I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. My apartment was quiet, morning light filtering through the blinds I kept meaning to replace. From somewhere outside, I could hear the neighbor’s dog barking at a squirrel or a mailman or the concept of existence itself.
I had plans with Skyler Shaw.
Lunch plans.
Outside of the bar, like normal people, as he’d put it. We’d be two guys grabbing tacos on a Sunday afternoon.
Friend things.
Brohangouts.
Not a date.
Obvi.
Who the fuck says, “Obvi?”
Before I could examine that life-altering question, my phone buzzed again. This time it was the group chat I feared had replaced my morning alarm only moments ago, the one with Mia and DeShawn that had existed since sophomore year of college and had seen me through every major life event since.
Mia: Brunch at Cuba Libre. 11:30. Non-negotiable.
DeShawn: I’ll be there.
Mia: Jacks?
I could lie and say I was busy or claim illness, exhaustion, or a sudden need to reorganize my sock drawer. They were all valid excuses that Mia would see through in three seconds.
Me: Fine. But I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.
Mia: That’s the spirit . . . even if you’re paying for your own meal.
Cuba Libre was already buzzing when I arrived, the Saturday brunch crowd filling the colorful space with chatter and the clink of mimosa glasses. I spotted Mia and DeShawn at our usual table near the back, already halfway through a basket of bread.
“You look like hell,” Mia said by way of greeting.
“Thanks. I was going for ‘mysterious and brooding,’ but I’ll take hell.”
“Sit. Eat.” She pushed the bread basket toward me. “You have bags under your eyes. Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” I slid into the booth next to DeShawn, who offered me a fist bump and a sympathetic look. “Late night at work.”
“How late?”
“Got home around 2:30.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed.
She was small but mighty, five-foot-two of Cuban-American intensity packed into a frame that looked like it should belong to a Disney princess. She’d been my lab partner freshman year and my emergency contact ever since. She was the single most perceptive person I’d ever met. Lying to her was pointless.
“What aren’t you telling me?” She crossed her arms and sat back.
“Nothing. It was just a busy night.”
“Jackson Lleyton Hewitt Steinbrenner Smith.” She said the made-up name like a warning. “I have known you for six years, which in gay years is basically all of eternity. You get that exact look on your face when you’re hiding something. Spill.”
DeShawn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, mirroring the queen’s posture, settling in for a show. He was the opposite of Mia in almost every way: six-foot-four, built like the linebacker he used to be, and possessed a patience that bordered on supernatural. He’d been my roommate junior year, stood next to me when my knee exploded, and held me together during the darkest months that followed.
These two knew me better than anyone and were more like family than any blood could demand.
