Fletcher nods reluctantly. “Okay. Be back in a few.”
He rushes out before I can stop him. The room feels empty as soon as he’s gone.
Ace whistles. “Damn. He’s a hottie.”
“Shut up.”
“Boyfriend? Wouldn’t blame you if he’s the reason you’ve avoided calling me.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you.” I tug at the blanket. “I just didn’t know how to explain.”
Ace sinks into the chair by my bed. “You can start by telling me why it looks like you wrestled a brick wall.”
I close my eyes for a second. Explaining this to Fletcher was terrifying. Explaining it to Ace feels impossible.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s… a long story.”
“I’ve got time, Stoney. Talk.”
14
FLETCHER
The elevator doors slide shut behind me, and only then do I realize my hands are shaking.
I press them flat against my thighs, breathing through it as the floor numbers tick downward. Relief, dread, jealousy—they’re all tangled together in my chest, knotted so tight I don’t know which one hurts the most.
Vince is okay. Or he’s going to be okay. That’s the part I’m supposed to cling to.
But Ace.
Of all the people to show up at Vince’s bedside…
I’m not a jealous person. I never have been. I’ve trusted easily my whole life—too easily, according to my ex. But watching him walk into Vince’s hospital room like he belonged there sliced something sharp and bitter under my ribs. I did not expect that.
Vince told me he slept with one guy—just one guy—and it had been a friend from the army.
Was it him, then? Was Ace his one guy?
If so, it has to mean something that he showed up in his time of crisis, right?
The coffee shop in the lobby smells burnt and sweet at the same time, and I latch onto the normalcy of it like a lifeline. Ace wanted something “dark and mysterious,” but what does that even mean? I can’t put a personality in a cup.
The menu blurs in front of me. I’m too exhausted to make sense of anything. I tossed and turned all night thinking about Vince, the way he was sprawled out on the floor of the bar. It's an image that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Shuddering, I fold my arms over my chest, trying to ward off the chill that isn’t really there. Someone bumps my shoulder, jolting me out of my spiral.
“Oh—sorry,” they say, then freeze. “Wait. Fletcher?”
It takes me a second to place them—vibrant red hair and brilliant gold eyes. “Korie?”
“Hey!”
They grin wide, lashes dramatic under fluorescent lighting. They’re dressed in mint green hospital scrubs, makeup sharp and deliberate, and no jewelry in sight. That’s probably why I didn’t recognize them. Korie is gender fluid, almost always wearing dresses or flashy designer shirts when they come to Graham’s Bar, usually hanging out with two or three friends for poetry night or a concert.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” they say, joy fading in an instant. “Everything okay?”
The truth slips out before I can stop it. “I’m here with Vince.”
