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“Don’t mention it.”
“No, seriously. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up.”
Liam shrugs. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
When we reach my building, Liam stops at the entrance.
“You gonna be okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Good. I’m heading back home for a bit, but if you need anything, just call.”
“I will.”
He pulls me into a quick hug.
“You’re a good friend, Liam.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
For the first time in days, I feel like maybe I’ll be okay. Someday.
32
LUCIEN
I walk the streets, my tartan scarf wrapped tightly around my neck. My beanie is pulled low over my ears. I’m dressed all in black except for the flash of red in the tartan against my throat.
I’m just checking on him.
Just making sure he’s okay.
It’s not stalking if it’s out of concern. If I care. If I just need to see with my own eyes that he’s eating, sleeping, functioning. That he hasn’t fallen apart the way I have.
The café closes in an hour. Plenty of time to get there, order something, and sit by the window. Maybe I’ll see him through his apartment window. Maybe I won’t. Either way, I can watch the lights turn on or off, and I’ll know if he’s okay.
And then I can go home and try to sleep without seeing his face every time I close my eyes.
Families pass me on the sidewalk, bundled up and carrying shopping bags. A couple walks hand in hand, the girl leaning into the guy’s shoulder.
Three blocks from the café, I see him.
His white baseball hat. The one he wore backward on his head while I had my fingers inside him. The memory sends an aching shiver through me. Fuck.
He’s walking with someone. Someone tall and slender with a familiar stride. It’s Liam.
They’re headed toward a sports bar on the corner. From here, Cameron looks fine. Better than fine.
Unlike me, he looks like someone who hasn’t spent the last three days unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to think about anything except the person who destroyed him.
I stop walking, keeping a distance.
I watch them push through the door of the bar, watch the brightness inside swallow them up. Through the window, I see them weave through the crowd toward a table near the windows. Cameron pulls off his hat and runs his hand through his hair, a gesture I know so well, one that means he’s relaxed, comfortable.
I cross the street and lean against the brick wall of a building diagonal from the bar. At this angle, I can see them clearly. They sit. A server comes over, a girl with a high ponytail and a bright smile. Liam orders. The girl writes it down and walks away.
They’re talking. Liam leans forward, elbows on the table. He talks, gesturing with his hands. Cameron nods and smiles. Not the performative smile he uses with strangers.
