I stop, halfway past him. My chest tightens so fast I almost lose my breath. "What’s up?"
He shifts, runs his tongue over his teeth like he’s bracing for a punch. "I just…I wanted to say thanks. For not letting me get destroyed. For reading it first. For…" He trails off, then lets the silence fill in the rest.
I stare at him, really look, and for a split second I want to reach out, to grab his shoulder, to tell him that it’s going to beokay, that none of this matters as long as we keep each other standing.
But I don’t.
Instead, I say, "I need space." The words come out colder than I mean, flat and final. "Just—give me a minute, okay?"
He nods, but the confusion on his face is like a knife to my gut. He blinks twice, steps aside, and lets me pass.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
I get to the car, slam the door, and sit there for a long time, hands locked on the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the cold glass.
I replay the look in his eyes, the way his voice cracked just before I shut him down. I want to scream.
I want to punch something, anything, just to feel the pain on the outside for once.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, alone in the silence, waiting for my heart to start again.
And when it does, it’s slow, and steady, and so fucking hollow it echoes.
———
The bar is half-empty, which is the only reason I agreed to meet him here.
It’s the kind of place that never made it past the late 90s, all fake brick and dust-coated whiskey bottles behind the counter, the lighting so dim it makes every face look like it’s been run through a photocopier.
I’m already one beer in when Vincent walks up, silent, wearing the same thin smile as the last time we met.
He doesn’t shake hands.
Just sits, signals the bartender with two fingers, then leans forward, elbows on the sticky table. His shirt is open at the throat, no tie, the suit jacket fitted so close it looks sprayed on.
I get the sense he doesn’t own a single piece of clothing that isn’t tailored.
"Didn’t think you’d show," he says.
I shrug. "You said it was urgent."
He tips his head, as if scoring a point. "It is." He pulls out his phone, sets it on the table between us, face up. "I know you care about him. That’s why I’m telling you instead of printing it."
I stiffen, but don’t answer. He unlocks the phone, opens a photo, and slides it across the table. "Take a look."
It’s a screenshot. At first, nothing special—just a group of guys, college party, plastic cups and half-eaten pizza. But then I see the banner behind them. White, hand-painted, with the logo of an alt-right hate group, l I know too well from every hate-crime headline of the last decade.
Vincent doesn’t flinch. "It’s from a party at Ash’s freshman dorm. Two of the other guys in this shot are now serving time for a racist attack in Spokane."
My jaw clenches. I force myself to breathe through my nose, in and out, slow. "He’s not one of them," I say. "Ash isn’t like that."
Vincent raises an eyebrow, his smile inching wider. "Maybe. But it’s a bad look, especially now. I have more."
He scrolls.
Another screenshot: a Facebook comment thread, Ash’s name tagged, someone joking about "keeping it pure" in the Steelhawks locker room. The timestamp is from sophomore year.
