Page 41 of People Like Us

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. For a moment, I almost closed the tab. But then I typed it anyway: August Brooks. The name looked smaller on the screen than it had in my head.

A list of profiles appeared—men with beards, men with children, men holding fish or guitars or women who smiled too hard beside them. None of them were him. I exhaled slowly, something between relief and disappointment settling low in my stomach.

I kept scrolling past the list of suggested profiles, down to the “mentioned” post, and found a familiar face framed in a thumbnail posted by a radio station local to Salisbury. I clicked before I could think better of it. The page loaded, and there he was.

Older, of course. The sharp edges of his face had softened, worn down by time into something steadier. His hair was its natural blonde color, no longer the box-dye black from my memories. Faint lines bracketed his mouth, and creased at the corners of his eyes. Those eyes that still glowed an impossible green.

And his cheeks—God—they still carried that soft coral bloom beneath the skin like something alive and taunting. My breath caught in a way that annoyed me.

The headline sat just beneath the video in bold lettering: Local author, August Brooks, digs deep on devil worshipping band in his new novel!

I leaned back in my chair, staring at it. Then I laughed once, sharp and humorless.

“That fucking asshole,” I muttered. “He really stole my dream and wrote a book.”

I opened my desk drawer with more force than necessary and rummaged through it until I found a tangled pair of headphones buried beneath old receipts and dried-out pens. The cord resisted when I pulled it free, catching on something unseen before finally giving way.

I plugged them into my laptop with more force than necessary. For a second I just sat there, the Barbie staring blankly up at me from the desk, the video paused on August’s face like he was waiting. Like he knew I’d come looking.

The host sat across from August with that easy, practiced kind of charm. The man was smiling like he was about to ask something harmless. His voice had that warm, honeyed tone people use when they want you to forget you’re being led somewhere.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “what made you want to write about The Amen Thieves?”

August shifted a little in his seat, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. There was still something about him that felt just out of place in a room like that. Like he’d wandered into the wrong life and decided to stay anyway.

“They were just…around,” he said after a second, voice steady but quieter than the host’s. “When I was growing up, I mean. They were kind of a big deal in the indie punk scene back then. Not huge, but—big enough.”

He gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t anything worth lingering on, even as he kept talking.

“I had a friend in high school who was obsessed with them,” he went on. “Like, obsessed. Knew every lyric, every rumor, every place they were playing within a two-hour radius.” A faint smile touched his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “We’d go see them whenever we could. Didn’t matter if it was a school night. Didn’t matter if we had to lie about where we were going.”

I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

I didn’t like the way he said we. I figured he was talking about Penelope, she had always been into that punk scene.

The host nodded, clearly pleased. “So they were a big part of your teenage years.”

“Yeah,” August said. “I guess they were.”

There was a pause, just long enough to let the weight of that settle before the host leaned forward again, his tone shifting—subtle, but there.

“And how did you feel,” he asked, “when you found out about the…religious aspects of the band? Was it surprising to find out they were devil worshippers?”

August let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but not quite. “I mean,” he said, “it wasn’t that surprising.”

The host’s eyebrows lifted. “No?” August shook his head, glancing down for a moment before looking back up.

“Not really. I mean, the name alone kind of gives you a hint: The Amen Thieves. And if you actually listen to the lyrics…” He trailed off, one shoulder rising in a loose shrug. “There’s a lot going on there.”

He shifted again, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was settling into something heavier.

“When I was a teenager, especially growing up somewhere like Woodland—small, conservative, very church-centered—religion didn’t feel like guidance. It felt like…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Like something that wanted to take things from you.”

I felt that one land, familiar and tightening.

“Your individuality,” he continued. “Your choices. The way you saw yourself. A lot of my friends were queer, or questioning, or just didn’t fit into what people thought they should be. And it wasn’t just them. Even girls who did fit, at least on the outside—there was still this expectation.”

He glanced away for a second, like he could see it if he looked hard enough. My stomach twisted and lurched all at once.