“Yeah, I know. Swimmer. Room gremlin. Speaks once a week unless threatened. Why is he being dropped off?”
“Because he needs a break before he combusts,” Ryan answers before I can protest.
“I’m right here, you know,” I mutter under my breath.
Ryan slides another drink over to me—this one harmless, something fruity—and nudges my side. “Just hang out here for a bit. Sage’ll distract you, and Nate will glare at anyone who gets too close.”
“Sounds about right,” Nate agrees.
“Do you… want me to talk, or…?” I glance between them, unsure of the social contract here. “I’m not great at this kind of thing.”
Sage waves a hand. “Nah. You’re cute and sad. That’s enough for tonight.”
I don’t know whether to be offended or grateful. When I glance over at Sage, and the look on his face tells me he’s not making a joke at my expense.
Ryan grins. “See? Perfect fit. Now go sit down and let people like you.”
I hesitate, then slowly step forward and hoist myself onto the counter beside Sage. The space is warm from the oven being on earlier, and the kitchen’s slightly quieter than the rest of the house, which helps. Ryan walks away, and I glance back toward the living room where the music is thumping, and people are shouting over each other, but at least I don’t see him.
“So,” Sage says, kicking his feet lazily. “Tell me about your last nervous breakdown.”
“Oh, my god,” I say flatly.
Nate snorts while Sage simply shrugs. “Look, you can either suffer alone in a corner, or you can suffer near me. And I’m delightful, so really, it’s a win.”
I exhale slowly and let my hands settle in my lap, fingers picking at the hem of my sleeve. “You want the truth, Bluebird?” Sage suddenly asks.
“Not really, but I don’t think that’s ever stopped you before.”
He grins. “Exactly. So here it is. Everyone in this house is messy.Everyone.You’re not the weird one, you’re not the broken one, and you’re not the one who doesn’t fit.”
I blink at that, wondering how he knows what I’m feeling right now. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t need to. I know that look,” Sage says with a shrug. “You don’t have to perform here. That’s the rule. Not everyone says it out loud, but it’s real. You wanna be quiet, be quiet. You wanna exist without making sense? Cool. No one in this house is as pulled together as they pretend to be.”
Nate leans back, propping a foot against one of the cabinet doors. “You want to talk, we’re here. You want to sit in silence, that’s fine too.”
Something about the way he says it—calm, low, without pressure—makes it easier to breathe. I don’t feel like I’m being watched or studied.
There’s a lull in the conversation, but for once it’s not awkward. I don’t feel the immediate need to fill it. I let myself just sit there, legs swinging slightly off the edge of the counter, eyes fixed on the glowing under-cabinet lights. The house feels different from this corner. Softer. Less threatening.
Eventually, I say, “Thanks. For not… making it weird.”
Sage shrugs. “We’re all a little weird. Comes with the territory.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So, I don’t say anything at all. I just sit there, surrounded by two people I barely know, and feel the pressure in my chest loosen just a little. Not gone. Not even close. But not crushing either.
Two months, and I’m still exactly where I’ve always been—heartsick and entirely out of place.
Noah
WhenIfinallymanageto slip away from the kitchen and the knot of bodies spilling into every room, my skin feels too tight. My shirt clings to me in places that make me want to crawl out of it, and every brush of someone’s arm or bump of a passing body feels akin to static crawling across my nerves.
I push open the sliding glass door leading out to the back deck, where only people who live here are allowed to be, the music muffling instantly as it closes behind me. The noise inside dims enough that I can finally exhale without it catching in my throat. The cold air hits my face, and I brace my hands on the railing, letting the quiet of the night hold me steady.
I’ve been smiling too much, nodding too often, answering too many of the same goddamn questions with the same forced cadence and the same tired script.
Yes, I swim.
