I glance at the time and curse under my breath, past 1 AM.
Shit. I quickly type back.
Lucas:I just wanted to say
Thank you…for the money.
Alex:You worked for it.
No need to thank me.
I bite my lip, fingers hesitating over the keyboard. Do I say something else? Leave it there? I type, erase, type again. Then, finally.
Lucas:Oh, right. Yeah.
I immediately cringe. What the hell was that? Alex’s reply comes almost instantly.
Alex:Go to sleep, Lucas. It’s
Late. Have a good weekend.
Something warm flickers in my chest, unexpected, and I quickly send a thank you GIF before I can overthink it. I stare at the screen for a long time after that, the blue light burning into my eyes. Then, finally, I put my phone down and close my eyes, for the first time in a while, sleep comes easier than I expect.
***
The weekend air is thick with the scent of sizzling food, fresh fabric, and something sweet I can’t quite place. The pop-up market stretches along the street, a chaotic mess of colorful stalls, people moving in clusters, and voices overlapping in a constant hum. It’s a little overwhelming, but the weight of Tyler’s hand on my shoulder keeps me grounded.
“See?” he says and signs at the same time, grinning as he steers me toward a clothing stall. “Best friend time. Just you and me.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my lips twitches up slightly.
It’s been a while since we’ve done this—spent time outside together or even gone thrift shopping.
I let him pull me toward a rack of jackets. Everything here is on discount, which means Tyler is practically vibrating with excitement. He sifts through a few before holding one up to my chest, his eyes narrowing in judgment.
“Hmm. No, too big,” he mutters, tossing it back before grabbing another. “This one—”
I roll my eyes, but let him continue his fashion experiments, we spend over an hour hopping from stall to stall, picking out affordable yet nice clothes and tasting food from the street vendors. Tyler insists we try everything—spicy skewers, fried dumplings, sugary pastries that leave my fingers sticky.
It feels good, it feels normal.
I like it.
The payment I got from Alexander yesterday sits in my bank account. This morning, I called my mom after ignoring her for weeks. I sent this month’s loan, which was double the amount I usually send to her, and I told her to use the money to cover as much interest as possible. She cried over the phone as usual. Tyler warned her strictly to pay it. For the first time in years, I wasn’t handing over my entire paycheck just to keep us from sinking. I could breathe.
As we weave through the crowd, a small stall catches my attention. It’s tucked between a jewelry stand and a booth selling handwoven scarves, nearly hidden except for the bold handwritten sign: LILY’S FRAGRANCES & PERFUME OILS.
Something about it pulls me in.
I slow my steps, stepping toward the display of neatly arranged bottles. The vendor, a middle-aged Mexican woman with warm eyes, notices me and smiles.
“Come, mijo,” she says, gesturing to the small test strips on the counter. “Try some. Find the scent that speaks to you.”
I reach out, picking up one of the small glass bottles.
There are all kinds. Some sharp and fresh, others rich and heavy. I skim over the options until my eyes land on a small vial tucked near the edge.
I don’t know why I reach for that one.
