“One of our founders, a man who has devoted his life to pursuing philosophical and spiritual knowledge, happened upon some information in a book. One that we have good reason to believe exists. It speaks of truly unimaginable power for those with the resolve to believe. And whilst we, as the Church, will strive for everything we can in this life and the next, ultimately, we are an organisation, afamily,if you will, that exists for our followers.”
This man and his dollar shop philosophy were the last people Isaac should have been putting his trust in. I’d heard more likable monologues in a video clip from one of those insufferably obnoxious podcasts that spoke of the fall of the patriarchy (the mating call of incels everywhere) and the rise of wokeism. But this? This was unlike anything I had ever heard.
The longer I stood there, the angrier I got. I couldn’t understand why this god forsaken show, or the university cafeteria (albeit indirectly) was giving this man and his dollar-shop philosophy a platform. He wasn’t smart. He wasn’t altruistic. He was dangerous. He was a monster hidden under the veil of his own philanthropic illusion. He took advantage of those who were lost and confused. He let his words batter the already crumbling cliffs of society’s most desperate, leaving them with little more than the rubble of their own problems–ones that he had caused with his backward ideology.
I was angry that this man even had a platform to spout this bullshit. But I was enraged,livid,in fact; or any other synonymous term applicable to being fucking outraged at the fact thathis harmful tendrils had made their way into Isaac’s mind. This man had doused fuel on an already harmful and factually inaccurate wildfire that had burned through my most cherished friendship.
What the actual fuck, Isaac?The thought barrelled into my head again and again and again. Sixteen years of friendship traded in for Charles Manson reincarnate. I grabbed my coffee from Freckles, meeting his frown with something equally hostile before storming back upstairs. I felt confused. I felt hurt.
And so utterly disappointed.
Making friends for me was likely a goldfish trying to make friends with a shark–technically doable, but more often than not, the prospect was terrifying and potentially fatal.Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme, but sometimes that’s how it feels.It wasn’t as if I’d never tried. I had many,manytimes before. I did everything that you were meant to do–smile at the right times, make the right amount of eye contact, ask questions to show interest, and laugh at jokes even when they don’t make any sense (or worse, when they’re not funny).
And yet, for some reason, I’d always felt slightly outside of it all. I’d come to love my own company, but that wasn’t an active choice that I’d made, but instead the result of having to. That’s why I loved Esme and Isaac so much. I’ve never had to overthink my interactions with them. I didn’t find myself over-analysing everything I said and did. They were happy for me to just beme.Awkward, cynical, and painfully neurotic about who should have ended up with who in my favourite John Hughes movies.
Maybe it was naïve to think that life wouldn’t change as we grew older, but for all my cynicism, when I loved something, I loved it with my whole chest. Esme and Isaac were like family to me, and in the sudden and abrupt way that Isaac had ripped himself from my life, I struggled to grapple with the hurt.
Cutting through the static of my own downtrodden thoughts, my phone began to buzz. A part of me hoped that the universe was answering my endless questions, by sending my best friend–who’d come to his senses–grovelling with his tail between his legs.
Spawn of Satan: A very tall blonde girl is currently stood at the door.
Spawn of Satan: She won’t stop yelling at me or calling me Red. She is claiming to be your best friend. An odd claim, given that I now hold said accolade.
Why was Esme at my apartment?
Spawn of Satan: She has pictures of you both on her phone. It seems that she is who she claims to be.
A few frantic taps.Three missed calls from Ezzy.
Shit.
Ezzy: Isaac just fucking broke up with me. I need to get out of the house.
Ezzy: Can I come and see you?
Ezzy: Fuck this, you aren’t answering but I’m coming anyway.
Another message from Thallor
Spawn of Satan: The fucking banshee has let herself in
Dear universe, don’t even think about sending Isaac back to me unless it’s in a fucking body bag.The news came like a punch to the gut. Too hard and too fast. The kind of punch that had me almostdoubling over and gasping for air. I could accept him doing this to me, but to Ez?Isaac, I don’t even know who you are anymore.
Esme wasn’t the type of girl you just broke up with. Esme was the girl you saw in your wildest daydreams. She was the one you got down on your knees and prayed for, and when you stood up, she had a ring on her finger and a grin that was warmer than afternoon sunshine. I might have been biased; she was my best friend, after all, but I just couldn’t accept it.
I’d always been in awe of her, in a that’s-my-fucking-best-friend-and-I-love-her kind of way. When I looked at her, I didn’t see a few nicely written sentences.Hell,she wasn’t even just a single chapter. She was the entire story, the dedication at the front and the acknowledgements at the end–because she was always the one to believe in you. I didn’t want to accept that Isaac was closing the book on her, because frankly, she didn’t fucking deserve it.
Fuck not taking sides. I silently cursed the signal in the library basement before heading to the exit. The fact that I’d allowed myself to watch some fanaticalJared Letowannabe chat for a whole twelve minutes was hopefully punishment enough. I pulled up my messages with Esme.
Quincey: Esme, I am so sorry. I am on my way home now. Library signal is fucking awful.
Quincey: Are you okay? :(
Ezzy: I will be when you tell me what the fuck is going on, Quincey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Istood on the other side of my apartment door–the last bastion of hope between me and the impending conversation I knew was coming. Not the one about Isaac, although that was equally important, but the one about the ridiculously tall and inhumanly handsome demon I’d come to call my roommate. He was much more than that, but that was another painfully awkward conversation to be had at another time. I took one slow, deep breath, allowing the musky-filled air of my old apartment building to fill my lungs before releasing it.
