The air inside Richie and Tiff’s kitchen was thick with the scent of maple syrup and the heavy, buzzing tension of an unspoken standoff.
Richie was pacing a tight line across the linoleum.. He kept glancing toward the front window, then back to where you stood by the counter, calmly wiping down the edge of the sink.
"I'm just saying, cousin, it’s a quick run. In and out. Gary, Indiana," Richie pleaded, his voice hitting that fast, desperate cadence he always got when he was trying to manifest a miracle. "Jimmy specifically said it’s a two-man job, but we all know three is our magic number. The trinity. You, me, and Mikey. Come on. The truck’s got plenty of room. You love the open road."
You didn't even look up from your wiping. "No, Richie."
"Why not? Since when do you miss a drop? We’re a team, [Y/N]! It’s weird if you’re not there. Mikey’s gonna think it’s weird."
"This is the first trip for Jimmy I’m skipping, and it’s for a very good reason," you said, finally tossing the rag into the sink and turning to face him. You pointed a definitive finger toward the living room, where Tiff was heavily, uncomfortably nesting on the sofa. "Look at her, Richie. She is very pregnant. She’s practically a ticking clock. I am not leaving her alone in this house today just so I can ride shotgun while you and Mikey argue over a mixtape, who by the way, will not think my absence is weird."
"I made a special CD!" Richie argued, gesturing wildly, ignoring the last part of your statement, "It's got a whole narrative arc!"
"I don't care about the narrative arc," you countered smoothly, walking past him into the living room to check on Tiff. "I care about making sure your wife doesn't have to drive herself to the hospital if her water breaks early. I’m staying right here."
Before Richie could launch into another frantic counter-argument, a loud, obnoxious blare cut through the morning air.
Richie stiffened. "Go time. Ooh." He looked down at his clothes, smoothing his jacket. "You look good. Yeah?"
Tiff smiled softly from the couch, her eyes warm but anxious. "I am proud of you."
"I’m proud of you. I love you," Richie murmured, leaning down to press his forehead against hers.
"I love you so much. Mmm," Tiff whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck for a long, tight second.
Richie detached himself, but his eyes instantly flicked to you, standing guard right beside the couch. He reached out, grabbing your shoulder. "And I love you." He chuckled, pulling you into a quick, rough squeeze, followed by a forehead kiss.
You caught him by the lapels of his jacket, planting a firm kiss on his cheek. "And I love you."
Richie grinned, leaning back down to give Tiff one last press of his lips. "M m m."
"Mwah," Tiff kissed him back, but the sheer gravity of his lingering was starting to wear on her nerves. She let out a soft chuckle, pushing at his chest. "My God, just fucking go before he starts..."
HOOOOONK. The truck horn outside vibrated through the windowpane, cutting off Tiff.
"Doing that more," Tiff urged.
"Richie go, and you better be home by 5:15," you reminded him sharply, basically pushing him towards the door
The honking outside was getting rhythmic, relentless, and entirely impatient. Mikey was sitting in the truck, his hand practically glued to the steering wheel.
"No problemo, Cousin," Richie yelled over his shoulder, as you pushed him towards the door.
Richie threw the door open, stepping out onto the small porch into the biting Chicago air. You stood in the open doorway, watching from the threshold as Mikey’s massive truck sat idling at the curb, exhaust pluming into the sky.
Richie cupped his hands around his mouth. "Yo, stop, stop! You’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood!"
Mikey didn't lower the window, but the honking finally ceased. From the porch, Richie turned back to give you one last wave. "Be fucking on time," you called out to him, your voice cutting through the cold.
Richie nodded, turning around to jog down the steps—and stopped dead in his tracks. His hands flew to his pockets, frantically slapping his thighs.
"Shit, I forgot s…" Richie muttered, his face falling into absolute panic. He looked back at the house, then down at his empty hands. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"What did you forget?" you asked as Richie yelled back, already spinning on his heel. "Motherfucker. Damn it."
"Fucking… oh yeah, there it is." Richie screamed, turning to Mikey with his finger sticking out of the zipper of his pants, you could just imagine that his tongue was out as he pointed towards the truck.
"Would you get in a fucking truck!" Mikey roared across the snow-dusted lawn, his eyes locked onto Richie, before his gaze briefly, heavily flicked to you standing in the doorway, he wanted nothing more than to tell you to get your ass in the truck, but he knew you wouldn't.
"Get in the fucking truck!" Richie mimicked back
"Get in the car Richie!," you shouted, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips despite the heavy weight in your chest.
"Okay, okay, okay, okay," Richie scrambled, throwing himself into the passenger side of the truck and slamming the door. Through the windshield, you could see his mouth moving a mile a minute as he buckled his seatbelt.
As the truck shifted into gear, Richie’s laugh echoed faintly across the yard. "Let’s go."
Inside the cab, Mikey’s hand reached for the radio, but Richie quickly slapped it down, pointing a warning finger at his friend. "J-Just nothing loud yet, all right, just…"
The truck pulled away from the curb, leaving a cloud of white exhaust in the freezing air. You watched it disappear down the block before slowly closing the front door, shutting out the cold, and turning back to the quiet house to wait.
The truck cab smelled of stale upholstery and lukewarm paper cups as Mikey shifted into gear, the engine roaring as they hit the open road toward Indiana. He threw a furious glance at the cup sitting in the center console before grabbing it and taking another harsh sip.
"How terrible is that fucking filth?" Mikey spat, grimacing as he swallowed.
It had been six months since you walked out of his life. Six months since he made breakfast for himself, and for six months, nothing tasted right. Every morning he tried to make coffee the way you used to—measuring the grounds, trying to get the temperature right—it always came out bitter, hollow, or burnt. You had this way of making it that he couldn't replicate no matter how hard he tried. And this morning, out of pure frustration, he had given up and driven to the drive-thru.
"I got it from fucking GoGo’s," Mikey muttered, glaring at the logo on the cup like it had personally insulted him.
Richie, sitting in the passenger seat with his knees practically touching the dashboard, took a thoughtful sip from his own cup. "I think it’s pretty good. What is it, hazelnut?"
"And they’re debit only now," Mikey snapped, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "What if you don’t have a debit card, right?"
"Then you’re fucked if you don’t have a debit card," Richie said logically.
"You got the debit card. You got to pay a fucking fee," Mikey grumbled, staring straight at the highway ahead.
"They fuck you in the ass either way," Richie reasoned, leaning back. "Yeah, because if they do the credit card, then they got to pay a percentage to the credit card."
"I understand, but why fuck the customer? It’s just for no reason," Mikey growled, tossing the cup back into the holder with enough force to spill a little onto the plastic.
Richie watched him closely for a long moment, the banter fading into something heavier. He saw the shadow over Mikey's eyes—the exhaustion, the unspoken grief that always surfaced whenever Mikey had to face a morning without you.
"Got to tell you, Mike," Richie said softly, dropping his voice a notch. "It’s kind of like a little bit of a glass-half-empty kind of energy you’re working with for this mission."
"00-fucking-suck-my-dick. What do you mean a mission?" Mikey barked, deflecting instantly.
"Yo, we’re fucking transporting some goods across state lines," Richie insisted, gesturing toward the back.
"We’re taking a fucking tape box to Gary, Indiana. Gary, fucking Indiana. That’s where we’re going."
"What’s in the box?" Richie asked.
"I don’t know what’s in the fucking box. It’s taped. I just said it’s taped."
"You can tell me," Richie pushed gently.
"All right, fair enough. I don’t need to know," Richie relented, before pausing. He leaned in slightly, shifting the subject back to what was actually eating at Mikey. "Look, Mike... the coffee sucks because she didn't make it. You know that, right? You're spiraling over a five-dollar cup of GoGo's because you miss her. You gotta call her, man. Just fix it. Patch it over."
Mikey’s jaw worked silently, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes didn't fill with tears—there was no soft, quiet grief in him, only a raw, jagged wound that burned hot behind his ribs. His voice dropped, losing all its manic volume, hardening into a quiet, devastating certainty.
"I can't patch it over, Rich," Mikey said, his chest heaving with a heavy, dry breath. "She would never forgive me for what I said at that dinner. She shouldn't."
"I said those things to rip her away from me!" Mikey cut him off, his voice thick with a fiercely guarded emotion, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at the asphalt. "If someone said that filth to me? If someone stood in front of a whole room and tore my soul apart like that? I would never forgive them. Not in this lifetime. I'd hate them until the day I died. So don't tell me to fix it. I gave her every reason to lock the door, and I have to live with it."
The heavy silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Richie swallowed hard, realizing he couldn't break through the wall Mikey had built. He forced a sudden, sharp shift in energy, falling back on their old defenses.
"You’re a fucking donkey. That’s what you fucking are," Richie declared, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "That’s what you are, you fucking haul… You don’t even know what you’re fucking taking. You’re just fucking moving. Donkey. Fucking pack mule donkey."
Mikey let out a rough, humorless bark of a laugh, the tension breaking just enough for him to breathe again. "I am a donkey. Yeah."
"You ever see what a donkey’s packing downstairs?" Richie grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.
Mikey smirked, shaking his head as he stared at the road ahead, the awful taste of the coffee still lingering on his tongue. "Did you see that donkey downstairs?"
Richie chuckled softly. "Hee-haw."
The tires of the truck hummed against the asphalt as the Chicago skyline slowly shrank in the rearview mirror. Mikey kept his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed forward on the open road, while Richie fidgeted in the passenger seat, already restless.
"Come on," Richie said, gesturing broadly to the windshield. "We’re having a great day. Bop down to Gary. Little bada bing, bada boom, bop back out of here. We’re fucking home by 5:15, the latest."
Mikey didn't turn his head, his jaw tight. "5:15? Why 5:15?"
"It’s just a thing with Tiff that she’s got superstition about."
"Superstition about what?"
"Her mom went into labor at 5:15 and she got it in her head that she’s gonna, you know, the same thing’s gonna happen to her," Richie explained, leaning forward. "And look, if I’m not through that door by 5:15, [Y/N] will literally kill me. She'll bury me in the yard and Tiff will help her."
A heavy, sudden shift passed over the driver's side of the cab. Mikey’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. A hollow, aching look crossed his face, his eyes dropping to the road as a sad, bitter smile touched his lips.
"She wouldn't kill you," Mikey whispered, his voice dropping an octave, completely losing its edge. "She’s too sweet to kill you, Cousin. She'd just look at you... and you'd wish you were dead instead."
Richie quieted down, the mention of your name casting a long, sobering shadow over the dashboard.
For the next few minutes, a suffocating silence settled into the truck. The hum of the engine felt incredibly loud. Mikey stared blankly through the windshield, the manic energy he’d been forcing all morning completely evaporating, leaving behind a raw, exhausted grief. The weight of the silence—of everything he had thrown away on Christmas night—seemed to physically press down on him.
Finally, Mikey let out a ragged breath, so quiet it was almost swallowed by the vents.
"I really fucked up, Rich," Mikey whispered into the dark space of the cab, his voice cracking slightly. "I really... I really fucking broke it."
Richie swallowed hard. He looked at his best friend, seeing the dangerous, dark downward spiral starting to pull Mikey under before they’d even crossed the state line. Desperate to keep the train on the tracks, desperate to yank Mikey back into the light before the shadows took over completely, Richie frantically reached for the console and slammed a CD into the player.
"Why would the same thing… I know," Richie blurted out loudly, trying to force the conversation back to safety as the music kicked in. "‘Cause literally, how many minutes are in a fucking day? There’s like thousands of fucking minutes in a day!"
Mikey didn't bite, still staring out at the grey horizon, so Richie leaned over, clearing his throat and singing along to the track with an aggressive, exaggerated theater-kid energy, practically shouting over the speakers to drown out the quiet.
"♪ With my Kansas City baby! And a bottle of Kansas City wine! ♪" Richie belted out, clapping his hands against his thighs. "♪ Well, I might take a train, I might take a plane, but if I have to walk, I’m going just the same! ♪"
Mikey’s eyes closed for a brief second, the corners of his mouth twitching against his will.
"♪ I’m going to Kansas City! Kansas City, here I come! ♪" Richie sang at the top of his lungs, pointing dramatically at the green highway signs flashing past. "♪ They got some crazy little women there, and I’m gonna get me one! ♪"
Richie slapped the dashboard, leaning back in his seat with a heavy breath. "Yo. Welcome to Indiana. There you go. You’re a fucking world traveler. Congratulations. Let’s go." He nudged Mikey’s shoulder roughly. "Oh yeah, you feel different?"
The music kept playing, a bright, loud shield against the heavy truth riding in the truck with them.
The clock on Tiffany’s kitchen wall ticked down with agonizing precision, its steady click-click-click the only sound cutting through the heavy afternoon heat.
You sat at the small table, hands wrapped tightly around a mug of herbal tea that had long since gone cold. Across from you, Tiff shifted uncomfortably on the couch, her hands cradling the massive, round slope of her stomach. She let out a sudden, deep breath, her face twisting into a sharp grimace.
When the phone on the counter suddenly buzzed, vibrating violently against the wood, both of you jumped.
You reached it first, grabbing the receiver before Tiff could awkwardly push herself up. "Hello?"
"[Y/N]! Hey, cousin, thank God," Richie’s voice boomed through the line, layered over the low, ambient hum of a highway. He sounded slightly out of breath, his characteristic manic energy buzzing through the static. "Listen, how’s Tiff? She alright? She having contractions yet? Put me on speaker."
You hit the button, holding the phone between you and the couch. "Hey! Hi hon," Tiff breathed, her voice a little ragged.
"Hi. Hey. How are you feeling?" Richie asked, the underlying panic in his voice completely transparent.
"Uh, um, I, you know, I think I’m good," Tiff said, though she winced slightly as she leaned back against the cushions.
"What do you mean?" Richie groaned.
"I don’t know. I’m not sure how to describe it," Tiff sighed, looking at you helplessly. "It’s just like, it’s like…"
"It’s like, I feel like I have to shit really bad, but I don’t know," Tiff admitted, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping her. "I can’t tell if this is what the doctor said to look out for."
"Okay. Contraction? You think it’s like… like Braxton Hicks? Okay." Richie was clearly hyperventilating on the other end.
"Uh, yeah, probably," Tiff said, trying to soothe him. "But you know, I’ll be okay. It’s not close to 5:15 yet, so. Yeah? Yeah, don’t worry, I’m okay. Did you do the drop-off?"
"Uh, almost. We’re crossing state lines, just hit Indiana," Richie said. "Jimmy’s got us on this crazy errand, some delivery in Gary. Mikey’s driving the truck like a maniac, but we're on track. Hey, speaking of, Mikey wanted to—"
"Tiff just drank some water, Richie," you interrupted cleanly, cutting him off the exact millisecond his name left his lips. Your voice didn't waver, but your grip on the phone tightened until your knuckles turned white. "She’s trying to stay hydrated. She's resting. How’s the drive? Are you having fun?"
"Yeah, yeah, we’re having a good time," Richie said, momentarily derailed by your sudden interjection. "I got the mixtape going, we're making time. But look, [Y/N], about Mikey... he’s been real quiet, and he actually said—"
"Did you remember to pack the hospital bags in the trunk of your car like I told you?" you asked smoothly, steering the conversation completely away from the ghost that had been haunting your life since Christmas.
"Yeah, yeah, it’s in the back, I checked it twice," Richie sighed, a heavy, frustrated note entering his voice as he realized what you were doing. "But seriously, cousin, he’s really hurting, he looks like shit, and I think you two need to—"
"Well, I’m proud of you," Tiff chimed in, giving you a sympathric look. "I’m really proud of you. But don’t smoke any cigarettes though, honey. Promise me, right?"
"Right. Okay," Richie muttered.
"Listen, I’m gonna call you back, okay?" Tiff said, her eyes fluttering shut as another wave of discomfort hit her.
"All right. I love you," Richie said softly. "Okay, I love you so much. And [Y/N]—"
"Just make sure you’re back by five-fifteen. Be safe," you whispered, and pressed the button to hang up before he could say another word.
You hadn’t seen Mikey since Christmas night. Since the moment you walked out the door it had been deafening silence from Mikey, who was your best friend in the world. You were to the point where you didn't want to talk about him, because in your mind, if he wanted to make it right... he would.
-------------------------
The booth at the Koney King smelled of old grease and cold wind. Mikey leaned his forearms against the table, staring down at the beverage the server had just set in front of him.
"Appreciate it," Richie told the woman, before sliding his own drink closer. He took a long sip of his lemonade, smacking his lips. "Yo, Mike, you’re missing out. Missing out, huh?"
"Nah," Mikey muttered, his eyes fixated on his glass. He had specifically ordered an Arnold Palmer—half iced tea, half lemonade. He picked up the straw, swirling the ice around in a slow, rhythmic circle. "I like the tea in it. Cuts the sugar."
Richie stopped mid-sip, his eyes narrowing as he watched the dark swirl of the tea mixing with the yellow juice. A sharp, knowing look crossed Richie's face, his tone dropping the casual banter.
"An Arnold Palmer, Mike? Seriously?" Richie called him out, leaning over the table. "Since when do you drink those? You fucking hate iced tea. You’ve said a million times it tastes like dirt."
Mikey’s fingers tensed around the glass. He didn't look up. "Changed my mind."
"Bullshit," Richie saw right through it, his voice softening into something heavier, more cautious. "That’s her drink. Every time we went out, every single diner drop for Jimmy, she ordered an Arnold Palmer. You’re ordering her drink, Mike."
Mikey’s jaw clenched, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He aggressively took a deep drag through the straw, swallowing the liquid before shoving the glass away from him entirely. "I just wanted the fucking tea, Rich. Drop it."
The silence returned, thick and suffocating, until the bell above the door chimed and they headed back out to the truck.
Back on the open road, the heavy atmosphere from the diner lingered, trapped inside the small cab of the truck. Richie was trying desperately to shift the energy, flipping through his mind for anything to talk about.
"Cousin, what do you think of the name Annie?" Richie asked, looking over at Mikey. "Throw some names at me you like. Hit me."
Mikey kept his eyes on the grey Indiana highway. "Call me crazy, but I actually like the name Althea."
"Althea? Althea sounds like the name of like somebody that’s getting their ass kicked all the time," Richie scoffed, shaking his head. "Nah. Althea? Sounds like a nerd."
"Nah, Althea. Real strong," Mikey murmured, a faint, distant memory flitting behind his eyes. He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher register as he stared at the dashboard. "Or... Eva. I met this, uh, Eva that I liked once. Eva."
Richie frowned, turning in his seat to look at his best friend. "Eva? Where the fuck did you meet an Eva?"
Mikey’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white against the leather. He didn't look at Richie. "We didn't meet her, Rich. It was... it was the name. Last year, when [Y/N] had that scare. Before everything went to hell. We sat up until three in the morning in my kitchen, talking about what we'd do if it was real. She said if it was a girl, she wanted Eva. After her grandmother."
Richie went completely quiet. He looked away, staring out his own window as the weight of what Mikey had thrown away settled into the truck again. Mikey’s voice was barely a whisper now, the manic edge totally gone. "She loved that name."
The music in the cab shifted, the energetic beat filling the tense space between them.
"Yo," Richie said, breaking the silence. "You see that sign?"
"Huh?" Mikey muttered, his posture rigid. "Cousin, you see that sign over there?"
"I think… Did you… Did you see it before?"
"What you talking about?" Mikey asked, his patience wearing thin.
"I’m saying there is no way… The two of us are sitting here for over an hour and neither of us have seen that fucking sign right there."
"Yeah, Rich, it's a fucking sign."
"I think that bar just appeared—"
"Shut the fuck up," Mikey cut him off, staring straight ahead.
"Yo, for real. For real though. Shut the fuck up," Richie insisted, leaning closer to the windshield. "I think that bar just fucking appeared, Michael."
Mikey let out a dry, exasperated chuckle. "Okay, bar just fucking appeared, Rich."
"You don’t think that’s crazy?"
"Uh… It’s a fucking bar. It’s a sign. Mmm."
"It’s a sign 'Open.' That sign is a sign. That sign is a sign. We’re going in there."
"Are you fucking retarded? Are you fucking…" Mikey sighed, turning his head to glare at him. "We’ve been sitting here an hour. He’s gonna call any minute. We’re not going in a fucking bar."
"What’s the big deal? We run in with a little fucking shot of rhythm and blues."
"We’re not going in the fucking bar, Rich. Just sit down and do your fucking job. Listen to what I’m telling you."
"Michael, that sign is a sign. Okay, it’s a fucking sign. Some things are bigger than you and me and fucking Jimmy. We are going in there."
"We’re not going in the fucking bar. Just sit the fuck down. Oh, man, I hate when you get like this."
"Don’t hit the fuck… What are you doing? What are you fucking doing?" Mikey snapped as Richie reached for the door handle. "All right. You’re right. You’re right."
"Damn it," Mikey muttered. "You’re right."
"We can’t go in. Right." Richie paused for a second as the song continued to play. Suddenly, he threw the passenger door open and stepped out into the nature of Gary.
"What are you doing? Hey, Richie, get in the fucking car. Rich!"
Richie ignored him, walking around to the driver's side window with a bizarre, deadpan look on his face. He tapped on the glass. "Sir, can you please step out of the vehicle?"
Mikey just stared at him, incredulous. "Sir, please, I’m not going to ask you again. Please step out of the vehicle. License and registry. Okay, that’s it." Richie suddenly lunged slightly, pointing a fake finger-gun. "Put your vagina where I can see it! Put your vagina right where I can see it!"
"Stop! There’s fucking houses," Mikey hissed, half-laughing but deeply embarrassed. "Stop. Yo. Yo, come on."
"What do you mean come on? We’re not going."
"Yo, come on, let’s just go."
"I’m not going. No. One bourbon, one shot, one beer. Just a little shot of rhythm and blues and we come back."
"We’re not doing it. Come on."
"Your fucking hand… Are you fucking cra… You fucking do a shot of fucking cocaine, you think you can fight a fucking tiger? Come on. Stop."
"It’s fucking terrible," Richie said, his face falling into deep, dramatic disappointment.
"I’m like genuinely inspired here and you’re just shitting all over my fucking dreams. It’s terrible. I hope you feel good about yourself right now."
"Why are you pressuring me?" Mikey growled.
"Fuck," Richie sniffled, pulling his jacket tight. "I’m going in."
"Oh, shit," Richie muttered, checking his reflection in the truck's side mirror. "Yo, I’m good? How do I look?"
"You look like a fucking barbarian. You look like my father."
"All right, I’m going to go. Honk if you need anything. Yeah!" Richie exhaled, letting out a sharp trill as he walked away. "You’ll fucking see. You’ll fucking see. You’re gonna remember this fucking day. That’s a fucking sign!"
The heavy door of the bar slammed shut behind him.
Mikey sat alone in the quiet cab of the truck, the ambient noise of the highway suddenly feeling distant. He looked around the empty street, the silence pressing into him. With a shaky breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He scrolled through his contacts until he found your name. He tapped it, and your contact photo filled the screen.
He stared at it, a genuine, soft smile finally breaking through his hard exterior. In the photo, you were sitting effortlessly in a sleek leather chair in front of your massive apartment window, the bright Chicago skyline stretching out behind you. Your hair cascaded perfectly over your shoulders, framing your face as your dark, painted nails lightly brushed against your cheek. You were wearing a white lace strapless corset top that beautifully contrasted your normally dark attire, and a pair of heavily distressed, ripped blue jeans that bared your knees and feet. You looked radiant, confident, and completely out of his league.
A wave of profound longing hit his chest. His thumb hovered directly over the green call button. He wanted to hear your voice so badly it physically ached. He just wanted to press it, to take back everything he had thrown away.
His finger descended, millimeters away from the glass—
A sharp rap on the passenger window shattered the quiet. Mikey jumped, instantly locking his phone and sliding it flat onto the center console, face down. He looked up to see a woman with dark hair peering in at him, a knowing grin on her face. Sherri.
He took a ragged breath, the heavy shield sliding right back over his eyes as he rolled down the window.
Inside, the atmosphere was loud and smoky. Richie was in his element, holding court with a group of local women, aggressively acting out the story of his high school math tutor, Roxelana, and his own humiliating digestive betrayal. The table was roaring with laughter, shouting "Fact!" and slamming their glasses down.
Mikey sat on a stool slightly removed from the inner circle, a heavy, dark cloud hanging over him. Sherri stood nearby, teasing him, trying to bait him into the game of fact or fiction, but Mikey was completely shut down.
Richie, riding the high of his successful storytelling, raised his beer mug toward Mikey. "Sadly, sadly, it is a fact! That is a fucking fact! But yo, if you think that's crazy, you should hear the stories from back when the three of us were kids. Me, Mike, and [Y/N]—"
"Richie," Mikey interrupted.
The word wasn't loud, but it was incredibly sharp. It cut through the laughter at the table like a razor blade. Mikey’s eyes, bloodshot and wild with the pressure building in his head, locked onto Richie with a cold, terrifying rage.
Richie blinked, caught off guard. "What? I'm just saying, cousin, she used to—"
"Shut the fuck up, Richie," Mikey spat, standing up so fast his barstool rattled against the floorboards. The friendly, melancholic pining from the truck was entirely gone, replaced by a volatile, defensive fury. "Don't say her name. Do not say her fucking name in here."
"Mike, calm down, I’m just talking about—"
"I said drop it!" Mikey roared, leaning over the table, his chest heaving as he targeted all of his internal agony straight at his best friend. "You don't bring her up in a place like this. You don't bring her up to these people. You don't get to say her name to me. Keep your fucking mouth shut."
The women at the table went completely silent, the fun instantly evaporating from the room. Mikey stared Richie down for one more agonizing second, his hands trembling with a toxic, unbridled anger, before he turned on his heel and stormed toward the back hallway, desperate to escape the ghost he had spent the whole day invoking.
The phone on the kitchen counter buzzed again, cutting through the thick, tense quiet of the afternoon. You snatched it up instantly, checking on Tiff, who was now breathing through another sharp wave of discomfort on the couch.
"Richie?" you said into the receiver, your voice tight.
"Tiff, it’s me. It’s Richie. Wait. No, I can barely hear you," Richie’s voice blared over the line, completely drowned out by the thumping bass of a jukebox and a chorus of loud, laughing voices.
"Richie, it's [Y/N]," you said, pressing the phone hard against your ear to block out the noise on his end. "Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."
"Tiff, it’s me, Richard!" he shouted anyway, entirely missing what you just said.
Tiff leaned forward from the cushions, her face pale. "Oh, hi! Where are you?"
"I’m in fucking Gary," Richie yelled back over the racket.
You frowned, your eyes narrowing as you caught the loose, slightly slurred cadence of his voice. "It’s so loud there, Richie. You sound like you’re in a bar. Are you in a bar?"
"It’s going so good," he evaded, his tone a little too loose, a little too manic.
"Richie, look at me—well, listen to me," you snapped, your internal radar instantly pinging. You could tell right away that he was either drunk or riding some kind of high, even if he wasn't about to admit it to you. "Why are you in a bar?"
"‘Cause the clients," he stammered quickly.
"What clients? What clients are you meeting there?" you demanded, crossing your arms.
"They’re clients from Jimmy. Tiff, it’s going so fucking good. Mikey is so smooth, he’s so fucking smooth. It’s… Mikey is so smooth! I can’t really–"
"Richie, shut up and listen to me," you interrupted cleanly, cutting through his rambling before he could drag you into talking about Mikey. Your voice went dead serious, dropping into a sharp command. "Tell Mikey to hurry the fuck up and get his ass in that truck. You need to get home right now."
"We’re having such a good time—" Richie’s voice started to crackle as the reception wavered.
"I don't care about the good time!" you shouted back, leaning over the counter. "Tiff is probably going to have to go to the hospital soon to have your daughter. The 5:15 thing is becoming a reality, Richie. Tell him to drive!"
"Okay, can you hear me? ‘Cause I can’t really hear you," Richie's voice started chopping up through the static, the bar noise fading in and out. "Hello? Hello? How are you feeling?"
"Richie! Do not hang up—"
But the line went completely dead. You stared at the receiver for a second, your heart hammering against your ribs, before slowly putting it back on the cradle and turning to face Tiff.
Tiff would likely lean back against the cushions, letting out a heavy, exhausted sigh, and look at you with a mixture of intense irritation and disbelief.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now? A bar? In Gary? He knows exactly what today is. He knows how terrified I’ve been about this timing, and he decides today is the perfect day to drag Richie into some local dive? I swear, Mikey has zero concept of anything outside of his own chaotic world. Richie is about to become a father—any second now—and Mikey is treating this like some completely reckless high school road trip. If Richie misses the birth of his daughter because he's sitting in a bar with Mikey, I will never, ever forgive him. And you can tell him I said that."
Your chest tightening with a familiar, bitter mix of anger and exhaustion. You set your cold tea down on the end table located next to the recliner, your voice dropping into a low, fiercely protective tone.
"You’re one hundred percent right, Tiff. It is reckless, it’s selfish, and it’s classic Michael," you say, the use of his full name tasting like ash in your mouth. "He’s a burning building right now, and he doesn't care who he traps inside with him. Richie knows better, too, but he always lets Mikey pull his strings."
You walk back over to the couch, gently sitting beside her and putting a reassuring hand on her arm, your expression hardening as you address her last point.
"But I’m not telling him shit. I haven't muttered a single word to him since Christmas night, and I am not breaking my silence to beg him to do the right thing. If he wants to ruin his relationship with Richie, that's on him. I'm not playing the buffer anymore. I’m done saving him from himself."
You take a deep breath, forcing your own anger down to focus entirely on her. "Right now, fuck both of them. You need to breathe. Do not let his chaotic bullshit stress you into labor right here on the living room floor. If Richie isn't back, I will be the one in that delivery room with you, holding your hand and cutting the cord. Let's just focus on getting you through the next hour."
Richie burst through the door into the bathroom, his chest heaving, the frantic energy of a man completely out of time radiating off him. He looked at Mikey and Sherri in the stall, his face tight with panic.
"I’m sorry to interrupt you guys," Richie blurted out, stepping up to them. "Cousin, we gotta… we gotta go. Okay, we’re going. We gotta go. Like, now."
"Rich, don’t do that," Mikey said, his voice low, a dangerous warning vibrating in his chest. "I said I’m coming."
"Mike, I’m serious. Okay, we’re fucking going!" Richie shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes wide. "Cousin, Jimmy said he hasn’t heard from you all day. This guy is waiting."
"Okay. I heard you. Cousin, I’m coming. All right," Mikey muttered, his head swimming as he tried to stabilize himself against the wall. He gave Sherri a small, heavy look. "I’ll be, uh, right outside. Fuck man, that’s… Hey, I’ll come back. Fiction."
The intricate, heavy progressive rock of “Heart of the Sunrise” began to swell from the jukebox as they spilled back out into the main bar area. Richie was practically vibrating out of his skin, grabbing Mikey’s arm to pull him toward the exit.
"Yo, Cousin, it’s go time. We gotta go," Richie muttered, eyeing Mikey's flushed, sweaty face. "You look like fucking Ronald McDonald. What’s wrong?"
"No," Mikey muttered, shaking him off.
"Us staying is not a capital crime. What’s the problem?" Mikey snapped, turning on him. "Yo, Cousin, we got this meeting in ten. Where’s the fire? Where’s the fire?"
"We’re going, we’re going. Okay, okay. All right. Hey, let’s hit it. Yeah. Yo, we’re out of here." Richie waved frantically to the women at the table. "Nice to meet you guys. It’s been a pleasure to meet y’all. Wow. Wow. Wow."
"Hang on," Mikey interrupted, his voice suddenly booming over the music as he spun around to face the room. The manic, toxic pressure in his head was reaching a boiling point. "What about my turn? Fact or fiction? Hey, we’re in America though, right? Last time I checked, Gary, Indiana is in the sovereign United States. Is it not, Vanessa? Are we not in Amer…? Everybody get a turn. Everybody gets a turn. Fucking, don’t… All right."
Mikey threw his arms out wide, addressing the entire room. "How great are you fucking people? How great is this fucking… This place got fucking heart. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Magic. This place is magic. All right."
The patrons cheered, fueled by the wild energy vibrating off the tall Chicagoan.
"Yo," Mikey continued, his eyes glassy, his smile terrifyingly bright. "We’re just a pair of fucking wired and worried travelers, and we fucking love it here. We thank you. We thank you, Gary fucking Indiana. We thank you."
As the crowd roared, Mikey stepped closer to Richie, clapping a heavy, bruising hand onto his shoulder. "Magic, magic. Thank you. Thank you. I just want to take this opportunity because right now, my, uh, my fine furry Cousin right there, my fucking best friend. Any second now, he’s gonna be a dad."
The women cheered loudly, raising their glasses. Tiff's face flashed in Richie's mind, a heavy anchor of guilt pulling at his gut. "Hang on. Hold on," Richie tried to mutter, but Mikey drowned him out completely.
"Not only that. Not only that. Not on… Hey, he’s happy. He’s happy. Rich, you’re happy. Right now, I swear this is… this is the most… It’s, like, the most healthy and, like, you’re-you’re… you’re full. You’re full and I love it. He’s in love, you know. Fucker cannot wait to be a father either. I mean, he can’t fucking… he can’t… he can’t fucking wait. I mean, he-he’s got this pride. You’re glowing, Rich. You’re glowing. I love you. It’s my fucking boy. I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Fucking love you. Look at him, he’s gonna be a dad. Look at him. Look at this fucking… That’s going to be a father. That. That right there is going to be a father, right?"
Mikey’s face shifted instantly. The warmth dissolved, leaving behind a cold, hollow sneer that stripped every ounce of oxygen from the room.
"Fucking kid’s gonna end up abandoned and alone just like he was," Mikey spat, his voice dropping like an anvil.
Richie froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Mike—"
"But hey, shit, hey, at least you went into it with a good fucking mindset, right, kid, huh?" Mikey let out a dry, manic chuckle. "I mean, no, no, no, no, no, it’s okay. No, I love it. That’s-that’s the thing. That’s the thing you got to know about Rich, man, is that the one thing that you can absolutely fucking depend on with this fucking guy is that if he is involved, he’s going to fuck it up. I mean, he is going to fuck it up and everybody knows it. I mean… nobody says it, right? Nobody says it because everybody’s a fucking coward and a fucking liar."
"Michael, shut the fuck up," Richie warned, his face turning red, his hands clenching into fists.
"But this isn’t going to be any fucking different. I mean, he’s going to fuck this," Mikey shouted, stepping right into Richie’s space, completely unhinged. "He’s got his entire life is a fucking bed that he took a shit in the middle of and he just smears it right and that’s what’s beautiful. Hey. Hey. Look at him. He’s beautiful. But he’s got to fuck this up too, right? No, no, no, no, no, no, it’s okay. It’s okay. Everybody knows it. They don’t say it, but they look, look. Ooh. Oh, look at his eyes. Look at those beady little fucking eyes. He knows it too. That’s the fucking thing."
"All right!" Richie yelled, pushing his shoulder. "We gotta go. We gotta."
"Where are we going? Where-Where are we fucking going?" Mikey roared back, towering over him.
"Yo, we got this meeting!"
"Yeah. We got it. You know what you ought to do? You ought to get in the fucking truck and just start fucking driving. Just fucking bolt, Rich. Just fucking… you wanna do that kid of yours a favor? Just fucking bolt. Just fucking hit the fucking road and do not come back. You wanna do her a favor, right?"
"Okay. Okay," Richie said, trying to de-escalate, his heart breaking for his friend.
"No, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s the truth," Mikey ranted, sweat dripping down his temple. "It’s the truth. What, you’re gonna be a good father? Is that what you got to be? Huh, Ronald McDonald, you’re gonna be a good father? Are you gonna be a good father? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Just say it. Just say you’re gonna fuck it up, right? Come on, you’re not mad. Don’t be mad. You’re not mad."
"You’re not mad. Are you mad? Are you mad? Stop. Stop. You’re not mad. You’re not mad. No, just say it—"
Richie’s hand flew across Mikey’s face, a sharp, deafening crack that echoed through the bar. "Stop that!" Richie breathed.
"Oh, my God. Stop it," someone from the crowd whispered.
Mikey didn't even flinch. He just stared at Richie, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and entirely unglued. "No, no, no, no, no."
Richie slapped him a second time, harder, his own tears pricking his eyes. "Stop!"
"Ah!" Mikey threw his head back, a terrifying, breathless laugh ripping from his lungs. "He’s telling the fucking truth finally. He’s telling the fucking truth. Say it again. You hate me? You hate me, Rich?" Mikey spat on the floor. "You gonna fuck this up, Rich. Just say that and we’ll go. Say it and we’ll go."
"All right. That’s an… I don’t know. Stop," Sherri tried to step in, but Mikey shoved his way past her, stepping entirely into Richie's face.
"At least you’re not lying anymore," Mikey hissed, his voice trembling with a violent, agonizing vibration.
"Why are you doing this?" Richie sobbed openly now, his hands shaking. "Why are you doing this, Mike?"
"I love you," Mikey mocked softly. "I love you. You’re a coward, Rich. You’re a fucking coward."
"I’m a coward?" Richie choked out. "You’re a coward."
"I’m a coward. A coward. I’m a coward," Mikey repeated like a mantra, his manic pressure completely rupturing now, spilling over the edges. He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched Richie's, his teeth bared. "And you wanna know who else I lied to? You wanna know the real fucking fiction, Rich?!"
Richie stared at him, terrified.
"I lied about her!" Mikey screamed, his voice cracking, tearing raw in his throat as the agony of Christmas night finally broke through his chest. "I lied about [Y/N]! I didn't pathetic-ie her into my bed! I didn't feel fucking sorry for her! I fucking loved her! I loved her so much it was ripping my ribs open, Richie! I wanted to marry her! I wanted the flowers, I wanted the courthouse, I wanted the fucking kitchen floor!"
The bar went dead silent, the raw, bleeding trauma of his voice paralyzing the room.
"But look at me!" Mikey wept, a terrifying mix of a laugh and a sob ripping out of him as he slammed his hand against his own chest. "Look at this fucking house! I'm a burning building, Rich! I'm a fucking bomb! I lied to her face and told her she was nothing to me so she would run! I broke her heart at that table so she wouldn't stay and let me burn her alive! I made her hate me because it was the only way to save her from me!"
Richie stood completely frozen, the sheer, devastating weight of Mikey’s self-destruction crashing down around them. Mikey didn't give him a second to process. He blinked away the sweat and tears, the heavy, defensive shield sliding right back over his eyes as he looked at Richie with total detachment.
"Kid’s gonna hate you, Rich," Mikey whispered, his voice turning cold as stone again. "Kid’s gonna… This is..."
He turned on his heel, leaving the shattered pieces of his confession on the bar floor, and marched out into the cold towards the truck.
The clock on the microwave shifted to 5:15 PM. Right on cue, a sudden, sharp gasp cut through the kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of splashing liquid on the hardwood floor.
Tiff froze, her hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter so hard her knuckles turned white. She looked down, her eyes wide with a mixture of pure panic and blinding fury.
"My water just broke," Tiff whispered, her voice trembling before it instantly hardened into steel. "It’s 5:15. It’s exactly what we said. And where the fuck is my husband? He’s in Gary. In a fucking bar. Because of Michael."
"Tiff, look at me," you said, forcing your own voice to remain dead calm as you grabbed a clean towel and a jacket. "Do not focus on him right now. Look at me and breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just focus on your breathing."
"I am going to kill him!" Tiff screamed, completely ignoring you as a massive contraction hit her, causing her to double over against the counter. "I am going to absolutely destroy Mikey! This is the most important day of Richie's life, and Mikey just had to drag him down into his own miserable, pathetic gutter! He is ruining the birth of my daughter!"
"Tiff, stop talking about Mikey! He doesn't matter right now," you commanded, wrapping an arm around her torso and carefully guiding her toward the front door. "Lean on me. We are getting into Richie's car right now and I am driving you to the hospital. Let's go. Just breathe."
You hoisted her weight against you, navigating the steps out to the driveway. You unlocked Richie’s car, opening the passenger door and carefully helping her lower herself into the seat. Another contraction seized her body, and she let out a ragged, agonizing cry, slamming her fist against the dashboard.
"I hate him! I hate him so much for doing this to us!" Tiff sobbed, her face red with sweat and tears. "You need to call him again and tell him—"
"I’m not calling him, Tiff!" you finally snapped, the dam inside you completely rupturing as you stood in the open car door.
The weight of the silence since Christmas night, the agonizing restraint, the raw wound of his betrayal—shattered your composure. Your voice cracked, echoing loudly across the quiet driveway.
"I am tired of hearing his name! I am so fucking tired of it!" you yelled, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes as your chest heaved. "You think I want to think about him? Every single time his name comes out of your mouth, it rips my fucking soul apart, Tiff! It tears me to pieces!"
Tiff went completely still, her tear-streaked face looking up at you in shock, the sheer force of your pain temporarily eclipsing her own agony.
"I haven't talked to him since Christmas," you whispered, your voice shaking violently as you gripped the edge of the car door. "I told myself I was done. I told myself I hated him. But I am so sick of lying to myself. I still love him. I love him so much it’s making me sick, and hearing that he's destroying his own life and Richie's life in some dive bar is killing me. But he is not here. Mikey is not here, and Richie is not here. I am here."
You wiped your face fiercely with the back of your hand, pulling yourself back together by sheer force of will. You leaned into the car, gently but firmly pulling the seatbelt across her torso and buckling her in.
"So we are done talking about Michael," you said, your voice dropping into a fierce, protective whisper as you looked into her eyes. "He doesn't get to be a part of this day. Now, breathe through the pain. I'm getting behind the wheel, and we are going to go have your baby."
You slammed the passenger door shut, ran around to the driver's side, and started the engine.
The tires squealed slightly as you pulled Richie’s car out of the driveway, the engine roaring as you accelerated down the street. Tiff let out another sharp, ragged groan from the passenger seat, clutching her stomach as the car hit a bump.
With one hand firmly on the steering wheel, you used the bluetooth system to dial Richie’s number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. You were just about to hang up and call the bar directly when the line finally clicked open.
"Richie!" you shouted over the hum of the road.
"Yo," Richie’s voice came through the speakers. He didn't have you on speakerphone on his end—his voice sounded muffled, distant, and completely hollow, completely stripped of the manic energy he’d had just twenty minutes ago. He sounded profoundly upset, his breathing heavy and ragged, like a man who had just been completely dismantled.
"Richie, listen to me," you said, your eyes locked on the road ahead. "You need to tell Mikey to drive you straight to the hospital. Tiff’s superstition was right. Her water broke at exactly 5:15 PM."
There was a sharp, sudden gasp on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of shuffling fabric. "What? Oh my god... oh my god, Tiff? Is she okay? [Y/N], is she okay?" Richie’s voice cracked, a thick, devastating wave of panic and raw emotion breaking through his tone. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears, completely choked up and drowning in whatever venom Mikey had just poured into his chest back at the bar.
"She's having a massive contraction right now, but I have her in the car and we are heading to the hospital," you told him, steering hard around a corner.
Through the phone, you could hear the heavy silence of the truck's cab, and Richie's shaky, hitching breaths. He was completely spiraling, the brutal weight of Mikey's words clearly suffocating him.
"Richie, look at me—listen to me," you said, your voice softening but remaining fiercely firm. "Whatever Michael just said to you in that bar? Whatever he just did? You need to let it roll right off your back. Do you hear me?"
Richie let out a miserable, choked sound, but didn't speak.
"Whatever he said, it isn't really what he feels, Richie. It isn't the truth," you insisted, your heart aching as you defended the man who had broken you, knowing exactly how Mikey's self-destructive defense mechanisms worked. "It is just the drugs talking. He's spiraling, he's high, and he's striking out at the person he loves most because he's terrified. Do not let his chaos ruin this day for you. Put it away. Put it all away and just focus on getting to your daughter."
A heavy, shaky exhale came through the line. "Okay," Richie whispered, his voice trembling but settling, a fraction of his focus returning. "Okay. We're coming. We're fucking coming right now."
"We'll meet you there," you said, and hung up the phone, hitting the gas pedal harder as Tiff braced herself for the next wave.
After that phone call, the drive back to Chicago was a nightmare of silence, the suffocating tension inside the cab stretching tighter with every passing mile. The heavy quiet was broken only by the sharp, plastic snap of Richie taking his favorite mixtape CD, shoving it out the passenger window, and letting it shatter against the dark Indiana asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, the mocking whistle of a freight train wailed across the flat landscape, a cruel confirmation that they were in a race against time.
Mikey gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white, his jaw clamped shut as he stared blindly at the grey highway, the remnants of his raw, bleeding confession still vibrating in the air.
Richie sat pressed against the passenger door, staring out into the passing blur of trees. He swallowed hard, his breathing finally slowing down from the panicked spiral of the phone call. He looked over at Mikey’s rigid, tense profile. The anger from the slaps was gone, replaced by a heavy, profound sorrow for his best friend.
"Mike," Richie said, his voice quiet, muffled, and incredibly thick with emotion.
Mikey didn't move a muscle, his eyes locked straight ahead.
Richie shifted in his seat, turning to face him fully. "Listen... I have no idea what is going on in your head right now, but I need you to know I love you."
A muscle jumped in Mikey’s cheek. He didn't look at Richie, he couldn't, but his grip on the wheel faltered for a fraction of a second as the words hit him. He just hit the gas pedal harder, tearing through the dark toward the hospital, leaving the wreckage of Gary behind them.
By the time Mikey’s truck finally screeched into the hospital parking lot, the sun had long since set. Richie didn't even wait for the vehicle to fully stop; he threw the door open and bolted inside, frantic, desperate to find his wife and his newborn daughter.
Mikey followed at a slower, heavier pace, his boots dragging against the linoleum floors of the hospital hallway.
He rounded the corner to the maternity waiting room and stopped dead in his tracks.
You were sitting in one of the vinyl hospital chairs, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. You looked exhausted, your hair slightly disheveled from hours of waiting with Tiff.
The universe, in its ultimate, cruel irony, had emptied the room. It was just the two of you.
Your head turned when you heard his boots. Your eyes met, and for a fraction of a second, the agonizing separation dissolved. The raw pain, the longing, the unspoken truths Mikey had screamed in a Gary bathroom hung heavily in the air between you. But neither of you moved.
Mikey swallowed the lump in his throat, his pride and his shame keeping his boots glued to the floor. He slowly walked over and sat down three chairs away from you, staring straight ahead at a framed poster of a sunset.
The silence that followed was suffocating. It was thick, heavy, and agonizing, pressing down on the chest of the universe.
To break the crushing weight of the quiet, you reached down into your bag and pulled out a small, vending-machine bag of potato chips. You opened it with a sharp, plastic rip that sounded like gunfire in the silent room.
You pulled out a chip and bit down.
Mikey’s jaw tightened. His foot began to tap an erratic rhythm against the floor.
You pulled out another chip.
Mikey closed his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. The sound was like a drill to his already fraying nerves. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the proximity, the silence, the fact that he wanted to crawl across the vinyl chairs and bury his face in your neck, but knew he had completely forfeited the right to.
"Stop crunching your chips so loudly," Mikey muttered, his voice sharp, defensive, and completely devoid of the warmth he used to possess.
You paused. The chip was halfway to your mouth.
Slowly, you turned your head and looked at him. You took in the sight of him—the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands, the stubborn, arrogant tilt of his chin. You remembered the kitchen floor, the promise of spring flowers, and the absolute destruction of Christmas night.
You didn't lower the chip.
Instead, you looked him dead in the eyes, locked your gaze onto his, and purposely bit down on the chip with an aggressive, thunderous CRUNCH.
You kept your eyes wide open, staring him down, and proceeded to chew the chip loudly, with your mouth wide open, making every single bite as obnoxious and deafening as humanly possible.
Mikey’s mouth twitched, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle leaped in his cheek. He stared back at you, a volatile mixture of fury, heartbreak, and a sudden, devastating spark of recognition passing through his eyes.
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