I lean back against the counter and take another sip. “So?”
Marcus rests his hip against the counter across from me with his arms folded. “I’m just worried about you. You didn’t come out on Saturday. Eugene asked where you were.”
“I was tired,” I say, looking past him.
“I get that,” he says. “I do. I just—” He pauses, runs a hand over his face. “You’ve been keeping to yourself more than usual.”
I shrug and take another sip.
“Friday night the other week, you left the bar early. You didn’t say goodbye to anyone, you just disappeared before the second round. It’s not a lecture. I just don’t want you alone too much.”
The irritation climbs before I decide to let it. “Why are we doing this right now?”
“Because it’s been getting worse, Lance.” Marcus turns fully from the stove after turning down the heat. “And you keep acting like nothing’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong, Marcus. Sorry that you’re worried, but I’m totally fine.” I set the bottle down harder than I need to. “I’m working more. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
“You’re not sleeping much.” He lists it plainly, one item after another. “You crash for a few hours and call it a night. You barely eat. You come home, you sit in the dark. Do you really hate being back here that much?”
“No, I don’t hate being back here. I’m managing.”
“No, you’re not.” He pushes off the counter and takes a step toward me, not threatening, just closing the distance so I can’t look past him. “You’re running yourself into the ground.”
I let out a short, half-hearted laugh. “Is this a fucking welfare check?”
“It’s me telling you what I can see.” He doesn’t flinch at the laugh, doesn’t retreat from it. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
That one triggers me the most, and whatever patience I have left is running thin. I straighten up.
“Acting like myself. No one really gets to define what that looks like for me. Maybe this is just the new me.”
“Maybe,” he says, unflinching.
I hold his gaze. He’s been ready for this conversation longer than I have.
“You’re not okay, Lance.”
Something slips before I can catch it. The feeling rises and then it’s already there.
“Maybe I don’t want to be okay, Marcus. Did you ever think of that?”
Since he doesn’t answer, I keep going.
“Maybe I’m tired of being the one who has it together all the time.” The words come faster than I can sort them. “The one who keeps everything light, making sure nobody else has to sit in anything uncomfortable for too long.”
“Lance.” He takes a breath, and I can see him trying to find a way in.
“No, seriously.” I cut him off. “What if I don’t feel like being the Lance everyone knows? What if I’m having a genuinely shit time? Is it okay if I’m not being the loud, funny one for once, or does that make everyone uncomfortable?”
The kitchen light is too bright. The stove hisses low. My eyes sting, and I try not to let him see it.
Marcus steps closer. Before I can think about it, he pulls me into a hug, one arm across my back, the other gripping my shoulder. I try to keep talking, the words spilling out too fast.
“I had it handled. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked. Work, sleep, repeat. I got through the day without too much bleeding through. And then he shows up, just stands there with a fucking cup of coffee like nothing ever happened. As if he can step back into my life whenever the fuck he feels like it. He told me he won’t stop, then he disappears for a whole week.” My voice cracks with frustration. “What the fuck does he think he’s doing? And more importantly, what in the name of the shittiest of fucks am I doing letting it get to me, again?”
I draw in a shaky breath. “I was putting things back together, just enough to function.”
The steady pressure of Marcus’s arms around me gives me something to lean on, even if I hate needing it.
