He lifts a shoulder,
drying his hands on a dish towel,
as if he didn’t just split the floor beneath me.
And his eyes are stone-cold, saying?—
I ain’t fuckin’ playin’.
I set the mug down slow.
The clink clatters through the silence.
Then I’m moving
across the penthouse
and into the Boys’ hallway,
cold marble icing my bare feet.
With every step, the emptiness amplifies, my panic playing through the Marshall plugged into my chest, the nerves humming in my bones.
Then I’m crashing through Brandon’s door.
The room’s empty.
But it still smells like him?—
faint tobacco,
a hint of his cologne dried into the walls.
There’s a note folded neat.
in the center of the bed.
Baby.
One word, printed in black ink.
My mind’s running,
spinning,
circling.
I hate my hand for trembling when I pick it up.
I hate my pulse for banging.
I stare at it for too long,
unsure if I should read the note
or burn it.
Next thing I know, I’m in my room,
