“Oh, I used to eat those,” you said, smiling. “I would put one in my mouth and suck all the sour stuff off so it was just the gummy.”

He nodded. “Who didn’t?”

At the drink dispensers, Vernon filled his cup with classic Coca Cola while you chose cherry Root Beer. There were just two employees at the counter, one already occupied with a group, therefore you and Vernon went to the girl adjusting the popcorn in the big machine behind her.

She turned around, putting on a dull, tired smile.

“How’s your night been?” Vernon asked her.

“Fine. Long. Uh, is this stuff together?”

“I’ll pay for it,” you were quick to offer, proceeding to give Vernon a sympathetic look. “I mean, you paid for the tickets. It’s no worry.”

The girl readied the machine. As you were about to hover your phone above the reader, Vernon had already beaten you to it.

“You’re too slow, PJ’s,” he said, smirking. Before you could retaliate with a quip, he was already luring the employee back into conversation. “So, is there a manager around? I’m thinkin’ about droppin’ off a resume.”

She scratched her nose piercing. “There is, but I think he’s busy in the office right now… do you want me to check anyway?”

“Nah, don’t bother,” Vernon answered. “What’s his name?”

“Darian. He usually goes on his smoke break within the hour, if that’s any help. He’s pretty chilled out. We need more people for nights.”

Vernon grabbed his things from the counter. “M’kay, thanks.”

The theatre was fairly empty when you two walked in. There were three people seated together near the front, but you followed Vernon toward the back, where he found the middle seats. It was dimly lit without the explosive previews to ignite the room in sound and colour.

You took a sip from your drink. “Where’s your resume?”

Looking down at his phone, Vernon raised a shoulder. “The void.”

He seemed content to sit in silence. You made sure to text Ruby before you left work that you might not be home until later, though she was already out at a friend’s house party and hadn’t responded since. It was likely she would stay the night, especially if she was hungover. Alcohol completely removed her mellow nature and transformed her into a chaotic ball of energy that was impossible to reign, like lightning in a bottle.

As you stirred the ice around in your cup using the straw, a distant thought leapt into your mind. “How are things going with Lara?”

Vernon finished sending a text before he answered, at last putting his phone away. “Fine. She’s a cool girl. Great body. She’s flexible as fuck.”

Your forehead crinkled. “I didn’t need to know all that.”

He sighed. “You asked.”

“I meant, like, how’s the relationship going.”

Vernon shook his head. “It’s not a relationship.”

You grabbed the arm of the chair, twisting your torso in order to face him more appropriately. “So… you didn’t go out to dinner with her?”

“Why would I do that?” He laughed.

“I don’t know. She told me that she was going to ask you out to dinner two weeks ago. She had an outfit picked out and everything.”

The boy was in the middle of sipping from his drink as he mumbled around the straw. “Oh, that.” He swallowed. “Uh, yeah. I told her I’m not really about it. She seemed fine with it. She still put on the dress for me, though—the purple one or some shit—I can’t really remember. We smashed and then I hit the road. It’s not a relationship. I told her, like, three times.”

You nodded, staring at the soft silhouette of his expression half-hidden in the room’s dusk. Your chest seemed to lift at the remark, and once your body processed that soaring feeling, you glanced away from him a second later. Even if they were in a relationship, it shouldn’t matter to you.

“What about you?” Vernon countered.

Taking off your coat, you shrugged. “What about me?”

His head tilted. “Where’s your boyfriend, PJ’s?” He copied you, removing his jacket, and proceeded to pull open his Sour Patch Kids. “Or girlfriend.” Tweaking his eyebrow, he relaxed into the chair.

All the moisture in your mouth had evaporated. For a moment, you didn’t answer, instead pondering the consequences of fanning the flames to the conversation. Vernon did not need even an ounce of insight into your dating history (or lack thereof), hence your lips pressing hard together, sealing off your willingness to participate.

Vernon popped a gummy in his mouth, grinning. “Oh, come the fuck on. If you can ask me, I can ask you.” He opened up his legs and nudged you with his elbow. “Just get your heart broken or some shit?”

“No,” you answered staidly.

“Ah. So you got rejected, then?”

Scowling at him, you barked, “no!”

“I’m not a mind reader, here.”

Arms folded, you slouched against the chair and stared ahead at the large, dark screen, an anxious buzzing of bees rumbling in your gut. “It’s not anything like that…” you mumbled. “I’ve never had a relationship.”

“M’kay.” Vernon shrugged. “Neither have I.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “I don’t believe that.”

“Well, I guess I had a relationship when I was fourteen. But that shit doesn’t really count. It lasted six months. She was obsessive as hell. Wouldn’t leave me alone half the time. I realized I didn’t want all that.” He took another sip from his drink, licking off his lips. “So, PJ’s is single, huh?”

Scratching at your nail, you nodded. “That would be the case.”

“Eh, being single is freedom. You can fuck whoever you want. Go wherever you want. Do whatever you want.” Vernon kicked his feet up onto the chair in front of him, smiling. “If you ask me, it couldn’t get better.”

You laughed. “You’re doing that. I’m not doing that.”

“Which part?”

Mixing the ice around in your cup, you sighed. “All of it.”

“Seriously?” Vernon grunted, coughing to clear his throat. “No wonder you’re so fuckin’ uptight and stressed all the damn time.”

Heavily furrowing your brow, you retched at him. “Excuse me?”

“No one’s fuckin’ it out of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to screw it out of me!” The people seated near the front turned around, squinting at you heavily, to which you perspired in embarrassment and lowered your voice. “I can’t believe you said that.”

Vernon obviously didn’t care. “Have you ever been screwed?”

All of a sudden, the screen flashed with a blip of sharp white, a few more people started straggling in, and the introductory clauses for the previews were reverberating loud through the speakers. At that moment, your mouth was tingling with a litany of insecure and defensive statements while the surface to your cheeks instantly surged with prickling heat.

He chuckled, rolling out his shoulders. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“It’s not your business whatsoever,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone, attempting to sink even deeper into the chair. “And it never will be.”

“If there ever is any business...”

You grabbed the back of his hand in your fingernails and pinched the skin hard. Vernon yelped aloud, “ow!” while people cast their interest, though you feigned like nothing was wrong, taking a casual sip of your drink.

There wasn’t much conversation that followed, apart from a few offhanded comments about the trailers and the movie itself. Vernon had finished his soda by the time the film title card came up, and about half an hour later he was predictably wriggling past you for a washroom break. He stepped on your foot on his way out—you couldn’t help but think that was shallow payback for pinching his hand—and returned about ten minutes later with a bag of popcorn that you could smell the synthetic butter and salt from.

By the time the hour-and-half movie ended, you also had to use the toilet, so you forced Vernon to stand outside the women’s washroom and strictly told him not to wander. He was a bit like a curious child who you might turn around on for less than a minute, only to find them caught up a pole somewhere, or stuck in a clothing rack. When you came outside into the eerily lit corridor to find the halls empty, he was fixated across the room at the theatre's flashing arcade, playing with intense focus on a claw machine.

You walked up to him, pulling at pieces of pocket lint while you huffed out, “thank you so much for listening to me and not wandering off.”

“I didn’t wander off,” Vernon mumbled, training his eyes to watch every little flick and twitch of the claw. “Arcade's across the room.”

“That’s wandering!”

“Some kid left his token in here. He let me play.”

“Gee. Isn’t it your lucky day? Don’t you think we should be—”

“Look! Look! Watch this!” Vernon practically had his forehead pressed against the glass. “I’m gonna pick up that little bear thing.”

You heaved out a big breath.

He tapped the red button. The claw dropped down and latched around the toy, then slowly began to rise upward, with just the bear’s key ring hanging onto one of the prongs. His tongue poking out, Vernon maneuvered the claw over to the drop box and let the item fall. Once he pulled it out from the machine, you two both spent a moment examining it.

“What the fuck is it?” Vernon asked.

You took it from him. “I think it’s for your keys...” Noticing a small groove in the plastic bear’s pink stomach, your thumb ran over it without thinking, only to unleash a blinding flare of white light into Vernon’s face, as though he had been ambushed with a thunderbolt.

“Aw! Turn that shit off!” He winced.

“Oops!” You pressed the button again, giggling hard as he massaged his spotting eye sockets. “I didn’t know it was a flashlight!”

The boy blinked irritably a few times, like he was adjusting contact lenses. “Why the fuck did a children’s toy just fuckin’ flashbang me?”

“You’re the one who picked it.”

Swatting his hand, he grumbled, “you can keep it.”

It was still snowing in thick gobs at the hour you exited the theatre—the sticky kind that clumped really well—and you felt the flakes catch in your hair and gradually melt upon resting against your cheeks. As you two walked back to Vernon’s car, you got the urge to smoosh together a big ball of snow in your hands and throw it at him (just to test its packing ability, of course), though you decided not to at the last second. Before getting inside, Vernon shook the ice and wisps out from his sooty hair.

You settled into the seat, sighing. “I feel like that didn’t go well.”

“How come?”

“What do you mean? We didn’t meet Darian at all.”

Vernon began pointing down the dash. “Don’t need to.”

Tracing the path of his finger, you spotted a figure through the hazy snowfall and twinkling street light. He was underneath a small overhang to the theatre, right by the doorway, dressed in a dark-coloured coat that didn’t look particularly warm while he smoked a cigarette. It was difficult to discern much detail at a distance, though Vernon seemed convinced.

“How do you know?” You asked.

“After I went to the washroom, I came back to the counter and asked that girl if he was around. I met him super briefly. Shook his hand and shit. He was nice, said I could drop off my resume whenever.”

“… Didn’t you ask him anything else?”

Vernon shrugged. “Why bother? He’ll lead us right to Diana.”

You gasped at him. “We don’t know that!”

“I’ll wager my bets on it. I’ve got a spidey sense.”

While his tone of voice was assuring and confident, you weren’t too certain he was right. For a moment, you both continued to watch the man in question from across the street, staying silent, like he could somehow hear your discussions about him. A few employees left through the doors, and he waved each of them off. It wasn’t much longer until he flicked the cigarette into the wet snow, locked the exit with a key from his pocket, and pulled up the hood to his coat. He began a casual pace down the sidewalk.

Your hands squeezed together in your lap. “What now?”

“I guess he walks home…” Vernon muttered. “Hm—okay.”

“Okay what?”

He looked at you, smiling in a manner that rendered your stomach to twist like a doughy pretzel. “We’re gonna follow him—well—you’re gonna follow him. Just don’t make it obvious. Keep a distance and all that.”

Your jaw slacked. “I’m gonna what?”

“Follow him!”

“Uh—no!” You shook your head, a laugh of utter disbelief bubbling up in your throat. “No way am I doing that! You freaking follow him!”

“He’s seen my face. It’s weird now. Plus, it’s too hard to follow someone in a car without makin’ it look damn obvious as fuck.”

“No. You’re high. I’m not doing that.”

Vernon crumbled back into the seat, making a point to sigh loudly.

“Don’t sigh at me!” You quipped. “As if I am going to follow this stranger home, in the dark, while it’s cold and snowing, as you get to sit inside a nice heated car waiting for the update. No way. You’re dreaming.”

“There’s no other way!” He exclaimed.

“How about I drive?”

The boy paused, then raised his eyebrow. “You got a licence?”

“Well…” your arms folded. “No… but I know how to drive!”

Vernon huffed. “Then no. No damn way.”

You gagged. “Oh, so now you care about the law?!”

“Hey, no one gets behind the wheel of this car except for me. I’m actually disgusted at myself for even thinkin’ of allowin’ you to do it.”

“You’ll snort coke but you won’t let me drive your crappy car? Your morals are so scrambled, it’s insane!” You collapsed against the seat dramatically, staring out into the vast and windy sea of snowflakes.

“To be honest, I’m pullin’ the weight.”

A cackle split you from top to bottom. “You’re pulling what?!”

Vernon looked at you, nodding his head. “I pull our weight.”

“You do not—”

“Who has the car to get us everywhere we need t’be?”

“That doesn’t—”

“Who warmed up Kenta so he would spill about Diana?”

“Vernon—”

“Who went and talked to Darian?”

At that point, you didn’t bother responding. You simply sat there, staring straight ahead, refusing to meet the sincerity of his eyeline. There was definitely truth to what he was saying—you weren’t delusional—but maybe you were still harbouring some bitterness about the rock-climbing thing.

Chewing on your bottom lip, fingernails digging into the fabric of your coat, you reluctantly came to accept that perhaps it was your turn to contribute. Puffing out even louder than Vernon had, your hand slapped onto the handle and you thrust the door wide open, letting the tart cold blow inside. Your boots sunk through the fresh snow collecting in the parking lot.

Vernon smirked. “Thank you.”

“Whatever. Just pay attention to your phone, alright?” You bent down to stare at him. “Don’t get distracted texting your ten side pieces.”

“Noted. Hey—you can use your new flashlight, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing stuns an attacker like a Care Bear flashlight.”

“Stop complainin’ and go,” Vernon laughed, yanking the door shut.

Pulling the zipper right up to your nose, hands stuffed in your pockets, you took a few mopey steps around the front of the vehicle, stopping for a brief moment to burn your gaze into Vernon through the shifting wipers clearing wet flurries from the windshield like eyelashes. He merely flicked his hand at you, urging you to go, to which you exhaled again into your warm collar.

It was somewhat difficult to keep track of where he went. At first, you hurriedly followed the fresh footsteps sunken into the snow until you came to the curving top of a downward street, where you could just vaguely differentiate his figure through the white blendedness. You continued at a brisk pace until you weren’t too distanced from him, breathing rather heavily into your coat as the cold mixed with the intense heat of your body, though you tried not to make it obvious. He rounded a corner and kept on a straightforward walk, the compact buildings eventually thinning into a more residential, spread-out neighbourhood of shoddy houses.

You pulled out your phone to text Vernon.

Despite the blotches of snow wetting the screen and marring your spelling, you hoped he could still read the messages. At last, the man turned up a short driveway belonging to a smaller house on the block, with stained-white paneling and grey stones. There was a tiny sized garden in front with a plastic flamingo sticking out, the flowers decaying and sprinkled by snow to match the unkempt lawn. It didn’t seem like any lights were on through the windows. You searched desperately for a number or mailbox to identify the house. But then a car coming by behind you flooded its piercing high beams, and you distinguished weathered, gold-plated letters stuck to the stone.

Before you could forget, you sent the address to Vernon.

1024 Augusta Street. The house with the pink flamingo.

Vernon told you to wait at the end of the block. Your nose rubbed tight into your coat collar, weight shifting from foot to foot as you stood, alone, under the shower of streetlight and the snow that flickered through it.

About five minutes later, his Camry was pulling up to the curb.

“Don’t you look cozy?” Vernon purred when you huddled inside.

Ignoring his teasing, you strung on your seatbelt. “I didn’t see anything that would indicate he’s living with Diana. There’s no car in the driveway, nothing in the front lawn, no lights on in the house.”

He didn’t seem bothered. “We know the address. That’s enough.”

“How so? Are you going to camp outside the place every day?”

“That’s a great idea.”

You shook your head. “Well, I’m not doing that.”

“I figured you wouldn’t.”

“Because I’m employed,” you sounded out the word nice and slow.

“Yeah, and she owes me four-hundred dollars,” he scoffed. “They’re lucky I’m not tappin’ on their fuckin’ windows with a switchblade.” Vernon proceeded to circle around the block and exit the neighbourhood.

Unzipping your coat, you sighed. “What if she’s not there?”

“Then she’s not there.”

“Well, what do we do in that situation?”

Vernon laughed. “You’re thinkin’ too much.”

“I feel like I’m thinking a perfectly normal amount. I mean, one of us has to. We can’t just not consider it at all. All this work for nothing…”

“You’re bummin’ yourself out for no reason.”

Sinking back into the warm seat, you stared out at the sky, noticing the snow begin to ease and the emergent stars of midnight peak out.

“Yeah,” you hummed, your energy fading. “I’m good at that.”

Soonyoung had asked you to fetch the jug of porcelain floor cleaner to mix in with the hot mop water. He told you it should be somewhere in the storage closet. When you assured him you had never seen the jug there, he was even quicker to reassure you that he most certainly had. Figures.

You hated the storage closet. The space was drafty but confined, with a lingering, mold-like smell that made you apprehensive to even breathe the air. When you took a step backward to meticulously examine the shelf for the umpteenth time, the hanging chain belonging to the light bulb brushed overtop your shoulder like a chilled finger. You nearly screamed; hands clasped to your mouth at the last second. Still without the jug, you decided to grab the step-stool and use it to reach along the very top of the shelf, supposing the cleaner could be stored just out of sight.

“Gosh, this is so gross…” you winced with dread as your hands tapped against the dust thickly coated along the shelf’s surface—it almost felt wet and sticky—and you thought about fainting. “Soonyoung’s such a liar.”

Yielding bare results, you chose to step back onto the floor, hands stretched out underneath the feeble light to realize the tips of your fingers were painted with dark, mysterious dirt. After leaving the storage closet, you momentarily pondered whether or not to use Soonyoung’s pristine, red uniform shirt to wipe off the dust. But you didn’t. Even if he deserved it.

“Find it?” The boy called from the register.

“No!” You shouted back.

“Well, look again. It’s in there.”

Throwing an irritated glance in his direction, you smiled. “I think you should look instead. Since you’re so clearly right about everything.”

He removed the clunky headphones from around his neck. “What?”

You blew a rogue hair off your nose and ignored him. At the washroom sink, you pumped about five full squirts of pink soap into your hand, watching in disgust as you proceeded to intensely clean your skin, noting the water lose its clarity in place of a sudsy, icky grey. Ripping off a long tail from the paper towel, you dried your hands, sighing aloud. You hadn’t intended to act snappish—that wasn’t your normal at all, especially at work—but the hot sarcasm had shot straight out of you like a molten spear. When you returned to the floor, you thought about apologizing to Soonyoung.

But then you heard a laugh—an all too familiar laugh—that sounded a bit scratchy and deep and rendered you to immediately freeze behind a tall, swirlable display of chips. Cautiously, you peeked.

“I figured it was you. Her description fits you down to a tee.”

“Charmed to know she’s memorized me so well.”

What the heck was he doing here?!

Your mind combusted into a panic that shrouded all rationality with unbreathable plumes. Sticking yourself even closer to the display, you attempted to see what Vernon had brought to the register—it looked like a canned drink and a small bag of snacks—there was something else, too, though you couldn’t tell what it was.

“Nine-fifty,” Soonyoung said while adjusting his backward cap. “So, can’t say that I’ve ever seen you in here. At least not while I’m around.”

Vernon revealed his wallet to pull out a single ten-dollar bill. “Right place, right time kinda thing,” he answered. “Where is PJ’s, anyway?”

The till popped open, and Soonyoung handed Vernon his two quarters. “PJ’s?” The boy echoed, chuckling. “Is that her nickname?”

“Sure is. When I’m feelin’ more Shakespearian, I go for Pyjamas.”

Nodding his head, Soonyoung smiled, subtly trailing his gaze along Vernon while the boy was busy picking up his things. “A man of the arts, I see,” he commented, likely appeased at the rare eye candy.

Your head shook. Soonyoung’s taste in men was questionably specific, and that was coming straight from the horse’s mouth. He mostly dabbled in entertaining one-night stands from the club that you would unenthusiastically be subject to hearing about the next morning—well put together men, career men, the kind to spoil and dote as they had piles of money but no one to spend it on—nothing in character to Vernon. More than anything, it was perplexing, annoying, that the boy could just waltz around however he wanted and garner all kinds of flattering attention.

“Excuse me? Could I ask you where the Ginger Beer is?”

Jolting, you nearly threw over the entire display, though you steadied it quick off a snap of adrenaline. A customer lingered behind you.

“Uh, it’s in the cooler. Back wall.”

“Oh. I looked but—”

There was a loud, kicking laugh from Soonyoung. A humourous guffaw from Vernon. You were missing pertinent conversation and context!

“It’s there,” you reassured in a pushy tone. “Just, look again.”

Although she reflected a very displeased expression at your shallow customer service, she left you alone. Continuing to hide behind the chips, you watched between a bag of barbeque and dill pickle as Vernon made his way to the door, pressing his shoulder against it while he waved toward the register. Once Soonyoung fixed his cap again, he returned the gesture. Your eyes rolled in frustration.

Another customer approached you. “Could I grab the barbeque—”

Without word, you shoved the bag impatiently into their hands, and then proceeded to march up to the cash.

“Oh, hey.” Soonyoung raised his eyebrows. “Did you find the—”

“No. I saw all that, by the way.”

He laughed, rubbing his lips together. “So did I. Any good flavours?” With his arms folded, he leaned against the side of the counter.

“Why would you tell Vernon that I told you about him?”

“Oh, c’mon. Who actually cares?”

Your fingers clenched. “I do!”

“Hey.” His palms raised in defense. “Never said it was a secret. I never thought I would actually end up seeing the guy… by the way, he’s—”

“No. No, no, no. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No—just wait—”

Hands sandwiched overtop your ears. “I know what you’ll say!”

Soonyoung was smiling inexplicably wide. “Can I just get out—”

You cracked, the words tangling in your throat. “That he’s hot? Is that what you want to say, Soonyoung? Because, yes, I get it! I get that he’s all charismatic, and easygoing, and he has such nice, swooping lashes that look like an angel’s paintbrush and beautiful, bronzy eyes! He’s got nice muscles, and firm, tattooed forearms, and perfect, soft, powdery-black hair! And he smells like amber! I get it! You’re not saying anything new!”

The boy stood still, holding you in a very intrigued gaze, until his cheeks dappled in increasingly warm blooms of coral pink and he was suddenly puffing out pure laughter. “Jeez! I was just gonna say he’s got good taste! He bought some of that Chicago popcorn I keep telling you to try.” Tapping his chipped-black nails against the plastic lottery ticket cover, he grinned. “But it seems like you have much more… interesting… things to project.”

Feeling your heart race in your chest, pump after pump after pump, you struggled to string together anything logical. Your mouth hinged opened, empty, like a clam without its pearl. It wasn’t projecting, you were just repeating what you always heard!

Soonyoung shrugged. “Although, I will agree with you.” He then proceeded to point at something behind you before crossing his arms.

Taking a deep breath, you turned around.

“I still can’t find the Ginger Beer.”

Sighing loudly, feet dragging, you obliged. “I’ll show you.”

Worse than actually being cognizant of it was understanding the painful unrealism. Such musings followed you for the entire week, haunting you, pricking you, flipping your mood completely on its head whenever the thought so much as drifted tumbleweedesque through your mind. You had no one to tell—more like, no one you felt comfortable telling—therefore you weren’t even able to speak anything aloud and gauge whether or not it was delusion. The most you could do was mumble to yourself in the shower.

“Is it… really… no. It can’t be… it’s just that word everyone keeps throwing around… limerence. But… maybe it’s not… maybe I really do… but I can’t say it, because I don’t know for certain, and saying it might put some weird curse in the air… no, no. Now that I’m actually thinking about, it’s nothing. I know it.”

It was just meaningless drivel, circling the drain, as you aggressively rubbed shampoo into your scalp while your eyes squinted shut and water licked against your back in smooth tongues. Ruby even asked you about the unusually long showers you had been taking this week, which you thought she didn’t notice.

“I mean, I get it, girl. Trust. We’re lucky we have a shower head that disconnects! I’m just worried about the water bill and everything.”

“Hm? What do you mean? Shower head that disconnects?”

“What do I mean? I mean your outrageously long showers this week!”

“Oh. But that’s because—wait—no, no! It’s not what you think!”

The beginning of the conversation made you want to bury your head in the sand, though you understood why your roommate was concerned, albeit under the wrong assumption.

Hot water wasn’t cheap.

You weren’t sure what the time was. It was definitely late, you knew that much, and your feet were still aching from all the walking you did at the restaurant. Despite the temptation of a Friday night, Ruby had actually stayed in for once—she was back on her birth control medication and the nausea was kicking her hard—hence the girl’s decision to seek refuge in the perfect cocoon of her bedroom, wrapped in the sheets. You brought her some crackers to eat. She particularly loved the ones with extreme salt.

Grabbing your phone off the charger, you checked the time.

12:53 am.

Gosh. It was hopeless! Your mind was torturing you.

You sat up against the headboard and pillows for a moment, grabbing one that was shaped like a pudgy, striped grey cat to hug in your arms. It used to belong to Diana, but she ended up giving the pillow to you as a birthday gift since you always preferred its squishiness when taking naps at her dorm. Running your fingertips along the cat’s threaded blue whiskers, you sighed into the darkness of your bedroom, hating the wasted time going by. But then your head tilted toward the window, and you swore a shadow had moved behind the curtains. As you slowly unveiled the covers from your warm lap, there were a few solid taps on the glass, and you squeaked.

“PJ’s! You awake?”

Flaring open the curtains to one side, you gawked at Vernon.

He smiled. “Guess you are.”

You slid the window up. The harsh bite of late November drew raised hairs to bristle along your arms. Removing a sweater left in a lump on your desk chair, you began fitting it on. “What the heck are you doing?”

Vernon pulled out his phone. “Ruby wasn’t respondin’ to my texts.”

“Yeah. She went to bed, like, over an hour ago.”

“No way. Thought she’d be out on the town.”

Your head shook. “She’s sick. Is there something you need?”

He shrugged, rubbing under his nose. “Eh, doesn’t matter. I’ll let the girl get her rest in. God knows her crazy fuckin’ ass needs it.” Reaching into the pocket on his thick green hoodie, he pulled out a rolled paper, packed with what you assumed to be weed. “You care if I smoke?”

“Uh…” your nose wrinkled. “Just… the window stays open.”

“Easy enough,” Vernon mumbled while the joint hung from the corner of his lips. He then pulled out a shiny chrome lighter from a pocket on his sweatpants, giving the wheel a few flicks before the orangish-blue fire sparked to life, reflecting a soft, hazy glow unto his face. Shielding the erratic flame from the breeze, he cupped a hand around it and let the warmth singe the tip of the joint until there was a near imperceptible crackle. After re-pocketing the lighter, he took in his first inhale, long and deep, polite enough to redirect the smoke such that it didn’t blow directly into your bedroom.

You swallowed, staring down at your desk. “So… what are—”

“I did some stakeouts this week, on Augusta Street,” he said, readjusting the loose hood thrown over his head. “It’s lookin’ kinda—”

“Actually, I don’t want to know.”

Vernon stared at you, removing the joint from his mouth. “Huh?”

“Right now, I don’t want to know. If you’ve seen her, I mean. Or if you haven’t seen her. I don’t want to know. You can tell me later.”

He laughed, letting himself sit on the windowsill. “Seriously?”

You nodded.

“What’s with edgin’ yourself? For what purpose?”

Carefully, quietly, you pushed the desk aside so you could sit beside him on the window ledge. The air was nippy, cold, but it felt so refreshing that you wanted to float in it. “I don’t know. My mind’s been all over the place. I can’t have another life-altering thought barging in and screwing things up even more.”

“Jeez,” he huffed. “Your head sounds like a stressful place.”

You grasped at the knee to your flannel pyjama bottoms, pulling up the thin fabric for no apparent reason. “Trust me. I know.”

He returned the joint to his mouth for another drag. You always detested the smell of burning marijuana—there was something so potent and bitter about it—but Vernon did well to exhale the smoke away from you.

“So,” you cleared your throat. “Are you planning on staying?”

“Well, I was gonna hang with Ruby to smoke the rest of the Indica, but I guess that's outta the question.” He lowered his joint. “N'you don't really look like the smokin' type. But I'll crash here. Easier.”

“There’s already a blanket on the couch.”

Vernon stared over his shoulder, and then returned his mellow gaze to your face. Gradually, it slipped downward, and he started chuckling at something. “Jeez. Never thought I’d see that shirt again.” He reached out to the grab the corner of your sweater, pulling it aside so he could better squint at the picture through the scarce parking lot light. “Find your wild, huh?”

Dang it. You forgot you were wearing that. Swatting his hand away, you played coy. “Yes, yes, I get it.”

“You shouldn’t have that shirt,” Vernon continued to chuckle, rubbing at his forehead. “You’re not very wild. Find your cortisol, maybe.”

“Okay, I get it, you know.”

He shrugged. “Get what?”

“Ruby says the same thing. So does Soonyoung. You all think I’m an uptight, no-chance taker, or whatever. Who hates fun. And spontaneity.”

Vernon nodded along. “Give or take.”

“Well, you can all think what you want. I admit I’m not the most entertaining person to be around, or the person who’s going to get the party started. And, yeah, I'm not really a chance-taker. But I feel like that’s reasonable. Chances are just risks in disguise.”

Nursing another drag from the crisping joint that he smoothly exhaled out his nose, Vernon agreed. “Sure. Whatever.”

Your brow furrowed. “Whatever, what?”

He lifted his shoe onto the window ledge so his arm could drape across his knee. Vernon smiled. “Don’t gotta sell yourself to me.”

You shoved his bicep, hard, digging in your fingers a little and feeling some of the muscle underneath his heavy clothes. “Gosh. Shut up.”

“Well, I don't really believe you, PJ's. That you've never taken a chance or a risk or anything. So tell me about one.”

“No.”

He scoffed, “why? It'll be fun.”

“Because, whatever I say, you’re just gonna use it to make me feel like crap for what I did or didn’t do.” You remained firm on the decision, tongue pushing against your cheek. “I can’t remember, anyways.”

Vernon brushed at his dishevelled, floppy hair. “Bull.”

 “No!”

“Yeah. If anything, I’m gonna make you feel like crap for lyin’ dead to my face.” His elbow propped back on his knee, the joint hugged between his lips as he antagonized you with his unwavering eyes.

You hugged yourself. “Like you don’t lie every single day.”

Rather than inhaling the smoke away from you, Vernon made sure to blow his next puff right in the direction of your face. Besides the dry winter air, the astringent smell made your eyes water, and you rubbed the sting away using balled fists. “You’re such a P.O.S!”

Vernon laughed. “Hm?”

“P.O.S!” You grumbled. “I’m refusing to spell it out.”

He blinked. “Piece of shit?”

“Yes!”

Again, he laughed. “Damn. Your parents clean your fuckin’ mouth out with soap? Why are you so squeamish about bad words?”

You pushed back. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone doesn’t want to curse? Why is that even something to question?”

He let his head hit the wall while the joint dully glowed at the corner of his mouth. “Dunno. It’s just kinda weird.” He grinned. “Like you.”

With your nose swinging up at him, you were going to fire back with another blunt dig, though you ended up lowering your guard after some silence settled. “It’s my mom, that’s all. She despises cursing. It was one of the first things I remember learning as I grew up. Never curse. She said her parents used to slap her wrists with a ruler for cursing. She said it makes you sound…” you paused, grimacing, before muttering the word out, “… uneducated.”

“I think she would fuckin’ love me,” Vernon answered.

You wanted to laugh, biting along your lip. “Oh, that makes sense.”

“So, at least tell me one thing. It can be tiny.”

“About what?”

“The chance!” Vernon was acting surprisingly persistent about it.

As much as you didn’t want to entertain him or show submission, you began wondering if it could really be so bad to throw him one bit of bait. Folding your arms low across the stomach, you stared out into the parking lot, nibbling your inner cheek in contemplation. “If I tell you, it stays strictly between us,” you urged, making sure to lock your eyes with the boy’s. “Because if I find out you told anyone—”

“Done deal,” Vernon spoke around the joint, then crossing his arms and tucking away his reddening fingers. “Let’s hear it, PJ’s.”

You breathed in as much as your lungs would allow. Letting the crispness of such a cold night fill your chest and settle your uneasy stomach, you swallowed. “Okay… when I was in seventh grade, I had a crush on this guy. My friends and I, we gave him a secret code nickname so we could talk about him wherever. We called him Fire Hydrant. Anyway, Fire Hydrant was kinda… like… he was pretty popular. He had a lot of friends. And, every few months he was with a new girl. Honestly, we had nothing in common.” Your eyes shifted to Vernon for a split second. He was still listening, waiting for you to continue with warmth in his face. “I was totally against confessing to him. But then I got the scoop from this girl that he had a crush. She told me Fire Hydrant liked me. I was still against telling him anything, of course. But my friends convinced me to go for it.

So… one day… after school…” you began to grimace, the memory flashing in horrible fragments at the edges of your mind like cutting glass. “I caught him before he left his locker. I told him everything. How I felt. How I had admired him for almost the entirety of seventh grade. How I heard that he might like me back… I laid it all out.” Fingers clenched in your lap as your voice strained, though you forced back against the embarrassment seeping so palpably through your skin. “Then, he gave me the most confused look, like, ever. He told me that wasn’t true. He told me that he hardly knew anything about me. He even messed up my name! I was legit in shambles, okay? He slammed his locker right in my face and went out to catch the bus, like I had offended him or something. Turns out, his friends paid that girl to say that Fire Hydrant liked me. Honestly, almost nothing has ever backfired in my face so royally. I heard it at lunch tables for two weeks straight.” Sighing, you nudged away a wet spot from your cheek.

Vernon put his foot back on the ground, arms uncrossing. “Like that was your fault, PJ’s. You were brave. That’s what I heard.”

You shrugged. “No one else seemed to think so.”

“Eh. Fuck ‘em.” He set the joint between his fingers, taking a lasting drag that drifted away into the winter breeze. “I get that kinda thing fucks with you when you’re that age. I mean, I think it would fuck with most people, any age. But life goes on. You gotta move with it.”

Squishing your hands between your warm thighs, you nodded. “I wish it were that easy.” Then, you glanced at the clear, bright moon, a mirage in the diopside night sky. “I guess, once I have a routine, it feels so important that I stick to it. Nothing gets screwed up that way. Things are predictable. It takes away one less thing to fret about. Maybe that’s… dull… but I feel like I need it.”

Vernon nodded. “That’s you. I understand.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you smiled. “We’re nothing alike.”

“Not really, no.” He flicked some ash onto the ground, then stared at you, his eyes penetrating. “You’re too much of a good girl.”

“Yeah. When too much of a good thing is a bad thing.”

He pulled at his sleeves and tilted his head. “I can corrupt you.”

Sheepish, you merely shook your head, smiling at your lap while your wool-socked feet drummed against the brick wall. “No way.”

Vernon shrugged, giving a few farewell puffs to his shortening joint before chucking it onto a clump of soft snow, watching it dip through like a sinking ship. He then spun himself around to fit through your window, mumbling to you a goodnight as he moved between the murkiness of your bedroom. You spent another minute or so sitting on the windowsill, wondering why you had just peeled open your insides to a boy that was going to leave, anyway. Just like his joint. Disappeared through the consuming winter snow.

10 MONTHS AGO.

It had to be a dead-end.

One part of you was relieved. The other, distraught. Both feelings coalesced with total imbalance at the centre of your gut, struggling against each other like fishes trapped in a net. If you did see Diana, what was your role in the moment? Did you even have a role? Were you supposed to stay in the car and let Vernon handle his own business, or should you involve yourself for closure’s sake? But then what if you didn’t see her? Realistically, what would happen next?

“Damn. They never put enough salt on my fries. I asked for that shit to be extra salty. I said that, right? That lady’s such a freakin’ stiff.”

You kept looking at the house. The pink flamingo was dressed in glistening snow, hardened over like armour. While the driveway was shovelled out, there were still no lights on that you could see through the living room window. About half an hour had passed since Vernon stalled his car along Augusta Street.

“Are you gonna drink your hot chocolate?” When you didn’t answer, you felt Vernon’s hand shake your upper arm. “PJ’s.”

“Sorry—what?”

He pointed his nose at the large insulated canteen sitting in his cup holder, which you had taken from home. “Are you gonna drink that?”

“Uh, yeah, I will.”

“If you don’t—”

“Then you can have it,” you snapped to interrupt. You immediately turned your head to stare back out the car window, feeling a sharp kink begin to develop in your neck from the timely strain.

Vernon sighed, putting aside his subpar-salted fries. “Okay, you gotta relax. You’re takin’ all the fun out of my stake-outs.” Proceeding to push his seat back and recline his arms behind his head, Vernon tsked his teeth. “Your attention doesn’t need t’be superglued to the fuckin’ house.”

“That’s why you haven’t seen anything,” you chastiscized him. “It could be a snippet of her elbow in the window. She’s probably walked in and out of the living room a bajillion times—probably had a freakin' dance party—and you’ve missed it ‘cause you’re too lax.”

“Look at you, on your high horse over there.”

Your eyes scalded him with a transient glare. “I’m just saying… I feel like there’s a reason your stake-outs haven’t been… efficient.”

“Yeah? And you’re bein’ kind of an asshole.”

“No, that’s not—”

Vernon sat up, letting one elbow rest against the steering wheel to prop his head at you. “You wouldn’t let me play my music, you fuckin’ slammed the car door on my foot after we got lunch, and you’ve been givin’ me sassy little remarks all damn day.” A hand delved through his locks of black hair, though they easily slid back into place, just as pretty as they were before. “So, yeah. You’ve been an asshole. And you’re lucky I said it all polite, ‘cause I was about to flip when you slammed that stupid door.”

Suckling on your lip, you wanted to stomp on Vernon’s words like you were a child in a mud puddle on a rainy day. The anger hit the roof of your mouth, furiousness urging to erupt, though, the longer you stared the boy in his honey brown eyes, examining the beautiful lashes that delicately kissed his warm cheeks, you found it in yourself to take a very deep breath. “Okay…” you exhaled at length, “I know. You’re right.” Fingers pinched together in your lap, and you glanced at the unmoving house again, clearing your throat. “Now that it seems like we’re so close to her… my emotions are all over the place. My insides feel like split spaghetti.”

Vernon grabbed your canteen. “Here, take a sip.”

You took the mug, staring down at it. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Vernon pressured. “It’ll ease you up.”

After unscrewing the lid, you felt the warmth from inside curdle upward to lick your face. It smelled faintly of sweet candy canes. You remembered getting the package over the holidays last year, and you kept saving it for the perfect day. The fact it went untouched for so long was a bit sad, but you had decided to finally bite the bullet this morning after accepting there never was going to be that perfect day.

Vernon held the lid while you took a sip.

“Holy f—” you held the sound on the edge of your lips and teeth.

“Fuck,” Vernon finished for you.

“Thank you.” Another sip. “This tastes like a good dream.”

He chuckled. “Uh, cool. Whatever that means.”

You held out the mug. “Want to try it?”

Vernon shook his head. “Nah, it’s yours. Good dreams and all.”

Relaxing back into the seat and wrapping both your hands around the canteen to feel its heat, you continued taking small sips from the hot chocolate, watching the sunlight reflect off the clear skeletons of ice frozen to the trees in gorgeous sparkles. Vernon was right.

There was a sense of ease.

You giggled against the mug’s rim. “I feel like an actress in one of those low budget Hallmark romcoms. Am I playing the part well?”

Vernon bit his lip ring, leaned back against the car door to properly examine your attempt at the role.  “Hmm… big poofy scarf, check; winter coat with the fur, check; hands appropriately positioned around the mug circumference while arms are held at an angle of both self-comfort and satisfaction, check. Damn. Could’ve fooled me, PJ’s. You nailed it.”

Laughing, you warmed your throat with another sip, finding it funny to hear Vernon talk in such an uncharacteristic way. “I didn’t peg you to know much about Hallmark romcoms,” you flattered.

The boy shrugged, flicking the lid around in his hand. “I mean, they certainly don’t butter my bread, that’s for sure. My mom loved ‘em.”

It was honestly quite jarring to hear Vernon reference his mother, a person he had never brought up before, to the point you didn’t even associate Vernon with actually having any parents. You didn’t particularly share much about your family either, only mentioning them in passing a limited handful of times, though it was enough to scarcely outline them as people. Vernon, though—you knew nothing about his homelife. You didn’t even know if he had siblings. The revelation felt like an odd one to be having at the exact time and place, and your stomach settled with a somber feeling.

You took the lid back from Vernon and rested the canteen in the cup holder again. “It’s cute you had a tradition like that. Sounds fun.”

He stretched out his arms, yawning. “Damn. I’m gettin’ sleepy.”

“That’s a first,” you said. “It seems like you’re never tired.”

“I’m not tired, I’m sleepy,” he corrected.

You shrugged. “Is there really a difference?”

“Totally. Bein’ tired is more align with exhaustion, crankiness, all that. But bein’ sleepy is more… it means you’re relaxed n’ shit. Comfy.”

“Hm. That’s actually a pretty acute observation.” You started to smile, fingers twitching in your lap. “Nice to know I make you so relaxed.”

Vernon didn’t say anything—he just angled his head at you, smirked a little, and blew some astray fronds of dark hair away from tickling his eyes—but then he was watching out your window for a moment, and something in his face shifted.

Curious, you looked back to the house.

The front door was being shouldered open, and out popped someone onto the porch, lugging a heavy trash bag at their side.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Vernon whispered, immediately sitting up in his seat and exhaling with relief. “There she is! I fuckin’ knew it!” His hand gripped onto your shoulder, shaking it roughly in pure excitement that felt like a crackled zap. “I knew it, PJ’s! See, all we needed was patience! Fuck. It feels so good to be right.”

Good? Out of everything you could possibly be feeling, good was so far down the list it might as well not even exist. As much as you were resisting, the girl stuffing the trash bag into the bin by the porch was becoming more and more familiar to you. There were things about her that looked different, although it was hard to gauge details at a distance, but the certainty was now restricting your chest and the next breath you took felt so shaky that you almost panicked. After flipping the lid down on the garbage bin, she wrapped her arms around herself, quickly huddling back inside the house and away from the crisp cold.

Once she was gone, Vernon huffed into his hands to warm them up, then began rubbing his palms together. “Okay, this is fuckin’ mint. Who knows if her boyfriend is there. Whatever. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna go up there.” He pushed his door open. “Uh, stay in the car, I guess.”

“No,” you disagreed, breathing out slowly. “I want to come, too.”

Vernon paused. “You sure? ‘Cause, no offense, but you’re givin’ me the vibe that you’re one confrontation away from blackin’ out, and that’s really gonna cramp my ability to get my four-hundred bones.”

“I’m coming,” you reaffirmed. “I have to. There’s no way I won’t.”

He didn’t seem in the mood to push back and forth.

You let Vernon lead, trailing behind his confident stride with much smaller steps, fingers pulling at loose threads in your coat pockets. Standing on their tiny cement porch felt like standing on a grand stage right before that big red curtain opens, and your stomach was somersaulting nonstop.

Vernon pounded a few times on the screen door. “Package delivery!” He shouted, to which you clawed his elbow, shooting him a stern look. “What?” He shrugged. “Can’t exactly yell the truth, here.” When no one came to the door after an agonizing silence, he knocked a few more times, rattling the screen’s thin glass. “Hello?!”

Gosh—maybe he was right—maybe you should have stayed in the car, far, far away from the sickness of the situation. You could feel a burn in your throat that tasted faintly like bile and the only place you could think to possibly upchuck was an old, plastic flowerpot sitting by the steps. Thoughts of turning back flooded your mind. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be here. Diana cut you off for a reason that was personal to her and now all you could think was how it invasive it was that you dug her up so spontaneously, like she was an innocent beetle under soft, wilted bark.

Vernon sighed, annoyed, and readied his hand to knock again.

But then you heard a click. You immediately grabbed his arm and forced it back down, watching the front door open, and then the cautious crack of air she let flow through the flimsy screen door. Every fibre of your being wanted to scream her name, Diana!, as you might leap forward to bundle her tight in your arms.

My best friend! My adventurer! My fondest memory!

She held the screen ajar with her arm.

Her eyes flickered in between you.

You couldn’t even begin to image what she was feeling.

Vernon smiled. “Hey there, Busy B. Been a minute, hasn’t it?”

Diana didn’t speak. She stared at him intently, lips parted, her gaze traversing him up and down like she couldn’t compute his existence. And then she had finally settled a glance over his shoulder to look at you. Without sounding too dramatic—it felt like being shot—like something sharp had just pierced right through you as though you were made entirely of mist. Diana gulped, her raw, black eyes quickly building up with water, and suddenly, she was letting the screen door fall closed, whipping away to a place unknown inside the house. You wanted to thunder after her, but you just couldn’t move. She was so much thinner, her clothes seeming to swallow her figure like they were draping a rake, and her hair—her once bouncy, shiny, healthy dark hair that always framed her glowing brown skin in an artistic picture frame—it was so dulled, and frayed, and dragging her down.

You hadn’t realized you were still gripping onto Vernon’s hand with such discomfort until he ripped it back with a groan, shaking out his wrist. “Damn, PJ’s. Get yourself a nail clipper.”

The corners of your mouth twitched. You wanted to speak but the signal wasn’t properly connecting to your muscle and you felt helpless.

Someone else appeared at the door. He opened it fully. You knew it had to be the man from the theatre, Darian, though he seemed like he was just woken up, his hair being mushed completely to one side and swollenness evident in his very unpleased eyes. Now, you didn’t want to speak at all.

He gave you two a lopsided blink. “What the hell’s going on?”

Vernon cleared his throat. “I’m glad you asked. Sorry to wake you n’ everything, but, you see, your girl back there—she kindly owes me four-hundred dollars for some ecstasy bombs—in cash. Now, I don’t mean to cause problems. Once I get the money, you’ll never have to see my face again, which is kinda a shame, ‘cause I’ve been told I’m quite purdy. But, y’know, business is business, and I don’t like bein’ fuckin’ stiffed.”

You bit onto your lip, your front teeth pushing against a crack in the skin that stung. Gosh—wasn’t he such an eloquent poet with his words?

Darian swung a hand through his upstuck hair. “Uh—aren’t you the dude who asked me about a job? Now, you’re on my front porch, saying my girlfriend owes you money for ecstasy. What kind of bullshit is this?”

Vernon snickered. “No offense, man, but anyone with eyeballs could tell you’re a stoner—I mean, there’s a fuckin’ bong the length of my arm sittin’ back there on the table—so, I assume you n’ your girl are no strangers to throwin’ money on drugs. And you can delightfully throw some more, right now, into my fuckin’ wallet.” He sighed, scratching his neck. “I don’t give a fuck who pays me—her or you—but I want the money, now.”

Eyeing Vernon over skeptically, the man scoffed, dragging a hand down his stubble. “You’ve got a real prick energy about you, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it a’ thousand times. Thinkin’ about gettin’ it tattooed right across the forehead, actually. Thoughts?”

Unamused by Vernon’s mocking, droll humour, the man muttered for him to wait at the door. He then disappeared back inside the house.

You let out a gigantic sigh, watching the heat from your mouth materialize into the cold air. There was so much tension scored into your body that you felt like a scarecrow jammed onto a wooden rod. You had never been a master of confrontation in any degree, even as a bystander.

Vernon laughed. “Guess I’ll never work the evenin’ shift at Cinema Hut, huh? Man, what a missed opportunity.” He shrugged. “Oh well.”

“This is all so disorienting…” you mumbled, pulling at your face. “I mean, you saw Diana, right? Something is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She never used to look like that. She looks so frail!”

“Life takes you places, PJ's.”

The screen door shuttered and suddenly Darian was back. He huddled close to Vernon, counting out a series of bills into his hand, occasionally licking his thumb to better separate the papers.

“There,” he snapped. “Four-hundred. Happy?”

Nodding his head in satisfaction, Vernon plastered on a smooth, ear-to-ear smile. “Shit. You’ve tickled my fancy. Thanks, player.”

“You better stick true to your word. I don’t wanna see you around here again, not even at the theatre. I don’t wanna see you, either—” Darian warned, pointing the remaining bills in his hand at you, while you stood there vacuously, “—whoever the fuck you are. Whatever fucking reason you’re slinging with this prick.”

“She’s not slingin’ nothin’, you idiot,” Vernon scoffed. “N’ sure, whatever. I’m a man of my word. Make sure to ask the same of your girl.”

In abrupt fashion, both the screen and inner door were slammed right into your faces, with the loud clicking of the bolt and lock sounding immediately after. That was the cue to leave. Vernon had collected his money. His business at the property along Augusta Street was over. But, yours… what the heck kind of closure was that? Diana hadn’t said one word, you two exchanged nothing more than an emotional, hurtful look, and you had seen her for less than a minute! Vernon was already beginning to walk off the porch, down the driveway, toward the car, but you found yourself stuck staring at the door, wondering if Diana was listening on the other side.

“PJ’s! C’mon!” Vernon called, flicking you over with his hand. “No sense standin’ around. Let’s hit it. I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”

“It’s too cold for ice cream,” you sighed.

Vernon shook his head. “Never too cold for ice cream.” He handed you the sundae. “Besides, I put hot fudge on it. You’re welcome.”

“That was just… awful.” You hadn’t been able to stop commenting on the situation since you left the shoddy house. And, yes, while Vernon had been kind enough to console your aching woes with a hot fudge sundae, you remained a broken record, numbly repeating yourself as if that would fix anything, as if a divinity would hear your pain.

“Can you at least try it?” He encouraged you. “Tell me if it’s any good? I mean, maybe once you get a spoonful, that’ll shush you up.”

“Hey!” You whacked his arm. “I’m going through something!”

Vernon shrugged your hand off. “And I’m tryin’ to drive!”

“Listen, you got your money. You get a happy ending…” stabbing the plastic spoon into the top of the perfectly pumped ice cream, you felt intense, emotional heat surge to your eyes. “That’s not what I got… I guess that’s my fault for choosing to come with you. But if I didn’t—then—it’s like—ah! I don’t know! I don’t know anything. This is so—it’s just so—”

“Awful?”

You cut the spoon through the ice cream, bitter. “Exactly.”

Vernon kissed his teeth. “Hey, it’s not easy. I get it.”

“How can you be so casual about it? I mean, I understand this is what you do. I understand it’s… good money... in a way. But when you—”

“Look, my business, how I do things, that’s my business,” Vernon interrupted, shaking his head and sounding firm. “I get the concern, PJ’s, I do, honest. But I ain’t heartless. I’ve got discretion, and I know when to use it, believe it or not. Regardless, I’ve gotta get my money. I just gotta. Diana's a good chick. She'll find herself.”

You didn’t want to respond.

Instead, you looked out the car window, watching the Thai restaurant that you and Vernon ate dinner at one evening slip by. Every part of your chest shrank until it seemed barren, empty. You then delivered the spoonful of ice cream to your mouth, tasting the sweet, cold vanilla and the hot fudge’s richer warmth. Promptly eating your feelings, you began ravaging the sundae, feeding yourself increasingly fuller bites until you sensed a trail of wetness rolling down your cheek. Brushing your fingers across the skin, you realized it was as single, lonesome tear. A brief pause followed, and then a hiccup, and suddenly, you were letting the waterworks flow like brackish pools in the passenger seat of Vernon’s car.

He glanced over at you, bit his lip. “Oh… fffuck…” the boy proceeded to curse in the most dreaded, unenthusiastic tone as you choked around another melting spoonful of fudge and ice cream. “Damn, PJ’s. You really gotta do this right—ah—fuck it. How did I not see this shit from a mile away?”

You suckled in a big, wet breath, tears sloping your chin. “I’m being so selfish! How can I only think about my own feelings?! When Diana is—s-she’s—she must think I’m such a lowlife, coming after her like that!” A wobbly hand lifted more ice cream to your mouth, the spoon hanging from the corner of your lips as you wailed. “I probably made everything so much worse for her! What kind of a friend am I? I should have insisted on talking to her! I shouldn’t have left her in the house with that weirdo!” You pulled the spoon out, scraping it against the rim of the cup to get all the extra hot fudge. “He could be the one that got her into all this bad stuff! And what am I doing t-to h-hhelp? Nothing! I’m doing… absolutely—” you stuck the spoon back in your mouth and licked it clean, “—nothing!”

Vernon’s brow furrowed, and he sighed. “Listen, we’ll be back at your place soon. There, you can wallow all you please.”

“No—I can’t do this—I need to call—” you shimmied the phone out from your pants pocket and left the ice cream in the cup holder. “Oh, no! My phone is dead!” The tears blurred over your eyes, smudging your vision. “How could this get any worse?!” You cracked out a sob.

Flexing his fingers against the steering wheel, Vernon kept the car pushing its pace through the slush streets. “Yeah, I wonder…”

“I need to call Ruby!”

“Here,” the boy grunted, shifting up his hips and pulling out his phone from his back pocket. “Use mine. She’s in my contacts.”

You wiped your eyes, then whined in frustration at the sheer number of names you had to scroll through. “You’ve got a hundred stupid contacts! Lara, Larissa, Mandy, Moona, Minghao, Nadine, Noor—"

“Just search for her name, PJ’s! Holy fuck,” he snapped back. “Ruby. R-U-B-Y. Four fuckin’ letters—just jam it in—she’ll come up.”

“There’s two Ruby’s!” You sniffled.

“Oh, right, fuck. She’s the one with—”

“Did you seriously put ‘fat ass’ beside her name?!”

He smirked. “First of all, she added that. True, though.”

Pressing the icon to phone her, you hiccupped, “I hate you.”

“What?! I told you—I didn’t write—”

“Hello? Ruby?” The second you heard the hitch in the line, you were nuzzling the cracked device right against your ear. “Are you there?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m here. Girl, what are you doing with Vern’s phone?”

Vernon dug some tissues out from his glove compartment and handed them to you. Before you answered, you spent a moment blowing your nose, hard. When you returned to the phone, Ruby was groaning.

“Sorry—I just—I’m having a horrible time, okay? Are you home?”

“No, I’m at a friend’s house. What’s wrong?”

Your lips shook as you forced the words out. “I saw Diana today… like, super recently. And it just really screwed me up. She’s not well.”

“Oh, fuck…” Ruby lamented, her soft voice crackling through the static before she took in a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll try to get home as fast as I can, alright? I promise! Is Vernon there? Can I talk to him for a sec?”

“H-He’s driving,” you answered, casting him a nervous look.

“Eh, that’s okay,” she laughed, snorting. “His stupid ass drives and talks on the phone all the damn time. It’ll be fine. I love you, m’kay? I’ll see you soon!”

Extending the phone to Vernon, he grabbed the device back. You spent the rest of the car ride with your head against the window, completely uncaring to all the bumps in the road that made your skull rattle uncomfortably on the chilly glass. The tissue stayed in your hand, where you squeezed it tight, willing it to somehow absorb all your sadness and take it someplace where feeling did not exist.

By the time you arrived back at the apartment complex, your explosive grief had dulled more into hollowness. With throbs clanging at the forefront of your temples like the clapper inside a metal bell, you wanted to down an aspirin and nestle face first into your bed.

Vernon helped you out from the car, warning you to be careful of the ice that the landlord was supposed to have salted, his hand placed thoughtfully on your waist.

Sniffling, you wiped some sticking hairs from your cheeks. “I’m sorry I got so dramatic. I know you didn’t want to hear and see all that.”

The boy shrugged, a kind, small smile on his lips. “Nah, don’t apologize. It’s good that you care. You got it all out of your system n’ shit. Can be dangerous bottlin’ up those kinds of deep feelings.”

You stared down at the icy ground, nodding.

The clouds were fully masked over the skies, colouring everything around you darker than usual. It even turned the wind colder, allowing you to feel the residual tears not fully dried to your skin. Rubbing them off came with an agitated, sensitive sting. Once you rolled out your shoulders, you sighed. “I… uh… I don’t actually hate you, either. I was just, you know, venting.” You felt moved to clarify, your hands swirling about to get the right connotation.

Vernon rubbed his chin. “Yeah… think I could figure that out.”

In that moment, you held eye contact with him. Though your chest had been still and vapid as the pain of a tattered friendship gutted you out, there was a tiny thump of something alive when you found the genuineness reflective in his gaze. Even if you wanted to hate Vernon, the fact he was so unbearably open made it next to impossible. Nobody wore their true selves better than he did. In turn, that forced an honesty within yourself that was akin to cracking open a hard rock to reveal the sparkling, miraculous opal inside. Your hands wrung together while you sniffled back your congestion.

Gosh—you liked him.

You liked the drug dealing, foul-mouthed, promiscuous criminal.

“M’kay, get some nice buddy-buddy time with Ruby,” he said.

“Where are you going to go?” You were quick to ask before he could even get to step away from you. “I mean, where do you ever go?”

Vernon smiled at you. “Isn’t that my cute little secret?”

“No,” you pushed back. “Are you like, homeless? Or a squatter?”

He laughed, rubbing his nose. “Jeez. Great couple guesses.”

“Well, I just… I guess…” you clammed up, shaking your head.

Vernon began to smirk, teething over his bottom lip. “You what, huh? What is it that you’re gonna say, PJ’s? You worry about me, yeah?”

Gazing aside, you bounced your leg a few times. “You’re such an idiot. It’s hard not to.” You shoved him playfully. “Do not misconstrue!”

“Me?” He gasped. “Oh, I would never.”

“You can go now.” Stepping over the ice, you started making your way across the parking lot. “Don’t run me over before I get inside!”

He walked around to the driver’s side of the car, throwing open the door. “Better hustle then, beautiful.”

Ruby wasn’t a fabulous cook by any means. She specialized in take-out, frozen meals, and throwing together random ingredients into soup pots or tortillas, hoping something relatively palatable might come out of it. But you had to give credit where credit was due—she had made delicious, perfectly cinnamoned French toast—and that seemed to explain why you were already on your third plate, sawing your fork through the fluffy bread.

“I’m glad you like it so much,” Ruby said. She joined you on the opposite side of the counter after washing the dishes. “I’ve never made it before. At one point I was just chucking random measurements.”

“Whatever you did—” you mumbled, mouth stuffed, “—it’s the best thing I ever tasted.” A big, tight swallow. “Thank you.”

Your roommate smiled, nodding her head in satisfaction while taking a sip from her fresh orange juice. She proceeded to wipe off her mouth and began cutting up the French toast she had served herself—the smaller, less attractive pieces with burnt edges. “Aw, it’s no problem. I know how bummed you were the other day… whatever I can do to help, just let me know.”

“I won’t tether you. You’ve done enough. Thank you.”

Ruby had her faults as a roommate. You were no stranger to her messiness and forgetful nature, and you admitted that her flaws often made it difficult for you to embrace how compassionate and tender she could actually be when she wasn’t blasting music from her room, beating down her face with a makeup sponge, getting ready for the club. Besides, they were pet peeves that a few good, communicative conversations could probably fix.

The girl picked up her phone for a moment, then raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that Vernon texted me this morning. He said you left your canteen in his car.” She flicked the screen a few times with her thumb. “He also said he drank the rest of the hot chocolate.”

Circling around a chunk of toast in some maple syrup, you stared down at the plate, beginning to smile. “Jeez. That’s no surprise.”

Ruby nodded. “I’m gonna see him this week. I can grab it.”

Your fork paused, and you glanced up at the girl. Dark sections of hair were slipping down to tickle her face from her loose updo. “Uh…” you started with an uneasy quiver in your voice. “He could always swing by today if he wants. I mean, if he’s not busy! Like, whatever works.”

She lowered her phone, tilted her head at you. “Really?” There was ample surprise in the girl’s tone. “You’re… okay with that?”

You answered in confusion. “Uh… yes?”

“Well, it’s just—I think he wants to honour your little compromise thingy you had going on,” Ruby said while cutting up her breakfast. “If you help him find Diana, he doesn’t come by here anymore.”

Underneath the countertop, fingertips were digging straight into your exposed thigh. The blunder you just made had you metaphorically coiled up in ropes, to the point where you could afford to console your roommate with nothing but a fake, fraught smile.

“Mm… right… that.”

Ruby shrugged. “I mean, if you want me to ask him—”

“No!” You lurched, your fork making a sharp, tinny scrape against the porcelain plate. “It’s fine! It’s, like, fine. Totally fine. Yeah. The compromise thingy. My mind was just a little scrambled for a sec.”

She quirked her eyebrow. “So… do you want me to grab it?”

“You can grab it,” you nodded. “Or, if I, like, happen to run into him or something, I’ll get it back. Whatever happens, y’know?” Gulping, you continued to ignore Ruby’s eyeline. “Are you guys, still, fooling around?”

Ruby examined you for a moment, then grabbed her glass of orange juice, pausing it right before her round lips. “Fooling around?” She slurped some up. “Are we still having sex, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“No. We’ve kinda given that up for right now.” Suddenly, her face paled, blanched of its usual olive colour. “We weren’t being too loud, were we? I thought we were pretty quiet most nights—"

“It’s fine. Just wondering,” you said, feeling lighter, ever so slightly.

Wednesday. Hump Day. And possibly, your favourite weekday. The restaurant did tend to get a little busier, though it was nothing compared to the preluding weekend rush that was a Friday night. Wednesday customers tended to be politer, softer around the edges—they were coming off work, understanding of the homestretch to the weekend, and therefore much milder in temperament overall—nothing like the rowdiness of a late Friday.

The shift was going well. You had gotten some sweet tips from a few tables, a compliment about your smile (albeit from an older gentleman on his third glass of white wine), and you had yet to make one screw up to anger the bustling kitchen staff stuck in the steaming heat. While things were actually chipper at your job for once, your mind seemed to be making a confused mess of itself when you weren’t focused on the task at hand, and washing down a sticky table gave it free range to wander.

How could you walk back everything?

You agreed to Vernon’s compromise when your desperation to remove him from your life was overflowing. But now it was different. Like the seasons, there was change—your icy, hardened qualms had thawed to reveal the first green sprigs of regrowth underneath—and as much as you hated to capitulate, Ruby was right. Dammit! She was right! Vernon tweezed feelings out of you that you didn’t know were there. For every moment that he was frustrating and stubborn, he would paint right over it with an actual well-constructed thought of emotional intellect, or a witty remark to draw your smile, or an uncharacteristically gentle look.

What was this boy doing to you?

He was driving you mad.

Graffitiing the interior of your mind with mismatched feelings.

Pinching your skin and then kissing it better with his warm lips.

“Uh… I believe the table’s clean.”

You flinched. Tara was lingering behind you with an amused expression, holding onto stacked plates and empty cups. “Scrubbing the varnish out of it, are you?” She giggled. “Something on your mind?”

Stuffing the damp hand towel into a pocket on your apron, you immediately wrung your head back and forth. “Nothing. Just focused.”

Nodding, she resumed her swift strut toward the kitchen, that slick, glossy bun on her head practically reflecting the restaurant’s intimate lighting. Once Tara was gone, you decided to do a quick lap of the restaurant in case your current tables needed anything. After refilling some beverages and bringing the bill to a university seating of four, you were on your way back to the kitchen. Suddenly, however, someone had grabbed onto your elbow, and you nearly squealed when your shoe slipped on the recently re-waxed linoleum. Upon realizing who it was, you weren’t upset.

But you made sure to act like it.

“Are you trying to kill me? What the heck was that?”

Vernon folded his arms, awfully smug in his countenance. “Well, you’re fuckin’ walkin’ around this place like there’s a serial killer on your heel. Wanted to catch you before you vanish.”

“That’s what happens when you work in a place like this,” you lectured, a hand latching onto your hip. “You’ve gotta keep the pace.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He kept staring hard into your eyes with challenge, and you felt the hairs along your neck come to raise, as though you caught a tickled shiver. Your body’s reaction to him was automatic, betraying, and adrenaline-laced.

Too hot to maintain the eyeballing charade, you broke first. “Is there a reason you’re here? Are you meeting someone? Just hungry?”

“None of the above,” the boy answered, then proceeded to jerk his thumb in the direction of the windows overlooking the street. “Got your mug in my car, though. And since I’m banned from thy fine abode of utmost humbleness, thought I’d come by and catch you at your preppy little gig.”

“Right…” you murmured, flashing a glance down at your feet. It wasn’t the time or place to talk about the situation, even if your illogical half was huffing the temptation. Honestly, you were surprised he was actually honouring the compromise. “I don’t think I can grab it right now.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Well…” you eyed the menu on the table. “How about eating?”

But Vernon shook his head. “Nah. The food here was good and everything—love the sweet potato fries—just a little rough on the wallet.”

At that, you scoffed. “Aren’t you in four-hundred dollars?”

“I take my finances seriously, PJ’s.”

Arms crossed and eyes rolling, you sighed, “how responsible…”

“Hey, pleased you want to feed me and all,” Vernon chuckled in his usual cocky bravado, leaning back against the seat with his hands up. “But I think I’ll grab one of those Korean corndogs from that tiny shop just down the street. You ever had one? They’re cheap as hell. Tasty as fuck. Got a’ bunch of different toppings and sauces. I damn near orgasmed.”

A grimace twitched to your face. “I’ve never been.”

Vernon smirked; hands planted on his thighs. “Damn. You’re missin’ out, there, PJ’s. No food orgasms. No real orgasms.” He tilted his head at you, tsked his tongue. “I feel so bad for you. Sucks ass.”

A waft of heat from somewhere unknown gusted into your face and your throat crinkled up with dryness. “Oh gosh, y-you’re—” you coughed spit on your words, an elbow flying to your mouth, “—you’re insufferable.”

His fingers tapped the tabletop. “Am I?”

“Yes! Why’d you even come in here if you weren’t going to eat?”

“I just walked in and sat down. No one noticed or gave a fuck.”

“You’re loitering!”

He kinked his head at you. “The work of the devil, isn’t it?”

“Go buy your Korean corndog.”

“First—can I use your canteen to get free refills on the fruit punch?”

“No! I want that back...”

“Then I’ll come grab you after,” Vernon said while sliding off the chair and flapping out his rainproof jacket. He then placed a lighter in the corner of his mouth, adjusting something deep in his pants pocket, before he removed it. “Just don’t fuckin’ take ten years. You’re slow.”

“Grab me after... what? What are you talking about?”

Vernon placed his rough, textured palm to your cheek, and the contact was so searing, so unexpected, that your heart double-blipped in your chest, like a sonar. His thumb nuzzled against your ear, rubbing back and forth tenderly, and everything in your body ached. “Oh, fuck. You helpless little fuckin’ girl. You dumb, dumb little girl. It hurts me, y’know?”

Gulping the density sitting square in your throat, your lips physically quivered as you garnered the strength to mumble, "why am I dumb?”

He shook your warm face with his hand, peering closer, to the point where you could count those wispy, long eyelashes. “What the fuck do you think I’m talkin’ about, PJ’s? The weather? M’gonna pick you up after work.”

“O-Oh…” you stumbled, taking in a big breath, smelling nothing but the fresh air lingering on his clothes and the amber notes of his skin. “I think—I want—that’s really nice. Uh, thank you. Really. Thanks.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, letting his hand slide off your cheek. “I don’t know what the fuck goes on in your head sometimes. Honestly.”

You sighed, straightening out your limp shoulders. “Me either.”

Only an hour out from the end of your shift, you had never wanted the restaurant to close that bad before. Your tables were beginning to plaster on uneasy, questionable smiles as you made pitstops more and more frequently, desperate to get them moving, disappointed to know they wanted dessert, and miserable that you had to be the one to serve them. As you waited near the pass for a platter of chocolate strawberry mousses, glancing down at your phone for no less than a minute, watching time’s slow, inevitable crawl, Lara had whisked by.

But then she stopped. “Hey, uh… how’s service going?”

Wrinkling your nose, you put your phone away and looked at the girl, blinking absentmindedly. Lara starting a conversation with you was a feat so rare, you couldn’t even be sure she was speaking to you despite the emptiness of the thin hallway.

It took a second for your brain to catch up.

Clearing your throat, you shrugged. “Fine. How about you?”

“I guess it could be better… my tips suck.”

That wasn’t a surprise to you. “Oh, sorry... that’s unfortunate.”

She pressed her bow-shaped lips together, smearing about the dark honey stain she loved so much. “Yeah. I saw you talking to Vernon.”

Attempting to straighten out your back and stop leaning against the wall like a bored child, you held your hands together politely at the stomach and nodded. You didn’t want to admit that he was giving you a drive home, in case she might somehow try to wedge her way into coming along. Maybe that was selfish, unfair.

Lara tilted her head. “He didn’t stay to eat?”

“No,” you answered laconicly. “He was just stopping by.”

“Oh… m’kay.” She seemed kind of crestfallen, trailing her eyes along the tiled floor and off into the corner. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, bye.”

As Lara disappeared through the swinging doors, back into the dining room, your desserts were ready at the pass. While you were smiling, acting pleased to be serving your last table, at the edge of your mind you were feeling… sympathy… for Lara, a girl you never thought would need any.

When Vernon had rejected her offer for dinner, she probably experienced her heart plummet right to the floor of her chest like she was strapped into a nauseating carnival ride. Knowing her, she probably put on an indifferent, unbothered guise to match Vernon’s. She probably sensed her hope deflate into the unfathomable. But she would have handled it better than you. Such an ugly moment in your hands would be akin to a swinging foot headed for a delicate sandcastle—straight to a damaged lump.

 Some emotions were too hard to keep down.

However, by the time the restaurant closed and all the cleaning duties were completed, you were more than ready to throw yourself into the bitter, black street where the wind was finely sharpened and the guttural rumbling of Vernon’s Camry sounded closer to a comfortable purr. He was waiting for you, leaned against the side of the hood with his arms crossed.

The boy echoed a disapproving click of the tongue. “Slow, slow, slow. I need t’know what the fuck kinda cleanin’ you’re doin’ back there.”

You huffed, feeling your breath freeze. “Cleaning takes a long time if you actually care to do it right! Not that I’d expect you to know.”

He opened the passenger door for you. “Hm. Sounds more like you work too hard at a minimum wage job that doesn’t give a damn about you.”

You waited for him to join you in the heated car. “At least I earn my money legally so that I don’t have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.” Strapping on the seatbelt, you smirked. “How was the corndog?”

“A thing a’ beauty,” Vernon sighed dreamily, pushing up the sleeves to his jacket. “Deep-fried perfection on a stick. I coulda ate the entire store.”

“And you didn’t use my mug for free refills on the punch?”

Vernon glanced at the cupholders where your canteen had been waiting since Saturday. “Nope. It would probably make it taste like hot chocolate and candy canes. I like some weird fuckin’ combos, but I can’t imagine that would go well with punch. It’d probably kill me.”

“If that’s what ends up killing you, I’d be shocked.”

He raised his thick eyebrow at you, swabbing his tongue along his bottom lip, letting it prod at his piercing. “Damn. You’re gettin’ pretty fuckin’ quick with these comebacks. Can’t help but think I contributed.”

You wanted to bark a laugh, tell him how much he’d wish for that to be true (though, it probably was), but there was too much pride stuffing itself into the caverns of your chest from the compliment. Squeezing onto your coat sleeves, you knew you should bring up the compromise—you should tell Vernon that he didn’t really have to honour the deal—he could crash at your apartment whenever he needed to, as long as he followed some basic rules of hospitality and decency. If he ever found himself without a place to stay, you weren’t going to be the stingy, cross woman to turn a blind eye. It was a misjudgement. You coloured in the lines with too much weight.

“So, um… I was wondering if we could talk about…” for a moment, you paused, feeling your pulse beat its fists against your neck as the nervousness oozed out. “Shoot…” you whispered under your breath.

Vernon adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Hm? Talk about what?”

“Well… I think that…” you inhaled, and it sounded ragged. “I wanted to talk about the compromise thingy, I guess… if that’s okay.”

“Yeah?” He questioned. “What for?” Vernon started to smile, slight flashes of his sharp teeth twinkling in the dimness. “You tryna push me out even further, PJ’s. Is that it? Can’t come within a five-mile radius type shit?”

Smitten, your head shook. “No—no, no. Not that.”

He folded his arms, leaned against the window, and better angled himself so he could look at you more clearly. “Enlighten me, then.” The fuzzy streetlight was like a sheer, golden fog coming in through the window, catching in the boy’s facial jewelry and those softening, attentive eyes. What was it that you wanted to bring up?

He brushed a hand through his hair and your attention was immediately drawn like a moth to flame. All those pristine tattoos dressed around his fingers, snaking up his wrist, disappearing underneath his black jacket—all those subtle veins grooving along his skin, like predestined pathways you wanted to trace with your very own affectionate fingertip—you were wading into deep water, losing your train of thought the further you pushed, feeling the suction pull you and not resisting even one tiny bit because this was the closest you had ever been to genuinely liking someone.

This was the closest you had ever been to genuinely liking someone and this was the most bravery you had ever felt in all your timid, passive years of living.

“Vernon… I  know that when we first met, I was angry. And I may have considered calling the police on you because of that… um… anger… but I never did because… I can be a touch dramatic sometimes. As you know. And have witnessed. But the thing is, the more time I spend with you, the more I realize… well… okay—I-I like you.” Your eyes squeezed shut after you made the confession, as though you might reopen them and find that the universe reversed time. Vernon would still be getting in the car and you would be smirking with the itch to lick him with your newfound wit.

But when your eyes opened, Vernon was still leaned against the window, except the calm, warm stillness to his face had spilled into something opposite—concern, caution, even a flash of fear you had never observed before—and your insides packed tight into a ball.

He swallowed. “Uh… fuck…” the boy whispered, slowly beginning to push himself up, teething hard on his lip, waiting for the right words to settle. “PJ’s, listen. You’re a real nice girl. I’ve had fun screwin’ around with you… but…” he grabbed his chin, strumming a pensive thumb underneath it, and shook his head. “Man, I just—I don’t… think of you like that.”

And then, a horrible, heavy, stifling silence thickened the air.

The first thought in your head—don’t cry—don’t you dare cry in the front seat of his car after getting shot down. Don’t you dare show even the slightest glimmer of emotion, whether that’s a runny sniffle, or tears wobbling against your eyes, or the unnatural twitch of a finger. But then you recalled Lara. Another girl who probably said something much more coherent than you, with a lot more confidence. You recalled Ruby heeding you with her cautionary tale. You recalled that locker being slammed right in your face all those years ago, in a junior high hallway, a physical sound to the rejection that still echoed throughout your head to this very day.

Breathing in deep, you gulped, you smiled, and you nodded. “I understand—” you laughed a little, and it was clearly unstable, blending into a weird whimper that you hastily swallowed, “—so, I’ll be going now.”

“What? Goin’ where?” Vernon inquired. His face turned wrought with dread when you opened the car door, gripping onto your bag for comfort and support as you stepped back onto the sidewalk. “PJ’s, no—that’s fuckin’ stupid. It’s cold as fuck outside. C’mere. Get back in. I can still—”

“I really don’t want that,” you told him, taking another step away from the warmth of the vehicle. “Thank you for the offer. Goodnight.”

“PJ’s. I’m actually fuckin’ serious,” he deadpanned, the grit in his voice hardening. “Get the fuck in the car. You’re not gonna take the bus.” A flustered hand cast through his black tresses, and he exhaled. “I mean, you can even sit in the backseat if that’ll make you more comfy. I can blast some music, or we can ride in silence. Whatever you want. It’s too cold.”

He was making it excruciatingly hard not to burst into a bucket of tears right there on the street. The fervent, unkind wind was determined to pluck them out, causing your eyes to sting, turning Vernon blurry. “You’re not listening,” you warbled, reedy in tone. “I don’t want a ride home. Please, just go.”

The boy scoffed, gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah? Go fuckin’ where? If you’re gonna take the bus, then I’m gonna sit here and make sure you actually get on.” He had never sounded so stern before. His casualness was stripped like bark off a tree. “I can’t believe you’re bein’ this stubborn.”

“Vernon, just go!” You shouted at him. A congested sniffle came immediately after, and your fists clenched in anguish at the realization you were unsewing before him, bit by bit, letting your emotion dominate.

“Fuck you,” he gritted, tongue running over his teeth. “Make me.”

“Vernon!”

“You wanna take the bus so fuckin’ bad? Then walk your ass right on over there and take the bus. But I’m not gonna leave this spot until I see you get on.” He proceeded to flick his hand. “So go. Take the fuckin’ bus.”

Tears overwhelming your eyes, you glared at him, sucked in a hoarse, trembling breath, and slammed his door so hard that the entire car shuddered. But you didn’t pay attention. You didn’t wait for the street to clear—you just marched straight across it to the bus stop on the other side—hearing a car horn blare at you. Vernon must think you were the dumbest girl he had ever met. It didn’t matter. At that rate, you would never see him or his beautiful, summery eyes again. Choked up and weeping, holding onto yourself tight, you felt the stares of the few people at the bus stop avoid you like you were diseased. Like you were some alien fallen out of the sky.

You wished you didn’t care they way they did.

Life must be a lot easier.

—END OF PART TWO.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part five. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 24k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: another early-ish upload as i will be getting up bright and early tmo morning 😀 i'm sure some of u frisky fiends will find this chapter satiating. but aside from the spice, this chapter has some of my favourite scenes <3 maybe u can spot them :D

ENJOY!! ❤️‍🔥

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additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

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6 MONTHS AGO.

The trash bag weighed more than you would care to admit, causing you to stumble and grunt and puff as you lugged it over your shoulder. It kept clunking against your back, all the hard edges hitting bone, until you managed to reach the tastefully graffitied dumpster.

Lara was typically on trash duty, but she was gone for the week, visiting a sick family member back in London. Tara had booked three days off to attend a wedding. You missed your usual cohorts. The two substitutes were used to working the opening shift. They didn’t respond well to your jokes or seem to take direction from you cooperatively, and the night’s fluidity rested mostly on your aching, pained back. Picking up the trash bag, you start hoisting it over your shoulder, letting it rest on the lip of the dumpster before you nudged it in with a jumpy, overdramatic squeal.

“What the—ew!”

Something cold and wet had leaked onto your arm, resembling coffee grounds. You shook it off, groaning, irritably knowing that it wasn’t even your duty to take out the trash. But if you didn’t, it wouldn’t happen.

Walking toward the restaurant’s back entrance, you noticed that one of the evening cooks, Costello, was outside, enjoying his nightly cigarette, wrapped in the comfortable burgundy of his wool coat. He smiled at you, his coarse, wiry moustache following the curvature of his lips, though he didn’t end up saying a word. Honestly, it was more humiliating that way.

Back in the dining room, you weren’t surprised to find your two subordinates right where you had left them—polishing tables—except they were at the exact same table, chattering, hardly moving their rags with any sort of vigour. You hated being authoritative, the one to dampen the younger employee’s fun, but you refused to be held accountable for whatever complaints about the poor cleaning might surface come tomorrow morning.

“Hey guys,” you sighed, awkwardly greeting the two young girls with an exhausted, forced smile. “I know the store’s closed, but everyone is still expected to leave at a certain time. How many tables are left?”

One girl blinked, staring from table to table, as though she couldn’t even remember what was done and what wasn’t, meanwhile the other girl picked up her rag, tucking it through her waist-apron. “I guess Shelby can finish up the tables,” she said. “Well, since the restaurant’s closed, can I be the one to tell that super hot guy outside he doesn’t need to wait up?”

“Pardon?” You questioned her, itching inside your ear.

She then pointed across the restaurant, toward the windows. “A guy has been waiting outside for like, fifteen minutes. Right there—” she took a step closer, straightening out her arm, “—leaning against the white car.”

You didn’t look long.

In fact, you didn’t need to look at all.

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out,” you decided to answer, ignoring the instant pounding from within your chest. “Help Shelby out with the tables, okay? I’ll get the mop for behind the counter. Let’s be quick.”

Vernon had done pretty well to give you space. He hadn’t texted you once, nor had he shown by the apartment. It was the respectful, considerate thing to do on his part, and you could appreciate that—however—it had also sharply offended you. To not even text you once was baffling—not that you would have responded out of stubbornness—and to not even text Ruby to ask about you discreetly was even more baffling! This entire week had been nothing but agony. Breakdowns in the shower, dramatic upheavals of emotion while spinning your favourite angst tracks, Ruby constantly being on the alert for your next heartbreak craving. You had gone from marble brownies to mozzarella sticks to caesar salad in just a week!

You thought he had some nerve to wait outside Mr. York’s unannounced. But Vernon always had nerve. He seemed born with it.

Thankfully, everyone was able to clock out on time. The two younger girls left through the back via a friend’s carpool. You said goodnight to Costello as he changed his shoes in the locker area, and popped in on your supervisor to let him know you were leaving. He asked you how it was working with Shelby and Julianne.

You said they were equally great.

You lied. You didn’t care.

Besides, there were bigger dragons to slay, and one in particular was lying in wait for you outside, seated on the hood of his vanilla Camry, twirling a sucker around in his mouth.

He spotted you relatively quickly.

“Hello, Miss,” Vernon purred as you approached the vehicle.

It wouldn’t have made any sense to stride past him, acting as though he were simply a mirage in the bitter, quiet night. He wouldn’t have let you get far, nor would you be able to resist him, anyway.

Guilty as charged.

“Hello,” you sighed, adjusting the strap of your bag.

That sorrowful clanging in your chest was thickly gravid, sluicing like sharp tides of flat water. All it took was a single moment of your gaze locking with the likes of his softening, dark golden eyes, and you were completely ensnared. Who ever thought it would be a good idea to make boys like him? How did you become a victim?

“Somewhat on time for you,” Vernon commented, checking the braided silver watch trapped around his wrist. “A bit later than usual.”

Shrugging, you answered with a weak smile. “New hires.”

He didn’t prevaricate. Vernon slipped off the car, straightened out the t-shirt underneath his thick zip-up sweater, and closed the distance between you. There were just mere inches of space, hardly enough to breathe and not smell the sweet, sticky strawberry of his sucker.

Please Universe, you begged inside your head, don’t let me fold.

“How ‘bout I drive you home?” Vernon murmured, pulling out the sucker from his glossy mouth, upholding your tentative gaze with the daring, confident nature of his own, as though you had never fought, the memories ebbed away.

Your fingers twitched. “My bus comes in about five minutes.”

He looked across the street, turned back to you. “And?”

“And…” you filled in the gap, “I plan on taking it.”

“That feels oddly familiar,” Vernon said. “Wonder why.”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, nervously licking the top corner of your lip, eyes fluttering the ground. “I wonder.” Choking down a hard swallow, you stepped away from Vernon, about to cross the street. “Night.”

“Woah, park your ass for a sec,” the boy laughed, stepping off the curb and into your way. He backed you up a bit. “I wanna chat.”

“Vernon,” you huffed sternly. “I have to catch the bus.”

“No, you fuckin’ don’t, ‘cause I’m gonna drive you home, anyway.”

“Uh, and who decided that—”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Vernon interrupted, sounding uncharacteristically exhausted. “I went and did all the space bullshit. But I can’t keep it up or else I’m gonna go mad. I need to see you.”

“Well…” you gulped, your blood bubbling like lava. “You are.”

“No,” he pushed back in response, tsking his teeth. “I don’t mean it like that, I-I mean it, like, I need to be around you. I need to hear your annoyin’ voice, have you close to me.” A slight wind ruffled his displaced locks, causing the strands to dance as though they were fronds of blackened wheat, tickling his honey eyes. It took every part of you to not reach out and smooth the hair back. “And I know you feel the same way, Pyjamas. Even if you don’t fuckin’ admit it.”

He was right—you did feel the same way—but you were much more fragile in comparison to rugged, forthcoming Vernon, and letting even a drop of your emotion fall would be a prelude for a waterfall.

Clearing your throat, you attempted to look firm, certain. Vernon examined you with intrigue, popping the sucker back in his mouth.

“Okay, I understand you might not have the best memory of last week, since you were evidently buzzing off coke,” you began, clasping your hands together pointedly, “but I made it very, very clear that we can’t keep doing this. We’re too different. Nothing about our lives mesh. And it’s unfair, to both of us, if we keep this going when we know how it will end.” From the corner of your eye, you noticed the bus—41 Alta Heights—shining in orange neon. “And since my bus is quite literally thirty seconds away, I really have to go.”

“No you don’t.” Vernon secured his hand around your upper arm, pulling you, until you were nudged against his car’s bumper.

Upon watching the bus stroll away, you thumped on his hard chest like you were smacking a drum of tight animal hide. “You idiot! How are you so frustrating!” He remained impressively still, waiting until the smoke cleared, giving you a moment to grumble and recklessly pull at the skin of your bottom lip just to feel the sting. “Well,” you chimed, rubbing off your numb nose, “you must be so damn proud, cornering me here, just so we can talk in freaking circles about something I’ve already made up my mind on!”

“You haven’t made up your mind on shit,” Vernon taunted.

“Shut up!” You seethed at him. “Don’t talk to me like that!”

“Y'know why it’s not gonna work?” He asked, although he didn’t allow you the breadth to answer. “It’s ‘cause you freakin’ think too much, overcomplicate things, give yourself a million reasons not to do somethin’ even when you want it, deep down, more than anything.”

Arms crossed, lip jutted out, you leaned against Vernon’s car, refusing to meet the intensity of his eyeline that was drilling into your face because you knew the intimacy would otherwise crack you into vulnerable gobbets. He took a step closer, and suddenly, his fingers were squeezing the sides of your cold cheeks, turning your raw, emotional countenance in his direction. It felt like there was no other choice but to be swallowed whole by his beautiful eyes.

“I like you,” Vernon whispered, his nose brushing yours as you stood there helplessly, ready to buckle to your knees. “And until you can look me dead in the face and say that you want me to completely fuck off out of your life, I’ll keep botherin’ you. Like I am right now.” The pressure from his calloused fingertips hardened against your cheeks, squeezing deeper into the pliant skin. “So…” the boy enticed in a throaty, crisp voice, staring down at your trembling lips as though they were candied. “Be a big girl and tell me to fuck off, then.” Something in your lower abdomen melted, gushed. “Hm?”

“J-Just…” you spluttered, your warm, choppy breath fanning against his pierced mouth. “Take me home, okay? Please?”

He let go of you, poking the strawberry sucker between his lips, fluffing a hand through his windswept, messy hair. “I’m happy to.”

Damn. You had officially folded.

At a certain point, you stopped engaging Soonyoung in your personal drama. He had always seemed like a safe, someone you could chatter to endlessly because you knew the gossip wasn’t going anywhere, even if it wanted to. There just wasn’t enough mutual overlap between your lives. But that had changed once you surmised Soonyoung told Minghao about your relationship with Vernon. You never confronted him on it, nor did the boy seem to notice that you were far less complain-y than you usually were, and you were totally fine with that. Though, some part of you did admit to missing the work spill sessions. It would make the time fly.

Your entire week was threaded by the memory of Vernon’s ambush, how you were served the perfect opportunity to swear him off for good, but ultimately chose to reject the cake. It’s not like you had never missed a bus before. Your fallback was typically an Uber, and when you had been dating Lee he offered to drive you home most nights. A few instances involved a taxi ride paid for by your manager who likely felt pitiful that you were still outside the restaurant at the time he’d wrapped up his office work.

But your mind had seemed to think there was no choice. Something about Vernon’s brash persistence had charmed you deep down. No one had ever fought for you. No one had ever told you that you were all they could think about. It was foreign to hear the gutted desperation behind his words as he stared past your stubbornness and into your desire. The car ride itself wasn’t exactly pleasant as the two of you sat in your own bubbles of silence, steeping in selfish thoughts driven by emotion. You were infuriated at yourself for folding like a deck of cards. Vernon knew how to play you.

It had never been the other way around.

Suddenly, a large bag of chips and a chocolate bar was being plopped onto the counter. You flinched, immediately pulling your elbows off the lottery ticket display and straightening up, trying not to look distracted and aloof, though you were probably failing at it.

“Are you gonna ring up my goodies?” The man asked in a congested, strained voice, gesturing at the items with his old wallet.

“Oh, yeah,” you hummed, shaking your head. “Of course.”

He snickered, pushing up his dark sunglasses. “Working hard or hardly working?” That was the typical comment you got from men like him, dressed in a tattered cap, a faded jacket, and a button-up busting at his belly.

Smiling crookedly, you answered, “a mix of both.”

As he fished through his thick, stubby wallet for cash, your eyes wandered to the outside. It wouldn’t be Spring for another month, not that you would catch much of the fresh greenery from within a concession store along a busy city block. However, you noticed an uncharacteristic flash of bright red across the intersection, which you nearly mistook for a damn flower pot, until you realized that the unusually tall and moving flower pot was Minghao. Next to him, his friend, both dressed similarly to when you first encountered them unknowingly. The second the customer held out his cash, you punched the number into the computer, the till smacking your hip as it popped open, and counted out the change into his hand.

“Now you’re on a roll!” He chuckled in a rasp.

You laughed meekly, shortly, in response, letting the customer fade into the background as you focused on Minghao stalking toward Common Cents, looking like he had come straight from a Paris runway.

Soonyoung wasn’t far.

He was stocking energy supplements down the hall.

Testing out a shout, you called for him twice.

Of course, with his headset on, he was never going to hear you, even if you hopped onto the counter and started screaming. Instead, you picked up one of the candy bars from the counter’s colourful display, taking a brief moment to aim before you whipped it down the hall. The bar smacked his head and bounced onto the floor.

Minghao was getting closer with every stride, his friend hurrying to keep pace with his long legs, carrying him like a spider.

Soonyoung peeled off his headset. He glanced at the ground in question. “Did you just fucking hit me in the head with a Nutter Butter?”

“Get over here!” You demanded, gesturing at him wildly. “Now!”

“That hurt, y'know?” He lamented, rubbing the back of his head.

The second he was close enough, you grabbed him, yanking him behind the counter despite his flourishing surprise. “What the hell?”

“Please,” you urged in a huff, “handle cash for me. And if anyone asks you if I’m here today, just tell them no. Please? Can you do that?”

“Well, I’d be more inclined if I knew the reason—”

Minghao started trotting up the steps. Instantly, you ducked down, squishing yourself into the counter as much as possible while Soonyoung furrowed his bleached eyebrows at you in complete confusion. Whacking his leg, you whisper-shouted, “don’t stare at me! Act like I’m not here!”

Gosh, you prayed he would just go along with it!

No way could you let the brooding, evidently-determined Minghao get you in his sights after bothering his neighbour. Hearing the small chime ding above the doorway, you proceeded to wrap your arms around your knees, as though it would make you more compact and susceptible to becoming part of the counter. Unable to see anything but Soonyoung’s legs and dusty bottles of cleaning supplies, you could only listen, your ears practically on a swivel.

“Hey, Minghao, Qian!” Soonyoung chirped. “Wasn’t expecting to see you guys today. Looking for more of that plum drink, is that it?”

You heard shoes click in timely steps toward the counter.

“Yes. We’ll look around.”

“M’kay. Come grab me if need be.” As the footsteps echoed away,  you were met with a downward glance from Soonyoung, unable to quell his smile as he noticed how buckled you were.

“What’s the ish?” He mumbled.

But you placed a finger to your lips, shaking your head.

Obviously Minghao was going to meander around the store on his own instead of posing a direct, off-putting question. You noted his slyness, would not be fooled by it, and continued to keep huddled. In your head, you were already sculpting a patronizing text message to Vernon that rivaled the length of your high school essay for Catcher in the Rye. He said it wouldn’t come back to you! Well, if that were true, you wouldn’t be pressed into a box on the floor. Soonyoung lazily leaned against the counter, keeping one muff to his headset over his ear, stretching an elastic band in his fingers, cool as a cucumber. You weren’t keeping track of time, although it felt like an entire day had whisked by once Minghao returned to the register.

“How’s it been?” Soonyoung asked while scanning something.

“Fine.”

“Good to know. That’s twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

“Only you?”

“Hm?”

“Only you in the store?”

Every fibre inside your heart squeezed. If Soonyoung owed you anything after subjecting you to months and months of his unprompted, un-asked-for anecdotes of debauchery, it was this stupid little white lie.

You glanced up, watching Soonyoung nod. “Yeah.”

“What happened to the girl?” Minghao asked in his airy, floating voice.

“Which girl is that?”

“She was here last time. The cashier.”

“Oh, uh, she’s been sick or something—thanks.”

The unexpected noise of the till shooting open made you flinch, causing your elbow to bump against the counter. You immediately held onto your mouth in shock, hoping the till was loud enough to cover your blunder.

“If I need to speak to her,” Minghao asked, leaving a long, stressful pause between his question, “how can I get in touch with her?”

“Oh,” Soonyoung replied innocently, dropping his shoulders. “I mean, I can always relay a message to her, if you want.”

There was another pause. A deep breath. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, I would try Ruby—”

Your fingers lurched around Soonyoung’s leg, nails sinking into the boy’s skin until he winced, ripping himself free. “A-Aw! Sorry… uh… I just got one of those nerve pinches,” he stuttered. “You ever get those in your side? And it makes it feel like you’re dying? Um… what was the question?”

“I’ll come back another time.”

“Uh, m’kay. Later, fellas.”

Once the door chimed, indicating their departure, Soonyoung was crossing his arms and aiming a scornful look in your direction. Maybe you didn’t need to claw into his leg that teethingly, but you couldn’t risk it!

“They’re gone, right?” You whispered, squinting up at him.

Soonyoung gestured blankly. “Like the wind.”

Groaning, you began to unfurl yourself from the crumpled, uncomfortable position, a dull pop sounding from somewhere in your knee.

The boy stuck a hand on his hip. “What was that shit all about?”

“Long story,” you huffed in response. “Thanks for the cover.”

“Did it go South between him and Ruby?”

“Uh, yeah... best not to bring it up.”

Thankfully, Soonyoung didn’t seem to care enough to ask another question. Either that or he figured you were being a little too weird and vague for his liking. At least he could listen to his gut. He wove around you with a sigh, returning to his post down the hallway, headphones snapped back over his ears.

Of course, the problem was only half-solved.

At least until the end of your shift.

Both Tara and Lara were willing to make an excuse for you being late to Mr. York’s—you didn’t really care what they told your manager, as long as it provided you enough time to pin down Vernon for a good half-hour. He answered your inquiring text surprisingly fast, stating that he was fixing a problem with his Camry’s engine at a friend’s house. It wasn’t until you asked for the address that his responsivity unfavourably tapered. You were stood outside Common Cents, irritably and impatiently tapping your foot, until his reluctant reply vibrated your phone.

Upon swinging out your arm at the first taxi making its way by, you were being dropped off about ten minutes later within a small, dead-end street, bordered by unassuming, uniform houses.

Vernon was easy to spot. It was the only house with its garage open—the only house with a vanilla Camry that had a dark-haired, tattooed boy hung over an engine.

You trod up the driveway, past the kicked-over recycling bins and the basketball hoop with the torn, fluttering net. Vernon was humming to himself as he seemingly tinkered with something you couldn’t see.

Stood right behind him, you simply said, “hey.”

The boy flinched, smacking his head on the car’s hood.

You didn’t want to giggle, but it escaped you effortlessly.

He groaned, fingers pressing into his scalp as he turned around, his expression contorted. “What the fuck is your problem?” Vernon whined.

“That’s a spectacular question.”

Pulling the small, dirtied towel off his shoulder, Vernon proceeded to wipe the smudges of engine grease from his hands. Notably, his grey t-shirt was far from clean, and there was a soft brushstroke of oil along his gleaming forehead. Your gaze was heavily enticed to wander. Your heartbeat jumped. But you were here for a reason. Besides, if he caught you ogling, even for a second, you would never live it down.

“Well, enlighten me, please,” Vernon scoffed, slapping the towel back over his shoulder, his head tilted. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work or some shit? Why the fuck are you over here botherin’ me?”

You paused, taking a moment to look around the garage. All the walls were plastered with organized tools, hung-up bicycles, wheels, metal parts. Vernon had a connection for just about anything, it seemed.

Swallowing down the stench of grease, you stared at him. “Minghao came through Common Cents,” you said. “And he asked about me.”

The boy pursed his lip, glanced from side to side. “Okay?”

His nonchalance pulled out a deep-chested laugh, though it was fueled by outrage. “Okay?! What do you mean, okay?! He obviously knows it was you and I that went to the scrap yard! He obviously knows it was us messing with his neighbour! And now he’s tracing back for answers!”

Vernon settled his hands against the rim of the car. “Look at the logic, here. What the hell is he supposed to do to you at Common Cents? Threaten you for information or else he steals a Twix bar? A magazine? Some gum? Who gives a fuck? He’s just tryin’ to intimidate.”

“I give a fuck!” You countered, pacing in an anxious circle, nearly tripping over your own feet. “I don’t want this coming back to me!”

“It won’t.”

“It did, already.”

“Alright, don’t get sassy with me,” Vernon proceeded to warn while adjusting the cuff to his fitting, dirtied shirt. “If I recall correctly, it was you who was insistent on helpin’ me, even when I was against it. Now you’re up in my fuckin’ business ‘cause the water’s gettin’ a little murky.”

“I wanted to help you when I thought we could still be friends. But our situation has changed. So whatever I said before doesn’t apply now.”

“And what’s our situation?”

“Oh, no,” you scoffed, teething at your lip. “I’m not falling for that.”

Vernon smirked. “For what?”

“I’m not going to be the one who spells it out. You do it.”

“Well, I can’t spell.”

“Not true.”

“It’s partially true.”

“I don’t have time for this!” You grimaced, beginning to pace again, tucking your arms against your sides in an attempt to comfort. “I need to know that all my terrible decisions won’t ambush me in the dead of night! I mean, I’m an accomplice! I’ll have to look over my shoulder for the rest—”

“Okay, okay,” Vernon chided. “You want the Oscar?” He picked up a large, silver wrench that was resting on the car’s engine, extending it in your direction. “Here, take it. But you don’t get an acceptance speech.”

Sighing gruffly, you ignored his comical offering, instead choosing to lean beside him along the rim of the car. Were you overthinking it? Were you making a mountain out of a molehill?

You stared down at your dry hands, pressing at the cuticle of your thumb, trying to catch your breath. And then you gulped, glancing at Vernon as he was already eyeing you intently. “Are you really not worried?” You asked, shoulders slugging.

“I look worried to you?”

“No…”

He simply shrugged in response, smiling.

You looked down the driveway, at the house across the road, noticing all the grey, matted grass and barren, skeletal trees. This street would probably look much prettier in the Spring. The trees in the neighbour’s yard were tall and thick-trunked, with the branches stretching out in all directions. It must be nice to watch how the leaves might sway in a dewy breeze, how green and lush the grass might twinkle under the sun.

Still fidgeting your fingers, you sighed, “I can’t help being worried.”

“I know,” Vernon said with warmth. You felt his hand settle at the top of your jacket, where he applied a tough yet relaxing pressure. “But I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you, PJ’s. You know that.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled, feet kicking.

In the moment, you let your head tilt onto his strong, supporting shoulder, uncaring that he smelled like metal and grease. When you stopped letting your mind run itself in exhausted circles, the things you truly wanted and ached for came to the surface much easier. Like Vernon’s touch. His closeness. He rubbed down your back, seemingly removing the distress with every stroke from his hand. You grabbed onto his knee and squeezed it.

“Not friends, right?” He murmured against your hair. The smirk was evident in his voice, enough for you to paint a detailed picture.

“Don’t freaking ruin it,” you whined at him.

“Seriously, though,” Vernon began, “don’t you have work?”

“I do,” you exhaled disappointedly, nudging yourself further into the warmth of his neck. “But I don’t wanna go… I was prepared to come over here and yell at you for half an hour.” However, you realized it was probably best to move along, before you got too caught up in him and became utterly senseless. Reluctantly, your head was pulled from the boy’s shoulder. “I guess I should go.”

“Well, let me check my engine one more time,” Vernon offered, placing his hand over top yours. “Maybe it’ll start.”

“That would be helpful.”

He smiled at you, staring deep into your eyes, and you smiled back, everything surrounding you turning into a fuzzy, fading haze.

And then he sprung a quick kiss onto your forehead.

“Vernon!” You squealed.

He pushed himself off the car, shrugging. “What? Move your ass.”

You stood up, letting the boy remove some tools off the car before propping the hood back down with a slam. Fingers clenched, heart thundering, face melting, you merely gawked at him as he threw open the driver’s side door and sunk inside. He tried the key, letting the engine gurgle and wheeze a few times before it rumbled to life. Through the windshield, you saw him gesture at you to get in the car. At last, you wiped the gobsmacked expression from your face. It wasn’t even worth it to scold him.

You would be grinning too much for it to feel convincing.

5 MONTHS AGO.

Sat awkwardly on the edge of a leather sofa, you watched a small boy across the room. His knees were digging into the floor, using the armchair before him as a surface for the random Etch-A-Sketch that had been laid on the coffee table. This was your first time in a tattoo parlour. Coming in, you had little expectations. Now, you had none.

The little boy then stumbled to his feet, completely unbothered by the fact his sky-blue t-shirt was bunched up around his round tummy, and wandered off down some random corridor, taking the Etch-A-Sketch that you may have wanted to play with.

Vernon was beside you, flipping his way through a laminated bound-booklet. He stopped on one page in particular, suddenly turning the book in your direction with his studded eyebrow raised. “Thoughts?”

It was a gigantic back tattoo of a hyper-realistic lion stretching its jaws open in what you assumed to be a primal roar. “Yes,” you sighed, pinching a wrinkle in your jeans. “Because that just screams me, doesn’t it?”

“Ballsy fuckin’ choice for your first tattoo.”

“I’m not putting that on my body.”

“M’kay,” Vernon hummed, his lips pressed together in concentration and challenge as he flicked a few pages forward. “What about this?” The booklet was opened once more in your direction, and you couldn’t help but physically gasp, eyes bulging, while you attempted to discern the vulgar tattoo of a woman’s mouth filled by a…. well… you weren’t going to paint the picture in any more detail than necessary… but a man’s—“that’s actually foul!” You laughed in disgust, heart racing. “Get it away from me.”

“Dude got this shit on his upper thigh…” Vernon remarked casually, like he was reading a bland newspaper column. “YOLO, right?”

“Who in their right mind actually thinks it’s okay to have that on their body? Who would even agree to do it?” Still exasperated, you glanced around the empty lobby of the tattoo parlour shiftily. “Why was there—like—why was the… thing… so detailed?”

Vernon cackled. “The dick? Yeah, facts, PJ’s. Veins and everything.”

“Please stop talking,” you half-groaned, half-pleaded.

He continued examining the photographed tattoo underneath its glossy covering. “Doesn’t compare to mine, though. Mine’s got—”

“Vernon! Shut up! Please! Shut up!” Immediately, you were off the sticky leather sofa, unable to sit there any longer, stomach flopping with nerves, while Vernon rambled about intimate things you had absolutely no desire to hear at that moment. “And give me this!” You snatched the bound-booklet from his roughed hands, throwing it back onto the coffee table.

“My, my,” the boy snickered, slouching down the sofa and sticking his foot onto the edge of the table. “Not in the mood, huh?” He proceeded to taunt you, an arm propped behind his head. “Take a chill pill, Miss.”

“I’m sure you’ve got one handy,” you muttered back in spite.

“In the car. Blue or green?”

“You’re such an idiot.”

Suddenly, a girl popped out from the corridor. She had originally been behind the service desk in the lobby, but ended up disappearing shortly after you arrived. You couldn’t remember her name, but she was exactly the type of woman you pictured running a tattoo parlour—the classic nose ring, heavy gauges through her ear lobes, vape in hand, and not an inch of her arms left uncovered by aged ink starting to migrate—and yet, she seemed quite sweet.

“He’s ready for you,” she said, offering a polite, encouraging smile while gesturing. “Down this hallway. First open door on the right!”

“Thanks,” you sighed, shuffling past her.

However, you noticed Vernon still sat on the sofa, looking dazed.

“Hello?” You chirped, fingers snapping. “Coming?”

“Oh,” he grunted, ruffling his hair. “Really?”

“I am not getting my skin needled alone. Besides, I’m counting on your stupid comments to distract me.” Lowering your voice, you whispered to him sharply while the lady returned to the desk, “unless you want to keep sitting out here, critiquing a tattooed weewee in some girl’s mouth.”

Persuaded, Vernon threw up his arms in defense, following after you into the small studio room where the tattoo artist was waiting. A fresh sheet of parchment paper was laid overtop a thin, flat leather bed, though you didn’t sit down until the artist nodded at you, readying his tray of ink and tools. The paper crinkled under your thighs, and you exhaled nervously while glancing around the studio, noting the various picture frames showcasing his artwork, swinging your feet to his music. Actually, you were somewhat familiar with him—Snozz, as he was nicknamed—Vernon’s friend and Moo’s roommate.

“That’s new. Looks sick.” Vernon nodded at neon signage placarded above a mirror, a bright, toxic green, spelling out his friend’s contact handle.

“Yeah,” Snozz sniffed, tugging on black, sterile gloves, “thanks.” He already had his stencil printed out, which he proceeded to show you. “Uh, so, this is about the size. I can make it a little bigger if you like… don’t wanna go too small. This is a delicate design, so…” he sniffed again, taking a moment to swallow, clear his throat. It sounded like he had a cold, his voice scratchy and raw. “So, y’know, don’t wanna compromise anything,” he finished with a hefty sigh.

“No, it’s perfect,” you reassured him. “No reprinting required.”

“Okay. Uh, wanna lay back?”

Your nervous gaze skipped to Vernon. He was relaxing in a chair across the studio, gave you a confident nod and a faint smile. If only you weren’t too timid, you would have liked him closer, at least so you could squeeze his hand the first time the needle pricked you. Biting the bullet, you reclined, feeling the tissue paper continue to crinkle and tear underneath your warm body. Snozz took a bottle from his tray, spraying some sort of solution onto a tufted white cloth that he then applied to your ankle.

“It preps the skin,” was all he said as you bristled at the cold sensation. Then he was sticking the stencil paper to your lower shin, letting a moment pass before he slowly peeled it off.

“Go easy on her, Snozz,” Vernon called. “She’s a can ‘a nerves.”

“Alright. We can start. Ready?”

You gave him a blank stare, void of acknowledgement, that you were even sitting in his studio with the design fresh on your disinfected skin.

“Tattoos are permanent,” your father had routinely advised you as a child. “Get one when you’re young and foolish, then spend the rest of your life regretting it.” He himself had only a single tattoo, buried under the dense hairs on his arm—the initials belonging to his first ex-girlfriend—in faded, sloppy blue ink that seemed reminiscent of a high-school stick-and-poke. “You’ll struggle to get a job the more it goes. It’ll take all your money.” He would keep going on and on as you stood there silently, clasping a clunky flashlight aimed down at an engine. After a while, you stopped listening to the drawl, opting to watch the sea of swaying, golden rye that stretched out for acres across the road.

His speech was discreetly code for: don’t ever think about bringing home anyone who has tattoos, because who you associate with is who you are.

Snozz revved his gun. “You good?”

Snapped from the surge of memory, you came back to the studio, finding yourself staring at Vernon, hypnotized, the same way you once stared at the swimming rye.

“Yeah, I am, sorry,” you apologized to Snozz.

He merely blinked. “Most people say it feels like a cat scratch. Let me know if you need a break.” And without further ado, the buzzing needle started pulsing just above your ankle. The fingers placed quaintly overtop your stomach interlaced, squeezing each other, as your brain registered the sensation for the very first time. There was sharpness, but not weighted. It wasn’t unbearable.

“Well,” Vernon cawed from across the studio, “what-chya’ think?”

You swallowed, focusing on the ceiling. “It’s not bad.” Snozz moved the pricking needle further along your skin, reaching new landscape, and suddenly, there was an unbridled twitch.

Immediately, you tensed. “Sorry!”

He removed the gun, stopped slouching over your leg. “Probably a good nerve there,” Snozz mumbled, wiping the needle’s tip onto a tiny mound of blue, waxy substance. “Take deep breaths. It’ll help.”

Heeding his advice, you filled your lungs with air. “I really am sorry,” you apologized again. “I don’t mean to make you screw up.”

For the first time, you saw his lips pull a little, into a soft, barely-there smile. “I don’t screw up,” was all he said, quiet but firm, his tired, dreary eyes glinting with a grain of confidence. Was a tattoo artist even allowed to say that? You didn’t know, or care, really. All you knew was that you now trusted him, probably just as much as Vernon, in the span of a few seconds. The gun whirred to life again. Snozz proceeded to lean over your shin, his chestnut hair pushed backward by a crimped metal band.

Since the tattoo was small, it didn’t take longer than twenty minutes, much to your relief. You had skipped breakfast out of anxiousness. Once the session ended, Snozz gave you a rundown of some rules while he protected the fresh ink with a stretchy, translucent covering, called second skin.

“There might be some blood—plasma and shit—when you take it off. Easiest to do it in the shower. Give the area a gentle wash with some safe soap. No rubbing to dry it, just pat the skin down with a towel,” he instructed while you and Vernon followed him out from the studio, back to the counter where the girl was filing her nails. “Keep it moisturized, but don’t overdo it. Make sure you’re letting the skin breathe. We’ve got some butters here, meant specifically for tattoos, but Cetaphil is good, too. A little goes a long way.”

“Oh, really?” You piped up, smiling with interest.

Vernon nudged your hip while you readied a credit card. “Dude, I’ve got three butters layin’ around my pad. You can have one.”

“That’s if you can find them.”

“I will.”

The girl set her nail file aside. “Cost?” She asked Snozz.

He shrugged, sighed, pulling out a delicate gold chain hiding underneath his shirt collar. “It was small. No hassle. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?!” She exclaimed, turning around in her swivel chair. “Go outside and have your cigarette. You’re crazy talk today.” Proceeding to look between you and her co-worker, she snorted, “you two a thing? That why?”

Vernon threw his ruggedly questionable wallet onto the counter, rolling his eyes at the shrewd woman. “God—pipe down, Lily. I’ll pay him.”

“No!” You quipped, pushing Vernon aside. “I’m gonna do it! And I’ll give you more, Snozz. You did such a good job. I really mean it.”

Vernon pushed you back, elbow jabbing into your side, making you stumble a foot. “He’s not gonna change it, alright? He’s just doin’ it to be sweet. I’ll give you fifty—” out from his wallet came a wrinkled bill that curled around his fingers, which he extended toward his friend, “—take it now before she starts a big fit and I have to carry her out over my shoulder.”

Reluctantly, poor Snozz plucked the money from Vernon.

“I could have done that if I had cash!” You lamented, groaning.

Vernon smirked at you. “Yeah, well, you didn’t.” Fiercely, you glared into his arrogance, watching him bite his lip and taunt, “tough.”

“Ah, I’m sorely mistaken,” Lily laughed, leaning back in her chair while she smiled between the two of you, “it’s you two that are a thing.”

“We’re not,” you corrected, frustrated at Vernon for his antics, but attempted to shed the indignance from your tone before you thanked Snozz again. He nodded in acknowledgment, nibbling his rosy lip.

“M’kay, catch you guys later,” Vernon huffed.

Just before exiting the parlour, you noticed the red Etch-A-Sketch returned to the coffee table. Dang it. Right when you were leaving, too. You trailed after Vernon into the parking lot behind the building, walking a bit funnily, until you noticed your ankle felt fine. It wasn’t sore, or stinging, like you thought it might. Some of the instructions that Snozz told you were already fading from your memory. Vernon probably knew them just as well.

“Gosh, I’m hungry,” you sighed, strapping on your seatbelt.

“I told you to eat.”

“And I told you I was too nervous to eat.”

“So let’s go somewhere,” he offered, turning his key.

Your head clunked against the seat rest. “No… I can’t.”

Vernon scoffed, “why?”

“Because I can’t.”

“You don’t wanna do anything that insinuates a date.”

“No!” Yes! Obviously, that was the answer.

It was all mind games; casual breakfasts turned into late lunches, late lunches into dinners—cooking together, tidying up the kitchen together, elbows brushing as you washed dishes together, settling down for an evening film together, cozying up in bed together—you were not going to fall for it! Even if you wanted it so badly that words might fail to bring justice to the extent of your desire.

“This is gonna turn into a bullshit argument, isn’t it?” Vernon said knowingly, meanwhile stretching his hand behind your headrest in order to back his Camry out from the cramped parking space.

You nodded. “Probably.”

“Well, in other words, I have news,” he announced, changing the topic of breakfast. “Good news. Productive news. All the above.”

“Okay…” you answered with a hint of dragging apprehension. His news was vastly different from the average person’s news, and was likely to make you associated without choice to a crime. “What news would that be?”

Vernon glanced at you smarmily for a second before pulling onto the street, almost as though he knew the reaction he was going to elicit. You jostled slightly in the seat when the car shifted over the curb, wanting to clasp the silence in your fingertips and rip it to bits like a failed watercolour.

“What?!” You barged.

“This week, I’m gonna do it. Minghao’s money. It’s mine.”

A broken record. “What?!”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you telling me this?!”

He lazily shrugged a shoulder. “Thought you might want to know.”

Alight with tension and fire, you bristled. “I don’t! I don’t want to know anything about it! Not being involved also means not knowing! Isn’t that just common sense?!” Gulping heavily, you continued to squirm, your echoing words consuming the silence. “I forgot you don’t have any.”

“Well—I guess I should rephrase that—” Vernon said, clearing his throat. “I wanted you to know even if you didn’t want to know.”

“Seek help. Please.”

“I want you to be awake in your bed, worried about me.”

“I’m seriously going to hit you.”

“And I won’t text you any updates about what happened. So you’ll get even more worried. You’ll debate back n' forth in your head, tripped up about what to do, but you'll be too stubborn to actually call me. And right when you're startin' to fall asleep, your eyes gettin' all heavy as your consciousness fades, you'll hear a big tap on your window, and I'll be out there. And you'll fall right into my arms.”

That was that. You didn’t say one word for the rest of the drive, and neither did Vernon, reclined comfortably, triumphantly, mouth pulled in an edgy smirk that had dried to his face. Once he was stopped outside the curb to your apartment, and you had unbuckled your seatbelt, you noticed a half-empty water bottle sitting in the cupholder. It was your only chance. Vernon caught on a second too late. You quickly undid its cap, tossing the remaining water out from the bottle, letting it splash against the boy’s face, drip down his angular collarbone, dribble along his shirt.

“Thanks for the drive, asshole,” you chastised, monotone but cutting, like a flattened stone, before removing yourself from the car.

He shook out his sooty hair, a few water droplets hitting the window. “Where the hell did that come from?” Vernon had the audacity to laugh, grin. “Who even are you these days? Can you pass that towel before you head out?” He suddenly pointed into the backseat, at a white cloth draping the upholstery.

“No,” you replied, tossing the bottle at him, caught into his slippery hands. “Good luck with getting arrested.”

“Expecting a phone call?”

“Uh—what? No.”

“I did the Wordle already. It was dummy. Took me four tries.”

“Spoiler alert, much?”

Tara slanted her faint, thin eyebrows at you, smirking, but not in an overly-presumptuous way. It was only an implication that she knew something was off-kilter with you, but wasn’t going to be the one who shook it out like the last few coins rattling inside a piggy bank. Feeling her continue to watch you, the phone flush against your palm was now being slid into a pocket on your waist-apron, as though you hadn’t been fondling it all night.

Someone jousted the service bell. It was your order of sandwiches, slid onto the pass in a tray, underneath the caged heat lamps.

“I’ll hold onto it, if you want,” Tara teased, making sure she got one little humourous comment in before you walked off with the food, her snicker still as posh as ever. “A contact I need to be closely monitoring? Do you need me to block someone?”

“Worry about monitoring your tables before I take your tips,” you responded in the same frivolity, back pressing against the two-way swinging doors.

The last you saw of the English girl was her tongue poking out at you before the doors winged shut. Navigating the dining room, you approached the table you had been serving off in the corner, two younger-looking girls that quieted quickly whenever you got close, probably undergraduates in their first year, new to the city, attempting to find the best restaurants that didn’t overly skin their pockets. They were most likely to order the grilled-chicken sandwiches. It was the least expensive, least fancy dinner item, the easiest to both understand and palate.

“Anything else you guys need? A refill on your Long Islands?” You offered thoughtfully, sensing that they needed to be asked because they were likely too reserved and unthawed to inquire themselves.

For a split second, they looked between each other with widened eyes and stiffness, as if to wordlessly question, ‘are you asking, or am I?’ until one plucked up the courage to say: “is it too late for us to order an appetizer?”

“Not at all. What do you have—”

You felt a vibration in your waist-apron. It cut the words right off your tongue like a hot knife splitting butter. Neither girl decided to speak, instead watching, reflecting concern, as you stood there, suddenly beginning to perspire under the soft lighting. But you shouldered it off. “Sorry, what are you—” the phone vibrated again, and you couldn’t maintain your professionalism. They were young college girls—they would understand, not be too judgemental. “Just—I’m so sorry—one second,” you said, flustered, turning your back to them, walking a few steps away to check your texts.

Oh, gosh.

It was just Soonyoung saying he was sick. He wouldn’t be able to make his opening shift tomorrow morning. Blah, blah. Who cared. In fact, it almost made you angry, even though you knew it was unreasonable, as if his innocent texts were stuffing up a hotline of people who needed to reach you.

Well, not people.

Vernon.

“Uh, okay, I’m really sorry,” you apologized again, hiding the phone away. “Just—you know—personal shenanigans.” Pulling out your messy notepad and a pen, you asked about which appetizer they wanted.

It was something along the lines of house-made tzatziki and fresh pitas—you didn’t write it down—only smiled at them like life was perfect, and all its perfectness could somehow be captured in your smile. You stalked away from the table not thinking about whether they requested the olives be removed, whether they asked for their pita wedges on the side, whether one of them mentioned a refill on their Long Island. You couldn’t possibly think about those things because they had become severely trivialized in light of someone very stupid, about to do something stupid, and not tell you about it until the moment of utmost inconvenience. How… stupid.

Back at the pass, you sloppily wrote down what you thought the two college girls had asked for, likening it to your own tastes at their age.

You felt fingers jab into the fleshiness of your waist. “Lara!”

“Greetings, Spicy.”

“Don’t—” you bumped her away with your hip, “—I’m writing.”

She had started calling you Spicy after you confused wasabi for guacamole last week, during a tasting session for several new restaurant dishes. It was actually Costello who branded the nickname, but it had spread to a few others. How many nicknames were you going to conjure?

Lara peered over your shoulder, enveloping you with the juiciness of her scent, something aromatically tropical. “Hmm… the tzatziki dip… pita slices on the side… no olives… a Long Island. Let me guess: you’ve got girls aged nineteen to twenty-two who kept it simple with chicken sandwiches?”

“Fork found in the kitchen” you said, clipping the ticket to the line.

“Tara says you’re expecting a text.”

You scoffed, moving away from the pass. “Of course she did.”

“From who?” Lara dug, folding her arms. “Vernon?”

Tara definitely had her moments of nosiness, though she was more tender and compassionate in her approach. Lara was a straight-shooter. She didn’t care about the pragmatics of conversation, sidling from point A to point B like a practiced dance. She sunk her teeth into most things.

And during the dinner service rush, there was no time to dance.

You shrugged. “He’s being an idiot.”

“No surprise there.”

“He told me about something he was going to do, even though I made it clear I had no desire to know. He only told me to take advantage of my feelings—make me feel worried, on edge, disoriented—like the total push-over I am for him.” You breathed out, trying to replace the heat with coolness, both literally and metaphorically. “I am worried. I’ve been obsessing over my phone all week. I almost want to lock it in a box, drive out to the coast, and chuck it into the water off a cliffside.” There was a pause as your gaze dusted the floor, avoidant of Lara, afraid she would be able to tell how quickly and easily you would scramble to recover the locked box at the slightest whim that Vernon was hurt, or in trouble.

That he needed you.

The bell dinged. “Lemon-crusted salmon!”

“I don’t think you’re a push-over for him,” Lara stated with unusual softness as she took hold of the tray with her pink, steaming salmons, the lemon especially fragrant. “I think you’re in love with him, actually.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

In love? With Vernon? No manners, no off-switch, no social awareness. A drug dealer, a rule-breaker, a silver-tongued smooth talker who had never been in one stable relationship that wasn’t sex-central. She couldn’t have been more… right.

And you couldn’t have been more screwed.

By the time the restaurant closed, you emerged with a reasonable turnout of tips. The two students, whose appetizer you managed to get exactly right, were unexpectedly generous with their tips, though you somewhat suspected it might be due to the fact they didn’t understand the tipping system on the card machine. You certainly hadn’t.

Oppositely, you were a victim of tipping five cents as opposed to dollars. Diana said you could never go back to that restaurant again.

While you started getting rides from Tara most nights, you decided to take the bus for the first time in a few weeks. Sometimes you needed the quiet, to stand alone, leaned against the pole, staring aloof into the street like you were a deep, philosophical thinker others couldn’t possibility understand. But if they spoke to you, they would realize how disorganized you really were. Flighty, awkward—meticulously picking your words like they needed to be a perfectly aligned poker hand—only to fumble it all at the last moment because no one would even remember talking to you, so why did it matter, anyway? At least there was no one blocking Mr. York’s entrance.

“Woah—hey!”

You stopped, taking out a wired earbud, staring around the dark street in puzzlement until someone’s hand brushed your shoulder.

“Jesus!” You then exclaimed, ripping the other earbud out without bothering to pause the music. “Diana?! What are you doing here?” It had been months since you last saw her—back then—inside Liuna Station, the esteemed winter art gallery, side by side on a bench, emotionally whispering to each other akin to two church-goers wedged along an uncomfortable pew.

“Oh, gosh,” the girl snuffled, “I’m waiting for someone. We decided to meet up here.” She waved around, gesturing at nothing particular.

“What a coincidence!”

“Yeah, totally.”

She looked better, so much better. Not as full as she used to be, but steadily getting there. Gone was her dullness of torpor. Instead, an earthly glow, natural like verdant spring flowers. Her hair was shiny enough to think someone had cracked apart pearls and powdered the thick strands with their lustre. You were beginning to see her as you once did, and time felt warped.

“I can’t get over how amazing you look.” Maybe the compliment seemed too sugary, like you were purposefully outlining her beauty in a stale, expected way. But you truly meant it. “I’m a sweaty, sore mess right now.”

“Thank you,” Diana replied, shy and earnest. “You don’t look too bad,” she teased. “Nothing like you did after exams. You were losing hair.”

“Who’s to say this isn’t a wig?” You answered, tugging at your scalp.

“It’s a gorgeous wig.”

“No shake-and-go here.”

You both laughed, and you could tell the laugh was warm. Not the cheap, half-spirited laughter used to make conversations swell by quicker.

“What are you up to tonight?” You asked.

“A play,” Diana stated, smiling, “with someone from my narcotics group. We’ve become really close. It’s an Oscar Wilde script.”

“Sounds extremely you.” It made your chest full to know that Diana was slowly reintegrating into the things that brought her joy. She had always wanted to show you numerous plays during your university days, although you were heavily insistent you were not a play person by nature until she convinced you to watch a Legally Blonde production set up by a local theatre. Baby steps.

Diana nodded. For a moment, she looked coy, stuck between two sides of a thought and sliding down the middle. “Are you catching a bus?”

“Yeah. I got out earlier than usual. I give it ten minutes.”

“Well, I actually have a small story.”

“Really? About what?”

She paused, nearly whispering, “Vernon.”

That was unpredictable. You weren’t sure what to say—you only knew that your stomach wobbled, swaying skyscrapers inside you.

“I mean, I guess it's not that important—”

“No,” you encouraged, suddenly steadfast, “I want to hear.”

Both of you stood closer against the building as to not block the sidewalk, and something about it felt achingly familiar.

“Well,” Diana began, her breathing sounding faster, “I’ve been going to my narcotics group for quite a while. It’s in the recreation room that branches off from the Sherwood Hospital. I usually leave through the exit attached directly to the room, but a few nights ago, I decided to leave through the lobby instead. Anyway, I saw Vernon…” she stopped, almost testing your facial expression and its signature tells. You felt busting with anticipation and worry, a super-filled balloon. “He didn’t see me. He was sitting on this leather footstool thing, looking at the wall art. It’s this huge, engraved maple tree. Every leaf is made from copper. Each has a name. People make submissions to have maple leaves of loved ones who passed from drug use added to the wall. I guess… he came to remember someone? To think? It seemed like he’d been sitting there a while. He didn’t move a muscle.”

It took a few seconds of silence before you realized that Diana had finished speaking. Her doe eyes fell to you, not expectantly, but with delicateness. She didn’t know anything of your relationship to Vernon apart from accompanying him to ask about her payment all those months ago. Diana likely thought she knew him better than you, and was only sharing the anecdote to bring her confusion to words.

“Well,” you swallowed, and your throat stung, “maybe it’s not that weird for a dealer to be there. Who knows how it’s affected him?”

That was something you were still fighting to place.

Vernon never talked about his youth much. Exempt for Dots.

Dots.

Did Vernon request for him to have his own maple leaf? Or was it someone else—friend, family, or perhaps even a rival? How often did he go there? What did he think, sat, alone, staring at the copper? What did it mean to him? Was there more emotional depth to him than you could have estimated? Were you childish and small-minded for even making the assumption?

“Yeah,” Diana hummed, as lost as you. “I guess I thought… I dunno… it felt so odd. I didn’t want to interrupt him in case he was mourning, or praying, or… yeah—who knows. I keep thinking about it.”

And now you would keep thinking about it, too.

“Ah, okay,” the girl huffed. “My friend says she got turned around. She put in the wrong street number. I’m gonna go find her.” Diana looked up, her cheeks round and golden as burnished ingots. She smiled. “And you should make the bus.”

“Good point. Stay safe, alright?”

She waved, hurrying off down the street. “You too!”

“Here it comes, here it comes!”

“Are you sure she really does that?”

“Yes! See—look! There goes the bitch-slap slipper!”

“Woah… that’s nearly on par with the bubblegum headshot from Mortal Kombat.” Your hand plunged into the oily bag of chips, rummaging around until you brushed one with a satisfying number of ruffles. “They should be added as characters to the game. I’d play it.”

“I’ve seen her use both slippers—I mean, not simultaneously—but she goes one after the other,” Ruby chided, refusing to let her attention falter from the argument taking place in your complex parking lot.

It was late. Ruby had the curtains on her window unabashedly pulled wide open. The parking lot motion lights turned an ugly, barren backyard into a theatrical stage, where two main characters sneered at each other with passion, a love’s eternal rage, and the intuition that they would be sewn back together in spite of their emotional burnout. It had been a while since you last heard from them. There were murmurs throughout the building that they had finally cut ties. Sometimes you wondered if they even lived here; perhaps they made their way through the township like artists on tour, and you were just a single stop on a long, twisting roadmap.

“Now, watch this,” Ruby said, her tone bubbling over with unkempt excitement. “I know exactly what’s going to happen next.”

You grinned, holding yourself back from grappling out more chips.

It sounded perfectly rehearsed. Your voices blended with the hollering from outside. Everyone knew the lines. It was seared into your memory without you even realizing it, like a line of precious dialogue from a movie you had seen and treasured more than the film’s entirety—the line you watched the entire movie for—waiting to hear the pin drop.

“Go shove it, asshole! I’m calling the cops next time!”

“I bet you will! Raging bitch!”

Immediately, you and Ruby shrivelled into laughter.

She let herself slide off the bed, onto the floor, kicking out her feet as though she had reverted to a toddler. You bent over, wheezing, the breath flattened out from your body, everything turning blurry.

Ruby slapped her knee. “The way she always says, I’m calling the cops next time! Does she even know the number? Have the cops ever been called?”

Smearing away the tears that soaked your lashes, you nodded. “The budget isn’t big enough for that yet. Are we supposed to be the cops?”

“Ew, no!” Ruby huffed, crawling onto the bed. “I don’t wanna get bitch-slapped by her slipper. She has that softball arm. It’ll sting for days.” She plucked the chips back into her lap, shoving a handful into her mouth.

“Now, the parking lot tear-out,” you emphasized, watching the iconic moment of defeat—in which the man accepted his fate sealed by a flying, scathing slipper, dealt by a woman in a bathrobe and curlers—jump back into his crummy car and alight the air with the scent of hot rubber as he whipped into the night. “I bet he changes his tires between shows.”

“Damn, it’s over,” Ruby pouted. “Until next month!” She started picking at her teeth, running over bits of masticated salt-and-vinegar.

Usually, the duo was a nuisance.

Tonight, however, they had made for a lovely distraction, alongside Ruby’s tasteful, knowledgeable commentary on the art of slipper-slapping. It was the one moment where you hadn’t ruminated over Vernon, the one moment where your stomach hadn’t been fizzling due to anxiousness. The inner cushions of your cheeks stung from tartly flavoured chips as opposed to your biting teeth.

“Aw, that was funny,” your roommate sighed, yawning. “But I’m absolutely exhausted. That’s one special I can’t risk missing.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “Can I have the clip for the bag?”

After closing the chips, putting them away inside the kitchen pantry cupboard, and brushing your teeth sloppily in the washroom, you were back in your own bedroom. This time, a loud, uneasy silence. Tossing, turning, mangling your sheets from their tightly-tucked neatness. You refused to check your phone, almost contemplated throwing it into your nightstand as though it were the locked box, but knew the temptation of merely having the device in your hand would be too much. So you turned your back to it.

Instead, your forehead creased unconsciously in thought as you attempted to imagine a distant place. A lake. Wide and flat. Its surface still enough to mistake for glass, reflecting the trees, the sky, the clouds, with magical crystal clarity. And you, a tiny stone, plunging through the water, twirling down in rhythmic circles to the soft, sandy bed beneath. Bubbles surrounded you, the shape of the sun distorting into amorphously scattered sparkles. The silence inside your bedroom was the same silence thick in the water, and you pressed into the mattress as though it was the smooth sand.

And suddenly, you felt the first twitch of sleep.

“Yo! Pyjamas!”

Whining frustratedly, you dismissed the throaty, permeating voice.

“I know it’s late, but I need you awake!”

Promptly, you snuggled deeper into the covers. Unsure what the time was, concerns foggy, sluggishly refusing to connect with reality.

I’m a stone, you thought, go away.

“My head’s a rock, right? Don’t make me use it!”

What?

You shot up in bed, fast enough that you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Without thinking, your body parts started to move. It was a horrifying case of complete autopilot. Before you even understood what you were doing, the drapes to your window were shucked aside, and you were squinting at someone from perhaps a dream.

He smiled at you, bursting cracks of relief, and it all came whirling back, like falling through a vortex.

“Vernon?!” You choked out. “What in the hell is going on?!”

He gestured at you. “Dude! Come with me!” His voice sounded distant through the glass, but still recognizable. “I’m serious!”

Wincing, you shoved open the window. “I was sleeping!”

“Come with me!” The boy gestured again, with more impatience, unable to stop smiling. He didn’t care that you were sleeping. That you had been a stone embraced by the soft, unmarred sands at the bottom of a secluded lake. In fact, he was almost like a child. Wanting desperately to show you something, knowing only their own thrill and how intense it was.

You stiffened. “Wait… did you… did you do it?” Now you were the centre of drama. The timeslot changed. There was a new play, new artists.

Vernon didn’t answer. “Come with me,” he said again, calmer, taming his fire as to not burn you, even though you could practically see his heart beating, his aura crackling with lasting surges of adventure.

“I’m… I’m not really dressed—”

“You’re dressed enough.”

“I have no shoes on, or socks—”

He grabbed onto your bicep. With a muscley tug, you were being dragged onto the desk, forced toward the window. Were you supposed to fight this? Were you supposed to care? Your heart was racing, too. Suddenly, you became putty in his arms, clutched onto his neck as he carried you to his car, left running and smoking.

He practically threw you into the passenger seat.

It was final. You shimmied up against the leather, barefoot, improperly dressed, misty, watching Vernon circle the car until he came to the driver’s side. The car started to move, and observing your brick apartment building become nothing but a non-existent outline wasn’t as startling as you thought. You didn’t dare trifle with the bulky knapsack in the backseat, ask about it, or look at it for longer than necessary. What do you say, anyway? What’s worth it?

Upon reaching Vernon’s weathered apartment, the vehicle lunged to a stop right beside the curb, thrusting you forward with inertia. He gave you his carabiner of keys, told you to go inside, up to his room, and wait for him. Walking pointedly on your tiptoes, dancing around discarded cigarette butts, you unlocked the front entrance, for once not a mess of shattered glass. Quickly, you skipped up the winding stairway as though a malicious shadow were chasing you, not stopping to look back, not stopping until you came to his door, sliding in the key like you lived there.

Like you had committed the crime yourself.

Then you pressed the door shut softly and flicked the light switch on the wall, a sheer fuzziness enveloping the bachelor, your eyesight needing a moment to settle.

Upon leaving the keys on his dresser, you felt different.

Where was your annoyance? Your ridiculing bite? Your uncontrolled quips? Instead, anticipation fluttered up from the depths of your stomach, a sizzling energy that didn’t afford you the underrated luxury of stillness. When the door budged, you flung around, practically twirling on your toes as Vernon bolstered into the room with the black knapsack hung over his shoulder. He approached his bed, letting it slide off onto the navy-blue covers. You scurried up next to him, jittering, hands rubbing.

Vernon grabbed onto the bag’s zipper, but didn’t open it. The boy glanced at you, smirked. “Have you ever seen ten-thousand in cash?”

“Yeah, all the time,” you returned drolly, not bothering to mask your impatience or put on a charade. “No! Are you nuts? Just open it!”

“I’m poisoning you,” he said, sounding indifferent to his own words, knowing you would be indifferent, too. The zipper tugged, moving fluidly, until the bag was open. Vernon used his hands to spread the compartment apart, and you felt something like a damn leprechaun with a pot about to be filled by clinking pieces of gold.

But you didn’t speak, only stared.

The bag was filled to the top in green stacks of cash, some pink, fastened together by rubber bands. You wanted to delve straight in, a diver on a board, meeting plastic currency and not water. So much for being the stone. Stones didn’t need money.

“This… this is…” you swallowed incompletely; the words fading.

“What I’m owed,” Vernon said, reaching into the bag, plucking out a stack that his thumb whisked through. “Plus some extra.”

“Extra?!”

“For you.”

“No, I-I can’t—what? Are you crazy?” Suddenly, the gravity of the situation broke through the ceiling. The money was like an elixir, one you had thirsted for since getting flipped inside out by university. “That’s drug money! Blood money, for all I know!” Whipping away, you walked aimlessly in a circle, arms folded together, a few minuscule pebbles coming loose from your tough heels. “Why am I even here?! What am I doing?! How did you—” No! Do not ask, you berated yourself. Do not give him the satisfaction of your curiosity or temptation. It’s more of an elixir to him than the money to you.

“Fine—don’t take it,” Vernon chuckled. “But I’ll put it away for you if you ever change your mind.” He turned the backpack over, started shaking the money out into lumps on his bed. “I’m gonna sleep like a baby.”

“Aren’t you worried in the slightest?”

“Nope.”

“Did you—did you get hurt?”

“No,” he said casually, throwing his bag onto the floor, making a divot for himself to sit down on the bed without crushing the money. Vernon picked up a stack of twenties, sliding off its rubber band. He thumbed through the money like it was second-nature, bill after bill after bill, his eyes glistening, until he gave up and made a flared, showy spread of it. “You ever seen this kinda action, PJ’s? This isn’t even my favourite. Twenties are too basic, with the green. What I like—” he suddenly closed the stack, let it flop all mismatched onto the bed, “—is the fifties. Pretty in pink, yeah?” Again, he removed the rubber band, started spreading out the money into a fan.

“This is freaking preposterous.”

“You ever did a money spread?”

“With what? Grocery receipts and bank statements?”

“C’mere.” He motioned for you.

“I’m not touching that! I don’t want a single fingerprint on it!”

“You’ll feel like a king.”

“More like a criminal.”

“Same thing.”

You didn’t comprehend how he could talk so perfunctorily. This hadn’t been some merry stroll into town for an ice cream cone, or, maybe it was, knowing Vernon, how he treated things. His bed became a pool of money, one you didn’t want to swim in, although, you felt the allure, the attraction, that same crackle of energy strike in your chest like a hot lightning bolt. You imagined your parents—the expressions shaping over their faces as they beheld you, letting stolen money cascade down your arm—and while you desperately wanted the imagery to persuade you anywhere else but his bed, you still ended up walking toward him. Steps uncertain, but growing firmer. Vernon had hooked onto you like an astute fisherman.

“If you tell anyone I touched this money…” you breathed out, your vocal cords trembling and aching from tightness, “I’ll throat punch you.”

“My pleasure,” he teased.

It was always his pleasure.

He handed you the stack of pale pink fifties. Money with heft. Since when did money have heft? It had always felt lighter than air to you, as though it didn’t exist. Something to hold and look at but never actually use because getting it back was too difficult and losing it was too easy. The bills weren’t wrinkled like the few stuffed into the creases of your wallet, but smooth, glossy, as fresh as a new magazine. Then you started to sift between them, finding it never-ending, feeling your heart pump faster and faster when you weren’t even halfway through the stack.

“Fuckin’ magical, isn’t it?” Vernon sang.

“I feel evil,” you laughed, still nervous. “I mean… if everyone knew what this felt like… it’s delirium. I burned through so much of this shit during university. Just pieces of papery-plastic. But it means everything.”

“It makes the world go ‘round.”

“No wonder people don’t carry cash. I feel so pretentious.”

“I love pretentious.”

You glanced up at him, smiled. “No you don’t.” Then back down at the money, shimmery in your hands like mature summer leaves slicked with wax. “Nobody likes pretentious people. I don’t even think pretentious people like other pretentious people.”

Vernon got to his feet. He took the money back from you and proceeded to reorganize it gently. “True. But if you stroke their ego just right, they pay the prettiest pennies.” You watched him stick out his arm, let the stack sit just underneath his shoulder, and then he shifted his fingertips slightly, letting the individual bills slide down his inked skin like a loose sleeve, catching the overflow in his palm.

“Now, that’s a spread. You try.”

“Uh—I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can. What else is a degree good for?”

Like clockwork, your eyes rolled. “It’ll spill all over the floor.”

“Some’s already on the floor.”

Stiltedly, you took the money back. Rather than attempt the clever arm trick, the best you could do was pinch the stack at its base and flare out the champagne bills into a frilly circle, a pink peony, of sorts.

Vernon clapped. “Woo! She’s loaded!”

“Borrowing, more like.”

He jumped onto his bed, started hopping up and down as though he hit a sugar rush, engendering the floorboards to creak and the frame to dramatically heave. You laughed, wondering how often his downstairs neighbour might hear such a sound, only to realize a moment later that a poster from his wall was missing. Bikini girl—the supposed gift—in all her sun-kissed, toned, teeth-bleached glory.

Maybe his first real breakup.

The money bounced at his feet. “Make it rain on me, PJ’s!”

“No!” You giggled. “Jumping isn’t very impressive!”

“I don’t have a pole!” He laughed.

Playing along jokingly, because it was late, and you were whiffing monetary fumes, and you had a pretty boy asking you to throw illegal money on him, you fanned yourself with the bills. “I need to see more!”

“Like what? A back flip?”

“Yes,” you stated matter-of-factly, with some sass, “a back flip.”

In all honesty, you didn’t think he was going to do it. Not once had you ever seen him back flip, nor did you ever suspect he was the special kind of person who just randomly knew how to do one. But he started jumping higher—even practiced tucking in his knees a few times—while the money continued to jounce all across the comforter. He caught just the right amount of air, to which you immediately smacked the fifties against your mouth, feeling your warm breath reflect off the paper. Vernon flipped, and something struck the ceiling fan that proceeded to concerningly wobble. He managed to land on his feet, though he stumbled over his pillows, colliding with the wall. You both froze in silence. The fan’s blades started whirring.

“Did I…” he murmured, quirking an eyebrow, “turn the fan on?”

“I think you did.”

Vernon threw his arms up. “Now, that’s a trick! Where’s my rain!”

“Fine,” you huffed. “For not breaking the ceiling.” Getting close to the edge of the bed, you smirked, right before tossing the money up, straight into the air, and like a flurry of cherry blossoms coming loose in a vivacious whirlwind, the bills caught the breeze and danced in a chaotic swirl. Vernon grabbed your wrist. You were tugged onto the bed with him. He bent down, settling a thick stack between his teeth while he snapped the rubber band off another. Inspired by your frivolity, he proceeded to toss the money. You shrieked as the propellers made a loud thwipping noise, colliding and hitting the bills, spraying them everywhere, pink rain, until you could hardly see.

Pressing into Vernon, you giggled, “why would you do that?!”

“Fuck—you did it first!”

“I did it reasonably!”

He tripped you, and whether or not that was intentional was outside your concern. Together, you toppled onto the boy’s sheets, melting into a springy landslide of fluttering money—surrounded by the most tangible resplendence—but focused on what was warm, alive, underneath you. His eyes, richer in colour than the most expensive coffee that the money could buy, finding yours, and only yours. His hands, calloused in stories that would only make you squirm, now reaching into the back pockets of your cotton pyjama shorts. His hips, bucking you forward, putting you nose-to-nose. Closer than you had ever been. Still not as close as you wanted to be.

You swallowed. It was crisp and audible. “I don’t remember this part of your story,” you whispered, feeling the heat suffuse underneath your fragile skin as the boy’s hands squeezed your ass with domineering pressure.

“I like keepin’ a play or two t'myself,” he murmured, and there was a smokiness in his voice that made your back arch even deeper.

His hands slid up from your shorts. The second his scuffed knuckles drifted along your bare, soft waist, you were liquid inside. And then his grip, his thumbs pushing into your flesh, as though you were made from moist clay and he was moulding you with his concupiscence. Too overwhelmed, strength bleeding out, your forehead pressed against his, succumbed by just a touch.

“Vernon,” you breathed across his lips. “I… I don’t know if…” you wanted to say that you couldn’t, repeat the exact same speech from a past qualm. But how could you? It wouldn’t mean anything.

And he knew that.

“Shut up,” he chuckled, brushing some bills off your body. “Let another part of you speak instead of that goddamn mouth.”

Your head nipped back slightly. “You are so rude—"

He gripped your face in both hands. His lips pressed to yours.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Not an inch of fight in you. He was so capable. He knew how to kiss you, as though he had imagined it to exact preciseness. It started out deep, to really suck you in and melt your mind, but then it eased into something softer, with room to breathe, to understand his lips, how it felt to have a metal ring brush your mouth. But just like he pushed your buttons with his immovable attitude, he pushed your body chemistry into mayhem. What once was delicate became sloppy. It was the kind of kissing you never tried with Lee, because you were too distant, too unyielding, too unattracted. Your hips pushed down against his waist, feeling the boy’s tongue move with yours, confused at the sensation while simultaneously relishing at how deliciously erotic it was. You didn’t want to breathe. You wanted to keep your mouths clashing; lips slippery with each other’s spit.

His hands slid into your back pockets again, kneading at your ass, almost urging you to move, to test your hips and what they could do.

“I’m not good at this,” you flustered into his cheek, letting him kiss his way to your ear. “It won’t feel—ah!” His tongue swirled slowly, right into a pliant, sensitive patch of skin behind your ear.

“You are,” he told you.

He found your mouth again, filling it with his tongue, and your hips seemed to move on their own accord. You felt him, hard, beneath his pants, and your mind went hedonistically blank.

Because of you? How is that possible?

“Fuck, just like that,” Vernon groaned against your wet lips, his tone layered with so many viscous notes—satisfaction, relief, lust—grainy and full of husk. He helped guide your movement when his affirming words weakened you, turned you mushy, incoherent. “Can you feel me?” He whispered into your ear, his smirk on your skin, letting his hands sink underneath your thin shorts to properly grip your bare hips. “You can feel that, yeah? How fuckin’ hard I am ‘cause you of? I don’t even need you here with me to get this hard. Just thinkin’ of you in my head, PJ's. That’s all it takes.”

You couldn’t possibly tell him how wet you were.

It was embarrassing, and also unknown. Lee had never made you feel this way; you alone, blankets pulled over top your head, working yourself with your fingers, had never made you feel this way. But your underwear was sticky and soaked, and Vernon’s dirty language certainly didn’t reverse anything.

Nonetheless, you just weren’t… ready.

Despite your body peeling itself open, making itself unfettered, pushing and pulling throes of desire such that you were nothing but sea waves, you had to find the buoy. And so you gripped onto his chin with one hand, pressed your lips firmly onto his as to absorb the warmth and intimacy into your own fibres.

He chased your mouth when you reclined.

“Vernon,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

How should he know how to flutter his eyes?

“Mm?” He murmured.

“You know I’m not… that I’m not…” you paused, sensing your body almost turn against you, roar at you. There was such a strong ache.

But then he was touching along your cheek. “I know.”

“I’ve never made it this far with anyone.”

He smiled. It wasn’t teasing, or the kind of smile you give to someone that can’t help but seem naturally patronizing. “I know,” he repeated. It was just a simple, accepting smile. One that said he knew you.

And you huffed, smiling, too, so grateful that he understood.

Without thinking, you sat back on your haunches.

Vernon immediately sprang onto his elbows, grabbing your hips cautiously. “Maybe don’t do that,” he laughed, biting his lip. “You’re kinda, right on my—”

“Oh! Oh—sorry!” You flustered, immediately shuffling off him.

He rubbed along his hair, smoothing the fronds back down. “Nah, it’s okay. Don’t mind if I take a quick shower, do you?” When you didn’t say anything, the boy took note of your quiet pensiveness. “Unless?”

“Well—it is your place—but could I use the washroom really quickly before you? It will only take me a few minutes.” That was your most diplomatic and polite way of communicating that your underwear were uncomfortably wet and sticky without humiliating yourself.

Vernon fell back on the mattress. “Go for it. Need anything?”

“Uh, no,” you stammered while awkwardly climbing over him.

In the washroom, you hurried to clean yourself up. The loose pyjama shorts and underwear fell down around your ankles. You spent no time ogling the extensive damp patch against the fabric. Where the hell were you supposed to put your underwear, anyway? Your pyjama shorts had pockets… you supposed you could get away with stuffing them there. It didn’t feel pragmatic, but then again, you were pulled from your bedroom window without even wearing socks, so you supposed the odds were against you. After emerging from Vernon’s washroom, you saw him sprawled all relaxed against the bed, an arm tucked behind his head while he scrolled through his phone. You wondered if this was a normal practice for him.

“All yours,” you said.

“Cool.”

“What about the money?”

“I’ll tidy it up tomorrow,” he remarked on his way past you, as though tomorrow was an entire year away and not in several hours, when the first brushstrokes of daylight would colour the sky. The washroom door shut and within a few minutes you heard running water.

Not wanting to muddle your mind with impure thoughts of what Vernon was taking care of in the shower, you made yourself comfortable in his bed, trying your hardest to accept the money scattered around you.

The older photograph you noticed during a previous visit was still displayed on his nightstand. Months later, you had yet to know who the baby girl was, bundled up in starry-pink cloth and cradled in his adolescent arms. There was much to think about, things you would have to know if you wanted your relationship with Vernon to keep progressing. But you didn’t bother fretting over that, tonight. Instead, you rolled onto your side, facing the wall, and waited for him to finish showering, holding a shiny fifty-dollar bill in your hand. Sleeping on money. It didn’t feel real.

Vernon joined you in bed after his shower, making sure to flick the light off, and no longer could you differentiate the bills surrounding you, the craggy faces of those who occupied them in thin lines.

His shaggy, damp hair was adorable, brushed down and fluffy over his forehead, and smelled strongly of something beachy, breezy. His pyjama pants were pale blue plaid, his t-shirt plain white.

You let him embrace you from behind, felt his frontside press gently against your backside, his tattooed arms curled around your waist, squeezing you. And it suddenly all made sense why so many people were obsessed with chasing love. His nose was buried deep in your hair, though it probably didn’t smell as fragrant as his, but maybe you had your own scent.

You smiled, nibbling your lip. “What happened to her?”

He hummed, his voice heavier than usual, “who?”

“Bikini girl.”

“Gave it to the dude downstairs…” he muttered sleepily.

“Why?”

The pressure around your waist tightened. “I have you.”

Vernon had you.

From the moment he ungraciously ate your molotes, he had you, and every other moment leading up to the one you were making now. But did you have him? Without question? Without hesitation? You were not the relaxed, mellow Ruby who floated through life holding onto a hacked-open coconut, all breeze and sunshine, nor were you the lissome, headstrong Lara with a youth’s experience of beautiful ballet and the type of mystique that men find deeply sensual. You weren’t Kitty, well-seasoned in travel to underground clubs, edgy and just toeing the line of arrogance such that you bent to her whim before you even realized. You didn’t see yourself as remarkable, or interesting, adventuristic, or brave. You were unnoticeably replaced by any one of those girls. Easily swallowed, sinking.

Gone.

You wanted to ask Vernon about everything, flesh open your insecurities like a surgeon. The urge hit you hard. But he was tired—for once in his life—and you already depicted from the rhythm of his hard chest swelling against your back that he was drifting off.

There was no use.

So you shut your eyes and slept beside him, letting it all go.

By morning, your senses started to defrost. You could hear the distant burring of construction, feel hot sunlight caress your cheek, and smell the distinct soapiness of laundry detergent from Vernon’s shirt collar. When you tugged at the navy covers to pull them further up, money started rustling across the bed in hisses. But it didn’t prick you awake in the way you had thought.

You didn’t want to wake up. You wanted to stay against him. Your chest pressed to his chest. Legs tangled together. All your weight pushing him into the mattress, but Vernon’s mouth remained slightly agape as he continued to sleep soundly, the ferns of his eyelashes twitching, black hair a tufted, messy nest. Well, you didn’t particularly mind being awake, using your dainty fingertip to graze across his warm temple, comb adoringly at his hair—it was more so that you didn’t want to move—wanted to lay in bed forever, admiring him, wondering how he got so lucky with his features.

But then you remembered.

Fuck!

What about Ruby? What was she to think when it was unusually late in the day and you had yet to bumble out of your room? What was she to think when she realized your bed was cold and empty, your window left wide open, without any of your clothes or shoes or coats missing? God—she would think you were kidnapped—plucked straight out of your room like a ripened grape off its stem. You sat up, straddling Vernon’s waist. The covers fell from your shoulders in a soft puff and you felt the whirring fan tickle some hairs on the crown of your head. But you had no phone. Nothing.

“Vernon,” you whispered, clutching the boy’s loose shoulders.

He shifted, hardly awake, not saying anything.

Again, you wrestled his shoulders. “Vernon? Where’s your phone?”

“My wha...?” He mumbled blearily; pronunciation tapering.

“Your phone, where is it?”

“Dunno…” he turned his pink cheek into the pillow, nuzzled his nose against the fabric. “Coffee table or some shit… washroom, maybe.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling, bending down to kiss his jaw. “Thanks.”

As you moved off his waist and found your bare feet meeting the wooden floor warmed by the sun, his arm reached out for you, grasping with haze, wanting to feel your skin but falling short. “Come back t’bed,” he groaned scratchily, his sharp brow knotting, eyes still closed.

“I have to text Ruby,” you told him.

His arm fell flat. “Whatever…”

Money was blown all across the floor—much more than you realized—and it had never looked so useless. You picked around the coffee table. There wasn’t much on it, anyway. Some remote controls, a dusty book, a maroon-coloured hoodie, a glass bong, a card deck, and a lighter. So you padded into the washroom instead, the tiles cool underneath your feet.

Upon flicking on the irritable, sterile light, your stomach plummeted. You saw his cracked phone sitting on the edge of the sink. Right next to it, a charcoal Glock with a ribbed handle. You couldn’t believe the sight—how it was seemingly left there with such insouciance—akin to a toy, or house keys, or a water bottle you nearly forget while scrambling out the door. It was sobering. Had he used it? Was it just a precaution, for scare? Did he always carry it on him, in a place you couldn’t see? The boy’s phone proceeded to buzz against the porcelain lip of the sink and you flinched at the rumbling, grating sound. Carefully, you picked his phone up, choosing to ignore the gun even though it was something that couldn’t really be ignored.

You sat on the sofa. It had been a text from Kitty.

Vernon was rolled onto his side, now. Facing the wall. You could see the streams of his hard back through the white shirt clinging to his muscle. Even though your chest and stomach were burning with the urge to look, you chose to ignore it.

Another thing that couldn’t really be ignored.

Ruby’s name was no longer gilded by 'fat ass' in his contacts, which was almost a shame to admit, because it made it difficult to discern which of the two Ruby’s was your Ruby without being nosy and reading his texts. But you figured it out relatively quickly. You sat there, still, for a moment, trying to understand the best way to explain everything without giving away more detail than necessary. The best you could conjure was a simple “not at home, be back later in the day, love you,” with your name signed at the end.

His phone pulsed again in your hand.

It was another text from Kitty—this time a photograph that disappeared way too quickly for you to gauge what it showed—followed by a message that read, “U sure u not coming? Can I change ur mind?”

You wanted to start leaping on the sofa, hollering and screaming.

He’s not yours! Don’t ever text him again! He’s with me! Before realizing how utterly insane you sounded. Immature and dipped upside down by your feet into insecurity. Shyly, you flicked another glance at Vernon, then at the barren wall with a noticeably bright rectangle and putty marks. Things were different in subtle ways. Changing, slowly, in a manner that meant something, as opposed to being tawdry and rushed with emptiness. You exhaled deeply, leaving the boy’s phone behind on the coffee table, his texts untouched.

Criss-crossed, you sat on the bed, began running a hand through his thick fray of freshly-clean hair, black and smooth, a few tangles here and there, nothing your gentle fingers couldn’t work through.

He was awake, just resting his eyes, letting his body unspool.

Neither of you spoke. The silence held its own comfort.

“My mom used to do this…” Vernon mumbled after a few minutes.

Swallowing a lump in your narrow, stinging throat, you nodded.

“Yeah… mine, too.”

You never took the money from Vernon. He offered it again, right before he drove you home, but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. Two-thousand dollars. In cash. Where were you supposed to keep it? How were you supposed to spend it? It was still drug money. It was still stolen. And you were not a criminal, even if you had certainly blurred the line at times.

Vernon gave you a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast. Together, you shared cloves from an orange, and he amply judged you for tearing off the stringy white bits and inspecting each piece fastidiously. “Little Miss Princess, over here,” he’d jousted, “can’t eat a fuckin’ orange. You want a knife and fork while you’re at it?” To which you told him about the time you ate an orange in primary school, on the rug, during snack time, and began choking on a stringy white bit, leading you to throw up all over your Velcro shoes.

“Funny how you let one little thing control your life.”

“It doesn’t control my life. It controls how I eat oranges!”

But you thought about what he said in brooding silence afterward.

“Oh—by the way—your gun is in the washroom.”

“Shit. Forgot about that. Thanks.”

He didn’t move to grab it, instead continued eating his half of the orange while you sipped at the milk left in your cereal bowl. You didn’t understand Vernon sometimes. The differences between you stretched in ways that felt too vast to accept, like a gorge that couldn’t be crossed. You thought to be in love was to accept someone, which in turn showed that you understood them fully. But you didn’t accept all the aspects of Vernon’s life, nor did you understand his choices. And yet, you still loved him.

You still wanted your life in his.

It was unlike you to work the closing shift at Common Cents. But the concession store had a very finite rolodex of employees, and you were certain the responsibility had fallen to you since there was no chance in heaven or hell that Soonyoung would ever forfeit a Sunday night. That left you with your manager, Patsy. You never saw much of her. She was a whole foot shorter than you, wobbling around the store with vigour, insisting on everything a certain way as though you were a new hire who couldn’t be trusted to tell a quarter apart from a dime. You weren’t allowed to simply stand. You needed to look busy.

Even when the store was dead empty.

“Have you cleaned the countertops?”

“I did.”

“What about this cupboard space, underneath?”

“Yes. Done.”

“The drawer needs to be organized. We got new receipt rolls.”

“I did it before my break.”

There was almost nothing she could ask of you that wasn’t already done. You watched her rotund face grow increasingly pink and clotted that you were perhaps not as inadequate as she thought, until she grabbed a microfibre rag and dropped it closer to you, which felt unnecessary.

“The packages of gum. They should be dusted.”

Now she was just making things up. But you didn’t argue. Dragging the rag off the counter, you walked around to the display, mostly candies and different types of chewing gum. Patsy hovered by the door to the office, eyes slimmed through her dense glasses as she observed you like a preschool teacher, making sure you were committed to the profligate task. It made you miss Soonyoung. He might be blustering, but at least he had faith in you, and didn’t pestilently hover, and didn’t care that you spent an hour of your time filling out a crossword puzzle because he did it, too.

Your mind drifted as you dusted each package of gum, tethered to no thought in particular. Until you thought about Vernon. An emotional blade scythed through your chest. You missed him badly. You missed the way he spoke, gutturally, ungracefully, but entirely him. You missed his scent, always rich with amber, but sometimes carrying notes of things much more ambiguous: metal, smoke, city air, gasoline, takeout, mulch, fog. You missed his face. His perfectly arched brows, the lusciousness of his lashes, the depth and hardened gold that gave structure to his eyes. You missed tracing the thick lines of his tattoos, wondering about the story behind each one.

And you missed when you hated him.

It felt so much easier.

Ruby wasn’t nearly as drilling as you anticipated when Vernon dropped you off after the night at his bachelor. She listened to your evasively-detailed story while eating macaroni straight from the pot, sat on the countertop, eyes flickering between you and the stretchy cheese on her wooden spoon. Lots of mhm’s and yeah’s and right’s suffused throughout.

But you didn’t mention anything about the money.

After the store closed, Patsy removed the till from the cash register and carried it into the office, which left you to mop down the floors. At one point, Patsy came outside the office to inform you that you weren’t mopping correctly. “You’re just pushing the water around,” she said, to which you almost spat back at her, “that’s essentially what mopping is!” Instead, you apologized, told her you would wring out the water better, and that seemed to satisfy her superciliousness enough that she disappeared into the office again.

You couldn’t help but shoot the security camera a scowl, wondering if Patsy would be able to differentiate it between the pixels rather than actually do her job.

The moment you collected all your belongings and left the store for the night, you genuinely considered quitting—living off the two-thousand dollars Vernon stole for you while searching for a new job—until you realized how dramatic you were being. Patsy wasn’t going to control your life. Perhaps she could hardly control her own, and that’s why she was so adamant and particular about how a subordinate mopped the tiled floor, or dusted gum, or organized a drawer full of receipt paper rolls.

Upon reaching the park, you contemplated whether or not to walk along the path you usually took during the daytime. Very rarely were you here at such an hour. The moon was full and bright, its sheeted rays touching the sprigs of juvenile grass. Few lanterns dotted the walkway, like orbs of undulating fireflies. You plucked out your wired earbuds, wrapping them up in your hand as you thought.

“I found you.”

At the sensation of fingers brushing along your shoulder, you curdled akin to aged milk, knees jellying, chest tightening. When you spun around on your heel, you saw him—Minghao—smiling, but not in a hospitable way. It was like he found something he had been searching for relentlessly, and his eyes glimmered with the slaked relief of discovery. You weren’t sure what to say. Words failed you.

Minghao’s coat was long and black. He would blend right into an inky street. He would go unseen if not for his hair. The juicy red colour was being pushed out by his dark roots near the crowd of his head.

“PJ,” he said, like it was your birthname. “I found you.”

“I’m sorry,” you answered, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You took it from me,” Minghao insisted.

“Took what? I don’t know you. I think you’ve got me mixed up.”

“You and your boyfriend took it.”

“Took what?”

His hand flexed in his coat pocket, the tendons of his wrist shifting. You watched, trepidation and fear drumming through you, driving in panic and pushing out rational thought. Where was everybody? What if you screamed? Would someone distant hear you and take your cry seriously? Or would you be tossed aside, disregarded as an inebriated university student causing a fuss.

Minghao’s hand stopped moving. “You know.”

You swallowed. It came out in a croak. “Know what?” And then he flashed his knife. It wasn’t particularly big, but the blade looked fresh and it curved in unsettling ways that made your stomach fill up with sickness. You took a step back, refusing to look away from the knife.

“What are you doing?”

“We will go get it back,” Minghao hummed softly, “together.”

“I-I don’t know you,” you warbled. “This is a mistake.”

“You come to the woods,” he said, pressing you forward for every step you took back. “And you enter my trailer. You and him. Hansol.”

“I didn’t take anything,” your tone turned pleading.

After all, it was true. You may have sniffed around, but you never stole. However, you knew that nothing would convince him. Not your pooling eyes, or your strained, hoarse voice, or the manner in which your hands trembled. “Please. You’re wrong.”

Minghao moved the knife into his other hand. It was like he was orchestrating a game, forcing your mind to stretch, anticipate, calculate a pop or a slash that might never happen.

“Together. We grab it.”

You said nothing.

He reached for your arm. “Together. Then it’s over.”

At the outskirt of the park, by the street and its picket of shapely elms, you heard a shout. You froze, meanwhile Minghao’s head snapped around. A black SUV was sat along the curb. You weren’t sure black was the right word—it seemed much glossier, much darker, almost like a void of space cut out from the world. A window was rolled down and whoever shouted shouted again. “Guò lái!”

Minghao’s tall, lithe body seemed to stiffen. He closed the knife into his hand, concealing it, and suddenly, he was stalking across the grass, toward the enigmatic SUV. You pulsed with the urgency to sprint away, but your feet were sinking deep into the dirt as though it were a pot of quicksand. Curiosity prickled up your neck and you could not stop yourself from watching as the red-haired boy approached the window, speaking to a black space without a face or body. After a minute or so, Minghao turned around to stare at you, and your skin felt chilly under the moonlight.

He then opened the vehicle’s back door and climbed inside.

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing throughout the park.

You saw the window slowly roll up, but not before an arm appeared, tapping what appeared to be flakey ashes from a cigarette onto the curb. The SUV then pulled away, tearing through the night like shears, and silence returned like a falling duvet.

You called nobody, completing the walk home in silence.

Vernon came by the apartment.

His breath smelled strongly of cinnamon gum. He bought it from your corner store, and mentioned that the girl who sold it to him had been using a broom to dust at a ceiling corner while your manager watched. He sunk into your sofa, lacking his usual lustre, his eyes staring foggily at the flickering images on the television screen in a way that told you he was seldom listening. You were quieter, too. Sitting beside him, breathing in the outdoors on his clothes.

You glanced down at the chipped shade of seafoam green on your fingernails. Lara had used your hand to test the consistency during a lunch break that past Friday. “I’m way better at painting other people’s nails.”

Ruby’s job had swept her away for the week, into another city much fancier than yours, for a Humanitarian conference where she was needed on the technological side. She had packed a bag Sunday night and went to bed early. This was the first time she accepted the invitation. She would always decline, and the responsibility would be shouldered onto someone else. You even saw her ironing the pantsuit she bought in preparation the day before.

After the confrontation by Minghao at the park, you texted Patsy and your manager at Mr. York’s, saying you needed to take some time off due to a strange sickness that came out of nowhere and had you profusely sweating while your stomach pinched into knots. It wasn’t exactly a lie. You thought the thorns in your abdomen would disappear by morning, but once you started moving around—checking inside Ruby’s bedroom to see she was already gone—you felt them emerge from their sheaths, take away your breath, as you collapsed onto the sofa, a warm hand on your aching tummy.

All day you had writhed and wriggled like a butterfly attempting to break free from its chrysalis, moving from show to show, movie to movie, trying to distract yourself from the sharp, muddled discomfort burrowing inside you. It didn’t feel like any emotion you had ever experienced before, if you could remember, that is. When you were angry, you were sticky and buzzing, almost daring things to go wrong, but finding that the anger never made its way out until months or years later. When you were disappointed, you were a lead weight, dragging your own ineptitude around like ball and chain and wondering why it suddenly seemed so hard to sprint.

When you were anxious, your body folded in on itself, a deck of timbering cards. Nothing could penetrate the whirlwind flinging out all your unspooled thoughts until the source of the anxiety came and went and you were stood, exhausted, without the spark to tidy everything up, so you just lay amongst the debris and slept.

But this feeling was somehow different.

It was an unknown. Not of yourself—of someone else.

“Chef Anne said his knife cuts need work. Why are his carrots rangin’ from Baby Bear to fuckin’ Papa Bear. And his roux is burnt.”

Your cheek nuzzled against Vernon’s shoulder. “What?”

“This dude—he just fucked up his carrots.”

He was watching a cooking show about amateur chefs learning to improve their skills in the kitchen. You laughed, because what did Vernon know about cooking, anyway? You had learned about cooking in high school, from a hospitality class, where you were quizzed on a variety of artful knife cuts and your ability to make cheddar biscuits that weren’t full of hard flour. You had to make crepes, practice getting them thinned and golden-brown without breaking apart their fragile skin, and clean russet potatoes to make hash browns eaten with fresh eggs—sunny side, scrambled, over-easy, hardboiled—you had learned to make each one or else you wouldn’t pass.

You almost wanted to say, “what do you know about cooking? Have you ever cooked for anyone? A parent, a friend, a sibling? Did you ever take a hospitality class? What about the class where you had to bake cupcakes and then sell them to the school for a grade? Did your mom ever help you decorate the cupcakes or fasten tips to the piping bags? Did your dad tell you to buckle the container into the backseat? Did he watch you walk up the stairway into the front entrance, smiling awkwardly while you held it?”

You wanted him to fill the hole that he pulled apart inside you.

“Vernon.”

He yawned, stretching out his arms. “Yeah?” One fell around your shoulders. His warmth. His weight. His smell. But without his soul.

“Last night, in Cedar Park, Minghao pulled a knife on me,” you said plainly, blanched of emotion. “But he was called into an SUV, and left.”

The arm settled around your shoulders lifted, cold air stippling your neck. “He did what?” Vernon queried, staring back at you. It was the kind of question that didn’t need an answer as the question itself was nothing but space to process the gritty information. “He pulled a knife?” He repeated.

“Yeah.”

“But nothin’ happened? You’re okay?”

Nothing? That’s not what you had said. But you realized to Vernon, the word inside your situation suddenly bore a different meaning. Getting a knife pulled on you was nothing.

Getting stabbed was perhaps something.

 “No,” you answered, accepting his version of nothing. “I was fine.”

Vernon sat on the sofa’s edge. His eyes drifted around the room in glimmering relief, and he began rubbing along the bridge of his nose. The reaction wasn’t what you had expected. You thought Vernon would burst to his feet, colour the air red as he peppered rage from his scathing, uncouth mouth. But then you remembered the moment you had told him about the incident with Lee, and the softness he laid over you, like a knitted blanket, ushering you into his garish compassion such that the guilt couldn’t touch you. It would burn up in his light. You wanted to believe this was the same.

He cleared his throat. “It worked.”

You blinked, fingers tucking together. “What?”

“Nothin’—just—it worked out.”

Again, the word nothing kept changing shape. Now it was evasive, throwing a tarp over a pile of secrets. You sensed the hole widen and it felt as though pieces of your stomach were being shaved off to make more room.

“What worked out?”

He chuckled, swinging his head, preparing himself to sink back into the sofa so he could learn more about julienne carrots and white roux sauce through another person’s mistakes. “Look, the less you know, the better.”

“I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Dude, I don’t have the gas to argue.”

“Well, then why would you say something like that? Something so damn ambiguous and shady? Vernon, I had a knife pulled on me!” You grabbed the remote control off the coffee table, clicking at the television to silence the noise. “I deserve to know whatever twisted business you shoved me into without my consent!”

He groaned, letting his head roll against the back of the sofa.

“I’m serious!” You shouted, feeling the complex conglomeration of emotions wrestled away the night before start flourishing, gestating. “Tell me! Or I’ll never speak to you ever again!” Snatching your phone off the couch pillow, you waved it around. “I’ll tell the cops!”

Vernon sat up. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Tell me! I’m not kidding!”

“You said you wanted to stay the fuck out of my business. So, I keep you the fuck out of my business, and now you want back in?” He tossed his arms up in pure defeat, collapsing against the sofa and massaging his temples. “Why the fuck do I even bother with you?”

“Tell. Me.”

He scoffed, biting his inner cheek. “Fuck off. You won’t.”

“I will.”

You watched him shrug. “Do it then. Call the cops. Get me arrested. Fuckin’ tattletale. Go run your fuckin’ mouth, PJ’s.”

His words were like sawdust in your eyes. Upon staring down at the phone screen, the shapes and colours and words began to blur, as though your mind was wiring your tenacity while your heart wired your will to always protect him. Frustration bubbled up. It melted the tangled wires together, and in a clash of indecision, you whipped your phone across the room, hearing it smack into the wall with a hollow thud.

“God! You’re such a prick!” You cried. Crumpling back onto the sofa, you began to sniffle and puff, tears silvering in your eyes like ice beginning to melt. “I can’t get anything out of you. Nothing. You won’t ever tell me. It is so you can leave me that much easier? If I know nothing? So you can wash me out of your memory like a stain when you decide I have nothing you want?” Your mouth flooded with an acrid, metallic taste, almost burning, like the melted wires were coming back up. “I don’t understand your games, Vernon.”

He sighed, letting you wet your hands in tears.

Then, after a moment, he tugged at your arm. “C'mere.”

“No,” you choked out, shrugging him off.

Another moment went by, and then you heard him swallow. “It’s my first time doin’ this too, y’know? I guess I suck at it.”

Through salted, damp eyelashes, you glanced up at him. “Huh?”

He smiled at you, and there was an ease in his face, the same kind that appears in the sky after a humid, pelting rain. “A relationship.”

You became firm. “A relationship?”

Vernon nodded.

“What do you mean?” Your voice crackled, desperate for him to elaborate, to make a picture with no doubt. “We’re in a relationship?”

“Aren’t we?”

“I thought you didn’t want that…” you murmured, suddenly regretting shaking off his touch. “I thought we were just breezing. Going wherever the wind takes us. I didn’t think you wanted… commitment. Not that we ever explicitly stated what we were doing. We were kind of just… doing it. I mean, I want a relationship. You know that…” 

Vernon leaned toward you. His hand cupped your warm, sheening cheek. Then, his lips were slowly pressing against yours, and you felt the wings sprout from your back. You pushed reciprocally into his tenderness, reaching behind his neck, as your noses rubbed, and the kiss became a heady fusion of brackish tears and cinnamon. His slippery tongue touched yours, not lasting, but just enough that you went fuzzy, running your hand down his chest.

Vernon grasped it, folding your fingers into his. “I want to take you somewhere,” he whispered, kissing you again, a short peck.

“I won’t go,” you whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you meant. Am I your girlfriend? I’ve never been a girlfriend to anyone. Well, not romantically. Not with a boy. Not with a drug-dealing boy who carries around guns and knows strange people.”

He strummed your knuckles. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

You nodded, speaking beneath a whisper, unable to stop yourself from staring intensely into his burnished, bronzed eyes. “Yes.”

Vernon knocked into your forehead playfully. “You can keep me a secret. I don’t mind. Put me in your closet and get me when you need me.”

You laughed, feeling down the contours of his chest with both hands, appreciating his muscle and beating heart, pounding with fervour, just like yours. “No!” After a hum of silence, you shook your head. “Never,” you sighed softly. “No more secrets. I want to know as much as you'll let me. I can’t separate you from it. I’ve given up trying.”

“Then let me take you somewhere,” he said. “And we can talk.”

Vernon didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

Instead, you slumped into the Camry’s worn passenger seat, the window cranked down, watching the various infrastructures of the city glow beneath the sunset as you breezed by. Perhaps you flew past a hundred different lives, a hundred different stories, the wind picking each up and swirling them away. Half an hour later, and you were outside the skyscrapers, mega-malls, and apartment buildings. The air coming in through your window actually felt like air, and not the heavy plumes of dirt and smoke you grew accustomed to.

He drove along a winding road, the landscape hilly and dry-looking, blended patches of grass and orangish rock. But to your right, it all fell away, like a knife had serrated through the terrain. The coastline. You had maybe seen it once or twice with your dad, who preferred the longer, scenic routes with less traffic, as opposed to your mom, who didn’t care much for anything scenic and opted to follow the same GPS route even if it was more congested than a mall food court. The water wasn’t particularly rough, instead moving in languorous, smooth waves with disappearing and reappearing lines of white silk. Above it, the soft, yellow sky, reminding you of the sweet custard your mom used to make her angel cake dessert.

“Do you drive along here often?” You asked Vernon.

“All the time,” he answered. “Good to clear your head.”

The coastline was pulled away from you when Vernon took a turn that began leading you up a tall, chunky elevation. It was a disorientating zigzag until you came upon the flattened top, and suddenly, there were several large, beautifully expensive-looking houses placed like tumbled blocks, each facing the water, ignited embers under the watery, burning sun.

“What the hell is this place?” You cooed in awe and envy. A gigantic house of pale blue brick and colosseum white pillar skipped past your window, and you peered back at it. “Do Greek gods live here?”

Vernon laughed. “Feels like it. Just a bunch a’ rich people and their overpriced villas that they visit twice a year. What a waste.”

“No kidding,” you sighed, and underneath the wistfulness, you couldn’t help but wonder why Vernon brought you here. If it was to make your life seem pebbles in comparison, then he was well accomplished. Or perhaps you were going to meet a drug lord.

You almost snickered.

“Feast your eyes on this bullshit, PJ’s,” Vernon said.

Again, you proceeded along a road slanted upwards, and then turned into a wide, grey driveway that looped around to the face of the house—if house was even a suitable word—it was more like an esteemed manor, something from a reality television show that celebrities schlepped around in as though it was average. Your elbows laid across the door and your head poked out the window. Nothing escaped your mouth but a warm, impressed breath. This was definitely owned by a drug lord. Or some business tycoon who probably did illegal things, anyway. Vernon stopped the car right by a series of shallow staircases leading up to the entrance.

You pulled your head back inside, stared at the boy incredulously. “Is this yours?” Came the exclamation, charged with disbelief.

Vernon cackled. “No! Although I’m flattered you think I rake in this much dough from dealin’ to a few pompous-ass college kids, street rats, and the occasional rich twat. Not mine at all. Couldn’t be fucked to clean it.”

“Well, whoever owns this definitely employs housekeeping,” you commented, admiring the rows of garden space beside the stairway, the occasional flower, fulgurant and bright pink, beginning to sprout. “Are you the housekeeping?” You joked, staring back at the boy.

“Somethin’ like that,” Vernon lilted mischievously, smirking. He pulled out his keys from the ignition. “Let’s go explore it.”

“What?!” You gasped. “No—you said it wasn’t yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know who owns it.” He winked.

“Who?”

“Miss Catarina Pollezna.”

Your face puckered. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

He sighed, “Kitty.”

“Wait—really? This is hers? She paid for all this? She’s like, twenty-something. Late twenties. But she also buys drugs from Europe.”

“To be more specific, it’s her father’s. He has a killer shoe business set up in Italy. So that’s where he spends most of his time. To him, this is just some playhouse that Kitty can parade around in, throwin’ parties and hirin’ strippers and snortin’ blow, with all that money that he sends her,” he explained with a simmer of vitriol. “And also go to Europe every month.”

You swallowed, feeling a breeze curl through your hair, which made you shiver as though Kitty were somewhere inside, lurking. “Woah.”

Vernon nodded. “But guess where she is?”

Glancing at him, your heart thrust urgently, and energy tingled underneath your skin in hot surges. Your brows raised. “In Europe?”

He leaned forward, kissing the tip of your nose. “Exactly, my girl.”

Amongst the keys cluttered together on his carabiner, Vernon had one key for the house. When you barked at him about where he got the key, he told you simply that Kitty had gotten an extra made for him a few years ago, when he had been helping her set up for a massive party. He went on to express that the party lasted days. It had its swells and troughs. Whenever it seemed like the flame was about to die out, it would take one little kick of a mysterious powder going around to get everything thrumming again.

You commented that it sounded miserable. He agreed that it was.

“People don’t go to sixty-four-hour parties ‘cause their lives are buckets of sunshine,” Vernon laughed wickedly.

“Then why did you go?”

“I was kinda like a bouncer. Kitty paid me. And whenever I wanted a break, I could go smoke a blunt and have some girl’s titties in my face. Win-win, huh?”

“I don’t want to hear about you having a girl’s breasts in your face.”

“Right. Sorry,” he had apologized like a child caught taking a biscuit.

You spent ample time exploring the house. Vernon had apparently been there enough to know every possible nook and cranny, taking on the role of an unprofessional tour guide. The halls were grand and long, armoured with spotless carpets, jeweled chandeliers, and overwhelmingly large pictures with lustre-painted frames. Every window you passed by was tall, gaping, and the light from outside would pour straight in, like the sky was a bottle of sparkling champagne and the house a beautiful flute. The orange sunset would tinge the cream walls, your shadows floating along behind you, travelling through the colours in a way you could not.

Each room you walked into was so perfectly displayed. Not a single item out of place. Still, no dust. Housekeeping must be annoyed, knowing they would only come here to feather everything, move a candlestick a centimeter—adjust a vase only to make it more off-centre than it was before touching it—knowing it would give them something to do the next time they came by to clean. You thought you would feel more distress. But you didn’t feel even a flicker of it as you chased Vernon around the manor. He would sail down the infinite corridors, and you would barrel after him, running past the glowing windows like two children playing an aimless game.

At one point, he shoved against a door, and it popped open to reveal a theatre. “We watched a slasher flick in here once,” Vernon said. When you asked with who, he rambled off a long list of names, where only a few in between sounded familiar. “You could scream as loud as you wanted.”

“You're all a bunch of pansies,” you joked. “Stuff like that doesn't scare me because it's so obviously fake.”

Vernon grabbed your waist from behind and tugged you against his body, meanwhile your fingers brushed along the back of a cold leather chair, probably never even sat in.

“Yeah, right,” he whispered into your ear, and the scattering of his warm breath across your skin turned you mushy.

When he began pulling you toward Kitty’s bedroom on the top floor, you wriggled weakly in protest—not because you were concerned about intruding her personal space—but because it felt like something your old self would care about, and you had not lost her completely. But you yielded, following behind Vernon into the still, silent room. It was bereft of personality for a bedroom. You figured it made sense, as Kitty was probably hardly ever there apart from when she wanted to throw a party. The bedsheets were puffy, white, sewn from clouds, and had little frilly tassels hanging along the bottom, while the headboard was a very sophisticated arrangement of satin pillows, from teal blues to mossy greens and glimmering golds.

There were a few things left behind.

A dark purple robe hung on a hook jutting from behind the door. You didn’t dare touch it, imagining the fabric to be a thick, squishy velvet that would reveal your trespassing fingerprints. Some lipsticks were lined by the vanity, a few pairs of earrings resting on black-boxed cushions. A photograph was stuck between the mirror and the wooden frame, filled with people, all crowded together, sweaty, smiling. You tried tracing the faces to see if you could find Vernon.

“I’m not on there,” he said. “That’s a photo from Italy.”

“Oh,” you answered, noting the airy relief in your chest.

He pulled aside cloth curtains on rungs to reveal a sliding-glass door. Walking over, you were in a silent stupor. She had the entire coastline and all its vast, epic glory just outside her bedroom, and she was never there.

Your mouth tightened in jealousy. “Of course she has a terrace.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Vernon sneered. “She has everything.”

The door made a suction-popping noise when he forced it open, rolling it aside. Immediately, a cool breeze—almost a mist—flushed in through the threshold, finding its way to your face with an inspecting caress, and for a moment, you felt like you were being lifted up, taken away by mother Earth. It was the closest connection you had ever experienced with something that wasn’t another person.

Openness rushed into your chest.

You glanced at Vernon, the breeze tickling his hair. The key to this palace was in his pocket. What freedom. He always found a way.

“Let’s step outside,” he invited with a gesture. “Ladies first.”

Entering onto the terrace, you were nervous. Someone might see you, piece together that you were a stranger, that you didn’t have the svelte to live in such a gorgeous house. You were a mistake accidentally smeared onto the portrait that ruined its entirety. But when Vernon stepped out beside you, shoulders back, chin up, eyes meeting the bleeding, scarlet line of the horizon like he was not only the owner but the damn architect, your nerves retreated. Beside him, you fell into a deep calm. He knew how to take care of things that others didn’t in ways unthought of. Like you.

“Pretty, huh?” He asked. His hands pressed into the balcony railing.

You joined him, touching the white, coarse stone. “It’s seraphic.”

“What?”

“Like, heavenly.”

“Oh,” he muttered. “Spellin’-bee ass word.”

You laughed, and the joyful notes were carried away in the wind like a song. Without haste, you both admired the view. You thought about taking a picture, but what good would it do? A screen tapered at the beauty, syringing out its vibrancy and hues. There would be no fresh air, or distant static of lapping water. The best you could do was appreciate it now. Then, you looked to Vernon, leaned forward on his elbows, tangled up in the colours of a marigold sunset. He glanced over at you, smirked a little.

“Why did you bring me here?” You asked. “I mean, not to say this isn’t wonderful. It is. But why here? What about you?”

“It’s away from the city,” he said. “Makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier. I’m not surrounded, towered in. I have all this.” He turned in a circle while sticking out his arms. “No losers around. No noise.”

“You’ve definitely called me a loser,” you chuckled.

“I mean actual fuckin' losers,” he rumbled in response. “You really care about people. You work hard. You try to be honest. You can be stiff but it’s for good reason. I see you dream and wonder. You’re not a loser.”

A smile burned on your face. “Thank you. That’s lovely.”

“I tried to be somethin’ like that,” he said, sounding adrift. “But I just never got my footin’ right. My mom was an artist, you see. She moved us all over the place ‘cause she was so hungry for inspiration. But it would always be the same. Another busted city. Another lousy school. She said it was the people who inspired her. I didn’t fuckin’ get it. I was around fuckin’ dweebs all day. Not that I wasn’t a dweeb. I was the troublemaker dweeb, though. Write-ups, detentions, extra homework. You name it, I got it.

Didn’t exactly help my mom’s career out much, when she spent most of my childhood in a principal’s office. She looked at me like I emptied her out, y’know? Then my baby sister was born. You should’ve seen how much my mom perked up. She got that big surge of inspiration she was lookin’ for, and her art career just took off.” Momentarily, his face soured, and his eyes darkened with dusky clouds of memory. His grip around the banister hardened, and his knuckles seemed paler. “Little baby Sofia. She was a gift. Always with my mom. Always on her hip. Always sittin’ in the centre of a big paper sheet coverin’ the floor, surrounded by tubes of paint. My mom would always say, ‘I have Sofia now. It's too much. I just can’t deal with your behaviour anymore.’ I don’t wanna say I hated them. I guess I hated that it took my baby sister bein’ born before my mom thought she was worth somethin’.”

You nodded, listening along carefully, coddling every word, as your heart ached inside your chest. Vernon had never sounded so bare before, stripped down of his ego and clever quirk. You knew then that the picture on his nightstand was him and his baby sister. Swathed over with dust. But not hidden away. Maybe that meant something.

“Shit started hittin’ the fan real bad,” he continued. “The less attention I got, the more shit I did. I made older friends buy me cigarettes and smoked after school with ‘em. We played around in empty construction sites, sat in the big loaders. I tried ecstasy for the first time at fifteen in this girl’s sad little excuse for a bedroom. Stayed there all night. Came back home in the mornin’ and it felt like no one even noticed. Or they did, and they just didn’t give a fuck. As long as they had Sofia. But I got too lax. I brought home some darts and pills. My mom found ‘em inside a sock that I kept in my drawer. It was a big conversation, my dad just noddin’ along, probably fuckin’ high himself. A whole lot of nothin’, you hear?”

“Right…” you said solemnly, so he knew you were listening.

“But I stopped carin’ about what they thought of me long before we ever had that talk. They collaborated to pull me out of school after I cracked this kid in the jaw over a few grams a’ weed. The tension finally got to my parents. They split up—the whole sob story—and it was joint custody. The same year, I met Dots. He was the first person in my life that seemed to actually care about me. You might think, if he really cared, why did he help me get more involved into all the drug shit. But it wasn’t like that. It taught me order, discipline, how to be sharp, think on my feet, handle the tough situations. Not that I’m tryin’ to make what I do sound like a damn cheat code. It’s not. It’s dangerous and fleetin’ and as smart as you are, or as successful as you are at it, there’s always a place to trip. But when I got to really know him, I actually understood somethin’ about my mom, what she meant when she said people inspired her. That was him. Solid dude.”

“That’s amazing,” you commemorated with a weightless sigh, only to catch a hitch in your throat a second later. “I mean, not that—not all that other stuff—but that you made such a reliable friend in Dots.”

He huffed dryly. “I know what you meant.”

“Sorry.”

You could tell a rawness had been poked open inside him. His tone was heavy, somewhat stinging. How awful it must feel to think you didn’t matter to the people who you were supposed to matter to the most. To see it in their treatment of you, and their ignorance. You thought Vernon must feel so wounded inside. Despite that, he covered it well. When you first met him, his audacity and coolness irritated you to no end. You thought he walked through life on a silver-platter where everyone bended to him. You thought he had no depth, no empathy, and no moral compass. He sold drugs and frequented meaningless sex and disrupted everyone else’s life so he could live the one he wanted. But it all came from somewhere ugly.

He tugged on his jacket and watched the sun press down into the fiery gloss of the water. “I’m nothin’ like you,” Vernon mumbled.

“I don’t want you to be,” you reassured him. Standing close, you leaned your head on his shoulder, placed your much softer hand over his that grasped the terrace balcony, moved your fingers into the spaces between his. “If you were anything like me, we would be an anxious, spiralling, dead-end mess. Like limp noodles,” you giggled.

Vernon breathed in. “I like noodles.” He paused. “Spicy noodles.”

“I’m cold, salty noodles.”

“Shut up,” he rasped, turning his head to press his lips against your forehead, and you were soaring through the wind with arms outstretched. “You’re kinda like my miracle.”

“How romantic,” you laughed, though you pushed up to kiss his waiting lips, appreciating the compliment in every bone of your body, making it become part of you, part of the hole he was filling. “Did you ever imagine yourself saying something so cloying to someone else?” Before he could speak, you clarified. “I mean, sickly sweet.”

“I could never say what I never felt,” he answered.

“I’m very special, then.”

Again, he kissed you, delicate but savoury. “You are.”

“So,” you swallowed, tracing a blacked-out star on his hand with your fingernail. “What was the whole thingamajig with Minghao?” Abruptly, with attitude, you leaned away from him, though it was harmless, and you were smiling. “I almost got cut up, and you weren’t caring enough for me!”

“Of course I care.”

“What happened, then? Why did you say that weird thing about it working out? What worked out? Who was in the SUV?” You pestered him with questions, attempting to catch the copper flame in his eyes.

“Someone owned me a favour,” he began to explain. “I used that favour to make sure Minghao wouldn’t be able to fuck with you.”

Unsatisfactorily, you sniffled. “That wasn’t anything.”

“It was.”

“Why were you owed a favour?”

He sighed, scratching his eyebrow.

You grabbed onto his arm and shook it, unafraid to whine and beseech. “Please! Can’t I know a little bit more? I’m not asking to know every single detail. But don’t you think as the person who was almost freakin' stabbed, I deserve more discretion?”

Vernon stared at you, sighing, and it seemed that you had administered the final tap of your insistent chisel. “He’s a drug lord that was close to Dots, like I was. When Dots died, he said I could ask him one favour as an act of sympathy or condolence or whatever the fuck. But only one, and he had to deem it reasonable.” He picked up your clammy hand in his and squeezed it. “I chose to protect you.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered. “Uh… wow. Okay. C-Cool, I guess?”

How was one supposed to feel about their boyfriend hailing the promise of a surreptitious drug lord to protect you in his favour?

Your mind went a chaffing, stark blank. With the sun continuing to lower, the terrace’s brightness began to fade, and a deep gradient of dark blue had started diffusing toward the horizon. There was a colder tinge in the air pushed forward by the stirring ocean.

“That make you happy, princess?” He quipped arrogantly.

“Sure.” You couldn’t argue, even if you wanted to.

Back inside, you two sat on the edge of Kitty’s bed. Vernon had plopped down without thought, though you were more hesitant, not wanting to soil the luxurious sheets by leaving behind even a thread or a wrinkle or a speck of stray dirt. Through the opened curtains, you watched the sun wink a final goodbye, sinking down into the windy night and taking its last easel of orange with it. Tall trees flourished by expansive palms bobbed outside, merely silhouettes, and you could hear the breeze slap and whither against the glass, as though it were begging you to come back outside, to have someone appreciate the views that a rich man paid so much to acquire and then leave.

Vernon was leaned back on his elbows now, jacket tossed off.

“Have you ever slept here?” You asked, and it immediately hit you how stupid the question was. Of course he had slept here.

Where hadn’t he slept?

“In this bedroom?” He wondered.

“Never mind.” Your head shook back and forth. “Dumb question.”

A moment later, his fingers touched down your elbow, and then his hand was curling into your fleshy arm, and you felt him pull at you.

You stared back, half-smiling. “What?”

His little grin was all moonlight. “Come closer to me.”

“Why?” The pit of your stomach pulsed.

He shrugged casually, but his eyes were alive and spry, studying your face. “Why not? No fun starin’ at the back of your dense head.”

“There you go with your rudeness.”

Vernon propped his head up at you. “Wanna punish me, Miss?”

“Go die.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere.”

“Between your legs, Miss?”

“Vernon!” You screamed. Pulling loose a neatly placed pillow, you smacked him across his face. “Gosh! You’re so dirty. I can’t stand it.”

You didn’t want him to know that you were fizzling in the shadows of the bedroom. On fire. His games were dangerous, magnetic. And shamefully, they defrosted you like ice in the midst of a spring thaw every time. Your legs crossed together, as if to convince yourself your body didn’t want him and his leeriness, but that only pressed the panging deeper into your abdomen.

He threw the pillow off his face. “What’s with you and pillows?”

“Idiot protection,” you mumbled.

“I was just joshin’ around.”

“About which part?” Your voice sharpened as your arms folded and you glared back at him. “It’s not appropriate to say things like that.”

“Shut me up, then.”

Upon leaning over to collect another pillow, Vernon grabbed your waist in his hands, and with an impressive show of strength you were hauled overtop him like a limply filled doll. The heat broke loose. It was radiating off you, hot wind blowing across a sand dune.

“Vernon!” You grumbled, wriggling. His knee was bent in between your thighs, not pushing into you, but hovering, while his hands flattened against your lower back. “I can’t believe you’re so tricky!”

He tilted toward your elbow braced next to his head. And then his lips, cushioning softly against your bare skin. “You won’t win,” he chuckled, moving his lips further along your arm, drifting, warm. “I know you wanna give in to me. Can feel it,” he emphasized with a rough, commanding squeeze at your waist, your body responding in a tremble. “You make it so hard for me to relax when you run your clumsy mouth. Makes me just wanna fill it with my tongue.” His voice was gritty, but words slippery as an emollient. He got you.

And you buckled.

Pathetically, your mouth sunk deep against his, and all you wanted was for him to follow through on his filth. His tongue was there, not prodding, but devouring, tangling inside your wet mouth, and you tasted the faded hints of cinnamon gum he had been chewing earlier.

“I—h-hate—mmf—I hh-hate you.” The emotions struggled to find the space to escape, struggled to find the breath they needed. There were only your tongues swirling around messily, finding groove. His spit glimmery on your chin. Your spit on his. You grasped at his hair, so healthy and strong between your fingers, letting him suckle on you like a hard candy. At that moment, your hips canted backward and your sensitiveness found the texture of his knee. It was an unexpected, almost pained cry into his mouth.

Immediately, he grinned. “Hit somethin’ sweet, did I?”

“That was embarrassing…” you choked out. How could you make such a sound? It wasn’t from you. It was too primal. You buried into the boy’s shoulder to shield yourself from its ring echoing in the air.

“No.” Vernon kissed your temple. “No it wasn’t, baby.”

“I sounded so weird and awful.”

“Then you don’t hear what I hear,” he laughed. You felt his body begin to shift—he was sitting up—and you sat up with him, arms looped around his neck and your thighs straddling his firm lap. The boy’s hands were warm and steady on your back like two heated sunstones. “You don’t understand,” Vernon continued, his eyes inflated and round with sparks. “How you sound when you feel good is what makes me lose my mind. I can’t think straight.”

You sighed, and your chests pressed together. His heart was racing, just like yours. “I’m not good at this, especially with you. I know that… I know that—I can’t—like…” it was incredibly frustrating, trying to grasp the words but then feeling them slip away akin to a watery handful of fish. “I know that I won’t ever make you feel as good as other girls do, or whatever… like…” you sighed grumpily, not wanting to say her name, though it came out anyway. “Like Kitty. She said that you told her she was the best at… you know… being with you, or taking you.”

Vernon looked confused. “Kitty said that?”

“At the party… Moo’s thing.”

He stared deeper into your eyes, and there was a bright strike. “Is that why you left so upset?” His hand moved to caress along your cheek, pausing to cup your face. “She runs her fuckin’ trash mouth, you know that?” Vernon said waspily.

“I was upset for a lot of reasons. But, it’s probably true.”

“What’s true?” He demanded, his voice thick and stern.

You glanced away from him, afraid. “I can’t please you.”

Vernon grabbed your hand. You were surprised at the sudden roughness of the touch. But it fell apart into a head-spinning delirium. He placed your palm at the tent in his heavy pants. Every inch of your mouth went arid. It was his erection, twitching through his clothes, feeling that it was growing under your touch, and you couldn’t think one damn word.

“Don’t you feel this, PJ’s?” Vernon rasped, squeezing around your hand so that you squeezed him, his eyes fully drawn to yours. “Don’t you fuckin’ feel how insanely hard I am? This is how badly I want you. Every day. You know you left your panties at my apartment, right? The ones in your pocket? You know that I used ‘em to touch myself? Tryin’ to get some sort of fuckin’ semblance that you were there with me. I’ve never done such pathetic, needy shit for anybody, yeah? But I couldn’t fuckin’ help it ‘cause of how you make me feel. I always ache for you. I can’t stop.”

Your mouth opened, quivering. “Vernon, I—”

“Don’t ever say bullshit like that,” he warned you, and his shoulders seemed hardened and crusted with anger—not at you—but that you had been made to feel so inadequate. “I don’t give a fuck about Kitty. She’s never made me feel the way you do. Never.” His expression began to soften in the darkness, and the anger diffused. “Do you understand, baby? How can I make it clearer?”

“I understand,” you squeaked out, smiling a faint, hot smile.

“Good.” Vernon ran his hands down your face, along the edges of your breasts, until they settled at your hips. “And if anyone ever taunts you like that again, tell me, so I can put Ex-lax in their coke.”

You giggled. “That’s quite evil.”

“Don’t give a fuck,” he said, nuzzling his nose to yours.

Glancing down, you realized your hand was still sitting over his erection, but you didn’t move it away. To feel him physically respond to you was a sort of ecstasy that made you frayed, jellied, and hungry in places other than your stomach. You kissed him, gently, and pressed down on the stiff tent in his pants with a light pressure. His body quivered underneath you, his shallow groan vibrating your tongue. And so you tested out more pressure, more movement, heady on the pleasure you were gifting to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed across your lips, “such a good girl for me, aren’t you, baby?” Your shirt was loose and buttoned, with nothing but a sheer bralette on underneath. His hands started creeping up your stomach.

“Yes,” you hummed back complicitly, combusting at his words and how layered there were with lust—how they caressed you without caressing you, how they lapped at you, squeezed you. “Are you going to touch me?”

Vernon chuckled. “Uh, what?”

Your hand drifted off his erection. “My chest?”

He paused. “Do you want me to?”

For a moment, you thought. “Yes… but I don’t want you to see.” A nervous breath hit the roof of your mouth. “Can we keep my shirt on?”

Vernon smiled. “You can keep whatever you want on, baby.” He kissed you once, twice, a third time. “And you can say no. Always.”

You nodded, too buzzing, too anxious, too excited, to speak. But you were practically glistening with relief and contentment from what he said—making sure you knew you had a choice and there was no shame in taking advantage of it—he wouldn’t be upset at you. His eyes had been still and sincere when he said it, pouring into your soul, and you felt the stir.

“I know,” you whispered. “Thanks.”

To your gratefulness, he left your mouth alone so you could breathe, gasp, and claw for air whenever needed. Instead, his kisses tasted down the slope of your neck, moving slow, leaving a damp chill, the occasional graze from his teeth. He would suck at your pulse through every constricting vein as though he were trying to absorb your heartbeat. There were rings on his fingers, cold against your ribs. He thumbs rubbed along the uncomfortable underwire of the bralette, teetering, to give you room to decide if you wanted more, and you did. His large palms were over top the bralette’s sheer material. Fuck—he was touching you—actually touching you, and you grabbed his shoulders tight so you wouldn’t fall backward.

“This feels sexy,” he purred into your neck.

You shook your head, giggling, “it’s a cheap bralette.”

“What’s not sexy about that?” He chuckled.

He started to squeeze, and you moaned. It was difficult not to revolt at how you sounded, shaky and sharp-pitched in a way that would make your parents collapse, but Vernon smiled, slaked, into your cheek. “Does that feel good?” His voice pressed inside your ear as he continued massaging your breasts through the fabric, gripping a bit tighter, groping a little harder, only to make everything feel soft again.

“Yes—I can’t explain it.”

Vernon kissed your jaw, then licked, and you smelled the beachy fragrance in his hair. “Can I go underneath, baby?” He asked, and there was almost a fragility to his voice, like he was entreating more than asking.

“Um—o-okay. Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

His fingers danced up to the thin straps of the bralette, slowly sliding them off each shoulder, and you stopped breathing. He kissed each side of your warm, tender neck as he did so, and your heart throbbed uncontrollably. And then he reached the clasp at your back, knew how to unfasten the hooks in a way that should have disturbed or disgruntled you, but you didn’t care. The bralette fell. He pulled it out from underneath your buttoned shirt and tossed it aside impatiently.

Vernon’s forehead rested against yours, and his eyes still managed to shimmer with threads of spun gold in the dimness. You looked back expectantly, biting onto your lip. And then his hands were engulfing your bare breasts—careful—not aggressive or rash. He pushed them together, kneaded them apart, squeezed each individually, taking pure pleasure in the small divots and fractures that twitched across your stunned face.

“I’m going to faint,” you breathed onto his lips.

He laughed. “No, you won’t.”

“Why does it feel so good?” You mumbled, adrift and floating, letting your eyes flutter shut in the marvelous intimacy while you still remained present enough to keep grasping his shoulders.

“I’ve imagined it hundreds a’ times,” Vernon hummed. His hands stilled, and you felt insanely frustrated, only for his thumbs to come down on your stiff, sensitive nipples, and you cried out long and hard like life was being simultaneously gifted and grabbed from you. Underneath, you sensed his erection strain, poke at your inner thigh. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he cursed with utmost snarl. “You’re gonna make me cum in my fuckin’ pants.”

Leaning your head onto his shoulder, your grappled with the hairs on the back of his head and breathed heavily. He continued to circle around your pert nipples, causing your shoulder blades and back to erratically twitch and frolic. You couldn’t control it.

“Please, Vernon…” but for what, you didn’t know. Maybe to explode. To turn into a flurry of bursting stars.

“You really like that, huh?” He teased.

“Yes.”

“What about this? Hm?” One of his hands disappeared. You hadn’t seen what he did, but his touch quickly returned and it was wet, cold, with his slick spit, now being pinched and smeared into your nipple.

You leaned forward, pressing into him, moaning so unbelievably loud over his shoulder. Again, his erection pulsed under your thigh.

“I haven’t even touched your cunt or fucked you open, and you’re this fuckin’ loud?” He managed to laugh, though it was full of strain. “You’re gonna end me, princess. Just from touchin’ these soft, lovely tits of yours. Feel so warm in my hands.” To emphasize, he gripped each one and kneaded them, more pressure, more greed, rings crushing into your skin. “How’d I live this long without you? Fuckin’ miracle, huh, baby?”

“Y-Yes…” you wheezed, sniffling and shaking. “I need you.”

“I know,” he cooed, an attempt to soothe, “but I won’t fuck you here. I know you don’t want that. I know you’re still not ready.”

Every word was a deep laceration. How were you not ready to take him? You were gushing through your underwear. Every fibre and molecule of your body was strumming with arousal so potent that it was thick, hovering everywhere, in the dark room. And you could feel him straining against your thigh. Gosh—you didn’t know anything about dicks—but his was… big. It would have you disintegrating around him until you were piles of overheated ash, blown away in one mere puff. Still, he was right. If you weren’t ready for him to see your breasts, you couldn’t let him inside you.

Especially not here, on Kitty’s bed.

Nonetheless, you didn’t want it to end. It felt like madness.

What had he done to you?

—END OF PART FIVE.

[chocosvt]

vernon’s ig story today of where the wild things are reminded me of pj’s and find your wild, hehe. just wanted to share. this fic is like taking over every aspect of my life!!

omg cute <3

fun fact: her pyjama shirt is based off a shirt i saw at walmart like six years ago 😭 and it's spirit 😭 i actually love that movie...

but obviously in the fic the shirt is described a bit differently.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part four.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 25k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: a bit of an earlier upload since i have work in the morning :( but when you finish this part it means we are officially more than halfway through the series! that is kraziness.

thank you again for all the kind comments & reblogs <3 i didn't expect many ppl to actually get into this fic bc of its length and subject matter so i'm glad there are readers willing to take the journey with me teehee.

also, i rly do encourage yall to check out ghana's many hopes. they do AMAZING things for young girls rescued from trafficking! they get to learn skillsets and have opportunities to build support systems!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Ghana's Many Hopes!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

You stopped by the apartment to grab a few things. After leaving the pastry behind in the fridge for Ruby, you shoved pyjamas into your knapsack—checkered bottoms and the pony t-shirt, as you had been coming to the end of your clothes—and some skincare from the washroom.

It didn’t take as long as you remembered to reach Vernon’s place.

The small, frisky dog with cataracts was barking at you two, scratching against the shutters, just like last time. Someone had finally fixed the broken doorway, replacing the wooden board with glass. You repeated the same tiresome trek up the winding staircase until reaching the fourth floor, where you released an audible breath of repose upon entering his cozy bachelor. No plain grey walls, no stiffness, no apprehension.

“Do you mind texting Ruby?” You sighed, handing Vernon your phone. “She’s asking about what happened. Just tell her I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and not to worry too much.” It was torturous to open your messages and see Lee’s unopened notifications pleading at you. “It is okay if I use your bathroom for a second? To change and wash up?”

Vernon looked down at your phone, then back at you. “Sure.”

The washroom wasn’t in great shape, but it was still better than what you imagined—at least for someone who was hardly there to clean it.

Most of the damage didn’t seem like Vernon’s fault, but rather the cheap costliness pertaining to the landlord. A crappy patch job in the shower, chips in the porcelain sink, peeling, faded wallpaper beginning to curl from the corners.

You set your knapsack down on the toilet, unzipped it, and pulled out your face product, which you soaked onto a cotton pad. Staring yourself down in the water-stained mirror, underneath the ghostly sterileness of the washroom’s pale lighting, you began wiping off all the dried tears and grime that stippled your skin. Every swipe of the cotton pad only made you focus with more intensity on yourself, until you felt so unbelievably and wildly unattractive that you couldn’t bear to stare into the mirror any longer.

With an exhausted sniffle, you unbuttoned your jeans. One leg at a time, you kicked them off, before removing the shirt overtop your head, tossing your bra onto the clothes you left bunched on the floor. Before you could catch a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror, every little detail under the light’s harsh dissection, you quickly jumped into your pyjama bottoms and wrestled on the loose t-shirt to unaesthetically match.

A deep breath before going back out to face Vernon.

He was lounging on the futon. You dropped your knapsack onto the coffee table, gave him a queasy, weak smile, and collapsed next to him.

Vernon tilted his head toward you. “Need anything? Water? There isn’t much in the fridge and I’m a shitty fuckin’ cook, but I can make a pretty gnarly grilled cheese. Takeout is fine, too. The world’s your… uh… oyster.”

But you shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He then held out your phone, which you dropped into your bag. You didn't want to read anything. You didn't want to know anything.

“I told Ruby what you said,” Vernon mumbled. “She responded a few times. Didn’t read it.” He proceeded to shrug. “Well, didn’t answer it.”

“I’ll set aside some time to text her tonight.”

He nodded, looking out the apartment window for a moment or two before Vernon turned his attention back to you. There was a reluctance in his expression, a withdrawal, like he desperately wanted to ask but felt tentative in case his queries were too intruding. You appreciated his sensitivity. His eyes flicked you up and down a few times in thought.

And then he pulled the trigger. “So? I get to know anything?”

You were curled up closer to him than usual, your cheek just barely grazing the boy’s shoulder. It was solacing to feel his heat, smell the outdoors on his clothes, the tinges of flavoured smoke. Your body untied itself.

Then, you were drawing in a long, long breath. “I tried breaking up with Lee…” you started, speaking quietly, “and it turned to… shit.”

No antagonizing remarks. No comical digs. He stayed silent.

“I didn’t expect it to be that hard. He was being so nice to me the second I stepped in the door. I just… couldn’t get the words out, y’know? It was torture.” Pulling your knees closer into your chest, you stared down at the open space of Vernon’s lap, his strong thighs. “Once he was done his homework, he came right next to me on the bed…” it was suddenly harder to speak, your throat automatically tightening up. “I was so stupidly nervous that I couldn’t articulate enough. Lee started kissing me… on my neck… he started moving his hand down my shirt…” your eyes began to sting again, blurring your vision into a cloudy vignette. “He tried to touch me, you know, in between my legs,” you breathed out in a trembly voice, “but I got too scared and stopped it. It’s like he was completely missing the signals I was giving. He was like, pulling me back down onto the bed and I freaked out even more. I had to leave. I couldn’t—I felt like I was on fire—like he was trying to trap me. I-I don’t know. It was all so quick.”

You started looking around for a tissue box.

Vernon reached underneath the coffee table to grab you one.

Pulling out two tissues, you fought to capture a structured breath, taking a moment to dry your eyes and blow your nose. “Then…” you huffed, skin irritated and wet, “I couldn’t help but think it was my fault, y’know? That I should have been upfront. I’ve just been so nervous and uncomfortable about intimacy with him. I don’t know why. But… maybe if I was more vocal, he would have understood, and, like…” bringing another tissue to your face, you blotted up the tears, sniffling louder and louder. “I just feel like, so useless. So dumb.” Blinking at the crumpled tissue squeezed into the flesh of your sore hand, you wanted to shrink, to disappear, as the embarrassment flushed through you.

Vernon shook his head. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded. “I-I know. It’s just hard not to think that way…”

“No, PJ’s, look at me.” Vernon angled himself on the futon so he could face you more intimately, capturing your fullest attention, until the brilliant rings of his earthen irises were all you could gauge. “What he did was completely not your fault. There’s no excuse for it. Someone who actually has your best interests at heart is not gonna treat you like that,” he reaffirmed you, his tone much more serious, unnegotiable. “He was countin’ on your discomfort to keep you quiet, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn’t bein’ oblivious, or missin’ your signals. Bet he knew what was comin’ and figured gettin’ inside you could change your mind. That’s real slimy fuckin’ behaviour. I should kill him for that. But you stood up for yourself, right? And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault.” Vernon reached his arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder as his firm reassurance only sparked another onslaught of waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” you spluttered, piling all your used tissues onto the coffee table before pulling the collar of your t-shirt up against your cheek, letting it absorb all the dampness. “I’m such a mess.”

“Fuck that,” Vernon laughed, pulling you closer into him. “You can be a mess when you’re with me, yeah? You really think I give a fuck?”

A smile broke through your lips. “N-No.”

“Exactly.” He nudged his nose against your hair. “I’ve been around you enough to know how dramatic you are. Usually you’re dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter,” Vernon chuckled. “But I like it.”

Your head slid into the crook underneath his chin. “So, I’m being perfectly dramatic about this. Is that what you’re saying?” You teased.

“Hey, you be the master of your emotions, alright? Don’t let anyone else dictate anything without good reason.”

“How are you so randomly eloquent and insightful?” You let out a half-hearted giggle, snuggling your face in closer to his neck. That’s where his cologne was most concentrated. Rich amber filled your nose and floated to the centre of your head.

The backs of Vernon’s fingers stopped at your elbow. After what felt like an oddly long pause, he rubbed his nose and chuckled, “dunno.”

Silence followed, soft enough to touch.

And you couldn’t have embraced it more.

Closeness with Vernon felt so easy that you wondered why you ever bothered grasping at straws when it came to Lee. The way you slotted against his side was like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. His calloused fingertips drifting along your bare arm was equal parts soothing and arousing. Having the weight of his chin rested on your head made you feel so protected, as though nothing in the world could reach you. With his other arm lax in his lap, you took the opportunity to meet your fingertip with a vein underneath his prettily inked skin, which you proceeded to trace until it disappeared into the elbow's crook. His shifted his hips as you touched him and nothing had ever made you want to jump across his thighs more.

Swallowing, you retracted your hand. “Was it good?”

Vernon casted back his hair, humming. “What?”

You repeated yourself, more audibly this time. “Was it good?”

 “Was what good?”

Biting your lip, you eventually came to murmur, “the head?”

“Oh,” Vernon laughed, snorting. “Uh, fuck, it was fine.”

You stared up at him through your lashes. “Is she a friend?”

There was a prominent stiffness to his rising adam’s apple, sharp against his throat, like an arrowhead. “Not really. I know her name, where I met her, and that she fucks heavy with ketamine. But she’s not that nice around the privates, you feel? I try to tell her what I like but she just fuckin’ operates my dick like she’s drivin’ a damn stick,” Vernon chuckled, shrugging. “You’re easy priority over that.”

Looking back down, you smiled. “I guess that’s nice to know.”

“Shit—even if it was the best fuckin’ brain I ever got—I still would have come got you,” Vernon asserted, slipping his hand underneath your arm, his fingers pressing deep into your ribs. “Lucky you, huh?”

You nodded, adjusting the knees against your chest.

Vernon cleared his throat. “Why don’t I throw on a movie?”

“Okay,” you obliged. “What kind?”

“Let’s look on my Netflix—well—not mine. I’ve been bummin’ off the dude who lives underneath me. But I give him mint weed. So it’s fair.”

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on his flat-screen television, which took a moment to start up. You assumed he didn’t use it much as you both watched the spinning loading circle.

Vernon smirked. “Is it really comfy to sit like that?”

You frowned. “Like what?”

“With your knees against your chest. You always sit like that. Why don’t you spread out more?” He offered. “Put your legs across my lap.”

A weight hit your throat. “Are you sure?”

“No, I gave you that option so I could take it back three fuckin’ seconds after I said it,” he sighed, chuckling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Naturally, you obeyed, untucking your legs and resting them across the boy’s thighs. He was right. It felt way more leisurely.

“Why don’t you pick the movie? Show me one of your favourites.”

While you operated the remote, Vernon had his palm lying flat against your knee. The smile that shot to your face was immediate, unbridled twitches dancing in your cheeks, though you attempted to hide it. Whenever he touched you, no matter how faint, it set off unstoppable fireworks from the base of your abdomen, fulgurant and hot and sizzling with desire that was near impossible to quench.

“There,” you sniffed. “Wall-E.”

“Oh, that’s a banger. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

You grinned into his neck. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

It was difficult not to fall asleep as the movie played.

The apartment grew dimmer and dimmer over the hour, with the sun setting outside, pulling all the baby blue out from the winter sky until it was an unsaturated cloth. Your head was in such a comfortable position, cradled against Vernon’s shoulder, and you had only curled up more such that you were a ball half-supported in his lap. His body heat was pulling down your eyelids and the strokes of his hand along your thigh’s underside was so lulling. You didn’t even realize the movie had ended. It was Vernon’s fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face that rekindled your senses, and you began to stretch, watching the film’s credits through the apartment’s hazy darkness.

“It’s over?” You yawned.

Vernon laughed. “It’s been over.”

“Oh…” you blinked, still wearing off your brain fog. “Why didn’t you wake me up for my favourite part?! When Eve gets Wall-E to remember everything! And they hold hands! It always makes me cry in happiness!”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

You ignored him, falling back against his shoulder. Staring out the wide windows, gazing across the last embers of sunlight buried far against the horizon, you sighed, “that’s my absolute favourite part…”

Vernon picked up the remote. “I can go back.”

“No, it won’t be the same.”

“Don’t fall asleep then.”

“Uh? Wake me up then?” You retorted. “Dumbass.”

“Aren’t you gettin’ all relaxed with the language?” He snickered, rubbing his thumb to your thigh in such a way that you nearly purred. “I’ve never heard you drop so many swears. Should I call your mom?”

“Hey—I’ve had an awful day—I can drop all the swears I want.”

“M’kay, fair.”

Your eyes stilled on the empty fish tank that caught your curiosity when you first visited. It seemed like it had been sitting on the shelf for months. The glass was cloudy, uncleaned, with some tubes left curled up against the bottom. If it never belonged to Vernon, you couldn’t help but wonder who. Maybe the presumed sister shown in the photo frame on his nightstand. The tank was large, likely fitting a decent number of fish. It must have required a notable deal of commitment and responsibility. Vernon hadn’t spared much information when you originally asked him, though you were tempted to ask again, even if it got you nowhere.

“If the tank isn’t yours, then whose is it?”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Is it a secret?”

“Not… exactly…” Vernon answered, sounding hesitant. “It just belonged to someone who was really important to me, y’know?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He breathed out for a moment, and you could feel the shallowing of his broad chest underneath your hand. There was a subtle increase in his heartbeat, each thud gentle but quickened. “I’ll show you something, actually,” Vernon said. “But you gotta move.”

You smiled, shuffling away from his heat. “Sure.”

Vernon got up from the futon. He turned on a light belonging to a ceiling fan above his bed, then approached one of the drawers on his dresser and started rifling around through its unorganized contents.

Oh my gosh, it’s happening! It’s happening! You were shrieking inside your head, jumping up and down like you’d just won an insane lottery.

He’s actually going to show me something personal!

He trusts me! He’s opening up!

As he sunk back into the futon, you noticed that Vernon had a few photographs in his hand. They looked like polaroid images based on the fuzziness and white-cast. You straightened up, practically vibrating with anticipation, while he arranged them a certain way.

“So, for context’s sake: this dude was my best friend for years. I met him when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, at the time. You could call it a double-edged knife—” (sword, you thought), “—but he showed me everything I know. When it felt like no one else gave a fuck about me, if I lived or died, he was, like, the hand on my shoulder, y’know?” At last, he gave you one of the glossy polaroid images. It was taken on a concrete staircase belonging to an aged-looking brick house. Vernon was on the right, dressed in his thick bomber jacket and throwing up a peace sign. The young man beside him wore a dark green windbreaker. His complexion was much tanner than Vernon’s, his rusty hair slicked back and a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his mouth. You stared at the stranger intently, bringing the photograph closer to your face. Vernon sighed. “That’s him.”

“What’s his name?” You wondered.

“Everyone called him Dots.”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah,” Vernon said, nodding. “It’s hard to tell in that picture, but his cheeks, across his nose, was all covered in freckles. Y’know, dots.” He began to laugh as his eyes roamed the other image in his hand. “Girls fuckin’ loved that. It was the first thing they’d compliment—your freckles are so pretty—and he was always so polite. But his real name was Paulo—the other guy that Minghao asked you about.”

Vernon passed you another fuzzy polaroid, though he didn’t feature in the shot this time. His friend occupied the image, likely taken at a house party judging from the bedazzled strangers frozen in time behind him. He was wearing glittery New Year’s Eve glasses shaped just like the number, a red solo cup in one hand, a smoking cigar packed with herb in the other. There was something so irritatingly familiar about Vernon’s friend. It was akin to an itch you just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard you stretched.

“Yeah…” Vernon hummed, “he was a sweet guy. Pretty mellow, actually. Not that into parties, clubs. He had a lot of interests, too. That fish tank was one of ‘em. He kept all kinds of shit in there. Snails, little shrimps, all these fishies whose names I can’t fuckin’ remember. He liked to read books a lot. He even showed me how to press flowers one time when we got bored in the summer—no clue where the fuck he learned how to do that—he just kinda knew stuff.”

You laughed. “Probably from all his books.”

Vernon nodded. “Good point.”

“So… he does what you do?”

“Kinda. When I first met him, he was just a dealer. But he knew all the right people. And he was super charismatic. So it was easy for him the climb the ranks and get the right promotions. Instead of pullin’ the shots, he was callin’ them, y’know?” Vernon let the last photograph slip into your hand, which you brought close to your inspection. “He was more of a distributor. He got people to move product. I did that for him. At one point I wanted to be more, but he told me it wasn’t worth it. Low profile is better in the long run. Especially if you want to get out. Makes it way easier.”

It wasn’t a polaroid image.

The detail was much crisper, with a full spectrum of vivid colour. You recognized the Camry. The two boys were sitting atop its hood, rough sneakers on the silver bumper (then, without a spot of rust), elbows weighted against their knees. Vernon was in his cherished bomber while his friend wore a jacket, green-checkered fleece. Without the polaroid glare, you could see all the details of his freckled face, from the big, dark brown eyes to the piercing in his dimple.

You knew him.

You had seen him before.

“That shitty car I drive,” he snorted, “that used to be his. But he sold it to me for a cheap buck. I always wondered why. That car went everywhere he went. Sentimental type shit. I was honoured, though.”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, your eyes widened. “I met your friend, Dots.”

His forehead was quick to wrinkle. “Really? No bullshit?”

You cast through the photos again, your certainty only becoming stronger, the memories crawling out from the deepest recesses of your mind like the dead unearthing from tombs. “He came to Mr. York’s, I think over a year ago,” you started explaining. “I was newer, having a super hard night… I thought he was gonna be another customer to shove me around but he was sweet. He even… drove me home.” The memory was uncompletely unthawed. Everything rushed back to you: missing the bus, chasing after him down the dewy street, getting into the car, feeling nervous but relieved. There was a softness about him that you had never experienced from anyone else, a certain trustworthiness that sat so right in your gut. “I remembered asking for his name, too. He didn’t tell me.”

“Shit—he drove you home?” Vernon was astonished, immediately pressing for more information. “When was this again?”

“Over a year ago. Not this recent fall, but the one before it.”

“At… where?”

“Mr. York’s,” you laughed. “Where I work, as a server.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I never saw him again,” you admitted, suddenly becoming overwhelmed with forlorn. How funny that one encounter with a complete stranger could evoke such powerful yearning, as though he had been a dear friend, someone like Diana. You supposed it was the unexplored possibility of everything ahead, a road never taken, a bridge never crossed. Lives skimming by but never blending.

“That’s crazy as fuck,” Vernon rasped, dragging a hand through his loose, shiny hair, grinning formidably bright. “You and Dotsy, huh?”

“Wow—you have a nickname for his nickname?”

“Of course.” His hands fell back into his lap. Vernon started prodding at the cuticle of his thumb. “It makes sense, though.”

You looked between the photographs again. “What makes sense?”

“Why he drove you home.” Vernon sunk lower into the futon, spreading out his legs and folding his arms, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “He liked shy, awkward, weird girls like you."

“Gee,” you coughed. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grabbed your knee and shook it. “It’s a good thing. I think people like that feel the sincerest, right? It’s not an act. That’s just how they are. They can’t help it.”

You pursed your lip, appreciating the nuance of the idea, and the comfort it harboured. “Maybe… I never thought about it like that.” At last, you set the three photographs onto the coffee table, leaving the particular polaroid of the two boys relaxed against the concrete stoop on top, and joined Vernon in leaning back into the futon. Rubbing your lips, you thought for a moment. “Are you guys still friends?”

Vernon tilted his head at you, laughed heartily. “He’s dead.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

But he casually dismissed your sympathy. “No need to apologize.”

“That’s really upsetting,” you sighed, grabbing onto your ankles. “I would have loved to know him better. I mean, he seemed so kind.”

“He was. He did his job well, but he never should have been there. I’m sure you two would have got on well. I mean, already seemed like it.”

Your smile beamed at him, like a gleaming rainbow.

Fiddling with the collar of your sock, you wavered on whether or not to ask about the gloomy specifics. The smile began to drift from your countenance, replaced by teeth nervously chewing your lip. “Am I allowed to ask how he passed? You don't have to tell me.”

“Overdose,” Vernon answered. “Gruesome stuff.”

He didn’t mention if it was accidental or not.

Either way, you sensed the distant hurt underneath his firm tone.

Picking up the photographs, Vernon took them to the privacy of his dresser, setting them down into the cabinet space with gentleness, as though he were handling a delicate flower bouquet. “Talk later, Dotsy,” he lilted before shutting the drawer. “Miss you every day.”

You were woken up much earlier than preferred by the daylight glaring in through the windows. At first, you assumed you were in your own bedroom, where you almost always kept the curtains shut because your view was a parking lot. Hence your confusion to pull the covers off your face and realize there was a ceiling fan directly above you, in addition to a series of posters against the wall that definitely weren’t yours. Shuffling to sit upright, you saw Vernon sprawled across the futon with a grey blanket half-pooled onto the floor, exactly where you had left him the night before.

He was holding a phone above his face, thumbs tapping away, rogue bits of hair sticking straight up. It was unbelievably strange to awaken in a bed that wasn’t yours. At least it was a Sunday.

You had nowhere to be.

Rubbing the bleariness from your eyes, you yawned. “Morning.”

Vernon poked his head up. “Oh—you’re awake. Sleep alright?”

While adjusting the blankets in your lap, you nodded, glancing around the apartment and noticing how subtly the morning light impacted its appearance. Everything felt cooler, softer. “Yeah… I think I conked right out, to be honest.” You grabbed your phone, making a quick pitstop of your messages. The notification to Lee’s had disappeared. Ruby had texted you a few times around midnight. “Have you been up long?”

He shrugged, guesstimating. “Uh, maybe an hour?”

“I can’t believe you’re an early-riser. It doesn’t fit you at all.”

“Why?” The boy snickered, continuing to dawdle on his phone, throwing his leg over the back of the futon. “You think I’m lazy? That us drug dealers just mooch around all day, stoned and fuckin’ brainless?”

“Well, you don’t have the best portrayals through media.”

Finally, he slapped his phone down. “I’m glad I can be a little science experiment to you. Contact with the specimen is critical, huh?”

Your eyes rolled, and you reached for the water glass that Vernon left you atop his nightstand, taking a brief gulp. Most of his glasses were dusty, but the water tasted pure. “I wonder if the specimen will prove his productive nature by making breakfast? Science has to know.”

Vernon pushed himself to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs.

He ruffled a hand through his fuzzy bedhead, attempting to calm the hectic tangles but somehow only making them worse. “Is that your fancy-smancy way of askin’ me to make you a meal? You’re a demandin’ scientist.”

“Science is always demanding. It’s serious stuff.”

Grinning, you watched Vernon lethargically drag himself over to the kitchenette, pulling out a frying pan from one of the cabinets that he clanged onto the stove. He made you a grilled cheese, paired with orange juice and a vanilla yogurt that you double-checked the expiry date on, the ensemble served to you in bed, with a dramatic bow from Vernon and the flap of the kitchen towel landing over his shoulder. “There you go, Miss. Is it to your utmost liking?” He asked in a quaint, smooth British accent, attempting to mimic a natural poshness.

“It is,” you answered. “Your productivity has been noted.”

Vernon didn’t at all rush you through breakfast, though you suspected he had somewhere to be judging from the change of clothes and quick self-pampering in the washroom. He plopped himself back down on the futon after fixing his whirlwind hair and brushing his teeth. “Mintiness is next to godliness or whatever the fuck,” he had said, sticking a Listerine strip on his tongue.

He drove you home about an hour later.

It was the worst car ride of your life—not that it was actually terrible in any sense—but chiefly because it meant your night with him was over, long gone, flicked away to the ephemeral past. He had been so supportive, so reassuring, so polite, more than you could have expected. You never would have thought those qualities of Vernon when you first met him back in the fall, though time and trust had eased you two closer, and in the process, your understanding became enriched. He was stubbornly himself in ways that others could never grasp or accept, not that it mattered to him.

The good, the bad—it wasn’t separate—but an interwoven whole.

As the car stalled outside the curb to your apartment, you gave the boy an earnest, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Vernon. Seriously.”

“All good.” He shrugged. “Talk later, PJ’s.”

Your heart was heavy, watching him pull away, disappear into whatever venture awaited him next. It felt like your connection was a thread that tied you two together, and whenever he left, the thread was unraveling, being pulled, aching at the strain of your accumulating distance.

Entering the apartment, you jammed to a holt upon noticing Ruby sat on the sofa, arms folded crossly. She was clad in a hot pink bathrobe and her sleek-furred designer slippers, wet hair pulled into a bun, bright white cream smeared underneath her eyes.

She bobbed her ankle up and down.

You smiled at her, sheepish. “Heyyy…”

“Don’t ‘heyyy’ me,” the girl snapped, regurgitating your awkward tone of voice. “My phone has exploded with text messages from Lee, saying how badly he needs to apologize to you—apologize for what—I have no fucking clue! Because you left me out to dry! I’ve been worried sick! And then I realized you’re not even home, you’re sleeping over at Vernon’s?!” She gestured at you, babbling on. “Dressed in your pyjamas?! I mean, walk of shame, much? Please, please, please tell me you didn’t—”

“No,” you laughed, pulling off your lazily-adorned coat and throwing it on the rack, “we did not have sex. All I did was sleep over.”

Ruby furrowed her faint brow, eyes boring into you with the strength of flying knives. Giggling, you dragged your knapsack over to the sofa, plopping down beside her and settling your hand over top hers, which was splayed on her knee. It actually felt nice to get scolded by Ruby, to defrost her mellowness and sense the depth of her care.

She proceeded to dramatically whip her hand away. “I want to be even meaner, but considering I don’t know what happened… I’m dialing back much of the meanness…” sighing, Ruby softened her gaze. “What the hell happened? Lee’s texts have been worrying me to death.”

You hated having to rehash the ugly details. Once already felt like enough, but the second time was just unabashedly painful. Guilt was scribbled all over Ruby’s face, and while it was impossible to blame her, you knew she was deeply upset about being the one to introduce you and Lee. He was her friend, too. Someone she trusted and regarded highly enough to suggest a relationship with her roommate. But you were adamant that she shouldn’t criticize herself so undeservingly, and after the exchanges of comfort between you, the girl was furious, stomping around the living room.

“I should call his mother!”

“I should throw a bucket of molasses over his windshield!”

“I should superglue his law textbook shut!”

You decided it was best to let her vent.

Until Ruby finally came to a pause, dropped open her mouth, and looked at you quizzically. “Wait—you told this to Vernon, too, right? What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was a sweetheart. Really nice about everything.”

Ruby jutted out her hip, readjusting the straps to her flashy bathrobe before slicking her hands against her damp hair. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Where did he go, after he dropped you off?”

You shrugged, settling back against the sofa. “I’m not sure. I assume he has, y’know, drug dealy stuff to do. He didn’t linger, just took off.”

“Oh,” Ruby said with a breathy, faltering smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to, uh, get dressed. We can do whatever you want afterward!’ She scrambled to grab her charm-decorated phone off the coffee table, slippers scuffing fast across the floor as she burst into her bedroom.

Weird. 

Holding your breath, you listened intently to the silence.

But then you heard your roommate’s voice echoing at low from her room, and you knew she was on the phone. Using your tiptoes, you pranced over to Ruby’s door, ever so subtly pressing your ear against the crack. Yes, you were being a gigantic sleuthing snoop, but something about it felt warranted.

“Vernon, just listen to me, this isn’t going to help—okay, yes! It’s going to help you feel better, but what about her? You never think things through… I understand what happened, she just told me… he is a piece of shit! I agree with you, but—I care about her, too! You don’t think I want to dent Lee’s face in for how he made her feel? … Please, please, please, for the love of God, you already get into enough trouble! Don’t add another freaking battery charge to your already insane resume of illegal activity! You seriously won’t get out of prison, you idiot! … Yes… Yes, I get it… I know how much you care for her… thank the fucking holy fucking ghost. You made the right choice, okay? I know it.”

Hearing Ruby hang up the call, you sped away from her door and settled back onto the couch, fingers twiddling anxiously in your lap.

Was Vernon going to do something to Lee?

You couldn’t be sure about the situation without admitting you had eavesdropped on Ruby. When she came out from her bedroom, you reminded her she still had cream under her eyes. She started rubbing it in, sighing aloud, like she had just adverted an assassination attempt. You weren’t sure what to think, what to feel, just that you couldn’t shake Vernon from your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what you did.

“Honey Buns, wow, I haven’t had these in a lifetime.”

“Doesn’t that technically mean you’ve never had it?”

Soonyoung’s voice sounded from over your shoulder, followed by the rustling of plastic. “Dunno—they’re good, though.”

You were helping him stock some of the snacks. It was opening and the morning crowd would start trickling in soon. While Soonyoung worked on more of the individually packaged foods, you were refilling the candy bars. The Twix and KitKats were almost completely empty.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung mumbled, “back to my story…”

Since he was stocking the aisle behind yours, you could freely roll your eyes without worrying about being rude, unlike Soonyoung, who would roll his eyes straight to your face. But you always listened to the babblings of his weekend antics because he always listened to your incessant qualms about the universe and your issues—it was only fair. Half the time you tuned him out, anyway. It was typically the same stuff: getting drunk or high, stirring up trouble, running into a handsome guy, and then they’d end up having sex some place unorthodox, like a porta-potty, or a toolshed.

You tore open another box of chocolate bars.

“… and I was, like, starting to get nervous, ‘cause I promised everyone I would get them tablets, but my plug wasn’t answering. So, I had to, like, keep assuring them and shit, right? I’ve had this specific acid tablet before so I knew it was good, but the thing is, I can only get them from this mysterious Chinese dude who kinda looks like a punk rock vampire. That’s beside the point, though. Anyway, at the last second, he comes through—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning around and brushing the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Are the tablets from Minghao?”

Soonyoung stopped stocking his Honey Buns. He looked at you, sun-bleached eyebrows strung high up his forehead. “You know Minghao?”

“Uh, not really… but I’ve been trying to, uh… it’s complicated…”

You couldn’t believe it! So, maybe it wasn’t Darian that told Minghao about you and Vernon, maybe it was Soonyoung all along. He did have a pretty big mouth… you wouldn’t be surprised if he let something stupid fly off the cuff. It somehow made too much sense.

Even though you wanted to holler, you tried to stay relaxed.

He adjusted his backwards cap. “Shit, you’re trying to buy?”

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. “Not at all. But, uh, did you know he was the one who was spray painting the building? Those octopuses? Octopi? Whatever.”

He scratched behind his neck, adverting eye contact. “Maybe…”

You gasped, “and you didn’t tell me you figured it out?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, before you have a cow, I didn’t say anything because I handled the situation and I just wanted it to be behind us. Once I realized it was him, I just slipped the dude some extra cash so he’d stop with the doodles. And—would you look at that—he stopped!” Soonyoung defended.

This time, you rolled your eyes to his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“I solved the problem, alright?”

“Those doodles had my arms limp and lifeless. I had to work cash hardly being able to lift a damn thing! Do you know how dehumanizing it was to ask men to tilt their beer to the side so I could scan it? I’ve never been called sweetheart, cupcake, and honey more in my entire life!”

“Well, I apologize,” Soonyoung tutted. “But it’s in the past.”

You huffed, turning back around to continue cramming chocolate bars onto the shelf, chewing your inner cheek. But you didn’t get very far in the task. “So, you’re familiar with him? Where does he stay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Soonyoung scoffed, bending down to grab another box and bumping you. “I just meet the dude in random ass places.”

“Does he ever mention anything specific?”

“Like what?” He groaned.

“I don’t know, like, clues to where he might live?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Soonyoung retaliated, laughing as he tore open the box in his hands. “Gonna get him back? Pull a prank on him? Finger-paint all over his windows?”

“No,” you grumbled, pausing to think of a reason. “It’s for… Ruby. She’s interested.” Oops, sorry Ruby, you winced. “They hit it off at the club. Minghao gave her an address on a slip of paper, but she can’t read his handwriting. She has no trail. It’s a real crisis.”

Soonyoung paused. “Really? Why aren’t you mad at her?”

“She genuinely didn’t know, nor did she pretend she never met him!”

He sighed, utterly drained. “Jeez.”

“Yeah. She’s super upset about it.”

“I thought Minghao had a girlfriend.”

“My guess is that they’re broken up,” you attempted to answer quickly, before he could think too hard, unaware of what Soonyoung actually knew about Minghao. “She flew back to China, apparently…”

“Damn… well…” he shoved more packaged sweets onto the shelf, taking a moment before speaking again. You dared not speak. Once Soonyoung lost a thought, it might never return. “One time, he mentioned a trailer.”

“A trailer?”

“Yeah… after we finished our deal last weekend, he told me he needed to get back to his trailer. That’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Like, a trailer park?”

“Maybe.”

Okay, it wasn’t the best lead, but it wasn’t the worst. You could work with that, even if it was ambiguous. It was definitely more than what you and Vernon had been able to scrounge up the week before. Upon organizing the last few chocolate bars onto the shelf, you heard the tinkling bell above the front door ring out.

“I better get to cash,” you said, ultimately satisfied with your play.

One socked foot was pulled onto the edge of the bench.

You left your elbow propped onto your knee, helping to secure the phone before your face as you scrolled through a citywide map. It was closing time at Mr. York’s, and since you were responsibly finished with all your cleaning duties, you were supposed to be getting ready to leave for the night.

Lara slipped into the locker area, standing behind you. As she fiddled with the combination, she mumbled, “what are you searching?”

You sighed in frustration. “Nothing, at this point.”

She took out her purse and a pair of tall, luxury winter boots from her locker. Realizing the bench was strewn messily in your coat and tote bag, you moved the items aside so she could sit next to you.

“Tonight genuinely sucked,” Lara complained, tugging off her work shoes one by one, letting them bounce rubbery against the tiles. “That fancy business lady—she makes me want to put a shotgun in my mouth.” She then began massaging her feet, blowing a tuft of long hair from her face. “The way she orders me around, makes all these cunty, unnecessary comments…”

“Oh, I know,” you chided, setting your phone aside. “And then the entire group stands out front, smoking, blocking everyone’s way.”

Shoving her foot into one of the black boots, Lara nodded. “I hate the fact she’s becoming a regular...” Lara tugged up the zipper and grabbed the other boot, rubbing some dirt off the white-fur detailing. “You think if I gave Costello a handie, he’d slip, like, a laxative in her food in return? Or something that makes her fade away?”

You giggled, returning to putting on your own boots that you had left scattered on the ground. “He’s really into you. I think it might work.”

Lara shrugged, reaching behind her to snatch a pretty coat out from her locker. “A little too into me. That business lady sucks but at least she gave me a decent tip for once. Costello is useless apart from having good timing on the meat section.” After buttoning up her chic coat, Lara flipped the shimmery strands of her dark brown hair from underneath the collar, sighing. “I’m getting damn sick of men. And women. I am a terrible person.”

“Can’t you stick it out until we can confirm the laxative thing?”

She pitted a very unsatisfactory glance in your direction.

“Only kidding,” you teased.

Lara stood up, grabbing her purse. “Do you need a ride home? Tars is warming up the car. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra person.”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

As you gathered together the rest of your things and shut your locker, Lara picked up your forgotten phone, her eyes narrowing in inspection at the map you had pulled up. “Seriously? What’s this for?”

You grabbed the phone back, stuffing it in your pocket, still disappointed at the sparse results. Lara had to pull you in the direction of the back door when you automatically veered for the front entrance. The parking lot was behind the restaurant.

You were used to the bus.

“I’ve been trying to find trailer parks that are close by.”

She chuckled while shouldering open the door. “Jeez—is the pay here really that damn bad? Don’t you work two jobs?”

“No!” You laughed, following Lara across the empty lot. “It’s for another reason that’s hard to explain. But I’m not having much luck.”

Lara opened the passenger door of Tara’s car, bending down to greet her friend before gesturing to you, standing awkwardly behind her, arms folded to help protect yourself against the biting wind.

You could hardly hear what the two girls were saying—Tara was blasting electronic pop music while taking off her lipstick with a makeup wipe—and you could only hope that maybe she would turn the volume down a tad. Vernon played his music quite loudly, too. Sometimes he would compromise, sometimes not. It depended on how much he liked the artist.

“Hop in,” Lara then said. “She’s fine with it.”

You smiled, pulling open the back door and sliding in behind Lara. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that you nearly coughed.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Tara shouted over the music. “Apologies—the backseat it a little messy—you can just push all those magazines over!”

“Oh, no problem!” You shouted. “Thanks for the ride!”

“What was that?!”

You set your tote bag beside you, swallowing tightly as the music vibrated through the car’s speaker system. “I said thank you for—"

Suddenly, everything went dead silent.

“Gosh, Tars,” Lara grumbled, wriggling out from her coat. “You don’t need it that fucking loud. The concert was five months ago. And there’s a guest in your car. I think she appreciates having intact ear drums.”

You giggled breathily, nervous. “It was a little loud.”

“Don’t sugar coat it,” Lara groaned.  “She needs an intervention.”

“Okay, whatever!” Tara yelled, loosening her scarf and pulling out her phone. “I get the point. Where do you live? For the GPS?”

“2269 Roxbury.”

“Perfect—we’ll drop you off first.”

“Oh, by the way,” Lara began, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, “I’ve seen a few trailers, but it wasn’t necessarily a park.”

You brightened up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Right before it got super cold, my friends and I meshed with this other random group at a bar. We ended up going to a scrap yard, I think it’s called. There were old cars and motorcycles everywhere. A few trailers, too. Anyway, stuff was definitely getting passed around. I tried this LSD gummy and then got on a rusty bike. Got a super nasty cut on my leg. Had to go to the doctor and everything.”

“Oh,” Tara hummed, focused on the road. “I remember that. I had to come pick you up! That cut was awful! You’re lucky you had your shots!”

“Where was it, do you remember?” You pressed for information.

“I remember,” Tara sighed. “It’s along Kichesippi Woods. It’s a big scrap yard that doesn’t really get used any more. If you’re wondering about the trailers, I think there were three. People definitely lived in them. I guess they're used to people sneaking around.”

You were already making notes in your phone, excited to share the news with Vernon later on. “That’s amazing! Thank you both!”

Tara poised a polite expression. “Why are you so curious?”

“It’s a secret,” Lara answered in your place.

You shrugged, smirking ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. He made himself comfortable on the couch, already prepared with an extra pillow and a pink blanket (he usually preferred Ruby’s black blanket that came with a special heating remote, but you thought the fairy pink was much better), in addition to slapping on his casual clothes—grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt—which truly wasn’t that different from his everyday attire. You were anticipating having him over, considering the fact you had been sitting on some very pertinent information all week. While waiting for your tea to finish steeping, you and Vernon were chatting up random topics.

Ruby wouldn’t be home until later.

Vernon had rolled himself a blunt. You never liked the astringent smokiness of the smell, how it stuck to everything, but after enough rendezvous with Vernon, you were unfortunately used to it. Ruby was into weed as well. She always puffed out her bedroom window.

“I’m actually so excited to tell you what I figured out!” You exclaimed, unable to stop fidgeting in your seat on the couch.

He eyed you up and down. “I can see that.”

“No, like, I’m really proud of myself.”

“Congratulations.”

It felt like being a child the night before the big birthday party, knowing your parents got you a specific gift, being ecstatic to rip it open, having an ear-to-ear grin plastered on your face akin to a mask.

Vernon exhaled a cloud of billowing, smooth smoke. He made everything look so effortless. You were a coughing, spluttering mess the last time you tried a basic joint, rolled courteously by your high school best friend. To be honest, you just never had much interest in it. Although you were probably smoking cheap, dull strains.

“When can I know the news?” He asked, keeping the blunt secured between his fingers as his hand fell upon his lap. “Why the big wait?”

“My tea,” you answered. “It has to finish steeping.”

The boy groaned, rolling his head against the sofa, frustrated at the delayed gratification. You looked along the column of his throat, noted the skin's bareness, without dark purplish-brown bruises pressed like flowers. There hadn’t been any marks for a few weeks. At least none you had noticed or seen—not that you were keeping track.

“Who cares?” Vernon grunted.

“I care!” You smacked his thigh with an embroidered pillow, a gift from Ruby’s seamstress mother. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“Is your special tea the equivalent of this?” Vernon inquired, holding the blunt up to his lips. The next time he spoke, the thin smoke crawled out from his mouth, as though he was a fire-breathing dragon. “Then I could understand. You gotta ride the wave.”

“Sure, it’s exactly like that. It’s probably done, actually.” Getting up from the couch, you checked the tea that you left steaming on the counter, stirring the bag around a few more times for good measure before plopping it in the trash. Once you rejoined Vernon in the living room, you snuggled against your end of the sofa, legs stretched out and daring to poke into his space. “Okay, are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Floor’s all yours.”

“Can I please have some more excitement?”

Vernon sighed. He tucked the blunt behind his ear and cleared his throat. Then, the boy was leaning over you, grabbing your shoulders and rattling them. “Oh, please, please, please won’t you tell me your awesome secret!” He fake-pleaded, squinching his eyes shut. “I’ll genuinely kill myself if I don’t get to know!”

Giggling, you pulled up your foot and lightly shoved it against the edge of his ribs, prodding him to sit back down. “That’s much better, although it didn't seem very sincere. Anyway, okay I'll tell you. Whew, this is really good. Okay, okay... I know where Minghao is!”

“Do you?” Vernon engaged, entertaining himself with another intake of smoke. “And where would that be? Burlington Coat Factory?”

“There’s a scrap yard along Kichesippi Woods,” you explained, tightly gripping your tea. “He lives in one of the trailers there. I’m positive.”

“Kichesippi Woods? Didn’t a guy get murdered there last year?”

You leaned forward, willfully ignoring him. “And guess how I figured it out? Through my savvy investigation skills! It was Soonyoung! He gets tablets from Minghao. I figured he was the one who blabbed about us, knowing his big mouth and all, so that’s how Minghao knew I was familiar with you. Apparently, Minghao mentioned getting back to a trailer, so, naturally, I think—” you paused, blowing on your tea and taking a shallow sip to test its flavours before continuing, “—I think he lives in a trailer park, but there’s hardly any around the city.

So, I’m working a closing shift at Mr. York’s a few days later, and I get a major scoop from Tara and Lara. Lara went to a scrap yard with this big group of people to do drugs or get drunk or steal a rusty bicycle or something—I don’t really know—and she tells me she noticed trailers there. Tara backed her up. One has to be Minghao’s! The yard’s along Kichesippi Woods!”

Vernon was squinting at you, his eyes slim and red. You assumed it was a boatload of information to absorb at once, and you hadn’t exactly held his hand and waltzed through everything at a gentle pace. But you had collected all the evidence—even a location!

The boy nodded. “That’s good news, for sure.”

Letting the tea sit between your legs, you clapped at him. “Who’s pulling the weight now, huh? I did all that handiwork myself!”

“Handiwork?” Vernon scoffed, itching his studded eyebrow. “You have destiny on your side. Everyone you fuckin’ breathe around is tangled up in this bullshit, somehow. Not that I’m complainin’.”

You fell back against the arm of the couch, pouting. “Why can’t you let me win? Did I still not do a good job? Did I not help us out?”

“No, 'course you did a good job,” he assured you. “And you helped us a lot. You’re right. I should celebrate your wins more.”

Feeling the hot tea begin to burn your inner thighs, you picked it back up and nodded at him in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, when should we check it out? Tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head, fixing his tattooed arm around the back of the couch. “Can’t,” he muttered, “I’ve got business.”

“Ugh, you’re so boo.” You frowned, slipping down the sofa. Holding the tea against your stomach, feeling a circle of heat sink through your shirt, you began nibbling your lip, different ideas forming bubbles in your mind as you examined the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Forget it,” he chuckled. “You’re not goin’ by yourself,”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” you corrected him. “The only thing I wanna do is check it out. I can’t help being curious. Maybe Tara would—”

“You don’t go if I don’t go,” Vernon stated, shrugging a shoulder.

Lifting your head to rest against the sofa, you scowled at him. “I don’t think that choice falls into your authority. I can do what I want.”

“Oh, can you?” He goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What a big girl.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Vernon said. “I don’t want you there without me. Minghao’s snakey. I know how to deal with him.”

You sighed in capitulation, wriggling your toes. “Fine.”

He gave you a stern but entreating glance. “Promise?”

Sitting up, you set the tea onto the coffee table. “I promise.”

Vernon held out his pinky finger.

You wrapped yours around his and shook on it.

Curling your legs underneath you, playing with a thread of the pink blanket now pulled onto your lap, you began to smile. “I can't help but find it weird when things actually go my way."

He chuckled. “It only feels weird ‘cause you think the world’s against you. But it’s not.” Vernon exhaled another wispy cloud. “It’s just the world. Plus, you’re high-strained enough to start up a car battery.”

“I am not!”

The boy tossed his eyes in a circle. “Your delusion charms me.”

“Actually, I think I’ve calmed down a lot…” you hummed, winding the thread around your finger. “Compared to when we first met.”

Vernon nodded. “Maybe.”

“You don't believe me? That I've mellowed out?”

“Somehow, I think it's the opposite. You talk a fuckin' lot.”

“I do? All my report cards said I was too quiet.”

“Maybe I just bring it outta you, huh?” He chuckled, letting the blunt nestle between his lips. The papery tip singed its orange glow as he puffed, more smoke drifting throughout the living room. You noticed the burnt odor lingering for longer than usual, though you weren’t particularly concerned. Maybe you were half-high. “Spike?” He was suddenly holding out the blunt, thick in his fingers and packed with an earthly, musty smell, and your heart restricted, frozen at the offer.

“Uh…” you swallowed, a deep fire rising from the base of your throat that made the words difficult to pronounce. “I’m not sure if…”

He moved it away before you could decide, drew in more smoke that soon streamed out his nose and rolled from between his lips like a waterfall of weightless clouds. “I knew your ass wouldn’t do shit.”

“Because you pressured me!”

He almost choked on his own splitting cackle. “Fuckin—how?! All I did was hold the damn thing out in front of you! You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“You set up a pretense for me to be pressured!”

“No—that was you,” Vernon chuckled. “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Grumbling, you stayed hunched over the blanket, continuing to play with the baby pink thread by feeding it between your fingers.

“Unless,” Vernon sang, “you actually did want a spike?”

You glanced up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

He nodded his head. “I don’t care if you do, PJ’s.”

Sighing, you reached out, though you paused midway, your fingers twitching in the air. No—you couldn’t. There was too much unspoken tension with him watching you. What if you started hacking up a lung like back in your high school days? You were never good at holding the breath in—the part that was crucial to feeling the high—without your eyes sprouting tears from the heated dryness.

Then, shaking your head, you refused. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s been too long…” you worried, forgetting the thread and lying back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna look dumb, or something.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? It’s just me.”

“And you’ll make fun of me.”

“Well, I won’t mean it.” He smirked, giving you another moment to twiddle your thumbs and think. Suddenly, Vernon grabbed your knee and squeezed it. “I won’t say a damn thing, okay? I promise.”

“No.”

“Yes, c’mere,” he encouraged. His textured fingertips squeezed into the flesh of your arm, pulling you to sit back up despite all your grouchy, reluctant noises. “Swear I’ll be good.”

Staring him square in his pretty face, you shook your head.

“How ‘bout I make it easier, then?” Vernon suggested an unknown compromise, the dark hues of his golden eyes softening. “You trust me?”

At that moment, your skin thrummed with heat. You felt its pulse, travelling like a crashing ocean wave, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from narrowing as you traced the crests and contours of Vernon’s scheming expression. You coughed slightly. “What does that mean?”

He pursed his lip. “I’m askin’ if you trust me.”

You sniffled, nodded your head. “I do… but—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?” The nervousness of not knowing his intentions caused your mind to flitter like paper birds. You did trust him, but that didn’t exactly quell your timorousness with one easy sweep. “I-I just… you’re making me… nervous.”

“I know,” Vernon said, smiling. “I’m not gonna do anything you won’t like, yeah?” He brushed his fingers along your knee, and you took in a long, quivering breath. “Just keep relaxed. That’s it. And at any point, if you don’t want to, then stop me. Sound good?”

“Okay.” You nodded, your voice a squeak.

He put the blunt between his lips. Grabbing his lighter off the coffee table, you leaned back as he crisped the end with a few sparks, feeling the flame’s warmth ever so gently against your cheeks. Once Vernon was satisfied, he tossed the lighter and gave the blunt a quick, obligatory puff, making sure to politely blow the smoke away from your face. “Alright,” he sighed, “you ready, PJ’s?”

Gulping, the only thing you could do was nod, too afraid to use your voice again in case it embarrassingly cracked. Vernon reminded you to close your eyes. As soon as the room went dark, your heartbeat leapt tenfold.

You felt his hand touch your knee, attempting to soothe you with massaging circles. “Relax, okay?” He whispered. “You’ll like it.”

There was the faintest sound of a crackle as you heard the boy inhale, taking his time to let the smoke settle right. Then, you sensed his fingertips drift against your tingling cheek, curling behind your ear, and your nails scraped the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. He was holding the edge of your face, so close that your atmospheres seemed overlapping despite the sheer, unmoving blackness.

Softly, his nose bumped yours and you gasped. That’s when you felt the fantom breeze—his pierced lips delicately mouthing over your own—his fingers dancing to fasten your chin, the smoke crawling inside you, spilling against the back of your throat like a breath of prickly fog. The sensation was overwhelming. You didn’t know where it came from, but you mewled, wanting to chase Vernon’s touch like a swaying, golden reed. His hand skimmed down your waist, pulled along your thigh, and then the smoke had vanished.

Holy hell—you were going to pass out.

Everything around you felt fuzzy, dream-like.

There was so much heat inside you that it was no wonder your tissues and bones weren’t melting into each other, bubbling, fusing.

But then you realized what had happened. Your eyes flung open, and you scrambled backward until you were pressed against the arm of the sofa, gawking at the clever, smirking boy. “Why the hell would you do that?” You admonished.

Vernon relaxed back into his spot, arms crossed, blunt tucked behind his ear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Made you feel good, yeah?”

Yes, yes!  You had never felt anything so electric! Sparks had coursed the lengths of your sensitive skin like flying livewires. They were ticklish and molten and crackling with pleasure.

“No! It did not!”

He bit his lip, shrugged. “Fine, it didn’t.” But then he tilted his head at you. “Thanks for moanin’ into my mouth, by the way. That was hot.”

“Shut up!” You recoiled off the sofa. “No I freaking didn’t!”

“My word against yours, beautiful,” Vernon countered, winking.

“I can’t believe this!” You fretted, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, fingernails running against your teeth. “Why on earth would you do that? I don’t understand! Are you trying to trick me?”

He spoke through a haze of smoke. “Trick you how?”

“By damn near kissing me!” You cried. “Why would you do that!”

Vernon didn’t seem as concerned. “You like me,” he stated.

“So?!” At that point, it didn’t even matter. He obviously knew. You were terrible at hiding it—big surprise—but you had gradually stopped caring about how obvious you were being because there had been the boundary of his feelings diverging from yours. You were safe in a world of fantasy. There was nothing else to worry about. He would never reciprocate. “That isn’t something you can do, Vernon! It doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me!”

“Who said it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Your feet tripped on the shag carpet at the shock of his questioning and you slammed to an awkward, confused stop. He was still reclined against the sofa, hands tucked behind his head, one holding onto his blunt that produced a finite tail of smoke into the air.

“What?” You gasped. “And what the hell does that mean?”

He bit his lip ring, stared at you. “What do you think?”

“No,” you choked, shaking your head. “No, no, no, no!”

“No, what?” Vernon laughed, leaning forward and splaying out his hands. “Why is this suddenly such a bad thing? I can’t like you?”

You sat on the coffee table, squeezing your scalp in agony.

He moved closer to you, reaching his touch underneath your knee.

“It’s not the same…” you sniffled, wiping off your runny, wet nose.

Vernon shrugged, sweetly rubbing your leg. “How come?” He murmured, attentive to your overflowing sensitivity. “Explain it to me.”

You sighed, gulping in a breath. “It just isn’t. When you didn’t like me back, I could like you even more, as much as I wanted! Because I thought you would never like me! But if you’re being serious… then it changes things! It puts… realism… on the table… and there’s just no realism with us!” Tears beaded down your cheeks, but you wiped them away before Vernon could get his hand back to your face, before you could melt all over again. “I’ll want more, I’ll want a relationship. But you won’t because you’ll get bored in a relationship—that’s why you only have unattached sex! And you’re a freaking drug dealer! How am I supposed to introduce a drug dealer to my parents, o-or survive without worrying about you, or stay out of your business no matter how many times you tell me to. I won’t!”

“Jeez,” Vernon chuckled, his voice becoming hoarse from the potency of the Indica. “That was quite the speech.”

“But did you listen?!”

“Yes, yes, I listened.” Vernon put the blunt behind his ear, then eased your anxious buzzing by grabbing onto your shaky hands and surrounding them tightly with his warm, rough, calloused ones. “I listened, PJ’s. Alright? I think you have valid worries. But why do we have to focus on the uncertainty right now? Why can’t we just… I dunno… go where the wind takes us? Huh?”

Your shoulders sunk. “Do you really like me?”

The boy smiled, flashing a glimpse of his sharp teeth as a response.

“Well… I think you’re lying. We’re friends.”

No matter what he told you tonight, your mind was solidified. It was not going to accept that this boy was being truthful. It was not going to accept that your fantasy was threatening the bounds of real life.

Vernon shook his head, moved aside some sooty hairs tickling his eyes. “Y’know what? Sure. We’re friends. Let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’ll just think about you every wakin’ fuckin’ second of my goddamn day, and you’ll think about me, and we’ll just call it even. Right?”

 Nipping anxiously on your bottom lip, you nodded. “Right.”

Vernon took the blunt down from his ear. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Once Ruby came home, she could clearly tell something was off between you, though she refrained from being vocal about it. You were certain she noted how distant you were from Vernon, not just metaphorically, but also physically, cramming yourself against the opposite end of the sofa like you were attached by hot-glue.

Most of your responses were minimal and squeaky. She sent you a text before bed, when you came out from the washroom and screamed at Vernon innocently waiting his turn.

WTF is going on???

You sent her a text back.

I’ll explain tmo… you won’t BELIEVE it…

7 MONTHS AGO.

The next morning, you decided to take Ruby out for breakfast to explain the situation. Vernon was gone by the time you awoke. Strangely, the pink blanket was folded nice and neat on the couch as opposed to the usual lump he would leave behind in his haste. You placed the blanket on the corner of your bed prior to heading out, giving it a long, confused stare.

Ruby loved Get Cracking. It was her favourite breakfast restaurant in the city. No matter your age, they left you pencil crayons and a colouring book to work on while awaiting your food. It made for a very interesting exposé as you shaded in the bejewelled crown atop your princess’s curly hair.

“No… I don’t even know how to start…” you sighed.

Your roommate was colouring a frog perched on a lilypad. “Just come straight out with it,” Ruby encouraged. “That’s the best way.”

“Well, I’ll set up some background first…” you murmured, replacing your bright yellow pencil with a deep purple one to colour in the crown’s amulets. “So, basically… Vernon almost freakin’ kissed me.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, harsh snap. Ruby had broken the lead to her blue pencil. “Uh—” she swallowed, hard, bulging her golden-green eyes at you like saucers “—so much for background information!”

“It gets worse!”

“Jesus. How?”

Collapsing your shoulders, taking a timid glance around the restaurant, you proceeded to lower your voice and whisper, “because, then he told me… he essentially told me that he liked me! I almost fainted!”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you freaking serious? Like, on your life? You’re being serious? He said that?”

You nodded gravely. “No, I’m being so serious. The seriousest.”

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t know! That’s how serious this is!”

She couldn’t produce even a sound. Instead, Ruby dropped her broken pencil and sunk back into the booth like she was just delivered the most devastating news, her tongue circling around her inner cheek. To be honest, you were still reeling from the moment. It consumed your mind without mercy for the entire night. You saw Vernon in your dreams. You touched him. You caressed him. You felt him in ways you couldn’t confess.

After a palatable silence, Ruby shifted from her stony, stiff position that made her seem almost corpse-like. She casted fingers through a silky red streak of her dark hair, puffing out from deep within her chest. “Damn…”

“That’s all you have to say?” You whined. “I need guidance!”

“Well—jeez—I need to process it!” Ruby defended.

“I thought that silence was you processing it!”

“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That was me talking myself down from buying ten Screwdrivers!”

Squeezing the pencil in between your fingers, you tried desperately not to let yourself spiral. After all, you were the master of spiralling. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, but it was terribly exhausting to come back down and grasp the extent of mental wreckage. Ruby was far better at composure, though she seemed most keen for a drink before you went any further.

You grabbed a pink pencil for the princess’s dress. “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that it’s confusing… if he’s being honest about it, then I don’t understand why he likes me. We’re so different in every aspect.”

Ruby sighed, grabbing her blue pencil and attempting to colour with it again, only to remember it was broken. She took another shade from the assorted cup, blowing some shavings off it. “I’m not gonna pretend to fully understand how the guy’s mind works…” she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never liked anybody romantically. He’s always been a free spirit, you know? Doesn't like to be tethered. I think the fact you are so different from him, so beyond what he’s used to… maybe it’s refreshing?”

Frowning, you pushed harder on the pencil, outlining the princess’s dress in a darker hue of hot pink. “Yeah, and then he’ll get totally bored of me. I’ll lose my refreshingness! I feel like I’m just a phase, you know?”

“I wish I could give you a clear answer.”

You wished for that, too.

But if someone were to plop a miraculous crystal ball into your hands and harness the undeniable truth, that would be too easy, and your life was certainly not founded on easiness. Sucking in your cheeks, you continued colouring, noting more streakiness through the thin paper as pressure flooded your hand and cramped your fingers.

“How did he try to kiss you?” Ruby asked.

You let the pencil roll away. “It was a tricky trick.”

“What kind of tricky trick?”

The memory remained sharp in your mind. Every little sensation, breath, gliding of fingers, nervous words—you could recreate it with clay and make a damn movie! Having to explain the situation to Ruby turned you hotter than the fresh plate of browned, buttery pancakes the waitress had just delivered to the table.

Ruby pulled the waitress’s attention. “Can I ask for one Screwdriver, if that’s okay? With a raspberry flavour shot?”

As you spilled the warmed, smooth syrup around in circles, you sighed aloud. “He had a blunt, and asked if I wanted a hit. I said I couldn’t because it had been too long since I last smoked—I didn’t wanna look like a gigantic fool—what if I started choking to death or something?” Setting the pitcher back down, grabbing hold of your utensils, you continued. “So, whatever, I let him take control of the situation. He asked me to close my eyes, right? Then… he gets close to me… he has his hand on my face and his lips are like, feathering over mine, and he’s blowing the smoke into my mouth!”

Ruby brought a hand to her face, gasping.

“The worst part…” you whispered, embarrassment fizzling up your chest as you leaned further toward your roommate, “I moaned!”

“You what?!” She shouted, beginning to cough. “You moan—”

Picking up a napkin, you shoved it against her loud mouth before the entire diner could hear your intimate, inappropriate details while in the midst of eating breakfast. She used the napkin to wipe some crumbs off her lips. “S-Sorry—” Ruby spluttered, “—I just—holy fuck. He kinda got you.”

“He was so damn cocky about it!” You flustered.

“Well,” Ruby sighed in a helpless breath, cutting across her pancakes. “That’s Vernon for you. If he gets a reaction, he runs with it.”

Prodding at your food with a fork, you again thought back to the dreams running rampant through your imagination last night. How vivid each sensation felt, to the point that the little hairs on your arms began bristling in response. His rough hands all over you, pulling, kneading, smacking. The ghosted recollection of what it might feel like to be filled by him, a warmth and fullness you couldn't make sense of. There had been sweat shining off your body with the glow of a newborn star. There were moans, loud and then soft, weak.

You hadn’t realized you were staring into space.

Ruby’s lips tightened. “Uh… what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your pupils are telling me.” When you didn’t entertain the topic any further, Ruby smiled, her expression comforting. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay to think about him in ways that feel… not okay.”

You stabbed a sliced piece of banana onto your fork. “How is it okay, though? You always freak out about us potentially having sex.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, but that was before I knew all this, how he feels about you. I would hate for your first time to be with someone who isn’t on your wavelength romantically.” She paused as the waitress stopped by with her orange Screwdriver. “Things could have changed once he got to know you. I mean, clearly, they did. It’s just… you might not be ready for the same things.”

“We definitely aren’t. I can’t… be with a drug dealer,” you whispered.

She chuckled. “Most people would probably say the same.”

Letting your chin rest in your palm, you glanced at your roommate from across the table. “Do you think he’s serious? He really likes me?”

Ruby grabbed her beverage, taking a sip. “I know he’s serious,” she confessed after settling the glass back down. “Dude, he was gonna beat the shit out of Lee. I had to talk him out of it. He laughs and smiles so much when he's with you. I think he genuinely cares about you. And I bet you’re all he thinks about.”

You started to smile, your eyes fluttering. “That’s sweet…”

“I really can’t tell you what to do,” Ruby admitted with a defeated shrug, spearing some fruit onto her fork, “since you know yourself best. But I bet the answer will come to you when you’re least expecting it.”

After bringing the sliced banana to your mouth, you began cutting into your pancakes frustratedly, nodding. “My god. I hope so.”

Before you and Vernon could jump into investigating the scrap yard, he told you that he had a deal planned right around lunchtime. Of course, this was mentioned after you had already sat down in his car, and since you weren’t in the mood to bail out into a pile of pebbled, greying snow and concrete, the best thing you could do was begrudgingly cross your arms and sigh.

Now, you didn’t know where you were.

It was a gigantic, empty hanger graffitied to hell with large garage doorways. Probably some sort of warehouse left to complete abandonment years and years ago, turned to an ideal location for Vernon to sell his friends drugs. How forward thinking.

The air was still and frosty, the surrounding land barren, lumped, and dead, with nothing but a coarse field to stare at from across the quiet road. While Vernon sat on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth grumble from the running engine underneath, you were stiffly leaned against the threshold of the garage doorway. Ever since the second incident (taking name after the now labelled first incident AKA the failed confession), you couldn’t help but make it weird.

Vernon acted the same as he always did.

Unfortunately, you weren’t hardwired that way.

Kicking at a stone, you sighed, “when is he coming?”

“Soon.”

“Can I have a time?”

Vernon stared at you. “12:12.”

“No, I mean, like, the time that he’s supposed to show up.”

“Well, if I had the time for that, I would have said it.”

Displeased at the unproductive exchange, you turned around, keeping your arms folded, and took a few steps inside the industrial-sized hanger. There were some gashes in the metallic roofing, letting through thick beams of white light that staggered against the ruined cement floor. You then looked right, saw a huge slew of black, graffitied letters dried dripping above a hole broken through the infrastructure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GLORYHOLE!

Promptly, you turned back around. “What a lovely place this is.”

Vernon scoffed, stretching out his hands behind him. “I know you wanna leave. It won’t be much longer, alright? Moo’s good at that.”

“Not me to me, he’s not. Did you guys not discuss a time? Or do you just throw out arbitrary numbers and show up when you feel like it?”

“Ease the attitude. Damn.”

Your eyes rolled. It was impossible not to give attitude.

Giving attitude was the only way for you to place distance that was more than just physical in between yourself and Vernon. It was your only means of putting up a barbed front. You were not an attitude person by nature. But being around him just pulled it straight out of you like a child yanking their loose, wriggling tooth.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit here.”

You made a sour, repulsive face. “Mmm… no.”

Vernon shook his head, chuckling. “I knew you would do this.”

Rolling a rock underneath your heel, you muttered, “do what?”

“Make it fuckin’ awkward.”

“No—” you argued back, instantly tense and hot, “—you made me make it awkward! And since you knew I would be awkward about it, my awkwardness right now is completely and unequivocally your fault!”

Vernon shrugged, pressing against a sore spot on the side of his neck, beginning to yawn. “I can’t be bothered t'give a fuck.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He shuffled backward, reclining against the car’s windshield, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. “The not givin’ a fuck part didn’t kick in until just now. Can you hit the radio? I want some tunage.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Prick,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“Idiot,” you mumbled back, punting the rock.

Vernon’s friend appeared about ten minutes later, ripping into the lot with a concerning level of speed. He pulled his all-black car right next to the rumbling Camry. It looked like something salvaged from the early 1990’s with its small, square lights, short hood, and compact structure. Vernon greeted his friend, Moo. He was sporting a thin black zip-up, some track pants, and weathered white sneakers. His hair was a fluffed-out, wispy afro and you were quick to notice that some splotches of skin on his hands and neck were pale in comparison to his dark complexion. Vitiligo. You remembered the name since one of Diana’s cousins had the condition.

Unsure of what to do as Vernon and Moo cordially conserved, you returned your attention back toward the hanger, scuffing your shoes and hearing the consequential echo. Until Vernon called you.

“PJ’s—this is Moo. Old buddy a' mine.”

Shuffling over, you leaned against Vernon’s car. “Hello.”

Moo smiled, sticking out his hand. Vernon always dapped up all his friends, and you assumed it would be no different with Moo, hence his quirky laughter when the attempted handshake was met with you scraping at his palm and clutching his fingers.

“Oh, shit,” Moo chuckled, rubbing his nose as you reclined into yourself, embarrassed. “Didn’t know you were cool like that.”

“I’m sorry. Vernon always does it and—”

“Hey, I’m throwing something this weekend,” Moo suddenly interrupted your bumbling, returning his attention to Vernon. “Kitty’s finally back from Europe and she brought some crazy freak shit they’ve been smashing in those underground clubs. Said it’s cut with stardust. What a fucking liar, huh?” He smacked Vernon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Anyway, if you’re free, you should swing by.” Moo looked at you. “And you, too. If you're into that”

Vernon nodded, returning the gesture and giving his friend’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “Alright, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Moo waggled his tiny baggies full of white powder, seeming satisfied that he delivered forth the message. “No worries, street rat. I'll make sure this gets to Mish, the lazy bastard.” He plopped back into his car, saluted you both. “Later guys.”

Upon his friend tearing out from the parking lot, Vernon slapped the money against his hand. “Okay, the treacherous, scary deed is done.”

Squirming into the warm car, you asked, “are you going?”

Vernon tucked the money into a black knapsack that he proceeded to toss into the rear of the car. “Yes, yes, holy shit—can you give me a fuckin’ second to at least breathe the air? Jesus Christ…”

“No!” You shouted. “I meant are you going to the party?”

“Oh,” he sighed cumbersomely, puffing out his cheeks. “Uh, probably. And it’s not a party.” He stretched on his seatbelt.

You undid the buttons on your woolly coat. “Then what is it?”

“Nothin’ that you’d give a fancy fuck about,” he chuckled while proceeding to steer the car out from the lot. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Well, what if I want to go?”

Suddenly, Vernon smashed the breaks.

In the midst of putting on your seatbelt, you were shot forward like a rock in a slingshot, ramming into the dashboard. Shaking your head, you glared at him, feeling the crookedness in your arm. “What the hell!”

The boy’s brow was heavily contorted in bewilderment. “Please, tell me you did not just say that, Pyjamas,” he implored. “There’s no way.”

With a grumble, you adjusted yourself back into the chair, ensuring your seatbelt was safely secured before you dared say anything else. Vernon's stare was crisply burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, and it became increasingly harder to put a sentence together.

Rolling out your shoulders, you nipped, “stop staring at me.”

“I wanna understand why you wanna go. I mean, it makes absolutely zero fuckin’ sense. There’s nothin’ there that appeals to you.”

“Can you just drive?”

Vernon obliged, peeling out onto the long road bordered by stiff country fields and pearl blue sky. “I think you’re tryin’ to pull my chain.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughed again. “Seriously, though. What’s this about?”

With the industrial hanger being pulled away from your peripheral, you had nothing to stare at but the encompassing fields, prickled and ice-crusted with frost. Honestly, it was quite pleasant to take in such openness after habituating to the crowded city life. Your childhood home had been right across from a farm.

Vernon’s elbow bumped your arm. “Eh? What’s the deal?”

You took in a breath, keeping your tone calm. “I don’t know… I just don’t get the fuss about me wanting to go. I mean, I get that it doesn’t really suit what you think of me… but there’s no harm in trying new things.”

“Okay,” Vernon huffed, “but people say that about, like, tryin’ a new hobby or some shit. You’re wantin’ to put yourself in a position where you straight up know you won’t have a good time. Like, seriously.”

“Because you can only have a good time when you’re high?”

“No—because you’re gonna be around other high people—and as a sober person, that’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck real fuckin’ bad.”

Your head rolled along the seat such that you were staring at him while he drove, an eyebrow tweaking in question. “And I can only assume you’re going to be in the high population. Not the sober.”

“What the fuck do you think?” He chuckled.

“I still want to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I feel like there has to be specific a reason you’re so against me going…” you hummed in contemplation, crossing one leg over your knee and beginning to bob your foot. “I think I know what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just told you—you’re gonna hate it.”

“It’s because you want to screw around with a girl.”

The boy cackled, leaning forward in his seat, rubbing a hand through his soft, black locks. “Jesus Christ, you’re killin’ me, you know that?”

“I see…” you muttered, folding your arms. “No denial…”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly,” Vernon laughed.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, then just be honest.”

“Okay, fine,” he declared with a shrug. “I’ll play your game, PJ’s.”

“There’s no game,” you chastised him, rolling your eyes.

But he ignored your insistence. “Say there was a girl. And I did fuck her while you were there. Loud enough that you could hear every time the bed frame hit the wall. Hear every single one of her moans. Every single time I smacked her ass.” He glanced over you slowly from top to bottom while you sat rigid in your seat, likely taking pleasure from how you squirmed. “How would that make you feel?”

Your entire mouth and throat were papery dry.

Truth be told, you would hate it.

In fact, you would probably start crying. The silence was louder than any crash or clap. You didn’t want to answer the question. You didn’t want him to know how utterly heartbroken that would make you feel. Just the fact that he had even asked such a question, knowing how it would stab you, made you get teary-eyed.

Swallowing gruffly, you squeaked out, “well… if that’s what you want.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s not at all what I want!” He paused for a moment, a sparkle darting through his eyes. “Unless the girl is you.”

You couldn’t help but make a twisted, flustered facial expression.

His hand then found the top of your back and he started rubbing in circles, easing the emotions colliding inside you that had packed into a knot between your shoulders. “If you went and fucked someone else in the house, I’d care, too! I’d fuckin’ want to murder the guy!”

You sniffled. “Really?”

Squeezing your shoulder, he smiled at you, full of confidence and conviction. “A hundred percent, PJ’s. I said I liked you, 'member?”

Shuddering out a breath, you felt Vernon’s touch leave your body, and the loss of physical consolation seemed so cruel. No one had ever communicated something like that to you before. At least not in a romantically-inclined way—Ruby did say from time to time that she would gladly throttle anyone who upset you—and you appreciated the sentiment from both sides of the coin. Maybe Vernon really did feel something for you. Maybe.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” you sighed, heavy in thought as the sparse fields started thickening with conifers, casting out the light and pushing in shadows that webbed the dark ground. “Can we sit in silence until we get there?”

“Whatever you need,” Vernon answered, shrugging a shoulder.

The entrance to the scrap yard was very unassuming. It was a mere dirt road that veered off from the pavement, leading downward, between a continuous brigade of tall, still pine trees. You couldn’t help but think back to Lara’s story about being brought here by a group of strangers—you would think you were getting murdered—though you were also a complete worrywart. Lara was definitely more adventurous by comparison.

Vernon seemed pretty assured that Minghao wouldn’t be there since it was a Saturday, and Minghao was apparently a very busy bee on Saturdays, dealing drugs no doubt, or painting buildings—you weren't sure. But soon the dirt road and trees opened up until you came to a clearing. There was a large, tall fence, caged around the scrap yard. Vernon pulled the car off to the side, taking out his keys.

“Is it locked?” You asked.

He pushed open his door. “Probably.”

“So, what does that—”

Vernon had already shut the door.

Grumbling to yourself, you threw off your seatbelt and hurried after him. He was inspecting a large, hardy padlock secured around two posts of the fence with chain links.

“I’m guessing it’s locked,” you sighed.

“No, it’s wide open.”

You scowled at his unhelpful sarcasm. “I was just asking!”

“I can pick the shitty locks, but this isn’t a shitty lock.”

“Shame.”

Vernon looked up. He placed two hands on the fence and shook it, hearing the metal rattle. “Seems stiff enough. And not electric. Bonus.”

Instantly, your stomach surged with trepidation. His thinking was obvious. And you were not mentally nor physically prepared to hop aboard. Taking a step back, you scoffed, “no—no way.”

Vernon laughed, gesturing innocently. “What? I told you it’s not electric! There’s not even any barbed wire up top. It’s askin’ to be climbed!”

You gagged; mouth slacked. “So, what? You talk to fences now? I am not climbing that! It’s dangerous! And tall as heck! I’m not doing it.” For emphasis, you crossly folded your arms and stood firmly in place. “If you want me over that, you’ll have to drag me.”

Rolling his eyes, Vernon mirrored your hardened stance. “Okay, honestly, what did you expect, PJ’s? That we’d just be able to skippy-doodle-doo our way in here? You should have learned by now it’s never that easy.” He waved his hand toward the fence. “Now, stop bein’ a spoiled princess and get your ass over here so we can get this show on the road.”

But you didn’t move. “No.”

“Holy shit. You’ll be fine,” Vernon drawled, his tone beginning to bleed from patience and amusement to annoyance. “Nothin’ is gonna happen. All’s you need is a tetanus shot and opposable thumbs. Thumbs may even be optional.”

“Ah, but I have a brain. You’re better off.”

He seemed done with the stalling. Vernon stalked toward you, eyes steely, his hand grooving around your elbow, beginning to tug you.

“Hey!” You hollered, attempting to thrash free. “Don’t—even—”

But Vernon was strong. He was dragging you a little too easily. “Don’t make me fuckin’ throw you over my shoulder,” he grunted in warning, forcing you to move closer and closer toward the fence.

At last, you capitulated. “Fine, fine! I’ll climb it!” He let go of your elbow, to which you rubbed down your arm sorely. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed. He then grabbed your hand and slapped it right onto the cold fence, curling your fingers around the metal wiring. “You’re more prepared than I am. You’re the rock climber.”

“Don’t make me remember that,” you gritted. “Also, the fact you’re making me go first is so… you should be ashamed, abhorred—”

“Shut the fuck up and do it.”

Upon spearing him a glare, you decided to bite the bullet. At least when you had been rock climbing there was a safety harness, and helmet, and ropes to catch you in the event you slipped. Trying not to harp on the dangers, your teeth clenched tight into your inner cheek as you began to climb, ignoring how horribly icy the metal felt as your fingers wrapped around the wires.

The higher you scaled, the more your heart raced, until you reached the thick bar on top and you had a perfect vantage point across the entirety of the scrap yard. Right in the middle was three RVs. You knew to get over the fence you had to straddle the bar, though the task seemed impossible. Swallowing densely, you took a moment to breathe in the brisk, sharp air, smell the earth and the pine. Grunting and trembling, you managed to get one leg over the bar.

Choosing to peer down at Vernon, recall the safety of solid ground, you gulped. “This sucks ass!”

“You’re doin’ great!” He called, sticking out a thumbs-up to demonstrate his pride. “And you gave me a great view from down below.”

“Shut up!” You nagged him, though you were smiling widely.

Soon enough, your feet were back on the dirt.

Vernon smirked at you from across the fence. “Easy, right?”

“Even easier if you knew how to pick that lock.”

“Boohoo,” Vernon said. “Let me pull out my YouTube tutorial.”

Suddenly, he had hopped onto the fence, and in a few fast, swift movements, the boy was already scaling the top. Once he climbed down about halfway, he leapt off, landing neatly in the spot beside you, clapping off his calloused hands like he’d just shoved a pie into a warm oven.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“Always,” Vernon said with a click of the teeth.

He proceeded down the shallow hill toward the inner bowl of the scrap yard, and you supposed there was no other choice but to follow him, hurrying to match step with his stride. The junk piles were organized for the most part. Broken bicycles, car doors, and odd metal contraptions tossed into one mound, while others were slightly more miscellaneous but seeming tended to. You walked past a sewing machine that didn’t look too rough.

“Oh! Ruby would love this!”

Vernon stopped to glance at the machine. “Yeah? It looks like shit.”

“It’s just dirty,” you answered, nudging it with your foot.

“Let’s go shoppin’ later,” he insisted, picking up your hand and continuing to pull you in the direction of the RVs. “No distractions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Together, you perched behind a rusted, red-striped fishing boat lifted off the ground by a steel trailer. Vernon let your hand drop, brushing something off his nose. The series of RVs were about twenty feet away, with reasonable distance in between them, their colours mostly ugly beiges and bleached creams with no discernible detail. You expected Minghao’s RV to have some freaky aquatic design painted across it—anything that might suggest which belonged to him—but there was no graffiti in sight.

With your fingers anxiously digging into your knees, you looked in between the RVs and back to Vernon. “How should we do this?”

“Cautiously,” he stated, and you giggled in response.

“That’s not a word I’d expect you to know.”

“Blame yourself,” Vernon rasped. “If you weren’t here, I could go about this any way I wanted. But we’re a unit now.”

“How sweet,” you muttered.

“Okay, this is what we’ll do,” Vernon announced. “I’ll take the trailer in the middle; you take the one closest to us. Start by lookin’ around the area, see if there’s a thing or two that gives Minghao vibes. Try to look in the windows if you can, but be careful, obviously. Listen for TVs, runnin’ water, couches squeakin’, doors openin’—anything that could indicate someone's inside—and we should have a signal if there’s a spat.”

“Like what?”

“How about a whistle? Can you whistle?”

“Barely,” you commented, forming the appropriate shape with your lips and blowing air through your teeth, hardly any noise.

“What the fuck was that?” He sneered.

“I was whistling!”

“You sound like a fuckin’ busted teakettle, man. That got ran over, and dragged for a kilometer. Okay, change of tactic. Ah—can you do this?” He layered his hands together, made a small opening between his thumbs, and proceeded to blow inside, mimicking the elegant sound of a loon.

You scowled at him. “If I sound like a busted teakettle, what makes you think I can make a freakin’ bird noise? Are your neurons okay?”

“Whatever—fuck the signal, actually. Let’s just get in and out.”

Vernon went around one side of the fishing boat while you crept along the other. He was quick, darting off to the central RV while keeping low, and you got the suspecting, blaring sense this was far from his first time hopping a fence or spying through another’s window. Moving slower in comparison, you approached the first RV. Your stomach was an unsettled hive of buzzing, frantic bees.

What if someone really was inside?

The vehicle wasn’t in the best condition. Worn wheels were sagging and the headlights were busted. Treading airy steps, you paced the perimeter of the vehicle. There were lawn chairs spread out in the back, propped between a plastic, cheap table sitting an ash tray and a few crushed beer cans. A makeshift firepit displayed the remnants of ashy, grey logs and charred newspaper, tiny pieces fluttering loose in the chilly breeze like snowfall.

Was this Minghao? Did this seem like him? Beer cans and ash trays?

Vernon knew him better. You should have requested insight.

You approached the RV, gliding your hand along its cold, smooth surface, until you stopped underneath a window. It was too tall to glance in, so you decided to grab one of the lawn chairs for assistance. The fabric didn’t seem very reliable. Letting your foot press deep onto the surface, the entire chair squeaked, seeming to bend inward on itself. But you took a breath, subtly applying more weight until you were fully standing on it.

“Jesus Christ…” you sighed quietly to yourself, fingers clasping the windowsill. “If this breaks, I’m never standing on anything again in my entire life.”

The curtains were closed apart from a tiny sliver down the middle.

It took all your concentration to not make a single noise as you attempted to peer through the opening. From your inspection, no one was inside. There was a sink with some fancy glass cups splayed around it. Basic wooden cupboards, tinted by age. A cuckoo clock near the door. An armchair embroidered by a dated pattern of roses. Whatever’s Minghao aura was, this didn’t seem to match. You thought back to his luxurious, long-swept coat, his chic, cherry-red hair, the chunky rings agleam on his fingers.

Stepping off the lawn chair, you knew this couldn’t be his RV.

You wondered if Vernon was having any luck. As you walked over to the RV centered in the yard, head cocked in an attempt to find where he had disappeared to, the boy suddenly exploded into you, grasping your hand and tearing you flush against the trailer’s wall.

“What the hell—”

His palm pressed over your mouth, muffling your voice.

“Shh!” He whispered. “There’s someone in this one!”

You grabbed his wrist, peeling away the contact. Hiding behind the RV didn’t seem very practical. “And you got their attention?”

“I was lookin’ in the front window, and this cat hopped up on the sill, started battin’ at me through the glass. Then this woman appeared from nowhere to grab him. I ducked. Dunno if she saw me or not.”

“And what are we supposed to—”

His hand was on your mouth again. “Shut up! You hear that?”

You were still as stone, listening. Apart from the blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline beginning to twitch throughout your body, you heard a noise echo from the front of the vehicle, a squeak, as though a door had opened. Vernon slowly removed his hand from your lips. You two exchanged a wrought look. Your chest was heaving in deep breaths.

“Did you see something, Mr. Big? Hm?”

A few seconds later, you heard a sharp, loud meow, almost demanding in its cadence. Vernon was chewing on his lip ring, hands placed flat to his waist. Instinctively, you pushed yourself closer against him, searching for a trace of his warm, smooth scent to keep your heart grounded.

“Okay. Show Mommy where.”

“Fuck,” Vernon cursed. “Little kitty’s gonna bust us.”

You grabbed onto his hand. “What do we do?”

An orange, plump cat with faint burnt stripes had padded its way around the corner of the RV, its long tail sticking up and flicking. Paw after paw, the cat started to approach you in a slow stride, and your nails dug straight into the inked skin of Vernon’s hand.

You knew you should run.

“Go away Mr. Big,” Vernon gritted his teeth and hissed at the approaching cat. But then the cat butted its square, flat head into Vernon’s leg, purring aloud, rubbing its cheek against his pants. You wanted to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey!” A lady stood at the corner, fists on her hips.

You and Vernon froze against each other.

She was older, her hair a greyish-brown, curly mess flipped over to one side, dressed in flipflops with fluffy green fur and a drooping night gown. While the cat continued persuading Vernon for attention, the lady opted to squint heavily at the two of you, the skin by her eyes wrinkling intensely.

“Qian?” The lady barked, her tone strict and cutting. “Is that you?”

You exchanged a worrisome, confused glance with Vernon. He looked down at the orange cat, gulping heavily, contemplating something.

“Qian!” She snapped again, taking a step closer. “Is that—”

“Uh, yes?” Vernon answered, wincing. “It’s me.”

“Who the hell is Qian?” You whispered, squirming with nerves.

Vernon spoke very lowly, “Minghao’s friend.”

“I told you; you can’t give sardines to Mr. Big anymore!”

“My apologies, m’mam…” he stuttered in response.

She paused, tilted her head. “Qian, you sound different.”

Vernon’s complexion turned pale. “Uh, that’s—”

“Your English has certainly come a long, long way. You barely spoke a word of it when I first met you.” She started to walk closer, her flipflops scuffing across the dusty ground. “Is that Mr. Big down there, by your feet? He thinks you’re about to give him another sardine. I left my glasses in the washroom, you know. I thought there was—” she immediately cut herself off, a gasp flushing out from her mouth. “Is that Biyu?!”

Her reference was clearly aimed at you.

Before you could even decide to speak, Vernon beat you to it.

“It is.”

“And what are you doing behind my trailer?”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “We’re—”

“Well, I’m sure Minghao will be impressed! Knowing his closest friend is out lollygagging around with his ex-girlfriend!” She babbled on and on, as though she hadn’t spoken to anyone in months apart from her cat, the words flowing out in a critical, fast-paced tone. “Have you no shame, the both of you? And you thought behind my trailer was a good place to start?”

Vernon scratched his head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I better hope not! Or else I’ll tell him straight away!”

At last, Vernon bent down, picking up the chunky orange cat that had been sitting at his feet, licking a paw. He gave the cat a few scratches behind its tufted ear before handing him off to his owner.

“There you are, Mr. Big,” she cooed. “Come back to Mommy.”

Your lips pressed together tightly.

While she kept the cat wrapped up against her chest using a single arm, bouncing him like a baby, she had suddenly gripped onto Vernon’s wrist. Moving away from the trailer, your heart plunged.

“Lord—when did you get all this ink?!” She exclaimed. Vernon wasn’t given the opportunity to answer. It seemed to be dawning on her that perhaps the young man with golden-brown eyes, facial piercings, an undeniable gruffness in his voice, and plentiful tattoos wasn’t Qian.

She opened her mouth, thin lips stretched, the breath in her throat hitching. “You… you aren’t Qian…” the lady’s words warped with confusion and shock. “And that isn’t…” keeping the tubby cat cradled against her chest, she pushed around Vernon to approach you. “That can’t be Biyu.”

You felt magnetized to the wall of the trailer. Her eyes were slimmed to a permanent squint as she seemed to be taking in your every detail, the floral, piney scent of her perfume overwhelming your senses, the deep wrinkles of her skin twisting. “No! You can’t be Biyu! She’s much prettier!” The lady whipped around, her cat meowing sharply, as she glared at Vernon. “You two are lying trespassers!”

“No, I’m Qian,” Vernon persisted, smiling.

Shooting him straight-faced daggers, you couldn’t believe he was deciding to push his luck. Everything was totally, undeniably screwed.

“You are not!” She stuck a finger in his face. “Who are you?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. I think you need your glasses before you start with the accusations.” He proceeded to shoulder around her, sliding his arm along your waist, as you stood stiffly, still offended that this lady in her lime-green flip flops and dusty nightgown had called you unattractive in a roundabout insult. “They have chains for em’, no? So you can’t lose ‘em?”

She flung out her arm. “Leave! Right now!”

Vernon clasped his fingers around yours, beginning to pull you away. “I’ll get you a pair for Christmas!” He shouted. “You’ll love it!”

You two began running back up the sloping path that had led downward into the scrap yard, refusing to look back. Digging your nails into the warm skin of Vernon’s hand, you grumbled, “why did you push it?!”

“I didn’t push it!” He laughed.

“She figured out we were lying! And then you got smart!”

At the fence, you two paused to catch your breath.

Vernon smirked at you. “Still want that shitty sewin’ machine?”

Your eyes rolled. There was no point in going back and forth, and so you refused to wait for him, clutching onto the fence and beginning to haul yourself up impatiently, feeling humiliated.

“So, that’s a no?!” He yelled as you reached the top.

If you had the sewing machine, you would have dropped it on him.

“I don’t get what you’re so ticked about. We know the last trailer has to be Minghao’s. And, so what we got busted? That lady can’t see two feet in front of her. For all she knows, I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka.”

“Oh, yeah,” you retorted dryly. “Because who else could it be? A tattooed, face-pierced liar and a random, apparently very unattractive girl sleuthing around Minghao’s home. Oh, wow,” your voice pitched in a sarcastic tone, hands slapped to your face in mock dramatics. “He’ll be so puzzled! Who could it be?”

Vernon kissed his teeth, keeping his sight on the flat, long road that the car shot down. “Minghao’s probably hardly ever there. Can’t see him bein’ real eager to dish about life with his youthful neighbours.”

“We could have so easily screwed everything up.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” The frustration belted out in a cry.

The boy shook his head, reaching for the stereo. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, reaching for the knob on his radio. A crackle vibrated through the tired speakers; his phone plugged into the radio using a stringy cable that looked like it might electrocute whoever touched it. “I need my brain to be completely empty.”

“Great…” you muttered, head tilted woefully in the direction of your window, the corners still tinged with frost. “I hate hearing, anyway.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s ‘cause you have to listen to yourself.”

If it weren’t for the finest string of self-control that you unspooled from your insides, then you would have kept up the bickering until he capitulated, and that was rarer than a flying pig. At that point of your relationship, it was almost second nature to chastise each other. You still couldn’t tell if it was making you more or less sensitive.

By the time you arrived back to your apartment, you were surprised the universe wasn’t ringing. Vernon loved to blast his music like the angels were eager to hear every word from heaven, though he had played it notably quieter than usual. You tossed him a lacklustre thank you for his chaperoning duties, beginning to shove outside the car, but the boy’s hand was on your shoulder and he was pushing you back into the seat.

“I have work tomorrow,” you whined. “What is it?”

“And you go to bed at three o'clock? Wow, you really are a loser.”

You smacked his arm. “And you made me climb a fence!”

“Okay, you’re not usually like this,” Vernon took it upon himself to point out, leaning against his door while squinting at you intrusively. “I mean, you can be annoyin’ about things, but this is different.” He started rubbing his chin, pinching at his adam’s apple. “What’s the matter?”

The simple question sparked your laugh. “Yes, let’s discuss it.”

He gestured at you, nodding. “Let’s.”

“That was sarcasm, dummy,” you clarified. “Nothing’s the matter, except for the fact I wanna take a hot bath.” Again, you attempted to open your door, but Vernon was quick to lean over, pulling it shut. When you tried again, he wouldn’t let it open even an inch.

“Hey!” You yelped.

“C’mon, talk to me,” he encouraged, his voice warm.

“Vernon, I’m serious. There’s nothing to—”

“Is this ‘cause of the party? The fact I said you shouldn’t go?” He resumed touching his chin, his head tilted in question. “Is that the problem?”

You couldn’t help scoffing.

His eyebrows leapt upward, and he hummed. “Ahh, so that’s it.”

“Well, you know what, actually…” purposefully keeping your delivery soft and vulnerable, you started to entertain him. “Maybe it was the fact your friend was twenty minutes late, you absolutely hated the idea of me going to a party with you, you made me climb a fence, twice,” your tone started to strip itself of the daintiness, “only to potentially ruin our entire game plan! And then I basically got called ugly by some reclusive lady who smells like a funeral home and whose best friend is her cat! And now I know the entirety of No Hands from start to finish and it’s going to keep me up at night because all I can hear is R-O-S-C-O-E, Mr. Shawty-Put-It-On-Me, I be going HAM, shawty upgrade from bologna! And it’s all your fault!” The breath was beating against your lungs, causing your chest to noticeably shrink and expand.

Vernon’s lips twitched into a smile. “I knew you liked that song.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it!” You shouted while rolling down your window using the crank, feeling the chilled breeze. “It’s just catchy!”

“Well,” the boy cleared the rasp from his throat, proceeding to sit up straighter, focusing his attention. “Do you understand why I was insistent you shouldn’t go? Because I know for a fact you’ll hate it.”

“Okay!” You cried out, shrugging. “So I’ll hate it! So I’ll be miserable! Don’t you think I can assume some of that myself? What if I wanted to hear ‘I’d love it if you were there, but you should know…’ blah, blah, blah. But you just shot me down! You made it seem like—like—you would hate it if I were there. That you wouldn’t want to see me at all…”

Vernon leaned forward, shaking his head, while your fingers twisted together anxiously in your lap, your lip quivering, eyes delicately burning.

“No, PJ’s,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“But that’s what I heard,” you urged him. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Vernon answered. He set his hand atop your wrist, gave you a reassuring, comfortable squeeze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that,” the boy admitted, his voice gritty but gentle. “It doesn’t matter where we are—whenever I see you—I get this soarin’ feelin’ deep in my chest. And then it flows everywhere in my body. Makes me feel like I can grow wings. It’s like… I dunno… you give me a weird high that no other drug could ever do. And I want it more and more, every day.” He paused, his fingers finding their way in between yours, laced together, gripping your sweaty hand so firm and strong. He bit his lip. “I want you more and more.”

Immediately, your face cracked into a smile. All that irritability thinned out, gone like a dense morning fog when the sun catches its blaze. Adverting your timid stare away from his sincere, straightforward eyes that dilated more with every second, you giggled out, “stop…”

He let go of your hand to brush something off your cheek with a few soft strokes from his thumb. “Stop what?” Vernon teased. “Hm?” He then slid his hand around the back of your neck, and you could feel the massaging, warm pressure from the boy’s rough fingertips. The muscles in your thighs automatically clenched. “If you tell me I can’t want you, I’ll only want you more,” he laughed. “You know, I hate goin’ back to my place even more than I did before. Can’t stand the sight of my bed without you in it.”

Your gut was insistent that you give in. But your cautionary heart and mind were ringing the alarm bells. Playfully, you shoved him away, though the sensitive skin of your neck was still sizzling hot from his touch, and you crossed one leg overtop the other, sealing up yourself tightly.

“I’m sure that line was recycled from five other girls,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. “So you can kindly recycle it back into your mouth.”

“But I never meant it with them.”

Your chuckle was short and dry. “Sure.”

“Well… if you want to go to Moo’s shitshow, then be my guest.”

“Really?” You responded in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

Vernon sighed. “Please bring Ruby.”

“I was gonna do that anyway.”

He leaned over to push open the car door. “You’re fuckin’ free, Pyjamas. Go take your hot bath. Send me a picture, yeah?”

Upon stepping outside onto the curb, you bent down for a goodbye, smiling. “Yes, I will send you a fully clothed picture of myself fresh from the bath with all my acne patches on. I will make it my utmost priority.”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, flashing you a teething, dirty smirk, though his honeyed eyes were far too shining and pure for it to be anything other than his honest excitement. “I’ll text you the info when I know it.”

As expected, Ruby didn’t show as much hesitance to the idea compared to Vernon. She had been attempting to get you clubbing ever since she had known you, and although that triumph was still far away, the opportunity currently presenting itself was much more idealistic. Nonetheless, she was still cautious to indulge you. Ruby didn’t know all of Vernon’s acquaintances—merely a small droplet in a gigantic bucket—but from what she did know, it was enough to prompt her careful lecturing. When you told her that you knew what Vernon was like high, she cackled flippantly directly into your face before highlighting that Vernon dazed off a blunt was much different than him off three lines of coke. You knew she had a point.

The closer it came to Saturday night, the more nervous you became, and the more doubt infested your insistence that had seemed so unshakeable. You thought about how much you still didn’t know when it came to Vernon, the fact you only observed pieces of his life through flashes, like seeing your transient reflection against a speeding car. But now you were taking a much deeper step. What if everything changed? What if you couldn’t handle it? What if this was all just a disguised test to understand if you could really visualize yourself patched into Vernon’s life, despite all the evidence against it? However, you ignored those thoughts very willfully.

And then it was Saturday night.

Ruby was getting ready in the washroom while you went through the clothes in your closest. Your styles and personalities were quite distinguished from each other in almost every sense. When Ruby got ready, she would bring her wireless speaker with her, letting it sit on the sink countertop amongst the widespread mess of her expensive makeup and brushes, singing along to the lyrics of her favourite R&B artists. When you got ready, you pretty much sat in silence at your desk, keeping any touch-ups to your face minimal because you never really learned how to do makeup and it seemed too difficult to figure out now.

You could hear Ruby’s tone-deaf singing. “Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter?” Her grating voice was actually pleasantly distracting.

Unsurprisingly, your roommate took her sweet time getting ready, urging you not to worry since, “who the fuck shows up to a party on time?” But once she was done, presenting you the final look, you applauded her prancing around the living room accordingly. Unlike you, Ruby had been experimenting with her hair and makeup consistently, since she was a tween, her flawless skin and thick, loosely curled hair looking like velvet. She then forced you to watch an episode of her soapy drama before booking the ride to Moo’s place, somewhere far, where there was more swamp and grass and mosquitoes than houses and people.

It wasn’t until you were strapped into the backseat that you felt sick.

“Moo?” Ruby squawked, looking down at her phone. “Who’s he?”

You swallowed; your mouth dehydrated. “He’s the host, Ruby.”

“Oh, well, he just requested to follow me on IG. I wonder if Vernon gave my handle to him… he’s a bit cute… but these pictures—feeling myself like I lost my keys—interesting caption. But that Hellcat is definitely not his!” She continued to babble, mostly to herself, during the car ride to Moo’s house. You listened on occasion, caught between engaging her talkative splurges and contemplating how hard the driver might judge you for rolling down the window and upchucking your lunch onto the road.

Finally, you arrived.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” Ruby chirped aloud to the driver who seemed to pull off questionably fast. She started walking up the driveway, but you grabbed her wrist, drawing the girl into a wobble.

“Wait,” you said worriedly. “How do I… look?”

Ruby licked her thumb and smoothed it along one of your eyebrows, and then adjusted the spaghetti straps to the top hidden underneath the long coat you borrowed from the girl’s wardrobe. “Stunning.”

 “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her hands were suddenly gripping your shoulders, her hazel eyes accented by the smoky flare of an umber powder sharpened into knife-like points. “Look, I know it’s easier said than done, but even if you have to fake it, confidence is key! This crowd is definitely not what you’re used to, and even for me this is a stretch, but the great thing about high people, they only care about getting higher. So, in a way, no one cares about you.”

 You were able to laugh at her comment. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Ruby removed her hands from your shoulders. “Besides, as long as you’re there, I’ll be there. If you need me at any point, I won’t be far.”

Appreciating your roommate’s comfort, you proceeded to breathe out your anxious thoughts, even giving your body a jitter to physically shake off the nerves. Together, you walked up the driveway. The house seemed small from the outside. An open window allowed you to hear distant music and excited, jumbled layers of conversation, smell the burnt, stingy aroma of marijuana. Ruby knocked a pattern against the door, loud and certain.

It didn’t take long before you recognized Moo.

“Hey!” He shouted, a beer bottle clasped in one hand, his cheeks rounded in a welcoming smile. “Fuck—uh—you’re Ruby, right?”

Your roommate nodded. “Indeed.”

“Anddd,” Moo sang while turning to you, squinting one eye shut, his forehead creased and his brow raised in thought. “PJ? Did I get it?”

While you did consider correcting him on the nickname, you decided it was best to just stick with what he already knew. “That works.”

“Fuck yeah. Well, enter the pad, ladies.” He stood aside, keeping the door held open as you and Ruby shuffled into the front foyer—a narrow hallway—the walls blanketed in jackets, the floor swathed with shoes toppled over each other.

Ruby shrugged off her coat, chuckling, “are there any hooks?”

“Oh, certainly!” Moo exclaimed just before he set the beer bottle to his lips. “I think there’s one near the back, right on the left!” As Ruby primly set her coat onto the hook, you couldn’t help but note how Moo’s eyes started to drag down her body, practically bulging at her bum. “Damn!”

She turned around, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Uh,” Moo coughed into his elbow. “Sorry—just—stepped on something! Can’t lie, haven’t vacuumed this rug in a dog’s age.”

You held your lips in a flat, downturned line.

“Oh,” Ruby hummed. “Good to know, I guess.” She then looked at you, gesturing for the coat folded in your arms. “I’ll find a place for it.”

Moo encouraged you to join him in the kitchen once you were ready, to which he disappeared through the threshold in the slim, dark hallway. Once he was gone, you instantly told Ruby, “he gagged at your ass!”

She tossed the hair over her shoulder, snorting, “I know.”

“Men are pigs!” You quipped.

“And we’re in the pigpen,” Ruby answered, giggling.

The kitchen was just on the other side of the front foyer. It was a fairly small, intimate space, with the dining table opposite from it, and a bigger opening into the living room, where most people seemed to congregate. From your flying, uneasy glances between faces, you had yet to see Vernon, and that seemed to make your stomach drop like a brick. The kitchen countertops were crowded with empty cans, cutting boards, rolling papers, ash trays, and opened bags of salted snacks. Moo swung open the fridge, reaching around inside before he offered the both of you a drink.

“I’ll take anything spicy,” Ruby said, making sure to raise her voice so she could be heard over the living room’s vivacious, bubbly chatter.

You swayed on the balls of your feet. “A water is fine.”

“What about juice?” Ruby offered, brushing down your arm.

“Sorry,” Moo apologized, pulling out a beer can. “We just used the last of the juice for drinks. Cups are to your right. Tap water’s all I got.”

Teeth gnawed at your inner cheek as you opened Moo’s concerningly loose cupboard, pulling down a dusty, plastic cup. You squirmed around him to reach the sink. Water didn’t start spraying from the tap until you had turned the knob several times, to which a rumbling, guttural noise sounded from the pipes. Attempting not to make it obvious, you sniffed the water before drinking it, noting a strong mineral scent.

“So, Ruby?” Moo leaned against the counter. “Is that ‘cause of the red streaks in your hair? Which are very pretty, by the way.”

Your roommate shrugged. “Well, thank you, but I’m pretty sure I was named Ruby before I ever had red streaks in my hair.” She cracked open her beer. “It’s the stone associated with my birth month—July.”

He gritted his teeth, chuckling off the embarrassment. “Ah, you make a good point. I love that. What’s my birthstone? I’m born in May.”

The girl laughed, “I don’t know the others, just my own!”

“See, I’m gonna have to Google that later.”

“Please, don’t hesitate,” she answered, fluttering a sweet smile.

At that moment, someone else squeezed into the kitchen, a man whom smelled like firewood and rich cologne. He was tall, cutting in between you and Moo with the height of his body.

Moo hardly noticed, keeping the sparks of conversation lit with Ruby, while you were ungracefully separated by the stranger digging through the fridge, his large back all you could see. Upon pulling out a silver can, he shimmied his way out. You sighed, plucking some lint off your top, before reinserting yourself into the conversation that you hadn’t been a part of, anyway.

“No, no, that’s my dad’s…” Moo was saying, rubbing his neck.

Ruby cackled. “I knew it!”

“Does this place look like it should have a fuckin’ Hellcat in the driveway? Nah, I got my Nissan fuckin’ Micra. Pussy magnet.”

She sipped from the beer; eyes kept trained to Moo as he only inched his way closer toward her. “Humble king,” Ruby commented.

“If you ever wanna take a spin in it,” Moo enticed, lifting up a shoulder and tugging at his bottom lip, “you can be my humble queen.”

Oh, god.

You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to find Vernon, wherever he was tucked away. Dumping the remaining water into the sink and leaving the plastic cup with it, you nodded briefly at Ruby while escaping the kitchen, assuming she knew what you had in mind. Nobody slumped at the dinner table seemed coherent, so you tapped on the arm of a girl sat at the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, her eyes a watery, stinging red. Smoke rolled out ghostily from between her lips.

“Sorry to bother,” you squeaked. “But, uh, you know Vernon?”

The girl nodded. She then dug into the couch cushions, pulling out what resembled a small, black container with an attached mouthpiece.

Swallowing nervously, you asked, “where would he be?”

While she fixed her mouth around the attachment and started to slowly, deeply breathe in, the girl flicked a finger toward the hallway behind her, with a door planted at the very end. You smiled, thanking her, although you weren’t entirely sure what do next. Was it a bedroom? Were you allowed to just waltz in? Could Vernon be in there… with someone else?

You stood at the door, noticing a mild trembling in your hands.

But you didn’t sink into the doubt. Instead, you hailed Ruby’s words of encouragement, straightened out your shoulders, fixed your chin high, and pushed the door open. Simultaneously, you were braced to see the absolute worst. However, it wasn’t what you expected. The room was dark apart from a television’s fuzzy, twitching glow that washed across the carpet and bed in faint, blue hues. Someone was sitting in an armchair poised close to the TV, seeming completely dissonant, a smoking blunt of some sort caught in their fingers. There were two people relaxed on the bed, a cutting board in between them, a woman you had never seen, and… Vernon.

She dipped her head down after arranging a small, neat white line using a pocket knife. Vernon flipped her long hair to one side as she reached the board, sucking the powder up her nostril with a casual, easy quickness. “Fuck,” the woman cursed, her voice gritty, wiping off her nose with a finger and smearing whatever powder stuck across her tongue. “That’s fuckin’ sharp. I'm gonna be on the moon.”

Vernon smirked. “They cut with fuckin' crystals.”

She laughed, flipping back her hair. “That’s pure ice, babe.”

You definitely felt as though you were interrupting something private, but it would have been more awkward to simply stand there, watching, until someone noticed you. Letting the door fall shut, you forced on a crooked smile and stepped closer into the bedroom, clearing your throat to make your presence known.

Both Vernon and the woman looked your way. For a slow, trudging moment, Vernon didn’t recognize you, and he looked annoyed.

She huffed. “Sorry, sweets. I’d give you a lick but this shit cost me a motherfuckin’ arm and a leg to get. You’re better off, anyway.”

The twinkling aura of the light reflected off her arms and her pronounced chest, the skin needled with tattoos that wrapped around her like snakes made of black ink. She had similar facial piercings to Vernon, though her nose was pierced, too. Just from her temperament, you could tell she was a bit older in age, perhaps in her late twenties, and assumed she must be the one Moo referenced in their conversation at the hanger, the one who took that vacation to Europe and was able to scoop something good.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Vernon shook his head. “PJ’s?”

You started to smile, hands wringing together. “I’m here.”

“No shit,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. Cemented to your place on the shoddy carpet, you let Vernon approach you, one arm weaving around the back of your neck while the other wrapped your waist, pulling you into his firm body. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Timidly, you held onto him, fingers feeling along the fabric of his white t-shirt, your smile refusing to fade. “I haven’t been here long.”

“No?” He mumbled in question, letting his hands fall onto your hips as he began to rescind the closeness. It was right then that you noticed the difference in his eyes—those pupils were extremely dilated—dark like the ocean without any moonlight, almost… shimmering, twitching, coursing with energy that made you stiffen ever so slightly. Vernon sunk his thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, hooking you, dragging you further into his chest. “You look so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, the husk in his voice thicker than usual. “I’ve missed you all week. What kinda bullshit is that, huh?”

You giggled, lips pressing together, taking in the close-up beauty of his gentle features, how such softness seemed to betray him. “Me too,” you answered, sniffling. “I’ve never seen your eyes like this.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never seen me off coke.” Vernon then turned around, gesturing to the woman who was now sprawled on her side across the bed. “Especially the fuckin’ wild shit this lunatic gets. This is Kitty.”

“Uh, hi.” You waved at her, feeling small under her piercing gaze.

Kitty nodded, tilting her head. “Your next girlfriend, Vernon?”

You gulped while Vernon shot back at her, “you’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Quel surprise.” She winked a hooded eye, tongue prodding along a glimmering tooth in her mouth. “But I guess you would know better than most.” Kitty slid off the bed, proceeding to straighten out her short, skin-gripping skirt that didn’t leave much to be revealed. “I’m gonna use the washroom, you know, to freshen up.” She sauntered past you, out the door, leaving behind a whiff of her strong, powerful aroma, like a dark cherry.

Vernon groaned. “She’s a fuckin’ psychopath.” He returned to the bed, flopping beside the cutting board. There was a baggie left on it.

Continuing to hold your place, you exhaled nervously, looking around the bedroom and its unusual blankness. “Who’s that?” You asked, pointing at the guy in the chair with the burning blunt. He hadn’t moved an inch since you walked in the room.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Vernon answered, coughing against his elbow. “That’s Snozz, Moo’s roommate. Dude’s got narcolepsy.”

Your lips pursed. “Are you serious?”

Vernon folded his arms. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know… I feel like it’s a bit… inconvenient.”

“So are the pills he pops every fuckin’ week. Dude’s got every battle there is. But we keep an eye on him.” He wriggled up against the wooden headboard, propping an arm across his bent knee. “Now, come sit with me,” Vernon invited, nodding toward the available space. “Hard to see how gorgeous you look when you’re so far.”

While approaching the bed, you couldn’t help but take another glance at Moo’s roommate, Snozz, sunken into the armchair. His head was collapsed awkwardly onto his shoulder, fronds of long, brown hair masking his eyes, a slight fissure between his lips. You wondered how long he had been asleep; his blunt was still glowing but the television was jouncing static.

You sat beside Vernon, the cutting board in between you.

He picked it up. “Don’t need this shit anymore.” And placed it on the adjacent night table. “Unless you wanna finish Kitty’s pixie dust?”

Squishing up your tight shoulders, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Despite the heavy shadows, you could see the soft grin develop on his face, however, you also noticed him pick up the small baggie off the cutting board. There was hardly any powder left inside it, but that didn’t deter Vernon from dragging a finger along the inside of his cheek and using the moisture to collect the rest. You watched him rub the powder across his gums, wondering how much was already in his system, waiting to activate, already activated.

“Shouldn’t you have left the rest for Kitty?”

Vernon cackled, scratching his eye. “Hell no! She owes me. I busted my ass last year to get her the purest shit on the market for New Year’s.”

“Hm.” You nodded, curling your legs underneath you.

He slid down the bed sluggishly until he his head was cushioned on a pillow, proceeding to tuck his arms underneath it. The boy stared up at the ceiling as though it were a night sky scattered with iridescent galaxies, beginning to grin, bite onto his lip, giggle. “She thinks she’s such a peach, gettin’ this fancy European shit for us, but she’s a moocher to her core, always lookin’ for scraps. Damn—fuckin’ Snozz took one line and now he’s incapacitated!” He flung an arm out toward the chair. “He went off his meds for this shit! She should be in here babysittin’ his narcoleptic ass.”

Unsure of what to say, you merely clasped onto your hands harder, smiled like your mouth was being pulled back by someone else’s invasive fingers. This side of Vernon was foreign to you, not to mention extremely unnerving.

“Was Moo alright?” Vernon asked.

For a moment, the unstable catch in his words was gone, and you managed to breathe a little easier. “He was kind,” you answered, smoothing a hand along your jeans. “Definitely more interested in chatting up Ruby.”

“Shit!” He yelled, suddenly slamming upward. “I fuckin’ forgot Ruby’s here!” Rapidly patting down his pockets, Vernon then pulled out his phone, incorrectly thumbing the passcode in several times. You observed him open his text messages, select your roommate’s contact, and type out a string of mismatched letters that he struggled to send her. “Fuck—I can’t believe I forgot she was here! Aw, I miss her, y’know?” He buckled into a concerning haze of coughing and laughing, leaning over his elbow while his back shuddered like shifting plates. “She parties hard. I fuckin’ miss that, dude. I think a bit of you’s leaked into her. Fuck, she used to get so dirty. She’s vanilla now.”

Wincing, you tried not to let your disconcertedness bleed through, although your heart was noticeably heavier in your chest, pumping hard, making the air feel denser to breathe. “Uh…” you prodded in a weak, uncertain tone, nails digging into the bed. “Meaning what?”

Vernon slid off the bed. He started swaying, massaging the knobs of his scuffed, scabbed knuckles. “She has limits now—I’ve gotta be home by eleven, I can only take three shots, I’m just smokin’ for an hour—she didn’t give no fucks about that before.” He marched over to Snozz, removing the dulled, orange blunt from his fingers. “When she worked at Puttin’-Edge, she was a fuckin’ deviant. She’d take almost anything, man. You couldn’t tear her away from the function until she was on the verge of blackin’ out.”

Inadvertently, your eyebrows furrowed together. “That sounds healthier to me. I’m proud she’s winding down a bit. She’s still herself.”

“I know, I know,” Vernon muttered, sounding almost agitated as he puffed Snozz’s blunt. “Not fuckin’ sayin’ she’s a goddamn prude, just that I miss her crazy.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, tousling the black tresses. Then he was pulling a lighter out from his pocket, keeping the blunt held between his lips while he crisped it using the strong flame. “Fuck, I’m stargazin’ now, PJ’s,” he laughed hoarsely around a cloud of smoke.

You didn’t know what to do.

Vernon’s energy was disseminating throughout the room. It was like a sparkler, drawing hectic, amorphous shapes into the dark that remained in place for only a second before fading.

And you couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly, the door burst open. In paraded Kitty, twirling herself around the room, holding onto a small, black box with a mouthpiece, very similar to the girl’s from before. You heard her singing, words slurring into each other, careless in every sense. While you were utterly lost, Vernon seemed to recognize her messily constructed melody, singing along with her as they grooved in circles.

“C'mon, Snozz!” Kitty shouted, dropping to her knees in front of him as he remained fast asleep. “Let’s hear you sing!” She continued her musical number, grabbing Snozz by his shoulders, then holding up his head by tufts of fluffy hair, pressing the lyrics into his ear.

You were dead stiff.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo!” Vernon cackled.

Kitty tossed her hair back, laughing deliriously. “He needs fun!” She stumbled over to the bed where you were huddled akin to a sopping wet kitten caught in a flash freeze, watching her collapse onto the covers, praying you were invisible. Kitty breathed in, her device crackling, and exhaled a thick, rolling smoke that had a distinct, sweet smell. “Especially you,” she purred, capturing you in her enlarged, misty eyes. “You need fun.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Vernon and Kitty are in the bedroom!” Someone shouted, interrupting your non-existent rebuttal after popping their head into the room.

And then the floodgates broke. About six or seven people streamed into the dark space, squawking over each other, muddling the air with a concoction of bitter smells and escalating the temperature to an uncomfortable warmth in a matter of mere seconds. Somebody found the remote control for the television. In a few blips, there was a music channel playing, the volume cranked until a consistent, rhythmic club beat was all you could hear. It was terrible. Wanting to spend some time with Vernon away from the chaos had morphed into a gathering for the completely inebriated.

Now, the chaos was taunting you at every angle.

Kitty crawled closer, holding the box between her teeth.

She proceeded to sit clumsily on her knees, legs opened wide, enough to see her underwear if you were curious to look. But she had such blissful unawareness, taking in another huff from her vape, letting the burn settle in her throat before blowing everything out. Your wrinkled, displeased face caught the brunt of a manufactured flavour you didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Seriously, babe,” Kitty drawled, scooting herself closer toward you, her knees nudging yours. “I have tablets. And they’re low dose. Easy.”

“Uh, that’s fine.” Gosh—your tone was so blatantly fragile—it sounded like your voice was thin glass. “I really don’t want any.”

“Yeah,” Kitty laughed, gasping for air, but instead lifting the vape to her round, full lips. “You don’t want them! I can see that!” She took another restless hit. You made sure to hold your breath. “But you definitely fuckin’ need ‘em, baby girl! It’ll take the edge off! I’ll even half the price!”

Abruptly, another body flopped onto the bed, toward the foot. Kitty turned around, and together, you watched a girl climb her way onto a man’s lap, arching her back smoothly as she bent over him, the tips of her fingers tickling down his face before their lips brushed in a kiss.

“Ew!” Kitty screamed around the mouthpiece to her vape. “Get a fuckin’ room, you sick freaks!” She pushed against the girl’s tiny arm, though it was a frivolous, teasing touch without scalding intention.

As you anxiously rubbed the back of your hand against your thrumming forehead, you felt a slickness, quickly realizing that the crown of your hair was dampened with sweat. Vernon blended into the crowd well. It seemed there were more people in the room, and no matter how intensely your eyes sorted between the dazed faces, none were recognizable. You attempted to shuffle off the bed, but Kitty had caught you, luring you sit back down. And you did, despite your gut hollering in vehement protest.

“I wanna know—,” she sang, pulling at a long loop of dyed hair close to her ear, “—and don’t take offense to it, sweetheart. But why come here if you weren’t planning on getting fucked up?” Almost to emphasize her point, she returned the vape to her lips. “Like, are you a masochist?”

Huddling away from a man standing a little too close to the bed, you rubbed along your arm in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. “I-I, I don’t really…” you couldn’t think, and watching Kitty’s wide, unmoving eyes delightfully swallow your fear had you frozen. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Vernon?”

You couldn’t answer.

She suddenly cackled, head tossed back. The device hissed while she secured her lips around the mouthpiece, sucking in. When Kitty elaborated through a drifting screen of smoke, you couldn’t be bothered to hold your breath at the smell—you needed to breathe—your body wasn’t giving you a choice. “That’s cute,” the girl giggled. “Although, are you sure you’re completely sober? I know Vernon’s type…” her gaze subtly flickered over you in a heartbeat, “and I’m not sure how well you tick the boxes.” She flipped the hair off her shoulder, laughing. “You must be nasty in bed, then.”

When you swallowed, smudging your lips together, they felt drier than old, strained leather. It was near impossible to speak. Every word quivered, leaving your twitching tongue with such timidness and dread. “I-I don’t know…” you laughed brokenly. “I just—I think I’m gonna—"

“Know what I miss most about Vernon?” Kitty interrupted, her head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing her shoulder as though she were reminiscing a memory so magnificent and tender. But then her stare shot toward you, hardened, challenging, devilish. “How he would fuck me until my brain melted.” You swallowed, trembling. “He told me I was the best at taking him, that no one would ever compare.” Kitty started smirking, dragging a hand up her thigh, slow and flirtatious, as though she were retracing a sensual touch. “No pressure or anything!” Her taunting façade vanished, the smirk replaced by a smile, the challenging tone replaced by a nonchalant, almost encouraging warmth. But you knew it wasn’t genuine. Not at all.

“Thanks for sharing,” you sighed, completely deflated.

A part of you bristled with the urge to be more assertive as opposed to reclusive, but it was a very small part, enough to feel yet not enough to follow through with a vengeance.

Understanding the conversation was done now that Kitty had put you in your place with a calculated slash of humiliation, you slid off the bed, pushing around the bodies packed into the room. Regret had never raised so fast from the depth of your stomach. You could taste the acridness tangy in your mouth, feel the moment’s inertia, how the atmosphere seemed to be pulling you down with every step. How on Earth could you think this was a good idea? That you could somehow fit into Vernon’s life like a perfect building block? Were you really that delusional? That naïve?

Entering into the living room, you weren’t able to make it far without someone stepping into your way. So—he had left the bedroom.

“Where’re you off to?” Vernon asked.

You were too miserable to feign any softness. “I’m leaving.”

As you attempted to weave past him, Vernon opposed you. He tucked the blunt behind his ear, the edges of his lips furling into a disbelieving smile. “Fuck, you just got here PJ’s. Can’t be leavin’ so soon.”

“Well, I am,” you answered matter-of-factly. “Goodnight, Vernon.”

Again, he cut you off, stepping into your way. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay… so you’re headin’ out early 'cause…?”

“Because I want to. Now, can you please move?”

Predictably, the boy ignored your plea. He still wasn’t himself, and he wouldn’t be for a while. You didn’t want to speak with him regardless of his intoxication. The stinging, draping heaviness of your misjudgment was like a smothering blanket and Vernon was merely keeping the hot fabric trapped around you. His gaze seemed lost, refusing to connect the pieces.

You watched him shake his head. “No… somethin’ happened. And now it’s got you all upset, and you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”

Groaning, you shouldered past him forcefully. “Thanks, detective!”

He grabbed your wrist.

You whipped around, wresting for it back. “Vernon!”

“Let’s talk outside.” He nodded at the sliding glass doors across the carpeted living room. “No one’s out there. C’mon.” When you resisted his pulling with a deep scowl, he immediately opted for a different technique of zero patience, one that involved sweeping you off your damn feet and carrying you in his toned arms like a newlywed bride.

“Vernon!” You hollered; your cheeks aroused with heat. “Put me—p-put me down—you freaking idiot!” People were looking, but they didn’t seem to assume much, even stepping aside to let Vernon through the open sliding doors onto the cement platform. He dropped you down, and you stumbled, wobbling into a plastic lawn chair. “What the hell is your issue!”

“Okay,” he huffed, closing the curtains before pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Now that we’ve got some real privacy—” he turned toward you, “—let’s talk.”

“Talk about what!” You yelled. “I said I wanted to leave!”

“And you can,” Vernon encouraged, “as soon as you tell me—”

“It doesn’t matter what happened!” Standing behind the white lawn chair to place distance in between you, your head swung adamantly. “I’m glad it happened, actually. Because now I understand how stupid and delusional I've been!” You refused to look at Vernon, flickering your glassy eyes toward a buzzing lantern along the brick, trapped with dead leaves.

“Okay,” he hummed. “About what?”

“Stop,” you demanded.

He laughed, throwing out his arms. “Stop what?”

The answer didn’t come to you.

Nothing was. Inside your head was loud, overpowering static that deflected every possible thought, from the articulate to nonsensical, just like the television inside the bedroom. Not even the brisk, feathering cold of the pure night could penetrate you.

Vernon grabbed onto the lawn chair, moving it aside. You let him press into your melancholic aurora because you would and always have let him do just about anything. He pulled the most delicate strings inside you that you had never sensed before. He sparked feelings your body and mind had never experienced. It was like riding an unbelievable wind that refused to let your feet touch the ground, keeping you petrified but addicted to the freedom. And when you were back on Earth, it wasn’t long before you hated it, before you desperately wanted the rise, the gust, the weightlessness.

He told you that you were like a drug to him.

It was only now that you truly understood what he meant.

But you had never used drugs, and you weren’t about to start.

Vernon stood close enough to breathe you in; his arms folded; his warmth palpable. “Your eyes are all teary,” he murmured with concern.

“How do you not get it?” You whispered while staring down at the cracked slabs of cement. “We’re never, ever going to work. Not as friends, or as anything else—” your voice split, and you needed a moment to pause, reabsorb the pain. “It just won’t ever happen.”

He exhaled deeply, fingernails puncturing into his arms.

You quickly wiped off your own tears.

That was the moment Vernon finally caught your eyes. Everything about his stance shifted. It was like someone administered him a dose of clarity. “PJ’s…” he murmured, grabbing onto your arms, sliding his rough palms down your skin until your hands were gathered in his. “You’re fuckin’ jumpin’ to conclusions, you know that, right?” There was a squeeze against your fingers. “You’re seein’ the worst of everything, diggin’ a hole.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?!” You snapped, tearing your hands out from his solacing, sweet grip, beginning to pace around the cold patches of textured cement. “This is such a big part of your life! You love the freedom, the adventure, the high. You don’t want the lesser, boring, mundane stuff that everyone else has going on. And that’s exactly what I am, what I always will be!” After rubbing away the thin trails of tears scurrying down your cheeks, you bit back a futile, immature whine. “I can’t fit into your life and you can’t fit into mine! It’s that simple! There’s no meeting in the middle, no compromising. Nothing that could ever make us gel!”

Vernon stopped your pacing by shoving you at the shoulder. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, PJ’s?” He deadpanned. “We make us gel! We like each other! You just fuckin’ tiptoe around it, avoidin’ us at every turn. Doesn’t that just enforce our differences even more?”

“Likeness isn’t enough!” You told him, pushing off his hand. “How am I ever supposed to be okay with you snorting coke beside a girl you have sexual history with! How am I ever supposed to be okay that you’re affiliated with all these shady, dangerous weirdos! How will I ever get over the inevitable fact you’ll just get bored of me! We make absolutely no sense!”

Vernon chuckled irritably, tonguing against his cheek. “To you.”

“I-I can’t make it any clearer,” you admitted, exasperated.

“So, what now?” He snorted.

“Now,” you sniffled, wiping underneath your eye, “I’m leaving.”

Vernon removed the blunt from his ear. It was hardly smoking at that point, though he still attempted a puff, shaking his head. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he laughed, exhaling swiftly. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Goodnight,” you pronounced to the boy sharply.

Throwing the glass door back open, you stalked into the kitchen, finding your roommate in the exact place you had left her, with Moo exactly where you had left him. Their conversation seemed animated and jovial, and you would have felt awful about interrupting them if you weren’t so high-strung from arguing with Vernon.

Every inch of you was vibrating.

You sighed aloud cumbersomely. “I’m sorry if you guys are having fun, but I need to go home.”

They both paused, taking in your appearance.

Ruby raised her eyebrow. “Uh… sure.”

Moo wrinkled his nose. “Damn, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, fanning your sweltering face.

He checked the time on his phone, his expression bulging. “You guys have hardly made a dent here! C’mon! You can’t leave this early—”

“I want to go home!” You shouted, glaring him into a stupefied silence.

Ruby swallowed, unable to hide her shock that such a booming, aggressive statement could come from such a docile person. But it was the flash of desperation she needed to see, immediately understanding that something had gone wrong and you were in the process of crumbling.

“No, we gotta leave,” Ruby said tersely. “Thanks for the drink.”

Moo followed after you into the corridor, his head tilted against the frame. Ruby helped you into her cushiony coat before reaching for her own. “Can I at least order your Uber?” He offered, hopeful.

Ruby brushed some hair off her lip. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got a friend who’s just coming off work. She’ll be way faster. And no payment needed.”

“Ah, okay,” Moo nodded, his tone dragging with disappointment, although you assumed it was due to losing Ruby and not yourself.

Outside, the cold suddenly felt way colder than it had when you were filled to the brim with heat, arguing. Now, you sensed every nip and bite from the wind. Ruby hurried after you to the base of the driveway, scurrying along the rough gravel as she texted her friend. Once you reached the dented mailbox sticking out from the ground at an odd angle, Ruby had finally caught up to you, the concern in her expression evident.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning.

You didn’t know how to respond, standing silently while the wind whipped the bottoms of your lengthy coat. The only thing you could squeeze out was a self-deprecating croak of regret. “I’m so stupid, Ruby,” you cried, the water flooding your eyes instantly, turning the night a blur. “I always make the dumbest choices!” 

“No you don’t!” Ruby was quick to correct you.

“Is this not proof enough?” You rebutted, throwing your arm in the direction of the house. “I mean, what the hell am I doing here? It’s because a made a stupid choice, about a stupid guy, and I followed it, stupidly!”

Your roommate sighed, pulling some fluttering crimson tresses away from her tinged, blushed cheeks. She then stood next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing you against her warm side. Honestly, you weren’t looking for a lecture, another back and forth, a pep-talk about how you were treating yourself too unfairly. She seemed to understand that, opting to comfort you with her closeness instead, and you leaned into her jasmine scent gratefully.

Although, the relief was only temporary.

You could only surmise how much it was going to hurt later.

—END OF PART FOUR.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part four.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 25k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: a bit of an earlier upload since i have work in the morning :( but when you finish this part it means we are officially more than halfway through the series! that is kraziness.

thank you again for all the kind comments & reblogs <3 i didn't expect many ppl to actually get into this fic bc of its length and subject matter so i'm glad there are readers willing to take the journey with me teehee.

also, i rly do encourage yall to check out ghana's many hopes. they do AMAZING things for young girls rescued from trafficking! they get to learn skillsets and have opportunities to build support systems!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Ghana's Many Hopes!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

You stopped by the apartment to grab a few things. After leaving the pastry behind in the fridge for Ruby, you shoved pyjamas into your knapsack—checkered bottoms and the pony t-shirt, as you had been coming to the end of your clothes—and some skincare from the washroom.

It didn’t take as long as you remembered to reach Vernon’s place.

The small, frisky dog with cataracts was barking at you two, scratching against the shutters, just like last time. Someone had finally fixed the broken doorway, replacing the wooden board with glass. You repeated the same tiresome trek up the winding staircase until reaching the fourth floor, where you released an audible breath of repose upon entering his cozy bachelor. No plain grey walls, no stiffness, no apprehension.

“Do you mind texting Ruby?” You sighed, handing Vernon your phone. “She’s asking about what happened. Just tell her I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and not to worry too much.” It was torturous to open your messages and see Lee’s unopened notifications pleading at you. “It is okay if I use your bathroom for a second? To change and wash up?”

Vernon looked down at your phone, then back at you. “Sure.”

The washroom wasn’t in great shape, but it was still better than what you imagined—at least for someone who was hardly there to clean it.

Most of the damage didn’t seem like Vernon’s fault, but rather the cheap costliness pertaining to the landlord. A crappy patch job in the shower, chips in the porcelain sink, peeling, faded wallpaper beginning to curl from the corners.

You set your knapsack down on the toilet, unzipped it, and pulled out your face product, which you soaked onto a cotton pad. Staring yourself down in the water-stained mirror, underneath the ghostly sterileness of the washroom’s pale lighting, you began wiping off all the dried tears and grime that stippled your skin. Every swipe of the cotton pad only made you focus with more intensity on yourself, until you felt so unbelievably and wildly unattractive that you couldn’t bear to stare into the mirror any longer.

With an exhausted sniffle, you unbuttoned your jeans. One leg at a time, you kicked them off, before removing the shirt overtop your head, tossing your bra onto the clothes you left bunched on the floor. Before you could catch a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror, every little detail under the light’s harsh dissection, you quickly jumped into your pyjama bottoms and wrestled on the loose t-shirt to unaesthetically match.

A deep breath before going back out to face Vernon.

He was lounging on the futon. You dropped your knapsack onto the coffee table, gave him a queasy, weak smile, and collapsed next to him.

Vernon tilted his head toward you. “Need anything? Water? There isn’t much in the fridge and I’m a shitty fuckin’ cook, but I can make a pretty gnarly grilled cheese. Takeout is fine, too. The world’s your… uh… oyster.”

But you shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He then held out your phone, which you dropped into your bag. You didn't want to read anything. You didn't want to know anything.

“I told Ruby what you said,” Vernon mumbled. “She responded a few times. Didn’t read it.” He proceeded to shrug. “Well, didn’t answer it.”

“I’ll set aside some time to text her tonight.”

He nodded, looking out the apartment window for a moment or two before Vernon turned his attention back to you. There was a reluctance in his expression, a withdrawal, like he desperately wanted to ask but felt tentative in case his queries were too intruding. You appreciated his sensitivity. His eyes flicked you up and down a few times in thought.

And then he pulled the trigger. “So? I get to know anything?”

You were curled up closer to him than usual, your cheek just barely grazing the boy’s shoulder. It was solacing to feel his heat, smell the outdoors on his clothes, the tinges of flavoured smoke. Your body untied itself.

Then, you were drawing in a long, long breath. “I tried breaking up with Lee…” you started, speaking quietly, “and it turned to… shit.”

No antagonizing remarks. No comical digs. He stayed silent.

“I didn’t expect it to be that hard. He was being so nice to me the second I stepped in the door. I just… couldn’t get the words out, y’know? It was torture.” Pulling your knees closer into your chest, you stared down at the open space of Vernon’s lap, his strong thighs. “Once he was done his homework, he came right next to me on the bed…” it was suddenly harder to speak, your throat automatically tightening up. “I was so stupidly nervous that I couldn’t articulate enough. Lee started kissing me… on my neck… he started moving his hand down my shirt…” your eyes began to sting again, blurring your vision into a cloudy vignette. “He tried to touch me, you know, in between my legs,” you breathed out in a trembly voice, “but I got too scared and stopped it. It’s like he was completely missing the signals I was giving. He was like, pulling me back down onto the bed and I freaked out even more. I had to leave. I couldn’t—I felt like I was on fire—like he was trying to trap me. I-I don’t know. It was all so quick.”

You started looking around for a tissue box.

Vernon reached underneath the coffee table to grab you one.

Pulling out two tissues, you fought to capture a structured breath, taking a moment to dry your eyes and blow your nose. “Then…” you huffed, skin irritated and wet, “I couldn’t help but think it was my fault, y’know? That I should have been upfront. I’ve just been so nervous and uncomfortable about intimacy with him. I don’t know why. But… maybe if I was more vocal, he would have understood, and, like…” bringing another tissue to your face, you blotted up the tears, sniffling louder and louder. “I just feel like, so useless. So dumb.” Blinking at the crumpled tissue squeezed into the flesh of your sore hand, you wanted to shrink, to disappear, as the embarrassment flushed through you.

Vernon shook his head. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded. “I-I know. It’s just hard not to think that way…”

“No, PJ’s, look at me.” Vernon angled himself on the futon so he could face you more intimately, capturing your fullest attention, until the brilliant rings of his earthen irises were all you could gauge. “What he did was completely not your fault. There’s no excuse for it. Someone who actually has your best interests at heart is not gonna treat you like that,” he reaffirmed you, his tone much more serious, unnegotiable. “He was countin’ on your discomfort to keep you quiet, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn’t bein’ oblivious, or missin’ your signals. Bet he knew what was comin’ and figured gettin’ inside you could change your mind. That’s real slimy fuckin’ behaviour. I should kill him for that. But you stood up for yourself, right? And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault.” Vernon reached his arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder as his firm reassurance only sparked another onslaught of waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” you spluttered, piling all your used tissues onto the coffee table before pulling the collar of your t-shirt up against your cheek, letting it absorb all the dampness. “I’m such a mess.”

“Fuck that,” Vernon laughed, pulling you closer into him. “You can be a mess when you’re with me, yeah? You really think I give a fuck?”

A smile broke through your lips. “N-No.”

“Exactly.” He nudged his nose against your hair. “I’ve been around you enough to know how dramatic you are. Usually you’re dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter,” Vernon chuckled. “But I like it.”

Your head slid into the crook underneath his chin. “So, I’m being perfectly dramatic about this. Is that what you’re saying?” You teased.

“Hey, you be the master of your emotions, alright? Don’t let anyone else dictate anything without good reason.”

“How are you so randomly eloquent and insightful?” You let out a half-hearted giggle, snuggling your face in closer to his neck. That’s where his cologne was most concentrated. Rich amber filled your nose and floated to the centre of your head.

The backs of Vernon’s fingers stopped at your elbow. After what felt like an oddly long pause, he rubbed his nose and chuckled, “dunno.”

Silence followed, soft enough to touch.

And you couldn’t have embraced it more.

Closeness with Vernon felt so easy that you wondered why you ever bothered grasping at straws when it came to Lee. The way you slotted against his side was like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. His calloused fingertips drifting along your bare arm was equal parts soothing and arousing. Having the weight of his chin rested on your head made you feel so protected, as though nothing in the world could reach you. With his other arm lax in his lap, you took the opportunity to meet your fingertip with a vein underneath his prettily inked skin, which you proceeded to trace until it disappeared into the elbow's crook. His shifted his hips as you touched him and nothing had ever made you want to jump across his thighs more.

Swallowing, you retracted your hand. “Was it good?”

Vernon casted back his hair, humming. “What?”

You repeated yourself, more audibly this time. “Was it good?”

 “Was what good?”

Biting your lip, you eventually came to murmur, “the head?”

“Oh,” Vernon laughed, snorting. “Uh, fuck, it was fine.”

You stared up at him through your lashes. “Is she a friend?”

There was a prominent stiffness to his rising adam’s apple, sharp against his throat, like an arrowhead. “Not really. I know her name, where I met her, and that she fucks heavy with ketamine. But she’s not that nice around the privates, you feel? I try to tell her what I like but she just fuckin’ operates my dick like she’s drivin’ a damn stick,” Vernon chuckled, shrugging. “You’re easy priority over that.”

Looking back down, you smiled. “I guess that’s nice to know.”

“Shit—even if it was the best fuckin’ brain I ever got—I still would have come got you,” Vernon asserted, slipping his hand underneath your arm, his fingers pressing deep into your ribs. “Lucky you, huh?”

You nodded, adjusting the knees against your chest.

Vernon cleared his throat. “Why don’t I throw on a movie?”

“Okay,” you obliged. “What kind?”

“Let’s look on my Netflix—well—not mine. I’ve been bummin’ off the dude who lives underneath me. But I give him mint weed. So it’s fair.”

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on his flat-screen television, which took a moment to start up. You assumed he didn’t use it much as you both watched the spinning loading circle.

Vernon smirked. “Is it really comfy to sit like that?”

You frowned. “Like what?”

“With your knees against your chest. You always sit like that. Why don’t you spread out more?” He offered. “Put your legs across my lap.”

A weight hit your throat. “Are you sure?”

“No, I gave you that option so I could take it back three fuckin’ seconds after I said it,” he sighed, chuckling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Naturally, you obeyed, untucking your legs and resting them across the boy’s thighs. He was right. It felt way more leisurely.

“Why don’t you pick the movie? Show me one of your favourites.”

While you operated the remote, Vernon had his palm lying flat against your knee. The smile that shot to your face was immediate, unbridled twitches dancing in your cheeks, though you attempted to hide it. Whenever he touched you, no matter how faint, it set off unstoppable fireworks from the base of your abdomen, fulgurant and hot and sizzling with desire that was near impossible to quench.

“There,” you sniffed. “Wall-E.”

“Oh, that’s a banger. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

You grinned into his neck. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

It was difficult not to fall asleep as the movie played.

The apartment grew dimmer and dimmer over the hour, with the sun setting outside, pulling all the baby blue out from the winter sky until it was an unsaturated cloth. Your head was in such a comfortable position, cradled against Vernon’s shoulder, and you had only curled up more such that you were a ball half-supported in his lap. His body heat was pulling down your eyelids and the strokes of his hand along your thigh’s underside was so lulling. You didn’t even realize the movie had ended. It was Vernon’s fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face that rekindled your senses, and you began to stretch, watching the film’s credits through the apartment’s hazy darkness.

“It’s over?” You yawned.

Vernon laughed. “It’s been over.”

“Oh…” you blinked, still wearing off your brain fog. “Why didn’t you wake me up for my favourite part?! When Eve gets Wall-E to remember everything! And they hold hands! It always makes me cry in happiness!”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

You ignored him, falling back against his shoulder. Staring out the wide windows, gazing across the last embers of sunlight buried far against the horizon, you sighed, “that’s my absolute favourite part…”

Vernon picked up the remote. “I can go back.”

“No, it won’t be the same.”

“Don’t fall asleep then.”

“Uh? Wake me up then?” You retorted. “Dumbass.”

“Aren’t you gettin’ all relaxed with the language?” He snickered, rubbing his thumb to your thigh in such a way that you nearly purred. “I’ve never heard you drop so many swears. Should I call your mom?”

“Hey—I’ve had an awful day—I can drop all the swears I want.”

“M’kay, fair.”

Your eyes stilled on the empty fish tank that caught your curiosity when you first visited. It seemed like it had been sitting on the shelf for months. The glass was cloudy, uncleaned, with some tubes left curled up against the bottom. If it never belonged to Vernon, you couldn’t help but wonder who. Maybe the presumed sister shown in the photo frame on his nightstand. The tank was large, likely fitting a decent number of fish. It must have required a notable deal of commitment and responsibility. Vernon hadn’t spared much information when you originally asked him, though you were tempted to ask again, even if it got you nowhere.

“If the tank isn’t yours, then whose is it?”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Is it a secret?”

“Not… exactly…” Vernon answered, sounding hesitant. “It just belonged to someone who was really important to me, y’know?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He breathed out for a moment, and you could feel the shallowing of his broad chest underneath your hand. There was a subtle increase in his heartbeat, each thud gentle but quickened. “I’ll show you something, actually,” Vernon said. “But you gotta move.”

You smiled, shuffling away from his heat. “Sure.”

Vernon got up from the futon. He turned on a light belonging to a ceiling fan above his bed, then approached one of the drawers on his dresser and started rifling around through its unorganized contents.

Oh my gosh, it’s happening! It’s happening! You were shrieking inside your head, jumping up and down like you’d just won an insane lottery.

He’s actually going to show me something personal!

He trusts me! He’s opening up!

As he sunk back into the futon, you noticed that Vernon had a few photographs in his hand. They looked like polaroid images based on the fuzziness and white-cast. You straightened up, practically vibrating with anticipation, while he arranged them a certain way.

“So, for context’s sake: this dude was my best friend for years. I met him when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, at the time. You could call it a double-edged knife—” (sword, you thought), “—but he showed me everything I know. When it felt like no one else gave a fuck about me, if I lived or died, he was, like, the hand on my shoulder, y’know?” At last, he gave you one of the glossy polaroid images. It was taken on a concrete staircase belonging to an aged-looking brick house. Vernon was on the right, dressed in his thick bomber jacket and throwing up a peace sign. The young man beside him wore a dark green windbreaker. His complexion was much tanner than Vernon’s, his rusty hair slicked back and a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his mouth. You stared at the stranger intently, bringing the photograph closer to your face. Vernon sighed. “That’s him.”

“What’s his name?” You wondered.

“Everyone called him Dots.”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah,” Vernon said, nodding. “It’s hard to tell in that picture, but his cheeks, across his nose, was all covered in freckles. Y’know, dots.” He began to laugh as his eyes roamed the other image in his hand. “Girls fuckin’ loved that. It was the first thing they’d compliment—your freckles are so pretty—and he was always so polite. But his real name was Paulo—the other guy that Minghao asked you about.”

Vernon passed you another fuzzy polaroid, though he didn’t feature in the shot this time. His friend occupied the image, likely taken at a house party judging from the bedazzled strangers frozen in time behind him. He was wearing glittery New Year’s Eve glasses shaped just like the number, a red solo cup in one hand, a smoking cigar packed with herb in the other. There was something so irritatingly familiar about Vernon’s friend. It was akin to an itch you just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard you stretched.

“Yeah…” Vernon hummed, “he was a sweet guy. Pretty mellow, actually. Not that into parties, clubs. He had a lot of interests, too. That fish tank was one of ‘em. He kept all kinds of shit in there. Snails, little shrimps, all these fishies whose names I can’t fuckin’ remember. He liked to read books a lot. He even showed me how to press flowers one time when we got bored in the summer—no clue where the fuck he learned how to do that—he just kinda knew stuff.”

You laughed. “Probably from all his books.”

Vernon nodded. “Good point.”

“So… he does what you do?”

“Kinda. When I first met him, he was just a dealer. But he knew all the right people. And he was super charismatic. So it was easy for him the climb the ranks and get the right promotions. Instead of pullin’ the shots, he was callin’ them, y’know?” Vernon let the last photograph slip into your hand, which you brought close to your inspection. “He was more of a distributor. He got people to move product. I did that for him. At one point I wanted to be more, but he told me it wasn’t worth it. Low profile is better in the long run. Especially if you want to get out. Makes it way easier.”

It wasn’t a polaroid image.

The detail was much crisper, with a full spectrum of vivid colour. You recognized the Camry. The two boys were sitting atop its hood, rough sneakers on the silver bumper (then, without a spot of rust), elbows weighted against their knees. Vernon was in his cherished bomber while his friend wore a jacket, green-checkered fleece. Without the polaroid glare, you could see all the details of his freckled face, from the big, dark brown eyes to the piercing in his dimple.

You knew him.

You had seen him before.

“That shitty car I drive,” he snorted, “that used to be his. But he sold it to me for a cheap buck. I always wondered why. That car went everywhere he went. Sentimental type shit. I was honoured, though.”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, your eyes widened. “I met your friend, Dots.”

His forehead was quick to wrinkle. “Really? No bullshit?”

You cast through the photos again, your certainty only becoming stronger, the memories crawling out from the deepest recesses of your mind like the dead unearthing from tombs. “He came to Mr. York’s, I think over a year ago,” you started explaining. “I was newer, having a super hard night… I thought he was gonna be another customer to shove me around but he was sweet. He even… drove me home.” The memory was uncompletely unthawed. Everything rushed back to you: missing the bus, chasing after him down the dewy street, getting into the car, feeling nervous but relieved. There was a softness about him that you had never experienced from anyone else, a certain trustworthiness that sat so right in your gut. “I remembered asking for his name, too. He didn’t tell me.”

“Shit—he drove you home?” Vernon was astonished, immediately pressing for more information. “When was this again?”

“Over a year ago. Not this recent fall, but the one before it.”

“At… where?”

“Mr. York’s,” you laughed. “Where I work, as a server.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I never saw him again,” you admitted, suddenly becoming overwhelmed with forlorn. How funny that one encounter with a complete stranger could evoke such powerful yearning, as though he had been a dear friend, someone like Diana. You supposed it was the unexplored possibility of everything ahead, a road never taken, a bridge never crossed. Lives skimming by but never blending.

“That’s crazy as fuck,” Vernon rasped, dragging a hand through his loose, shiny hair, grinning formidably bright. “You and Dotsy, huh?”

“Wow—you have a nickname for his nickname?”

“Of course.” His hands fell back into his lap. Vernon started prodding at the cuticle of his thumb. “It makes sense, though.”

You looked between the photographs again. “What makes sense?”

“Why he drove you home.” Vernon sunk lower into the futon, spreading out his legs and folding his arms, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “He liked shy, awkward, weird girls like you."

“Gee,” you coughed. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grabbed your knee and shook it. “It’s a good thing. I think people like that feel the sincerest, right? It’s not an act. That’s just how they are. They can’t help it.”

You pursed your lip, appreciating the nuance of the idea, and the comfort it harboured. “Maybe… I never thought about it like that.” At last, you set the three photographs onto the coffee table, leaving the particular polaroid of the two boys relaxed against the concrete stoop on top, and joined Vernon in leaning back into the futon. Rubbing your lips, you thought for a moment. “Are you guys still friends?”

Vernon tilted his head at you, laughed heartily. “He’s dead.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

But he casually dismissed your sympathy. “No need to apologize.”

“That’s really upsetting,” you sighed, grabbing onto your ankles. “I would have loved to know him better. I mean, he seemed so kind.”

“He was. He did his job well, but he never should have been there. I’m sure you two would have got on well. I mean, already seemed like it.”

Your smile beamed at him, like a gleaming rainbow.

Fiddling with the collar of your sock, you wavered on whether or not to ask about the gloomy specifics. The smile began to drift from your countenance, replaced by teeth nervously chewing your lip. “Am I allowed to ask how he passed? You don't have to tell me.”

“Overdose,” Vernon answered. “Gruesome stuff.”

He didn’t mention if it was accidental or not.

Either way, you sensed the distant hurt underneath his firm tone.

Picking up the photographs, Vernon took them to the privacy of his dresser, setting them down into the cabinet space with gentleness, as though he were handling a delicate flower bouquet. “Talk later, Dotsy,” he lilted before shutting the drawer. “Miss you every day.”

You were woken up much earlier than preferred by the daylight glaring in through the windows. At first, you assumed you were in your own bedroom, where you almost always kept the curtains shut because your view was a parking lot. Hence your confusion to pull the covers off your face and realize there was a ceiling fan directly above you, in addition to a series of posters against the wall that definitely weren’t yours. Shuffling to sit upright, you saw Vernon sprawled across the futon with a grey blanket half-pooled onto the floor, exactly where you had left him the night before.

He was holding a phone above his face, thumbs tapping away, rogue bits of hair sticking straight up. It was unbelievably strange to awaken in a bed that wasn’t yours. At least it was a Sunday.

You had nowhere to be.

Rubbing the bleariness from your eyes, you yawned. “Morning.”

Vernon poked his head up. “Oh—you’re awake. Sleep alright?”

While adjusting the blankets in your lap, you nodded, glancing around the apartment and noticing how subtly the morning light impacted its appearance. Everything felt cooler, softer. “Yeah… I think I conked right out, to be honest.” You grabbed your phone, making a quick pitstop of your messages. The notification to Lee’s had disappeared. Ruby had texted you a few times around midnight. “Have you been up long?”

He shrugged, guesstimating. “Uh, maybe an hour?”

“I can’t believe you’re an early-riser. It doesn’t fit you at all.”

“Why?” The boy snickered, continuing to dawdle on his phone, throwing his leg over the back of the futon. “You think I’m lazy? That us drug dealers just mooch around all day, stoned and fuckin’ brainless?”

“Well, you don’t have the best portrayals through media.”

Finally, he slapped his phone down. “I’m glad I can be a little science experiment to you. Contact with the specimen is critical, huh?”

Your eyes rolled, and you reached for the water glass that Vernon left you atop his nightstand, taking a brief gulp. Most of his glasses were dusty, but the water tasted pure. “I wonder if the specimen will prove his productive nature by making breakfast? Science has to know.”

Vernon pushed himself to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs.

He ruffled a hand through his fuzzy bedhead, attempting to calm the hectic tangles but somehow only making them worse. “Is that your fancy-smancy way of askin’ me to make you a meal? You’re a demandin’ scientist.”

“Science is always demanding. It’s serious stuff.”

Grinning, you watched Vernon lethargically drag himself over to the kitchenette, pulling out a frying pan from one of the cabinets that he clanged onto the stove. He made you a grilled cheese, paired with orange juice and a vanilla yogurt that you double-checked the expiry date on, the ensemble served to you in bed, with a dramatic bow from Vernon and the flap of the kitchen towel landing over his shoulder. “There you go, Miss. Is it to your utmost liking?” He asked in a quaint, smooth British accent, attempting to mimic a natural poshness.

“It is,” you answered. “Your productivity has been noted.”

Vernon didn’t at all rush you through breakfast, though you suspected he had somewhere to be judging from the change of clothes and quick self-pampering in the washroom. He plopped himself back down on the futon after fixing his whirlwind hair and brushing his teeth. “Mintiness is next to godliness or whatever the fuck,” he had said, sticking a Listerine strip on his tongue.

He drove you home about an hour later.

It was the worst car ride of your life—not that it was actually terrible in any sense—but chiefly because it meant your night with him was over, long gone, flicked away to the ephemeral past. He had been so supportive, so reassuring, so polite, more than you could have expected. You never would have thought those qualities of Vernon when you first met him back in the fall, though time and trust had eased you two closer, and in the process, your understanding became enriched. He was stubbornly himself in ways that others could never grasp or accept, not that it mattered to him.

The good, the bad—it wasn’t separate—but an interwoven whole.

As the car stalled outside the curb to your apartment, you gave the boy an earnest, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Vernon. Seriously.”

“All good.” He shrugged. “Talk later, PJ’s.”

Your heart was heavy, watching him pull away, disappear into whatever venture awaited him next. It felt like your connection was a thread that tied you two together, and whenever he left, the thread was unraveling, being pulled, aching at the strain of your accumulating distance.

Entering the apartment, you jammed to a holt upon noticing Ruby sat on the sofa, arms folded crossly. She was clad in a hot pink bathrobe and her sleek-furred designer slippers, wet hair pulled into a bun, bright white cream smeared underneath her eyes.

She bobbed her ankle up and down.

You smiled at her, sheepish. “Heyyy…”

“Don’t ‘heyyy’ me,” the girl snapped, regurgitating your awkward tone of voice. “My phone has exploded with text messages from Lee, saying how badly he needs to apologize to you—apologize for what—I have no fucking clue! Because you left me out to dry! I’ve been worried sick! And then I realized you’re not even home, you’re sleeping over at Vernon’s?!” She gestured at you, babbling on. “Dressed in your pyjamas?! I mean, walk of shame, much? Please, please, please tell me you didn’t—”

“No,” you laughed, pulling off your lazily-adorned coat and throwing it on the rack, “we did not have sex. All I did was sleep over.”

Ruby furrowed her faint brow, eyes boring into you with the strength of flying knives. Giggling, you dragged your knapsack over to the sofa, plopping down beside her and settling your hand over top hers, which was splayed on her knee. It actually felt nice to get scolded by Ruby, to defrost her mellowness and sense the depth of her care.

She proceeded to dramatically whip her hand away. “I want to be even meaner, but considering I don’t know what happened… I’m dialing back much of the meanness…” sighing, Ruby softened her gaze. “What the hell happened? Lee’s texts have been worrying me to death.”

You hated having to rehash the ugly details. Once already felt like enough, but the second time was just unabashedly painful. Guilt was scribbled all over Ruby’s face, and while it was impossible to blame her, you knew she was deeply upset about being the one to introduce you and Lee. He was her friend, too. Someone she trusted and regarded highly enough to suggest a relationship with her roommate. But you were adamant that she shouldn’t criticize herself so undeservingly, and after the exchanges of comfort between you, the girl was furious, stomping around the living room.

“I should call his mother!”

“I should throw a bucket of molasses over his windshield!”

“I should superglue his law textbook shut!”

You decided it was best to let her vent.

Until Ruby finally came to a pause, dropped open her mouth, and looked at you quizzically. “Wait—you told this to Vernon, too, right? What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was a sweetheart. Really nice about everything.”

Ruby jutted out her hip, readjusting the straps to her flashy bathrobe before slicking her hands against her damp hair. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Where did he go, after he dropped you off?”

You shrugged, settling back against the sofa. “I’m not sure. I assume he has, y’know, drug dealy stuff to do. He didn’t linger, just took off.”

“Oh,” Ruby said with a breathy, faltering smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to, uh, get dressed. We can do whatever you want afterward!’ She scrambled to grab her charm-decorated phone off the coffee table, slippers scuffing fast across the floor as she burst into her bedroom.

Weird. 

Holding your breath, you listened intently to the silence.

But then you heard your roommate’s voice echoing at low from her room, and you knew she was on the phone. Using your tiptoes, you pranced over to Ruby’s door, ever so subtly pressing your ear against the crack. Yes, you were being a gigantic sleuthing snoop, but something about it felt warranted.

“Vernon, just listen to me, this isn’t going to help—okay, yes! It’s going to help you feel better, but what about her? You never think things through… I understand what happened, she just told me… he is a piece of shit! I agree with you, but—I care about her, too! You don’t think I want to dent Lee’s face in for how he made her feel? … Please, please, please, for the love of God, you already get into enough trouble! Don’t add another freaking battery charge to your already insane resume of illegal activity! You seriously won’t get out of prison, you idiot! … Yes… Yes, I get it… I know how much you care for her… thank the fucking holy fucking ghost. You made the right choice, okay? I know it.”

Hearing Ruby hang up the call, you sped away from her door and settled back onto the couch, fingers twiddling anxiously in your lap.

Was Vernon going to do something to Lee?

You couldn’t be sure about the situation without admitting you had eavesdropped on Ruby. When she came out from her bedroom, you reminded her she still had cream under her eyes. She started rubbing it in, sighing aloud, like she had just adverted an assassination attempt. You weren’t sure what to think, what to feel, just that you couldn’t shake Vernon from your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what you did.

“Honey Buns, wow, I haven’t had these in a lifetime.”

“Doesn’t that technically mean you’ve never had it?”

Soonyoung’s voice sounded from over your shoulder, followed by the rustling of plastic. “Dunno—they’re good, though.”

You were helping him stock some of the snacks. It was opening and the morning crowd would start trickling in soon. While Soonyoung worked on more of the individually packaged foods, you were refilling the candy bars. The Twix and KitKats were almost completely empty.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung mumbled, “back to my story…”

Since he was stocking the aisle behind yours, you could freely roll your eyes without worrying about being rude, unlike Soonyoung, who would roll his eyes straight to your face. But you always listened to the babblings of his weekend antics because he always listened to your incessant qualms about the universe and your issues—it was only fair. Half the time you tuned him out, anyway. It was typically the same stuff: getting drunk or high, stirring up trouble, running into a handsome guy, and then they’d end up having sex some place unorthodox, like a porta-potty, or a toolshed.

You tore open another box of chocolate bars.

“… and I was, like, starting to get nervous, ‘cause I promised everyone I would get them tablets, but my plug wasn’t answering. So, I had to, like, keep assuring them and shit, right? I’ve had this specific acid tablet before so I knew it was good, but the thing is, I can only get them from this mysterious Chinese dude who kinda looks like a punk rock vampire. That’s beside the point, though. Anyway, at the last second, he comes through—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning around and brushing the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Are the tablets from Minghao?”

Soonyoung stopped stocking his Honey Buns. He looked at you, sun-bleached eyebrows strung high up his forehead. “You know Minghao?”

“Uh, not really… but I’ve been trying to, uh… it’s complicated…”

You couldn’t believe it! So, maybe it wasn’t Darian that told Minghao about you and Vernon, maybe it was Soonyoung all along. He did have a pretty big mouth… you wouldn’t be surprised if he let something stupid fly off the cuff. It somehow made too much sense.

Even though you wanted to holler, you tried to stay relaxed.

He adjusted his backwards cap. “Shit, you’re trying to buy?”

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. “Not at all. But, uh, did you know he was the one who was spray painting the building? Those octopuses? Octopi? Whatever.”

He scratched behind his neck, adverting eye contact. “Maybe…”

You gasped, “and you didn’t tell me you figured it out?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, before you have a cow, I didn’t say anything because I handled the situation and I just wanted it to be behind us. Once I realized it was him, I just slipped the dude some extra cash so he’d stop with the doodles. And—would you look at that—he stopped!” Soonyoung defended.

This time, you rolled your eyes to his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“I solved the problem, alright?”

“Those doodles had my arms limp and lifeless. I had to work cash hardly being able to lift a damn thing! Do you know how dehumanizing it was to ask men to tilt their beer to the side so I could scan it? I’ve never been called sweetheart, cupcake, and honey more in my entire life!”

“Well, I apologize,” Soonyoung tutted. “But it’s in the past.”

You huffed, turning back around to continue cramming chocolate bars onto the shelf, chewing your inner cheek. But you didn’t get very far in the task. “So, you’re familiar with him? Where does he stay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Soonyoung scoffed, bending down to grab another box and bumping you. “I just meet the dude in random ass places.”

“Does he ever mention anything specific?”

“Like what?” He groaned.

“I don’t know, like, clues to where he might live?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Soonyoung retaliated, laughing as he tore open the box in his hands. “Gonna get him back? Pull a prank on him? Finger-paint all over his windows?”

“No,” you grumbled, pausing to think of a reason. “It’s for… Ruby. She’s interested.” Oops, sorry Ruby, you winced. “They hit it off at the club. Minghao gave her an address on a slip of paper, but she can’t read his handwriting. She has no trail. It’s a real crisis.”

Soonyoung paused. “Really? Why aren’t you mad at her?”

“She genuinely didn’t know, nor did she pretend she never met him!”

He sighed, utterly drained. “Jeez.”

“Yeah. She’s super upset about it.”

“I thought Minghao had a girlfriend.”

“My guess is that they’re broken up,” you attempted to answer quickly, before he could think too hard, unaware of what Soonyoung actually knew about Minghao. “She flew back to China, apparently…”

“Damn… well…” he shoved more packaged sweets onto the shelf, taking a moment before speaking again. You dared not speak. Once Soonyoung lost a thought, it might never return. “One time, he mentioned a trailer.”

“A trailer?”

“Yeah… after we finished our deal last weekend, he told me he needed to get back to his trailer. That’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Like, a trailer park?”

“Maybe.”

Okay, it wasn’t the best lead, but it wasn’t the worst. You could work with that, even if it was ambiguous. It was definitely more than what you and Vernon had been able to scrounge up the week before. Upon organizing the last few chocolate bars onto the shelf, you heard the tinkling bell above the front door ring out.

“I better get to cash,” you said, ultimately satisfied with your play.

One socked foot was pulled onto the edge of the bench.

You left your elbow propped onto your knee, helping to secure the phone before your face as you scrolled through a citywide map. It was closing time at Mr. York’s, and since you were responsibly finished with all your cleaning duties, you were supposed to be getting ready to leave for the night.

Lara slipped into the locker area, standing behind you. As she fiddled with the combination, she mumbled, “what are you searching?”

You sighed in frustration. “Nothing, at this point.”

She took out her purse and a pair of tall, luxury winter boots from her locker. Realizing the bench was strewn messily in your coat and tote bag, you moved the items aside so she could sit next to you.

“Tonight genuinely sucked,” Lara complained, tugging off her work shoes one by one, letting them bounce rubbery against the tiles. “That fancy business lady—she makes me want to put a shotgun in my mouth.” She then began massaging her feet, blowing a tuft of long hair from her face. “The way she orders me around, makes all these cunty, unnecessary comments…”

“Oh, I know,” you chided, setting your phone aside. “And then the entire group stands out front, smoking, blocking everyone’s way.”

Shoving her foot into one of the black boots, Lara nodded. “I hate the fact she’s becoming a regular...” Lara tugged up the zipper and grabbed the other boot, rubbing some dirt off the white-fur detailing. “You think if I gave Costello a handie, he’d slip, like, a laxative in her food in return? Or something that makes her fade away?”

You giggled, returning to putting on your own boots that you had left scattered on the ground. “He’s really into you. I think it might work.”

Lara shrugged, reaching behind her to snatch a pretty coat out from her locker. “A little too into me. That business lady sucks but at least she gave me a decent tip for once. Costello is useless apart from having good timing on the meat section.” After buttoning up her chic coat, Lara flipped the shimmery strands of her dark brown hair from underneath the collar, sighing. “I’m getting damn sick of men. And women. I am a terrible person.”

“Can’t you stick it out until we can confirm the laxative thing?”

She pitted a very unsatisfactory glance in your direction.

“Only kidding,” you teased.

Lara stood up, grabbing her purse. “Do you need a ride home? Tars is warming up the car. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra person.”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

As you gathered together the rest of your things and shut your locker, Lara picked up your forgotten phone, her eyes narrowing in inspection at the map you had pulled up. “Seriously? What’s this for?”

You grabbed the phone back, stuffing it in your pocket, still disappointed at the sparse results. Lara had to pull you in the direction of the back door when you automatically veered for the front entrance. The parking lot was behind the restaurant.

You were used to the bus.

“I’ve been trying to find trailer parks that are close by.”

She chuckled while shouldering open the door. “Jeez—is the pay here really that damn bad? Don’t you work two jobs?”

“No!” You laughed, following Lara across the empty lot. “It’s for another reason that’s hard to explain. But I’m not having much luck.”

Lara opened the passenger door of Tara’s car, bending down to greet her friend before gesturing to you, standing awkwardly behind her, arms folded to help protect yourself against the biting wind.

You could hardly hear what the two girls were saying—Tara was blasting electronic pop music while taking off her lipstick with a makeup wipe—and you could only hope that maybe she would turn the volume down a tad. Vernon played his music quite loudly, too. Sometimes he would compromise, sometimes not. It depended on how much he liked the artist.

“Hop in,” Lara then said. “She’s fine with it.”

You smiled, pulling open the back door and sliding in behind Lara. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that you nearly coughed.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Tara shouted over the music. “Apologies—the backseat it a little messy—you can just push all those magazines over!”

“Oh, no problem!” You shouted. “Thanks for the ride!”

“What was that?!”

You set your tote bag beside you, swallowing tightly as the music vibrated through the car’s speaker system. “I said thank you for—"

Suddenly, everything went dead silent.

“Gosh, Tars,” Lara grumbled, wriggling out from her coat. “You don’t need it that fucking loud. The concert was five months ago. And there’s a guest in your car. I think she appreciates having intact ear drums.”

You giggled breathily, nervous. “It was a little loud.”

“Don’t sugar coat it,” Lara groaned.  “She needs an intervention.”

“Okay, whatever!” Tara yelled, loosening her scarf and pulling out her phone. “I get the point. Where do you live? For the GPS?”

“2269 Roxbury.”

“Perfect—we’ll drop you off first.”

“Oh, by the way,” Lara began, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, “I’ve seen a few trailers, but it wasn’t necessarily a park.”

You brightened up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Right before it got super cold, my friends and I meshed with this other random group at a bar. We ended up going to a scrap yard, I think it’s called. There were old cars and motorcycles everywhere. A few trailers, too. Anyway, stuff was definitely getting passed around. I tried this LSD gummy and then got on a rusty bike. Got a super nasty cut on my leg. Had to go to the doctor and everything.”

“Oh,” Tara hummed, focused on the road. “I remember that. I had to come pick you up! That cut was awful! You’re lucky you had your shots!”

“Where was it, do you remember?” You pressed for information.

“I remember,” Tara sighed. “It’s along Kichesippi Woods. It’s a big scrap yard that doesn’t really get used any more. If you’re wondering about the trailers, I think there were three. People definitely lived in them. I guess they're used to people sneaking around.”

You were already making notes in your phone, excited to share the news with Vernon later on. “That’s amazing! Thank you both!”

Tara poised a polite expression. “Why are you so curious?”

“It’s a secret,” Lara answered in your place.

You shrugged, smirking ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. He made himself comfortable on the couch, already prepared with an extra pillow and a pink blanket (he usually preferred Ruby’s black blanket that came with a special heating remote, but you thought the fairy pink was much better), in addition to slapping on his casual clothes—grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt—which truly wasn’t that different from his everyday attire. You were anticipating having him over, considering the fact you had been sitting on some very pertinent information all week. While waiting for your tea to finish steeping, you and Vernon were chatting up random topics.

Ruby wouldn’t be home until later.

Vernon had rolled himself a blunt. You never liked the astringent smokiness of the smell, how it stuck to everything, but after enough rendezvous with Vernon, you were unfortunately used to it. Ruby was into weed as well. She always puffed out her bedroom window.

“I’m actually so excited to tell you what I figured out!” You exclaimed, unable to stop fidgeting in your seat on the couch.

He eyed you up and down. “I can see that.”

“No, like, I’m really proud of myself.”

“Congratulations.”

It felt like being a child the night before the big birthday party, knowing your parents got you a specific gift, being ecstatic to rip it open, having an ear-to-ear grin plastered on your face akin to a mask.

Vernon exhaled a cloud of billowing, smooth smoke. He made everything look so effortless. You were a coughing, spluttering mess the last time you tried a basic joint, rolled courteously by your high school best friend. To be honest, you just never had much interest in it. Although you were probably smoking cheap, dull strains.

“When can I know the news?” He asked, keeping the blunt secured between his fingers as his hand fell upon his lap. “Why the big wait?”

“My tea,” you answered. “It has to finish steeping.”

The boy groaned, rolling his head against the sofa, frustrated at the delayed gratification. You looked along the column of his throat, noted the skin's bareness, without dark purplish-brown bruises pressed like flowers. There hadn’t been any marks for a few weeks. At least none you had noticed or seen—not that you were keeping track.

“Who cares?” Vernon grunted.

“I care!” You smacked his thigh with an embroidered pillow, a gift from Ruby’s seamstress mother. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“Is your special tea the equivalent of this?” Vernon inquired, holding the blunt up to his lips. The next time he spoke, the thin smoke crawled out from his mouth, as though he was a fire-breathing dragon. “Then I could understand. You gotta ride the wave.”

“Sure, it’s exactly like that. It’s probably done, actually.” Getting up from the couch, you checked the tea that you left steaming on the counter, stirring the bag around a few more times for good measure before plopping it in the trash. Once you rejoined Vernon in the living room, you snuggled against your end of the sofa, legs stretched out and daring to poke into his space. “Okay, are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Floor’s all yours.”

“Can I please have some more excitement?”

Vernon sighed. He tucked the blunt behind his ear and cleared his throat. Then, the boy was leaning over you, grabbing your shoulders and rattling them. “Oh, please, please, please won’t you tell me your awesome secret!” He fake-pleaded, squinching his eyes shut. “I’ll genuinely kill myself if I don’t get to know!”

Giggling, you pulled up your foot and lightly shoved it against the edge of his ribs, prodding him to sit back down. “That’s much better, although it didn't seem very sincere. Anyway, okay I'll tell you. Whew, this is really good. Okay, okay... I know where Minghao is!”

“Do you?” Vernon engaged, entertaining himself with another intake of smoke. “And where would that be? Burlington Coat Factory?”

“There’s a scrap yard along Kichesippi Woods,” you explained, tightly gripping your tea. “He lives in one of the trailers there. I’m positive.”

“Kichesippi Woods? Didn’t a guy get murdered there last year?”

You leaned forward, willfully ignoring him. “And guess how I figured it out? Through my savvy investigation skills! It was Soonyoung! He gets tablets from Minghao. I figured he was the one who blabbed about us, knowing his big mouth and all, so that’s how Minghao knew I was familiar with you. Apparently, Minghao mentioned getting back to a trailer, so, naturally, I think—” you paused, blowing on your tea and taking a shallow sip to test its flavours before continuing, “—I think he lives in a trailer park, but there’s hardly any around the city.

So, I’m working a closing shift at Mr. York’s a few days later, and I get a major scoop from Tara and Lara. Lara went to a scrap yard with this big group of people to do drugs or get drunk or steal a rusty bicycle or something—I don’t really know—and she tells me she noticed trailers there. Tara backed her up. One has to be Minghao’s! The yard’s along Kichesippi Woods!”

Vernon was squinting at you, his eyes slim and red. You assumed it was a boatload of information to absorb at once, and you hadn’t exactly held his hand and waltzed through everything at a gentle pace. But you had collected all the evidence—even a location!

The boy nodded. “That’s good news, for sure.”

Letting the tea sit between your legs, you clapped at him. “Who’s pulling the weight now, huh? I did all that handiwork myself!”

“Handiwork?” Vernon scoffed, itching his studded eyebrow. “You have destiny on your side. Everyone you fuckin’ breathe around is tangled up in this bullshit, somehow. Not that I’m complainin’.”

You fell back against the arm of the couch, pouting. “Why can’t you let me win? Did I still not do a good job? Did I not help us out?”

“No, 'course you did a good job,” he assured you. “And you helped us a lot. You’re right. I should celebrate your wins more.”

Feeling the hot tea begin to burn your inner thighs, you picked it back up and nodded at him in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, when should we check it out? Tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head, fixing his tattooed arm around the back of the couch. “Can’t,” he muttered, “I’ve got business.”

“Ugh, you’re so boo.” You frowned, slipping down the sofa. Holding the tea against your stomach, feeling a circle of heat sink through your shirt, you began nibbling your lip, different ideas forming bubbles in your mind as you examined the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Forget it,” he chuckled. “You’re not goin’ by yourself,”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” you corrected him. “The only thing I wanna do is check it out. I can’t help being curious. Maybe Tara would—”

“You don’t go if I don’t go,” Vernon stated, shrugging a shoulder.

Lifting your head to rest against the sofa, you scowled at him. “I don’t think that choice falls into your authority. I can do what I want.”

“Oh, can you?” He goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What a big girl.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Vernon said. “I don’t want you there without me. Minghao’s snakey. I know how to deal with him.”

You sighed in capitulation, wriggling your toes. “Fine.”

He gave you a stern but entreating glance. “Promise?”

Sitting up, you set the tea onto the coffee table. “I promise.”

Vernon held out his pinky finger.

You wrapped yours around his and shook on it.

Curling your legs underneath you, playing with a thread of the pink blanket now pulled onto your lap, you began to smile. “I can't help but find it weird when things actually go my way."

He chuckled. “It only feels weird ‘cause you think the world’s against you. But it’s not.” Vernon exhaled another wispy cloud. “It’s just the world. Plus, you’re high-strained enough to start up a car battery.”

“I am not!”

The boy tossed his eyes in a circle. “Your delusion charms me.”

“Actually, I think I’ve calmed down a lot…” you hummed, winding the thread around your finger. “Compared to when we first met.”

Vernon nodded. “Maybe.”

“You don't believe me? That I've mellowed out?”

“Somehow, I think it's the opposite. You talk a fuckin' lot.”

“I do? All my report cards said I was too quiet.”

“Maybe I just bring it outta you, huh?” He chuckled, letting the blunt nestle between his lips. The papery tip singed its orange glow as he puffed, more smoke drifting throughout the living room. You noticed the burnt odor lingering for longer than usual, though you weren’t particularly concerned. Maybe you were half-high. “Spike?” He was suddenly holding out the blunt, thick in his fingers and packed with an earthly, musty smell, and your heart restricted, frozen at the offer.

“Uh…” you swallowed, a deep fire rising from the base of your throat that made the words difficult to pronounce. “I’m not sure if…”

He moved it away before you could decide, drew in more smoke that soon streamed out his nose and rolled from between his lips like a waterfall of weightless clouds. “I knew your ass wouldn’t do shit.”

“Because you pressured me!”

He almost choked on his own splitting cackle. “Fuckin—how?! All I did was hold the damn thing out in front of you! You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“You set up a pretense for me to be pressured!”

“No—that was you,” Vernon chuckled. “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Grumbling, you stayed hunched over the blanket, continuing to play with the baby pink thread by feeding it between your fingers.

“Unless,” Vernon sang, “you actually did want a spike?”

You glanced up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

He nodded his head. “I don’t care if you do, PJ’s.”

Sighing, you reached out, though you paused midway, your fingers twitching in the air. No—you couldn’t. There was too much unspoken tension with him watching you. What if you started hacking up a lung like back in your high school days? You were never good at holding the breath in—the part that was crucial to feeling the high—without your eyes sprouting tears from the heated dryness.

Then, shaking your head, you refused. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s been too long…” you worried, forgetting the thread and lying back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna look dumb, or something.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? It’s just me.”

“And you’ll make fun of me.”

“Well, I won’t mean it.” He smirked, giving you another moment to twiddle your thumbs and think. Suddenly, Vernon grabbed your knee and squeezed it. “I won’t say a damn thing, okay? I promise.”

“No.”

“Yes, c’mere,” he encouraged. His textured fingertips squeezed into the flesh of your arm, pulling you to sit back up despite all your grouchy, reluctant noises. “Swear I’ll be good.”

Staring him square in his pretty face, you shook your head.

“How ‘bout I make it easier, then?” Vernon suggested an unknown compromise, the dark hues of his golden eyes softening. “You trust me?”

At that moment, your skin thrummed with heat. You felt its pulse, travelling like a crashing ocean wave, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from narrowing as you traced the crests and contours of Vernon’s scheming expression. You coughed slightly. “What does that mean?”

He pursed his lip. “I’m askin’ if you trust me.”

You sniffled, nodded your head. “I do… but—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?” The nervousness of not knowing his intentions caused your mind to flitter like paper birds. You did trust him, but that didn’t exactly quell your timorousness with one easy sweep. “I-I just… you’re making me… nervous.”

“I know,” Vernon said, smiling. “I’m not gonna do anything you won’t like, yeah?” He brushed his fingers along your knee, and you took in a long, quivering breath. “Just keep relaxed. That’s it. And at any point, if you don’t want to, then stop me. Sound good?”

“Okay.” You nodded, your voice a squeak.

He put the blunt between his lips. Grabbing his lighter off the coffee table, you leaned back as he crisped the end with a few sparks, feeling the flame’s warmth ever so gently against your cheeks. Once Vernon was satisfied, he tossed the lighter and gave the blunt a quick, obligatory puff, making sure to politely blow the smoke away from your face. “Alright,” he sighed, “you ready, PJ’s?”

Gulping, the only thing you could do was nod, too afraid to use your voice again in case it embarrassingly cracked. Vernon reminded you to close your eyes. As soon as the room went dark, your heartbeat leapt tenfold.

You felt his hand touch your knee, attempting to soothe you with massaging circles. “Relax, okay?” He whispered. “You’ll like it.”

There was the faintest sound of a crackle as you heard the boy inhale, taking his time to let the smoke settle right. Then, you sensed his fingertips drift against your tingling cheek, curling behind your ear, and your nails scraped the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. He was holding the edge of your face, so close that your atmospheres seemed overlapping despite the sheer, unmoving blackness.

Softly, his nose bumped yours and you gasped. That’s when you felt the fantom breeze—his pierced lips delicately mouthing over your own—his fingers dancing to fasten your chin, the smoke crawling inside you, spilling against the back of your throat like a breath of prickly fog. The sensation was overwhelming. You didn’t know where it came from, but you mewled, wanting to chase Vernon’s touch like a swaying, golden reed. His hand skimmed down your waist, pulled along your thigh, and then the smoke had vanished.

Holy hell—you were going to pass out.

Everything around you felt fuzzy, dream-like.

There was so much heat inside you that it was no wonder your tissues and bones weren’t melting into each other, bubbling, fusing.

But then you realized what had happened. Your eyes flung open, and you scrambled backward until you were pressed against the arm of the sofa, gawking at the clever, smirking boy. “Why the hell would you do that?” You admonished.

Vernon relaxed back into his spot, arms crossed, blunt tucked behind his ear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Made you feel good, yeah?”

Yes, yes!  You had never felt anything so electric! Sparks had coursed the lengths of your sensitive skin like flying livewires. They were ticklish and molten and crackling with pleasure.

“No! It did not!”

He bit his lip, shrugged. “Fine, it didn’t.” But then he tilted his head at you. “Thanks for moanin’ into my mouth, by the way. That was hot.”

“Shut up!” You recoiled off the sofa. “No I freaking didn’t!”

“My word against yours, beautiful,” Vernon countered, winking.

“I can’t believe this!” You fretted, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, fingernails running against your teeth. “Why on earth would you do that? I don’t understand! Are you trying to trick me?”

He spoke through a haze of smoke. “Trick you how?”

“By damn near kissing me!” You cried. “Why would you do that!”

Vernon didn’t seem as concerned. “You like me,” he stated.

“So?!” At that point, it didn’t even matter. He obviously knew. You were terrible at hiding it—big surprise—but you had gradually stopped caring about how obvious you were being because there had been the boundary of his feelings diverging from yours. You were safe in a world of fantasy. There was nothing else to worry about. He would never reciprocate. “That isn’t something you can do, Vernon! It doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me!”

“Who said it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Your feet tripped on the shag carpet at the shock of his questioning and you slammed to an awkward, confused stop. He was still reclined against the sofa, hands tucked behind his head, one holding onto his blunt that produced a finite tail of smoke into the air.

“What?” You gasped. “And what the hell does that mean?”

He bit his lip ring, stared at you. “What do you think?”

“No,” you choked, shaking your head. “No, no, no, no!”

“No, what?” Vernon laughed, leaning forward and splaying out his hands. “Why is this suddenly such a bad thing? I can’t like you?”

You sat on the coffee table, squeezing your scalp in agony.

He moved closer to you, reaching his touch underneath your knee.

“It’s not the same…” you sniffled, wiping off your runny, wet nose.

Vernon shrugged, sweetly rubbing your leg. “How come?” He murmured, attentive to your overflowing sensitivity. “Explain it to me.”

You sighed, gulping in a breath. “It just isn’t. When you didn’t like me back, I could like you even more, as much as I wanted! Because I thought you would never like me! But if you’re being serious… then it changes things! It puts… realism… on the table… and there’s just no realism with us!” Tears beaded down your cheeks, but you wiped them away before Vernon could get his hand back to your face, before you could melt all over again. “I’ll want more, I’ll want a relationship. But you won’t because you’ll get bored in a relationship—that’s why you only have unattached sex! And you’re a freaking drug dealer! How am I supposed to introduce a drug dealer to my parents, o-or survive without worrying about you, or stay out of your business no matter how many times you tell me to. I won’t!”

“Jeez,” Vernon chuckled, his voice becoming hoarse from the potency of the Indica. “That was quite the speech.”

“But did you listen?!”

“Yes, yes, I listened.” Vernon put the blunt behind his ear, then eased your anxious buzzing by grabbing onto your shaky hands and surrounding them tightly with his warm, rough, calloused ones. “I listened, PJ’s. Alright? I think you have valid worries. But why do we have to focus on the uncertainty right now? Why can’t we just… I dunno… go where the wind takes us? Huh?”

Your shoulders sunk. “Do you really like me?”

The boy smiled, flashing a glimpse of his sharp teeth as a response.

“Well… I think you’re lying. We’re friends.”

No matter what he told you tonight, your mind was solidified. It was not going to accept that this boy was being truthful. It was not going to accept that your fantasy was threatening the bounds of real life.

Vernon shook his head, moved aside some sooty hairs tickling his eyes. “Y’know what? Sure. We’re friends. Let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’ll just think about you every wakin’ fuckin’ second of my goddamn day, and you’ll think about me, and we’ll just call it even. Right?”

 Nipping anxiously on your bottom lip, you nodded. “Right.”

Vernon took the blunt down from his ear. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Once Ruby came home, she could clearly tell something was off between you, though she refrained from being vocal about it. You were certain she noted how distant you were from Vernon, not just metaphorically, but also physically, cramming yourself against the opposite end of the sofa like you were attached by hot-glue.

Most of your responses were minimal and squeaky. She sent you a text before bed, when you came out from the washroom and screamed at Vernon innocently waiting his turn.

WTF is going on???

You sent her a text back.

I’ll explain tmo… you won’t BELIEVE it…

7 MONTHS AGO.

The next morning, you decided to take Ruby out for breakfast to explain the situation. Vernon was gone by the time you awoke. Strangely, the pink blanket was folded nice and neat on the couch as opposed to the usual lump he would leave behind in his haste. You placed the blanket on the corner of your bed prior to heading out, giving it a long, confused stare.

Ruby loved Get Cracking. It was her favourite breakfast restaurant in the city. No matter your age, they left you pencil crayons and a colouring book to work on while awaiting your food. It made for a very interesting exposé as you shaded in the bejewelled crown atop your princess’s curly hair.

“No… I don’t even know how to start…” you sighed.

Your roommate was colouring a frog perched on a lilypad. “Just come straight out with it,” Ruby encouraged. “That’s the best way.”

“Well, I’ll set up some background first…” you murmured, replacing your bright yellow pencil with a deep purple one to colour in the crown’s amulets. “So, basically… Vernon almost freakin’ kissed me.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, harsh snap. Ruby had broken the lead to her blue pencil. “Uh—” she swallowed, hard, bulging her golden-green eyes at you like saucers “—so much for background information!”

“It gets worse!”

“Jesus. How?”

Collapsing your shoulders, taking a timid glance around the restaurant, you proceeded to lower your voice and whisper, “because, then he told me… he essentially told me that he liked me! I almost fainted!”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you freaking serious? Like, on your life? You’re being serious? He said that?”

You nodded gravely. “No, I’m being so serious. The seriousest.”

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t know! That’s how serious this is!”

She couldn’t produce even a sound. Instead, Ruby dropped her broken pencil and sunk back into the booth like she was just delivered the most devastating news, her tongue circling around her inner cheek. To be honest, you were still reeling from the moment. It consumed your mind without mercy for the entire night. You saw Vernon in your dreams. You touched him. You caressed him. You felt him in ways you couldn’t confess.

After a palatable silence, Ruby shifted from her stony, stiff position that made her seem almost corpse-like. She casted fingers through a silky red streak of her dark hair, puffing out from deep within her chest. “Damn…”

“That’s all you have to say?” You whined. “I need guidance!”

“Well—jeez—I need to process it!” Ruby defended.

“I thought that silence was you processing it!”

“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That was me talking myself down from buying ten Screwdrivers!”

Squeezing the pencil in between your fingers, you tried desperately not to let yourself spiral. After all, you were the master of spiralling. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, but it was terribly exhausting to come back down and grasp the extent of mental wreckage. Ruby was far better at composure, though she seemed most keen for a drink before you went any further.

You grabbed a pink pencil for the princess’s dress. “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that it’s confusing… if he’s being honest about it, then I don’t understand why he likes me. We’re so different in every aspect.”

Ruby sighed, grabbing her blue pencil and attempting to colour with it again, only to remember it was broken. She took another shade from the assorted cup, blowing some shavings off it. “I’m not gonna pretend to fully understand how the guy’s mind works…” she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never liked anybody romantically. He’s always been a free spirit, you know? Doesn't like to be tethered. I think the fact you are so different from him, so beyond what he’s used to… maybe it’s refreshing?”

Frowning, you pushed harder on the pencil, outlining the princess’s dress in a darker hue of hot pink. “Yeah, and then he’ll get totally bored of me. I’ll lose my refreshingness! I feel like I’m just a phase, you know?”

“I wish I could give you a clear answer.”

You wished for that, too.

But if someone were to plop a miraculous crystal ball into your hands and harness the undeniable truth, that would be too easy, and your life was certainly not founded on easiness. Sucking in your cheeks, you continued colouring, noting more streakiness through the thin paper as pressure flooded your hand and cramped your fingers.

“How did he try to kiss you?” Ruby asked.

You let the pencil roll away. “It was a tricky trick.”

“What kind of tricky trick?”

The memory remained sharp in your mind. Every little sensation, breath, gliding of fingers, nervous words—you could recreate it with clay and make a damn movie! Having to explain the situation to Ruby turned you hotter than the fresh plate of browned, buttery pancakes the waitress had just delivered to the table.

Ruby pulled the waitress’s attention. “Can I ask for one Screwdriver, if that’s okay? With a raspberry flavour shot?”

As you spilled the warmed, smooth syrup around in circles, you sighed aloud. “He had a blunt, and asked if I wanted a hit. I said I couldn’t because it had been too long since I last smoked—I didn’t wanna look like a gigantic fool—what if I started choking to death or something?” Setting the pitcher back down, grabbing hold of your utensils, you continued. “So, whatever, I let him take control of the situation. He asked me to close my eyes, right? Then… he gets close to me… he has his hand on my face and his lips are like, feathering over mine, and he’s blowing the smoke into my mouth!”

Ruby brought a hand to her face, gasping.

“The worst part…” you whispered, embarrassment fizzling up your chest as you leaned further toward your roommate, “I moaned!”

“You what?!” She shouted, beginning to cough. “You moan—”

Picking up a napkin, you shoved it against her loud mouth before the entire diner could hear your intimate, inappropriate details while in the midst of eating breakfast. She used the napkin to wipe some crumbs off her lips. “S-Sorry—” Ruby spluttered, “—I just—holy fuck. He kinda got you.”

“He was so damn cocky about it!” You flustered.

“Well,” Ruby sighed in a helpless breath, cutting across her pancakes. “That’s Vernon for you. If he gets a reaction, he runs with it.”

Prodding at your food with a fork, you again thought back to the dreams running rampant through your imagination last night. How vivid each sensation felt, to the point that the little hairs on your arms began bristling in response. His rough hands all over you, pulling, kneading, smacking. The ghosted recollection of what it might feel like to be filled by him, a warmth and fullness you couldn't make sense of. There had been sweat shining off your body with the glow of a newborn star. There were moans, loud and then soft, weak.

You hadn’t realized you were staring into space.

Ruby’s lips tightened. “Uh… what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your pupils are telling me.” When you didn’t entertain the topic any further, Ruby smiled, her expression comforting. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay to think about him in ways that feel… not okay.”

You stabbed a sliced piece of banana onto your fork. “How is it okay, though? You always freak out about us potentially having sex.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, but that was before I knew all this, how he feels about you. I would hate for your first time to be with someone who isn’t on your wavelength romantically.” She paused as the waitress stopped by with her orange Screwdriver. “Things could have changed once he got to know you. I mean, clearly, they did. It’s just… you might not be ready for the same things.”

“We definitely aren’t. I can’t… be with a drug dealer,” you whispered.

She chuckled. “Most people would probably say the same.”

Letting your chin rest in your palm, you glanced at your roommate from across the table. “Do you think he’s serious? He really likes me?”

Ruby grabbed her beverage, taking a sip. “I know he’s serious,” she confessed after settling the glass back down. “Dude, he was gonna beat the shit out of Lee. I had to talk him out of it. He laughs and smiles so much when he's with you. I think he genuinely cares about you. And I bet you’re all he thinks about.”

You started to smile, your eyes fluttering. “That’s sweet…”

“I really can’t tell you what to do,” Ruby admitted with a defeated shrug, spearing some fruit onto her fork, “since you know yourself best. But I bet the answer will come to you when you’re least expecting it.”

After bringing the sliced banana to your mouth, you began cutting into your pancakes frustratedly, nodding. “My god. I hope so.”

Before you and Vernon could jump into investigating the scrap yard, he told you that he had a deal planned right around lunchtime. Of course, this was mentioned after you had already sat down in his car, and since you weren’t in the mood to bail out into a pile of pebbled, greying snow and concrete, the best thing you could do was begrudgingly cross your arms and sigh.

Now, you didn’t know where you were.

It was a gigantic, empty hanger graffitied to hell with large garage doorways. Probably some sort of warehouse left to complete abandonment years and years ago, turned to an ideal location for Vernon to sell his friends drugs. How forward thinking.

The air was still and frosty, the surrounding land barren, lumped, and dead, with nothing but a coarse field to stare at from across the quiet road. While Vernon sat on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth grumble from the running engine underneath, you were stiffly leaned against the threshold of the garage doorway. Ever since the second incident (taking name after the now labelled first incident AKA the failed confession), you couldn’t help but make it weird.

Vernon acted the same as he always did.

Unfortunately, you weren’t hardwired that way.

Kicking at a stone, you sighed, “when is he coming?”

“Soon.”

“Can I have a time?”

Vernon stared at you. “12:12.”

“No, I mean, like, the time that he’s supposed to show up.”

“Well, if I had the time for that, I would have said it.”

Displeased at the unproductive exchange, you turned around, keeping your arms folded, and took a few steps inside the industrial-sized hanger. There were some gashes in the metallic roofing, letting through thick beams of white light that staggered against the ruined cement floor. You then looked right, saw a huge slew of black, graffitied letters dried dripping above a hole broken through the infrastructure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GLORYHOLE!

Promptly, you turned back around. “What a lovely place this is.”

Vernon scoffed, stretching out his hands behind him. “I know you wanna leave. It won’t be much longer, alright? Moo’s good at that.”

“Not me to me, he’s not. Did you guys not discuss a time? Or do you just throw out arbitrary numbers and show up when you feel like it?”

“Ease the attitude. Damn.”

Your eyes rolled. It was impossible not to give attitude.

Giving attitude was the only way for you to place distance that was more than just physical in between yourself and Vernon. It was your only means of putting up a barbed front. You were not an attitude person by nature. But being around him just pulled it straight out of you like a child yanking their loose, wriggling tooth.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit here.”

You made a sour, repulsive face. “Mmm… no.”

Vernon shook his head, chuckling. “I knew you would do this.”

Rolling a rock underneath your heel, you muttered, “do what?”

“Make it fuckin’ awkward.”

“No—” you argued back, instantly tense and hot, “—you made me make it awkward! And since you knew I would be awkward about it, my awkwardness right now is completely and unequivocally your fault!”

Vernon shrugged, pressing against a sore spot on the side of his neck, beginning to yawn. “I can’t be bothered t'give a fuck.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He shuffled backward, reclining against the car’s windshield, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. “The not givin’ a fuck part didn’t kick in until just now. Can you hit the radio? I want some tunage.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Prick,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“Idiot,” you mumbled back, punting the rock.

Vernon’s friend appeared about ten minutes later, ripping into the lot with a concerning level of speed. He pulled his all-black car right next to the rumbling Camry. It looked like something salvaged from the early 1990’s with its small, square lights, short hood, and compact structure. Vernon greeted his friend, Moo. He was sporting a thin black zip-up, some track pants, and weathered white sneakers. His hair was a fluffed-out, wispy afro and you were quick to notice that some splotches of skin on his hands and neck were pale in comparison to his dark complexion. Vitiligo. You remembered the name since one of Diana’s cousins had the condition.

Unsure of what to do as Vernon and Moo cordially conserved, you returned your attention back toward the hanger, scuffing your shoes and hearing the consequential echo. Until Vernon called you.

“PJ’s—this is Moo. Old buddy a' mine.”

Shuffling over, you leaned against Vernon’s car. “Hello.”

Moo smiled, sticking out his hand. Vernon always dapped up all his friends, and you assumed it would be no different with Moo, hence his quirky laughter when the attempted handshake was met with you scraping at his palm and clutching his fingers.

“Oh, shit,” Moo chuckled, rubbing his nose as you reclined into yourself, embarrassed. “Didn’t know you were cool like that.”

“I’m sorry. Vernon always does it and—”

“Hey, I’m throwing something this weekend,” Moo suddenly interrupted your bumbling, returning his attention to Vernon. “Kitty’s finally back from Europe and she brought some crazy freak shit they’ve been smashing in those underground clubs. Said it’s cut with stardust. What a fucking liar, huh?” He smacked Vernon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Anyway, if you’re free, you should swing by.” Moo looked at you. “And you, too. If you're into that”

Vernon nodded, returning the gesture and giving his friend’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “Alright, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Moo waggled his tiny baggies full of white powder, seeming satisfied that he delivered forth the message. “No worries, street rat. I'll make sure this gets to Mish, the lazy bastard.” He plopped back into his car, saluted you both. “Later guys.”

Upon his friend tearing out from the parking lot, Vernon slapped the money against his hand. “Okay, the treacherous, scary deed is done.”

Squirming into the warm car, you asked, “are you going?”

Vernon tucked the money into a black knapsack that he proceeded to toss into the rear of the car. “Yes, yes, holy shit—can you give me a fuckin’ second to at least breathe the air? Jesus Christ…”

“No!” You shouted. “I meant are you going to the party?”

“Oh,” he sighed cumbersomely, puffing out his cheeks. “Uh, probably. And it’s not a party.” He stretched on his seatbelt.

You undid the buttons on your woolly coat. “Then what is it?”

“Nothin’ that you’d give a fancy fuck about,” he chuckled while proceeding to steer the car out from the lot. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Well, what if I want to go?”

Suddenly, Vernon smashed the breaks.

In the midst of putting on your seatbelt, you were shot forward like a rock in a slingshot, ramming into the dashboard. Shaking your head, you glared at him, feeling the crookedness in your arm. “What the hell!”

The boy’s brow was heavily contorted in bewilderment. “Please, tell me you did not just say that, Pyjamas,” he implored. “There’s no way.”

With a grumble, you adjusted yourself back into the chair, ensuring your seatbelt was safely secured before you dared say anything else. Vernon's stare was crisply burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, and it became increasingly harder to put a sentence together.

Rolling out your shoulders, you nipped, “stop staring at me.”

“I wanna understand why you wanna go. I mean, it makes absolutely zero fuckin’ sense. There’s nothin’ there that appeals to you.”

“Can you just drive?”

Vernon obliged, peeling out onto the long road bordered by stiff country fields and pearl blue sky. “I think you’re tryin’ to pull my chain.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughed again. “Seriously, though. What’s this about?”

With the industrial hanger being pulled away from your peripheral, you had nothing to stare at but the encompassing fields, prickled and ice-crusted with frost. Honestly, it was quite pleasant to take in such openness after habituating to the crowded city life. Your childhood home had been right across from a farm.

Vernon’s elbow bumped your arm. “Eh? What’s the deal?”

You took in a breath, keeping your tone calm. “I don’t know… I just don’t get the fuss about me wanting to go. I mean, I get that it doesn’t really suit what you think of me… but there’s no harm in trying new things.”

“Okay,” Vernon huffed, “but people say that about, like, tryin’ a new hobby or some shit. You’re wantin’ to put yourself in a position where you straight up know you won’t have a good time. Like, seriously.”

“Because you can only have a good time when you’re high?”

“No—because you’re gonna be around other high people—and as a sober person, that’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck real fuckin’ bad.”

Your head rolled along the seat such that you were staring at him while he drove, an eyebrow tweaking in question. “And I can only assume you’re going to be in the high population. Not the sober.”

“What the fuck do you think?” He chuckled.

“I still want to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I feel like there has to be specific a reason you’re so against me going…” you hummed in contemplation, crossing one leg over your knee and beginning to bob your foot. “I think I know what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just told you—you’re gonna hate it.”

“It’s because you want to screw around with a girl.”

The boy cackled, leaning forward in his seat, rubbing a hand through his soft, black locks. “Jesus Christ, you’re killin’ me, you know that?”

“I see…” you muttered, folding your arms. “No denial…”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly,” Vernon laughed.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, then just be honest.”

“Okay, fine,” he declared with a shrug. “I’ll play your game, PJ’s.”

“There’s no game,” you chastised him, rolling your eyes.

But he ignored your insistence. “Say there was a girl. And I did fuck her while you were there. Loud enough that you could hear every time the bed frame hit the wall. Hear every single one of her moans. Every single time I smacked her ass.” He glanced over you slowly from top to bottom while you sat rigid in your seat, likely taking pleasure from how you squirmed. “How would that make you feel?”

Your entire mouth and throat were papery dry.

Truth be told, you would hate it.

In fact, you would probably start crying. The silence was louder than any crash or clap. You didn’t want to answer the question. You didn’t want him to know how utterly heartbroken that would make you feel. Just the fact that he had even asked such a question, knowing how it would stab you, made you get teary-eyed.

Swallowing gruffly, you squeaked out, “well… if that’s what you want.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s not at all what I want!” He paused for a moment, a sparkle darting through his eyes. “Unless the girl is you.”

You couldn’t help but make a twisted, flustered facial expression.

His hand then found the top of your back and he started rubbing in circles, easing the emotions colliding inside you that had packed into a knot between your shoulders. “If you went and fucked someone else in the house, I’d care, too! I’d fuckin’ want to murder the guy!”

You sniffled. “Really?”

Squeezing your shoulder, he smiled at you, full of confidence and conviction. “A hundred percent, PJ’s. I said I liked you, 'member?”

Shuddering out a breath, you felt Vernon’s touch leave your body, and the loss of physical consolation seemed so cruel. No one had ever communicated something like that to you before. At least not in a romantically-inclined way—Ruby did say from time to time that she would gladly throttle anyone who upset you—and you appreciated the sentiment from both sides of the coin. Maybe Vernon really did feel something for you. Maybe.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” you sighed, heavy in thought as the sparse fields started thickening with conifers, casting out the light and pushing in shadows that webbed the dark ground. “Can we sit in silence until we get there?”

“Whatever you need,” Vernon answered, shrugging a shoulder.

The entrance to the scrap yard was very unassuming. It was a mere dirt road that veered off from the pavement, leading downward, between a continuous brigade of tall, still pine trees. You couldn’t help but think back to Lara’s story about being brought here by a group of strangers—you would think you were getting murdered—though you were also a complete worrywart. Lara was definitely more adventurous by comparison.

Vernon seemed pretty assured that Minghao wouldn’t be there since it was a Saturday, and Minghao was apparently a very busy bee on Saturdays, dealing drugs no doubt, or painting buildings—you weren't sure. But soon the dirt road and trees opened up until you came to a clearing. There was a large, tall fence, caged around the scrap yard. Vernon pulled the car off to the side, taking out his keys.

“Is it locked?” You asked.

He pushed open his door. “Probably.”

“So, what does that—”

Vernon had already shut the door.

Grumbling to yourself, you threw off your seatbelt and hurried after him. He was inspecting a large, hardy padlock secured around two posts of the fence with chain links.

“I’m guessing it’s locked,” you sighed.

“No, it’s wide open.”

You scowled at his unhelpful sarcasm. “I was just asking!”

“I can pick the shitty locks, but this isn’t a shitty lock.”

“Shame.”

Vernon looked up. He placed two hands on the fence and shook it, hearing the metal rattle. “Seems stiff enough. And not electric. Bonus.”

Instantly, your stomach surged with trepidation. His thinking was obvious. And you were not mentally nor physically prepared to hop aboard. Taking a step back, you scoffed, “no—no way.”

Vernon laughed, gesturing innocently. “What? I told you it’s not electric! There’s not even any barbed wire up top. It’s askin’ to be climbed!”

You gagged; mouth slacked. “So, what? You talk to fences now? I am not climbing that! It’s dangerous! And tall as heck! I’m not doing it.” For emphasis, you crossly folded your arms and stood firmly in place. “If you want me over that, you’ll have to drag me.”

Rolling his eyes, Vernon mirrored your hardened stance. “Okay, honestly, what did you expect, PJ’s? That we’d just be able to skippy-doodle-doo our way in here? You should have learned by now it’s never that easy.” He waved his hand toward the fence. “Now, stop bein’ a spoiled princess and get your ass over here so we can get this show on the road.”

But you didn’t move. “No.”

“Holy shit. You’ll be fine,” Vernon drawled, his tone beginning to bleed from patience and amusement to annoyance. “Nothin’ is gonna happen. All’s you need is a tetanus shot and opposable thumbs. Thumbs may even be optional.”

“Ah, but I have a brain. You’re better off.”

He seemed done with the stalling. Vernon stalked toward you, eyes steely, his hand grooving around your elbow, beginning to tug you.

“Hey!” You hollered, attempting to thrash free. “Don’t—even—”

But Vernon was strong. He was dragging you a little too easily. “Don’t make me fuckin’ throw you over my shoulder,” he grunted in warning, forcing you to move closer and closer toward the fence.

At last, you capitulated. “Fine, fine! I’ll climb it!” He let go of your elbow, to which you rubbed down your arm sorely. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed. He then grabbed your hand and slapped it right onto the cold fence, curling your fingers around the metal wiring. “You’re more prepared than I am. You’re the rock climber.”

“Don’t make me remember that,” you gritted. “Also, the fact you’re making me go first is so… you should be ashamed, abhorred—”

“Shut the fuck up and do it.”

Upon spearing him a glare, you decided to bite the bullet. At least when you had been rock climbing there was a safety harness, and helmet, and ropes to catch you in the event you slipped. Trying not to harp on the dangers, your teeth clenched tight into your inner cheek as you began to climb, ignoring how horribly icy the metal felt as your fingers wrapped around the wires.

The higher you scaled, the more your heart raced, until you reached the thick bar on top and you had a perfect vantage point across the entirety of the scrap yard. Right in the middle was three RVs. You knew to get over the fence you had to straddle the bar, though the task seemed impossible. Swallowing densely, you took a moment to breathe in the brisk, sharp air, smell the earth and the pine. Grunting and trembling, you managed to get one leg over the bar.

Choosing to peer down at Vernon, recall the safety of solid ground, you gulped. “This sucks ass!”

“You’re doin’ great!” He called, sticking out a thumbs-up to demonstrate his pride. “And you gave me a great view from down below.”

“Shut up!” You nagged him, though you were smiling widely.

Soon enough, your feet were back on the dirt.

Vernon smirked at you from across the fence. “Easy, right?”

“Even easier if you knew how to pick that lock.”

“Boohoo,” Vernon said. “Let me pull out my YouTube tutorial.”

Suddenly, he had hopped onto the fence, and in a few fast, swift movements, the boy was already scaling the top. Once he climbed down about halfway, he leapt off, landing neatly in the spot beside you, clapping off his calloused hands like he’d just shoved a pie into a warm oven.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“Always,” Vernon said with a click of the teeth.

He proceeded down the shallow hill toward the inner bowl of the scrap yard, and you supposed there was no other choice but to follow him, hurrying to match step with his stride. The junk piles were organized for the most part. Broken bicycles, car doors, and odd metal contraptions tossed into one mound, while others were slightly more miscellaneous but seeming tended to. You walked past a sewing machine that didn’t look too rough.

“Oh! Ruby would love this!”

Vernon stopped to glance at the machine. “Yeah? It looks like shit.”

“It’s just dirty,” you answered, nudging it with your foot.

“Let’s go shoppin’ later,” he insisted, picking up your hand and continuing to pull you in the direction of the RVs. “No distractions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Together, you perched behind a rusted, red-striped fishing boat lifted off the ground by a steel trailer. Vernon let your hand drop, brushing something off his nose. The series of RVs were about twenty feet away, with reasonable distance in between them, their colours mostly ugly beiges and bleached creams with no discernible detail. You expected Minghao’s RV to have some freaky aquatic design painted across it—anything that might suggest which belonged to him—but there was no graffiti in sight.

With your fingers anxiously digging into your knees, you looked in between the RVs and back to Vernon. “How should we do this?”

“Cautiously,” he stated, and you giggled in response.

“That’s not a word I’d expect you to know.”

“Blame yourself,” Vernon rasped. “If you weren’t here, I could go about this any way I wanted. But we’re a unit now.”

“How sweet,” you muttered.

“Okay, this is what we’ll do,” Vernon announced. “I’ll take the trailer in the middle; you take the one closest to us. Start by lookin’ around the area, see if there’s a thing or two that gives Minghao vibes. Try to look in the windows if you can, but be careful, obviously. Listen for TVs, runnin’ water, couches squeakin’, doors openin’—anything that could indicate someone's inside—and we should have a signal if there’s a spat.”

“Like what?”

“How about a whistle? Can you whistle?”

“Barely,” you commented, forming the appropriate shape with your lips and blowing air through your teeth, hardly any noise.

“What the fuck was that?” He sneered.

“I was whistling!”

“You sound like a fuckin’ busted teakettle, man. That got ran over, and dragged for a kilometer. Okay, change of tactic. Ah—can you do this?” He layered his hands together, made a small opening between his thumbs, and proceeded to blow inside, mimicking the elegant sound of a loon.

You scowled at him. “If I sound like a busted teakettle, what makes you think I can make a freakin’ bird noise? Are your neurons okay?”

“Whatever—fuck the signal, actually. Let’s just get in and out.”

Vernon went around one side of the fishing boat while you crept along the other. He was quick, darting off to the central RV while keeping low, and you got the suspecting, blaring sense this was far from his first time hopping a fence or spying through another’s window. Moving slower in comparison, you approached the first RV. Your stomach was an unsettled hive of buzzing, frantic bees.

What if someone really was inside?

The vehicle wasn’t in the best condition. Worn wheels were sagging and the headlights were busted. Treading airy steps, you paced the perimeter of the vehicle. There were lawn chairs spread out in the back, propped between a plastic, cheap table sitting an ash tray and a few crushed beer cans. A makeshift firepit displayed the remnants of ashy, grey logs and charred newspaper, tiny pieces fluttering loose in the chilly breeze like snowfall.

Was this Minghao? Did this seem like him? Beer cans and ash trays?

Vernon knew him better. You should have requested insight.

You approached the RV, gliding your hand along its cold, smooth surface, until you stopped underneath a window. It was too tall to glance in, so you decided to grab one of the lawn chairs for assistance. The fabric didn’t seem very reliable. Letting your foot press deep onto the surface, the entire chair squeaked, seeming to bend inward on itself. But you took a breath, subtly applying more weight until you were fully standing on it.

“Jesus Christ…” you sighed quietly to yourself, fingers clasping the windowsill. “If this breaks, I’m never standing on anything again in my entire life.”

The curtains were closed apart from a tiny sliver down the middle.

It took all your concentration to not make a single noise as you attempted to peer through the opening. From your inspection, no one was inside. There was a sink with some fancy glass cups splayed around it. Basic wooden cupboards, tinted by age. A cuckoo clock near the door. An armchair embroidered by a dated pattern of roses. Whatever’s Minghao aura was, this didn’t seem to match. You thought back to his luxurious, long-swept coat, his chic, cherry-red hair, the chunky rings agleam on his fingers.

Stepping off the lawn chair, you knew this couldn’t be his RV.

You wondered if Vernon was having any luck. As you walked over to the RV centered in the yard, head cocked in an attempt to find where he had disappeared to, the boy suddenly exploded into you, grasping your hand and tearing you flush against the trailer’s wall.

“What the hell—”

His palm pressed over your mouth, muffling your voice.

“Shh!” He whispered. “There’s someone in this one!”

You grabbed his wrist, peeling away the contact. Hiding behind the RV didn’t seem very practical. “And you got their attention?”

“I was lookin’ in the front window, and this cat hopped up on the sill, started battin’ at me through the glass. Then this woman appeared from nowhere to grab him. I ducked. Dunno if she saw me or not.”

“And what are we supposed to—”

His hand was on your mouth again. “Shut up! You hear that?”

You were still as stone, listening. Apart from the blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline beginning to twitch throughout your body, you heard a noise echo from the front of the vehicle, a squeak, as though a door had opened. Vernon slowly removed his hand from your lips. You two exchanged a wrought look. Your chest was heaving in deep breaths.

“Did you see something, Mr. Big? Hm?”

A few seconds later, you heard a sharp, loud meow, almost demanding in its cadence. Vernon was chewing on his lip ring, hands placed flat to his waist. Instinctively, you pushed yourself closer against him, searching for a trace of his warm, smooth scent to keep your heart grounded.

“Okay. Show Mommy where.”

“Fuck,” Vernon cursed. “Little kitty’s gonna bust us.”

You grabbed onto his hand. “What do we do?”

An orange, plump cat with faint burnt stripes had padded its way around the corner of the RV, its long tail sticking up and flicking. Paw after paw, the cat started to approach you in a slow stride, and your nails dug straight into the inked skin of Vernon’s hand.

You knew you should run.

“Go away Mr. Big,” Vernon gritted his teeth and hissed at the approaching cat. But then the cat butted its square, flat head into Vernon’s leg, purring aloud, rubbing its cheek against his pants. You wanted to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey!” A lady stood at the corner, fists on her hips.

You and Vernon froze against each other.

She was older, her hair a greyish-brown, curly mess flipped over to one side, dressed in flipflops with fluffy green fur and a drooping night gown. While the cat continued persuading Vernon for attention, the lady opted to squint heavily at the two of you, the skin by her eyes wrinkling intensely.

“Qian?” The lady barked, her tone strict and cutting. “Is that you?”

You exchanged a worrisome, confused glance with Vernon. He looked down at the orange cat, gulping heavily, contemplating something.

“Qian!” She snapped again, taking a step closer. “Is that—”

“Uh, yes?” Vernon answered, wincing. “It’s me.”

“Who the hell is Qian?” You whispered, squirming with nerves.

Vernon spoke very lowly, “Minghao’s friend.”

“I told you; you can’t give sardines to Mr. Big anymore!”

“My apologies, m’mam…” he stuttered in response.

She paused, tilted her head. “Qian, you sound different.”

Vernon’s complexion turned pale. “Uh, that’s—”

“Your English has certainly come a long, long way. You barely spoke a word of it when I first met you.” She started to walk closer, her flipflops scuffing across the dusty ground. “Is that Mr. Big down there, by your feet? He thinks you’re about to give him another sardine. I left my glasses in the washroom, you know. I thought there was—” she immediately cut herself off, a gasp flushing out from her mouth. “Is that Biyu?!”

Her reference was clearly aimed at you.

Before you could even decide to speak, Vernon beat you to it.

“It is.”

“And what are you doing behind my trailer?”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “We’re—”

“Well, I’m sure Minghao will be impressed! Knowing his closest friend is out lollygagging around with his ex-girlfriend!” She babbled on and on, as though she hadn’t spoken to anyone in months apart from her cat, the words flowing out in a critical, fast-paced tone. “Have you no shame, the both of you? And you thought behind my trailer was a good place to start?”

Vernon scratched his head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I better hope not! Or else I’ll tell him straight away!”

At last, Vernon bent down, picking up the chunky orange cat that had been sitting at his feet, licking a paw. He gave the cat a few scratches behind its tufted ear before handing him off to his owner.

“There you are, Mr. Big,” she cooed. “Come back to Mommy.”

Your lips pressed together tightly.

While she kept the cat wrapped up against her chest using a single arm, bouncing him like a baby, she had suddenly gripped onto Vernon’s wrist. Moving away from the trailer, your heart plunged.

“Lord—when did you get all this ink?!” She exclaimed. Vernon wasn’t given the opportunity to answer. It seemed to be dawning on her that perhaps the young man with golden-brown eyes, facial piercings, an undeniable gruffness in his voice, and plentiful tattoos wasn’t Qian.

She opened her mouth, thin lips stretched, the breath in her throat hitching. “You… you aren’t Qian…” the lady’s words warped with confusion and shock. “And that isn’t…” keeping the tubby cat cradled against her chest, she pushed around Vernon to approach you. “That can’t be Biyu.”

You felt magnetized to the wall of the trailer. Her eyes were slimmed to a permanent squint as she seemed to be taking in your every detail, the floral, piney scent of her perfume overwhelming your senses, the deep wrinkles of her skin twisting. “No! You can’t be Biyu! She’s much prettier!” The lady whipped around, her cat meowing sharply, as she glared at Vernon. “You two are lying trespassers!”

“No, I’m Qian,” Vernon persisted, smiling.

Shooting him straight-faced daggers, you couldn’t believe he was deciding to push his luck. Everything was totally, undeniably screwed.

“You are not!” She stuck a finger in his face. “Who are you?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. I think you need your glasses before you start with the accusations.” He proceeded to shoulder around her, sliding his arm along your waist, as you stood stiffly, still offended that this lady in her lime-green flip flops and dusty nightgown had called you unattractive in a roundabout insult. “They have chains for em’, no? So you can’t lose ‘em?”

She flung out her arm. “Leave! Right now!”

Vernon clasped his fingers around yours, beginning to pull you away. “I’ll get you a pair for Christmas!” He shouted. “You’ll love it!”

You two began running back up the sloping path that had led downward into the scrap yard, refusing to look back. Digging your nails into the warm skin of Vernon’s hand, you grumbled, “why did you push it?!”

“I didn’t push it!” He laughed.

“She figured out we were lying! And then you got smart!”

At the fence, you two paused to catch your breath.

Vernon smirked at you. “Still want that shitty sewin’ machine?”

Your eyes rolled. There was no point in going back and forth, and so you refused to wait for him, clutching onto the fence and beginning to haul yourself up impatiently, feeling humiliated.

“So, that’s a no?!” He yelled as you reached the top.

If you had the sewing machine, you would have dropped it on him.

“I don’t get what you’re so ticked about. We know the last trailer has to be Minghao’s. And, so what we got busted? That lady can’t see two feet in front of her. For all she knows, I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka.”

“Oh, yeah,” you retorted dryly. “Because who else could it be? A tattooed, face-pierced liar and a random, apparently very unattractive girl sleuthing around Minghao’s home. Oh, wow,” your voice pitched in a sarcastic tone, hands slapped to your face in mock dramatics. “He’ll be so puzzled! Who could it be?”

Vernon kissed his teeth, keeping his sight on the flat, long road that the car shot down. “Minghao’s probably hardly ever there. Can’t see him bein’ real eager to dish about life with his youthful neighbours.”

“We could have so easily screwed everything up.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” The frustration belted out in a cry.

The boy shook his head, reaching for the stereo. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, reaching for the knob on his radio. A crackle vibrated through the tired speakers; his phone plugged into the radio using a stringy cable that looked like it might electrocute whoever touched it. “I need my brain to be completely empty.”

“Great…” you muttered, head tilted woefully in the direction of your window, the corners still tinged with frost. “I hate hearing, anyway.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s ‘cause you have to listen to yourself.”

If it weren’t for the finest string of self-control that you unspooled from your insides, then you would have kept up the bickering until he capitulated, and that was rarer than a flying pig. At that point of your relationship, it was almost second nature to chastise each other. You still couldn’t tell if it was making you more or less sensitive.

By the time you arrived back to your apartment, you were surprised the universe wasn’t ringing. Vernon loved to blast his music like the angels were eager to hear every word from heaven, though he had played it notably quieter than usual. You tossed him a lacklustre thank you for his chaperoning duties, beginning to shove outside the car, but the boy’s hand was on your shoulder and he was pushing you back into the seat.

“I have work tomorrow,” you whined. “What is it?”

“And you go to bed at three o'clock? Wow, you really are a loser.”

You smacked his arm. “And you made me climb a fence!”

“Okay, you’re not usually like this,” Vernon took it upon himself to point out, leaning against his door while squinting at you intrusively. “I mean, you can be annoyin’ about things, but this is different.” He started rubbing his chin, pinching at his adam’s apple. “What’s the matter?”

The simple question sparked your laugh. “Yes, let’s discuss it.”

He gestured at you, nodding. “Let’s.”

“That was sarcasm, dummy,” you clarified. “Nothing’s the matter, except for the fact I wanna take a hot bath.” Again, you attempted to open your door, but Vernon was quick to lean over, pulling it shut. When you tried again, he wouldn’t let it open even an inch.

“Hey!” You yelped.

“C’mon, talk to me,” he encouraged, his voice warm.

“Vernon, I’m serious. There’s nothing to—”

“Is this ‘cause of the party? The fact I said you shouldn’t go?” He resumed touching his chin, his head tilted in question. “Is that the problem?”

You couldn’t help scoffing.

His eyebrows leapt upward, and he hummed. “Ahh, so that’s it.”

“Well, you know what, actually…” purposefully keeping your delivery soft and vulnerable, you started to entertain him. “Maybe it was the fact your friend was twenty minutes late, you absolutely hated the idea of me going to a party with you, you made me climb a fence, twice,” your tone started to strip itself of the daintiness, “only to potentially ruin our entire game plan! And then I basically got called ugly by some reclusive lady who smells like a funeral home and whose best friend is her cat! And now I know the entirety of No Hands from start to finish and it’s going to keep me up at night because all I can hear is R-O-S-C-O-E, Mr. Shawty-Put-It-On-Me, I be going HAM, shawty upgrade from bologna! And it’s all your fault!” The breath was beating against your lungs, causing your chest to noticeably shrink and expand.

Vernon’s lips twitched into a smile. “I knew you liked that song.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it!” You shouted while rolling down your window using the crank, feeling the chilled breeze. “It’s just catchy!”

“Well,” the boy cleared the rasp from his throat, proceeding to sit up straighter, focusing his attention. “Do you understand why I was insistent you shouldn’t go? Because I know for a fact you’ll hate it.”

“Okay!” You cried out, shrugging. “So I’ll hate it! So I’ll be miserable! Don’t you think I can assume some of that myself? What if I wanted to hear ‘I’d love it if you were there, but you should know…’ blah, blah, blah. But you just shot me down! You made it seem like—like—you would hate it if I were there. That you wouldn’t want to see me at all…”

Vernon leaned forward, shaking his head, while your fingers twisted together anxiously in your lap, your lip quivering, eyes delicately burning.

“No, PJ’s,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“But that’s what I heard,” you urged him. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Vernon answered. He set his hand atop your wrist, gave you a reassuring, comfortable squeeze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that,” the boy admitted, his voice gritty but gentle. “It doesn’t matter where we are—whenever I see you—I get this soarin’ feelin’ deep in my chest. And then it flows everywhere in my body. Makes me feel like I can grow wings. It’s like… I dunno… you give me a weird high that no other drug could ever do. And I want it more and more, every day.” He paused, his fingers finding their way in between yours, laced together, gripping your sweaty hand so firm and strong. He bit his lip. “I want you more and more.”

Immediately, your face cracked into a smile. All that irritability thinned out, gone like a dense morning fog when the sun catches its blaze. Adverting your timid stare away from his sincere, straightforward eyes that dilated more with every second, you giggled out, “stop…”

He let go of your hand to brush something off your cheek with a few soft strokes from his thumb. “Stop what?” Vernon teased. “Hm?” He then slid his hand around the back of your neck, and you could feel the massaging, warm pressure from the boy’s rough fingertips. The muscles in your thighs automatically clenched. “If you tell me I can’t want you, I’ll only want you more,” he laughed. “You know, I hate goin’ back to my place even more than I did before. Can’t stand the sight of my bed without you in it.”

Your gut was insistent that you give in. But your cautionary heart and mind were ringing the alarm bells. Playfully, you shoved him away, though the sensitive skin of your neck was still sizzling hot from his touch, and you crossed one leg overtop the other, sealing up yourself tightly.

“I’m sure that line was recycled from five other girls,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. “So you can kindly recycle it back into your mouth.”

“But I never meant it with them.”

Your chuckle was short and dry. “Sure.”

“Well… if you want to go to Moo’s shitshow, then be my guest.”

“Really?” You responded in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

Vernon sighed. “Please bring Ruby.”

“I was gonna do that anyway.”

He leaned over to push open the car door. “You’re fuckin’ free, Pyjamas. Go take your hot bath. Send me a picture, yeah?”

Upon stepping outside onto the curb, you bent down for a goodbye, smiling. “Yes, I will send you a fully clothed picture of myself fresh from the bath with all my acne patches on. I will make it my utmost priority.”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, flashing you a teething, dirty smirk, though his honeyed eyes were far too shining and pure for it to be anything other than his honest excitement. “I’ll text you the info when I know it.”

As expected, Ruby didn’t show as much hesitance to the idea compared to Vernon. She had been attempting to get you clubbing ever since she had known you, and although that triumph was still far away, the opportunity currently presenting itself was much more idealistic. Nonetheless, she was still cautious to indulge you. Ruby didn’t know all of Vernon’s acquaintances—merely a small droplet in a gigantic bucket—but from what she did know, it was enough to prompt her careful lecturing. When you told her that you knew what Vernon was like high, she cackled flippantly directly into your face before highlighting that Vernon dazed off a blunt was much different than him off three lines of coke. You knew she had a point.

The closer it came to Saturday night, the more nervous you became, and the more doubt infested your insistence that had seemed so unshakeable. You thought about how much you still didn’t know when it came to Vernon, the fact you only observed pieces of his life through flashes, like seeing your transient reflection against a speeding car. But now you were taking a much deeper step. What if everything changed? What if you couldn’t handle it? What if this was all just a disguised test to understand if you could really visualize yourself patched into Vernon’s life, despite all the evidence against it? However, you ignored those thoughts very willfully.

And then it was Saturday night.

Ruby was getting ready in the washroom while you went through the clothes in your closest. Your styles and personalities were quite distinguished from each other in almost every sense. When Ruby got ready, she would bring her wireless speaker with her, letting it sit on the sink countertop amongst the widespread mess of her expensive makeup and brushes, singing along to the lyrics of her favourite R&B artists. When you got ready, you pretty much sat in silence at your desk, keeping any touch-ups to your face minimal because you never really learned how to do makeup and it seemed too difficult to figure out now.

You could hear Ruby’s tone-deaf singing. “Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter?” Her grating voice was actually pleasantly distracting.

Unsurprisingly, your roommate took her sweet time getting ready, urging you not to worry since, “who the fuck shows up to a party on time?” But once she was done, presenting you the final look, you applauded her prancing around the living room accordingly. Unlike you, Ruby had been experimenting with her hair and makeup consistently, since she was a tween, her flawless skin and thick, loosely curled hair looking like velvet. She then forced you to watch an episode of her soapy drama before booking the ride to Moo’s place, somewhere far, where there was more swamp and grass and mosquitoes than houses and people.

It wasn’t until you were strapped into the backseat that you felt sick.

“Moo?” Ruby squawked, looking down at her phone. “Who’s he?”

You swallowed; your mouth dehydrated. “He’s the host, Ruby.”

“Oh, well, he just requested to follow me on IG. I wonder if Vernon gave my handle to him… he’s a bit cute… but these pictures—feeling myself like I lost my keys—interesting caption. But that Hellcat is definitely not his!” She continued to babble, mostly to herself, during the car ride to Moo’s house. You listened on occasion, caught between engaging her talkative splurges and contemplating how hard the driver might judge you for rolling down the window and upchucking your lunch onto the road.

Finally, you arrived.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” Ruby chirped aloud to the driver who seemed to pull off questionably fast. She started walking up the driveway, but you grabbed her wrist, drawing the girl into a wobble.

“Wait,” you said worriedly. “How do I… look?”

Ruby licked her thumb and smoothed it along one of your eyebrows, and then adjusted the spaghetti straps to the top hidden underneath the long coat you borrowed from the girl’s wardrobe. “Stunning.”

 “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her hands were suddenly gripping your shoulders, her hazel eyes accented by the smoky flare of an umber powder sharpened into knife-like points. “Look, I know it’s easier said than done, but even if you have to fake it, confidence is key! This crowd is definitely not what you’re used to, and even for me this is a stretch, but the great thing about high people, they only care about getting higher. So, in a way, no one cares about you.”

 You were able to laugh at her comment. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Ruby removed her hands from your shoulders. “Besides, as long as you’re there, I’ll be there. If you need me at any point, I won’t be far.”

Appreciating your roommate’s comfort, you proceeded to breathe out your anxious thoughts, even giving your body a jitter to physically shake off the nerves. Together, you walked up the driveway. The house seemed small from the outside. An open window allowed you to hear distant music and excited, jumbled layers of conversation, smell the burnt, stingy aroma of marijuana. Ruby knocked a pattern against the door, loud and certain.

It didn’t take long before you recognized Moo.

“Hey!” He shouted, a beer bottle clasped in one hand, his cheeks rounded in a welcoming smile. “Fuck—uh—you’re Ruby, right?”

Your roommate nodded. “Indeed.”

“Anddd,” Moo sang while turning to you, squinting one eye shut, his forehead creased and his brow raised in thought. “PJ? Did I get it?”

While you did consider correcting him on the nickname, you decided it was best to just stick with what he already knew. “That works.”

“Fuck yeah. Well, enter the pad, ladies.” He stood aside, keeping the door held open as you and Ruby shuffled into the front foyer—a narrow hallway—the walls blanketed in jackets, the floor swathed with shoes toppled over each other.

Ruby shrugged off her coat, chuckling, “are there any hooks?”

“Oh, certainly!” Moo exclaimed just before he set the beer bottle to his lips. “I think there’s one near the back, right on the left!” As Ruby primly set her coat onto the hook, you couldn’t help but note how Moo’s eyes started to drag down her body, practically bulging at her bum. “Damn!”

She turned around, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Uh,” Moo coughed into his elbow. “Sorry—just—stepped on something! Can’t lie, haven’t vacuumed this rug in a dog’s age.”

You held your lips in a flat, downturned line.

“Oh,” Ruby hummed. “Good to know, I guess.” She then looked at you, gesturing for the coat folded in your arms. “I’ll find a place for it.”

Moo encouraged you to join him in the kitchen once you were ready, to which he disappeared through the threshold in the slim, dark hallway. Once he was gone, you instantly told Ruby, “he gagged at your ass!”

She tossed the hair over her shoulder, snorting, “I know.”

“Men are pigs!” You quipped.

“And we’re in the pigpen,” Ruby answered, giggling.

The kitchen was just on the other side of the front foyer. It was a fairly small, intimate space, with the dining table opposite from it, and a bigger opening into the living room, where most people seemed to congregate. From your flying, uneasy glances between faces, you had yet to see Vernon, and that seemed to make your stomach drop like a brick. The kitchen countertops were crowded with empty cans, cutting boards, rolling papers, ash trays, and opened bags of salted snacks. Moo swung open the fridge, reaching around inside before he offered the both of you a drink.

“I’ll take anything spicy,” Ruby said, making sure to raise her voice so she could be heard over the living room’s vivacious, bubbly chatter.

You swayed on the balls of your feet. “A water is fine.”

“What about juice?” Ruby offered, brushing down your arm.

“Sorry,” Moo apologized, pulling out a beer can. “We just used the last of the juice for drinks. Cups are to your right. Tap water’s all I got.”

Teeth gnawed at your inner cheek as you opened Moo’s concerningly loose cupboard, pulling down a dusty, plastic cup. You squirmed around him to reach the sink. Water didn’t start spraying from the tap until you had turned the knob several times, to which a rumbling, guttural noise sounded from the pipes. Attempting not to make it obvious, you sniffed the water before drinking it, noting a strong mineral scent.

“So, Ruby?” Moo leaned against the counter. “Is that ‘cause of the red streaks in your hair? Which are very pretty, by the way.”

Your roommate shrugged. “Well, thank you, but I’m pretty sure I was named Ruby before I ever had red streaks in my hair.” She cracked open her beer. “It’s the stone associated with my birth month—July.”

He gritted his teeth, chuckling off the embarrassment. “Ah, you make a good point. I love that. What’s my birthstone? I’m born in May.”

The girl laughed, “I don’t know the others, just my own!”

“See, I’m gonna have to Google that later.”

“Please, don’t hesitate,” she answered, fluttering a sweet smile.

At that moment, someone else squeezed into the kitchen, a man whom smelled like firewood and rich cologne. He was tall, cutting in between you and Moo with the height of his body.

Moo hardly noticed, keeping the sparks of conversation lit with Ruby, while you were ungracefully separated by the stranger digging through the fridge, his large back all you could see. Upon pulling out a silver can, he shimmied his way out. You sighed, plucking some lint off your top, before reinserting yourself into the conversation that you hadn’t been a part of, anyway.

“No, no, that’s my dad’s…” Moo was saying, rubbing his neck.

Ruby cackled. “I knew it!”

“Does this place look like it should have a fuckin’ Hellcat in the driveway? Nah, I got my Nissan fuckin’ Micra. Pussy magnet.”

She sipped from the beer; eyes kept trained to Moo as he only inched his way closer toward her. “Humble king,” Ruby commented.

“If you ever wanna take a spin in it,” Moo enticed, lifting up a shoulder and tugging at his bottom lip, “you can be my humble queen.”

Oh, god.

You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to find Vernon, wherever he was tucked away. Dumping the remaining water into the sink and leaving the plastic cup with it, you nodded briefly at Ruby while escaping the kitchen, assuming she knew what you had in mind. Nobody slumped at the dinner table seemed coherent, so you tapped on the arm of a girl sat at the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, her eyes a watery, stinging red. Smoke rolled out ghostily from between her lips.

“Sorry to bother,” you squeaked. “But, uh, you know Vernon?”

The girl nodded. She then dug into the couch cushions, pulling out what resembled a small, black container with an attached mouthpiece.

Swallowing nervously, you asked, “where would he be?”

While she fixed her mouth around the attachment and started to slowly, deeply breathe in, the girl flicked a finger toward the hallway behind her, with a door planted at the very end. You smiled, thanking her, although you weren’t entirely sure what do next. Was it a bedroom? Were you allowed to just waltz in? Could Vernon be in there… with someone else?

You stood at the door, noticing a mild trembling in your hands.

But you didn’t sink into the doubt. Instead, you hailed Ruby’s words of encouragement, straightened out your shoulders, fixed your chin high, and pushed the door open. Simultaneously, you were braced to see the absolute worst. However, it wasn’t what you expected. The room was dark apart from a television’s fuzzy, twitching glow that washed across the carpet and bed in faint, blue hues. Someone was sitting in an armchair poised close to the TV, seeming completely dissonant, a smoking blunt of some sort caught in their fingers. There were two people relaxed on the bed, a cutting board in between them, a woman you had never seen, and… Vernon.

She dipped her head down after arranging a small, neat white line using a pocket knife. Vernon flipped her long hair to one side as she reached the board, sucking the powder up her nostril with a casual, easy quickness. “Fuck,” the woman cursed, her voice gritty, wiping off her nose with a finger and smearing whatever powder stuck across her tongue. “That’s fuckin’ sharp. I'm gonna be on the moon.”

Vernon smirked. “They cut with fuckin' crystals.”

She laughed, flipping back her hair. “That’s pure ice, babe.”

You definitely felt as though you were interrupting something private, but it would have been more awkward to simply stand there, watching, until someone noticed you. Letting the door fall shut, you forced on a crooked smile and stepped closer into the bedroom, clearing your throat to make your presence known.

Both Vernon and the woman looked your way. For a slow, trudging moment, Vernon didn’t recognize you, and he looked annoyed.

She huffed. “Sorry, sweets. I’d give you a lick but this shit cost me a motherfuckin’ arm and a leg to get. You’re better off, anyway.”

The twinkling aura of the light reflected off her arms and her pronounced chest, the skin needled with tattoos that wrapped around her like snakes made of black ink. She had similar facial piercings to Vernon, though her nose was pierced, too. Just from her temperament, you could tell she was a bit older in age, perhaps in her late twenties, and assumed she must be the one Moo referenced in their conversation at the hanger, the one who took that vacation to Europe and was able to scoop something good.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Vernon shook his head. “PJ’s?”

You started to smile, hands wringing together. “I’m here.”

“No shit,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. Cemented to your place on the shoddy carpet, you let Vernon approach you, one arm weaving around the back of your neck while the other wrapped your waist, pulling you into his firm body. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Timidly, you held onto him, fingers feeling along the fabric of his white t-shirt, your smile refusing to fade. “I haven’t been here long.”

“No?” He mumbled in question, letting his hands fall onto your hips as he began to rescind the closeness. It was right then that you noticed the difference in his eyes—those pupils were extremely dilated—dark like the ocean without any moonlight, almost… shimmering, twitching, coursing with energy that made you stiffen ever so slightly. Vernon sunk his thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, hooking you, dragging you further into his chest. “You look so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, the husk in his voice thicker than usual. “I’ve missed you all week. What kinda bullshit is that, huh?”

You giggled, lips pressing together, taking in the close-up beauty of his gentle features, how such softness seemed to betray him. “Me too,” you answered, sniffling. “I’ve never seen your eyes like this.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never seen me off coke.” Vernon then turned around, gesturing to the woman who was now sprawled on her side across the bed. “Especially the fuckin’ wild shit this lunatic gets. This is Kitty.”

“Uh, hi.” You waved at her, feeling small under her piercing gaze.

Kitty nodded, tilting her head. “Your next girlfriend, Vernon?”

You gulped while Vernon shot back at her, “you’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Quel surprise.” She winked a hooded eye, tongue prodding along a glimmering tooth in her mouth. “But I guess you would know better than most.” Kitty slid off the bed, proceeding to straighten out her short, skin-gripping skirt that didn’t leave much to be revealed. “I’m gonna use the washroom, you know, to freshen up.” She sauntered past you, out the door, leaving behind a whiff of her strong, powerful aroma, like a dark cherry.

Vernon groaned. “She’s a fuckin’ psychopath.” He returned to the bed, flopping beside the cutting board. There was a baggie left on it.

Continuing to hold your place, you exhaled nervously, looking around the bedroom and its unusual blankness. “Who’s that?” You asked, pointing at the guy in the chair with the burning blunt. He hadn’t moved an inch since you walked in the room.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Vernon answered, coughing against his elbow. “That’s Snozz, Moo’s roommate. Dude’s got narcolepsy.”

Your lips pursed. “Are you serious?”

Vernon folded his arms. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know… I feel like it’s a bit… inconvenient.”

“So are the pills he pops every fuckin’ week. Dude’s got every battle there is. But we keep an eye on him.” He wriggled up against the wooden headboard, propping an arm across his bent knee. “Now, come sit with me,” Vernon invited, nodding toward the available space. “Hard to see how gorgeous you look when you’re so far.”

While approaching the bed, you couldn’t help but take another glance at Moo’s roommate, Snozz, sunken into the armchair. His head was collapsed awkwardly onto his shoulder, fronds of long, brown hair masking his eyes, a slight fissure between his lips. You wondered how long he had been asleep; his blunt was still glowing but the television was jouncing static.

You sat beside Vernon, the cutting board in between you.

He picked it up. “Don’t need this shit anymore.” And placed it on the adjacent night table. “Unless you wanna finish Kitty’s pixie dust?”

Squishing up your tight shoulders, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Despite the heavy shadows, you could see the soft grin develop on his face, however, you also noticed him pick up the small baggie off the cutting board. There was hardly any powder left inside it, but that didn’t deter Vernon from dragging a finger along the inside of his cheek and using the moisture to collect the rest. You watched him rub the powder across his gums, wondering how much was already in his system, waiting to activate, already activated.

“Shouldn’t you have left the rest for Kitty?”

Vernon cackled, scratching his eye. “Hell no! She owes me. I busted my ass last year to get her the purest shit on the market for New Year’s.”

“Hm.” You nodded, curling your legs underneath you.

He slid down the bed sluggishly until he his head was cushioned on a pillow, proceeding to tuck his arms underneath it. The boy stared up at the ceiling as though it were a night sky scattered with iridescent galaxies, beginning to grin, bite onto his lip, giggle. “She thinks she’s such a peach, gettin’ this fancy European shit for us, but she’s a moocher to her core, always lookin’ for scraps. Damn—fuckin’ Snozz took one line and now he’s incapacitated!” He flung an arm out toward the chair. “He went off his meds for this shit! She should be in here babysittin’ his narcoleptic ass.”

Unsure of what to say, you merely clasped onto your hands harder, smiled like your mouth was being pulled back by someone else’s invasive fingers. This side of Vernon was foreign to you, not to mention extremely unnerving.

“Was Moo alright?” Vernon asked.

For a moment, the unstable catch in his words was gone, and you managed to breathe a little easier. “He was kind,” you answered, smoothing a hand along your jeans. “Definitely more interested in chatting up Ruby.”

“Shit!” He yelled, suddenly slamming upward. “I fuckin’ forgot Ruby’s here!” Rapidly patting down his pockets, Vernon then pulled out his phone, incorrectly thumbing the passcode in several times. You observed him open his text messages, select your roommate’s contact, and type out a string of mismatched letters that he struggled to send her. “Fuck—I can’t believe I forgot she was here! Aw, I miss her, y’know?” He buckled into a concerning haze of coughing and laughing, leaning over his elbow while his back shuddered like shifting plates. “She parties hard. I fuckin’ miss that, dude. I think a bit of you’s leaked into her. Fuck, she used to get so dirty. She’s vanilla now.”

Wincing, you tried not to let your disconcertedness bleed through, although your heart was noticeably heavier in your chest, pumping hard, making the air feel denser to breathe. “Uh…” you prodded in a weak, uncertain tone, nails digging into the bed. “Meaning what?”

Vernon slid off the bed. He started swaying, massaging the knobs of his scuffed, scabbed knuckles. “She has limits now—I’ve gotta be home by eleven, I can only take three shots, I’m just smokin’ for an hour—she didn’t give no fucks about that before.” He marched over to Snozz, removing the dulled, orange blunt from his fingers. “When she worked at Puttin’-Edge, she was a fuckin’ deviant. She’d take almost anything, man. You couldn’t tear her away from the function until she was on the verge of blackin’ out.”

Inadvertently, your eyebrows furrowed together. “That sounds healthier to me. I’m proud she’s winding down a bit. She’s still herself.”

“I know, I know,” Vernon muttered, sounding almost agitated as he puffed Snozz’s blunt. “Not fuckin’ sayin’ she’s a goddamn prude, just that I miss her crazy.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, tousling the black tresses. Then he was pulling a lighter out from his pocket, keeping the blunt held between his lips while he crisped it using the strong flame. “Fuck, I’m stargazin’ now, PJ’s,” he laughed hoarsely around a cloud of smoke.

You didn’t know what to do.

Vernon’s energy was disseminating throughout the room. It was like a sparkler, drawing hectic, amorphous shapes into the dark that remained in place for only a second before fading.

And you couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly, the door burst open. In paraded Kitty, twirling herself around the room, holding onto a small, black box with a mouthpiece, very similar to the girl’s from before. You heard her singing, words slurring into each other, careless in every sense. While you were utterly lost, Vernon seemed to recognize her messily constructed melody, singing along with her as they grooved in circles.

“C'mon, Snozz!” Kitty shouted, dropping to her knees in front of him as he remained fast asleep. “Let’s hear you sing!” She continued her musical number, grabbing Snozz by his shoulders, then holding up his head by tufts of fluffy hair, pressing the lyrics into his ear.

You were dead stiff.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo!” Vernon cackled.

Kitty tossed her hair back, laughing deliriously. “He needs fun!” She stumbled over to the bed where you were huddled akin to a sopping wet kitten caught in a flash freeze, watching her collapse onto the covers, praying you were invisible. Kitty breathed in, her device crackling, and exhaled a thick, rolling smoke that had a distinct, sweet smell. “Especially you,” she purred, capturing you in her enlarged, misty eyes. “You need fun.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Vernon and Kitty are in the bedroom!” Someone shouted, interrupting your non-existent rebuttal after popping their head into the room.

And then the floodgates broke. About six or seven people streamed into the dark space, squawking over each other, muddling the air with a concoction of bitter smells and escalating the temperature to an uncomfortable warmth in a matter of mere seconds. Somebody found the remote control for the television. In a few blips, there was a music channel playing, the volume cranked until a consistent, rhythmic club beat was all you could hear. It was terrible. Wanting to spend some time with Vernon away from the chaos had morphed into a gathering for the completely inebriated.

Now, the chaos was taunting you at every angle.

Kitty crawled closer, holding the box between her teeth.

She proceeded to sit clumsily on her knees, legs opened wide, enough to see her underwear if you were curious to look. But she had such blissful unawareness, taking in another huff from her vape, letting the burn settle in her throat before blowing everything out. Your wrinkled, displeased face caught the brunt of a manufactured flavour you didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Seriously, babe,” Kitty drawled, scooting herself closer toward you, her knees nudging yours. “I have tablets. And they’re low dose. Easy.”

“Uh, that’s fine.” Gosh—your tone was so blatantly fragile—it sounded like your voice was thin glass. “I really don’t want any.”

“Yeah,” Kitty laughed, gasping for air, but instead lifting the vape to her round, full lips. “You don’t want them! I can see that!” She took another restless hit. You made sure to hold your breath. “But you definitely fuckin’ need ‘em, baby girl! It’ll take the edge off! I’ll even half the price!”

Abruptly, another body flopped onto the bed, toward the foot. Kitty turned around, and together, you watched a girl climb her way onto a man’s lap, arching her back smoothly as she bent over him, the tips of her fingers tickling down his face before their lips brushed in a kiss.

“Ew!” Kitty screamed around the mouthpiece to her vape. “Get a fuckin’ room, you sick freaks!” She pushed against the girl’s tiny arm, though it was a frivolous, teasing touch without scalding intention.

As you anxiously rubbed the back of your hand against your thrumming forehead, you felt a slickness, quickly realizing that the crown of your hair was dampened with sweat. Vernon blended into the crowd well. It seemed there were more people in the room, and no matter how intensely your eyes sorted between the dazed faces, none were recognizable. You attempted to shuffle off the bed, but Kitty had caught you, luring you sit back down. And you did, despite your gut hollering in vehement protest.

“I wanna know—,” she sang, pulling at a long loop of dyed hair close to her ear, “—and don’t take offense to it, sweetheart. But why come here if you weren’t planning on getting fucked up?” Almost to emphasize her point, she returned the vape to her lips. “Like, are you a masochist?”

Huddling away from a man standing a little too close to the bed, you rubbed along your arm in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. “I-I, I don’t really…” you couldn’t think, and watching Kitty’s wide, unmoving eyes delightfully swallow your fear had you frozen. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Vernon?”

You couldn’t answer.

She suddenly cackled, head tossed back. The device hissed while she secured her lips around the mouthpiece, sucking in. When Kitty elaborated through a drifting screen of smoke, you couldn’t be bothered to hold your breath at the smell—you needed to breathe—your body wasn’t giving you a choice. “That’s cute,” the girl giggled. “Although, are you sure you’re completely sober? I know Vernon’s type…” her gaze subtly flickered over you in a heartbeat, “and I’m not sure how well you tick the boxes.” She flipped the hair off her shoulder, laughing. “You must be nasty in bed, then.”

When you swallowed, smudging your lips together, they felt drier than old, strained leather. It was near impossible to speak. Every word quivered, leaving your twitching tongue with such timidness and dread. “I-I don’t know…” you laughed brokenly. “I just—I think I’m gonna—"

“Know what I miss most about Vernon?” Kitty interrupted, her head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing her shoulder as though she were reminiscing a memory so magnificent and tender. But then her stare shot toward you, hardened, challenging, devilish. “How he would fuck me until my brain melted.” You swallowed, trembling. “He told me I was the best at taking him, that no one would ever compare.” Kitty started smirking, dragging a hand up her thigh, slow and flirtatious, as though she were retracing a sensual touch. “No pressure or anything!” Her taunting façade vanished, the smirk replaced by a smile, the challenging tone replaced by a nonchalant, almost encouraging warmth. But you knew it wasn’t genuine. Not at all.

“Thanks for sharing,” you sighed, completely deflated.

A part of you bristled with the urge to be more assertive as opposed to reclusive, but it was a very small part, enough to feel yet not enough to follow through with a vengeance.

Understanding the conversation was done now that Kitty had put you in your place with a calculated slash of humiliation, you slid off the bed, pushing around the bodies packed into the room. Regret had never raised so fast from the depth of your stomach. You could taste the acridness tangy in your mouth, feel the moment’s inertia, how the atmosphere seemed to be pulling you down with every step. How on Earth could you think this was a good idea? That you could somehow fit into Vernon’s life like a perfect building block? Were you really that delusional? That naïve?

Entering into the living room, you weren’t able to make it far without someone stepping into your way. So—he had left the bedroom.

“Where’re you off to?” Vernon asked.

You were too miserable to feign any softness. “I’m leaving.”

As you attempted to weave past him, Vernon opposed you. He tucked the blunt behind his ear, the edges of his lips furling into a disbelieving smile. “Fuck, you just got here PJ’s. Can’t be leavin’ so soon.”

“Well, I am,” you answered matter-of-factly. “Goodnight, Vernon.”

Again, he cut you off, stepping into your way. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay… so you’re headin’ out early 'cause…?”

“Because I want to. Now, can you please move?”

Predictably, the boy ignored your plea. He still wasn’t himself, and he wouldn’t be for a while. You didn’t want to speak with him regardless of his intoxication. The stinging, draping heaviness of your misjudgment was like a smothering blanket and Vernon was merely keeping the hot fabric trapped around you. His gaze seemed lost, refusing to connect the pieces.

You watched him shake his head. “No… somethin’ happened. And now it’s got you all upset, and you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”

Groaning, you shouldered past him forcefully. “Thanks, detective!”

He grabbed your wrist.

You whipped around, wresting for it back. “Vernon!”

“Let’s talk outside.” He nodded at the sliding glass doors across the carpeted living room. “No one’s out there. C’mon.” When you resisted his pulling with a deep scowl, he immediately opted for a different technique of zero patience, one that involved sweeping you off your damn feet and carrying you in his toned arms like a newlywed bride.

“Vernon!” You hollered; your cheeks aroused with heat. “Put me—p-put me down—you freaking idiot!” People were looking, but they didn’t seem to assume much, even stepping aside to let Vernon through the open sliding doors onto the cement platform. He dropped you down, and you stumbled, wobbling into a plastic lawn chair. “What the hell is your issue!”

“Okay,” he huffed, closing the curtains before pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Now that we’ve got some real privacy—” he turned toward you, “—let’s talk.”

“Talk about what!” You yelled. “I said I wanted to leave!”

“And you can,” Vernon encouraged, “as soon as you tell me—”

“It doesn’t matter what happened!” Standing behind the white lawn chair to place distance in between you, your head swung adamantly. “I’m glad it happened, actually. Because now I understand how stupid and delusional I've been!” You refused to look at Vernon, flickering your glassy eyes toward a buzzing lantern along the brick, trapped with dead leaves.

“Okay,” he hummed. “About what?”

“Stop,” you demanded.

He laughed, throwing out his arms. “Stop what?”

The answer didn’t come to you.

Nothing was. Inside your head was loud, overpowering static that deflected every possible thought, from the articulate to nonsensical, just like the television inside the bedroom. Not even the brisk, feathering cold of the pure night could penetrate you.

Vernon grabbed onto the lawn chair, moving it aside. You let him press into your melancholic aurora because you would and always have let him do just about anything. He pulled the most delicate strings inside you that you had never sensed before. He sparked feelings your body and mind had never experienced. It was like riding an unbelievable wind that refused to let your feet touch the ground, keeping you petrified but addicted to the freedom. And when you were back on Earth, it wasn’t long before you hated it, before you desperately wanted the rise, the gust, the weightlessness.

He told you that you were like a drug to him.

It was only now that you truly understood what he meant.

But you had never used drugs, and you weren’t about to start.

Vernon stood close enough to breathe you in; his arms folded; his warmth palpable. “Your eyes are all teary,” he murmured with concern.

“How do you not get it?” You whispered while staring down at the cracked slabs of cement. “We’re never, ever going to work. Not as friends, or as anything else—” your voice split, and you needed a moment to pause, reabsorb the pain. “It just won’t ever happen.”

He exhaled deeply, fingernails puncturing into his arms.

You quickly wiped off your own tears.

That was the moment Vernon finally caught your eyes. Everything about his stance shifted. It was like someone administered him a dose of clarity. “PJ’s…” he murmured, grabbing onto your arms, sliding his rough palms down your skin until your hands were gathered in his. “You’re fuckin’ jumpin’ to conclusions, you know that, right?” There was a squeeze against your fingers. “You’re seein’ the worst of everything, diggin’ a hole.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?!” You snapped, tearing your hands out from his solacing, sweet grip, beginning to pace around the cold patches of textured cement. “This is such a big part of your life! You love the freedom, the adventure, the high. You don’t want the lesser, boring, mundane stuff that everyone else has going on. And that’s exactly what I am, what I always will be!” After rubbing away the thin trails of tears scurrying down your cheeks, you bit back a futile, immature whine. “I can’t fit into your life and you can’t fit into mine! It’s that simple! There’s no meeting in the middle, no compromising. Nothing that could ever make us gel!”

Vernon stopped your pacing by shoving you at the shoulder. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, PJ’s?” He deadpanned. “We make us gel! We like each other! You just fuckin’ tiptoe around it, avoidin’ us at every turn. Doesn’t that just enforce our differences even more?”

“Likeness isn’t enough!” You told him, pushing off his hand. “How am I ever supposed to be okay with you snorting coke beside a girl you have sexual history with! How am I ever supposed to be okay that you’re affiliated with all these shady, dangerous weirdos! How will I ever get over the inevitable fact you’ll just get bored of me! We make absolutely no sense!”

Vernon chuckled irritably, tonguing against his cheek. “To you.”

“I-I can’t make it any clearer,” you admitted, exasperated.

“So, what now?” He snorted.

“Now,” you sniffled, wiping underneath your eye, “I’m leaving.”

Vernon removed the blunt from his ear. It was hardly smoking at that point, though he still attempted a puff, shaking his head. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he laughed, exhaling swiftly. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Goodnight,” you pronounced to the boy sharply.

Throwing the glass door back open, you stalked into the kitchen, finding your roommate in the exact place you had left her, with Moo exactly where you had left him. Their conversation seemed animated and jovial, and you would have felt awful about interrupting them if you weren’t so high-strung from arguing with Vernon.

Every inch of you was vibrating.

You sighed aloud cumbersomely. “I’m sorry if you guys are having fun, but I need to go home.”

They both paused, taking in your appearance.

Ruby raised her eyebrow. “Uh… sure.”

Moo wrinkled his nose. “Damn, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, fanning your sweltering face.

He checked the time on his phone, his expression bulging. “You guys have hardly made a dent here! C’mon! You can’t leave this early—”

“I want to go home!” You shouted, glaring him into a stupefied silence.

Ruby swallowed, unable to hide her shock that such a booming, aggressive statement could come from such a docile person. But it was the flash of desperation she needed to see, immediately understanding that something had gone wrong and you were in the process of crumbling.

“No, we gotta leave,” Ruby said tersely. “Thanks for the drink.”

Moo followed after you into the corridor, his head tilted against the frame. Ruby helped you into her cushiony coat before reaching for her own. “Can I at least order your Uber?” He offered, hopeful.

Ruby brushed some hair off her lip. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got a friend who’s just coming off work. She’ll be way faster. And no payment needed.”

“Ah, okay,” Moo nodded, his tone dragging with disappointment, although you assumed it was due to losing Ruby and not yourself.

Outside, the cold suddenly felt way colder than it had when you were filled to the brim with heat, arguing. Now, you sensed every nip and bite from the wind. Ruby hurried after you to the base of the driveway, scurrying along the rough gravel as she texted her friend. Once you reached the dented mailbox sticking out from the ground at an odd angle, Ruby had finally caught up to you, the concern in her expression evident.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning.

You didn’t know how to respond, standing silently while the wind whipped the bottoms of your lengthy coat. The only thing you could squeeze out was a self-deprecating croak of regret. “I’m so stupid, Ruby,” you cried, the water flooding your eyes instantly, turning the night a blur. “I always make the dumbest choices!” 

“No you don’t!” Ruby was quick to correct you.

“Is this not proof enough?” You rebutted, throwing your arm in the direction of the house. “I mean, what the hell am I doing here? It’s because a made a stupid choice, about a stupid guy, and I followed it, stupidly!”

Your roommate sighed, pulling some fluttering crimson tresses away from her tinged, blushed cheeks. She then stood next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing you against her warm side. Honestly, you weren’t looking for a lecture, another back and forth, a pep-talk about how you were treating yourself too unfairly. She seemed to understand that, opting to comfort you with her closeness instead, and you leaned into her jasmine scent gratefully.

Although, the relief was only temporary.

You could only surmise how much it was going to hurt later.

—END OF PART FOUR.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part three.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 24k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: hope u enjoy this chapter!! thx for the support of the series so far! ❤️‍🔥 we are making headway :]

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

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leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

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9 MONTHS AGO.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ll text you tonight, okay?”

“Hey—my pleasure.” He stuck a light kiss to your cheek. “And sure thing. Not gonna be doing much but studying.” As he was pushing against the door, he stopped to smile. “And thinking about you, of course.”

You shook your head. “Nope, no—too cheesy.”

“I thought I’d try it out, anyway.”

“Go to class! You’ll be late!”

Once he was gone, you disappeared into the employee lounge, which was really just a small office space with a computer area and cubbies for storing personal belongings. You stuck the labeled sandwich into the miniature fridge, beside Soonyoung’s half-finished coffee. Inspecting your cubby, you decided to check your phone, noticing a text from Ruby. She asked if Lee had dropped off your sandwich that you forgot this morning in your rush out the door, to which you replied with a simple thumbs-up.

It was safe to say that things were… different… than they were a month ago. A month ago, you were shredded, like a thin fabric strip to the wicked edge of a gnawing saw blade, and it had taken some very patient and compassionate patchwork from Ruby to help tighten you back together. She was not happy to say the least, when you came home that cold, dark December night, dry-heaving in her bedroom as you messily, snot-nosedly tried to define all your regrets about everything.

She was on the phone with Vernon an hour later, barking at him, “I knew this would happen!” and, “you need to be more careful!” and, “how come you never learn?! Where’s your freakin’ sense?!” even though you supposed it wasn’t really Vernon’s fault at all.

But in the moment, having Ruby yell at him in your honour was quite the remedy for a bruised heart. You felt a little better afterward.

Since then, Vernon hadn’t come by the apartment.

Rather, his presence was replaced by someone else. He was a year younger than you, working hard to study law, and he had been nothing but supportive. Ruby introduced you to Lee—they had connected once at a house party—and she thought he might make a positive addition to the eternal bleakness that seemed to follow you everywhere like a drizzling storm cloud.

There was a lot you appreciated about Lee from the get-go. His discipline, for one. He was quite structured in everything. Solid. He had polished out a routine and he stuck to it piously. Even down to the clothes he wore, socks and all. Lee was also determined in everything, determined to meet with you after your first date together, determined to make space for you amongst his ironclad schedules, determined to communicate every little thing and leave no room for spaces where the unspoken might lurk.

He was not at all what you expected your first boyfriend to be.

It was scary. You took it slow.

But he was understanding.

Wandering back out to the floor, you approached Soonyoung at the counter while he flipped through pages of a fashion magazine. He glanced up at you, started to smile. “That was the boyfie, I’m guessing?”

“Something like that.”

The boy paused. “What’s like a boyfriend?” He let another laminated page slip past his bandaged thumb. “Are you guys not exclusive?”

“We are,” you stated, hands delving into your back pockets. “I just… I don’t know… it feels too quick to put a label on things. I think of him as my boyfriend but it still feels weird when other people say it.”

“Hm,” Soonyoung answered, letting another page to the magazine flip by as he lost his interest on the matter almost immediately. “Well, let’s switch. I’ve gotta do some expiries for Patsy. Cash is all yours.” He grabbed his clipboard, then disappeared somewhere near the back of the store where he could blast music freely through his headphones.

The day was boring. You had organized the aspartame-free gum three separate times, washed down all the shelves underneath the counter of dust, and tinkered with the lottery ticket display until you were officially, undeniably over it. Reaching for a lighter, you flicked the spark wheel a few times with your thumb until a squiggling flame was summoned before your eyes. You watched it flicker, hearing the dulcet hiss of burning butane, cheek slumped against your fist, until the doors shuddered. Cold whisked in from the outdoors. After putting the lighter down, you saw two young men come into the store. In an instant, you stopped slumping and straightened up.

Common Cents had a plethora of regulars—high school students stopping by after class, old men cashing in on their lottery tickets, clerks from the bank and laundromat across the street getting their usual snacks—but these two were strangers.

One was more inconspicuous, with a hood pulled up and a large, baggy jacket to conceal his figure. His walk was a bit clunky, and he kept his head down for the most part. In contrast, his friend was an aurora. His hair was the first thing you noticed—bright red—like a juicy cherry, styled messily yet chic. He wore a long, draping trench coat that flowed around him in majestic fashion, as though he were a king with a luxurious robe, and his fingers were encased in a variety of rings. The red head was taller. Wider shoulders. Thin but seeming nimble. You were staring, a little scared, having never seen them before, but unable to resist your curiosity.

When they spoke to each other, it was hushed.

To your ear, the language wasn’t English. It sounded like Mandarin. They suddenly laughed and the melange of their softer voices picking up volume made you tense. The red head approached the cash register while the other hung back near the tabloid display. You subconsciously placed more distance between yourself and the counter than normal, wanting to come across as unbothered and collected at your relaxed job despite the trepidation.

Gosh—could he not smile? His expression was deadpanned.

He then said something to you in Mandarin.

“I’m sorry…” you flustered, digging into your arm. “I just—I don’t understand. Uh, is there anything I can help you with… sir?”

No response. His eyes scanned the cash register, stopping on the lighter you had been toying with when the duo first walked inside. His fingers skipped toward it, picking the lighter up.

He proceeded to hold it in front of your face, and you gulped. “How much?” The red head asked, his English coated in a thick but still comprehensible accent.

“The Zippos are forty-dollars.”

He turned around and called something at his friend. Once they finished conversing back and forth for a few seconds in their native tongue, streams of fluidness, you were again met with the stony, chilled expression of the red head who set the lighter down. “Wait,” was all he said, disappearing into an aisle.

“Waiting…” you whispered to yourself, clogged with nerves.

A moment later, he returned, placing a package of Arctic Ocean brand sodas onto the counter, in sour plum flavour. They were from the foreign beverage section. Soonyoung loved them.

You gave him a weird, trembly smile. “Is that all?”

“How much?”

Hastily, you rang the items up. “Fifty-four dollars.”

He pulled out his wallet. Right there—right in front of your gawking, appalled face—the man started thumbing through crisp one-hundred-dollar bills until a pink fifty popped out. In combination with a ten-dollar bill, he slid the money toward you. “No change,” he said.

“Uh, okay… enjoy your day.”

Upon pocketing the lighter and grabbing the packaged drinks by the cardboard tab, he beckoned toward his friend, exchanging more conversation that involved some covert but noticeable glances in your direction. You tried to fake like you weren’t paying attention.

“Hey, you.”

“Hm?”

The red head stared you down. “You know Paulo?”

“Who?”

They looked at each other, then back at you.

“Hansol?” He asked again.

“Is that the same person? Or someone different?”

His gaze narrowed, pricking you like a thistle. “Never mind,” he ended up muttering, proceeding to push out the door with his friend in tow.

You shivered.

They must have you confused with someone else.

“It’s only a casual thing. It’ll be relaxed. Don’t stress over it.”

Most, if not always, Ruby failed to convince you to attend anything club or party related. She had been on a pretty hot losing streak for an approximate six months—yes, you were keeping track—and you were confident nothing was going to break your willingness to avoid.

But things were supposed to be different now. Along with a boyfriend came the daunting realization that you couldn’t always put your reclusive desires first. This was a two-way street. An openness to experimentation was critical. In consequence, you let Ruby string you along to a house party that two friends of hers were hosting. You were Ruby’s plus-one and Lee was yours. He seemed eager to attend something that wasn’t a movie in your living room for the umpteenth time, which you could understand, even if you would rather be at home than a stranger’s place amidst the incredibly vengeful cold that was mid-January.

Ruby had been right to some regard—it was pretty casual—there were people drinking beers and playing Monopoly in the living room, while the kitchen was reserved for dangling slabs of hot, cheesy pizza into one’s mouth between personal conversations that you were a notable outsider to.

You and Lee were sitting on the couch. A movie was in the middle of playing when you first arrived—Spy Kids—and you had no idea who initially decided that was tonight’s vibe, but you weren’t complaining.

“I don’t remember the CGI being this awful,” you laughed, watching Juni and Carmen attempt to navigate their submarine.

Lee picked at the bowl of popcorn sitting in his lap, moving around the buttery pieces but not actually eating anything. Eventually, he sighed, and set the large bowl back onto the coffee table. You felt him staring at you in that particular way, when he wanted to say something, although you feigned not to notice, continuing to concentrate on the movie.

“Okay,” he began, “this is a classic and all. But—I don’t know—we can watch this any time. I feel like I’d rather socialize. I mean, there has to be a reason we’re the only two sitting on the couch right now.”

“Yes,” you agreed,, “because no one else appreciates the genius and questionable graphics of the first Spy Kids movie. This is art.”

Lee placed his hand on your knee. You hoped he failed to notice how you tensed. It felt automatic, like you had no authority over your bones.

He stared at you softly. “Alright, you can stay here if you want. Enjoy the movie. But I’m gonna grab some pizza in the kitchen. See if I know anyone. Make my rounds.” Then, he was rising from the couch, dusting off his jeans. “Later, pumpkin.”

“M’kay. Later.”

Sometimes he called you pumpkin. It was a term of endearment that was supposed to sound all cutesy—Ruby had loved it when Lee first came up with the idea—but you still weren’t sure if you liked it or not.

Sitting on the couch in an unfamiliar home surrounded by unfamiliar people who already knew each other hadn’t been that unbearable when you had Lee as a life preserver, but now he was gone, and now you were left to float alone, and suddenly you were drowned with the sentiment that you looked like a gigantic, antisocial, friendless loser. Every laugh that came from the Monopoly game in the corner felt like it was about you. Each person that drifted through the living room seemed to let their eyes linger for longer than normal toward the couch and its only guest. The worst part was knowing that your mind was overthinking, spiralling, turning all your thoughts against you, and being completely powerless to control it.

“Fuck you and fuck your ugly ass real estate!”

You heard a fist slam down hard on the table. Everyone surrounding the board game started cackling and clapping.

Immediately, you shot up from your seat, beelining for a random corridor that led past the staircase, away from the chaos that Monopoly was divulging into and away from your comfort of the Spy Kids franchise. There was a teal door at the end of the hallway, flecking with aged paint, that opened onto the back porch. You shifted aside the fragile lace curtain obscuring the window, sensing the chill from outdoors emanate through the thin glass. There was a bonfire going on. Maybe that’s where Ruby had disappeared to earlier in the evening, although you didn’t quite recognize any faces standing within the fire’s orange, creeping glow.

Instead, you decided to sleuth around the quiet, dark upstairs. It was mostly closed doors that you didn’t quite feel like trying in the event that one of the roommates might get angry with you. But there was one door left slightly ajar, allowing a slim margin of purplish light to splash on the floor.

People were definitely inside—you could hear their distant voices and the muffled, thudding music—which seemed like the perfect place to find your socialite roommate. With a cautious edge, you approached the door, peeking into the room and its violet, galactic-like haze, only to uncover that the quote “casual house party” wasn’t as casual as promised. You saw the organized white lines spread out on the coffee table, the rolled-up bills serving as straws to suck the powder straight to the brain, the heads dipping down in unison.

“Fuck—that’s tingly,” someone chuckled hoarsely.

You gasped. Vernon? Are you fu—freaking serious?

Ruby did not mention anything about him being here! Did she even know he was going? If she did know, wouldn’t she feel obliged to tell you?

“Can I try?” A girl was sliding off the couch and onto the floor beside the tattooed boy, grabbing his thick bicep and squeezing it.

You watched Vernon rub his nose and grin. “This shit will kick you on your fuckin’ ass if you’ve never had it before. I’ll give you a bump.”

“Just a bump?” She started to pout, massaging into his arm.

He bit his lip. “Don’t get greedy with me, alright?”

“Uh, are you going inside?”

You nearly jumped onto the ceiling. A girl was staring at you in question, holding onto a drink. It was one of the roommates hosting the party—Ruby introduced you to her briefly back in the kitchen—though you couldn’t remember her name and she clearly couldn’t remember yours.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I was looking for—uh—”

“Ruby? She’s playing pool in the basement.”

“Cool… thanks…”

She smiled at you, then pressed inside with her drink, making sure to close the door fully this time, until it clicked. Dang. You got caught.

Normally, you would be downright embarrassed. Enough to fizzle into a sad little melted mess on the floor. But whatever embarrassment you might be feeling was totally and unequivocally shadowed over by the emotional blitz wreaking havoc to your interior. You hadn’t seen Vernon since the night you attempted a poorly planned confession of your likeness, and after Ruby had succeeded in cleansing him from your mind with her special friendship powers, you had seldom thought about him.

But maybe that was your issue.

Maybe refusing to think about him was just backlogging all your shame, regret, embarrassment, and ardour, right to the outstretches of your mind where the feelings had been chained away ever since. Except, now the chains had rusted without your cognizance, and everything was swinging free.

There was a washroom on the bottom floor, close to the staircase, which you took refuge in before anyone else could steal it from you. First, you turned on the sink, letting the faucet gush just in case anyone walked by. Sometimes you did this strange heaving thing when you cried, like your breath was desperately trying to crawl out of you and heap all its life with it.

You sat on the edge of the tub, hands steady on your knees, trying to talk yourself away from a meltdown. It didn’t seem to be effective. Damp spots coloured the thighs of your faded jeans and you used the collar on your t-shirt for wiping off your cheeks. Reaching for a mobile shelf of beauty supplies, you grabbed the toilet roll from the top, winding up a thick strip in your hand such that you could blow your stuffy nose. That made you feel better. A little bit. As you stood up to turn off the gushing faucet, there was a few unanticipated knocks against the door. In a panic, you attempted to sort yourself out in the mirror, rubbing away the tear tracks and adjusting your hair in anxious gestures that didn’t really do anything but make it worse.

“Almost done!” You shouted.

Swinging open the door, you inhaled a self-soothing breath.

“Oh, fuck. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Your heart dropped. Again. Honestly, you wondered how many times it was physically possible for someone’s heart to drop before it just stayed there, defeated, on the floor of your chest like a broken vase.

“Uh, well…” you swallowed, rubbed off your chin. “I could say the same for you. I thought maybe Ruby would have mentioned it.”

Lara blew a pink bubble with her gum, then proceeded to pop it, slowly chewing the residue back into her mouth. “I don’t think she knew.”

You nodded. “Oh…”

The girl gave you a very suspecting once-over, her arms folded, hip jutted out to the side. Then, she cocked her head. “You were crying?”

“What? No.”

“About what?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

Lara looked off to the distance. “Tara!” She yelled.

“No—I wasn’t—you don’t need to—”

“Hey, what’s going on?”

From around the corner, Lara’s more likeable twin appeared. The two were even dressed similarly, in form-fitting, long-sleeved black tops and low-rise jeans scooping underneath their toned stomachs. The only difference was their hair. Tara always preferred slick ballerina updos while Lara tended to let her silky locks stream down around her shoulders in earthy rivers.

Lara pointed at you, stated factually, “she was crying.”

“Oh, hello. I didn’t know you were here. I would have—” Tara suddenly stopped, then squinted at her twin. “Wait, what did you say?”

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, betrayed by a crackle in your voice.

Tara fell into a gobsmacked expression. “You were crying?”

Gosh—was it even worth it to keep up the lie? If the word crying became a drinking game, you wouldn’t leave here standing straight.

“It’s not a big deal,” you ended up sighing.

“Oh, no!” Tara lamented. “That’s awful. I’m sorry. Although, crying in the washroom at a party is an iconic milestone in every girl’s life, so in a way, congratulations.” She started smiling at you, seeming pleased.

Lara pulled at her hair, looking at the shimmery strands. She sighed, “I don’t think that’s particularly what she wants to hear, Tars.”

“Oh! Right.”

You shook your head. “Guys, I swear, it’s fine.”

“And that’s the second part of the milestone,” Tara babbled. “But don’t worry—we’re here to fulfill the next part to the prophecy. It’s just—” she stopped to glance around, “—every spill session needs a drink.”

At that very moment, someone walked around the corner holding onto a beer can. Lara plucked it straight out of the man’s hands.

“Hey—what the—that’s mine,” he tutted.

Lara shrugged. “Not anymore.”

“Sorry,” Tara apologized, “we’re fulfilling a prophecy.” She then proceeded to grab Lara’s elbow and your wrist, pulling you both into the washroom. “Thank you for understanding!” The girl shouted before promptly closing the door right into the stranger’s perplexed face.

Feeling even more defeated than before, you opted to sit back down on the tub’s hard, cold edge, elbows digging into your sore knees as you held up your chin and dramatically huffed.  

Tara sipped from the drink, smacking her lips, unsure if she liked the beer’s flavour or not. “Eh.” She shrugged. “It’ll do.” After placing the can onto the sink counter behind her, she folded her arms and smiled at you in the same way Ruby did when you came to her with your grievances. It was unexpected but surprisingly comforting. “What happened?” She entreated.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk details,” Lara grumbled, blowing another bubble that smelled strongly of synthetic strawberry.

“Well… whatever you’re willing to share, then,” Tara corrected.

For a moment, you were silent, staring down at the floor’s black and white diamond tiles. Lara and Tara were not exactly the first two people that leapt to mind when thinking of an emotional spill session. That was typically Ruby’s job, though, you had to admit, you felt somewhat guilty about involving her in yet another life quarrel after bawling about Diana's situation and then Vernon’s rejection. She deserved to enjoy some uninterrupted fun.

Lee was surely around somewhere. If he wasn’t still in the kitchen eating the pizza, that is. However, he didn’t know much about Vernon, and for the time being you preferred keeping it that way. Tara and Lara were actually your best bet right now, as peculiar as it felt to confront the fact.

You sat up straight, wriggling out your shoulders.

The two girls stared at you intensely, hanging onto the silence.

“Back in December, I told Vernon I liked him…” you began to hug yourself, gazing adrift at the metal-looped belt hanging low around Lara’s hips. “I got rejected, of course. And things got messy. I saw him for the first time since then, upstairs, snorting coke or something with this girl.” You groaned, shaking your head to cast away the newly established memory, and it fell into fuzziness. “I can’t believe I ever liked him, even a little bit. It was so, so stupid.”

Tara grabbed onto the beer can. She sat down beside you, placing a gentle hand on the top of your spine as you leaned over, sniffling. “Hey, don’t say that. You’re being too dismissive and cruel,” the girl sympathized, continuing to rub along your back. She smelled like a sweet tulip garden.

“But I was being stupid,” you persisted, sucking up your snot. “I knew he didn’t care about relationships or anything… I knew he was like that. I knew he wouldn’t like me but I still—I had to go and ignore everything saying otherwise just ‘cause I wanted to be brave. How insanely dumb.”

“Well, it is what it is,” Lara puffed, leaning back against the sink and pushing the hair off her shoulders. “Someone has to take that first step.”

“Yeah,” Tara agreed. “There’s no shame in that. It’s so hard to do.”

Blinking up at Lara, you removed the tears blurry in your eyes. “I don’t mean to be intrusive or anything… but… did you like him, too?”

She pressed her lips together in a beat of uneasy silence, digging the toe to her white converse sneaker against the fuzzy mat flopped in front of the sink. Lara’s dark, smoky gaze traveled across the differing tiles on the silver moonlit floor until she found her way to you, and suddenly, she didn’t seem so unlikeable.

Lara sighed, “yeah… for a bit.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. That you have to hear all this. I’m making it seem so dramatic. This is turning into a rejection club.”

The girl chuckled. She then came to sit beside you on the tub. “I don’t feel that way anymore. You can talk about him however you want.”

For once, you smiled at Lara, and it was fully sincere.

Tara passed you the beer can. You weren’t too keen on alcohol, especially beer, and holding your liquor well had never particularly been a strong suit of yours. But there was a certain tartness about it that rejuvenated your senses as you took a timid sip, slowly beginning to tilt more and more of the foamy alcohol into your mouth until you couldn’t swallow anymore.

Wiping off your damp lips, you exhaled a long, deep sigh. “I don’t think I want to be here anymore. I mean, knowing he’s here.”

“Maybe Ruby can take you home,” Tara suggested.

Lara shook her head. “She pounded three shots of Triple Sec. I don't even know if she would make it down the street.”

Your eyes rolled. “Ah, of course.”

“Well, isn’t your boyfriend here, too?” Tara asked.

“Yeah, shoot…” you mumbled, taking out your phone from your back pocket. He had texted you three times, and then attempted to call you twice, but your notifications were still on silent from work the other day. His last text mentioned going out to watch the bonfire and see the stars. Putting your phone down, you shrugged. “He’s enjoying himself without me.”

Lara and Tara exchanged a wordless glance.

“I’ll call you an Uber,” Lara swiftly announced, rising to her feet.

Your expression widened. “Really?”

“Mmhm.”

“Are you sure? I’ll pay you back.”

She remained dismissive. “Don’t bother. It’s fine. I promise.”

“I’ll tell Ruby you’re leaving,” Tara offered.

Lara walked you to the front door, helping you to find your coat buried somewhere in the hectic closet space, while Tara presumably went to locate Ruby in the basement and relay the news. She popped back upstairs rather quickly, dipping into the kitchen for a moment, only to reappear with a cheesy slice of warm pizza on a paper plate and a water bottle. “Food to cure the heartache,” she said, smiling.

You grinned. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“No worries. You can now officially scratch the ‘I cried in the washroom at a party’ from your list of girlhood milestones. Or womanhood. Whichever.”

Taking a bite from the pizza, you laughed.

Lara inflated another bubble with her gum. “Uber’s almost here.”

“M’kay,” Tara sighed. “We came with our friend. I’m gonna go find him so he doesn’t think we disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

You glanced at Lara. “Are you going, too?”

She shook her head. “I’ll wait until your ride is here.”

 “Thanks,” you acknowledged, feeling relieved.

Continuing to fill your stomach with leftover pizza while occupying the front foyer alongside Lara, you watched the back door that was down the corridor—the one that led to the bonfire—wondering if Lee might come inside. You sent him a text that you were leaving, but your boyfriend had yet to respond. While slurping some stringy mozzarella into your mouth, you noticed two people walk about halfway down the dully lit staircase, seeming like they were saying goodbye to each other for the night.

Oh no. You immediately felt dizzy.

Why did one of those people have to be him?

Even worse—why did he have to notice you? He hadn’t at first. But then his eyes naturally lingered and for the first time in a month the boy who rejected you in the front seat of his Camry had you back in his sights. Your entire chest pulled tight like the strings of a bow.

He kept looking at you, those deep golden eyes enraptured as though you were beaming with neon light. You started to tremble.

Lara suddenly shifted from leaning her weight against the door, clearing her throat. “Your Uber’s here.” She looked through the window, tapping her long, polished nail to the stained glass. “He’s in the white.”

“Oh, cool. Thanks.”

“Want me to walk you out—”

“That’s okay!” You called, already whipping open the door, taking your half-finished pizza and cold water with you. “See you at work!”

Lee wasn’t exactly pleased that you left him at the house party without saying goodbye. You agreed. It was an impolite, hasty decision that should have been made using more consideration. Even if you wanted to blame Vernon for completely scrambling your feelings, you had to take accountability. As an apology, you took Lee out for lunch at one of his favourite eateries—No Forks Given—hence the fact they only sold soups.

Your favourite was the broccoli cheddar. He liked the tomato soup for the simple fact it came with a grilled cheese. It was tasty, warm, and rustic comfort food. You couldn’t think of anything better.

Resting his spoon against the half-emptied bowl, Lee took a pause from eating. He glanced at you, smiling, and the dark arches of his eyebrows softened. “How’s the broccoli cheddar?”

You nodded in satisfaction. “Delicious.”

Lee proceeded to sit his elbows on the tablecloth, hands interlocked and thumbs twiddling. There was something he wanted to bring up—you could read it from the distant, absentminded flickering of his gaze—though you weren’t going to coax it out. You preferred to finish enjoying your soup before he dropped any degree of bombshell.

Finally, he sat back, tapping the tabletop with his index finger. “I want this to really work between us,” Lee said. “And I think our communication could be better. It’s something we can work on together. I don’t want you to feel like I’m singling you out or anything, you know?”

Stirring around your soup, you stared down at the bowl. “I know.”

“You’re a great girl. Hardworking, sincere, funny…” the boy began to smile as he looked at you, fondness lightening the harsher contours to his expression, his eyes less like wet slate. “We both could have done more at the party… I shouldn’t have left you alone and you shouldn’t have walked out off a text message. I’d just really like it if we could meet in the middle. You know I love staying in and watching movies with you, but I’d also appreciate doing other things.”

Biting your lip, you nodded. “Agreed.”

“So, let’s keep pushing. We’re gonna be better. Deal?” He extended his hand across the tablecloth, waiting for you to reciprocate.

You eyed the gesture, staring along the boy’s fingers and his wrist. It was haunting—you had gotten so accustomed to examining Vernon’s tattoos over the past couple months that it felt unorthodox to see skin that looked so bare, exposed—and before your mind could choose to wander somewhere hurtful, you quickly lurched a hand over top his, smiling all fidgety.

Meeting your boyfriend’s tender eyes, you murmured, “deal.”

He leaned forward in his seat to stick a kiss on your forehead. Once he was settled back down, Lee returned to his soup, dragging the spoon through the creamy whorls of orange. “When is that art exhibition thing you were talking about? The Winter Wonderland?”

Your shoulders felt tense, so you rolled them out. “Uh, well, it starts this Friday and ends on a Sunday. I have an admission ticket for Sunday.”

“Is it outdoors?”

“No, it’s inside Liuna Station.”

“Oh, m’kay. That place usually does weddings.”

You nodded. “The architecture inside is pretty.”

“I’m glad you’re going,” Lee mumbled around the spoon he fed to his mouth. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time. I’ll be studying.”

“I’m aware,” you huffed, smiling. “I won’t be envying you.”

9:00 pm.

You weren’t really sure what you were doing, standing outside the entrance to Liuna Station, pacing back and forth through the pillowy snow as everyone else moved inside. They all did it so easily. Smiling between each other. Brushing snowflakes off the brim of their friends' hats. Happy and accompanied and jaunty. The world came to them so easily but you had to struggle and agonize through everything because that was the only way you knew how to do it, and it wouldn’t feel like you, otherwise.

For a second, you contemplated giving your ticket away to a stranger who might find it worthwhile to walk an art exhibition on a late, cold, night. But then you thought about the money you spent, and the fact you needed to start being more adventurous, and the remarkably thin possibility that you might just run into Diana if she hadn’t already gone. Kicking your foot through the soft snow, you glanced across the building, from its long, wide steps and simplistically designed pillars to the beautiful pots of fresh red and white Poinsettias framing the stairway.

It was strange to do something on your own—something that was away from the regimented timeline you burned into yourself—and quite hard to believe that no one might judge you for it. Watching another group of people trot their way up the smooth concrete steps, you bit your lip and pulled at the skin, almost wishing there was someone there to shake out your shoulders and snap you from your funk. Your nose was getting runny from standing outside in the full exposure of the teething January weather.

You sighed, your breath fogging.

Whack!

Out of nowhere, something particularly cold and hard collided against your cheek, exploding into cascading shards of frozen snow that fell down your winter jacket. You stood there, truly gobsmacked, touching the very hot, stinging skin that was just abused by a rogue snowball.

“Uh—I’m so sorry…”

You met the embarrassed, apologetic expression of a young boy, no older than ten, with a wool scarf wrapped around his chin. He wrung out his hands. “That was supposed to hit my friend.”

Swallowing, you rubbed off your aching cheek. “Um… that’s fine.”

“I’m really sorry. He ducked at the last second and you were—”

“No, really,” you ensured, grinning at the young boy despite the tears prickling against your eyes, of the same frostiness as the snow. “It’s fine. I kind of… needed that, actually.”

He seemed confused, though he clearly didn’t want to stick around and continue staring into the face of the woman he just accidentally ransacked with a snowball. Instead, the boy nodded, adjusted his scarf, and ran off toward the distant bench that his friend was crouching behind.

Pulling out the crumpled ticket from your pocket, you decided it was finally time to pull the plug on your swirl of persistent ruminations. It was time to fake the guise of being cultured and sophisticated at an art show.

Fun.

10:00 pm.

“Thank you for touring! I hope you enjoyed!”

You smiled at the poshly dressed guide standing at the main foyer’s entrance, nodding your head in satisfaction. Noticing a bench rested against the far wall, you spent a moment idling before finally asking her, “is it okay if I sit back there?”

She turned around, following your gaze. “Oh, yeah. That’s totally okay. The show doesn’t officially close until eleven. It’s no problem.”

Again, you smiled at the guide before proceeding your way across the grand, softly lit room and toward the bench, listening to the pattering echo of your shoes against the shiny tiles, how the sounds reached up to the high ceiling and subsequently faded. Upon sitting down, you took a moment to appreciate how quiet it was outside the exhibit. There was hardly any murmur of conversation—just the occasional clicking shoes and distant voices belonging to those leaving the art show—and your mind eagerly absorbed the whispering silence. The exhibit was something spectacular.

By going alone, you were free to spend more time looking at the pieces you really liked as opposed to feeling rushed. You didn’t have any concerns about someone else not enjoying the show, or finding the displays lacklustre, because there was only you, and you had loved everything.

You had taken a brochure from a pop-up stand. It advertised more of Catherine Love’s upcoming shows after providing a detailed description about all the participating artists. Some were older, having over decades of work, while others were just abloom. You came across a familiar picture of a ginger coily-haired girl with rosy cheeks and a crooked tooth—Izzy White—which you remembered briefly from your first-year university days, having run into her at a few parties. Now, she was a featured artist in a Catherine Love show with everyone adoring her sculpting.

You felt a confusing mixture of pride for her accomplishment, but also envy that you hadn’t come across such a calling. Patience was important—you knew that—though it also felt akin to a well running dry.

“So, how did you find the show?”

Nose twitching with an itch, your glance flickered up. At the same time you spoke, you sneezed, and your voice boomed throughout the silent station like dropped crystal: “Di—achoo—ana?!”

She giggled at you, and then reached inside her sable black coat, digging around for something. Then, there was a tissue. “Here.”

You stared at it, blinking once, twice. “What are you doing here?”

“To look at art. Same as you.”

“But—”

“Okay, not to be gross, but can you not feel the snot that’s on your nose right now?” She quirked her head and shook the tissue. “Take this.”

You plucked it, then blew your congested nose, swearing that your ears popped, before you crumpled the tissue up and stared at the girl from top to bottom. Of course, you had hoped to see her, but you always felt that hope was one thing and reality was another. To hope to see Diana was not the same as actually seeing her, because one was more intangible figment and the other was your best friend for all of university standing right before you. She eyed the spot next to you on the bench, her fingertips twitching.

 Sighing, she licked her lips and smiled shyly. “Can I sit there?”

“Oh, sure…” you murmured, shuffling aside.

Diana took a seat, tucking her long, fluffy coat underneath her. She was wearing small pearly earrings—her absolute favourite—the kind she chose before doing something extremely important since her mother had told her the pearls were so lustrous because they were filled with luck.

You always thought you would know exactly what to say to her after spending such a long time mourning your friendship. But now, that script had vanished, dissolved to dust, leaving behind the uncomfortable predicament of being present with someone you treated like a memory.

She picked at her fingernail. “Are you… mad… at me?”

Continuing to stare at the floor, you swallowed dryly.

Diana tucked some wispy, loose hairs behind her ear. “It’s okay if you are… you don’t need to pretend to protect my feelings… I know that when you saw me, you probably thought I looked so fragile, enough to pity me.” She started shaking her leg. “I hope you don’t. I hope you’re mad.”

You stared hard enough into the gleaming tile to begin visualizing the softness of your sombre reflection. “I’m not mad… I can’t be…”

She laughed, stomping her foot. “Of course you’re not.”

“It’s true.”

 “Well… you should be.” Diana’s hands clutched together in her lap, squeezing tight. “I wish that you were. You’ve always been… you’ve always given up so much of yourself for other people.” She seemed to be staring at her reflection in the tiles, just as you were. “You deserve to be mad.”

At that, your eyes intensely burned.

Something eclipsed past your train of thought: “That’s the problem with you quiet chicks—never say anything your entire damn life—then one day it’s a big cluster fuck of anger and you suddenly can’t tell what’s even supposed to deserve it.”

You straightened up, let your eyes sting, let your throat constrict, let your heart race in your chest like a jackrabbit.

“I was mad. I was furious.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… I wanted to punch and kick and scream. I spent four years experiencing my highest highs and lowest lows with you. And then you were gone no matter what I did.”

Diana nodded. She finally caught your gaze and no longer were you both just passengers cruising down a long, dark highway in the middle of nowhere while your minds spun. You felt connected to the girl beside you.

Her leg stopped jumping. “I just couldn’t tell you,” Diana admitted, biting along her chapped bottom lip. “I couldn’t ruin things for you.”

“I would have done everything to help you,” you firmly reassured.

“I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you to keep giving yourself up.”

You shook your head. “I never felt that way with you.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was about everything else around you. I would have just been another weight. At the time, it felt like the best way for me to handle us—I know it was hurtful and there were a million different ways I could have gone about it and I’ve only continued to make so many stupid mistakes since then—but I felt like I was setting you free and that’s what mattered the most…” her eyes glistened like fresh snow against the black, damp earth.

“Well…” you breathed out, sensitive with emotion, “I was mad.”

Diana smiled. “Good.”

“If there’s anything at all—”

“No, no, no. Stop. There you go again.”

“But, Diana, I just want to know that you’re getting help and—”

“I’m here tonight,” she interrupted, splaying out her hands, a white bandage fixed across her right palm. “I came here tonight to see art, but also to find you, because I had this suspicion you’d go, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about everything since you showed up on my porch. If that doesn’t tell you something—”

“So, you are getting help?”

She paused to sigh. “Yes.”

You breathed the biggest exhale of relief, feeling your entire body ease from utter rigidity to complete jelly. Unfurling your hand, you stared at the used tissue you had practically moulded into a compact ball. “I came for the same reason… I thought you might be here. Not that I expected anything to really happen. I guess I just wanted to see you out in the world, so I could have some sort of proof that you were okay.” Glancing toward Diana, you searched her black eyes like they were night skies full of shooting stars. “I’m so happy you came. I just wanted to see you.”

She smiled at you, delicate, as though it wasn’t something she ever did and she needed to remember how. “Anything interesting going on?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in your life. What’s gone on since uni?”

Shifting your feet, you sighed, “not much… working two jobs… living with a roommate along Roxbury. Trying not to run off the grid and go die in the woods so my body can be recycled by the earth. Nothing fun.”

“Are you sure?” Diana questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh…” you trailed off, swallowing thickly, “… yes?”

Diana slid her fingers underneath the bench, leaning forward, eyes fluttering. “What are you doing hanging out with Vernon?”

Immediately, your expression soured, like someone had just squirted pure lemon juice down your throat. You started to cough, avoiding Diana’s curious gaze, and squeezed the tissue hard in your hand. How were you supposed to explain everything to her without sounding somewhat psychotic and stalkerish—not to mention the confusing plunge of falling for him.

You laughed nervously, “that’s a long, long story.”

“Is it?”

“Well… depends on how I tell it.”

“Fair.” Diana nodded.

“I have a boyfriend,” you decided to mention.

 “Vernon?”

“No!” You spat out a little too defensively, your face sweltering with embarrassment. “Not Vernon!” You paused to readjust the cadence of your squeaky, high-pitched voice upon hearing it echo back to you off the stone walls. “He’s a friend of my roommate’s. He studies law. His name is Lee.”

“Hmm…” Diana hummed. “Well, he seems smart, then.” She stared at the ground, twisting her ankle back and forth. “Things are going well with my boyfriend, too. He’s been helping me readjust.” You couldn’t help but notice the lack of smile and ease on her face, though you chose not to be nosy about the sensitive topic, even if you were dying to know more.

At that moment, an idea popped into your head.

You switched the crumpled tissue in your hand for the brochure in your pocket. “Well… I’m not sure if you have a job or anything… but I heard that Catherine Love is interviewing for a new assistant. I know it probably seems like too much on your plate, but I would feel bad if I didn’t let you know. You’d fit in so perfectly with all the artsy visionaries.”

Diana glanced at the brochure. It seemed that her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and her eyes filled with a distant sorrow. “I’ve heard.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t see myself doing it.”

“You’d be a shoo-in. But I understand.”

“I think you’d be good at it.”

You laughed, immediately clasping a hand over top your mouth to stop the sound from barreling through the frangible atmosphere. After looking at the brochure again, you met Diana’s sincere expression and giggled at her suggestion. “As if I’d be any good! I wouldn’t even score an interview!”

“That’s not true. You were an organization freak in uni. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone make so many spreadsheets. You had one for just about everything—even breakfast! And you’re good at keeping other people on top of things. All those essays you helped me hand in?”

“Those skills aren’t going to translate! Who hasn’t used a spreadsheet? And sure—I helped you with your essays—that was only so I could procrastinate doing my own! Besides, I know nothing about art.”

Diana shrugged. “You don’t need to.”

“She’s an artist herself. She curates exhibits,” you attempted to reason with Diana like she didn’t already know. “It has to be a necessity.”

“You’re thinking too much about what you aren’t instead of what you are,” she insisted, her fingers brushing yours as they clutched the bench.

“Okay,” you huffed half-heartedly, “and what am I?”

Diana’s smile bloomed like the healthy petals of a luscious flower, and you felt your chest begin to warm. “To me,” she said, “you’ve always been a work of art. Anyone who can’t see it doesn’t deserve to know.”

8 MONTHS AGO.

Ruby was needed at work, leaving you alone in the apartment for the day. Lee was coming over later in the afternoon. The three of you were supposed to make pizzas, drink wine (you would probably opt for the leftover pineapple juice in the fridge instead), and watch the newest season to Ruby’s favourite reality television show. Now, however, it would just be you and your boyfriend. You texted him the update this morning, and he sent back a winky face that you stared at for a good few minutes while eating your breakfast, feeling increasingly… less hungry.

While slumped on the couch, you considered reaching out to Diana to potentially fill Ruby’s place. But you never picked up your phone. After that night at Liuna Station, Diana went back to her separate life of attempting to regain her control. It had hurt to say goodbye, and it was even harder to release her from your bracketing arms once you two hugged at the base of the concrete steps, cocooning one another from the blustery cold.

She made a promise to contact you once things were more stable.

You believed her.

Lee sent you another text, his bright notification popping onto your phone screen, though you merely turned away from it and stared out the living room window instead. There was a fresh coating of snow from the night before. You liked watching the different birds chase each other. The male cardinals were big and lurid red, like flashes of a hot summer sunset skirting across the satin white. But you preferred the smaller, black-capped chickadees that hopped around. Sometimes they left their tiny footprints along the snowy sill. Ruby occasionally fed them breadcrumbs if she woke up early enough.

Caught in your daydreaming, you flinched when you heard a few knocks at the apartment door. Immediately lurching to grab your phone, you read Lee’s text message. He was coming over early?

There was another knock. You weren’t even close to ready! Still dressed in your pyjamas (the embarrassing pony t-shirt might you add), teeth unbrushed, hair a mess, and hands all scaly and dry from the terrible, chafing cold, you wanted to explode. Stumbling to the entrance, you had no choice but to suck it up.

“Why are you over so early?” You admonished upon opening the door, sensing your annoyance flare. “We aren’t starting until—”

“Oh—hey, PJ’s.”

Moonfaced, you gawked at him, eyebrows leaping up your forehead like they were being pulled by strings. All the air in your body powdered.

He scratched his neck. “I thought Ruby was—”

Nope. Nope. Nope. You shut the door right in his face.

Then, you were pacing all over the living room, one arm strapped around your chest while you regressed to chewing at your fingernails. What was he doing here, what was he doing here, what was he doing here?! You couldn’t stop berating yourself with the thought, the words cascading out from your mind and inflating like oversized balloons, every letter slowly filling the room with stifling anxiousness until you were back at the door.

You opened it, again. “What are you doing here?”

He dropped his jaw, furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, I—”

No! You slammed the door, again. There was no way you could let him see you like this, in such an unkempt, devolved state. You raced into your room to find a sweater you could at least pull overtop the pony t-shirt, which you now realized had a brown stain on it from spilling Ruby’s leftover coffee this morning. But as you whipped open your third dresser drawer, shifting hectically through the clothes, you groaned. Screw it!

He’d already seen you in the shirt, anyway.

Why did it even matter.

Back to the door. You took a deep breath, opening it.

Vernon had his arms crossed and his shoulder leaned against the wall, seeming wildly unimpressed with your door-slamming routine. Tilting his head, he sighed aloud. “Before I say anything even relatively important, you wanna slam it one more time? Just to see how you really feel?”

“Uh… I’m okay,” you mumbled, full of breathy nerves.

“You sure?” He asked, biting his lip. “Third time’s the charm.”

“No, I’m fine, or… I don’t know. Yeah.”

Vernon nudged himself off the wall, rolling out his shoulders before proceeding to rub all frustratedly along his browbone. “Okay… look… I’m not here to be a bother or nothin’. I was supposed to grab a payment from Ruby today, but she hasn’t been answerin’ my texts. She’s not here?”

“No,” you swallowed. “She was called in.”

“No biggie. I’ll check back in with her tomorrow,” he said, pulling out his phone and sending a text message to someone. “Later.”

Then, he started walking back down the corridor. You panicked. As much as you weren’t prepared for this moment, as much as you swore to never give Vernon the time of day ever again, as much as you crossed him out from your obsessive mind using a thick red marker as though he were a photo in a yearbook, you still…

“Hm. You’re not gonna break in and steal it like last time?” You called to the boy before he could disappear outside, your heart racing.

He paused, turning back to narrow his eyes at you. “Considerin’ you almost broke down in tears bein’ the morality police, think I’m good.”

No, he was going to leave, he wasn’t biting—you saw his hand pushing at the door—and you had no other choice.

“Wanna come inside?”

Vernon cackled, throwing his head back. “Are you serious?!”

Scratching your fingers against the wall, you nodded.

The boy continued chuckling, wiping off his face from what you assumed to be a tear. “Damn, PJ’s. That’s funny as fuck. You smoke now?”

“What?” Your expression crinkled. “No.”

“Well, you’re definitely high if you think I’m goin’ inside.”

“Why?” You challenged him, feeling hurt.

Vernon rolled his honey-brown eyes. “Ruby already made it clear that I should never fuckin’ bother you again. Don’t really feel like gettin’ yelled at after she put me through the ringer the first time. Besides, what’s done is done. We had a compromise. You hate my guts now, I assume.”

Frowning, you stepped further into the hallway. “If I hated your guts, why would I ask for you to come inside? Ruby doesn’t…” you trailed off, staring at the mysterious, long, black skid mark left against the wall that had been there since you moved in. “Ruby doesn’t have to… know.”

“Lookie here,” Vernon cooed in droll fashion, “what a rule-breaker.”

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I. I don’t wanna get fuckin’ yelled at, alright?”

“You know what?! Fine! Whatever!” Feeling your politeness and hospitality slip, all those complicated emotions that overwhelmed you upon first meeting Vernon started remerging. “I was trying to be nice! To show you that I’m not holding any grudges! I thought we could bury the hatchet, or whatever you want to call it! But since you’re being so unbelievably insufferable, and uncooperative, and stubborn about it, you can go… you can go… you can eff off! I officially don’t care.” You marched back into the apartment, seething. But then you couldn’t help from popping your head into the corridor to glare at the boy one last time. “Gosh! You bug me!”

Third time really was the charm. You slammed the door.

Steaming into your bedroom, you collapsed onto the messy pile of comforter and tangled sheets, letting your fingers curl into the fabric and grip it tighter than your frustration could tolerate. Your eyes skimmed all over the bland ceiling, unable to focus, because if you did, the canvas above became filled with flickers of Vernon’s face and the texture of his voice that strummed your emotions like lyre strings.

You grabbed a pillow and smothered yourself with it.

“Hey! PJ’s!”

There was tapping against your window. Gripping onto the pillow, you rolled off the bed and whipped open your curtains in a big gust.

He smiled at you from the other side. “You’re right. Open up.”

“I don’t think I want to,” you taunted, arms stoutly folded.

Vernon shook his head, unamused, his voice sounding slightly muffled through the window. “Yeah, yeah. You wanna make me stand out here in the cold and shiver like a fuckin’ dog. I get it. But I know you’re not really mad.” He smirked. “Open it or I’m gonna find a real big rock.”

“I’m sure there’s a great one inside your head,” you tutted.

“Funny.”

Sighing, you dropped the pillow, undid the lock, and began to slide the window open until it hit the frame, bristling at the chilled breeze now ghosting inside the bedroom. You hated that you had relented so easily, that your explosive rage could be doused by just a single, sparkling, earnest smile from him. The boy crawled onto your desk, then settled back on his feet.

You had picked the pillow up.

He dusted off his hands. “Nice n’ warm in here. Thank—uff!”

Then you smacked him with it.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, shaking out his head. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” you answered, portraying equanimity through a straight face despite your insides shrinking with laughter. “My arm twitched.”

Vernon scoffed, “that’s quite a fuckin’ twitch.”

“Thank you.”

Before you headed into the living room, you shut the window, noticing the vanilla Camry occupying one of the parking spaces.

Vernon was already relaxed on the couch when you wandered out to join him, and his lax, leg-spread position reminded you of exactly how you found the boy the morning he ate your molotes (which you were still admittedly upset about months later). Knees buckled close to the chest and arms tucked around them, you smiled meekly at Vernon from the opposite end of the sofa, trying your hardest not to ogle him after all this time, pick out little differences and study them.

He had taken off his coat, now stuffed behind his back. You swore there was a new tattoo on the side of his bicep but you didn’t want to fixate.

“So… are we just gonna sit pretty in silence, or?” Vernon laughed.

Grabbing tighter to your knees, you flustered. “Well… I was—”

“What’s this buryin’ the hatchet thing you brought up?”

“That was about…” you cringed, “the incident.”

Vernon smoothed a hand along his thigh, chuckling. “The incident?”

Your eyes rolled, impatient. “When I basically said I liked you and you said you didn’t feel the same way! That incident! What do you think?”

“Easier to let you say it.” He smiled. You almost slapped him.

Relaxing your knees into a criss-crossed position, you wriggled your toes and held your breath for a moment, urging yourself to unclench. That moment had carved a scar across your memories, and no matter how much time healed the wound, there still lingered the uncertainty it would split wide open again. You wanted to ask Vernon if you were the first girl to confess their feelings in the front seat of his car, but even you knew that was an aimless, obvious, self-sabotaging question that would only pick at the stitches.

Swallowing thickly, you sighed. “I just want to say that I’m sorry for how I reacted. I suppose it was kind of… immature… I don’t know. And I definitely could have chosen a better time to do it, I guess. It’s just, I—”

“Hey, you don’t gotta explain yourself to me, PJ’s,” Vernon interrupted, pursing his bottom lip. “It’s fine. It already happened. Thinkin’ about how it could have gone different won’t do all that much.”

“I know…” you mumbled, rubbing at your wrist while your eyes trailed off, staring into the blur, feeling all your turmoil coalesce. “It was just so embarrassing. Like, why do I do stuff like that? I don’t get it.”

“Whatever.” Vernon shrugged, sticking a hand behind his head. “Embarrassment’s a social construct or some fancy shit like that. I never feel embarrassed.”

That, you actually believed.

Playing with the collar of your sock, your lips pressed together in concentration as you struggled to find the best way to word what you wanted to say next. It seemed futile, so you opted to just say it: “I have a boyfriend.”

Vernon folded his arms low across the chest, nodded his head at you in acknowledgment. “So I’ve heard,” he responded, smirking while you recoiled into yourself, every inch of skin burning. “Friend of Ruby’s, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Some uptight little lawyer dweeb?”

Smacking your mouth in disapproval, you shook your head. “He’s a law student, studying to be a lawyer. He’s really smart, and educated.”

Vernon shrugged all matter-of-factly. “I’m sure he is.”

He seemed like he was waiting for you to go on, to soak him in a bucket of infatuated, giggly, smitten gushing that one particularly can’t help themselves from doing when they undeniably like someone—the obvious glimmer in their eyes, the helpless, tongue-tied rambling—except, you were dead quiet, too nervous to elaborate. You supposed Ruby told him.

The boy stared you up and down in question, continuing to wait, until, “lawyer dweeb have a name?” Vernon offered if you weren’t going to.

“Ruby didn’t say?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Lee.”

He nodded, smiling. “So, that’s your type? If it’s not me—”

“It’s not,” you quickly clarified.

“—then it’s the scholarly gentleman who matches his tie to his socks and brings a briefcase to class. I really appreciate your diverse taste.”

You scowled at him.

Vernon laughed, flippant. “Relax, PJ’s. Just joshin’ with you.”

Tucking your knees back against your chest, you were overwhelmed with a particular feeling—an awful surge of general despair in your stomach that immediately turned paralyzing and rendered your brain to shut down—and the only thing you could do to get rid of it was suck in a big, shaky, long breath.

Sighing, Vernon dug his hands into the couch and shifted a cushion closer to you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers playing with the chained silver watch on his wrist.

“Well, do you feel happy?” He asked.

You wiped off your nose and sniffled. “Y-Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You smiled at him, hands locked around your knees.

He cracked his knuckles, laughing. “All you girls say the same shit.”

Your breath trembled and you lashed out at him, knowing your voice was sounding increasingly stuffy with emotion. “I’m glad you’re so educated on what it means to console a girl. Am I number fifty-five?”

Vernon didn’t say anything, only continued to stare back at you, smiling faintly, the warmth of his honeyed eyes more natural than sunlight.

Focusing on some balled lint stuck to your pyjama pants, you picked them off your knee, sniffling again. “I am happy. I am. I’m just… I’m tired.” You kept ripping the lint from your pants, sensing your eyes turn glassy and stinging hot. “I’m so tired of feeling, you know, tired. And like my life is going absolutely nowhere. I’m not trying to sound all unique, and like no one else has ever felt that way, or that I have no one. I’m just frustrated.” Pausing, you looked up at Vernon, rubbing away the tears before they could fall, surprised to discover he was still listening and watching you. Hugging yourself tight, you shook your head. “I feel like I’m going to cry.”

“I can see that.”

You slid a short ways down the couch, studying the ceiling, realizing how messy and confused you must seem, pulled apart like a tapestry undone by just a mere thread. “I’m so…” you gulped, “… pathetic.”

“M’kay,” Vernon chuckled in his raspy tone. “Relax, PJ’s.” He scooted backward, the tips of your toes digging into his thigh. “You need to go outside and catch a snowflake on your tongue or some shit.”

“How will that help?”

“Because,” the boy reasoned, suddenly placing his hand underneath the sensitive bend in your leg, stretching out the limb such that it laid across his lap, “you’re too much inside your head.” His palm then flattened out just above your knee, and you could feel the heat of his rough, calloused skin through your thin pyjama pants.

It struck a charge in you.

The pit of your stomach convulsed and it shot right between your—

“Have you found those other people who owed you money?” You asked, abruptly sitting up, pulling your leg back slightly.

Vernon brushed some dark hairs off his forehead. “Uh, well, I left the city for a bit to see some friends. I’ve done a little digging here and there since I got back. New Year’s gets a little crazy. Demand goes way up. So I was occupied with other things. But I’ll get back to it real soon. Can’t beat around the bush too much.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Do you… need any help?”

His eyes widened, and he snorted. “From you?”

“I guess.”

But then he started to squint. “Are you serious?”

You stared at him, unable to push the word past your lips. The truth was, you missed sleuthing around with Vernon. It was something invigorating and new to your mundane life and as much as you fretted over it in the beginning, once the thrill was gone, you felt uncomfortably empty, listless, without a spark to hold.

Vernon’s hand was still on your leg.

Suddenly, it was all you could think about. He shifted the warm touch further toward the inside of your thigh as he focused on the nervous teeth worried into your bottom lip and you felt like melting, dripping ice cream, all over the sofa.

But then someone knocked.

You squealed, jolting in place. Unfortunately, you already knew who it was. Excusing yourself from the sofa, you wobbled up to the door and decided to just open it rather than internally dwelling because your mind was too mushy for anything else.

“Pumpkin!” Lee greeted, planting a kiss on your cheek before beginning to unwind his black scarf. “Sorry I’m late—ran into a buddy at the gas station and I legit couldn’t get away from the guy—but I managed.”

Lee took a few steps into the apartment, his scarf finally undone, which he hung on the hooks alongside his winter jacket. It took him a moment to process that it was not just you, and once his attention settled on the sofa, he immediately stiffened, casting a few slow, trudging blinks. “I had no idea you were having someone over,” Lee laughed, lightly guiding fingers over his combed hair. “Uh, hello.”

Vernon had his arms folded again. “What’s up, lawyer dweeb?”

Your boyfriend furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

But you had already cleared your throat. “Yeah, sorry about that. It wasn’t planned. This is Vernon,” you gestured toward the couch.

“Oh,” Lee lilted, “Ruby’s friend.”

Nodding, you held onto his shoulder. “Vernon, this is Lee.”

“Lee, huh?” Vernon hummed. “You look like much less of a dweeb than I was expectin’, actually. Guess I need a new name for you.”

“Well, Lee is fine,” your boyfriend nervously chuckled.

Your eyes rolled. “He likes picking stupid nicknames.”

Vernon grabbed his jacket, stretching his arms through the holes as he got back to his feet. “Alright. I won’t linger. Lucky you guys.”

You weren’t expecting Vernon to stay.

Dually, you didn’t want him to leave.

Being the polite, well-mannered young man your boyfriend was, he formally stuck out his hand for Vernon to shake, standing tall and broad. But the exchange didn’t seem to unfold the way Lee intended it to, and you could tell from his expression of befuddlement as Vernon clasped onto his hand and dapped him up instead. You remembered him doing that to you.

“Nice to meet you, Suits,” Vernon said with a slippery little smirk and a bit more sharpness than usual in his copper eyes. Before he left, he grabbed onto the collar of Lee’s shirt and pulled it down flat for him, to which your boyfriend immediately tensed, smiling all crookedly.

Lee nodded. “Yeah… you too.”

“M’kay, later, PJ’s,” Vernon mumbled.

He was out the door before you could respond.

Silence hovered in the air for a few seconds, though it felt more like something else ridiculously long, and when you met Lee’s eyes, you noticed that tweak of confusion hadn’t quite eroded from his features.

The boy rumbled his throat. “So… that was Vernon.”

You sighed, staring off into the corner. “Yeah.”

“Wow… I had no idea… I had no idea he looked like… that.”

“Like what?”

Lee laughed to ease the situation, shaking his head. “No—just, like—I’ve never seen him before, that’s all. I didn’t know he had all those tattoos and piercings.” He was pacing in meandering circles, but came to a stop. “And… he called me Suits… like, the show?” His nose scrunched.

“As I said, he loves a good nickname.”

“What’s your nickname?”

 You gestured at the shirt currently dressing your body. “PJ’s.”

“Oh… well, that’s—I’ve never seen you wear that—it’s cute—wait—so does that mean you know Vernon, too?” Lee asked.

“A little,” you lied, and you hated yourself for it, but you just wanted the conversation to be over. “Only because of Ruby.”

“I assumed that,” Lee responded.

You grabbed his arm and began tugging him toward the kitchen, willing to put the weird confrontation behind you, praying that Lee wouldn’t dissect any further.

“C’mon. Who cares. Let’s make our pizzas.”

Ruby was in bed much earlier than usual. You figured she wouldn’t be all that energetic considering how late she stayed up the night before, entertaining the city’s newest karaoke bar with her friends. She ate dinner (the thin crust, extra cheesy margarita pizza you made in her honour) then disappeared straight into her bedroom, to which you heard snoring sounds as you cleaned up the kitchen for the night. Ruby only snored when she was incredibly tired. You probably wouldn’t see her until noon tomorrow.

After Vernon left, it was difficult to throw yourself into being ebullient and present for Lee when all you could think about in the back of your head was the tattooed boy. Lee had admittedly tried coaxing you into a kissing session while the pizzas were cooking in the oven, but you managed to escape it with a fragile excuse that you would get too distracted and burn them. Your boyfriend didn’t seem convinced, but he relented, and you two stuck to watching a movie instead, hands kept square in your lap.

Even now, as you stared into the shadows of your dark, unmoving bedroom, Vernon was still finding his way to you like a lost ship following the foggy beam of a lighthouse.

Every time the wind blew drafting snow against the window, your chest spiked with the hope that maybe he was outside, tapping to get in. Whenever your phone buzzed with a pointless notification, his text message was the only thing you wanted. It was borderline tormenting. Even if you could fall asleep, he would probably wander into your dreams and infect your heart with his ache.

So you chose to go for a walk.

Opening up your closet, you pulled out the biggest, puffiest coat you could find, alongside the thickest, woolliest hat and its large fluffed pompom. You wrapped up your chin and mouth with one of Ruby’s long scarlet-coloured scarves. Taking a look in the mirror before you left, you wanted to laugh at how rounded and unrecognizable you were, bundled up behind all that clothing.

But it was too cold to take any chances.

The furthest you were willing to walk was Cedar Point Park. It took about ten minutes to get there, a bit longer if you were slow and hobbling akin to a penguin, much like yourself.

Nobody was outside with you given the time. You loved the emptiness. The air was frosty and sticking to your eyelashes, keeping you wide awake with every step, while the sky was glass clear apart from some thin, fleecy clouds blowing across the moon. Broken ice crunched underneath your boots, some of the shards getting kicked along the sidewalk until they slid too far away for you to care. You felt like you existed inside a water globe, where the only company was you and the ambient, pearled glow of the moon that brushed all over the frozen ground.

Snow was thinly coated across the large sign to the park.

You traced a smiley face into it with your fingertip.

Finding one of the park benches, you wiped it off as best you could and pulled down your coat before taking a seat. You didn’t plan to sit there long, especially since the park was right beside one of the city’s bigger lakes and it turned the wind that whispered across its surface even icier. But the sight was beautiful to admire, and watching the haloing lights dance in the white surfs of dark water made you feel the same as coming across an exceptional art piece. Like there was something unspoken inside you that was finally coming to life, taking shape, and keeping you connected.

Once you decided it was time to leave the park, you took a shortcut by walking through the parking lot that food trucks usually swarmed during the summer and early autumn. Tonight, there was only a single car. You stopped dead in your tracks.

It was the vanilla Camry.

With the light on inside, you were able to identify him behind the wheel, though you had no idea who the blonde woman was that was leaned over the console, mouthing against his lips. You should have left, ran away—slipped on a chunk of ice and glided all the way home if that’s what it took to pretend this never happened—but you found yourself staying for a horrible reason that you could not pinpoint. They didn’t at all seem cognizant that you were there, standing at the edge of his floodlights, unabashedly watching them pleasurably slip tongue into each other’s mouths. The blonde started pulling off her blouse to reveal the black bra underneath, and then you stared, horrified, as she maneuvered over the console to sit herself right in Vernon’s comfortable lap, lips drifting back to his like a dance.

You refused to breath upon hearing the distant squeak of a window rolling down, and then you heard his voice, rough and agitated.

“Hey, asshole! Gonna stand there all night?!”

The girl was uncaring and only continued to mark his neck.

“Fuck off!” Vernon yelled again.

You were so wrapped and bundled that you knew it was impossible for him to tell it was you—not to mention the fact he was clearly focused on other, more pertinent matters—but that didn’t stop your heart from expanding with adrenaline, nerves, fear. The surging hormones twitched into your limbs and suddenly you were scrambling out the parking lot, breathing heavy into the scarf that you ended up pulling off your nose once you were a good ways from the park. Chilly air felt damp against your warm, flustered skin, though you heaved in as much of it as your lungs would take.

Upon getting back home and nearly tripping to get your boots off, you beelined for your bedroom, ripping the thick clothes from your radiating body until you felt less constricted. Flopping back on the mattress, you stared at the ceiling, forehead creased in abundant thought as you attempted to decide what it was you even felt, watching Vernon yet again swap spit with another girl. You couldn’t understand why you were so surprised. In reality, there wasn’t all that much you truly knew about him, and what you did see likely just scratched the surface of his delinquent, lecherous behaviour.

Your phone buzzed.

The light stained against your face as you squinted at the text.

It was from Vernon.

were u serious about helping me?

Your mind went blank. It took a moment to respond.

yeah

Vernon shot you a few texts back.

k we’ll talk more about it later didn’t think u would be awake

Your toes curled.

just can’t sleep

He answered again.

same

You always thought you would make a foolproof liar, despite significant childhood evidence proving otherwise. Unfortunately, years of burying your feelings wasn’t exactly the same as lying. One seemed like a necessary sacrifice to avoiding conflict while the other was just blatant deception because you couldn’t be bothered to explain yourself.

Maybe, in a way, there was some hand-in-hand.

Whatever it may be, you just knew it felt horrible to text your roommate that you were meeting up to grab lunch with an old friend, when in reality, you were slipping into Vernon’s car like an ashamed fiancé cheating on their partner. Ruby wasn’t home, anyway. She was helping to set up for an event at her work. Not having to lie to her face definitely made the deception easier, as long as you didn’t spend too long staring into your wormhole of a phone screen that wanted to crush you with pure guilt.

“Damn. It’s not like you were sworn to the truth and you lied under oath or some shit,” Vernon chuckled, finding amusement in your peril. “If it fuckin’ bugs you that much, tell Ruby what you’re up to.”

“But what about you? I thought you didn’t want to get yelled at.”

“I’ll get yelled at if it means you don’t implode from guilt. You’re like the Titanic if the Titanic sunk from sendin’ a stupid text message.”

You sighed at his offer, shaking your head and sliding deeper into your winter coat, phone now stuffed inside a pocket. “No… it’s fine.”

Vernon shrugged. “Whatever, PJ’s. Don’t say I didn’t try.”

For the first time ever, you were finally going to see Vernon’s apartment. You were really starting to believe that he didn’t live anywhere, instead taking to the couches or spare bedrooms belonging to his plethora of connections. The drive was longer than expected—about forty-five minutes spent on a congested, rainy highway—before he took an exit you had never heard of, and you were suddenly surrounded by rugged, dull, fenced buildings and bridges coated in competing graffiti. You didn’t say much during the car ride, though your fingers twiddled around anxiously in your lap the further he progressed into the colourless stiffness.

He turned into a parking lot belonging to a small building, only four simple levels, where you could see broken, tattered screens and curtains just barely holding up behind the dusted windows.

“Home sweet home,” Vernon chided as he shut off the car.

You joined him outside in the light rain shower that slicked the sleet ground. While walking toward the building’s entrance, a small dog started barking erratically from behind a window on the bottom floor, its paws scraping against the ruined shutters, lips pulled back and tiny teeth bared.

“That scared me,” you laughed, pressing closer into Vernon’s side.

He touched your back, helping you up the slippery steps. “Yeah, she can’t see shit since she got cataracts. Barks at just about fuckin’ everything.”

“Oh, no! That’s sad. Do you know her name?”

“Uh… Petunia? I think. Don’t worry. Her owner spoils her.”

When you looked at the front entrance, you paused. There were double-doors, but one had a piece of bright plywood fixed against it, held by tape, while the other had a hole smashed through the glass window.

You shot Vernon an apprehensive glance. “What happened there?”

“Someone lost their key,” the boy said, completely insouciant, like this was the umpteenth time it had happened. “And then lost it again.” He reached carefully through the shatter in the glass, flicked something, and then pulled his arm back out, opening up the door. “After you, PJ’s.”

“Uh, thanks…” you murmured in uncertainty, noticing a broom kept in the corner with a neat pile of glossy shards swept underneath it.

Vernon quickly tapped at your elbow, already beginning to jog up the stairs. “I’m top floor,” he said, about to disappear around the corner.

Refusing to get left behind, you hurried after him, continuing to lose your breath per every staircase that you climbed, stepping around enigmatic stains in the carpet and concerning dark spots of possible wood rot.

When Vernon came to his door, he wasn’t the least bit laboured, unlike you, who was eagerly unzipping your coat, heart pounding.

“Ready to see the crib?” he teased, biting his lip.

“I’m ready to see a glass of water,” you panted thickly.

Vernon pulled his keys out from the lock, knocking the door open with his elbow. “A glass of water awaits you inside the crib.”

In any capacity, you weren’t sure what to expect of a drug dealer’s bedroom, but stepping into Vernon’s bachelor suddenly made sense. It was mostly confined to a single room: his bed was in the far corner, pressed up against the left wall, while the futon and flat-screen television took up the central space. The right side of the room was the kitchen area, with an oven, microwave, sink, fridge, and limited countertop—not that you anticipated him to be doing much cooking—whereas the washroom was likely behind one of the room’s two shallow corridors. You stepped inside quite timidly.

Vernon kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket across the futon, striding his way toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfy.”

Easier said than done. You removed your boots next to his, placed your coat one of the hooks jutting from the wall, shifted your feet a little ways further into the space while you marvelled his myriad of personal knickknacks and decorations. There was an empty fish tank sitting on an antique-looking bookshelf before the windowsill. The walls cornering his bed were obscured with wrinkled, sun-washed posters, some from what you assumed to be video games or movies, while others had model images of scantily dressed women.

A random skateboard was left by the futon, while there were various dumbbells scattered around another shelf with its drawers half-pulled open, lumps of clothes peaking out. There were some bongs on the coffee table.

Expected.

“Here’s your water, your majesty.” Vernon handed you a glass.

You nodded, smiled, sounding flustered. “Thanks...”

“Well,” he encouraged, sticking out his arms. “Thoughts?”

“It’s…” you couldn’t stop tracing your eyes over every inch of floor, wall, and space that you could find. “It’s nice. I didn’t expect much.” Taking a sip of water, you pointed to the fish tank. “Where are all the fish?”

“That’s not mine.”

“Oh.”

As Vernon walked toward the futon, he stepped on the skateboard and gave it a good shove, sending it underneath his bed. “There’s some shit in here that doesn’t technically belong to me, but it’s basically mine now.”

You smiled, holding the glass close to your chest. “Stolen?”

Vernon shook his head, taking a seat on the coffee table. “Nope.”

He didn’t say anything else about the matter, so you assumed that was all you needed to know. You smirked at the books. “Those definitely aren’t yours…” then, you glanced toward his bed. “Bikini girl probably is.”

“Probably?” Vernon raised his eyebrows.

“I meant definitely,” you corrected yourself, smiling.

“That was a gift. It would be a shame not to hang it.” When he spotted you still hovering by the entrance, a socked foot tapping against the floor as you absorbed all the detail, Vernon gestured you over.

“I’m just looking,” you retaliated, sitting down on the black futon, though stopped yourself as you began to lean. “Woah. Why does this go back so far? I feel like it's gonna swallow me.”

Vernon grinned. “It’s for optimum relaxation.”

You sat on the very edge. Taking another sip from the glass of water, you felt Vernon’s eyes sticking to you in a way that was quite distracting. Upon swallowing, you blinked at him. “What?”

Elbows rested on his knees, he smirked, and every ounce of composure you had collected was dust. “Why are you so awkward?”

“Awkward?!” You balked at him. “Why would you say that?!”

Vernon laughed, casting his hands backward through his soft, shiny hair, the strands loosely falling right into place like airy silk. “Like—I dunno—why are you so closed-up? Your arms are practically bolted into your fuckin’ sides. The way you’re sittin’ right on the fuckin’ edge of the sofa.” He cracked his knuckles. “You look everywhere but my eyes.”

You clung to the glass like it was a life preserver holding you above thunderous water. “I’m not allowed to check things out? It’s my first time here! What the heck am I supposed to—”

Vernon removed the water from your firm, knotted grasp, setting it beside him on the coffee table. Then, your anxious shoulders were being squeezed in his warm hands as he pushed you to slide back on the suede futon. Your mouth opened with a harsh, reactionary criticism, but it fell apart on your tongue the second Vernon grabbed your stiff legs and pulled them out straight, your ankles now crossed and sitting comfortably atop his lap.

He leaned back on the coffee table, raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “That was the most—”

“Relax your hands. You'll get fuckin' arthritis.”

Uncontrollably, you groaned, but listened to him. “Why can’t I just sit here awkwardly? What was the issue with it?” You quipped, instinctually moving your legs such that they could curl back underneath you.

But Vernon grabbed your bare ankles in his calloused hands, beginning to tsk his teeth at you. “No issue. Just thought it’d be beneficial to know it’s unnecessary to have a stick shoved up your ass twenty-four-seven.”

Your arms crossed and your eyes rolled. “Don’t talk about—"

“Don’t talk about your ass?” Vernon interrupted, chuckling.

It was much easier to look at the water stains browning the ceiling rather than him, pretending to seem furious and disgruntled as you usually did in response to his antics. But you weren’t furious. You were panicking that he could see through your nerves so easily, that he could read the awkwardness from your body language like a book, and how entertaining it must be to him, observing you fluster and fidget whenever he so much as brushed his skin to yours since it gave you the same sensation as a static shock. Was it wrong to admit that you wanted him to touch you more? Until you couldn’t breathe because he was all that your senses could distinguish?

You thought about Lee.

Why couldn’t you ever think about your own boyfriend like that?

“Okay—fine—be awkward all you want, PJ’s,” Vernon relented, moving your ankles off his lap. “Wanted to see if I could help, is all.”

Your stomach sank.

Vernon dipped into the spot beside you. “Let’s talk business.”

“Okay…” you sighed, curling your legs underneath you, attempting to put on a focused front despite your mind whirring like a motor.

He looked at you. “Honestly, why do you wanna help me?”

Your muscles seized. “Uh… what do you mean?”

“Well, what the fuck do you think I mean? You couldn’t stand me bein’ around. You’re always so worried about everything. You couldn’t stress enough that I was ruinin’ your life.” He laughed, shrugging. “So, obviously I’m curious. Why the help?”

Pushing at the cuticle to your thumb, your reasoning performed the most sickening belly-flop, and you had to struggle for an answer that you yourself didn’t know how to explain.

You smiled meekly. “Why not?”

Vernon scoffed.

You began to raise your voice. “Why does it matter?”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” He countered.

“Because… I… I changed my mind…”

“Yeah? About what?”

“It’s not important.”

“Ah,” Vernon groaned, pushing himself off the futon and wandering in a circle around the coffee table. “Were you born with a gene that just makes you naturally frustratin' and vague?” he taunted, hands settled on his waist “Like, you're startin' to piss me off, Pyjamas.”

“Dido,” you nipped back. “Can we move on? Please?”

He continued to stand for a few more seconds, seeming baffled at your stubbornness and polarizing secrecy (which might have really just been the depths of your insecurity refusing you to confront your true feelings to someone so uncouth). Eventually, however, Vernon capitulated, and he was back to sitting on the coffee table after shifting his bongs aside. You were all wrapped up again, arms bracketed tightly around your knees.

“Okay,” he sighed. “But so you know, the reason I’m bein’ this nosey is 'cause things are a little different this time. You’re actually gettin’ dragged into some real beef—not just pansy shit—so there’s that.”

You glowered at him. “Like… I could get… hurt?”

Vernon shook his head, crossing his inked arms. “I would never let anything happen to you, PJ’s. Alright?” You hated how much your chest soared upon hearing that, even if it was something he would have said to anyone else. “But, y’know, there’s definitely a need to be cautious.”

“Sure.”

“Okay—without gettin’ into all the bits and bobs—this fuckin’ sneaky asshole basically wiped a bunch of product that I was supposed to move. It was never his. He was never supposed to get it. But as I said, he’s a sneaky asshole and he sold it all. That puts me out about ten-thousand dollars,” Vernon spat with annoyance, shaking his head.

“Ten-thousand dollars?” you gawked at him. “For real?”

“Yes, for real,” he insisted, his voice thick with grit. “That’s why I need t’know if you’re actually serious. Honestly, I could use the help.”

The circumstances were definitely different as compared to getting back four-hundred dollars from harmless Diana. The lower parts of your stomach ferociously twisted, and you started massaging your abdomen. This wasn’t something you should be doing.

This was dangerous.

“Well… what do you know? What’s his name?” You asked.

Vernon took out his phone, scrolling down. “Minghao—I have his number in my contacts but it’s dead now—he’s some lanky Chinese hipster runnin’ around with his spray paint. Damn Nosferatu.” The boy laughed, licking along his glittering teeth. “He hates me ‘cause I may have smashed his girlfriend. But, y’know, tough. She told me the combo for his safe after they got in a big fight one night. I don't know if they're together anymore. Doesn't really matter. She doesn't concern me.” He shrugged. “The combo’s the most useful, anyway.”

“Hmm…” you hummed, fingers tapping against the futon. “You say he spray paints? What does he… spray paint… exactly?”

“Uh,” Vernon rubbed his chin. “Squids or some shit.”

“Wait—you mean octopus? Octopi?”

“Sure. It’s somethin’ like that. It used to be this thing, like, people could know where to meet him for a deal if they saw his graffiti. Kinda like when people throw shoes over an electric line. But I don’t think he does that anymore. It’s just to tag shit… yeah… it’s probably an octopus. They're freaky lookin' too.”

Your expression popped to life with a connection. “Comment Cents used to get tagged with an octopus. It was dark greenish, kinda blue, with huge yellow eyes. Soonyoung and I had to clean them a few times. Get the paint off.” Never would you have thought something as innocuous as a spray-painted octopus might have such an intense backstory. “Also… does, uh, Minghao, have bright red hair?”

“Dunno… it’s been a minute since I’ve seen him… but—the spray paint—you’ve seen his creepy little octopus drawings? Seriously?”

You nodded, pressing your fingers hard into your knees. “We haven’t gotten graffitied in a while, though. I think it’s because we got so good at taking them down. I think it gave me accidental biceps.”

Vernon grinned, becoming increasingly excited. “If he was tagging your building that means he’s still in the city. His girlfriend’s flying back to China… she’s out of the question for any more information…” he hummed, slimming his golden eyes in thought. “But if we could find someone he dealt to recently… maybe that would work.”

“I think I talked to him,” you said. “These two guys came into the store back in January. They spoke in Mandarin to each other. One had bright red hair. He was tall, a bit thin. He bought a lighter and some drinks. His style was kinda gothic, I guess.”

“Actually?” Vernon deadpanned. “He say anything to you?”

You leaned back against the deep-set futon. “He asked me if I knew somebody… or, two people, maybe… I think one of the names was…” you sat up, wracking your memory’s fine lines. “Paulo? I said no. Then he brought up the name Hansol, and I also said no.” Cocking your head at the boy, you examined the faint furrow of his eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling ever so slightly before he wiped a hand down his face, removing the expression.

“That was definitely Minghao.”

“Who are those people?” You asked him after a dilated pause.

Vernon sighed. “You’re lookin’ at one of ‘em.”

“Paulo?”

“No!” He exclaimed, beginning to laugh hysterically at your immediate assumption. “Do I look like a fuckin’ Paulo to you?

“I don’t know!” You cried. “Maybe?”

“Hansol, alright? He corrected you, frivolously rolling his eyes. “It’s my first name. Vernon’s just a middle name. Hansol Vernon Chwe.”

“Wow. I would have never guessed.”

He huffed as though you were being sarcastic. “Yeah. Does it completely change your perception of me now? I’m a stranger?”

You nodded, smiling at him. “Definitely.”

“How would Minghao know you…” he murmured to himself.

You shrugged, perhaps not as concerned as you should be. “If you’re… Hansol… then who’s the other guy? Is he your friend?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Vernon dismissed. “How do you think he knows you? Enough to understand that we've been hangin' out. I can’t imagine he stalks me… although I would be flattered.”

“He must have a connection with someone we’ve seen.”

“Y’know what? It has to be Darian… that dude’s a druggie if I’ve ever seen one. He probably let something slip to Minghao when we showed up at his doorstep. Now Van Gogh’s scopin’ out the sitch.”

You pushed against the futon to sit up properly, folding your legs at an awkward angle. “Darian told us to never bother him again.”

“Who gives a freaky fuck?”

Biting your lip, you nodded. That was an obvious answer.

Vernon got up. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a can of something carbonated, indicated by the fresh fizzling sound it made when he broke open the tab. You watched him sit on the edge of his unmade bed, sipping at the drink, before he cast you a smooth grin.

“You’re the key.”

Your shoulders hunched. “The key to what?”

He swirled around his hand in the air. “All this bullshit. You were friends with Diana, you’ve ran into Minghao. You’re the key, PJ’s.”

“I’m the key to your web of criminality? How enriching.”

“Whatever—we know what we need to do—revisit our movie theatre friend,” Vernon implied upon taking another drink. However, his phone started buzzing on the coffee table before you could discuss the task any further, and he was quick to pick it up and excuse himself into what you assumed to be the washroom. “It’ll only take me a few minutes,” he said.

Left alone in Vernon’s apartment, you edged off the futon and approached his messy bed. It seemed like he hadn’t actually slept there in quite a while, thus you wondered if it was more efficient for him to crash at his friends’ places in the city, where he could be closer to his clients. You straightened out his patterned bedsheets a little, though you immediately despised yourself for doing so—like he needed you to take care of him.

His night stand was small. There was a green analog alarm clock set to the wrong time, alongside some thin, square sheets of rolling papers. You noticed a picture frame propped up behind the clock, and after quickly checking over your shoulder to ensure Vernon was still occupied in the washroom, you grabbed the photo. Using the hem of your t-shirt to remove the dust from the glass, you realized it was Vernon in the picture, though a much younger version, with long, rummaged black curls and uneven teeth clamped by metal braces. His smile was big and gummy, his arm curled around a baby girl nestled into pink cloth dappled by glitter-thread stars.

You thought it could be a sister.

The assumption stung, and you didn’t know why.

Hearing the washroom door click, you hurried to place the picture frame back in its original spot, praying that Vernon wouldn’t notice you had cleaned off the dust. It seemed doubtful. Nonetheless, you hopped onto the sheets, folded your legs, and pretended to be staring at his posters.

“Sneakin’ through my shit?” he queried.

You ignored his question. “When’s the last time you were here?”

“About a week ago,” the boy answered, flopping onto the mattress and taking up space beside you, prompting you to move closer to the wall.

“Do you… like… keep your merchandise here?”

Tucking an arm behind his head and sipping at his drink, Vernon nodded in overdramatic fashion. “Oh, of course I do. There are bricks of coke under the washroom sink, and downers in the ceilings.”

You glared down at him. “I was just asking.”

“I think you don’t use your head when you ask questions.”

“Like I know anything about your seedy little drug life,” you mumbled, absentmindedly picking at some threads along your jeans while glancing at the posters taped to the beige wall. Bikini girl was staring straight over your head, her hands propped to her hips, smiling like she knew exactly how attractive and blemish-free she was. “Can I ask you something?”

Vernon’s voice sounded from behind you. “Ask me what?”

“Am I actually awkward?”

You heard him guffaw. “Well, yeah. A little. But who cares?”

Twisting your torso around, you stared at the boy as he relaxed against his pillows, captured in a sea of pale, winter sunlight shining through the apartment windows.

You sighed. “And do you really think I’m frustrating?”

“Does the fuckin' sun rise in the sky?”

“Oh.”

“Okay, look, more than half the time I’m just teasin’ you, you know that, right?” He affirmed, proceeding to sit up against his pillows, his hand landing on your shoulder. “Don’t take it so fuckin’ serious.”

You smiled to yourself as he shook you.

“We’re all a little awkward. Not everyone makes it obvious.”

In an instant, you had whipped around, mouth agape. But then Vernon was firmly gripping your arms, slamming you back onto his bedsheets, where he dropped one of his pillows onto your face.

“It wasn’t about you!” He laughed as you held the pillow down over your flustered expression. “It was a general thing. Project much?”

You sensed the mattress dip as Vernon adjusted himself next to you, feeling the heat from his body radiate. But you kept his malleable pillow cushioned against your face, since it was much easier to stare into complete darkness than risk just one single look at him, packed so closely beside you.

Of course, it didn’t help that his pillow smelled exactly like his skin.

Or maybe it did. You weren’t sure.

Soonyoung tossed his head back, groaning, and closed the gigantic book of crossword puzzles that he was working on. It randomly appeared in the office one afternoon, and since then, you and Soonyoung had taken turns solving the puzzles when operations were particularly slow.

He rubbed along the bridge of his nose. “Okay, we’ve just been going in circles for the past thirty minutes. You obviously feel shitty about lying to your roommate and to Lee. There. That’s it. That’s the answer.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, no!” Soonyoung whined, rubbing down his face. “I can’t hear another but! It’s starting to not even sound like a word anymore!” He reached for his coffee that he’d been clinging to all morning, easing his frustration with a brief sip. “Just tell them you’re hanging with Vernon.”

It wasn’t the answer you wanted to hear.

And it hadn’t been the answer you wanted to hear for the past half-hour, hence your insistent monologuing gilded by the hope you might find a miraculous alternative to: the truth. Soonyoung was frequently bogged in your complaining, but that was only because he felt like a neutral party. None of his friends were your friends, you only crossed paths at work, and your lifestyles were completely different in every sense. Sometimes his perspective was appreciated. Other times… you weren’t sure. Maybe you just wanted to blabber about your issues without hearing a solution.

You crossed your arms. “But it’s not just hanging—”

“It’s not just hanging out; you’re helping him get back the money he’s owed. Trust me, I have the story down pat,” he exasperated.

Remaining silent, you stared at the lottery tickets.

Soonyoung tapped his pencil against the puzzle book. “You know what you’re doing? Making mountains out of molehills. You’re looking at one problem and giving it the weight of one-hundred problems. That’s not good for your mojo. Or your skin. Do you need a facemask?”

“No,” you nipped, “I don’t need a facemask!”

“Well, if you ever want one, just let me know. I get about three every time I order off this skincare website. I only use one a week.”

You touched at your cheek in thought. It felt drier and less bouncy than usual. The pores of your nose were rough under your fingertip. Either it was the weather, or the stress was physically sucking the life out from your collagen—likely a combination of both. Soonyoung excused himself to the washroom. Alone with the puzzle book, you opened it back up and decided to resume the crossword that Soonyoung abandoned, ticking the pencil through the prompts he’d already completed, letting your mind wander.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“You do, huh? Does it have anything to do with those middle schoolers you were talkin’ to earlier?”

“It could. It could also not.”

“Well… feel like sharin’ with the class?”

Shaking your head, you smiled at Vernon. “Nope.”

“Oh, c’mon! That’s dumb!”

“No, it isn’t. You’re gonna sit pretty in the car. Darian will likely tolerate me much more than he would tolerate you—no offense—so, just keep the heat running.” Tossing the end of your woolly scarf over your shoulder, you grabbed onto the door handle. “If I’m not back in half-hour, then text me before you come barging in and trudging things up. I actually prepared for this.”

Vernon scowled at you. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

With a pursed lip, you glanced upward. “Uh—that you lack delicacy, I guess? You don’t always think things through?” You shoved the car door open, the wind unapologetically whipping snow currents through the parking lot like billowing boat sails. “Anyway, just stay here! And pay attention to your phone!”

“Yes, Captain,” Vernon muttered, slouching back in his seat.

After bumping the car door shut with your hip, your hands nestled straight into the pockets of your long puffer coat. Nose buried into the thick scarlet scarf wrapped around your chin, you stalked toward the movie theatre and its fluorescent, blinking signage that pierced through the wispy grey shades of a bitter and frigid evening. Once you were inside, you took a moment to adjust the scarf such that it partly masked your lips as well as pulling at your knitted hat to help obscure your features.

You nervously eyed the clerk scanning ticket codes off people’s phones, though attempted to relax your quickened breathing by rehearsing the practiced script in your head, lips moving subtly, softly. Obviously, you were a very poor liar.

Vernon told you it was a skill, something you could learn, much like artistry with coloured pencils, or cooking increasingly complex dishes. He told you that lying wasn’t always bad—sometimes lies were necessary—as long as they didn’t hurt people. He told you that moderation was important.

Don’t get too obsessed.

Don’t weave something you couldn’t keep up with.

You were simply a novice in a masterclass.

“Hi! How’s your evening going?” The clerk asked in his uppity voice, smiling at you widely as you approached him.

“Going well,” you answered. “I’m actually new. Supposed to start tonight at four. Uh, is Darian here? He said I could get a uniform.”

“Oh, okay.” The clerk seemed surprised, beginning to glance around the theatre, down the long hallways. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

You gulped; breath muffled against the scarf. “Taryn.”

“And you’re supposed to start at four?”

“That’s right.”

He nodded, adjusting his embroidered cap. “Okay. I think Darian is helping clean up one of the messes in theatre eight. A bunch of kids spilt, like, soda and crap. Are you okay with waiting ‘til he gets back?”

Your mouth quivered with unbridled nerves.

When you gave those middle school boys five dollars each and a half-eaten package of bubble gum, you hadn’t actually expected them to follow through on the bribe. But they were middle school boys after all—they probably would have made the mess regardless of your influence.

The truth behind the truth was that you had actually tried reasoning with Darian alone, after you bumped into him at the pharmacy—you were picking up one of Ruby’s prescriptions—and Darian was right in front of you. Perhaps it was fairly poor judgement to strike up a conversation with the guy whose porch you were standing on nearly two months ago, interrogating him about drug money, after stalking him back to his house, although you were so impressed with the universe’s odds at that moment, you didn’t waste a second pondering the logistics. Predictably, he wasn’t very tolerant or willing to engross you, giving you his back after a few minutes.

You also contemplated reaching out to Diana for information, but it didn’t seem… appropriate… to pester her about her boyfriend when she had made it clear she was working through some deeply personal issues. Now, things had to be done the quote, ‘hard way.’

Vernon had no inkling of your previous misstep and he didn’t need to for dignity’s sake. Consequently, you considered it a necessary lie.

The theatre was uncomfortably warm, especially if you were dressed in a heavyset coat, a winter hat, and a long, draping scarf smothering your face. You were beginning to overheat the longer you stood under the spotlight, though you continued engaging the clerk. “It is okay if I wait in the office? Or is there anyone who could get me set up with a uniform?”

“Well…” the clerk looked backward at the concession counters, where everyone was purchasing popcorn and snacks. “I’ll grab my supervisor, how’s that? She can get you a uniform in the office.”

“Sure.”

You idled for a minute or two, observing some film posters.

The clerk returned with a young, rounder woman, wearing a keyring through the loop on her black cargo pants. She smiled at you, even shaking your hand in a firm grasp. “You say you’re a new hire?”

“Yes. Taryn.”

“And you’re sure you’re at the right location?”

“I’m sure. I interviewed with Darian. I don’t think I’m on the schedule yet because it’s just training stuff. Darian said he’ll sort it out.”

She glanced at the clerk, shrugging, and your stomach writhed with cramps of anxiousness. Thankfully, however, she bit the line. “I didn’t get the memo. But, uh, okay. Come with me to the office.” She gestured you to follow her. “I’m Priscilla, by the way. You said your name is Taryn?”

 “Correct.”

She took you to a metallic green door behind the concession counter, sticking one of her numerous keys into the lock and grunting as she pushed with her shoulder. “It’s heavy,” Priscilla warned, holding the door open for you to enter the office. “I’ll grab a uniform.”

While she busied herself with opening some drawers across the room, you immediately began scoping the space for anything notable.

“Here you go. These look about your size?”

“Oh, perfect,” you complied, smiling. “Thank you!”

“I’ll grab Darian. I don’t think he knows you’re here.”

“Sure. No rush.”

Priscilla heaved against the door and disappeared.

The instant she was gone, you left the crisp uniform clothes atop a random cabinet and rushed toward the desk, lifting up files, sifting between papers pinned to the bulletin board, checking various sticky notes spread out along the walls. But none of it was what you actually needed—until you grasped onto the rolling desk chair and felt waterproof fabric under your touch.

Darian’s jacket.

Your hand stuffed quickly into one pocket, and you pulled out some boxed cigarettes. Then, you tried the other, and to your success, you had retrieved what you desperately hoped was his personal phone. The lock screen was a blurry photo of Diana that seemed candid, taken when she wasn’t paying attention. There was no passcode, which seemed quite odd for someone who was supposedly contacting a drug dealer, but you didn’t allow yourself to panic even more than you already were. With your thumbs trembling, you began pressing Minghao’s name into Darian’s list of contacts, but there was a rolling sound just outside the door that petrified you into dropping the phone between the desk and filing cabinet.

“Shit!” You whisper-shouted, only to slap a hand against the scarf’s soft material a second later, freezing in place. “Sorry!” The apology wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, though you couldn’t help but imagine your mother gouging at you for the incongruous slip of language.

That’s what you got for hanging out with Mr. Potty Mouth.

After brushing the phone out from the slim space, you were shaking like a frail leaf remaining on a naked tree branch in post-autumn. Minghao’s name was again typed into the search system, only for the list of results to shorten each time until there was nothing but gaping white space. You heard muffled conversation outside the door. Though the entirety of your chest felt electric with anxiety and your mind was paralyzed, you managed to open his text messages and research the name. Still, there was nothing.

Minghao didn’t seem to exist at all in Darian’s phone.

Before you could get sucked into even more disaster, you left the phone back in his coat pocket, then pressed your ear to the metallic door and listened for anyone conversing close by. It was silent. Refusing to squander the perfect opportunity to escape, you shoved all your weight against the door until it breathed. Darting across the theatre like a passing shadow, you were back outside in the cold. The lashing wind had never felt so refreshing.

The second you were inside Vernon’s car, you tore off the scarlet scarf, yanked the winter hat onto the floor, and unzipped the puffer jacket, shrugging out from its humid confines until your skin felt free.

He turned down his radio.

There was a plethora of organized playing cards spread out across his dashboard. At least he could keep himself company.

“What the fuck were you up to?” Vernon engaged, letting his eyes peruse your flustered appearance. “Why are you all sweaty?”

“I don’t think Darian knows Minghao,” you exhaled while uncapping your water bottle, wetting your throat with a massive sip.

“Uh, okay? And you came to this conclusion through…?”

You wiped off your mouth and stared at Vernon. “Pretending I was new employee, getting let into their office, and checking Darian’s phone.”

“No… you’re not serious…” he responded, beginning to squint at you, his dark brow furrowing intently. “There’s no way your goody two-shoes ass did all that. What did you actually do?” Vernon laughed, collecting his playing cards back into a pile. “Get locked in the popcorn machine?”

“I swear—that’s what I did—and it’s why I’m so sweaty! I had to layer up so I wouldn’t be easily distinguishable on the cameras. I didn’t even use my real name. Darian left his jacket in the office and his phone was in the pocket. Diana’s picture was the lock screen!” You reached for the seatbelt, pulling it across your chest and buckling it. “By the way, we can never go back there, for real. They’ll put my picture up on the wall! And I strongly recommend that we leave now before it gets any worse!”

“My, my, PJ’s,” Vernon chuckled, rolling his tongue against his cheek, grinning and seeming impressed. “Fuckin’ colour me surprised or whatever the fuck the sayin’ is. That’s some real daredevil shit.”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Y’know, I can’t even be mad you didn’t find anything.”

Rolling down the window, you shoved your head outside, eyes fluttering shut as the chilly wind whispered along the sparse parking lot and feathered against your fiery, glistening skin. After taking in a deep breath, your phone pulsed, and you pulled yourself back inside the car.

You sighed, “Ruby says they finally restocked her favourite flavour of ice cream—the Red Velvet Brownie—she’s asking me to grab it.”

“Where does she think you are again?”

“Helping Tara practice her interview. I said I’d be home around five o’clock… any chance we could swing by the grocery store?”

Vernon shrugged. “Your wish is my command, fellow felon.”

“Don’t start.”

On your quest to the frozen dairy section of the grocery store, Vernon managed to get distracted every five steps. You were never one to get swayed by purposefully placed marketing displays, though Vernon was the exact opposite: “I had no idea there were cinnamon bun flavoured Oreos now!” and “these ice cube moulds are in the shape of stars—that’s kinda cute—and these ones are paw prints!” followed by “this mop has a compartment for… oh… okay… so you put the cleanin’ fluid in that part and it sprays it when you squeeze the handle… that’s kinda fancy and shit.”

You thought you might have to attach a leash to him and physically drag him to the dairy like an owner walking an overly-curious puppy.

It seemed more efficient to let him wander. While Vernon felt very motivated to smell the plethora of wax cubes in the sanitation aisle, you had finally made your way to the dairy section. Ruby sent you a photo of the ice cream for reference. Red Velvet Brownie had been her absolute favourite flavour ever since you’d known her. She told you that the tubs had coupon games. Once you ate to the bottom, you might be able to win free ice cream.

As you wandered past the refrigeration units, you eventually came to a pause outside one in particular, where a young boy was standing on his tiptoes, stretching out his short arms to a shelf just shy of his reach.

“What are you trying to grab?” You asked him.

He stared at you for a moment, probably attempting to compute if you looked normal enough to trust in the absence of his parents. However, after a frustrated sniffle, he pointed to the shelf: “I want the ice cream.”

You opened the clear door and grabbed the frosty container from inside. It was the only one left on the entire shelf. “This?”

He nodded immediately. “Yes!”

While turning the container to read the label, your stomach dropped. It was Ruby’s most cherished Red Velvet Brownie that she had been struggling to find for months, and here you were, handing it off to a little boy because you just didn’t have the heart to take it away. You knew it was obviously the correct thing to do. Besides, who in their right, morally-conscience mind would take ice cream away from an innocent child?

“Woah, woah, woah—what the fuck is this?” Vernon was suddenly behind you, to which you assumed he was finally satisfied with smelling every single wax cube there was to offer. “PJ’s—what are the fuck?”

You glared at him. “What do you mean? I’m giving him the—”

“No, no, no.” Vernon shook his head insistently. He then kneeled down in front of the little boy, whose big eyes hadn’t swayed from Vernon since he rudely introduced himself. “Okay, listen. You don’t want this flavour, alright? Red Velvet Brownie—it tastes like pavement—you’d be better off with—” Vernon opened the freezer and pulled out a different flavour at random, the container decorated with an animated monkey swinging on a vine. “Monkey Go Bananas. It’s chocolate peanut butter.”

The little boy blinked helplessly, staring over his shoulder before looking back at Vernon. “My mom eats Red Velvet Brownie all the time…”

“Did she smoke her tastebuds off?”

“Vernon,” you growled, digging at his shoulder. “Just give the kid the ice cream. We can look somewhere else. It’s not a big deal.”

He suddenly popped back to his feet. “How dare you, you foul woman!” Vernon ripped the Red Velvet Brownie from your hands. “How dare you try to poison the youth with this toxic garbage!” He then turned back to the little boy, crouching down again, sticking out the container of chocolate peanut butter. “Don’t let them lie to you, alright? Monkey Go Bananas. That’s the good stuff. It’s like… when you’re lyin’ down in a pasture at night, and there’s nothin’ around you but soft, long grass and moonlight. And you’re off acid. And it feels like you’re floatin’ up into the clouds, like the wind is carryin’ you, movin’ you with its gentle, breezy hands. It’s—actually—let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Red Velvet Brownie is the Spaghetti Monster and Monkey Go Bananas is your iPad. Does that make any sense?”

You thought you were going to fizzle up and melt into the floor.

The little boy gulped, taking the container of Monkey Go Bananas wordlessly and scurrying away down the aisle. Seeming pointedly satisfied with his eccentric performance, Vernon stood up, handing you back the ice cream. You made sure to give his shoulder a tough, scolding shove.

“No need to thank me,” he sighed aloud. “But you should.”

“Red Velvet Brownie is the Spaghetti Monster and Monkey Go Bananas is your iPad? Are you serious?” Your words burst into laughter that you failed to swallow. “And then you start talking about an acid trip?!”

“Whatever,” Vernon dismissed, hands stuffed in his coat pockets as he shook his head. “Ruby gets her ice cream.”

“You need to be locked up.”

“And you need to let loose,” Vernon proclaimed, walking backward until he reached a pole with a phone system attached to it. He took the phone off the receiver, beginning to poke his finger against the buttons, and you heard a static hitch in the speakers above. “Attention shoppers, we would like to notify you that a lifeless wet blanket has been located in the frozen dairy section. Please proceed with caution or else you might find that the blanket will attempt to slowly drain your zest for life until—”

Shoving the ice cream back into the refrigerator, you barged up to him and attempted to wrestle the phone out of his hands, though he twisted away from you, giving you his hard back.

“Shoppers! The wet blanket is on the attack!” Vernon grunted into the phone, his raspy, strained voice echoing throughout the entirety of the store while you curled your arms over his shoulders from behind, practically pressing all your weight against his spine. “I-I repeat, the wet blanket is—”

You managed to tear the phone away. Sliding off his body, you slammed the device back onto the receiver and seethed at him, every fibre of your being thrumming with hot, heavy adrenaline. “What the heck is your problem?! Why can’t you just be a regular person for five minutes?!”

He tweaked his eyebrow. “And is that rhetorical, or?”

“How do you even know the freakin’ code?”

“Friend a’ mine used to work here.” Vernon proceeded to the phone, picking it back up. “It’s easy. Star sign, seven-one-tw—”

You jerked the phone away from him. “Enough.”

“Ouuu,” Vernon sang in mockery, pursing his lips. “I’m truly afraid right now.” He started snickering, taking step after step closer into your space as you clutched the phone. “Why don’t you make an announcement yourself. Say whatever you want. Say I’m a security threat, that I sell drugs, I swindled some kid out of his ice cream. The world’s all moisture.”

“What?” Rolling your eyes, you huffed, “you mean—the world’s your oyster.”

“Oh—how does that make any sense?”

“How does moisture make any sense?”

Vernon readied his finger on the last button he needed to press, his eyes alive with a thousand complex shades of shimmering copper, like a stunning mosaic, his smirk pretty and pink. “Well?” He taunted.

You gulped, feeling the immense weight in your throat. Heartbeats reverberated throughout your chest. It was a dare that fit the ranks of high schoolers messing around with their validation-seeking friends, but to you, it seemed so much worse. Tightening the phone in your hand, you were about to nod and succumb, do something silly and stupid because that hadn’t ever been you and you had never wanted it to be until this very moment.

“Hey! You two! Are you messing around with the phones?”

Dropping the device from your hand, it started bobbing up and down, suspended on its coil, as a man stood at the end of the aisle squinting harshly at you. Judging from his uniform, you suspected he was a manager of some sort. You were ready to fall to your knees and start apologizing for every poor choice you had ever made, although Vernon wasn’t nearly as willing. He grabbed the ice cream from the fridge, clutched onto your wrist, and began tugging you away from the manager who was swiftly making his way in your direction. Vernon dragged you up the store toward the doors, pulling you around shopping carts and in between startled strangers.

“We didn’t pay!” You cried out to him.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a ten-dollar bill that he slammed against the sensor of the automatic door with an impressive leap.

 You laughed, “how did that stick?”

“Dunno—I think it had gum on it,” he answered with a shrug, only to slide his fingers through yours, continuing to haul you outside the store and into the zapping cold of dark winter.

Attributed to Vernon’s questionable challenging of the speed limit, you managed to return home at the time you promised Ruby. He didn’t park in the lot like usual, rather he dropped you off along the curb, waving you goodbye before he sped into the foggy, onyx evening like a comet passing through the Earth’s atmosphere. You smiled, and the smile remained faceted to your expression as you entered the apartment with a cautious twist of your key. Suspecting Ruby was in her bedroom, you spent a moment taking off your winter dressings before you knocked on her door, ice cream in hand.

She called out to you, and you slipped inside.

“Here’s your precious treat,” you enticed, waving the tub around alongside a spoon you grabbed from the kitchen because you already knew she was going to waste no time. “The very last one in stock.”

“Get out!” Ruby gasped, beginning to pop the lid off delicately with her long, freshly done nails. “This flavour is crazy popular. Thank you.”

You sat on her bed, watching as she carved the spoon through the surface to scoop up a perfect dollop of ice cream. “No worries.”

“How did it go?” Ruby mumbled.

Pulling your legs into a criss-cross, your head tilted. “How did what go?” Until you remembered that you were supposed to be helping Tara with her mock interview for the assistant position under Catherine Love. “Oh—it went well. Tara’s really well-spoken. And she thinks quick on her feet.” You detested lying straight to your roommate’s face. The words felt so clunky and awkward coming out from your mouth, like you were attempting to speak with a swollen, engorged tongue. “Enjoying your time at home?”

Ruby nodded. “I watched a lot of TV.” She scooped out more ice cream very meticulously. “These bites are the best! Look at the red velvet!”

“I love the chunks.”

“So—” she swallowed around the spoon, “—you were helping Tara practice for her interview… but Vernon’s car dropped you off?”

“Uh…” you didn’t know what to say. This was exactly why you hated lying! The lie itself was terrible in principle, but getting caught directly in the lie was borderline torturous. Your body flushed with heat. Clothes stuck to the slick of your skin. Ruby licked off her spoon, eyes unwavering. “Okay, okay, okay. Yes. I got a ride home with Vernon. You little stalker.”

She shrugged. “I mean, I already knew you were lying. You’re pretty bad at it,” Ruby giggled. “But why not tell me you’re hanging out with Vernon again? Like, what’s going on with you two?” She lowered the ice cream to her lap, head tilted quizzically. “I thought you were—”

“It’s… complicated,” you winced, staring down at your crossed ankles, fingers beginning to pull lint from your socks because it was much easier to converse without Ruby’s bright hazel eyes staring through you like a human window. Your chest clenched tight, your heart feeling squeezed.

Ruby tucked some dark brown hairs behind her ear. “It’s complicated?” She echoed. “Wait… oh my god—does that mean you fucking fucked him!” The girl slapped her ice cream onto her night table, beside a salt rock lamp. “Oh my god, please don’t tell me you fucked him!” She shouted while grabbing onto your arm and fiercely shaking it as though you were a candy-filled piñata.

“No!” You yelped. “I did not—I didn’t—no! We didn’t have sex!”

She collapsed back on her haunches. “Then why is it complicated?”

You whined, biting your lip. “It just is.”

“Because you’re still into him?”

“Ruby!”

“It’s okay if you are!” She reassured you, pulling the blankets back over her legs. “Listen, I’m not trying to make you feel any sort of guilt! And I certainly don’t want you feeling like you need to lie. You two are hanging out again… that’s fine… I just don’t want you to get hurt!”

That, you believed.

Ruby had given Vernon quite the verbal browbeating the last time. She knew you were more delicate and sensitive than most, your feelings fragile like a glass flower, easily shattered and incomprehensibly difficult to repair. You knew she wanted to ensure you weren’t walking blindly into another pretense for disaster.

The thing was, Vernon himself was a disaster. He was a gigantic storm sucking up everything into his chaotic winds and there was no possible way for you to be around him and somehow come out unscathed.

Your head buried into your hands. “What if I do still like him?” You lamented, your throat getting congested. “What does that say about me?”

Ruby scooted closer to you. Her arm laid across your shoulders and you smelt the jasmine of her hair. “If you like him, then you like him. It’s not like we can control where our heart goes and what it does, y’know? Making yourself feel bad about it is only going to confuse things…” she leaned her cheek against your head, taking in a deep breath, absorbing your agony.

“Why do I like someone who doesn’t like me back?” You croaked, rubbing underneath your nose. “I just have no experience in what it actually means to like someone. How do I even know that it’s real? That I’m not just latching onto something tangible for the sake of wanting to feel the same things as everybody else? Am I just being… y’know… stupid?”

Ruby laughed. “That’s what a crush is! It makes you do stupid things! Befriending someone like Vernon for instance. He goes against all your principles but you still want to be close to him.”

“Then…” you hiccupped, “having a crush is totally screwed up.”

“It is,” Ruby agreed. She squeezed your far shoulder. “But if you do really like Vernon, then you need to have a conversation with Lee.”

Upon hearing his name, you couldn’t help but sigh. Ruby was unfortunately, poignantly right. It wasn’t just for you to continue being with him when you were completely charmed by another boy. The reason you had even dragged the relationship out this long was because you felt that you weren’t trying enough, that you weren’t working through the rough patches to see the greener grass. You continued hoping that your feelings would one day catch up to step in tune with his, but instead, they lagged farther and farther behind. Lee didn’t deserve to be strung along.

You were going to make it right.

Screw making it right!

You had never felt so incapable in your life. It was one thing to vouch for righteousness, but it was totally different, sitting on Lee’s bed while he dutifully finished reading the chapter to his gigantic law textbook, agonizing over how one even goes about breaking up with someone. You didn’t think it would be a walk in the park, although you imagined it going much better than… this. The second he pulled you into his apartment, made you a hot chocolate, and exclaimed how eager he had been to see you, the words, “this isn’t working out,” morphed into, “I’ve missed you, too.”

The hot chocolate was wrapped in your hands, the mug maintaining its warmth. You had taken two shaky sips from it since you arrived around twenty minutes ago, after assuring Lee that you were completely okay with waiting for him to finish his homework. You had been in his bedroom a few times in the past. It was much different than Vernon’s space. Everything was extremely minimal: grey walls lacking any pictures or posters apart from some small shelving units containing a few academic trophies; an Ikea night stand with nothing but a lamp and a book he liked to read before bed; a barren windowsill; an organized desk with a professional monitor that seemed to attract most of his attention.

Walking into Vernon’s bachelor, you understood almost immediately who he was. But Lee wasn’t as forthcoming. You felt like you were sitting in a vapid model bedroom rather than a space someone actually lived in, the only sense of warmth coming from the mug in your hands.

At last, Lee pushed out his desk chair, rubbed fingers through his black tresses, and sighed, “all done!” He stuck a pencil in the textbook before closing it. “I’m gonna run to the kitchen for a second—need anything?”

You shook your head, smiled. “Nope.”

The moment he slipped out the door, you left the cocoa on the night stand and collapsed back against the bed, silently screaming into your hands, hot, frustrated breath running between the lines of your palms. What was so difficult about this?

Why did it feel so horrifically impossible?

You pulled the phone out from your back pocket, contemplating the idea of sending a “SAVE ME” text to Ruby. She had three official boyfriends. The first was during high school, which she dumped via text message because it was high school, while the second boyfriend appeared amidst university. They mutually split before he moved back to Egypt with his younger sister. The last boyfriend didn’t last particularly long—Ruby pulled the plug during a dinner date—the claim being that he had the personality of  “tap water” and was only interested in pleasing himself during sex.

As you stared at the screen, biting your lip, the door swung open and closed again. Lee crawled his way onto the bed so he could lay beside you, prompting you to quickly hide your phone back in its pocket.

He tilted his head against the pillow, softly smiled at you while his eyes drifted along the edges of your face. “I really appreciate you stopping by to see me,” Lee murmured. “I’ve never read so fast in my life.”

You stared straight ahead, down at your feet. “No problem…”

Silence clung between you. It was the most nauseating, anxiety-inducing silence you had ever braced through, and the intensity of your boyfriend’s wandering eyes plucking you over from top to bottom only shrunk the room in size. He proceeded to prop his head up, an elbow digging into the pillow. You needed to stop prevaricating. Every second that you refused to speak just smeared layer after layer of thickening pressure into the atmosphere, like buttering bread.

Lee’s fingers pressed against your arm. “Everything okay?”

“Uh… yeah… I just feel nervous, y’know?”

He chuckled. “I can hear it in your voice. Nervous about what?”

“I guess, about us.”

“Hm… go on…”

You found refuge in his ceiling, plain like milk.

There was hardly anything else for you to look at apart from him, and that might make you explode. The breath returned to your lungs slowly. As your chest sharply rose up, you felt the boy’s fingers drift from your arm to your waist, and suddenly, your chest refused to fall back down. Your lips fell open, quivering, “I was thinking… that…”

The boy’s head dipped to your neck. You sensed his mouth graze against the skin, the heat of his breath—the kind of sensations that submit your body into a deep haze when it’s a special person you desire, but turn to something gut-dropping otherwise. Lee began to kiss your neck. His fingers traced the hem of your t-shirt. There was nothing but weighted, immovable fear keeping you flush to the mattress as his lips danced to your jaw.

“Thinking what?” He whispered by your ear, the proximity to his voice staunching your blood. “Thinking about…” Lee began plunging his hand from your waist toward the apex of your thighs. “This?”

Your paralysis snapped.

Shooting up in his bed, you shook your head, fingers fleshing through the grey comforter. “No—Lee—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He pushed himself up. “Can’t what?”

You scooted closer toward the end of the bed, refusing to spare him any glance, afraid that he might seem annoyed, upset, disappointed. “I can’t do this—I have to tell you something.” Burning a panicked gaze into your wriggling toes that you clamped in between your hands, you inhaled, fighting to see it through. “Lee, I really wanted this to work, but I think—”

“Woah, woah. Relax for a sec.” His touch adorned your pinched shoulders. “Lie back down, alright? Let’s talk this out more.” When you didn’t budge, the boy sighed. There was a fleeting skim of his palm traversing down your spine, and then, he was abruptly pressing himself into you, as though he were going to cage you there, hold you down. “No!” You screamed, flinging yourself off the bed.

“What the hell?” Lee gawked. “Okay—I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t going to—I just wanted you to relax so we can talk this out!”

Heart pounding in your chest, you snatched your knapsack off his floor, tears racing to your eyes alongside a grizzly heat. “No! That’s not how you relax someone! You don’t—you don’t grab them and try to—” your words were failing, globing up, like wet paper, and you couldn’t be bothered to waste one more minute inside his apartment. “Don’t follow me!” You shouted while rushing toward the door. Hastily and with little coordination, you dressed back into your coat, feet jamming into your shoes that you didn’t bother bending down to relace. “Just let me be! I want to leave!”

“I’m sorry, okay?” He whined, trailing out from his room.

You shook your head. “I don’t care!”

Everything felt appalling. You wanted to unzip your skin like it was a costume and climb outside of it. Even when you had marched far down the street from Lee’s apartment, leaving the building a tiny spot against the bleak horizon, the distance still felt wholly inadequate. What gave him the impression you were seeking intimacy in that moment? Could he not sense how brittle you had felt? It must have been like caressing straw!

You knew Lee had been getting increasingly frustrated with how often you tended to rescind from physical contact. The most you could ever get comfortable with was a simple few kisses or a cuddle. Nonetheless, you didn’t exactly think that gave him the authority to… push things. He never came across as someone who would corner you. Were there signs that you had missed? Was it because you felt confused in the relationship, rendering you incapable of asserting what you wanted? Were you… blaming yourself?

Upon reaching for your phone, you ignored Lee’s numerous text messages that popped up second after second. Ruby was in the middle of work. You had taken a very ugly bus ride to visit him. There was only one person you could think to call, though the likelihood of him actually being available to answer—if he even cared enough—seemed infinitesimal.

But you were desperate, alone on an unfamiliar street, and struggling to withhold all your tears because the wind just might freeze them against your skin. Pressing down on his contact, you waited.

It took a moment, but the line crackled.

“Uh… PJ’s? What the ff-fuck you callin’ me for?”

You swallowed. “Are you busy? I need to ask a favour.”

He didn’t respond. You removed the phone from your ear, paced a few steps, and then returned it, listening intently. There was a rush of breath through the speaker, a grunt, and a sound you almost didn’t care to describe apart from the fact it was very wet… and suctiony.

Pausing, you grimaced at the phone. “Vernon?”

“Yeah—sorry—what the fuck did you say? You need what?”

Then, your entire face twitched with rage. “Are you getting sucked off?!” You shouted, ignorant to the people brushing around you on the sidewalk, looking back in question, curiosity, disgust. “What the hell?!”

“You’re fuckin’ pissed when I don’t pick up—pissed when I do—what the fuck’s goin’ on?” He sighed. “You get arrested for jay-walkin'?”

As if it could get any worse. The seal broke. Tears flooded your eyes. You were going to rot here, weren’t you? And nobody would care!

Rubbing off your dampened chin, you spat into the phone, “you know what?! Never mind! Go finish getting your dick sucked!” Plopping yourself down onto a cold bench, you continued sobbing. “I’ll find my own way home! Sorry to inconvenience you, asshole!” The line went dead. You didn’t care that you had cursed.

If your mother wanted to descend down from a cloud and reprimand you in that stern, unforgiving manner, tease into your childhood guilt, then that was the least horrible thing that could have happened.

Fortunately, you could have the bench to yourself. No one seemed particularly interested in sharing a seat with the snotty-nosed girl whose face was glistening over with remarkably persistent tears. Arms crossed, legs folded, hugging your stomach, you leaned over, sniffling. Your phone proceeded to vibrate.

Pulling it out, you read Lee’s name.

It felt like a sucker punch. But then his call was replaced by another, and between the two options pulsing in your hand, you chose the latter.

“What?” You snapped at him.

“Okay, PJ’s, I’m sorry. I’m really fuckin’ sorry.” There was rustling in the back, as though he were putting on a coat. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

 “I already told you, go finish—”

“I’m leavin’, okay?”

You didn’t answer, chewing your lip instead. He had certainly moved quickly to reconnect with you. As frustrated as you were, your priority was getting off the street corner. Your pulverized feelings couldn’t be contained and they were squeezing out from around your bones.

Vernon inquired again. “Where are you?”

Silence followed from your end. Suddenly, you couldn’t speak.

“PJ’s? C’mon. Please, just fuckin’ tell me. I’ll come get you. I don’t care if you’re halfway across the country, alright?” There was the sound of a door closing, his footsteps heavy along a wood floor. “Don’t do this to me.” You swore there was a slight, emotional crack in his voice. “Where the fuck are you?”

You glanced at the tilted street sign. “Clarence Street… um… r-right outside the…” turning around, you looked at the shop. “It’s a coffee place, Jitter’s. There’s a dental office right across from it, Kirk’s.”

“Okay.” His sigh was strung with relief at your cooperation. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Why don’t you go inside the coffee place? Get something to eat?”

“I don’t wanna be in there. I’m a freakin’ mess right now.”

“Please? Can you try?” Vernon attempted to gently urge you. “See if there’s a nice corner you can sit at by yourself? I just—” he paused, and you heard the sound of a door slamming. “I don’t want you to sit out there on the street when you’re alone. It’ll give me a heart attack. Does that sound necessary??”

You laughed a little. “Are you making this about yourself?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered, and you could hear from his tone that he was smiling. “Definitely. You know my obsession with the spotlight.”

“Okay…” you looked back at the coffee shop, sniffling. It seemed full, but you knew it was better than the street. “I’ll go sit inside.”

“Thank fuck,” Vernon breathed. “I’ll be there soon, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Before heading inside, you did the best you could to wipe off your face using a coat sleeve—not that anybody would really care for your wellbeing without feeling forced—and headed into the coffee shop. Despite the lack of attention you were attracting, there was a lingering fear that everyone had heard and witnessed your tantrum outside, and now they were pretending to feign ignorance out of pity. You knew that wasn’t true. But your body treated the delusion like fact. You could hardly stare at the barista behind the counter without suspecting her smile was hiding her disgust.

“What can I get for you?”

Skimming the array of pastries behind the glass, you stopped on one at random. It was powdered in icing sugar and decorated with bright strawberries. Tapping on the display, you mumbled, “can I have that one?”

“Of course,” the barista answered, using tongs to pick out the pastry and neatly slide it within a white paper bag. “Anything else?”

You shook your head. It wasn’t for you, anyway. Ruby could eat it later. But you figured it was best to purchase something before sitting down.

Finding a more secluded table, you waited there for Vernon.

Anytime the front door swung open, your head snapped to see who was coming inside. There was a young man who entered, slightly resembling Lee in his face and stature, and you felt fainter than vapour. Still, you continued waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

It must have been twenty minutes!

You checked your phone—only five.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

You slammed your head on the tabletop and soaked in your pain.

Sometime later, there were vibrations from your phone. You picked up the call instantly, rubbing the centre of your throbbing forehead.

“Yo, PJ’s, I’m out front. Still inside?”

Shooting up from your seat, snatching the bagged pastry off the tabletop, you nodded. “Yes. I’m coming.”

“Alright. Peace.”

There he was—that dingy vanilla Camry—you had never been so thankful in your entire life to throw yourself inside a drug dealer’s car. He turned his reverberating music down, watched you buckle up.

A pause. And then, “uh… you good?”

“No.”

“Figured. Where to, Miss?”

“Back to the apartment.”

You wondered if he was going to ask questions—they would go unanswered; you weren’t exactly in the mood to replay the specifics—but he didn’t say a word until you were stopped at a large intersection. “Uh, you care if I turn up the music a little?”

Huffing out through your nose, you shook your head.

Vernon reached for his stereo, resuming the volume until you could clearly distinguish the unique cadence of an early two-thousand’s beat. It was louder than what you preferred, though it did help silence your mind. The boy began tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, in tune with the rhythm.

“Ever heard this song before?” He asked.

Temple pressed against the window, your chest sunken, you croaked out a resounding, “no.” Traffic started rolling again and you had to remove your head from the glass, instead pooling back into the seat like a big blob.

Vernon continued drumming his finger to the wheel. “I Luv Your Girl,” he said confidently, like that would somehow trigger you to remember a song you had never heard before.

“That’s nice,” you sighed, uncaring.

“It’s kinda a T-Pain vibe, right?”

Another red light to stall at. Vernon removed his hands from the wheel. He began grooving his head, quirking his arms in a silly way. You half-glanced at him, raising an eyebrow as he became more immersed in the beat and his motions turned smoother, almost liquid-like.

“Call it envy, I want her on me,” he sang, a surprising softness layered in his usually throaty voice. “Up all in my head, now she in my bed.”

You smiled, biting at your sore bottom lip.

“Got her on patron, she actin’ real bad, girl chose me, don’t be mad.”

Then you were giggling, the tears in your eyes gradually drying.

“I dunno,” Vernon shrugged, suddenly dropping the R&B popstar performance that you were enjoying. “It’s good. Makes you loose.”

You nodded. “It’s not bad.” After the afternoon had taken a turn for the worse, it felt like such a relief to laugh. There was a lightness breaking in through all the emotional haze in your chest. It made you realize that you didn’t want to be alone, sitting still at the apartment until Ruby returned from work. You wanted company. Shifting awkwardly in the front seat, you stared down at your unlaced shoes, lips parted in nervousness. “Uh… it’s fine if you don’t want to… but you think I could stay with… you?”

When Vernon didn’t answer, you forfeited a brief glance in his direction, your eyes careful not to linger.

Vernon swallowed. “Uh, you wanna stay… at my place?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Like—what—for what? For a few hours? For the night?”

You hadn’t actually thought about it. It seemed inconvenient to stay for just a few hours, only to have him escort you back home. If you looked deeper at what you needed, then… you would have to admit that you wanted to stay the night. You wanted his company. You wanted his goofiness and warmth and attendance. You wanted to be in the presence of someone who promised you safety, even if he was mildly (varying to ridiculously) annoying at times. Ruby wouldn’t like the choice. But she wasn’t an obstacle right now. Would Vernon agree? That’s what worried you most. It filled your stomach with the waves of a ferocious, dancing ocean.

“Well… I guess… could I stay the night?”

Vernon bit his lip, letting it slip through his teeth. “Sure.”

You froze. “Really?”

“If that’s what you need.”

“No, no, no, yes. I mean, yeah! No, yeah! I just don’t want to be alone, so… I’m not trying to impose anything, or—”

“Hey, you don’t gotta explain yourself,” Vernon said. “All good.”

—END OF PART THREE.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part two.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 26k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: woowee :3 part two! don't have much to preface except for ty for reading and i hope u enjoy! this is acc one of my fave parts bc it's like the first clear shot into mc and vernon's dynamic.

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Care For Gaza!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: chapter one gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

“Hey, where were you last night?”

Damn it.

You thought you might be able to avoid breakfast without your roommate digging into your absence, but you thought wrong. Ruby had been napping when you left for Herongate, and she was still asleep when you returned later in the evening, but you supposed all it took was one bleary trip to the washroom for her to realize that your room was oddly empty on a Saturday.

Standing over your toast, you made a stupid blip of blankly holding the peanut butter while your mind flurried like snowflakes. Not only were you lacking an excuse, you were quite terrible at lying on the spot, and having Ruby leaned against the counter a mere few feet away, licking expired Nutella off a spoon, didn’t exactly give you much breathing room.

Shoving the peanut butter back into its cabinet, you realized you might not need to lie, but rather omit detail instead. “Uh, I decided that I would go to Herongate. Remember how much I loved the big globe?”

Ruby suckled off the spoon, head tilted. “That’s all you did?”

You avoided eye contact. Picking up your plate, you nodded in response and beelined for the couch. Tossing the spoon into the sink, Ruby followed suit, bouncing herself into the spot right next to you.

Flicking through the different streaming apps on the TV, you could hardly think about what you wanted to watch. Ruby was digging her green-gold gaze right through your cheek, a smile creeping bit by bit along her mouth the more you continued to ignore her in obvious fashion. You were halfway through an episode of a new Netflix drama, so you decided to throw that on, hoping that the noise would fill the stiflingly awkward space between you.

Readying the toast before your mouth, you were just an inch from taking a bite, though Ruby’s grin lingering outside your peripheral was like an invisible force preventing you from following through.

Slapping your toast back down, you shot the girl a scowl. “Okay! Enough with the ogling, already! I can’t eat my breakfast when you’re looking into my DNA.”

“You’re lying to me, roomie,” Ruby sang, her voice gilded with smugness. She pinched your cheek. “You’re lying and it’s oh so cute.”

Swatting at her hand, you grumbled, “lying about what?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

You were digging a hole. Still, you couldn’t admit it. You couldn’t frame it into words that you were helping Vernon. “Well, you seem much more informed than I could ever be, so how about you tell me?”

Ruby paused, tilted her head. She had her knees pulled up to her chest with her hands clasped around them like a toddler huddled on the classroom carpet during storybook time. “Okay,” she popped out nonchalantly. “I know you went to the mall to see Vernon.”

Dread sluiced throughout your body. You snapped to stare at her.

“Am I right or am I right?” Ruby goaded, wriggling her thin eyebrows. As if you didn’t hear her the first time, she shook your shoulder sternly. “You went to the mall to see Vernon!” And then she was soaring to her feet, jumping around in circles on the couch while singing, “you went to the mall to see Vernon! You went to the mall to see Vernon!” as though you two didn’t pull this sofa off the street after the woman before you warned it was broken underneath. Her voice mirrored the cadence of a teasing schoolgirl.

With your face turning to flames, you grabbed the back of Ruby’s knee and squeezed at the fluted bones until she buckled back down to the cushions.

“I can understand that this is very cathartic for you, but I swear, it’s nothing like what you’re thinking. I’m doing this solely to get him out of our house.”

“I’m aware,” Ruby admitted, folding some hair behind her ears. “I talked to him on the phone at like, four in the morning. You’re gonna help him find Diana, and if you succeed, then he’ll stop coming here.”

Jeez—had he really aired the entire comprise just like that? You thought Vernon might be more gracious in allowing you the latitude, but here you were, crediting him for thoughtfulness he clearly didn’t have. It was worthless to fight it.

You sighed, “that’s the premise.”

Ruby simply hummed.

You looked at the plate of toast sitting in your lap, the peanut butter melted and runny. Settling it onto the coffee table, you then leaned back into the sofa with arms folding across your upset stomach.

“Oh, come on, Miss Dramatic. Loosen up,” Ruby laughed, curling her knees underneath her and grabbing hold of your elbow. “Don’t take my teasing too seriously. I understand why you’re doing it…” you felt her nail brush some stray hairs from the surface of your hot cheek as she stared at you. “I’m happy, honestly. You need to get out more—and I mean getting out in a way that doesn’t revolve around work—and Vernon’s good at getting people out of their comfort zone. Just… you gotta be a little careful with him.”

“I think I could figure that much,” you huffed, pulling at your pony-adorned t-shirt. “Promise that you’ll bail me out if I’m arrested?”

Ruby chuckled, squinching up her nose. “Of course! But that’s not what I mean…” she swallowed, and then proceeded to sit straighter against the sofa, hands collecting in her lap. “What I mean to say is that Vernon is… well… he’s quite charismatic, let’s say that. He’s one of those guys that make you feel really, really good and that’s great! But you can’t… misinterpret it.”

“Misinterpret… what? What are you saying?”

She stared at you, teeth worried into her bottom lip, almost like she was gazing upon a fragile little bird who had never left its twigged, tufted nest. Yes, you needed it spelled out because you refused this inscrutability and the nauseous flailing of your stomach.

“He’s not a relationship guy, is what I’m saying.”

Oh, you thought.

A beat of silence, and your expression faded.

Oh, you thought again.

“No, no, no, no, no—” the protests flew off your tongue before your mind could make sense of what you were thinking, “—no, no, no. This is not—I’m not—I would never even—” you took in a large breath, having moved yourself to the very edge of the sofa such that you were half-hanging off it at that point. “That’s not my intention at all, Ruby. This has nothing to do with… with trying to make something out of it… I’m not trying to be in a relationship! Especially with Vernon. No, no, no. Gosh, absolutely not.”

“Alright,” Ruby answered, shrugging. “I hear you. But I just thought it might be worth it to let you know. ‘Cause I’ve been there.”

“Been where?”

“I crushed on him at one point,” she admitted, and your mouth felt like grainy stubble. “When we first started messing around. This was back when we worked at Putting Edge. But I realized pretty quickly he’s not that type of guy. Not about relationships at all. Which is fine. It didn’t keep me down for long. It helped me learn to separate my feelings from sex and everything.”

“Oh…” you nodded, grasping tightly at your shorts.

“Vernon just has this weird, charming aura that somehow flips a switch in people. Girls flock to him. I’m not saying all girls. I’m not saying you. Anyway, I don’t want to smother you. You get the point.”

“Yeah, I get the point…”

How could Ruby think that was even something worth bringing up to you? It was almost insulting. Vernon was the exact opposite of everything you sought for in a person, let alone a romantic partner. He was a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. Your decision to help him find Diana was motivated by very little apart from needing him gone and out of your life. All he did was disturb things.

Nothing would change that.

Nothing.

“Are you sure you don’t need directions?”

“PJ’s, I told you a zillion times. I don’t need any directions. Society did just fine and dandy without super-thinned pixelated screens tellin’ everyone where to go. We used maps and shit. And my map is my memory.”

“Well, that was the… never mind.”

“The what?”

“Nothing… you just missed the turn.”

“See—I don’t even remember takin’ that turn. In fact, I think that’s a new street. Yeah… that street definitely wasn’t there before. Crazy.”

You knew it wasn’t the grandest idea, letting Vernon rely solely on his patchy memory to find the Thai restaurant in question, although it had been a losing battle since you first strapped yourself into his car. The directions were open on your phone, and it was almost comical—silently watching Vernon ignore every turn, reroute, and roundabout that the GPS could possibly suggest—all in favour of his memory that was apparently so magnificent, he was an hour late to picking you up.

So much for having his number.

After your very thorough and investigative research, (which required about ten operational brain cells and being quite handy with the Google search engine), you were able to conclude the Thai restaurant that you and Diana ate midnight supper at was called Burning Dragon. They had quite a few locations dotted around the exterior of the university campus, but you picked the one that felt the most right, and Vernon seemed more than convinced once you told him the street name. You weren’t exactly sure what you two were meant to uncover, though the mystery was proving tempting.

“Fuck, I should have filled my tank,” Vernon groaned, head thumping back against the seat rest. “Look out for any gas stations.”

You picked at the edge of your phone case, smiling. “Well, not to be that person, but if you didn’t take so many… unnecessary turns—"

“Woah, woah, woah.” He jammed the breaks upon reaching the crosswalk, crowded groups shuffling. “But you are bein’ that person.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You know, you’re pretty damn chirpy for someone hitchin’ a ride in my car. Street’s right there. Don’t trip over the curb.”

Crossing your legs and folding your arms, you hid the stupid little grin you refused to let him see in your shoulder. His ego didn’t need any extra quenching from your metaphorical watering can.

Vernon rubbed a frustrated hand through his hair, thumbs then proceeding to tap the steering wheel. “God—these people walk so fuckin’ slowly. C’mon, Mr. Briefcase… I know you’re not too eager to get those divorce papers home, but let’s trot with some urgency, here.”

Your eyes rolled and you sarcastically lipped, “yeah, how can these random people not sense the dire nature of our situation? It’s like they have no idea or inclination into our lives. It’s making me sick.”

“Feel free to roll down the window.” Vernon smirked.

“Ah, yes. The joy of a window that actually opens,” you mumbled an ode to the horrible memory of being trapped in Vernon’s stuffy back seat while he drove home you and Lara from Mr. York’s.

To your utmost relief, Vernon finally managed to find the restaurant a few more confused turns later. The parking lot was decently crowded for a Saturday evening. As you two walked around the front of the building, you paused to look at the artwork in the window frame—the hand-painted dragon, detailed from thin red brush strokes vibrant against the clean glass—and sighed at how different things felt. Vernon didn’t seem quite as interested in the nostalgia. The boy was already inside the restaurant waiting to be seated as you soon joined him, leaving the brisk wind of November behind.

“It’s warm as fuck in here,” Vernon said, biting his lip.

You shrugged. “It smells good.”

“So, let’s figure out how we’re gonna do this,” he murmured under his breath. “Charge the kitchen? Kidnap a server into the closet?”

A hostess began approaching you with a pinned-up smile, to which you elbowed the boy in his rib. “How about we get a table first?”

“How borin’ of you.”

“More like how perfectly legal—hi!” You were quick to heighten the octave of your voice and mirror the hostess’ welcoming demeanour as she invited you into the dining area, presenting a booth against the window. It was comfortable seating. Artistic lanterns provided a hazy sort of red glow that you remembered enjoying.

“I’ll be your server tonight,” she announced, sliding two laminated menus down onto the dark wood table. “My name’s Cindy. Can I start you guys off with anything to drink? Some waters, maybe?”

You nodded. “That would be great!” Once she disappeared into the kitchen, you removed your wool coat, letting it bunch behind your back. Then you inhaled. Smelled grated ginger and tangy broths.

“Damn. She look familiar at all?” Vernon inquired.

“No.” You shook your head. “I can’t remember our waitress at the time. That wasn't really our point of focus.”

“So, what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“Gee, I don’t know. That’s a tough one.”

“Okay,” Vernon sighed, leaning himself against the window and plopping an elbow onto the table. “That’s not what I meant, PJ’s.”

You picked up the menu. “Let’s not rush into things, okay? I’m surprised you’re not hungry. There’s some really good stuff here.”

Vernon didn’t seem entirely pleased that he was now subject to spending an hour with you, eating cheap Thai food that he never tried before, rather than getting his answers served to him on a silver platter. You tried not to take his sparse enthusiasm as an insult, knowing you weren’t exactly Vernon’s ideal portrait of fun, nor the first person to come to mind when considering how he might spend a Saturday evening. But he mimicked you, picking up the creased, aged menu and flapping it lifelessly before his face.

“I’m getting the Khao Soi,” you said. “It’s delicious.”

“M’kay—looks good in the picture,” Vernon answered. “I’ll try it.”

After being served your waters and having Cindy take down the two orders of Khao Soi, you couldn’t help but awkwardly twiddle your thumbs at the situation. You were nervous. Your stomach was in knots. Your palms were getting damp. And you hated that the feeling was only stoked further every time you looked across the table at Vernon. His crisp white t-shirt hugged his torso so fittingly, and the thin gold chain around his neck was a nice pop of colour you hadn’t noticed before. With his slightly mussed-up hair and faded pink cheeks, your heart tightened like someone was squeezing it. You gulped down a heavy lump when he finally put his phone aside and settled his arms onto the table, demonstrating his collages of tattoos.

“You’re right,” he huffed. “I am hungry.”

“I knew you would be.”

He smiled at you.

Your knees pressed together. “So… um… how did you get to know Ruby so well? I heard you worked together. Putting Edge.”

Vernon leaned back, tilting his head. “You really wanna talk to me about your roommate right now? You can get the scoop from her.”

Jeez. That felt humiliating.

“Okay, well, I just thought that—”

“Why’d you and Diana fall out?”

You stumbled. “F-Fall out? We didn’t fall out.”

Vernon raised a shoulder. “What would you call it, then?”

Folding your arms and scooting back into the booth, you spent a moment eyeing the table, becoming insecure at the confrontation. You studied its numerous scuff marks. Someone had poorly etched their name against the edge in pale, carved lines. “It’s just… I feel like saying we fell out implies there was a fight. And there was no fight.” Sometimes you wish there had been. “It was more like a fizzle.”

“Hm,” Vernon hummed. “Someone has to start the fizzle.”

“Yeah… I definitely got fizzled on.”

Vernon laughed, “damn.”

“But, like, at one point, I was also getting in on the fizzling. Because it kinda sucks to talk to someone who doesn’t wanna talk to you. I felt like, weird, about always being the one to reach out to her. It’s like when your absent father tells you the phone works both ways. Except you’re not eight years old. You’re basically adults who should be able to communicate.”

“So, you got no closure about it,” Vernon stated. “That sucks.”

“Yeah…” you exhaled, running your thumb along the stranger's name, feeling the subtle grooves, remembering how defeating it all felt. “When there’s a big fight, at least you have something. You can point at it and blame it on everything. But when there’s no fight, no tension, no nothing… all you can look at is mismatched pieces that won’t give you an answer no matter how you arrange them.”

“Sure,” he agreed, shrugging. “But you can’t dwell on it forever.”

A bit later, and your waitress was returning with two hot, steaming bowls of Khao Soi that made your grief become a little less harrowing. As eager as you were to eat, you watched Vernon slurp some of the noodles and broth first, gauging his reaction. You felt unusually happy when he proceeded to wipe off the corner of his mouth and nod in satisfaction.

It somehow made your own Khao Soi taste better.

By the time you finished eating, it was pitch black outside as wind winnowed down the street in aggressive lashes, although it only made the interior of the warm restaurant and the glow of the red lanterns feel that much cozier. You were fiddling with the paper wrapping that came around your chopsticks, giggling, as Vernon recounted the story to how he got that gigantic, ugly crack in his phone.

“Once I realized I dropped it, I had to slam the car in reverse and fuckin’ sadly backtrack along the side of the road. Shit was all smashed to hell. But I got lucky. Last time I ever gave his ass a ride again.”

You smiled, rolling the paper into a ball between your fingers. “I feel like you’re trying as hard as possible to blame this on your friend, when you were the one who decided to stick your phone out the window.”

“He basically forced my hand.”

“Not really!”

“Alright, pipe down. You weren’t even there.”

With the tip of your finger, you sent the tiny paper ball flying smack into the boy’s forehead, chuckling as it bounced off and fell under the table.

“Okay. Someone thinks she’s a big girl, huh?”

You smiled at him, smitten, your cheeks hurting. “Precisely.”

Cindy suddenly came by the table with the printed bill. “I’ll be a second, I forgot to get change,” she said, smiling, while sliding it toward Vernon. He quirked an eyebrow at her once she walked away, only to pick up the receipt and gag at it. “This shit isn’t separate! Why did she put our orders together!" He sat back against the booth. "And then fuckin’ hand it to me? What the hell is this?”

Covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, you watched Cindy return to the table. “Okay, are we ready to pay?”

Vernon scratched his temple. “Uh, so... the bill isn't separate.”

She nodded very matter-of-factly. “Yes!”

He sighed. “Well… it’s just that—”

“Oh, shoot. You guys aren’t together? My mistake! I thought—”

“No, we’re not.” Vernon shook his head. “But—fuck—y’know, it’s fine, alright? I’ll put my gentleman pants on. I’ve got some cash, here.”

“That’s fine!” She chirped. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

You smiled at her. “It’s perfectly fine.”

Vernon opened his wallet. He smoothly slid out the correct amount of bills to the waitress and told her she could keep the change. Your heart was beating like a drum in your chest after observing the magnitude of money he had been sifting through—where was all that cash when he needed a cinnamon bun and didn’t even have a five-dollar bill on him?

“Hey—” Vernon then knocked your ankle under the table and swayed his head toward Cindy, “—fuckin’ ask her,” he whispered harshly.

“Oh, uh—hey! Can I ask you something before you go?”

She turned back, smiling. “Sure.”

“Well, I’m sorry if this is a weird question… but do you or anyone you work with ever remember a girl named Diana? Diana Basu?”

Cindy paused, biting her rosy lip, as she thought. “Diana Basu?”

“Yeah.”

“Right when I started working here, a year ago now, there was a girl named Diana. She was a server. But she ended up… um… leaving.” Cindy used quoted fingers. “I don’t know where she went afterward. Maybe another server would know better. Is there a reason you’re asking?”

You swallowed, and it tasted like sour sap. “Uh… she’s just an old friend that I haven’t heard from in a while. I’m worried about her.”

Cindy frowned, fiddling with the plasticky bills in her hand. She then glanced around the dining area, at the guests gently blowing steam from ornately painted bowls or sharing quiet conversation. “I can ask for you, if that helps.”

“Yes, that would be amazing!”

“Okay, be right back.”

Vernon grinned. “Nice work, PJ’s.”

“What do we do once we get our next lead?”

He picked up his drink, sipping from it. “What do you think?”

“What if it’s a dead-end?”

Settling his cup back down, Vernon shrugged. “What if it isn’t?”

You gulped nervously. “What if—”

“Enough with the what if’s,” he interrupted, crossing his arms and letting his head thunk against the booth. “You need a downer?”

While waiting for Cindy to come back, you stared past the dragon painted to the window and at the dark city street. At least you had one single tidbit of information. Diana used to work at Burning Dragon. The job seemed uncharacteristic of her. She was shy and socially anxious. But you supposed she was probably trying to accomplish the same thing as you, and money was quite influential when you were particularly lacking it.

“Okay, I got some info from my friend who worked with her—” Cindy announced as she returned to the table, “—so, they don’t know where she is now, unfortunately. But I bet you her ex-boyfriend might. His name is Kenta. My friend knows him. He works at that indoor climbing gym, Rocky Road.”

“Sweet,” Vernon exclaimed. “Appreciate it, Cindy.”

“No problem. I hope you guys find her.”

You truthfully didn’t know whether to agree or disagree.

Back outside in the nippy cold, you fixed your wool coat back on, huffing out a visible breath that the wind picked up and carried away into the black night. Together, you and Vernon headed into the parking lot, thinned out of vehicles, mostly drifting with trash.

You both huddled into your coats as he let the car warm up.

“That went better than expected,” he said, checking his phone.

“Rocky Road?” You moaned as your nose pressed into your thick wool collar. “Where the heck is that? Are you Googling it?”

“No.” Vernon shook his head.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Hey—you’ve got a phone, huh? Why don’t you try takin’ it out, openin’ up the freakin’ internet, and Googlin’ it your damn self?”

Your eyes rolled. “Okay, fine. Don’t need to be so callous.”

Vernon scoffed. “I don’t even know what that fuckin’ means.”

“Okay… it’s not far… but it’s obviously closed.”

“We’ll regroup then.”

Sighing, you clicked your phone off and shoved it into your pocket, stretching out your legs as much as you could manage. The heat blowing back into your face was making your eyelids feel particularly heavy. Your stomach was warm with flavourful soup.

“Guess I gotta take your ass home,” Vernon mumbled.

You nodded. “That would be nice.”

“I can’t believe I paid for your damn fuckin' dinner.”

In response, you cackled, nibbling on your cheek. “Hey—I saw all that money in your wallet. Don’t act like I was breaking the bank.”

“What colour do you think looks best on me? There’s this dark purple, kind of aubergine-coloured. And then… there’s this one. A nice cheeky bright red. Both satin. The red has the plunging neck.”

Tara grabbed a dark olive trench coat from her locker, fitting her slim arms through the holes as Lara shoved a phone in front of her face. She squinted at the pictures her friend swiped in between while continuing to collect her things, humming thoughtfully, until she came to an opinion. “I like the aubergine better. It grips your silhouette. It’s mature but still sexy.”

“Hm,” Lara replied, staring at the photos. “You think?”

“Yes. And it totally compliments your hair.”

“Alright, I can see what you’re saying, Tars.”

You were listening, although you hadn’t said anything. After untying the laces to your work shoes, you slid on some fresh wool socks and promptly crammed your feet into a pair of black boots. Lara almost clipped you in the back of the head with her purse as she swung around, lowering her phone right before your eyes and subjecting you to develop an opinion. Why she would even care what you thought seemed unusual, but then she opened her mouth and suddenly it all made sense.

“What are your thoughts? Which would Vernon like better?”

The scoff you held back tickled your throat like dust. Convincingly, however, you coughed it away. “Uh, they’re both gorgeous.” You weren’t lying—Lara was just a naturally beautiful woman—she had those long, toned ballerina legs, supple curves in all the right places, and the most healthy, dark hair to frame her delicate, willowy features. Reaching for your coat, you shrugged. “But, you know, it’s Vernon. I doubt he’ll honestly care about the outfit. I think he’s just more interested in the underneath.”

Lara giggled, moving the phone away from your personal space and back into her own bubble. “I’m sure there’s truth to that. But I feel like I should start taking us more seriously. I guess the purple is better for dinner.”

At that, your eyes mooned. “Dinner?” You gasped, finally getting up from the bench and turning around to face the Lara and Tara twins.

They were leaned against their lockers, smiling at each other.

Lara nodded. “Yes. I’m going to ask him out to dinner.”

“Oh…” you exhaled, feeling your skin dramatically warm as all the individual blood vessels contracted. “That’s… wow. I hope it goes well.”

Turning back around to hide your twitching, restive face, you retrieved your bag from the locker, biting down hard on your bottom lip as you couldn’t help but recall Ruby’s warnings to you about the boy. He was not the relationship type. He didn’t care for commitment. He was just there for the physical deed and wasn’t the type to nurture come morning time—no breakfast in bed or hot baths—just a cold dent in the wrinkled bedsheets where he once laid was the only tribute to his presence.

But Lara’s tone had been optimistic. You didn’t want to be the pin that popped her balloon. It could be that she was changing his mind.

“Well, I’ve got to catch the bus,” you said while waving goodbye to your two coworkers, still relaxed against the lockers and looking at more outfit photos on Lara’s phone. “I do like the purple by the way.”

She smiled quite brightly in response, a stark contrast to her usual gloom while being confined to work, tucking hair behind her ear.

“Thanks.”

You had never been to Rocky Road before, nor had you ever heard of it until hanging out with Vernon at the Thai restaurant last week. An indoor climbing gym wasn’t exactly enticing to you. It likely stemmed from a childhood memory: your twelfth birthday at one of those fun centres that always smelled like pizza and had flashing lights and loud arcade noises stimulating you from every corner. They had a small rock wall that you climbed to press a button and win a stuffed toy. You were about halfway up the wall, when out of nowhere, this awful, paralyzing fear found its way into your chest and gripped you like a second skin, making you afraid to move even an inch. Too nauseous to climb back down, an employee had actually sent your mother up the wall to help soothe you, since you refused to be aided by anyone else. Blubbering into her arms, they gave you a toy seal.

To this day, you never understood where that fear came from.

But it had certainly made you wary of becoming a rock climber—not that it was ever something you legitimately considering being.

For some reason, Vernon had you two sitting inside his car, watching the building from across the empty parking lot. Just about everything was dressed in a very thin coating of midnight snow, though it was beginning to melt as the sun garnered its strength. The time was just creeping up to ten in the morning on a slow Saturday.

You didn’t peg Vernon as an early riser, yet he was acting more awake than you were. While fighting another yawn, your head limply fell to the side in order to stare out the car window at anything even relatively interesting to keep your mind alert, opting to watch tiny droplets of water bulb from thin, naked tree branches. At a certain point the sun had crawled directly into your eyes, and you let them flutter shut a little too easily, enjoying the heat soak across your face like a cat warming up its thick fur.

As you were right on the edge of sleep, you heard a few solid knocks tap against Vernon’s window. It was enough to have you bursting awake, sitting up straighter than a hair, realizing there was someone at the car. You were sure it was a man, unrecognizable to you, wearing a large winter jacket and a toque practically pulled down over his eyebrows. Vernon then proceeded to open his window, a gust of cold air flowing into the vehicle, finding you in pinpricks.

“What’s up? Cash?”

“Yeah,” the man mumbled, handing Vernon some coloured bills that he flaked through. “Swear it’s all there. Counted it like ten times.”

“All good,” Vernon laughed, opening the middle console and depositing the clean money inside. “Here.” He handed the man two small baggies of something you could hardly see. “Go crazy, Mish.”

“Thanks.” He pointed at Vernon in recognition, smiling with his teeth that clearly needed some work. The man’s eyes quickly shifted to you for no less than a second before he wandered off into the lot.

It took you a moment to even process what happened.

“Uh, Vernon?” You side-eyed him, too appalled at the circumstances to even turn your head. “What the heck was that?”

“What the hell do you think it was?”

Digging into your thighs with blunt fingernails, you snapped to look at him, still slack-mouthed. “You just made me an accessory to a drug deal!”

Finally, he turned off the car’s exhaust. The lack of rumbling made the atmosphere silent and fragile. Vernon adjusted his jacket and shrugged. “So?”

“Uh—what do you mean so?! So, I could get arrested! So, I could go to court! So, I could get a criminal record! Is that enough so’s for you?!"

“Shit. It’s ten in the mornin’, alright?” Vernon winced, wriggling a finger into his ear. “Why are we shoutin’? I’ve got tinnitus now.”

Arms folded, you huffed, the clear blue sky acting as the perfect canvas to picture your life going down the drain. Though, you couldn’t imagine losing a whole lot. “I’m surprised you even know what that means.”

“Ouch. Rude.”

Your eyes rolled. “Oh, like you care.”

“Nothin’ is gonna happen, PJ’s. That’s Misha. He’s a good dude. We used to work together back at the golf place. I wouldn’t have done anything with you in the car if I didn’t think so, alright?” He sighed.

Flicking off your seatbelt, you groaned. “How is it so possible for a point to go so entirely over a person’s head? I mean, was that cocaine?”

“It’s—”

“Actually, don’t tell me. Don’t ever tell me.” You stuck out a hand to prevent him from going any further. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

Inside Rocky Road, you were greeted by a single employee seated behind a service desk, sipping from a coffee cup. He glanced up through his glasses. “Good morning. Are you two here for a climbing session?”

Your brow furrowed. “Well, we’d really like to speak to—"

“Yes,” Vernon cut you off. “We’re here for a climbin’ sesh.”

You shot him daggers, lips pushing together in fury.

The employee made a click with his mouse. “Okay, I’m assuming it’s the ten-fifteen slot. And who is your instructor for the session?”

“Kenta,” Vernon said.

Another click of the computer mouse, and a quick flick of the scroll wheel. The employee smiled again. “Oh—you’re Justin and Taryn?”

“Damn right.”

“Okay, can I get you to sign in right on this sheet? If you go through those doors back there, that’s the gym. There’s also a locker room just down the hall for any items you want to keep safe, although you do need to supply your own lock. Kenta should be there shortly.”

“Cool, thanks.” Vernon grabbed the pen attached to a paper weight, proceeding to scribble something onto the attendance clipboard.

You were going to explode at his nonsensical charade.

What was the purpose? In that moment, you were rooted to the floor, refusing to sign the clipboard as your heart boomed in your chest and your eyes burnt him up.

“C’mon. Sign it,” Vernon urged, pointing his head at the sheet.

Your fingers balled into compact fists. “Vernon—”

“Vernon is meetin’ us after, alright?” He answered, gritting his teeth slightly and raising his brow. “I know you’re scared, but this will be fun.”

“In what world?”

“Sign it,” he was on the verge of growling, shifting his eyes incredibly suggestively at the clipboard. You wanted to tackle him.

“It really is fun,” the employee added, bringing the coffee cup back to his lips for a sip. “Lots of people are scared, but end up loving it.”

You weren’t in the mood to fight the situation any more than you had been in the mood to be a witness to a drug deal, which you attributed to morning slurry. Sighing, your hand stuttered as it reached for the ballpoint pen, adjusting it between your fingers in a transient second of contemplation and forthcoming regret. You proceeded to make a scribble under Vernon’s. A weight sat in your stomach.

While walking into the gym, you elbowed his side. “I hate you.”

“Hate’s just as passionate as love, baby girl,” he snickered.

You took a deep breath. That was all you had.

Vernon threw off his jacket into the corner. The gym was rather large, with somewhat scuffed but still shiny wooden floors that reflected the fluorescence overhead. Different rock walls of various heights and complication surrounded you, prompting your nervous gulp as you unbuttoned your coat and apprehensively shimmied out the sleeves. Letting it lump overtop Vernon’s, you cradled yourself while peering around, noticing it was only the two of you inside the gym.

Walking up to the nearest wall, Vernon put his hand on the protruding grip and tugged it. Then, you watched him raise a foot to tug off his brown Marten, followed by the other, which he carelessly tossed aside. Little by little, Vernon started to climb the wall, leaving you to anxiously pace around while fretting about how terrible the entire compromise was. “I can’t believe this,” you groaned. “This was such a dumb idea. What are we supposed to do if those people actually show up? We’re impersonating them! Isn’t that a crime? Gosh. Add that to the list. At this rate, I’m gonna be living the rest of my life in the slammer! With nothing but a sad little tin cup to rattle for dramatic effect. Ugh… I shouldn’t have followed you! I should have just spoke for myself! I’m so pathetic. I—”

“PJ’s, look! I’m almost at the top!”

Tilting your head back, you glanced skyward up the wall, grimacing as you noted just how high Vernon had climbed during your rant.

“What the heck are you doing?! That’s beyond dangerous! Get down!”

“This shit is so easy.”

“I don’t care! Get down!”

Surprisingly, Vernon heeded your braying and slowly began making his way back toward the floor. When he was close enough to safely push himself off, Vernon was dropping down with a thud.

You glared at him. “You’re so irresponsible, it’s insane.”

“I’ve got crazy grip strength. Think I’m part gorilla?”

“Part lunatic, more like.”

Vernon smiled. “That works, too.”

Across the gym, two doors pushed open with a metallic squeak, and in walked a young-looking man dressed in athletic wear: dark shorts and a compression shirt. He was tall, with very straight but nicely styled black hair, and the kind of the muscle you would expect from someone who enjoyed climbing rocks every day. Strung over his shoulder was a large duffle bag.

“Hey!” He called. “You guys are the ten-fifteen?”

Gosh. Were you really going to play along?

Vernon nodded. “Yeah. Took a crack at the wall already. Got pretty far up with just my hands. How ‘bout that, huh? You’re Kenta?”

“Sure am,” the man answered, letting the bag slip off his shoulder and hit the ground. He smiled. “Remind me of your names again?”

“Justin.”

You were silent for a moment, fingers curling at your sides. Unable to look Kenta in the eyes, you stared off to the side, mumbling, “Taryn.”

“Cool. Alright, well, you guys signed up for the hour-half session. I’ll introduce you to some of the equipment in this bag here, and then we’ll get you up on this wall to the right for practice. Once you’re comfortable, we’ll move onto some more fun walls. They’ve got obstacles and such.”

Kenta unzipped the bag, pulling out some tangled harnesses and protective helmets. Your stomach was shredding itself into pieces. Did part of your plan really need to involve climbing a rock wall? Vernon hadn’t wanted much part in playing along at the Thai restaurant, yet here he was, grinning, as Kenta discussed the equipment and safety parameters. Maybe rock climbing was some weird objective to scratch off his bucket list.

You had no idea.

“Who wants first?” Kenta asked.

Vernon raised his hand. “I’ll do it.”

Once he was prepared, helmet strapped on and harness secured, Kenta gave him some chalk to help with managing the grips. You stood back, chewing on your lip, while Vernon proceeded up the wall quite easily with Kenta holding onto the ropes.

“First time climbing?” Kenta spared you a soft glance.

Folding your arms tight, you nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. But once you get past that resistance in your gut, it’s pretty fun. Your friend’s doing a great job.” He pulled more of the rope through his hands as Vernon progressed further up.

“I just have a bad memory of it.”

“Really? That’s a shame.”

You didn’t want him to pity you too much. “It was a long, long time ago. My twelfth birthday, actually. But I was a super dramatic kid.”

“No worries,” Kenta answered, smiling. “Do what you’re able.”

He seemed sweet. And his defined, handsome face was certainly a pleasure to look at. You thought he was a wonderful candidate for Diana’s boyfriend—kind, physically fit, and very pretty—although you had never known her to be with anybody in particular when you were friends in university. She had silly crushes now and then, but the girl’s shyness always held her back from initiating anything.

You could relate to that.

“Alright! Got it!” Vernon shouted from the top, triumphant. “Is this the part where I get to feel like James Bond comin’ back down?”

Kenta laughed. “Everybody loves it.”

Holding onto the rope, Vernon pushed off from the wall as Kenta helped to gradually lower him to the floor. “That was tight,” he said, unbuckling his helmet and ruffling out his smushed hair. “N’ thanks for not droppin’ me on my face. My shit’s in its prime, y'know?”

“No problem. It’s my job.”

“M’kay.” Vernon proceeded to smile at you. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

He thrust his helmet into your chest. “C’mon, T-baby. Wall’s not gonna climb itself. Stop geekin’ out and go touch the stars.”

Begrudgingly, you soured at him. “Don’t T-baby me.”

“Okay. How’s World’s Biggest Wimp instead?”

“You better hope you’re never in a situation where you need to climb something and I’m the one holding your ropes. I’m not going to let you down all nice and gentle. I don’t think I’ll let you down at all.”

“Assumin’ you could even hold me in the first place.”

“Listen, I’ll—”

“Okay! Our time is precious.” Kenta edged you away from Vernon and gave you a harness to wear. “Let’s get you ready.”

Chewing the interior of your cheek, you turned your back as to avoid seeing Vernon’s antagonizing expression. While placing the helmet atop your head and clipping the strap together, Kenta helped you step into the harness, making the necessary adjustments until the material felt tight but not uncomfortable. He then attached the appropriate latches to the carabiners. Lastly, he offered you some white chalk to dust on your hands, thin and powdery.

It was the beginner wall, strictly for practice, but that somehow didn’t make you feel any better. You walked up to the grips, swallowing hard enough to break a hole through your throat, and contemplated which one to try first. Out of all the things you could find yourself doing on a Saturday morning, rock climbing was just next to skydiving.

How you’d much rather be wrapped up in bed, toasty, content, and not perspiring at the thought of reliving a humiliating memory from a childhood birthday party. You reached for a pink grip, letting your fingers anchor into its mould.

Wherever she was, you hoped Diana might appreciate all the effort you were putting into finding her—having her ex-boyfriend assist you up a rock wall under the guise of being a complete stranger—just to coax out even a breadcrumb of knowledge. Sucking in a deep breath, you began to climb, choosing each grip you picked with the meticulousness and care of a brain surgeon.

“That’s it!” Kenta called. “Take your time! You’re doing great!”

When you reached the halfway point, you refused to look down for even a second. Your profuse sweat was wearing the chalk off your palms and the grips were feeling increasingly slippery, though you continued climbing.

“C’mon, PJ’s! You’re almost there!”

The bones of your fingers ached as they curled loosely around another grip. Unfortunately, the harness only supported your weight so much, and your upper body was feeling the strain. Wedging your foot atop another tiny rock jutting from the wall, you stretched out your arm as far as it would go to reach the next closest grip, whining at the burning physicality.

Vernon cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out to you as though you couldn’t hear him perfectly fine already. “Ain’t gonna lie, our hour'll be up if you don’t put some gas in the tank! Reach for—”

“Shut up!” You snapped. “I’m going as fast as I can!”

“Just tryna help your slow ass!”

Somehow, you actually began to move with more vigor and speed until you had successfully reached the ultimate height of the wall, though you suspected the feat was less to do with skill and more to do with your voracious urge to jump Vernon and wrap impressively adhesive tape over his mouth so he couldn’t speak. Still, it felt rewarding to accomplish something, and you couldn’t help a relieved smile as you let your muscles go partially lax while Kenta helped lower you back to the floor. He loosened up your harness as you unbuckled the helmet, which you tossed onto the duffle bag.

“How fun was that?” Vernon grinned at you; his arms folded.

Your eyes rolled. “Again, we have different versions of fun.”

“Hey, don’t gotta lie to me—I saw that smile.”

“That’s ‘cause I was envisioning myself punching your lights out.”

“Whatever motivates you.”

The corners of your mouth twitched. You could sense yourself wanting to smirk at his response, though you steamed it out, refusing to let him feel any part triumphant in his contribution to your success. Though, maybe you were underestimating Vernon and his comprehension of others. Things were never black and white.

“So, Kenta, you’re a pretty cool instructor. How long have you been doin’ all this?” Vernon inquired, helping to push along the duffle bag.

“Thanks. I’ve been climbing since I was sixteen. But I’ve only been an instructor for about two years now. I just really like teaching people.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Shit, I bet a ton of cute girls come through here, and you get to be the one to teach em’. That’s my kinda job.”

Kenta laughed, brushing a timid hand through his hair as his cheeks turned pink, meanwhile you bit your lip to stop yourself from making an audible scoff. “I mean, that’s true. But I’ve gotten zero girls from this gig.”

“No way!” Vernon gagged, to which you assumed his short-lived interest as an instructor likely just disappeared. “What if I told you Taryn was interested?”

“Hey!” You shouted, whacking his arm. “I never said that! I am definitely not interested.” Your expression was quick to flinch as you realized the implications. “Uh—no offense, Kenta. You are totally handsome.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “Oh, no worries at all. I know it seems like a good place for that. It’s just… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel…”

“Professional?” You offered.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Vernon rubbed his nose, laughing. “Damn. Couldn’t be me.”

“Alright, here’s the next wall. Not too much harder than the last. Just a bit taller with some trickier grips. You guys can do some stretching if you want. I’m gonna grab my water bottle. It’ll only take a minute.”

You and Vernon got on the gym floor, entertaining yourselves with stretches that you weren’t even sure were useful. He made a poor attempt of reaching for his wriggling toes while you arched an arm over your head.

Vernon smiled. “You can climb.”

“Uh! No way!”

“Yes way.”

Leaning over the opposite direction, you huffed. “You’re crazy.”

“It’ll give me time to work some information out of Kenta.”

“Why can’t we just ask him about Diana?”

“That’s his ex, Pyjamas! We don’t know how poorly the fuckin’ relationship ended. This is a careful process. It should be a man-to-man thing. I can crack him open like a cold beer but I need time to work.”

Sitting criss-cross, you clasped both hands together above your head and straightened out your back, reaching upward in order to feel the delicious stretch travel down your spine. “So, I’m the one who has to suffer?”

“All for the cause.” He clicked his tongue.

“You’ll distract him and he’ll drop me.”

“Nah, this dude’s a professional. You worry too damn much.”

As your hands slid across the floor behind you, a sigh hollowed out from your chest. “I can’t believe this… you… you owe me, you know that?”

Vernon grinned, brushing a hand through his soft hair, still a bit sticky-uppy from the helmet. “I just tried to set you up with somebody, and you shot it down. I was tryin’ to owe you.”

“Yeah! Trying to set me up with my old best friend’s ex!”

The gym doors squealed as Kenta waltzed in with his large water bottle. Getting into a low squat, Vernon winked and snapped his fingers at you. “Can’t say I didn’t try. Now, strap up.” He paused, smirking. “Taryn.”

You grumbled, dragging the duffle bag closer.

At least you stretched.

Five walls.

Five goddamn walls.

The human body was not built to endure that kind of physical requirement, nor the heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping fear that accompanied it—at least, not your body.

In fact, you never understood those people, anyway. Climbing skinny metal infrastructures in the middle of deserts and hanging from jagged clifftops by just a single hand. You liked the ground. You liked your bed. You liked when you weren’t dangling at a preposterous angle, breathing hard, and fighting to cram your fingers in the questionably distanced grips.

As you maneuvered around the slanted obstacle, you spent a moment just clinging to the wall, letting breath after breath fill your sore lungs. From the floor, you heard a laugh.

Great. How lovely was it that Vernon and Kenta were getting along while you were pressed against a gigantic plastic rock twenty feet in the air. The moment you came down, Kenta hadn’t even helped you loosen the harness like he usually did. Either he supposed you just miraculously got the hang of everything now, or his conversation with Vernon was simply too enthralling. You assumed it was the latter. Tossing the helmet onto the duffle bag, you removed the tight harness yourself (climbing five walls had actually made you somewhat proficient, you unfortunately realized), and sat yourself on the scuffed floorboards, wiping the sweat from your eyebrow.

“Hey—that was your fastest wall yet!” Kenta exclaimed. “Not to mention the hardest one you’ve done. I got the sense you’d be good at this.”

“Yeah? What sense was that?” You puffed out, deciding to lay on your back and stare up at the fluorescent lights that were blending together with optical looseness.

“It’s usually people that are the most nervous that do the best. Their adrenaline refuses to let them fail. They turn into wall-climbing spiders.”

Inhaling deeply, you muttered, “gee, sounds exactly like me.”

“I’ll go get you some water. The session’s over, anyway.”

As Kenta proceeded to leave the gym, a face soon hovered above you, blocking out the bright light such that it fuzzied around his head like a white halo. He bit onto his lip ring and smiled. “You’re a G, PJ’s.”

“I think all my limbs are gonna fall off.”

Vernon bent down, grabbing onto your arm and raising it. The instant he let go, it practically collapsed akin to an overcooked, soggy noodle. He chuckled. “We’re gonna need a gurney for you, huh?”

“Please tell me you were able to figure out something useful.”

Standing back up, Vernon clapped off his hands like he just finished a long day at the construction site. “Fuck yeah, I did. I’ll tell you once we’re in the car. Gotta wait for Prince Charmin’ to grab your water.”

“I can’t believe the real Justin and Taryn never showed up.”

Vernon shrugged, a sly grin trudging across his mouth. “Well… while you were busy climbin’, I might have wandered out to the service desk and saw that dude was gone. And I might have looked up their number from the computer. And I might have called them from the phone and told them they needed to reschedule their session. I mean, they were already late! Talk about inconsiderate.”

You could only produce a breathless, exhausted laugh. “I want to be so, so angry at you. But I’m gonna fall apart like a Mr. Potato Head.”

Kenta came back with a plasticky cardboard cup full of water. You slurped it lustily. The two boys then helped you to your feet.

“A hot bath will fix you right up,” Kenta said. “And lots of rest.”

“That couldn’t come any sooner,” you chuckled.

“I just hope you two had fun.”

“I had a blast,” Vernon answered, picking up his jacket and reaching his arms through the holes. “What about you, Taryn?”

After a brief pause, you swallowed hard and nodded. “Me too.”

It felt quite nice to step into the cold. The warmth from inside the gym as well as your copious physical effort had turned you hotter than the sun's surface. With your coat left unbuttoned, you stood at the edge of the curb, breathing in the crisp, dry air. Your body was already feeling the looming soreness, and though you could only assume it would get worse, your mind seemed way less foggy than it had this morning. It felt clear like the sunlight.

Back in the car, you waited for Vernon to get settled and spend a few minutes checking his phone before you bombarded him with questions.

“M’kay, I’ll give you the bullet points,” he said. “So, they didn’t date for long. It was only three months, I think. Diana wasn’t his usual type but he thought he’d give it a shot, anyway. She was actin’ kinda shady, like, a month into the relationship. Turns out, she was stealin’ money from him, and that’s why they broke up. But not even two weeks after, she’s with another dude! So, he told me he thinks she was already seein’ him. He doesn’t know much about either of them, now. But he told me the dude was an assistant manager at good ole' Cinema Hut. Name’s Darian or some shit like that.”

“So…” you mumbled, looking down at your legs. “This means?”

Vernon gave your shoulder a mindful nudge before proceeding to shift the car in drive. He shrugged. “Hope you like movies, PJ’s.”

“Hey! Lookie here! This ground beef is on sale! Holy shit. Oh… but we’d have to use it by tomorrow… it should be fine if we freeze it, right? I can make Spaghetti Bolognese. I mean, I can’t make it, but I can look up how. Shouldn’t be too hard… are you even listening to me?” Ruby put the package of ground beef back into the clearance cooler.

Eyes lured to your phone, you nodded. “I am listening.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

A second later, and Ruby had swiped the phone straight out of your hand, immediately abandoning your half-filled grocery cart as she hurried down the aisle with you hot on her trail.

“Ruby! Don’t be a jerk!” You grumbled to her, attempting to pin the girl against the door to the frozen chicken wings. “Give it back!”

“Waiting on a text from Vernon, I see?” Your roommate chided, biting onto her lower lip while a smirk stretched wide across her face—one that made your stomach plummet. She capitulated the phone to you. “Okay, relax—take the phone, babe—I couldn’t help myself.”

Shoving the girl meekly in her arm, your head shook. “You’re such a little kid sometimes.” Though she had been right.

You weren’t listening.

“So are you! Acting like a school girl with a crush. It’s so cute.”

After making it back to your grocery cart, Ruby proceeded to throw in the package of ground beef she had been eyeing. Her comment took a moment to even register in your mind, until it was time to start pushing the cart and suddenly you were deadbolted into place, mouth falling open. She walked a few steps in the direction of the bakery, her loose bun wrapped in sleek brown and red tresses only continuing to get looser, though she was quick to realize you weren’t following. You were still gaping at her.

Ruby turned around while adjusting her hair. “What?”

Then, you started laughing. “How could you say that?!”

“Say what?”

“The school girl thing—the crush!”

She grabbed the end of the cart and began pulling it down the aisle, walking backward to hold your gaze. “I was only teasing.” A spark jumped into her eyes. “But judging from your reaction, is there some truth to it?”

“Nope,” you stated in utmost confidence, popping the syllables for emphasis. “There’s absolutely no truth. There’s negative truth, in fact.”

Ruby stopped. “Isn’t negative truth just lying?”

Regaining the cart’s control, you sighed. “I guess. But that's not what I meant. Do you want these?” You picked up a cardboard package off the shelf. “Wagon Wheels.”

“Oh, love those. And we need bread.”

Watching Ruby wander further into the bakery section, you decided to stay with the cart near the outside. Again, you pulled out your phone to check your text messages, although you made it much more discreet.

Vernon was texting you pretty fluently on your way to the grocery store, but now he wasn’t answering at all. Of course, the boy would disappear when you were trying to coordinate a stupid date and time to go see a movie at Cinema Hut. It was hard enough getting an answer out of him. But Ruby was just exaggerating, blowing things out of proportion—it’s not like you were obsessively lurking on your phone, haunting your text messages with Vernon, desperate to see that little grey bubble pop up and—oh! Finally! You heaved out an unusually big sigh you didn’t know you were holding—then you actually processed the text and your face twisted up.

soz. get back 2 u later.

Under your breath, you read the message to yourself.

Gosh, he was so polarizing—it made you want to rip out clumps of your hair and then turn them to pyre flakes. At the last second, you saw Ruby coming back with the bread and immediately hid the phone in your jacket, even if you were fuming with the incessant itch to berate Vernon five more times over text message for being so evasive. What on earth was he doing that he wasn’t able to provide you with something as simple as a date and time?

Ruby grabbed the cart again, pulling it forward.

You groaned. It was probably best you didn’t know.

“Okay, got everything,” Ruby said. “What about you?”

“Yeah. Let’s just pay.”

As you two stood in line for the cash register, Ruby turned to you with an inviting smile. “I’m going out tonight. Wanna come?”

Your nose scrunched. “Going out where?”

“C’mon, you know!” She elbowed your rib. “The klerb.”

Pushing the cart forward a few inches, you braced your shoulders tightly. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m just not a club person.” You returned your roommate’s sweet smile. “And you won’t turn me into one.”

“Last week I asked you to go painting with me and you said no to that, too!” She flicked the zipper on her lowcut sweater, starting to pout.

“Because my entire body felt like jelly!” You laughed.

She slapped a divider onto the conveyor belt and threw on her package of chocolate Wagon Wheels. “What if I said Vernon was going?”

“Nice try.”

“You wouldn’t consider it? Even a little?”

With a big huff, you set down a bag of apples and angled an annoyed glance at the girl. “What’s with you and this Vernon stuff?”

Ruby shrugged. “I should be asking you that.”

“I already told you; I’m doing it so—”

“So he’ll crash somewhere else. I understand.”

“Well, that’s all it is,” you insisted in a curt tone while continuing to help your roommate place more items onto the conveyor belt. “Just because I’m waiting on a text from him doesn’t mean I got shot by Cupid’s arrow.”

“But that’s not all it is…” she mumbled.

You immediately straightened up, hands shooting to your hips like a disapproving mother about to scold her child. “And what does that mean?”

Ruby was about to open her mouth, but then the employee behind the cash register greeted you and began scanning your items. She cleverly altered whatever she was initially going to say, giving the employee an amicable smile, and fluffed out of your reusable bags to start packing away the groceries. The conversation turned to water under the bridge. Besides, you didn’t really want to know her observations, anyway. You felt the same and acted the same as you always did, at least from your perspective.

Friday nights typically weren’t your preference for going out—it was your last work day of the week, the restaurant was at its busiest, and you wouldn’t get off the clock until after eleven, once all the cleaning duties were accomplished—your mind wouldn’t be able to entertain much else apart from sandwiching yourself between the comfortable sheets of your bed back at home. But Vernon mentioned that he wouldn’t be in the city for the weekend, and somehow that pigeonholed both your availabilities.

Fortunately, you weren’t feeling that tired. Vernon came to pick you up outside Mr. York’s once you had finished cleaning. It was quite nice, not having to worry about missing the bus, consequently standing outside the shelter in the cold simply because the drunk man inside was trying to engage you about government conspiracy theories. You had actually grown a notable appreciation for that vanilla Camry, even if the interior did smell like cannabis on occasion. Though, you would never admit that to Vernon.

“So, what movie did you pick?” You asked him.

Vernon grabbed his phone out from the cupholder and handed it to you, shrugging. “Can’t remember. Online tickets are in my emails.”

“Oh… you picked… Little Miss Sparkle’s Big Princess Party?”

“What?” Vernon grunted. “Little Miss Sparkle’s Big—what?” He immediately swiped the phone back. “No the fuck I didn’t.” Squinting down at the screen, his expression morphed from one of preposterousness to flickers of relief and annoyance. “Oh. You’re fuckin’ makin’ a joke.”

Your teeth were biting all over your bottom lip, attempting to quell an eager smile as Vernon shut the phone off and let it slip back into the cup holder.

“Got an issue with Little Miss Sparkle’s Big Princess Party?”

He shook his head. “No. But that’s not what I paid for.”

“Yeah. You paid for some prison break movie.” Folding your legs, you let your head fall toward him. “Are you going to be taking notes?”

Vernon chuckled. “I know the law. You got a notepad, though?”

Opting to roll your eyes very exaggeratedly, you instead looked out your window, noticing that wisps of snow were beginning to illuminate under the street light. You weren’t entirely sure what the plan was for tonight, though you two never really seemed to have a plan, or be on the same page ever for that matter. But somehow the lack of coordination was working, so you chose not to question it and overcomplicate things.

After arriving at Cinema Hut and showing the clerk your tickets for the night, you were free to kill time. You wandered around the snack section while Vernon answered an impromptu phone call off in the corner. The theatre wasn’t particularly busy, either because everyone was already watching their movies or most people found there were much better things to be doing at midnight on a Friday, although you were fine with where you had landed. Picking up some Swedish Fish from the rack, you stared at the colourful lime package, not entirely sure what you were craving.

“Those are good.” Vernon was suddenly next to you. “But these are better.” He reached for a candy that was right beside yours. “Sour Patchies.”

“Oh, I used to eat those,” you said, smiling. “I would put one in my mouth and suck all the sour stuff off so it was just the gummy.”

He nodded. “Who didn’t?”

At the drink dispensers, Vernon filled his cup with classic Coca Cola while you chose cherry Root Beer. There were just two employees at the counter, one already occupied with a group, therefore you and Vernon went to the girl adjusting the popcorn in the big machine behind her.

She turned around, putting on a dull, tired smile.

“How’s your night been?” Vernon asked her.

“Fine. Long. Uh, is this stuff together?”

“I’ll pay for it,” you were quick to offer, proceeding to give Vernon a sympathetic look. “I mean, you paid for the tickets. It’s no worry.”

The girl readied the machine. As you were about to hover your phone above the reader, Vernon had already beaten you to it.

“You’re too slow, PJ’s,” he said, smirking. Before you could retaliate with a quip, he was already luring the employee back into conversation. “So, is there a manager around? I’m thinkin’ about droppin’ off a resume.”

She scratched her nose piercing. “There is, but I think he’s busy in the office right now… do you want me to check anyway?”

“Nah, don’t bother,” Vernon answered. “What’s his name?”

“Darian. He usually goes on his smoke break within the hour, if that’s any help. He’s pretty chilled out. We need more people for nights.”

Vernon grabbed his things from the counter. “M’kay, thanks.”

The theatre was fairly empty when you two walked in. There were three people seated together near the front, but you followed Vernon toward the back, where he found the middle seats. It was dimly lit without the explosive previews to ignite the room in sound and colour.

You took a sip from your drink. “Where’s your resume?”

Looking down at his phone, Vernon raised a shoulder. “The void.”

He seemed content to sit in silence. You made sure to text Ruby before you left work that you might not be home until later, though she was already out at a friend’s house party and hadn’t responded since. It was likely she would stay the night, especially if she was hungover. Alcohol completely removed her mellow nature and transformed her into a chaotic ball of energy that was impossible to reign, like lightning in a bottle.

As you stirred the ice around in your cup using the straw, a distant thought leapt into your mind. “How are things going with Lara?”

Vernon finished sending a text before he answered, at last putting his phone away. “Fine. She’s a cool girl. Great body. She’s flexible as fuck.”

Your forehead crinkled. “I didn’t need to know all that.”

He sighed. “You asked.”

“I meant, like, how’s the relationship going.”

Vernon shook his head. “It’s not a relationship.”

You grabbed the arm of the chair, twisting your torso in order to face him more appropriately. “So… you didn’t go out to dinner with her?”

“Why would I do that?” He laughed.

“I don’t know. She told me that she was going to ask you out to dinner two weeks ago. She had an outfit picked out and everything.”

The boy was in the middle of sipping from his drink as he mumbled around the straw. “Oh, that.” He swallowed. “Uh, yeah. I told her I’m not really about it. She seemed fine with it. She still put on the dress for me, though—the purple one or some shit—I can’t really remember. We smashed and then I hit the road. It’s not a relationship. I told her, like, three times.”

You nodded, staring at the soft silhouette of his expression half-hidden in the room’s dusk. Your chest seemed to lift at the remark, and once your body processed that soaring feeling, you glanced away from him a second later. Even if they were in a relationship, it shouldn’t matter to you.

“What about you?” Vernon countered.

Taking off your coat, you shrugged. “What about me?”

His head tilted. “Where’s your boyfriend, PJ’s?” He copied you, removing his jacket, and proceeded to pull open his Sour Patch Kids. “Or girlfriend.” Tweaking his eyebrow, he relaxed into the chair.

All the moisture in your mouth had evaporated. For a moment, you didn’t answer, instead pondering the consequences of fanning the flames to the conversation. Vernon did not need even an ounce of insight into your dating history (or lack thereof), hence your lips pressing hard together, sealing off your willingness to participate.

Vernon popped a gummy in his mouth, grinning. “Oh, come the fuck on. If you can ask me, I can ask you.” He opened up his legs and nudged you with his elbow. “Just get your heart broken or some shit?”

“No,” you answered staidly.

“Ah. So you got rejected, then?”

Scowling at him, you barked, “no!”

“I’m not a mind reader, here.”

Arms folded, you slouched against the chair and stared ahead at the large, dark screen, an anxious buzzing of bees rumbling in your gut. “It’s not anything like that…” you mumbled. “I’ve never had a relationship.”

“M’kay.” Vernon shrugged. “Neither have I.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “I don’t believe that.”

“Well, I guess I had a relationship when I was fourteen. But that shit doesn’t really count. It lasted six months. She was obsessive as hell. Wouldn’t leave me alone half the time. I realized I didn’t want all that.” He took another sip from his drink, licking off his lips. “So, PJ’s is single, huh?”

Scratching at your nail, you nodded. “That would be the case.”

“Eh, being single is freedom. You can fuck whoever you want. Go wherever you want. Do whatever you want.” Vernon kicked his feet up onto the chair in front of him, smiling. “If you ask me, it couldn’t get better.”

You laughed. “You’re doing that. I’m not doing that.”

“Which part?”

Mixing the ice around in your cup, you sighed. “All of it.”

“Seriously?” Vernon grunted, coughing to clear his throat. “No wonder you’re so fuckin’ uptight and stressed all the damn time.”

Heavily furrowing your brow, you retched at him. “Excuse me?”

“No one’s fuckin’ it out of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to screw it out of me!” The people seated near the front turned around, squinting at you heavily, to which you perspired in embarrassment and lowered your voice. “I can’t believe you said that.”

Vernon obviously didn’t care. “Have you ever been screwed?”

All of a sudden, the screen flashed with a blip of sharp white, a few more people started straggling in, and the introductory clauses for the previews were reverberating loud through the speakers. At that moment, your mouth was tingling with a litany of insecure and defensive statements while the surface to your cheeks instantly surged with prickling heat.

He chuckled, rolling out his shoulders. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“It’s not your business whatsoever,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone, attempting to sink even deeper into the chair. “And it never will be.”

“If there ever is any business...”

You grabbed the back of his hand in your fingernails and pinched the skin hard. Vernon yelped aloud, “ow!” while people cast their interest, though you feigned like nothing was wrong, taking a casual sip of your drink.

There wasn’t much conversation that followed, apart from a few offhanded comments about the trailers and the movie itself. Vernon had finished his soda by the time the film title card came up, and about half an hour later he was predictably wriggling past you for a washroom break. He stepped on your foot on his way out—you couldn’t help but think that was shallow payback for pinching his hand—and returned about ten minutes later with a bag of popcorn that you could smell the synthetic butter and salt from.

By the time the hour-and-half movie ended, you also had to use the toilet, so you forced Vernon to stand outside the women’s washroom and strictly told him not to wander. He was a bit like a curious child who you might turn around on for less than a minute, only to find them caught up a pole somewhere, or stuck in a clothing rack. When you came outside into the eerily lit corridor to find the halls empty, he was fixated across the room at the theatre's flashing arcade, playing with intense focus on a claw machine.

You walked up to him, pulling at pieces of pocket lint while you huffed out, “thank you so much for listening to me and not wandering off.”

“I didn’t wander off,” Vernon mumbled, training his eyes to watch every little flick and twitch of the claw. “Arcade's across the room.”

“That’s wandering!”

“Some kid left his token in here. He let me play.”

“Gee. Isn’t it your lucky day? Don’t you think we should be—”

“Look! Look! Watch this!” Vernon practically had his forehead pressed against the glass. “I’m gonna pick up that little bear thing.”

You heaved out a big breath.

He tapped the red button. The claw dropped down and latched around the toy, then slowly began to rise upward, with just the bear’s key ring hanging onto one of the prongs. His tongue poking out, Vernon maneuvered the claw over to the drop box and let the item fall. Once he pulled it out from the machine, you two both spent a moment examining it.

“What the fuck is it?” Vernon asked.

You took it from him. “I think it’s for your keys...” Noticing a small groove in the plastic bear’s pink stomach, your thumb ran over it without thinking, only to unleash a blinding flare of white light into Vernon’s face, as though he had been ambushed with a thunderbolt.

“Aw! Turn that shit off!” He winced.

“Oops!” You pressed the button again, giggling hard as he massaged his spotting eye sockets. “I didn’t know it was a flashlight!”

The boy blinked irritably a few times, like he was adjusting contact lenses. “Why the fuck did a children’s toy just fuckin’ flashbang me?”

“You’re the one who picked it.”

Swatting his hand, he grumbled, “you can keep it.”

It was still snowing in thick gobs at the hour you exited the theatre—the sticky kind that clumped really well—and you felt the flakes catch in your hair and gradually melt upon resting against your cheeks. As you two walked back to Vernon’s car, you got the urge to smoosh together a big ball of snow in your hands and throw it at him (just to test its packing ability, of course), though you decided not to at the last second. Before getting inside, Vernon shook the ice and wisps out from his sooty hair.

You settled into the seat, sighing. “I feel like that didn’t go well.”

“How come?”

“What do you mean? We didn’t meet Darian at all.”

Vernon began pointing down the dash. “Don’t need to.”

Tracing the path of his finger, you spotted a figure through the hazy snowfall and twinkling street light. He was underneath a small overhang to the theatre, right by the doorway, dressed in a dark-coloured coat that didn’t look particularly warm while he smoked a cigarette. It was difficult to discern much detail at a distance, though Vernon seemed convinced.

“How do you know?” You asked.

“After I went to the washroom, I came back to the counter and asked that girl if he was around. I met him super briefly. Shook his hand and shit. He was nice, said I could drop off my resume whenever.”

“… Didn’t you ask him anything else?”

Vernon shrugged. “Why bother? He’ll lead us right to Diana.”

You gasped at him. “We don’t know that!”

“I’ll wager my bets on it. I’ve got a spidey sense.”

While his tone of voice was assuring and confident, you weren’t too certain he was right. For a moment, you both continued to watch the man in question from across the street, staying silent, like he could somehow hear your discussions about him. A few employees left through the doors, and he waved each of them off. It wasn’t much longer until he flicked the cigarette into the wet snow, locked the exit with a key from his pocket, and pulled up the hood to his coat. He began a casual pace down the sidewalk.

Your hands squeezed together in your lap. “What now?”

“I guess he walks home…” Vernon muttered. “Hm—okay.”

“Okay what?”

He looked at you, smiling in a manner that rendered your stomach to twist like a doughy pretzel. “We’re gonna follow him—well—you’re gonna follow him. Just don’t make it obvious. Keep a distance and all that.”

Your jaw slacked. “I’m gonna what?”

“Follow him!”

“Uh—no!” You shook your head, a laugh of utter disbelief bubbling up in your throat. “No way am I doing that! You freaking follow him!”

“He’s seen my face. It’s weird now. Plus, it’s too hard to follow someone in a car without makin’ it look damn obvious as fuck.”

“No. You’re high. I’m not doing that.”

Vernon crumbled back into the seat, making a point to sigh loudly.

“Don’t sigh at me!” You quipped. “As if I am going to follow this stranger home, in the dark, while it’s cold and snowing, as you get to sit inside a nice heated car waiting for the update. No way. You’re dreaming.”

“There’s no other way!” He exclaimed.

“How about I drive?”

The boy paused, then raised his eyebrow. “You got a licence?”

“Well…” your arms folded. “No… but I know how to drive!”

Vernon huffed. “Then no. No damn way.”

You gagged. “Oh, so now you care about the law?!”

“Hey, no one gets behind the wheel of this car except for me. I’m actually disgusted at myself for even thinkin’ of allowin’ you to do it.”

“You’ll snort coke but you won’t let me drive your crappy car? Your morals are so scrambled, it’s insane!” You collapsed against the seat dramatically, staring out into the vast and windy sea of snowflakes.

“To be honest, I’m pullin’ the weight.”

A cackle split you from top to bottom. “You’re pulling what?!”

Vernon looked at you, nodding his head. “I pull our weight.”

“You do not—”

“Who has the car to get us everywhere we need t’be?”

“That doesn’t—”

“Who warmed up Kenta so he would spill about Diana?”

“Vernon—”

“Who went and talked to Darian?”

At that point, you didn’t bother responding. You simply sat there, staring straight ahead, refusing to meet the sincerity of his eyeline. There was definitely truth to what he was saying—you weren’t delusional—but maybe you were still harbouring some bitterness about the rock-climbing thing.

Chewing on your bottom lip, fingernails digging into the fabric of your coat, you reluctantly came to accept that perhaps it was your turn to contribute. Puffing out even louder than Vernon had, your hand slapped onto the handle and you thrust the door wide open, letting the tart cold blow inside. Your boots sunk through the fresh snow collecting in the parking lot.

Vernon smirked. “Thank you.”

“Whatever. Just pay attention to your phone, alright?” You bent down to stare at him. “Don’t get distracted texting your ten side pieces.”

“Noted. Hey—you can use your new flashlight, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing stuns an attacker like a Care Bear flashlight.”

“Stop complainin’ and go,” Vernon laughed, yanking the door shut.

Pulling the zipper right up to your nose, hands stuffed in your pockets, you took a few mopey steps around the front of the vehicle, stopping for a brief moment to burn your gaze into Vernon through the shifting wipers clearing wet flurries from the windshield like eyelashes. He merely flicked his hand at you, urging you to go, to which you exhaled again into your warm collar.

It was somewhat difficult to keep track of where he went. At first, you hurriedly followed the fresh footsteps sunken into the snow until you came to the curving top of a downward street, where you could just vaguely differentiate his figure through the white blendedness. You continued at a brisk pace until you weren’t too distanced from him, breathing rather heavily into your coat as the cold mixed with the intense heat of your body, though you tried not to make it obvious. He rounded a corner and kept on a straightforward walk, the compact buildings eventually thinning into a more residential, spread-out neighbourhood of shoddy houses.

You pulled out your phone to text Vernon.

Despite the blotches of snow wetting the screen and marring your spelling, you hoped he could still read the messages. At last, the man turned up a short driveway belonging to a smaller house on the block, with stained-white paneling and grey stones. There was a tiny sized garden in front with a plastic flamingo sticking out, the flowers decaying and sprinkled by snow to match the unkempt lawn. It didn’t seem like any lights were on through the windows. You searched desperately for a number or mailbox to identify the house. But then a car coming by behind you flooded its piercing high beams, and you distinguished weathered, gold-plated letters stuck to the stone.

Before you could forget, you sent the address to Vernon.

1024 Augusta Street. The house with the pink flamingo.

Vernon told you to wait at the end of the block. Your nose rubbed tight into your coat collar, weight shifting from foot to foot as you stood, alone, under the shower of streetlight and the snow that flickered through it.

About five minutes later, his Camry was pulling up to the curb.

“Don’t you look cozy?” Vernon purred when you huddled inside.

Ignoring his teasing, you strung on your seatbelt. “I didn’t see anything that would indicate he’s living with Diana. There’s no car in the driveway, nothing in the front lawn, no lights on in the house.”

He didn’t seem bothered. “We know the address. That’s enough.”

“How so? Are you going to camp outside the place every day?”

“That’s a great idea.”

You shook your head. “Well, I’m not doing that.”

“I figured you wouldn’t.”

“Because I’m employed,” you sounded out the word nice and slow.

“Yeah, and she owes me four-hundred dollars,” he scoffed. “They’re lucky I’m not tappin’ on their fuckin’ windows with a switchblade.” Vernon proceeded to circle around the block and exit the neighbourhood.

Unzipping your coat, you sighed. “What if she’s not there?”

“Then she’s not there.”

“Well, what do we do in that situation?”

Vernon laughed. “You’re thinkin’ too much.”

“I feel like I’m thinking a perfectly normal amount. I mean, one of us has to. We can’t just not consider it at all. All this work for nothing…”

“You’re bummin’ yourself out for no reason.”

Sinking back into the warm seat, you stared out at the sky, noticing the snow begin to ease and the emergent stars of midnight peak out.

“Yeah,” you hummed, your energy fading. “I’m good at that.”

Soonyoung had asked you to fetch the jug of porcelain floor cleaner to mix in with the hot mop water. He told you it should be somewhere in the storage closet. When you assured him you had never seen the jug there, he was even quicker to reassure you that he most certainly had. Figures.

You hated the storage closet. The space was drafty but confined, with a lingering, mold-like smell that made you apprehensive to even breathe the air. When you took a step backward to meticulously examine the shelf for the umpteenth time, the hanging chain belonging to the light bulb brushed overtop your shoulder like a chilled finger. You nearly screamed; hands clasped to your mouth at the last second. Still without the jug, you decided to grab the step-stool and use it to reach along the very top of the shelf, supposing the cleaner could be stored just out of sight.

“Gosh, this is so gross…” you winced with dread as your hands tapped against the dust thickly coated along the shelf’s surface—it almost felt wet and sticky—and you thought about fainting. “Soonyoung’s such a liar.”

Yielding bare results, you chose to step back onto the floor, hands stretched out underneath the feeble light to realize the tips of your fingers were painted with dark, mysterious dirt. After leaving the storage closet, you momentarily pondered whether or not to use Soonyoung’s pristine, red uniform shirt to wipe off the dust. But you didn’t. Even if he deserved it.

“Find it?” The boy called from the register.

“No!” You shouted back.

“Well, look again. It’s in there.”

Throwing an irritated glance in his direction, you smiled. “I think you should look instead. Since you’re so clearly right about everything.”

He removed the clunky headphones from around his neck. “What?”

You blew a rogue hair off your nose and ignored him. At the washroom sink, you pumped about five full squirts of pink soap into your hand, watching in disgust as you proceeded to intensely clean your skin, noting the water lose its clarity in place of a sudsy, icky grey. Ripping off a long tail from the paper towel, you dried your hands, sighing aloud. You hadn’t intended to act snappish—that wasn’t your normal at all, especially at work—but the hot sarcasm had shot straight out of you like a molten spear. When you returned to the floor, you thought about apologizing to Soonyoung.

But then you heard a laugh—an all too familiar laugh—that sounded a bit scratchy and deep and rendered you to immediately freeze behind a tall, swirlable display of chips. Cautiously, you peeked.

“I figured it was you. Her description fits you down to a tee.”

“Charmed to know she’s memorized me so well.”

What the heck was he doing here?!

Your mind combusted into a panic that shrouded all rationality with unbreathable plumes. Sticking yourself even closer to the display, you attempted to see what Vernon had brought to the register—it looked like a canned drink and a small bag of snacks—there was something else, too, though you couldn’t tell what it was.

“Nine-fifty,” Soonyoung said while adjusting his backward cap. “So, can’t say that I’ve ever seen you in here. At least not while I’m around.”

Vernon revealed his wallet to pull out a single ten-dollar bill. “Right place, right time kinda thing,” he answered. “Where is PJ’s, anyway?”

The till popped open, and Soonyoung handed Vernon his two quarters. “PJ’s?” The boy echoed, chuckling. “Is that her nickname?”

“Sure is. When I’m feelin’ more Shakespearian, I go for Pyjamas.”

Nodding his head, Soonyoung smiled, subtly trailing his gaze along Vernon while the boy was busy picking up his things. “A man of the arts, I see,” he commented, likely appeased at the rare eye candy.

Your head shook. Soonyoung’s taste in men was questionably specific, and that was coming straight from the horse’s mouth. He mostly dabbled in entertaining one-night stands from the club that you would unenthusiastically be subject to hearing about the next morning—well put together men, career men, the kind to spoil and dote as they had piles of money but no one to spend it on—nothing in character to Vernon. More than anything, it was perplexing, annoying, that the boy could just waltz around however he wanted and garner all kinds of flattering attention.

“Excuse me? Could I ask you where the Ginger Beer is?”

Jolting, you nearly threw over the entire display, though you steadied it quick off a snap of adrenaline. A customer lingered behind you.

“Uh, it’s in the cooler. Back wall.”

“Oh. I looked but—”

There was a loud, kicking laugh from Soonyoung. A humourous guffaw from Vernon. You were missing pertinent conversation and context!

“It’s there,” you reassured in a pushy tone. “Just, look again.”

Although she reflected a very displeased expression at your shallow customer service, she left you alone. Continuing to hide behind the chips, you watched between a bag of barbeque and dill pickle as Vernon made his way to the door, pressing his shoulder against it while he waved toward the register. Once Soonyoung fixed his cap again, he returned the gesture. Your eyes rolled in frustration.

Another customer approached you. “Could I grab the barbeque—”

Without word, you shoved the bag impatiently into their hands, and then proceeded to march up to the cash.

“Oh, hey.” Soonyoung raised his eyebrows. “Did you find the—”

“No. I saw all that, by the way.”

He laughed, rubbing his lips together. “So did I. Any good flavours?” With his arms folded, he leaned against the side of the counter.

“Why would you tell Vernon that I told you about him?”

“Oh, c’mon. Who actually cares?”

Your fingers clenched. “I do!”

“Hey.” His palms raised in defense. “Never said it was a secret. I never thought I would actually end up seeing the guy… by the way, he’s—”

“No. No, no, no. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No—just wait—”

Hands sandwiched overtop your ears. “I know what you’ll say!”

Soonyoung was smiling inexplicably wide. “Can I just get out—”

You cracked, the words tangling in your throat. “That he’s hot? Is that what you want to say, Soonyoung? Because, yes, I get it! I get that he’s all charismatic, and easygoing, and he has such nice, swooping lashes that look like an angel’s paintbrush and beautiful, bronzy eyes! He’s got nice muscles, and firm, tattooed forearms, and perfect, soft, powdery-black hair! And he smells like amber! I get it! You’re not saying anything new!”

The boy stood still, holding you in a very intrigued gaze, until his cheeks dappled in increasingly warm blooms of coral pink and he was suddenly puffing out pure laughter. “Jeez! I was just gonna say he’s got good taste! He bought some of that Chicago popcorn I keep telling you to try.” Tapping his chipped-black nails against the plastic lottery ticket cover, he grinned. “But it seems like you have much more… interesting… things to project.”

Feeling your heart race in your chest, pump after pump after pump, you struggled to string together anything logical. Your mouth hinged opened, empty, like a clam without its pearl. It wasn’t projecting, you were just repeating what you always heard!

Soonyoung shrugged. “Although, I will agree with you.” He then proceeded to point at something behind you before crossing his arms.

Taking a deep breath, you turned around.

“I still can’t find the Ginger Beer.”

Sighing loudly, feet dragging, you obliged. “I’ll show you.”

Worse than actually being cognizant of it was understanding the painful unrealism. Such musings followed you for the entire week, haunting you, pricking you, flipping your mood completely on its head whenever the thought so much as drifted tumbleweedesque through your mind. You had no one to tell—more like, no one you felt comfortable telling—therefore you weren’t even able to speak anything aloud and gauge whether or not it was delusion. The most you could do was mumble to yourself in the shower.

“Is it… really… no. It can’t be… it’s just that word everyone keeps throwing around… limerence. But… maybe it’s not… maybe I really do… but I can’t say it, because I don’t know for certain, and saying it might put some weird curse in the air… no, no. Now that I’m actually thinking about, it’s nothing. I know it.”

It was just meaningless drivel, circling the drain, as you aggressively rubbed shampoo into your scalp while your eyes squinted shut and water licked against your back in smooth tongues. Ruby even asked you about the unusually long showers you had been taking this week, which you thought she didn’t notice.

“I mean, I get it, girl. Trust. We’re lucky we have a shower head that disconnects! I’m just worried about the water bill and everything.”

“Hm? What do you mean? Shower head that disconnects?”

“What do I mean? I mean your outrageously long showers this week!”

“Oh. But that’s because—wait—no, no! It’s not what you think!”

The beginning of the conversation made you want to bury your head in the sand, though you understood why your roommate was concerned, albeit under the wrong assumption.

Hot water wasn’t cheap.

You weren’t sure what the time was. It was definitely late, you knew that much, and your feet were still aching from all the walking you did at the restaurant. Despite the temptation of a Friday night, Ruby had actually stayed in for once—she was back on her birth control medication and the nausea was kicking her hard—hence the girl’s decision to seek refuge in the perfect cocoon of her bedroom, wrapped in the sheets. You brought her some crackers to eat. She particularly loved the ones with extreme salt.

Grabbing your phone off the charger, you checked the time.

12:53 am.

Gosh. It was hopeless! Your mind was torturing you.

You sat up against the headboard and pillows for a moment, grabbing one that was shaped like a pudgy, striped grey cat to hug in your arms. It used to belong to Diana, but she ended up giving the pillow to you as a birthday gift since you always preferred its squishiness when taking naps at her dorm. Running your fingertips along the cat’s threaded blue whiskers, you sighed into the darkness of your bedroom, hating the wasted time going by. But then your head tilted toward the window, and you swore a shadow had moved behind the curtains. As you slowly unveiled the covers from your warm lap, there were a few solid taps on the glass, and you squeaked.

“PJ’s! You awake?”

Flaring open the curtains to one side, you gawked at Vernon.

He smiled. “Guess you are.”

You slid the window up. The harsh bite of late November drew raised hairs to bristle along your arms. Removing a sweater left in a lump on your desk chair, you began fitting it on. “What the heck are you doing?”

Vernon pulled out his phone. “Ruby wasn’t respondin’ to my texts.”

“Yeah. She went to bed, like, over an hour ago.”

“No way. Thought she’d be out on the town.”

Your head shook. “She’s sick. Is there something you need?”

He shrugged, rubbing under his nose. “Eh, doesn’t matter. I’ll let the girl get her rest in. God knows her crazy fuckin’ ass needs it.” Reaching into the pocket on his thick green hoodie, he pulled out a rolled paper, packed with what you assumed to be weed. “You care if I smoke?”

“Uh…” your nose wrinkled. “Just… the window stays open.”

“Easy enough,” Vernon mumbled while the joint hung from the corner of his lips. He then pulled out a shiny chrome lighter from a pocket on his sweatpants, giving the wheel a few flicks before the orangish-blue fire sparked to life, reflecting a soft, hazy glow unto his face. Shielding the erratic flame from the breeze, he cupped a hand around it and let the warmth singe the tip of the joint until there was a near imperceptible crackle. After re-pocketing the lighter, he took in his first inhale, long and deep, polite enough to redirect the smoke such that it didn’t blow directly into your bedroom.

You swallowed, staring down at your desk. “So… what are—”

“I did some stakeouts this week, on Augusta Street,” he said, readjusting the loose hood thrown over his head. “It’s lookin’ kinda—”

“Actually, I don’t want to know.”

Vernon stared at you, removing the joint from his mouth. “Huh?”

“Right now, I don’t want to know. If you’ve seen her, I mean. Or if you haven’t seen her. I don’t want to know. You can tell me later.”

He laughed, letting himself sit on the windowsill. “Seriously?”

You nodded.

“What’s with edgin’ yourself? For what purpose?”

Carefully, quietly, you pushed the desk aside so you could sit beside him on the window ledge. The air was nippy, cold, but it felt so refreshing that you wanted to float in it. “I don’t know. My mind’s been all over the place. I can’t have another life-altering thought barging in and screwing things up even more.”

“Jeez,” he huffed. “Your head sounds like a stressful place.”

You grasped at the knee to your flannel pyjama bottoms, pulling up the thin fabric for no apparent reason. “Trust me. I know.”

He returned the joint to his mouth for another drag. You always detested the smell of burning marijuana—there was something so potent and bitter about it—but Vernon did well to exhale the smoke away from you.

“So,” you cleared your throat. “Are you planning on staying?”

“Well, I was gonna hang with Ruby to smoke the rest of the Indica, but I guess that's outta the question.” He lowered his joint. “N'you don't really look like the smokin' type. But I'll crash here. Easier.”

“There’s already a blanket on the couch.”

Vernon stared over his shoulder, and then returned his mellow gaze to your face. Gradually, it slipped downward, and he started chuckling at something. “Jeez. Never thought I’d see that shirt again.” He reached out to the grab the corner of your sweater, pulling it aside so he could better squint at the picture through the scarce parking lot light. “Find your wild, huh?”

Dang it. You forgot you were wearing that. Swatting his hand away, you played coy. “Yes, yes, I get it.”

“You shouldn’t have that shirt,” Vernon continued to chuckle, rubbing at his forehead. “You’re not very wild. Find your cortisol, maybe.”

“Okay, I get it, you know.”

He shrugged. “Get what?”

“Ruby says the same thing. So does Soonyoung. You all think I’m an uptight, no-chance taker, or whatever. Who hates fun. And spontaneity.”

Vernon nodded along. “Give or take.”

“Well, you can all think what you want. I admit I’m not the most entertaining person to be around, or the person who’s going to get the party started. And, yeah, I'm not really a chance-taker. But I feel like that’s reasonable. Chances are just risks in disguise.”

Nursing another drag from the crisping joint that he smoothly exhaled out his nose, Vernon agreed. “Sure. Whatever.”

Your brow furrowed. “Whatever, what?”

He lifted his shoe onto the window ledge so his arm could drape across his knee. Vernon smiled. “Don’t gotta sell yourself to me.”

You shoved his bicep, hard, digging in your fingers a little and feeling some of the muscle underneath his heavy clothes. “Gosh. Shut up.”

“Well, I don't really believe you, PJ's. That you've never taken a chance or a risk or anything. So tell me about one.”

“No.”

He scoffed, “why? It'll be fun.”

“Because, whatever I say, you’re just gonna use it to make me feel like crap for what I did or didn’t do.” You remained firm on the decision, tongue pushing against your cheek. “I can’t remember, anyways.”

Vernon brushed at his dishevelled, floppy hair. “Bull.”

 “No!”

“Yeah. If anything, I’m gonna make you feel like crap for lyin’ dead to my face.” His elbow propped back on his knee, the joint hugged between his lips as he antagonized you with his unwavering eyes.

You hugged yourself. “Like you don’t lie every single day.”

Rather than inhaling the smoke away from you, Vernon made sure to blow his next puff right in the direction of your face. Besides the dry winter air, the astringent smell made your eyes water, and you rubbed the sting away using balled fists. “You’re such a P.O.S!”

Vernon laughed. “Hm?”

“P.O.S!” You grumbled. “I’m refusing to spell it out.”

He blinked. “Piece of shit?”

“Yes!”

Again, he laughed. “Damn. Your parents clean your fuckin’ mouth out with soap? Why are you so squeamish about bad words?”

You pushed back. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone doesn’t want to curse? Why is that even something to question?”

He let his head hit the wall while the joint dully glowed at the corner of his mouth. “Dunno. It’s just kinda weird.” He grinned. “Like you.”

With your nose swinging up at him, you were going to fire back with another blunt dig, though you ended up lowering your guard after some silence settled. “It’s my mom, that’s all. She despises cursing. It was one of the first things I remember learning as I grew up. Never curse. She said her parents used to slap her wrists with a ruler for cursing. She said it makes you sound…” you paused, grimacing, before muttering the word out, “… uneducated.”

“I think she would fuckin’ love me,” Vernon answered.

You wanted to laugh, biting along your lip. “Oh, that makes sense.”

“So, at least tell me one thing. It can be tiny.”

“About what?”

“The chance!” Vernon was acting surprisingly persistent about it.

As much as you didn’t want to entertain him or show submission, you began wondering if it could really be so bad to throw him one bit of bait. Folding your arms low across the stomach, you stared out into the parking lot, nibbling your inner cheek in contemplation. “If I tell you, it stays strictly between us,” you urged, making sure to lock your eyes with the boy’s. “Because if I find out you told anyone—”

“Done deal,” Vernon spoke around the joint, then crossing his arms and tucking away his reddening fingers. “Let’s hear it, PJ’s.”

You breathed in as much as your lungs would allow. Letting the crispness of such a cold night fill your chest and settle your uneasy stomach, you swallowed. “Okay… when I was in seventh grade, I had a crush on this guy. My friends and I, we gave him a secret code nickname so we could talk about him wherever. We called him Fire Hydrant. Anyway, Fire Hydrant was kinda… like… he was pretty popular. He had a lot of friends. And, every few months he was with a new girl. Honestly, we had nothing in common.” Your eyes shifted to Vernon for a split second. He was still listening, waiting for you to continue with warmth in his face. “I was totally against confessing to him. But then I got the scoop from this girl that he had a crush. She told me Fire Hydrant liked me. I was still against telling him anything, of course. But my friends convinced me to go for it.

So… one day… after school…” you began to grimace, the memory flashing in horrible fragments at the edges of your mind like cutting glass. “I caught him before he left his locker. I told him everything. How I felt. How I had admired him for almost the entirety of seventh grade. How I heard that he might like me back… I laid it all out.” Fingers clenched in your lap as your voice strained, though you forced back against the embarrassment seeping so palpably through your skin. “Then, he gave me the most confused look, like, ever. He told me that wasn’t true. He told me that he hardly knew anything about me. He even messed up my name! I was legit in shambles, okay? He slammed his locker right in my face and went out to catch the bus, like I had offended him or something. Turns out, his friends paid that girl to say that Fire Hydrant liked me. Honestly, almost nothing has ever backfired in my face so royally. I heard it at lunch tables for two weeks straight.” Sighing, you nudged away a wet spot from your cheek.

Vernon put his foot back on the ground, arms uncrossing. “Like that was your fault, PJ’s. You were brave. That’s what I heard.”

You shrugged. “No one else seemed to think so.”

“Eh. Fuck ‘em.” He set the joint between his fingers, taking a lasting drag that drifted away into the winter breeze. “I get that kinda thing fucks with you when you’re that age. I mean, I think it would fuck with most people, any age. But life goes on. You gotta move with it.”

Squishing your hands between your warm thighs, you nodded. “I wish it were that easy.” Then, you glanced at the clear, bright moon, a mirage in the diopside night sky. “I guess, once I have a routine, it feels so important that I stick to it. Nothing gets screwed up that way. Things are predictable. It takes away one less thing to fret about. Maybe that’s… dull… but I feel like I need it.”

Vernon nodded. “That’s you. I understand.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you smiled. “We’re nothing alike.”

“Not really, no.” He flicked some ash onto the ground, then stared at you, his eyes penetrating. “You’re too much of a good girl.”

“Yeah. When too much of a good thing is a bad thing.”

He pulled at his sleeves and tilted his head. “I can corrupt you.”

Sheepish, you merely shook your head, smiling at your lap while your wool-socked feet drummed against the brick wall. “No way.”

Vernon shrugged, giving a few farewell puffs to his shortening joint before chucking it onto a clump of soft snow, watching it dip through like a sinking ship. He then spun himself around to fit through your window, mumbling to you a goodnight as he moved between the murkiness of your bedroom. You spent another minute or so sitting on the windowsill, wondering why you had just peeled open your insides to a boy that was going to leave, anyway. Just like his joint. Disappeared through the consuming winter snow.

10 MONTHS AGO.

It had to be a dead-end.

One part of you was relieved. The other, distraught. Both feelings coalesced with total imbalance at the centre of your gut, struggling against each other like fishes trapped in a net. If you did see Diana, what was your role in the moment? Did you even have a role? Were you supposed to stay in the car and let Vernon handle his own business, or should you involve yourself for closure’s sake? But then what if you didn’t see her? Realistically, what would happen next?

“Damn. They never put enough salt on my fries. I asked for that shit to be extra salty. I said that, right? That lady’s such a freakin’ stiff.”

You kept looking at the house. The pink flamingo was dressed in glistening snow, hardened over like armour. While the driveway was shovelled out, there were still no lights on that you could see through the living room window. About half an hour had passed since Vernon stalled his car along Augusta Street.

“Are you gonna drink your hot chocolate?” When you didn’t answer, you felt Vernon’s hand shake your upper arm. “PJ’s.”

“Sorry—what?”

He pointed his nose at the large insulated canteen sitting in his cup holder, which you had taken from home. “Are you gonna drink that?”

“Uh, yeah, I will.”

“If you don’t—”

“Then you can have it,” you snapped to interrupt. You immediately turned your head to stare back out the car window, feeling a sharp kink begin to develop in your neck from the timely strain.

Vernon sighed, putting aside his subpar-salted fries. “Okay, you gotta relax. You’re takin’ all the fun out of my stake-outs.” Proceeding to push his seat back and recline his arms behind his head, Vernon tsked his teeth. “Your attention doesn’t need t’be superglued to the fuckin’ house.”

“That’s why you haven’t seen anything,” you chastiscized him. “It could be a snippet of her elbow in the window. She’s probably walked in and out of the living room a bajillion times—probably had a freakin' dance party—and you’ve missed it ‘cause you’re too lax.”

“Look at you, on your high horse over there.”

Your eyes scalded him with a transient glare. “I’m just saying… I feel like there’s a reason your stake-outs haven’t been… efficient.”

“Yeah? And you’re bein’ kind of an asshole.”

“No, that’s not—”

Vernon sat up, letting one elbow rest against the steering wheel to prop his head at you. “You wouldn’t let me play my music, you fuckin’ slammed the car door on my foot after we got lunch, and you’ve been givin’ me sassy little remarks all damn day.” A hand delved through his locks of black hair, though they easily slid back into place, just as pretty as they were before. “So, yeah. You’ve been an asshole. And you’re lucky I said it all polite, ‘cause I was about to flip when you slammed that stupid door.”

Suckling on your lip, you wanted to stomp on Vernon’s words like you were a child in a mud puddle on a rainy day. The anger hit the roof of your mouth, furiousness urging to erupt, though, the longer you stared the boy in his honey brown eyes, examining the beautiful lashes that delicately kissed his warm cheeks, you found it in yourself to take a very deep breath. “Okay…” you exhaled at length, “I know. You’re right.” Fingers pinched together in your lap, and you glanced at the unmoving house again, clearing your throat. “Now that it seems like we’re so close to her… my emotions are all over the place. My insides feel like split spaghetti.”

Vernon grabbed your canteen. “Here, take a sip.”

You took the mug, staring down at it. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Vernon pressured. “It’ll ease you up.”

After unscrewing the lid, you felt the warmth from inside curdle upward to lick your face. It smelled faintly of sweet candy canes. You remembered getting the package over the holidays last year, and you kept saving it for the perfect day. The fact it went untouched for so long was a bit sad, but you had decided to finally bite the bullet this morning after accepting there never was going to be that perfect day.

Vernon held the lid while you took a sip.

“Holy f—” you held the sound on the edge of your lips and teeth.

“Fuck,” Vernon finished for you.

“Thank you.” Another sip. “This tastes like a good dream.”

He chuckled. “Uh, cool. Whatever that means.”

You held out the mug. “Want to try it?”

Vernon shook his head. “Nah, it’s yours. Good dreams and all.”

Relaxing back into the seat and wrapping both your hands around the canteen to feel its heat, you continued taking small sips from the hot chocolate, watching the sunlight reflect off the clear skeletons of ice frozen to the trees in gorgeous sparkles. Vernon was right.

There was a sense of ease.

You giggled against the mug’s rim. “I feel like an actress in one of those low budget Hallmark romcoms. Am I playing the part well?”

Vernon bit his lip ring, leaned back against the car door to properly examine your attempt at the role.  “Hmm… big poofy scarf, check; winter coat with the fur, check; hands appropriately positioned around the mug circumference while arms are held at an angle of both self-comfort and satisfaction, check. Damn. Could’ve fooled me, PJ’s. You nailed it.”

Laughing, you warmed your throat with another sip, finding it funny to hear Vernon talk in such an uncharacteristic way. “I didn’t peg you to know much about Hallmark romcoms,” you flattered.

The boy shrugged, flicking the lid around in his hand. “I mean, they certainly don’t butter my bread, that’s for sure. My mom loved ‘em.”

It was honestly quite jarring to hear Vernon reference his mother, a person he had never brought up before, to the point you didn’t even associate Vernon with actually having any parents. You didn’t particularly share much about your family either, only mentioning them in passing a limited handful of times, though it was enough to scarcely outline them as people. Vernon, though—you knew nothing about his homelife. You didn’t even know if he had siblings. The revelation felt like an odd one to be having at the exact time and place, and your stomach settled with a somber feeling.

You took the lid back from Vernon and rested the canteen in the cup holder again. “It’s cute you had a tradition like that. Sounds fun.”

He stretched out his arms, yawning. “Damn. I’m gettin’ sleepy.”

“That’s a first,” you said. “It seems like you’re never tired.”

“I’m not tired, I’m sleepy,” he corrected.

You shrugged. “Is there really a difference?”

“Totally. Bein’ tired is more align with exhaustion, crankiness, all that. But bein’ sleepy is more… it means you’re relaxed n’ shit. Comfy.”

“Hm. That’s actually a pretty acute observation.” You started to smile, fingers twitching in your lap. “Nice to know I make you so relaxed.”

Vernon didn’t say anything—he just angled his head at you, smirked a little, and blew some astray fronds of dark hair away from tickling his eyes—but then he was watching out your window for a moment, and something in his face shifted.

Curious, you looked back to the house.

The front door was being shouldered open, and out popped someone onto the porch, lugging a heavy trash bag at their side.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Vernon whispered, immediately sitting up in his seat and exhaling with relief. “There she is! I fuckin’ knew it!” His hand gripped onto your shoulder, shaking it roughly in pure excitement that felt like a crackled zap. “I knew it, PJ’s! See, all we needed was patience! Fuck. It feels so good to be right.”

Good? Out of everything you could possibly be feeling, good was so far down the list it might as well not even exist. As much as you were resisting, the girl stuffing the trash bag into the bin by the porch was becoming more and more familiar to you. There were things about her that looked different, although it was hard to gauge details at a distance, but the certainty was now restricting your chest and the next breath you took felt so shaky that you almost panicked. After flipping the lid down on the garbage bin, she wrapped her arms around herself, quickly huddling back inside the house and away from the crisp cold.

Once she was gone, Vernon huffed into his hands to warm them up, then began rubbing his palms together. “Okay, this is fuckin’ mint. Who knows if her boyfriend is there. Whatever. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna go up there.” He pushed his door open. “Uh, stay in the car, I guess.”

“No,” you disagreed, breathing out slowly. “I want to come, too.”

Vernon paused. “You sure? ‘Cause, no offense, but you’re givin’ me the vibe that you’re one confrontation away from blackin’ out, and that’s really gonna cramp my ability to get my four-hundred bones.”

“I’m coming,” you reaffirmed. “I have to. There’s no way I won’t.”

He didn’t seem in the mood to push back and forth.

You let Vernon lead, trailing behind his confident stride with much smaller steps, fingers pulling at loose threads in your coat pockets. Standing on their tiny cement porch felt like standing on a grand stage right before that big red curtain opens, and your stomach was somersaulting nonstop.

Vernon pounded a few times on the screen door. “Package delivery!” He shouted, to which you clawed his elbow, shooting him a stern look. “What?” He shrugged. “Can’t exactly yell the truth, here.” When no one came to the door after an agonizing silence, he knocked a few more times, rattling the screen’s thin glass. “Hello?!”

Gosh—maybe he was right—maybe you should have stayed in the car, far, far away from the sickness of the situation. You could feel a burn in your throat that tasted faintly like bile and the only place you could think to possibly upchuck was an old, plastic flowerpot sitting by the steps. Thoughts of turning back flooded your mind. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be here. Diana cut you off for a reason that was personal to her and now all you could think was how it invasive it was that you dug her up so spontaneously, like she was an innocent beetle under soft, wilted bark.

Vernon sighed, annoyed, and readied his hand to knock again.

But then you heard a click. You immediately grabbed his arm and forced it back down, watching the front door open, and then the cautious crack of air she let flow through the flimsy screen door. Every fibre of your being wanted to scream her name, Diana!, as you might leap forward to bundle her tight in your arms.

My best friend! My adventurer! My fondest memory!

She held the screen ajar with her arm.

Her eyes flickered in between you.

You couldn’t even begin to image what she was feeling.

Vernon smiled. “Hey there, Busy B. Been a minute, hasn’t it?”

Diana didn’t speak. She stared at him intently, lips parted, her gaze traversing him up and down like she couldn’t compute his existence. And then she had finally settled a glance over his shoulder to look at you. Without sounding too dramatic—it felt like being shot—like something sharp had just pierced right through you as though you were made entirely of mist. Diana gulped, her raw, black eyes quickly building up with water, and suddenly, she was letting the screen door fall closed, whipping away to a place unknown inside the house. You wanted to thunder after her, but you just couldn’t move. She was so much thinner, her clothes seeming to swallow her figure like they were draping a rake, and her hair—her once bouncy, shiny, healthy dark hair that always framed her glowing brown skin in an artistic picture frame—it was so dulled, and frayed, and dragging her down.

You hadn’t realized you were still gripping onto Vernon’s hand with such discomfort until he ripped it back with a groan, shaking out his wrist. “Damn, PJ’s. Get yourself a nail clipper.”

The corners of your mouth twitched. You wanted to speak but the signal wasn’t properly connecting to your muscle and you felt helpless.

Someone else appeared at the door. He opened it fully. You knew it had to be the man from the theatre, Darian, though he seemed like he was just woken up, his hair being mushed completely to one side and swollenness evident in his very unpleased eyes. Now, you didn’t want to speak at all.

He gave you two a lopsided blink. “What the hell’s going on?”

Vernon cleared his throat. “I’m glad you asked. Sorry to wake you n’ everything, but, you see, your girl back there—she kindly owes me four-hundred dollars for some ecstasy bombs—in cash. Now, I don’t mean to cause problems. Once I get the money, you’ll never have to see my face again, which is kinda a shame, ‘cause I’ve been told I’m quite purdy. But, y’know, business is business, and I don’t like bein’ fuckin’ stiffed.”

You bit onto your lip, your front teeth pushing against a crack in the skin that stung. Gosh—wasn’t he such an eloquent poet with his words?

Darian swung a hand through his upstuck hair. “Uh—aren’t you the dude who asked me about a job? Now, you’re on my front porch, saying my girlfriend owes you money for ecstasy. What kind of bullshit is this?”

Vernon snickered. “No offense, man, but anyone with eyeballs could tell you’re a stoner—I mean, there’s a fuckin’ bong the length of my arm sittin’ back there on the table—so, I assume you n’ your girl are no strangers to throwin’ money on drugs. And you can delightfully throw some more, right now, into my fuckin’ wallet.” He sighed, scratching his neck. “I don’t give a fuck who pays me—her or you—but I want the money, now.”

Eyeing Vernon over skeptically, the man scoffed, dragging a hand down his stubble. “You’ve got a real prick energy about you, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it a’ thousand times. Thinkin’ about gettin’ it tattooed right across the forehead, actually. Thoughts?”

Unamused by Vernon’s mocking, droll humour, the man muttered for him to wait at the door. He then disappeared back inside the house.

You let out a gigantic sigh, watching the heat from your mouth materialize into the cold air. There was so much tension scored into your body that you felt like a scarecrow jammed onto a wooden rod. You had never been a master of confrontation in any degree, even as a bystander.

Vernon laughed. “Guess I’ll never work the evenin’ shift at Cinema Hut, huh? Man, what a missed opportunity.” He shrugged. “Oh well.”

“This is all so disorienting…” you mumbled, pulling at your face. “I mean, you saw Diana, right? Something is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She never used to look like that. She looks so frail!”

“Life takes you places, PJ's.”

The screen door shuttered and suddenly Darian was back. He huddled close to Vernon, counting out a series of bills into his hand, occasionally licking his thumb to better separate the papers.

“There,” he snapped. “Four-hundred. Happy?”

Nodding his head in satisfaction, Vernon plastered on a smooth, ear-to-ear smile. “Shit. You’ve tickled my fancy. Thanks, player.”

“You better stick true to your word. I don’t wanna see you around here again, not even at the theatre. I don’t wanna see you, either—” Darian warned, pointing the remaining bills in his hand at you, while you stood there vacuously, “—whoever the fuck you are. Whatever fucking reason you’re slinging with this prick.”

“She’s not slingin’ nothin’, you idiot,” Vernon scoffed. “N’ sure, whatever. I’m a man of my word. Make sure to ask the same of your girl.”

In abrupt fashion, both the screen and inner door were slammed right into your faces, with the loud clicking of the bolt and lock sounding immediately after. That was the cue to leave. Vernon had collected his money. His business at the property along Augusta Street was over. But, yours… what the heck kind of closure was that? Diana hadn’t said one word, you two exchanged nothing more than an emotional, hurtful look, and you had seen her for less than a minute! Vernon was already beginning to walk off the porch, down the driveway, toward the car, but you found yourself stuck staring at the door, wondering if Diana was listening on the other side.

“PJ’s! C’mon!” Vernon called, flicking you over with his hand. “No sense standin’ around. Let’s hit it. I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”

“It’s too cold for ice cream,” you sighed.

Vernon shook his head. “Never too cold for ice cream.” He handed you the sundae. “Besides, I put hot fudge on it. You’re welcome.”

“That was just… awful.” You hadn’t been able to stop commenting on the situation since you left the shoddy house. And, yes, while Vernon had been kind enough to console your aching woes with a hot fudge sundae, you remained a broken record, numbly repeating yourself as if that would fix anything, as if a divinity would hear your pain.

“Can you at least try it?” He encouraged you. “Tell me if it’s any good? I mean, maybe once you get a spoonful, that’ll shush you up.”

“Hey!” You whacked his arm. “I’m going through something!”

Vernon shrugged your hand off. “And I’m tryin’ to drive!”

“Listen, you got your money. You get a happy ending…” stabbing the plastic spoon into the top of the perfectly pumped ice cream, you felt intense, emotional heat surge to your eyes. “That’s not what I got… I guess that’s my fault for choosing to come with you. But if I didn’t—then—it’s like—ah! I don’t know! I don’t know anything. This is so—it’s just so—”

“Awful?”

You cut the spoon through the ice cream, bitter. “Exactly.”

Vernon kissed his teeth. “Hey, it’s not easy. I get it.”

“How can you be so casual about it? I mean, I understand this is what you do. I understand it’s… good money... in a way. But when you—”

“Look, my business, how I do things, that’s my business,” Vernon interrupted, shaking his head and sounding firm. “I get the concern, PJ’s, I do, honest. But I ain’t heartless. I’ve got discretion, and I know when to use it, believe it or not. Regardless, I’ve gotta get my money. I just gotta. Diana's a good chick. She'll find herself.”

You didn’t want to respond.

Instead, you looked out the car window, watching the Thai restaurant that you and Vernon ate dinner at one evening slip by. Every part of your chest shrank until it seemed barren, empty. You then delivered the spoonful of ice cream to your mouth, tasting the sweet, cold vanilla and the hot fudge’s richer warmth. Promptly eating your feelings, you began ravaging the sundae, feeding yourself increasingly fuller bites until you sensed a trail of wetness rolling down your cheek. Brushing your fingers across the skin, you realized it was as single, lonesome tear. A brief pause followed, and then a hiccup, and suddenly, you were letting the waterworks flow like brackish pools in the passenger seat of Vernon’s car.

He glanced over at you, bit his lip. “Oh… fffuck…” the boy proceeded to curse in the most dreaded, unenthusiastic tone as you choked around another melting spoonful of fudge and ice cream. “Damn, PJ’s. You really gotta do this right—ah—fuck it. How did I not see this shit from a mile away?”

You suckled in a big, wet breath, tears sloping your chin. “I’m being so selfish! How can I only think about my own feelings?! When Diana is—s-she’s—she must think I’m such a lowlife, coming after her like that!” A wobbly hand lifted more ice cream to your mouth, the spoon hanging from the corner of your lips as you wailed. “I probably made everything so much worse for her! What kind of a friend am I? I should have insisted on talking to her! I shouldn’t have left her in the house with that weirdo!” You pulled the spoon out, scraping it against the rim of the cup to get all the extra hot fudge. “He could be the one that got her into all this bad stuff! And what am I doing t-to h-hhelp? Nothing! I’m doing… absolutely—” you stuck the spoon back in your mouth and licked it clean, “—nothing!”

Vernon’s brow furrowed, and he sighed. “Listen, we’ll be back at your place soon. There, you can wallow all you please.”

“No—I can’t do this—I need to call—” you shimmied the phone out from your pants pocket and left the ice cream in the cup holder. “Oh, no! My phone is dead!” The tears blurred over your eyes, smudging your vision. “How could this get any worse?!” You cracked out a sob.

Flexing his fingers against the steering wheel, Vernon kept the car pushing its pace through the slush streets. “Yeah, I wonder…”

“I need to call Ruby!”

“Here,” the boy grunted, shifting up his hips and pulling out his phone from his back pocket. “Use mine. She’s in my contacts.”

You wiped your eyes, then whined in frustration at the sheer number of names you had to scroll through. “You’ve got a hundred stupid contacts! Lara, Larissa, Mandy, Moona, Minghao, Nadine, Noor—"

“Just search for her name, PJ’s! Holy fuck,” he snapped back. “Ruby. R-U-B-Y. Four fuckin’ letters—just jam it in—she’ll come up.”

“There’s two Ruby’s!” You sniffled.

“Oh, right, fuck. She’s the one with—”

“Did you seriously put ‘fat ass’ beside her name?!”

He smirked. “First of all, she added that. True, though.”

Pressing the icon to phone her, you hiccupped, “I hate you.”

“What?! I told you—I didn’t write—”

“Hello? Ruby?” The second you heard the hitch in the line, you were nuzzling the cracked device right against your ear. “Are you there?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m here. Girl, what are you doing with Vern’s phone?”

Vernon dug some tissues out from his glove compartment and handed them to you. Before you answered, you spent a moment blowing your nose, hard. When you returned to the phone, Ruby was groaning.

“Sorry—I just—I’m having a horrible time, okay? Are you home?”

“No, I’m at a friend’s house. What’s wrong?”

Your lips shook as you forced the words out. “I saw Diana today… like, super recently. And it just really screwed me up. She’s not well.”

“Oh, fuck…” Ruby lamented, her soft voice crackling through the static before she took in a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll try to get home as fast as I can, alright? I promise! Is Vernon there? Can I talk to him for a sec?”

“H-He’s driving,” you answered, casting him a nervous look.

“Eh, that’s okay,” she laughed, snorting. “His stupid ass drives and talks on the phone all the damn time. It’ll be fine. I love you, m’kay? I’ll see you soon!”

Extending the phone to Vernon, he grabbed the device back. You spent the rest of the car ride with your head against the window, completely uncaring to all the bumps in the road that made your skull rattle uncomfortably on the chilly glass. The tissue stayed in your hand, where you squeezed it tight, willing it to somehow absorb all your sadness and take it someplace where feeling did not exist.

By the time you arrived back at the apartment complex, your explosive grief had dulled more into hollowness. With throbs clanging at the forefront of your temples like the clapper inside a metal bell, you wanted to down an aspirin and nestle face first into your bed.

Vernon helped you out from the car, warning you to be careful of the ice that the landlord was supposed to have salted, his hand placed thoughtfully on your waist.

Sniffling, you wiped some sticking hairs from your cheeks. “I’m sorry I got so dramatic. I know you didn’t want to hear and see all that.”

The boy shrugged, a kind, small smile on his lips. “Nah, don’t apologize. It’s good that you care. You got it all out of your system n’ shit. Can be dangerous bottlin’ up those kinds of deep feelings.”

You stared down at the icy ground, nodding.

The clouds were fully masked over the skies, colouring everything around you darker than usual. It even turned the wind colder, allowing you to feel the residual tears not fully dried to your skin. Rubbing them off came with an agitated, sensitive sting. Once you rolled out your shoulders, you sighed. “I… uh… I don’t actually hate you, either. I was just, you know, venting.” You felt moved to clarify, your hands swirling about to get the right connotation.

Vernon rubbed his chin. “Yeah… think I could figure that out.”

In that moment, you held eye contact with him. Though your chest had been still and vapid as the pain of a tattered friendship gutted you out, there was a tiny thump of something alive when you found the genuineness reflective in his gaze. Even if you wanted to hate Vernon, the fact he was so unbearably open made it next to impossible. Nobody wore their true selves better than he did. In turn, that forced an honesty within yourself that was akin to cracking open a hard rock to reveal the sparkling, miraculous opal inside. Your hands wrung together while you sniffled back your congestion.

Gosh—you liked him.

You liked the drug dealing, foul-mouthed, promiscuous criminal.

“M’kay, get some nice buddy-buddy time with Ruby,” he said.

“Where are you going to go?” You were quick to ask before he could even get to step away from you. “I mean, where do you ever go?”

Vernon smiled at you. “Isn’t that my cute little secret?”

“No,” you pushed back. “Are you like, homeless? Or a squatter?”

He laughed, rubbing his nose. “Jeez. Great couple guesses.”

“Well, I just… I guess…” you clammed up, shaking your head.

Vernon began to smirk, teething over his bottom lip. “You what, huh? What is it that you’re gonna say, PJ’s? You worry about me, yeah?”

Gazing aside, you bounced your leg a few times. “You’re such an idiot. It’s hard not to.” You shoved him playfully. “Do not misconstrue!”

“Me?” He gasped. “Oh, I would never.”

“You can go now.” Stepping over the ice, you started making your way across the parking lot. “Don’t run me over before I get inside!”

He walked around to the driver’s side of the car, throwing open the door. “Better hustle then, beautiful.”

Ruby wasn’t a fabulous cook by any means. She specialized in take-out, frozen meals, and throwing together random ingredients into soup pots or tortillas, hoping something relatively palatable might come out of it. But you had to give credit where credit was due—she had made delicious, perfectly cinnamoned French toast—and that seemed to explain why you were already on your third plate, sawing your fork through the fluffy bread.

“I’m glad you like it so much,” Ruby said. She joined you on the opposite side of the counter after washing the dishes. “I’ve never made it before. At one point I was just chucking random measurements.”

“Whatever you did—” you mumbled, mouth stuffed, “—it’s the best thing I ever tasted.” A big, tight swallow. “Thank you.”

Your roommate smiled, nodding her head in satisfaction while taking a sip from her fresh orange juice. She proceeded to wipe off her mouth and began cutting up the French toast she had served herself—the smaller, less attractive pieces with burnt edges. “Aw, it’s no problem. I know how bummed you were the other day… whatever I can do to help, just let me know.”

“I won’t tether you. You’ve done enough. Thank you.”

Ruby had her faults as a roommate. You were no stranger to her messiness and forgetful nature, and you admitted that her flaws often made it difficult for you to embrace how compassionate and tender she could actually be when she wasn’t blasting music from her room, beating down her face with a makeup sponge, getting ready for the club. Besides, they were pet peeves that a few good, communicative conversations could probably fix.

The girl picked up her phone for a moment, then raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that Vernon texted me this morning. He said you left your canteen in his car.” She flicked the screen a few times with her thumb. “He also said he drank the rest of the hot chocolate.”

Circling around a chunk of toast in some maple syrup, you stared down at the plate, beginning to smile. “Jeez. That’s no surprise.”

Ruby nodded. “I’m gonna see him this week. I can grab it.”

Your fork paused, and you glanced up at the girl. Dark sections of hair were slipping down to tickle her face from her loose updo. “Uh…” you started with an uneasy quiver in your voice. “He could always swing by today if he wants. I mean, if he’s not busy! Like, whatever works.”

She lowered her phone, tilted her head at you. “Really?” There was ample surprise in the girl’s tone. “You’re… okay with that?”

You answered in confusion. “Uh… yes?”

“Well, it’s just—I think he wants to honour your little compromise thingy you had going on,” Ruby said while cutting up her breakfast. “If you help him find Diana, he doesn’t come by here anymore.”

Underneath the countertop, fingertips were digging straight into your exposed thigh. The blunder you just made had you metaphorically coiled up in ropes, to the point where you could afford to console your roommate with nothing but a fake, fraught smile.

“Mm… right… that.”

Ruby shrugged. “I mean, if you want me to ask him—”

“No!” You lurched, your fork making a sharp, tinny scrape against the porcelain plate. “It’s fine! It’s, like, fine. Totally fine. Yeah. The compromise thingy. My mind was just a little scrambled for a sec.”

She quirked her eyebrow. “So… do you want me to grab it?”

“You can grab it,” you nodded. “Or, if I, like, happen to run into him or something, I’ll get it back. Whatever happens, y’know?” Gulping, you continued to ignore Ruby’s eyeline. “Are you guys, still, fooling around?”

Ruby examined you for a moment, then grabbed her glass of orange juice, pausing it right before her round lips. “Fooling around?” She slurped some up. “Are we still having sex, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“No. We’ve kinda given that up for right now.” Suddenly, her face paled, blanched of its usual olive colour. “We weren’t being too loud, were we? I thought we were pretty quiet most nights—"

“It’s fine. Just wondering,” you said, feeling lighter, ever so slightly.

Wednesday. Hump Day. And possibly, your favourite weekday. The restaurant did tend to get a little busier, though it was nothing compared to the preluding weekend rush that was a Friday night. Wednesday customers tended to be politer, softer around the edges—they were coming off work, understanding of the homestretch to the weekend, and therefore much milder in temperament overall—nothing like the rowdiness of a late Friday.

The shift was going well. You had gotten some sweet tips from a few tables, a compliment about your smile (albeit from an older gentleman on his third glass of white wine), and you had yet to make one screw up to anger the bustling kitchen staff stuck in the steaming heat. While things were actually chipper at your job for once, your mind seemed to be making a confused mess of itself when you weren’t focused on the task at hand, and washing down a sticky table gave it free range to wander.

How could you walk back everything?

You agreed to Vernon’s compromise when your desperation to remove him from your life was overflowing. But now it was different. Like the seasons, there was change—your icy, hardened qualms had thawed to reveal the first green sprigs of regrowth underneath—and as much as you hated to capitulate, Ruby was right. Dammit! She was right! Vernon tweezed feelings out of you that you didn’t know were there. For every moment that he was frustrating and stubborn, he would paint right over it with an actual well-constructed thought of emotional intellect, or a witty remark to draw your smile, or an uncharacteristically gentle look.

What was this boy doing to you?

He was driving you mad.

Graffitiing the interior of your mind with mismatched feelings.

Pinching your skin and then kissing it better with his warm lips.

“Uh… I believe the table’s clean.”

You flinched. Tara was lingering behind you with an amused expression, holding onto stacked plates and empty cups. “Scrubbing the varnish out of it, are you?” She giggled. “Something on your mind?”

Stuffing the damp hand towel into a pocket on your apron, you immediately wrung your head back and forth. “Nothing. Just focused.”

Nodding, she resumed her swift strut toward the kitchen, that slick, glossy bun on her head practically reflecting the restaurant’s intimate lighting. Once Tara was gone, you decided to do a quick lap of the restaurant in case your current tables needed anything. After refilling some beverages and bringing the bill to a university seating of four, you were on your way back to the kitchen. Suddenly, however, someone had grabbed onto your elbow, and you nearly squealed when your shoe slipped on the recently re-waxed linoleum. Upon realizing who it was, you weren’t upset.

But you made sure to act like it.

“Are you trying to kill me? What the heck was that?”

Vernon folded his arms, awfully smug in his countenance. “Well, you’re fuckin’ walkin’ around this place like there’s a serial killer on your heel. Wanted to catch you before you vanish.”

“That’s what happens when you work in a place like this,” you lectured, a hand latching onto your hip. “You’ve gotta keep the pace.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He kept staring hard into your eyes with challenge, and you felt the hairs along your neck come to raise, as though you caught a tickled shiver. Your body’s reaction to him was automatic, betraying, and adrenaline-laced.

Too hot to maintain the eyeballing charade, you broke first. “Is there a reason you’re here? Are you meeting someone? Just hungry?”

“None of the above,” the boy answered, then proceeded to jerk his thumb in the direction of the windows overlooking the street. “Got your mug in my car, though. And since I’m banned from thy fine abode of utmost humbleness, thought I’d come by and catch you at your preppy little gig.”

“Right…” you murmured, flashing a glance down at your feet. It wasn’t the time or place to talk about the situation, even if your illogical half was huffing the temptation. Honestly, you were surprised he was actually honouring the compromise. “I don’t think I can grab it right now.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Well…” you eyed the menu on the table. “How about eating?”

But Vernon shook his head. “Nah. The food here was good and everything—love the sweet potato fries—just a little rough on the wallet.”

At that, you scoffed. “Aren’t you in four-hundred dollars?”

“I take my finances seriously, PJ’s.”

Arms crossed and eyes rolling, you sighed, “how responsible…”

“Hey, pleased you want to feed me and all,” Vernon chuckled in his usual cocky bravado, leaning back against the seat with his hands up. “But I think I’ll grab one of those Korean corndogs from that tiny shop just down the street. You ever had one? They’re cheap as hell. Tasty as fuck. Got a’ bunch of different toppings and sauces. I damn near orgasmed.”

A grimace twitched to your face. “I’ve never been.”

Vernon smirked; hands planted on his thighs. “Damn. You’re missin’ out, there, PJ’s. No food orgasms. No real orgasms.” He tilted his head at you, tsked his tongue. “I feel so bad for you. Sucks ass.”

A waft of heat from somewhere unknown gusted into your face and your throat crinkled up with dryness. “Oh gosh, y-you’re—” you coughed spit on your words, an elbow flying to your mouth, “—you’re insufferable.”

His fingers tapped the tabletop. “Am I?”

“Yes! Why’d you even come in here if you weren’t going to eat?”

“I just walked in and sat down. No one noticed or gave a fuck.”

“You’re loitering!”

He kinked his head at you. “The work of the devil, isn’t it?”

“Go buy your Korean corndog.”

“First—can I use your canteen to get free refills on the fruit punch?”

“No! I want that back...”

“Then I’ll come grab you after,” Vernon said while sliding off the chair and flapping out his rainproof jacket. He then placed a lighter in the corner of his mouth, adjusting something deep in his pants pocket, before he removed it. “Just don’t fuckin’ take ten years. You’re slow.”

“Grab me after... what? What are you talking about?”

Vernon placed his rough, textured palm to your cheek, and the contact was so searing, so unexpected, that your heart double-blipped in your chest, like a sonar. His thumb nuzzled against your ear, rubbing back and forth tenderly, and everything in your body ached. “Oh, fuck. You helpless little fuckin’ girl. You dumb, dumb little girl. It hurts me, y’know?”

Gulping the density sitting square in your throat, your lips physically quivered as you garnered the strength to mumble, "why am I dumb?”

He shook your warm face with his hand, peering closer, to the point where you could count those wispy, long eyelashes. “What the fuck do you think I’m talkin’ about, PJ’s? The weather? M’gonna pick you up after work.”

“O-Oh…” you stumbled, taking in a big breath, smelling nothing but the fresh air lingering on his clothes and the amber notes of his skin. “I think—I want—that’s really nice. Uh, thank you. Really. Thanks.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, letting his hand slide off your cheek. “I don’t know what the fuck goes on in your head sometimes. Honestly.”

You sighed, straightening out your limp shoulders. “Me either.”

Only an hour out from the end of your shift, you had never wanted the restaurant to close that bad before. Your tables were beginning to plaster on uneasy, questionable smiles as you made pitstops more and more frequently, desperate to get them moving, disappointed to know they wanted dessert, and miserable that you had to be the one to serve them. As you waited near the pass for a platter of chocolate strawberry mousses, glancing down at your phone for no less than a minute, watching time’s slow, inevitable crawl, Lara had whisked by.

But then she stopped. “Hey, uh… how’s service going?”

Wrinkling your nose, you put your phone away and looked at the girl, blinking absentmindedly. Lara starting a conversation with you was a feat so rare, you couldn’t even be sure she was speaking to you despite the emptiness of the thin hallway.

It took a second for your brain to catch up.

Clearing your throat, you shrugged. “Fine. How about you?”

“I guess it could be better… my tips suck.”

That wasn’t a surprise to you. “Oh, sorry... that’s unfortunate.”

She pressed her bow-shaped lips together, smearing about the dark honey stain she loved so much. “Yeah. I saw you talking to Vernon.”

Attempting to straighten out your back and stop leaning against the wall like a bored child, you held your hands together politely at the stomach and nodded. You didn’t want to admit that he was giving you a drive home, in case she might somehow try to wedge her way into coming along. Maybe that was selfish, unfair.

Lara tilted her head. “He didn’t stay to eat?”

“No,” you answered laconicly. “He was just stopping by.”

“Oh… m’kay.” She seemed kind of crestfallen, trailing her eyes along the tiled floor and off into the corner. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, bye.”

As Lara disappeared through the swinging doors, back into the dining room, your desserts were ready at the pass. While you were smiling, acting pleased to be serving your last table, at the edge of your mind you were feeling… sympathy… for Lara, a girl you never thought would need any.

When Vernon had rejected her offer for dinner, she probably experienced her heart plummet right to the floor of her chest like she was strapped into a nauseating carnival ride. Knowing her, she probably put on an indifferent, unbothered guise to match Vernon’s. She probably sensed her hope deflate into the unfathomable. But she would have handled it better than you. Such an ugly moment in your hands would be akin to a swinging foot headed for a delicate sandcastle—straight to a damaged lump.

 Some emotions were too hard to keep down.

However, by the time the restaurant closed and all the cleaning duties were completed, you were more than ready to throw yourself into the bitter, black street where the wind was finely sharpened and the guttural rumbling of Vernon’s Camry sounded closer to a comfortable purr. He was waiting for you, leaned against the side of the hood with his arms crossed.

The boy echoed a disapproving click of the tongue. “Slow, slow, slow. I need t’know what the fuck kinda cleanin’ you’re doin’ back there.”

You huffed, feeling your breath freeze. “Cleaning takes a long time if you actually care to do it right! Not that I’d expect you to know.”

He opened the passenger door for you. “Hm. Sounds more like you work too hard at a minimum wage job that doesn’t give a damn about you.”

You waited for him to join you in the heated car. “At least I earn my money legally so that I don’t have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.” Strapping on the seatbelt, you smirked. “How was the corndog?”

“A thing a’ beauty,” Vernon sighed dreamily, pushing up the sleeves to his jacket. “Deep-fried perfection on a stick. I coulda ate the entire store.”

“And you didn’t use my mug for free refills on the punch?”

Vernon glanced at the cupholders where your canteen had been waiting since Saturday. “Nope. It would probably make it taste like hot chocolate and candy canes. I like some weird fuckin’ combos, but I can’t imagine that would go well with punch. It’d probably kill me.”

“If that’s what ends up killing you, I’d be shocked.”

He raised his thick eyebrow at you, swabbing his tongue along his bottom lip, letting it prod at his piercing. “Damn. You’re gettin’ pretty fuckin’ quick with these comebacks. Can’t help but think I contributed.”

You wanted to bark a laugh, tell him how much he’d wish for that to be true (though, it probably was), but there was too much pride stuffing itself into the caverns of your chest from the compliment. Squeezing onto your coat sleeves, you knew you should bring up the compromise—you should tell Vernon that he didn’t really have to honour the deal—he could crash at your apartment whenever he needed to, as long as he followed some basic rules of hospitality and decency. If he ever found himself without a place to stay, you weren’t going to be the stingy, cross woman to turn a blind eye. It was a misjudgement. You coloured in the lines with too much weight.

“So, um… I was wondering if we could talk about…” for a moment, you paused, feeling your pulse beat its fists against your neck as the nervousness oozed out. “Shoot…” you whispered under your breath.

Vernon adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Hm? Talk about what?”

“Well… I think that…” you inhaled, and it sounded ragged. “I wanted to talk about the compromise thingy, I guess… if that’s okay.”

“Yeah?” He questioned. “What for?” Vernon started to smile, slight flashes of his sharp teeth twinkling in the dimness. “You tryna push me out even further, PJ’s. Is that it? Can’t come within a five-mile radius type shit?”

Smitten, your head shook. “No—no, no. Not that.”

He folded his arms, leaned against the window, and better angled himself so he could look at you more clearly. “Enlighten me, then.” The fuzzy streetlight was like a sheer, golden fog coming in through the window, catching in the boy’s facial jewelry and those softening, attentive eyes. What was it that you wanted to bring up?

He brushed a hand through his hair and your attention was immediately drawn like a moth to flame. All those pristine tattoos dressed around his fingers, snaking up his wrist, disappearing underneath his black jacket—all those subtle veins grooving along his skin, like predestined pathways you wanted to trace with your very own affectionate fingertip—you were wading into deep water, losing your train of thought the further you pushed, feeling the suction pull you and not resisting even one tiny bit because this was the closest you had ever been to genuinely liking someone.

This was the closest you had ever been to genuinely liking someone and this was the most bravery you had ever felt in all your timid, passive years of living.

“Vernon… I  know that when we first met, I was angry. And I may have considered calling the police on you because of that… um… anger… but I never did because… I can be a touch dramatic sometimes. As you know. And have witnessed. But the thing is, the more time I spend with you, the more I realize… well… okay—I-I like you.” Your eyes squeezed shut after you made the confession, as though you might reopen them and find that the universe reversed time. Vernon would still be getting in the car and you would be smirking with the itch to lick him with your newfound wit.

But when your eyes opened, Vernon was still leaned against the window, except the calm, warm stillness to his face had spilled into something opposite—concern, caution, even a flash of fear you had never observed before—and your insides packed tight into a ball.

He swallowed. “Uh… fuck…” the boy whispered, slowly beginning to push himself up, teething hard on his lip, waiting for the right words to settle. “PJ’s, listen. You’re a real nice girl. I’ve had fun screwin’ around with you… but…” he grabbed his chin, strumming a pensive thumb underneath it, and shook his head. “Man, I just—I don’t… think of you like that.”

And then, a horrible, heavy, stifling silence thickened the air.

The first thought in your head—don’t cry—don’t you dare cry in the front seat of his car after getting shot down. Don’t you dare show even the slightest glimmer of emotion, whether that’s a runny sniffle, or tears wobbling against your eyes, or the unnatural twitch of a finger. But then you recalled Lara. Another girl who probably said something much more coherent than you, with a lot more confidence. You recalled Ruby heeding you with her cautionary tale. You recalled that locker being slammed right in your face all those years ago, in a junior high hallway, a physical sound to the rejection that still echoed throughout your head to this very day.

Breathing in deep, you gulped, you smiled, and you nodded. “I understand—” you laughed a little, and it was clearly unstable, blending into a weird whimper that you hastily swallowed, “—so, I’ll be going now.”

“What? Goin’ where?” Vernon inquired. His face turned wrought with dread when you opened the car door, gripping onto your bag for comfort and support as you stepped back onto the sidewalk. “PJ’s, no—that’s fuckin’ stupid. It’s cold as fuck outside. C’mere. Get back in. I can still—”

“I really don’t want that,” you told him, taking another step away from the warmth of the vehicle. “Thank you for the offer. Goodnight.”

“PJ’s. I’m actually fuckin’ serious,” he deadpanned, the grit in his voice hardening. “Get the fuck in the car. You’re not gonna take the bus.” A flustered hand cast through his black tresses, and he exhaled. “I mean, you can even sit in the backseat if that’ll make you more comfy. I can blast some music, or we can ride in silence. Whatever you want. It’s too cold.”

He was making it excruciatingly hard not to burst into a bucket of tears right there on the street. The fervent, unkind wind was determined to pluck them out, causing your eyes to sting, turning Vernon blurry. “You’re not listening,” you warbled, reedy in tone. “I don’t want a ride home. Please, just go.”

The boy scoffed, gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah? Go fuckin’ where? If you’re gonna take the bus, then I’m gonna sit here and make sure you actually get on.” He had never sounded so stern before. His casualness was stripped like bark off a tree. “I can’t believe you’re bein’ this stubborn.”

“Vernon, just go!” You shouted at him. A congested sniffle came immediately after, and your fists clenched in anguish at the realization you were unsewing before him, bit by bit, letting your emotion dominate.

“Fuck you,” he gritted, tongue running over his teeth. “Make me.”

“Vernon!”

“You wanna take the bus so fuckin’ bad? Then walk your ass right on over there and take the bus. But I’m not gonna leave this spot until I see you get on.” He proceeded to flick his hand. “So go. Take the fuckin’ bus.”

Tears overwhelming your eyes, you glared at him, sucked in a hoarse, trembling breath, and slammed his door so hard that the entire car shuddered. But you didn’t pay attention. You didn’t wait for the street to clear—you just marched straight across it to the bus stop on the other side—hearing a car horn blare at you. Vernon must think you were the dumbest girl he had ever met. It didn’t matter. At that rate, you would never see him or his beautiful, summery eyes again. Choked up and weeping, holding onto yourself tight, you felt the stares of the few people at the bus stop avoid you like you were diseased. Like you were some alien fallen out of the sky.

You wished you didn’t care they way they did.

Life must be a lot easier.

—END OF PART TWO.