Mac slides onto the bench beside me, quiet as the dawn. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. Just… sits. Her thigh brushes mine, her warmth cutting through the damp. Her blonde hair peeks from under a knit beanie, curls wild around her face. She smells faintly of vanilla.
I let the silence hold us. It feels safer than words.
Then I move without thinking. I sling an arm around her shoulders, dragging her in against my side, my palm resting on her arm. She leans into me.
“Thank you,” I rasp. My voice cracks like gravel under tires.
“You don’t have to thank me, Trey.” Her voice is soft, threaded with the kind of certainty I’ll never have. “You’re my best friend. When you hurt, it hits different,” her fingers find mine, lacing them together. The contact steadies me in ways I don’t deserve.
“You don’t like showing your emotions—I get that. But right now… after yesterday, today… I need you to know I’m here for you. Always. If you need to talk or just sit and breathe. I want to be beside you.” Her voice softens near the end, a yawn sneaking through the last few words. I offer her the paper cup. She frowns, disentangles herself long enough to take a tentative sip, then her tongue pops out in the universal language ofgrossbefore she hands it back.
Her fingers tighten around mine. Her eyes meet mine, steady. “I know what it feels like to be lost, Trey. We don’t have to be lost alone.”
Something inside me shifts. Not broken—already broken—but like maybe the pieces aren’t floating so far apart.
I swallow hard, thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “Thanks.” I take another swig and scowl. “You always know what to say.”
She shakes her head, her mouth tugging at a small smile. “I don’t. I just say what I feel. And right now? I feel like you need someone to sit here with you until the sun finally shows up.”
So that’s what we do.
We sit.
The fog thins, the water turning from slate to silver as the light grows. My coffee cools in my hand. Her head leans against my shoulder. The city stirs awake, but for once, the noise inside me gets a little quiet. Not completely, but enough for me to be able to function better.
Her fingers are colder than mine. I don’t notice it at first, too busy watching the fog melt into light, but when her knuckles brush against my skin again, I feel it. Her hands are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” I mutter, glancing down at her. Her nose is pink, breath puffing out in clouds. “You didn’t even grab a jacket?”
She shrugs, eyes still on the water. “Didn’t want to waste time. You slipped out quick.”
I sigh, squeeze her hand once before letting go. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside before you turn into ice.”
We stand, my coffee long gone cold. Security falls into step a few paces behind as we head up from the seawall, sneakers slapping damp pavement. The city’s starting to stir now—runners in neon jackets, a couple of cyclists flashing by with headlights still clipped to their bikes. The air tastes like rain, heavy and metallic.
There’s a café on the corner, lights glowing warm through fogged-up windows. The smell hits before the door even swings open—fresh bread, sugar, that rich burn of coffee. My chest eases, just a little, as the heat rolls over us.
We find a booth by the window, the vinyl seat cracked at the edges but soft with years of use. I peel my hood back, run a handthrough damp hair. Mac tugs off her beanie, curls spilling out wild, and presses her hands to the coffee mug when the server drops it off. She closes her eyes like she could soak the warmth straight through her skin.
“Better?” I ask, leaning back against the booth.
She opens one eye at me, smiling faintly. “Much.”
I nod, tracing the rim of my own mug.
We sit in silence for a bit, the kind that doesn’t itch. Just the hum of the espresso machine, the low murmur of two old guys in the corner arguing over hockey stats, the clink of cups behind the counter.
Finally, Mac says softly, “You looked so far away back there.”
I don’t answer right away. My thumb drags across the chipped ceramic, back and forth. I can feel her eyes on me, patient, waiting.
“Sometimes, it feels like it never left,” I say finally. My voice is low, but it carries enough. “The shit with my dad. Doesn’t matter how many years… it’s still here.” I tap a fist against my chest. “Like a fresh tattoo.”
Mac’s face softens, but she doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t give me the clichés. That’s why I trust her.
“Then let me carry some of it with you,” she says simply. “That’s what best friends are for.”
I huff out a breath, almost a laugh. “You sure? My baggage isn’t exactly carry-on size.”
