I finish my drink, laughing with the team until it’s time to go. As we climb out of our chairs, I still haven’t shaken the feeling that something’s wrong. So I let everyone push ahead of me through the door. When I reach Vince, I can feel the exhaustion rolling off him like heat from pavement.
I stop next to him and say in a quiet voice, “Need me to cover for a few?”
His head snaps toward me, fear flickering in his eyes for a harsh moment—real, raw fear that makes my chest tighten. Then it’s gone, just as fast, smoothed over with that impassive mask he wears so well.
He shakes his head once, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine.”
The words seem to fall from numb lips, like he’s said it so often it’s the only reply he knows.
I hesitate. The man is clearly lying. Every instinct tells me so. But when he turns away, refusing to let me in, I decide there’s not much I can do.
“Okay. See you then.”
He flinches as I touch his arm on my way by.
I let the door swing shut behind me, his burden sitting like a lead weight in my chest. Something is definitely wrong, and Vince is trying hard to hide it. Maybe a better man than myself would let that go, respect his boundaries. But something tells me this isn’t so much a boundary as a thick wall that needs to be penetrated. Vince isn’t used to people seeing him.
Too damn bad. He has my attention now.
I’ll keep an eye on him. With any luck, whatever this is will sort itself out and he’ll be himself again in a few days or weeks.
And if not, well… if not, then I’ll make sure he knows at least one person sees the man behind the struggle. Even if he doesn’t want me to.
3
VINCE
For the third night this week, I barely sleep. It’s not the normal tossing and turning of trying to get comfortable. No, this is the wired, restless, wound-tight kind of night that happens when my body refuses to shut down.
The pain isn’t sharp tonight, just a heavy, dragging weight that makes every position feel wrong. The blanket ends up twisted around my legs, my pillow on the floor, my arms bent at odd angles. It’s a battle I can’t win.
Sometime around five, I give up, sitting up with my elbows on my knees, palms pressed against my eyes as I try to breathe through the ache. My lower back screams in protest.
If I stay still, it throbs.
If I move, it stabs.
If I think, I spiral.
I glare at the stairs, like they’re the thing failing me and not my body. I long for the soft mattress in my room, but the battle to get there never feels worth the risk. So I stay here, on my pathetic couch that has definitely seen better days.
I need to find a new place to live. It’s just the truth. This apartment isn’t right for me anymore. But the search hasn’t been encouraging. Day after day, I browse endless listings of two-story nightmares or single-story money pits and always come to the same conclusion: there is nothing safer than where I currently live. At least, nothing in my budget. San Diego isn’t known for affordable housing.
Frustrated, I reach for my guitar and let my fingers trail over the chords. The quiet sound grounds me, helps the time pass, even with the pain. It’s becoming harder and harder to play now that I can’t feel the chords half the time. But I’d rather cut off my hand than stop playing.
Eventually, I force myself up to get dressed. I volunteered to go in early today to help with stocking the freight delivery while Jordan is gone. The extra hours will be nice. Well, nice for my bank account anyway. My body will say otherwise.
After freshening up in the downstairs bathroom, I reach for a pair of jeans. The rough, heavy material is uncomfortable against my skin, and my fingers tingle instantly. It’s not a gentle tingle either. It’s that pins-and-needles kind of prickling that makes them feel numb and electric at the same time. I’m so damn sick of the sensation.
Pulling the jeans up, I struggle to get the button through. I try again. And again. By the fourth try, my hands shake with rage. Why is this so difficult? I’ve dressed myself my whole life, yet now I can’t do a simple button?
Giving up, I kick the jeans aside and snag a pair of clean track pants from the laundry bin on the floor. It goes against everything in me to dress this way. But Declan has worn athleticpants a few times to work—certainly he won’t care if I do too, right? It’s not like we have a strict dress code or anything. Basically, just don’t come in looking like a bum.
As I pull a clean shirt on, I can hear my father’s voice in the back of my head, telling me to do better. Dress better.Bebetter. He used to bark orders like it was a second language, never once looking at me long enough to see how hard I was trying. All he saw was my flaws, my hesitation.
With him, it was perfection or nothing. Strength or shame. And my mother encouraged it.
I poured everything into being the son they demanded. Quiet. Capable. Self-contained.
