Anders took the seat across from me. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were dusted with golden hair and corded with muscle. The way he ate, with the precision of a surgeon, his fork moving in calculated angles, didn’t surprise me. He looked impeccable, even in a ruined shirt.
Simon sat on my left, his knee bumping mine under the cramped table. He flinched away instantly, murmuring an apology into his water glass. He smelled of dark chocolate and anxiety, his eyes darting to my face and then away, like he was afraid looking at me directly would burn his retinas.
Daniel took the last seat, which was on my right. He was so large he had to angle his shoulders to avoid crowding me. His presence was a radiant heat source, smelling of warm bread.
We ate in a silence that felt like a held breath. The only sounds were the scrape of silverware on ceramic and the steady, weeping drizzle of the dying storm outside.
I took a bite of the eggs. They were perfect. Fluffy, seasoned, warm.
I hated how good they tasted. I wanted to hate them, to tip the table over and scream. But my body, the traitorous thing that it was, hummed with gratitude for the fuel.
"It's good," I said, the words rough.
"Daniel can cook," Anders noted, cutting a sausage link. "It's his one redeemable domestic quality."
"I can also reach the top shelf," Daniel countered, a small, tentative smile touching his lips. "That comes in handy."
"And you have a voice that puts insomniacs to sleep," Simon muttered, staring at his plate. "Don't sell yourself short."
They were trying to weave a net of normalcy over the abyss that had opened up in the living room. Bantering, playing theroles of the eccentric production team, pretending that hours ago one of them hadn't had his hands inside me while another held me down.
I put my fork down. Theclackwas loud against the china.
The banter died instantly. Three pairs of eyes snapped to me.
I looked at them. Really looked at them.
At graduation, they were boys. Anders was skinny but rigid, wearing a suit that was just a tiny bit too big for him. Daniel was gangly, hiding his height in a slouch. Simon was hidden behind a curtain of hair and a sketchbook.
Now, they were men. They filled the space. They carried weight, both physical and metaphorical.
"Why?" I asked.
The word hung in the air, simple and devastating.
Anders stopped chewing. He set his knife down, lining it up perfectly parallel to his fork. "Tessa?—"
"No," I interrupted, my voice gaining strength. The stabilizers were kicking in, smoothing out the chemical panic, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity. "No agent-speak, Anders. No 'asset management.' I want to know."
I looked at Anders first.
"You were the Class President," I said. "You sat right behind me. I could hear you breathing. You knew the handbook better than the principal. You knew the medical protocols."
I shifted my gaze to Daniel.
"You were in the choir. You had a microphone. You could have sung. You could have knocked the stand over. You could have made a noise."
Finally, Simon.
"You saw it happening before anyone else. You drew it. You watched me break in slow motion."
I leaned forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white.
"Why did you just sit there?" I whispered. "Why did you let them drag me off like garbage?"
The silence stretched. It wasn't the silence of awkwardness anymore; it was the silence of a wound being lanced.
Anders answered first. Of course, he did. He was the leader.
