#mudhoney

Bruce appears out of nowhere, beer in hand, looking delighted by the sheer number of people currently destroying his duplex.

"Hello!"

"Hey!” He pulls me into a half-assed hug. “Glad you came. Make yourself at home,” he points deeper into the house. "There's booze in the kitchen. We’re doing games tonight too,” he motions at a circle of people descended on a coffee table, playing Kings, by the looks of it. “Stone's already been cheating…"

I run into a few people I sort of know to varying degrees, say hi, go get a beer, get roped into taking a shot of vodka with a group of people I definitely don’t know, then finally emerge into the kitchen at the back of the duplex. I hear Jeff before I actually see him; then my eyes land on him standing near the keg, talking to two guys from another band, one hand wrapped around a plastic cup. He looks up mid-conversation and does a double take when he sees me, like he wasn't expecting me. 

"Hey, you came!" He walks up to me a few minutes later.

“Hey.”

"I was starting to think you'd bail."

"I almost did."

"Really?"

"I got home after going out for a jog and sat down for a minute."

Jeff winces. "Dangerous."

"Very."

"That's how naps happen."

"That's how waking up at two in the morning happens. But I pushed through, as you can see." I glance around the kitchen. "This is a ridiculous number of people."

"Yeah, well." He lifts his cup. "Bruce invited twenty people and each of them brought twenty more."

"Seems sustainable."

"Yeah… By the way," Jeff says, "I was talking to Matt earlier. If you run into him, you should know he's still complaining about that basketball call from weeks ago."

"The one he got wrong?"

"The one you insist he got wrong."

"He objectively got it wrong."

"Yep," Jeff points at me. "I told him that’s exactly what you’d say."

Before I can say anything mildly offensive to him, Stone materializes beside us carrying two cups and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"No," Jeff immediately shakes his head.

Stone snorts. "I haven't even said anything."

"You've got a look."

"What look?"

"The look you get before you become annoying."

Stone grins. "I was just thinking it'd be a shame if the two most competitive people here weren't playing beer pong."

Jeff points at him, then opens his mouth, closes it again, and retracts his finger. “For once in your life, you’re actually onto something. Come on, Eva,” he grins at me.

Half an hour later we're undefeated, which is mostly Jeff's fault. I don't mean that because he's carrying us. I mean because he's transformed the entire thing into a blood sport. The first time he sinks three cups in a row he pumps his fist like he just won an Olympic medal, which makes me laugh so hard I nearly miss my own shot. "Stop!" I tell him.

"What?"

"That!"

"What?"

"The celebrating."

"We're winning.” He’s all smiles. "We're dominating." 

We’re way too good together, operationally. I almost feel bad when we remain undefeated after a third game, against a third team. It’s really nobody’s fault that we have it down; the kind of teamwork that develops between people who enjoy the same things for the same reasons - neither of us likes losing. And, admittedly, neither of us is particularly graceful about winning. And every time somebody accuses us of taking it too seriously, we immediately become more invested because we both think it’s hilarious.

At one point Stone walks through the kitchen, sees us arguing over whether a bounced shot counts and just starts laughing. "Aw look at them."

"Go away," I tell him.

"No."

"We're busy."

"Clearly."

By midnight nobody wants to play us anymore. Apparently being competitive is only charming until you're on the receiving end of it.

The evening keeps sliding forward, conversations changing shape and volume, people drifting from room to room. The whole place somehow becomes both louder and more tired at the same time. Eventually I find myself on the front porch for some fresh, damp air. As is customary to these types of parties, there’s people passing a joint around, which I turn down. I didn’t even notice how drunk I’ve gotten - it’s probably because I’ve mostly been having beer, slow and steady, and it kind of snuck up on me.

I don’t feel too drunk though, just comfortably happy and relaxed. The night is warm. Somebody's left a half-dead citronella candle on the railing. The music spills out muffled, somewhat softened by walls and distance. It’s nice. I sit down on one of the steps and close my eyes for a second. The door opens behind me, the music gets louder again for a brief moment, then it closes and I hear footsteps coming closer, then feel someone take a seat next to me. I couldn’t explain how or why I know that, but I’m certain it’s Jeff.

For a minute neither of us says anything. That…surprises me a little. I've spent months arguing with him - or debating him rather. We mostly agree on things like sports, movies, music, books, food, politics, exercise, driving routes, and whether ketchup belongs anywhere near eggs. But we still find ways to debate all those things. It’s really never that deep or that serious; these debates have been a way to pass the time at work, mostly. So it’s kind of unusual to just…not be talking at all. It’s weird how comfortable it feels too. Just normal. A far cry from the days when we'd spend entire shifts trying to avoid speaking to each other unless absolutely necessary.

I glance over - he's staring out at the street. He looks relaxed, slightly flushed from alcohol, wearing a sleeveless shirt even at this time of night. His arms are ridiculous.

"You know," he says eventually.

"Hm?"

"I still think you're making up the French thing."

I close my eyes. "There it is."

"What?"

"The stupidest thing you've said all night," I chuckle.

He shrugs. "I've never seen proof."

“You’ve heard proof, Jeff. You’ve heard me speak French."

"Allegedly."

I laugh despite myself. Jeff’s smile arrives slowly, pulling at one corner of his mouth first before taking over completely. 

"Say something."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're weird about it."

"I'm not weird about it."

"Jeff, you are super weird about it."

He considers this. "Okay, maybe a little weird."

I shake my head. Then, because I've had enough beer to make questionable decisions seem reasonable, I lean slightly closer. "Tu es ridicule."

His smile grows with curiosity. "What'd you say?"

"I'm not translating."

"You insulted me."

"Probably."

"You definitely insulted me."

"Maybe."

He laughs and the porch suddenly feels smaller. Or maybe we're sitting closer than before. I honestly can't tell. The alcohol isn't helping. Neither is the fact that Jeff keeps looking at me. I mean, actually looking at me, like he’s trying to figure something out and I’m not entirely sure it’s the French thing.

"What?" I ask.

His gaze flickers away briefly. "Nothing."

"Liar."

A quiet stretches between us while the party continues somewhere behind us. There’s people shouting, music still playing, something glass breaks somewhere. Jeff scrunches his nose at the sound, just a tiny bit. And somehow all of it feels very far away.

Out here, on the steps of the porch, something shifts. Something barely there, not dramatic, almost imperceptible. But it shifts enough that I suddenly become aware of every inch between us. And enough that when his eyes drop briefly to my mouth, I notice. Enough that when they come back up, neither of us looks away.

"We played three-on-three yesterday,” he says out of the blue. “We lost."

"Sounds like a skill issue."

"I was kinda thinking it was your fault, Eva.”

“Exactly. So, a skill issue, Jeff,” I smirk at him.

“A skill issue?”

“Yep. A classic skill issue.”

“Wow. You sure you wanna keep repeating that when we just won five beer pong games in a row?”

“Maybe you should pivot from basketball to beer pong,” I breathe out a tickled laugh and Jeff laughs too; the sound of it catches me off guard somehow.

"Maybe you should shut up," he grins.

"Or what?"

His smile falters slightly, just for a second. "Or nothing."

"That's what I thought."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

"Yep."

Jeff huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. There’s another quiet pause, then I see his eyes flick down again. Not for long but long enough to make the smile slip from my face a little; just enough that suddenly it doesn't feel like we're joking anymore. The porch feels strangely quiet. And then, before I can overthink it, before either of us can say something stupid and ruin whatever this is, he leans in and kisses me. It’s tentative at first but neither one of us pulls back; my hand finds his arm without me meaning to move it there.

Then, when we finally separate, we're still sitting absurdly close together. Jeff stares at me for a second, then lets out a quiet laugh. "Well."

* * *

“Hey, Stone!” A girl waves at me from the other side of the street as I'm getting out of my car; I think I know her through Andy… Or Steve. Or maybe my friend Mike McCready. Actually, it might be all of the above; Seattle is a glorified village. I wave back and say ‘hi' but then cough in place of her name, hoping she's far away enough for her brain to fill it in. 

When I go up to the top floor, I don’t even bother knocking on the apartment door. It’s barely ever locked these days. It’s not locked today either which is good because that allows me to make a beeline for the bathroom, uninterrupted. I had already left my friend’s place when I realised I really needed to pee and this was the closest bathroom I could think of.

When I come out into the living room, I find several people scattered about: Matt is saying something about modernizing the communication infrastructure of the household, Steve is on the couch, lounging like he lives here. Which, honestly, at this point, he might. Mark certainly does, although he’s currently not present. And neither are any of the Geeks currently in the Greater Seattle Metropolitan area. Dan is digging through the girls’ stack of cassettes by the tape deck, evidently looking for something important. 

“Is anyone who pays rent for this place actually here?” I look over at Steve, expecting that he’ll know; he shrugs and looks at Dan, then Dan nods at Matt. 

Matt also shrugs while leaning over the phone. “I think Lizzy went to the store like an hour ago. Okay,” he cracks his knuckles. “We need a tone. A brand voice.”

I point at the answering machine. “The brand voice is ‘please don’t leave a message, we will never call you back’.” To be fair, it’s only happened once that I left a message and didn’t hear back. But still.

“Too negative,” Steve says immediately.

“It’s accurate,” I reply.

Matt ignores both of us and presses record. "Congratulations!” He croaks. “Through a series of questionable decisions you've reached the Geeks. They cannot come to the phone because they're either asleep, avoiding responsibility, or emotionally unavailable. Leave a message and they'll judge you later." 

We all sit in silence, then Steve nods slowly. “That’s…weirdly good.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Too good. Like it should be worse.”

Matt looks offended. “It’s called professionalism.”

“It's an answering machine message,” I say.

He rewinds anyway. “Sure, we can improve it to make it worse.”

Right then, Mark walks into the apartment - without knocking either - and immediately looks delighted. “What’s going on here?” 

“Improving public relations,” Dan tells him.

“Needs more nonsense,” Steve peels himself off the couch and walks over to Matt, then starts recording his own attempt: “Hey. You’ve reached the Geeks. They’re not here right now because they’re out living their lives and making responsible choices…”

I point out immediately, as loudly as I can without actually shouting: “That’s an outrageous lie.”

Steve continues anyway, louder: “If this is Mark, stop calling. If this is Stone, hang up and try again with a different personality.”

I raise a hand. “Get fucked, Steve.”

“I'm still heterosexual, Stone.”

Dan comes over to the phone still clutching several cassettes in his hands, clears his throat dramatically, and hits record after rewinding the tape back yet again: "Hello. If you've reached the Geeks, you've made at least one mistake today. Nobody's home right now, but statistically speaking somebody will wander in eventually. Leave a message after the beep and they'll pretend they meant to call you back. If nobody does...well...perhaps consider calling again in six to eight business days. Or just come over. Frankly, that's what everyone else does." He lets out the tiniest, most defeated sigh before adding: "They're losing control of the situation." Click.

“It sounds like a documentary narrator is slowly losing hope,” Mark says after considering it.

"I like the statistics," Steve bobs his head.

"They're fabricated," Dan replies.

"I assumed."

“Okay, focus,” I clap my hands together. “Let me show you how it’s done,” I push Matt out of my way, rewind, and lean closer in before hitting record: "Thank you for calling the Geeks. Kat is unavailable due to ongoing existential maintenance. Gwen is unavailable due to litigation. Lizzy is unavailable due to humanitarian efforts. Eva is unavailable due to hibernation. Please leave a message and a brief description of your emergency."

Steve squints at me. “That’s impressively accurate. Too accurate, really.”

Before we can get to attempt number five (which I’m already predicting would involve legal issues), the front door opens. Gwen walks in first, takes one look at us all huddled around the phone, and stops. Lizzy follows behind her, holding groceries.

Matt freezes like a raccoon caught mid-crime. “We are improving communication.”

Mark, completely unbothered, waves. “We’re almost done.”

Gwen walks over and takes the tape out. “That’s enough democracy for today,” she says.

Matt opens his mouth, she looks at him, and he closes it. I step back from the machine like it might testify against me later. I have more important matters to discuss anyway, since I'm here. "So," I lean against the kitchen counter. "When did Jeff head out?"

Both of the girls look up at me confused, already working on putting away groceries. "Jeff?"

I blink. "Yeah."

Lizzy frowns. "What about him?"

"He was here." Another pause.

"When?" Gwen asks.

“Well, certainly last night although I’d assume into the morning too.”

"Why would Jeff be here at night?" Lizzy asks like it’s the most outrageous idea.

I stare at them. "Eva didn't tell you?"

Gwen narrows her eyes. "Tell us what?"

I can't help it, I start laughing. "No way."

"What?" Gwen says.

"No actual way."

"Stone."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"I'm really not."

“Stone, tell me what the hell you’re talking about right now or I will stick your feet so far up your ass you’ll need surgery.” Following Gwen’s words everyone stares at her for a very long, very quiet moment. I think everyone's weighing the chances of it being just a joke. Then I look between the two of them dramatically.

"So Eva goes to Bruce's party..."

"Yes."

"...and she comes home..."

"Yes..."

"...with Jeff."

Silence. Nothing. Then Lizzy frowns: "What?"

Gwen is still staring at me. "Why did she come home with Jeff?"

I raise both eyebrows. "I'll give you three guesses."

Gwen keeps staring, Lizzy's eyes suddenly widen. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Oh!"

"Exactly."

Another pause, then Gwen slowly puts the cereal box down. "You're telling me..."

"I'm telling you."

"...Eva slept with Jeff."

"I'm telling you they left the party attached at the mouths and I won twenty bucks."

Mark starts laughing so hard he has to sit down. Gwen begins to crack up too.

"You were betting on our roommate's sex life?"

"I was making an informed prediction."

"With who?"

"Katie, of course."

Before either of them can say anything else, the apartment door opens and in walks Eva, sweaty and yielding a water bottle. "Once again, why are there far too many people in my living room?" 

"Community," says Mark.

"Infestation," says Steve.

"Squatter's rights," I shrug.

“Wait…” She freezes. "What did I just interrupt? Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

I point. "Congratulations."

She immediately narrows her eyes. "Stone."

"You neglected to file your roommate incident report."

"My what?"

"They had no idea."

Eva closes her eyes. "You told them..."

"I was forced into the role."

"You absolutely were not."

"They asked."

"We literally didn't," Gwen says.

"They existed inquisitively."

“So wait, Jeff just snuck out at some point?” Steve asks from across the room. “Huh.”

"He had to leave at five-thirty for work." Everyone looks at Eva and she looks like she just realized what she admitted. "Why did I say that?"

Gwen immediately grins. "So he stayed the night."

"Yes."

Lizzy smiles. "Aww."

Eva groans. "Oh don't 'aww' me."

“Then tell us how to react! Because right now ‘aw’ is what comes to mind,” Gwen talks at double speed, a big grin spreading across her face. Then Eva whisks the two girls away into her bedroom and shuts the door. 

“Well,” I say loudly. “They have any of those barbecue kettle chips?”

“Top shelf,” Mark tells me. 

* * *

I wake up because something feels different. For about three seconds I have absolutely no idea where I am. Then I open my eyes. 

Oh. 

Right. 

The first rays of early morning light are slipping through the curtains in thin, pale stripes. I turn my head - Eva's still asleep. She's on her stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, her hair splayed out in every conceivable direction, covering half the pillow. For a moment I just look at her; I don’t even think there’s any thoughts in my head for a while, just some semblance of ‘this is new’. Eva somehow looks simultaneously very peaceful and like she started and lost a fight with the blanket in her sleep. I catch myself smiling. Then a thought arrives suddenly: shit. Work. I glance at the alarm clock glowing red. Shit.

I ease myself out of bed as carefully as humanly possible, trying to remember where I left every article of clothing. My shirt is somehow under the chair, one sock is near the door, the other is...under the bed? Naturally. I crouch down, retrieve it, and somehow manage to bang my head on the bed frame anyway. Eva doesn't move. Good. I slip my sneakers on by the door, wincing every time the floorboards creak louder than I'd like. For a second I consider leaving a note, I actually even pat my pockets for a pen before realizing I don't have one. Probably for the best because what am I supposed to write? Had a great time. Too formal. Call me. Too presumptuous. Thanks for the sex. Jesus Christ...

I look back toward the bed; last night keeps replaying in flashes that have nothing to do with getting naked. Eva laughing into my mouth because I'd said something stupid. The way she'd looked at me afterward, completely awake, smiling like neither of us had any qualms about it. And I don't think I've ever kissed anyone that much, which is a weird thing to think or to notice at all. But it's true. It didn’t feel like we were trying to prove anything or rush anywhere. We just kept finding excuses to do it again.

I could wake her. Just say bye. That feels like it would be kinda weird. Or like I'd want to stay… Instead I stand there for another few seconds, hand on the doorknob. Eva is so fucking cool. That, more than anything else, is what I keep circling back to. Not beautiful…although yeah, obviously. And not some lightning-bolt revelation about destiny. Just… I'd actually like to know her a lot better. I slip out into the hallway before I can wake her accidentally.

By ten in the morning I've made two cappuccinos with whole milk instead of skim and nearly handed somebody an oat milk latte with an extra shot instead of decaf. 

"Jeff."

I look up. John is holding the cup I just filled before I can pass it across the counter. "Who the hell is this for?"

I glance at the ticket. "Huh."

"That's not Dean."

"No."

"Unless Dean's started going by Denise."

"I'd support him."

John studies me for another second. "You sick?"

"No."

"You hungover?"

"A little."

He nods. "Girl?"

"What?"

"The smile."

"What smile?"

"The one you've had all morning."

"I don't have a smile."

He snorts. "You look like somebody who just found religion."

I shake my head, take the cup back and dump it before starting again, fully aware of the big, happy smile on my face. Wrong drink. The stupid thing is, I'm not even thinking about last night in the obvious way. I'm thinking about beer pong and about Eva calling a lost basketball game a ‘skill issue’ with a completely straight face. About the way she'd lean over the table before taking a shot like she was preparing for surgery. About her speaking French, which still blows my mind that she just casually knows a whole different language… About sitting on Bruce's porch afterwards, talking about absolutely nothing important and how easy it felt.

I stop halfway through steaming the milk.

Huh.

I'd actually like another evening of that. Feels like that ought to be a bigger realization than it is. Thing is, I already know that Eva's cool, she’s a blast and she’s interesting and I like her. But now I'm thinking I'd like to take her out, see if she's up for doing it all again, only on purpose this time.

I find myself at a florist’s shop after work. I wasn't planning to, I just...walked past it. Except I didn't really walk past it, I just stopped instead. Flowers. I stare through the window for a while. Flowers? Too much? Maybe. Probably. Eh. I go inside anyway. We just slept together and it was really nice. Flowers are nice too. It can’t be that bad of an idea, right?

Five minutes later I'm back on the sidewalk holding a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper. They are nice. There’s a few blue ones in the mix that remind me of Eva’s eyes. I make it half a block before another thought distracts me. Something from a couple of months ago - Kat had stopped by Raison and spent an hour arguing about candy with Eva; Eva declared at one point, with alarming conviction, that one particular candy bar was ‘objectively the best one’. Butterfinger. I stop walking and turn around to see the corner store open. When I come back out, the flowers are tucked under one arm and the bag of candy is in the other hand. I look down at both.

"Well," I mutter to myself. "Guess we're doing this properly." This is either gonna be smooth as hell or the dumbest thing I've ever done. 

* * *

The apartment is louder than usual, which is saying something. Steve and Stone are arguing about whether cereal counts as soup, although the real question is, why are they still here?? Lizzy is folding laundry and listening, occasionally voicing her thoughts on the subject. Gwen is trying to read at the dining table and failing because every thirty seconds somebody says something objectively stupid and she has to point it out.

And in the meantime, I’ve been replaying last night on a loop since I woke up. Kissing him. Then somehow ending up in my bed like it was the most normal extension of the evening. That's the thing - it wasn’t confusing in the moment. It all felt weirdly obvious once it started, like we’d just finally stopped pretending there was a line between ‘should we do this’ and ‘we’re absolutely doing this’.

Now, though, in daylight, there’s room for questions. Had it been inevitable? Kind of, maybe... Impulsive? Definitely. Alcohol? Absolutely part of it, but not the interesting part. I don’t regret it. That’s the clearest thought in this whole mess. If anything, I feel…good. A little too good, like my brain hasn’t quite caught up with how I’m supposed to act about something that wasn’t exactly normal.

The only thing that actually sits underneath everything else is this small, stubborn concern I don’t really want to name properly. What if Jeff gets weird? Not regret-weird or awkward-for-a-minute-weird. Just…decides last night belongs in a different category than the one I thought it did. I don’t think I could pretend nothing happened, I don’t like that kind of stuff. That would be the worst version of this. Not because I need anything dramatic or complicated, but because last night already was something. It already happened. It already meant something, even if we decide to not do anything with it.

I push the thought away before it gets too loud because the rest of me is still annoyingly aware of how much fun it was. Jeff laughing and kissing me, his hands roaming all over... The way he looked at me like he was trying to decide if it was all really happening, not if it should. The fact that at no point did it feel like a mistake we had to talk ourselves out of. 

Danny drops a cassette case and it makes a loud cracking sound, which shakes me back into reality. “Sorry!”

Mark wanders towards the kitchen, where I’m standing by the sink, opens the fridge, stares into it for a while. "We have no food."

“We?” Gwen asks but gets ignored.

"We have food," Lizzy says.

"We have ingredients."

"That's what food is."

"No," Mark says, shutting the door. "Food is what happens after ingredients. If Novak was here–"

“Oh come on! Get over it! She's been gone two days,” a thoroughly fed up choir drowns him out. Actually, I think this might be some kind of record because I hadn't heard him mention Kat for two whole hours before this. 

A knock interrupts whatever philosophical disaster was about to happen next. "I got it," I say and go to swing the door open.

Suddenly I’m facing Jeff, standing there holding…flowers and a paper bag.

"Uh…hi."

"Hey," he smiles immediately, then his eyes shuffle over my shoulder momentarily and his expression changes. "Oh."

Steve notices him first. "Hey, Jeff!" Every head turns. 

Jeff lifts the flowers about three inches. "I didn't know there'd be..." He gestures vaguely toward the apartment. "...all this."

Stone grins. "Witnesses?"

"Yeah. Although you do have a tendency to show up places like a cockroach so I can't be too shocked."

I look back into the apartment to see six insufferable faces grinning at me. Steve stands up, walks over, and takes the flowers out of Jeff's hand.

"Huh." He turns them around thoughtfully. "These are nice."

"Steve."

"What?"

"They're not for you."

"I know."

"Then why are you holding them?"

"I wanted to see them."

"You've seen them."

"I have." He nods once, satisfied, then hands them back.

Jeff exhales through his nose. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"I don't know, man..." Jeff looks back at me and finally holds the flowers out properly. "These are...for you."

I take them. "Thanks?” It accidentally comes out sounding like a question so I add: "They're really pretty."

"I hoped so." Then he awkwardly offers me the paper bag. "And...this. I don't really…" He trails off with a shrug.

I peek inside - Butterfinger. "How did you know?" My eyebrows dip ever so slightly over my eyes but my lips stretch into a grin.

"Same thing as the gin, I guess," he lifts his shoulders again and leans against the door frame, a pleased smile playing on his lips now.

The fact that he remembered something so trivial, something I probably said months ago, somehow feels bigger than the flowers.

"I had fun," he says. “Last night.”

"I know."

"I was wondering if..." A tiny pause. "...you wanted to do it again."

From somewhere behind me Mark says, perfectly deadpan: "Jesus Christ."

Jeff freezes. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant," Mark assures him, already laughing.

Stone also sounds like he finds this infinitely amusing: "Personally, I was rooting for the other interpretation."

Without looking, I grab one of the Butterfinger bars and throw it at him. It actually hits him square in the face. 

"Worth it," Stone says.

Jeff scratches the back of his neck. "I meant...like dinner." He shrugs. "Or coffee." Another shrug. "Or whatever." He's looking at me now, not nervous exactly but not as confident as the Jeff I’m used to seeing either.

I look down at the flowers, then the candy, then back at him. “Maybe not coffee.”

“No?”

“We get caffeinated for a living.”

“Right… Ice cream?”

"Yeah, I'd like that."

He has his eyes locked onto mine still.  "Cool."

"Cool,” I echo and then for a second we're just smiling at each other. I love that he just showed up, with flowers and candy too, and asked me out, just like that. No drama, no complications, no games, no questioning every little action… Just this. 

Steve claps once. "Excellent." Nobody looks at him but he continues anyway. "Well done, Jeff. Some of us in the room here could take a page out of your book.” 

I don't even mean to do it but I look over at Mark and realise that everyone else, except for Jeff, does too. 

“I'll pretend I didn't just see that,” the poor guy mumbles in between bites of a carrot. 

“That's kind of the whole problem,” Danny is the one to point out. 

"I'm gonna walk you out,” I return my attention to Jeff and as we're leaving, Stone calls after us.

"No funny business!"

I don't even turn around. "Little late for that."

The apartment erupts behind us.

“You really just said that in front of everyone,” Jeff says as we step into the hallway.

“They did that to themselves,” I say. 

“That’s not a good defense.” He laughs under his breath and follows me down the hallway. There's a moment where we just make our way towards the stairs, shuffling our feet slowly.  Then he asks: “You good?” 

I glance at him. “Are you asking because of them or because of you?”

He chuckles. “Both.”

“Yeah. I'm good.” 

“So,” he starts again. “Was that smooth or really fucking embarrassing?”

“Honestly?”

“I guess?” He gives me a funny look.

“That was very sweet. I like that you just…showed up.”

We reach the top of the stairs and slow at the same time without acknowledging it. There’s another quiet pause. Jeff looks at me like he’s about to say something and doesn’t. That should probably be awkward but it's really not so bad. It’s just loaded in a way neither of us is pretending not to notice. 

I tilt my head. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yeah,” he admits, like it’s inconvenient. “It is. I really had a great time last night. I always do when you're around, actually.”

That almost makes me giggle. “Me too.”

Then his eyes flick down for half a second - to my mouth, again, too obvious to pretend otherwise - and he exhales a quiet laugh like he’s annoyed at himself. I take a small step closer, just enough to make it clear I noticed.

“Are you going to keep doing that?” I ask.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking.”

“That’s generally my preferred method of operation.”

“Not helping your case.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re distracting.”

“That’s new. I usually get annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now but still teasing, “now you get both.”

Once again, we’re close enough now that the joke part of the conversation is basically done pretending. Jeff looks at me for a second longer than necessary but he’s still slightly hesitant, like he’s giving us one last chance to just keep talking instead. So I help him out.

“You can kiss me, Jeff.”

That shuts him up for a brief moment. “You’re just…saying it now?”

“I’m efficient.”

He leans in and the kiss is brief at first, like it’s testing whether this is still allowed. It is. So it gets longer and slower. My hand catches his shirt, his hand settles at my waist; the whole thing feels fun and exciting and vaguely familiar this time. He is a great kisser, that helps a lot too. 

When we break apart, there's only enough space to breathe. Jeff lets out a quiet laugh against my mouth. “Hopefully your grading scale for this is gonna be less biased than for basketball.”

“Jeff,” I say, “I've seen you travel twice in one possession.”

“I call it momentum.”

“I call it illegal.”

He laughs again and shakes his head as he takes half a step backwards. “I'll call you later?”

“Yeah,” I beam.

He starts going down the stairs but then stops and slowly spins on the spot, back to look up at me. “I think I really like you, Eva.”

“You think?” My smile is totally out of my control. 

“Yeah,” he grins. 

When I go back to the apartment, the second the door closes every conversation stops. Stone leans back on the couch. "So."

"So?"

"Nothing."

"Okay."

A pause, then Lizzy asks: "Did you kiss him again?"

I blink. "That's significantly less subtle than I was expecting."

"We got impatient," she says.

Mark looks up from where he's restringing a guitar. "This is the worst interrogation I've ever been adjacent to."

"It isn't an interrogation," Gwen says.

"It's data collection,” Stone adds.

"You people are unbelievable,” I chuckle. 

"We're invested," Lizzy says gently.

"I've noticed."

Stone folds his arms. "So."

I stare at him. "Obviously we kissed.” I feel my face split into a big smile again. 

"Wow. Well, good luck," he mutters.

I don't know why that makes me smile as much as it does. Maybe because, for once, somebody just showed up, said what they meant, and I got to say yes. Nobody had to decode anything. Nobody had to guess or pretend. Turns out this kind of unabashed directness is really attractive. No luck needed.

* * *

I swing the passenger door open and start climbing in. Then stop - Mark looks over from behind the wheel. "Welcome back."

"You're not Eva."

"No."

"Just checking."

"Of course."

I lean down and peer dramatically into the backseat. "Did you murder her?"

"Yeah."

"That's a shame."

"I know. 

"I liked her."

His face splits into a big grin as he laughs. God. I’ve been away four days, it’s really not that long. It shouldn't be long enough to miss somebody. Four stupid days and somehow seeing him makes something in my chest loosen a little. It’s a weirdly embarrassing feeling, especially considering that by day two of staying with my sister she started pointing out how much I talk about him. It’s all purely accidental and totally innocent, really; I can’t help it that a lot of my good stories and anecdotes somehow involve Mark.

I toss my backpack onto the floor behind the seat and climb in. Mark waits for me to buckle my seatbelt, just watching me while I do it. “Did you always have so many freckles?” 

“Depends how you look at it, I guess. I think I have more than I did last week.”

“Fascinating.” There’s a pause when he starts driving, stealing a couple of glances at me; then: “You cut your bangs.” It’s not even a question, he just states it, which makes laughter bubble up from my stomach.

“Yes, the bangs have been cut, courtesy of my sister,” I tell him, still chuckling.

“Good.”

“Good?” I laugh again while he looks at the road ahead and just ‘mhm’s. 

"Oh." A few minutes later, as we stop at a red light, Mark reaches into the backseat and retrieves something from the pocket of his blazer that’s draped over it. Then he hands me a cassette. I look down - no track list but lots of doodles in black sharpie. There’s a terrible drawing of a cat, a little guitar, some nondescript scribbles and stars, among other things, and then, in the corner, a tiny unassuming heart. “Happy belated birthday,” he says.

“You made me a mixtape?”

“Of course not, I got it from the mixtape tree.”

“Thank you, Mark Arm,” I say, barely containing the smile on my face; good thing he’s still adamantly staring at the road ahead.

I slip the cassette out of its case and into the player, then hit play and the car is suddenly filled with drums. “Peruvian punk,” Mark announces.

“Is the whole mixtape Peruvian punk?”

“Sadly, no.”

I recognize the second song as a feedtime track - I remember it from one of the records Steve had lent me. Mark, in the meantime, is weirdly quiet; not awkwardly or uncomfortably exactly, it’s just that the conversation is oddly fragmented. He asks me about California, then tells me Stone recorded a new answering machine message for us, then we discuss bad drivers and airport culture…

“You missed a turn,” I point a thumb back towards a street we were supposed to go down.

“Oh, did I?” He asks in world’s worst impression of nonchalance. 

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere.”

“Where?”

“No.”

“Mark?”

“Nope. Not falling for your swindling.” He refuses to elaborate for another five minutes. By then we've crossed downtown entirely and he finally pulls into a parking spot near the waterfront.

“You drove all the way across the city just to be mysterious?” I ask while climbing out.

“Yes.”

“That's embarrassing.”

“For you, maybe.”

Then I round the corner behind him and immediately spot the familiar neon signs, flower stalls, and impossible concentration of tourists. “Oh,” I laugh. “You brought me to Pike Place.”

Mark shrugs. “We decided it was statistically likely you'd enjoy it.”

“Did you just learn the word statistically?”

“No.”

“You're using it a lot.”

“That's statistically untrue.”

The market is crowded, tourists everywhere, street musicians, vendors shouting. The smell of coffee and fish and bread all colliding into one giant Seattle smell. Within a minute someone walks directly into me, I sidestep. A family cuts across our path, a stroller appears from nowhere. Then, when the crowd bottlenecks in front of us and somebody nearly cuts between us, Mark reaches for my hand; casual, absentminded almost, out of practicality, as if he's done it a hundred times. His fingers slide between mine and he just continues walking and looking ahead, even when I stare at the side of his face. Then his thumb brushes lightly against the side of my hand and I look away immediately.

The bottleneck eventually opens up ahead of us. People spill out into the wider stretch of sidewalk, dispersing toward stalls and storefronts but Mark still continues holding my hand. I look down, then back up at him - not a flicker of acknowledgement. He's busy watching a guy unsuccessfully trying to carry six coffees at once. "Caffeine addiction really is a slippery slope."

"Mark."

"Hmm?"

"You're still holding my hand."

He glances down briefly. "Oh." There’s a pause. Then: "Did you need it for something?"

I bark out a laugh despite myself. "I mean, I do use it fairly regularly."

"Ah." He nods thoughtfully. "I thought maybe it was an emergency." There’s another pause, then he looks at me, some kind of little smile playing on his lips. "I guess you can have it back if you promise not to wander off," he lets go of it. 

He steers us toward some brewery, still not elaborating on anything, but I don’t have to be a genius to figure out my roommates have everything to do with this. The place is busy when we step inside. Music hums from somewhere overhead, glasses clink, and the familiar collection of aforementioned roommates, musicians, and assorted strays has somehow already claimed a section near the bar.

I spot Steve first, then Lukin and Danny arguing about something with the intensity of men who are definitely wrong. Jerry is leaning against the counter talking to Lizzy while Stone gestures dramatically at nobody in particular. Gwen catches sight of us and immediately grins.

Then my attention shifts farther down the bar. Eva is standing right next to Jeff. And I mean, not near Jeff, not even conversationally close to Jeff. Basically up against each other, smiling, touching his arm every time she laughs. Jeff's hand is resting against the small of her back like it's been there awhile.

“Wait,” I squint across the room. “Wait, wait,” seems like the only word I remember because my brain can’t fully process what it’s seeing. I stop in my track, grabbing Mark by the forearm, and point so he confirms what I’m seeing is not a hallucination.

“Oh, yeah,” he grins. “You missed some stuff.”

I shuffle my confused gaze to him and then back to Eva and Jeff. 

“Hey!” Stone pops up right in front of me, demonstratively pushes Mark aside, and pulls me into a hug. “Happy belated birthday!” Then pulls away. “You owe me twenty bucks. And no checks, please. Cash only.”

“But…what?”

“That’s right, Kat, you can get off your high horse now and make room for me because I was right and you were wrong.”

“But when… Why didn’t you tell me? Why did no one tell me?”

“You’re impossible to reach. Get a pager already,” Stone says while pulling me towards the bar counter.

Before I can extract any further information, I get absorbed into what appears to be a carefully organized ambush. Of course this whole thing was Gwen, Eva and Lizzy's doing - a deliberately laid-back, completely casual gathering that somehow still involved half the people I know. One by one they drift over to wish me a happy belated birthday. Lukin actually brings flowers, which immediately causes widespread confusion. The bouquet gets passed around for inspection while everyone alternates between making fun of him and telling him it's genuinely sweet. 

Stone presents me with a framed photograph of himself with something written across the glass in silver marker:

‘I trust Stone emotionally in the same way I trust escalators. 

-Katie Novak’ 

He claims I said it about him that night I got really drunk on Eva’s birthday, which I can neither confirm, nor deny. I hardly remember anything that happened or that I said after talking to Xana - that’s when I had the genius idea to start taking shots of tequila. Honestly, I’ve decided to not even try to remember anything, I think it’s best that way.

Jerry insists on buying my first drink and then accidentally starts a chain reaction where everybody else decides they're also responsible for my enjoyment. Suddenly people are trying to buy me food, drinks, arcade tokens, anything I so much as glance at for more than two seconds. It's impossible to stop and, eventually, I stop trying. The whole thing is embarrassingly thoughtful. Every time I think I've escaped the attention, somebody else appears with a hug, a joke, or another happy birthday. 

At some point I try to pull Eva aside for questioning but she just beams at me and tells me we’ll talk later so I compartmentalise the shock of it for now.

At another point, a couple of hours in, Gwen suddenly appears at my side. "Come here," she says with that smug grin of hers.

Lizzy is beaming happily by the bar counter, Eva is trying and failing to hide something behind her back. All the classic signs of a coup. “What is that?”

"Just a muffin," Eva says.

"A muffin can still be a trap."

"It has frosting."

"Exactly. Muffins don't typically have frosting,” I say. 

Thirty seconds later Gwen places said muffin - banana blueberry - in front of me like it's a ceremonial offering. There's a single birthday candle stuck in the middle.

"We know you don't like birthday cake so we improvised,” Lizzy tells me. 

I look at the muffin, then at my friends; something warm settles low in my chest. Eva pulls out a lighter and the tiny candle flickers to life. For a moment nobody says anything. Then Lizzy reaches into her purse and pulls out another candle.

"Birthdays aren't really your thing,” Gwen states, locking her eyes onto mine. 

“They tend to be depressing for no good reason.”

“Yeah…”

Lizzy lights her candle from the first flame and carefully pushes it into the muffin.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Birthday wishes."

"I don't remember it working quite like that…"

"We've amended the rules,” Eva explains. 

Then Lizzy studies me for a second before her smile grows. "I wish you the best year you've had so far. But maybe not quite as good as the next one."

Something unexpectedly tender hits me right in the sternum. Not because it's dramatic, just because it's Lizzy, because she really means it, because she probably spent a considerable amount of time thinking about a wish for me.

Eva is next. She takes another candle from the apparently infinite candle supply.

"How many of those do you have?"

"Enough." She lights hers. "I wish," Eva says, pressing it into the frosting, "for you to become your favorite version of yourself."

I blink. “Jesus."

"What?"

I just shake my head; three flames flicker now. Small, golden, warm. Then Gwen reaches for another candle. Knowing her, she definitely planned to save hers for last. Yeah, she's smiling that particular smile, one that means she's about to make me uncomfortable on purpose. She lights it but then her expression softens as she takes a long, good look at me. 

"I wish," she says quietly, "for you to receive the love you actually deserve, not just the love you think you do."

The sentence lands softly but certainly and it gives me a fluttery feeling; the certainty of it. The way they all look at me, like they really know me and like I'm someone worth celebrating. Like being loved is the most normal thing in the world. I feel the sting or tears in my eyes but for once it’s not sad tears on the occasion of my birthday. It’s could-hardly-be-happier tears. Lizzy’s smiling back at me but her eyes immediately well up as well - it’s like a sympathetic emotional reflex; Eva’s looking at me with the most tender look on her face, while Gwen is grinning ear-to-ear. 

“Now you make one,” she says.

“You don’t have to say it out loud,” Lizzy adds.

"What's happening over here?" A voice asks behind us and the four of us turn around to see Mark, big smile on his face, one hand wrapped around a beer bottle. His eyes land on mine, then glide around for a second, taking in the whole scene. "Oh. Birthday stuff, right."

Eva points at him. "Perfect timing actually."

"Don’t make him do it," I say immediately.

"He’ll do it because he wants to," Gwen smirks.

"Do what?"

"You want to add a wish?" She holds out an extra birthday candle for him.

Mark looks at the muffin, the candles, then at me. “Judging by your weepy faces, I’m guessing we’re not going for comedy club type of wishes here,” he says while actually taking the candle from Gwen.

“Ideally, no,” Eva says. “But it is you we’re talking about, so…”

“We’ll lower the bar for you. We got all the really important stuff covered,” Lizzy chuckles.

Mark steps over, parking himself right between me and Gwen, and looks at the little flames for just a second; then lifts his candle to light it and sticks it into the frosting with the other ones. "I wish for you to stay weird, Novak," he smiles at me sideways.

"That's a terrible wish," I laugh.

"No, it isn't,” he shrugs. "The weird parts are usually the best parts."

* * *

"You're unbelievable."

I look up from my beer. "Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Then why did it sound so sincere?"

Gwen rolls her eyes. "Do you realize you just made heart-eyes at Kat in front of half the room?"

I gasp. "I did not."

"You did."

"I wished her a happy birthday."

"You wished for her to stay weird."

"So?"

"So?" Gwen repeats. "You might as well have written I cherish your unique spirit in frosting."

I stare at her. "That's actually the worst thing you've ever said to me."

"Is it inaccurate?"

"Very."

"Mark."

"Gwen."

She folds her arms and I take a drink. She keeps staring in a way that suggests she’s prepared to outlast civilizational collapse, so I keep drinking. Eventually though, "are you done?" 

"No."

"Fantastic."

Gwen's grin widens. "Come on, Mark. Tell me, what exactly is the plan here?"

"The plan?"

"Yes. Your plan."

"I don't have a plan."

"Exactly. So what’s up with that? I mean,” she shakes her head. "I don't understand you."

"Join the club."

"Hearts on mixtapes are not going to cut it. This is Kat we’re talking about, she probably already came up with seven different ways to explain it away."

“Gwen,” I exhale slowly. “I’m begging you to leave me alone. I’ll get on my knees if I have to. I’ll make a scene, I swear.”

She laughs, short and sharp. "You know what's really annoying?"

"Besides you?"

"She's into you too."

I groan so hard it feels like my spine tries to exit my body.

“Mark,” Gwen goes on, softer now in a way that’s worse, “you don’t seem like a coward."

"That’s a bold theory."

"It's not a theory. You’re also not dumb so what’s your frickin’ damage? Why are you acting like a raccoon trying to solve a Rubik’s cube after somebody replaced its brain with a bag of wet leaves??"

"You're getting remarkably good at insulting me."

"You make it easy." 

I exhale. "Maybe I'm just getting conflicting information…"

Her eyes narrow. "What conflicting information?"

I hesitate for a moment that feels too long. "Come on, Gwen. It took two gallons of hard liquor for her to be able to tell me I have a nice neck."

Gwen doesn’t react the way I expect. The grin fades a fraction. "Look, she adores you.”

“She’s a door?” I really couldn’t help that one.

“Mark. Stop being such a tool,” she swats at me. “If you like her as much as I think you do, this is important information for you. She likes you but… She doesn’t think you’re boyfriend material.”

“Boyfriend material?” I snort, like I can laugh it off into irrelevance. That is absolutely not something Kat would ever be heard saying. “What does that even mean? Did she say that? In those words?”

“Yes, basically. I think she worries that you won’t be good to her.”

That lands about as softly as an anvil. My mouth opens, looking for something defensive, automatic, already forming a rebuttal about Kristine, about how that’s not… I stop myself. Obviously it’s not the same. That relationship didn’t fail Kat’s standards; it failed mine. And I’m not sure why I’m suddenly trying to defend myself in a case I didn’t know I was being judged by a whole tribunal.

“Right,” I say instead. “Because I’m famously emotionally unavailable to–”

“Don’t do that,” Gwen cuts in and I shut my mouth.

“She doesn’t want to get hurt. She’s not Kristine. She can’t just…fall into something where she feels like she doesn’t matter.”

That causes an immediate and very inconvenient sensation in my chest. I almost say, ‘she matters’, actually almost say it out loud but then don’t, because that would turn into something. A declaration. A thing you can’t take back once it’s been spoken into air and witnessed, especially witnessed by Gwen.

“By the way, did you know that Kristine thought you’re into Kat the whole time apparently?”

“What? No, she thought Kat was into me, she told me so.”

“Men. Are so fucking gullible…” Gwen says definitely mostly just to herself. “Look, Kat is protecting herself. She likes you, but she’s not going to gamble on someone she thinks won’t treat it like it matters, like she matters. Like I said, she doesn’t think you’re boyfriend material.”

Wait…I make people feel like they don’t matter? I mean… Yeah, obviously I know I wasn’t a star boyfriend to Kristine, we’ve covered that already. In my defense, that was entirely because I didn’t want to be any kind of boyfriend to her. That whole relationship was a dumpster fire and a bad time for everyone involved… But I’m sure Kat knows she matters. To me. Right?..

“I’m really having a hard time believing Novak said ‘boyfriend material’.” What else can I really say??

“She didn’t say it like that,” Gwen mutters. “I’m paraphrasing.”

“Convenient.”

“It’s accurate. Point is, she has feelings for you,” she says, softer again. “She just gets in her head about it.”

“Why…are you so invested in this? Do I have to promise you my soul? Because that might already be spoken for…”

“Because you bring out her light like no other guy I’ve ever seen her with,” Gwen speaks over me. “You make her glow, Mark. Don’t look so shocked,” she tells me after a pause. “I’m sure you see what you do to her.”

I…have nothing. My brain is blank. Well, no, that’s a lie, there’s stuff there but entirely not helpful. Mostly just Kat’s freckled face.

"Anyway," Gwen says suddenly, brightening, "I think we've made excellent progress today."

"We?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember agreeing to participate."

"And yet you participated magnificently.” Pause, then: “Shots?"

I blink. "That's quite a conversational pivot."