“It’s shit.”
“Let me see.”
I reluctantly handed over the pages covered in cross-outs and false starts. Glitch read in silence, his expression unreadable.
“Well?” I asked after what felt like an hour.
“It’s honest,” he said finally. “Maybe too honest. You basically admit to being a complete piece of shit for the entire relationship.”
“Because I was.”
“Yeah, but Jesus, brother—you sound like you’re auditioning for a sad poetry slam.” He tossed the pages back. “Nobody wants to read six paragraphs of you flagellating yourself.”
I grabbed the pages. “So what, I should just pretend I wasn’t an asshole?”
“Nah. But there’s a difference between owning your shit and drowning in it.” He leaned back. “And for fuck’s sake, keep it short. She’s got a life. Don’t make her need a coffee break to get through your guilt spiral.”
I spent the next two days rewriting. My neck ached from hunching over the desk. Three times my coffee went cold before I remembered to drink it. I’d catch myself holding my breath as I worked through a particularly difficult sentence, only exhaling when the words finally came right. Cutting out the self-flagellation and the detailed explanations of my fucked-up childhood. Focusing on the essential message: I understood why she’d left. I didn’t expect forgiveness. I just wanted her to know that losing her had taught me what kind of man I was and what kind of man I wanted to be. The kind of man I should have been all along.
When I showed Glitch the revised draft, he read it through twice before looking up.
He had that look on his face—the one he got when he was processing something that didn’t fit his mental spreadsheet. Glitch was a black and white guy. He saw patterns where others saw chaos, noticed details that slipped past everyone else. It’s what made him invaluable to the club—that laser focus, that one-track mind that wouldn’t let go of something until it made sense.
Right now, that focus was aimed squarely at me.
“You’re really doing this?” he asked. “The whole celibacy thing. Sticking with it.”
“Yeah.” I set down my pen. “You seem surprised.”
“I am. Most brothers, they talk about changing, about being better. Then a club girl offers them a blow job and all that talk goes out the window.” He leaned forward. “What makes you different?”
I thought about how to explain it. “Remember when Indira walked in on me with Crystal?”
“Hard to forget. You were a fucking mess afterward.”
“I woke up the next morning feeling worse than I did before.” I stared at the wall behind him. “I’m done with that.”
Silence. Glitch just watched me, waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.
“Done,” he repeated.
“Done.”
“As in...”
“As in I haven’t touched anyone since. Months, brother.”
Glitch sat back like I’d shoved him. His mouth opened, closed. For a guy who always had a comeback, that reaction said more than words could.
The words hung in the air, and I felt the familiar twist in my gut. Crystal. Not Indira. The last person I’d been with wasn’t the woman I loved—it was the mistake that cost me everything. Every time I thought about it, it gutted me all over again. Indira should have been my last. Instead, my final memory of intimacy was a hollow fuck that meant nothing, witnessed by the only woman who’d ever meant everything. A permanent reminder of how badly I’d destroyed us.
“The brothers have noticed, you know. They’ve been talking.”
“I figured.” I’d caught the looks, the whispered conversations that stopped when I walked into a room. “Let them talk. They can think whatever they want.”
“They’re not used to seeing you like this. Steady. Focused.” Glitch shrugged. “I think they’re waiting to see if it sticks before they say anything more to your face.”
“It’s sticking.”
