The GEEKs

Some time later the conversation has reached that point where it inevitably splits in half somehow. Matt is lying in the grass, trying to settle an argument with Steve about whether a band can ruin a perfectly good song by recording it too well. I contribute occasionally because I feel morally obligated. Mostly, though, I'm listening to Kat and Eva.

"...I'm just saying," Eva says, sunglasses perched on top of her head now, "if someone voluntarily owns three lava lamps, that tells you something."

"It tells you they enjoy poor decisions."

"Exactly."

"So why would I hold that against them?" Kat cackles.

"Because you're supposed to have standards."

"I do."

"They're very flexible."

“They’re inclusive.” She's sitting with one knee up, absentmindedly pulling blades of grass apart while she talks. 

Jeff, Stone, and Matt Cameron are halfway through another game on the court. Steve eventually wanders over to referee despite nobody asking him to. Somebody's radio is playing from a picnic table. Bruce and Danny are attempting trick shots from increasingly unreasonable distances and loudly blaming physics whenever they don't go in. 

Kat's gesturing animatedly as she’s contradicting Eva on yet another completely trivial point; then her forearm ends up resting against mine. Bare skin, warm from the sun. She just leaves it there. I look down automatically but she doesn't seem to notice... Or maybe she does? Which, thanks to Gwen, suddenly feels like a very important distinction.

She's got freckles all over her arms. Where the hell do those even come from? Did she molt? Is that how freckles work? No idea. They're all over her forearms; not dark enough that you'd call them striking, but enough that once you've noticed them your eyes keep trying to count them, which feels like a terrible hobby to accidentally develop. Before I really decide to, I've already got hold of her arm. She doesn't even interrupt herself. "...and then Gwen said that's basically impossible…"

I turn her arm over a little and she lets me, still talking to Eva like the permission for me to touch her doesn’t even need to be verbally acknowledged. "...which isn't even an argument, really..."

I run my thumb once across the outside of her arm. "Hm."

"What?" She finally looks down at it too.

"You have a lot of freckles."

"Oh. I guess I do."

"I don't think I realized there were this many. Does it affect your quality of life?"

"They only come out in summer."

"Really?"

"Mhm." She studies her own arm with me for a second, like we've both been presented with the same mildly interesting information. "I forget they're there most of the year."

"Seems wasteful."

"For who?"

"I don't know."

She gives Eva some kind of unamused look. "Yet another very persuasive argument."

I trace not the freckles but the air just above them with my finger. "They're nice." The words come out before I've had time to edit them.

Kat turns her head then and actually looks at me, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Thanks. I like them too, actually."

Eva watches us for a few seconds, then sighs. “Dating Jeff weighing on you that heavy?” I ask immediately and she scrunches her face and then sticks her tongue out at me.

"He called glass!!" We hear Stone yell like his life depends on it and then Jeff responds just as unnecessarily loudly:

"Because I’m a professional!"

"You work in a coffee shop!"

"Professionally!"

Eva buries her face in her hands. "Oh my God..."

Kat chuckles under her breath. "You picked that."

"I know." 

"You chose him."

"I am aware." 

"Voluntarily." 

"I was there."

"You really think you know someone," I say.

“Who are you talking about?” Eva eyes me suspiciously.

“Jeffrey, of course.”

"You've known Jeff for years."

"Exactly."

"And?"

"I still don't think I'd have predicted someone voluntarily dating him."

Eva laughs. "That's rude."

"It's observational. This is someone I once watched eat a raw potato voluntarily."

Eva blinks. "No, you didn't."

"I did. He said he wanted the unadulterated experience."

Kat laughs, maybe harder than I deserve, and I catch myself looking at her with a stupidly pleased smile on my face. I really did think this would sort itself out. I came back from tour, realized I apparently had terrible timing, acknowledged it privately like a mature adult, and figured I'd give it a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. Let my brain get over whatever weird little phase it had decided to have. Instead I've somehow arrived here: holding her arm because I wanted to look at freckles. Great.

"Unadulterated experience… That..." Eva shakes her head. "Honestly, that makes sense somehow."

"I wouldn’t lie."

"I mean..." She shrugs, still smiling. "Yeah, he's kind of an idiot sometimes."

"Thank you."

"But he's a very nice idiot."

“Nice idiot,” Kat repeats. “Is that why I lost a twenty dollar bet to Stone? Because Jeff is a nice idiot? Just wondering,” she offers Eva a big grin and a shrug.

Eva rolls her eyes at our freckled friend. "He's funny."

"He doesn't mean to be," I assure her.

"Exactly."

"That's not helping," Kat looks at her mildly confused.

"It is to me. He'll say something completely serious and it'll be the funniest thing you've heard all day."

"Accidentally."

"Yeah."

"So you're dating him ironically?" Kat asks and Eva snorts.

"No. And..." She continues, "he's got really nice arms."

I nod once. "That's the first compelling argument you've made."

"I knew you'd understand."

"I do."

"And he has a really nice smile."

Without thinking, my eyes flick sideways to Kat. She catches it immediately, one eyebrow going up just slightly. I look away before she can say anything.

Eva, blissfully unaware, keeps going. "And he's just..." She searches for the word. "Easy. I don't have to decode him. He just..." She shrugs. "If he's happy, he looks happy. If something bothers him, he says so. If he wants to see me, he calls. If he likes me, he tells me." Another shrug. "It's nice."

There's a brief silence before Kat breaks it. "You've said 'nice' four times."

Eva blinks. "I did?"

"Mhm."

She thinks about it for exactly one second. "Huh." Another shrug. "I guess I didn't realize that was attractive until now. Nice. Uncomplicated. I think those things are actually really underrated."

Kat shuffles her gaze to the court, where Jeff is, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as if trying to determine whether that theory holds. 

"So what I'm hearing," I say, "is that Jeff has somehow stumbled into being emotionally available by complete accident."

Eva laughs. "I don't think it's an accident. He just… He's kind."

"Jesus," I mutter.

"What?"

"I can't believe kindness is beating charisma."

Kat looks over at me, her face twisted into some kind of mocking, sceptical smile. "That's because you're assuming they're competing."

“Mark,” Eva sighs in a way that feels like she’s actually calling me stupid. “I’m assuming you think it’s some kind of deeply uncool word that doesn’t fit into your grimy punk ethos, but you actually are a very kind person.”

I widen my eyes at her, pretending to be alarmed. “Look, Eva, I like you a lot but I think we have more of a platonic thi–” A grape hits me right between the eyes, bounces off and then I catch it and pop it into my mouth. 

There’s some more yelling coming from the basketball courts and general commotion usual for these afternoons. I glance down - our arms are still touching. Hm. Kat let me trace freckles like that was somehow a perfectly ordinary thing for friends to do on a Wednesday afternoon. Maybe it is? Maybe I'm just catastrophically bad at knowing where the average friendship ends. 

* * *

Friday, July 7th

The apartment is unusually empty; one of those rare late afternoons. Gwen's still at work, or after-work happy hour maybe, Eva disappeared somewhere soon after I got home, I imagine it had something to do with Jeff Ament, and Lizzy's hiding in her room with the telephone. I'm at the sink, elbow-deep in dishes, while Mark's mixtape plays from the stereo. Another song starts. I listen for a moment; interesting. 

Girl, you captivate me, I gotta tell you right now, baby. Girl, that's right, you fascinate me…

Song number one was unsuspecting. Song number two could have been just a song. feedtime can have a song called more than love without any deeper meaning attached to it. Three was totally innocent. Four was kind of hard to ignore but it's the Saints; I imagine most of Mark’s mixtapes contain the Saints. Maybe not all of them Erotic Neurotic, but still. Five was minding its own business. This one is beginning to establish some kind of a pattern. 

Except that might be the point. I mean, I made a mixtape full of 50s love songs for Mark before. I made him the mixtape, I gave it to him, he listened to it, made fun of a few tracks, called it ‘very romantically optimistic’ and that was it. No hidden meaning, no conversation about it, no insinuation. Just music. And that’s what this might be too - just music.

As I finish rinsing a plate and set it in the drying rack the apartment door opens. Mark walks in carrying a paper bag from the grocery store. He notices the music immediately, then notices me noticing the music, and a slow grin spreads across his face. 

"How's the mixtape?"

"Good."

"Rave review."

"I'm only on song six."

"Ah. Right." His grin widens more. "So no verdict on favorite songs yet?"

"Not yet, no."

He leans back against the counter and watches me for a moment. I keep washing dishes, mostly because looking directly at him feels unwise. The song loops back to the chorus; Mark, meanwhile, looks entirely too pleased with himself, from what I can tell from the corner of my eye.

I should not be overthinking this. He made a mixtape. People make mixtapes. I made him one and it didn’t mean anything beyond ‘here is something I like, please listen to it.’ This could be exactly the same thing in reverse. A mirror image really, considering both mixtapes were birthday gifts. It’s just a reference point. A joke. A demonstration of taste. Mark is fully capable of doing things just to see what happens next without any deeper agenda attached.

"Interesting selections, though," I say anyway.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Interesting good or interesting bad?"

"Interesting specific." The smile finally cracks through before I can stop it.

"Specific how?"

"Well." I rinse another glass. "I wasn't aware there were this many punk songs about being embarrassingly fond of somebody."

His eyebrows jump, just slightly. "Maybe that's what punk is really about."

"Sure."

"Maybe everyone's misunderstood the genre."

"For the last fifteen years?"

"Could happen."

I laugh and when I finally risk looking at Mark, I find him still watching me, still that same smirk plastered all over his face. I dry my hands on his sleeve, which somehow makes his smile even more unbearable, and glance toward the stereo as the song continues.

"Although,” I start, horrified at my own decision to say the following out loud, “if the next track is another love song, this will start looking really embarrassing for you." 

This is flirting. If Gwen heard me say this, she would say I’m flirting. And I’d have to agree because there’s really not much to hide behind in that sentence.

Mark gasps. "Katie Novak."

"Mark Arm."

"I'll have you know I am an artist. This mixtape was curated with tremendous care and integrity.” He sets the paper bag on the counter and starts unloading a gallon of milk and a jumbo box of cereal.

“Are those for us?” I ask.

“Reparations.”

The song ends. A few seconds of tape hiss pass before the next track starts, considerably louder and, as far as I can tell, entirely uninterested in romance.

Mark points toward the stereo. “There.”

“A return to emotional stability?” I ask. 

“Exactly.” He puts the milk in the refrigerator, then places the cereal in the cabinet above it. “Although,” he says, closing the cabinet, “you’re not even halfway through.”

“I’ll prepare myself.”

“You probably should.”

He says it lightly, already turning toward the door, and I pour myself a glass of water while the seventh song makes a persuasive argument that the others meant absolutely nothing.

* * *

Sunday, July 9th

The van is dark, humid, and irresponsibly over capacity; everything that was on the two benches facing each other in the back of it is now piled between everybody’s feet - gear, clothes, boxes, trash. There’s several separate conversations overlapping; Danny and Jerry are discussing whether a movie can still be considered good if the ending is stupid. Obviously, the answer is yes if you’re disciplined enough to fall asleep before the ending. Eva keeps turning around from the passenger seat to talk to Jeff. Matt is explaining something loudly and incorrectly. The van hits a pothole, causing a choir of complaints. Then it all settles and starts up again.

"...I'm telling you," Steve says from somewhere to my left, "if we record it slower it'll sound heavier."

"It'll sound sleepier."

"It won't."

"It will."

"It won't."

"Steve."

"What?"

"It will."

“You think you’re the John of Mudhoney, don’t you?”

“He is the John of Mudhoney,” Kat leans over me and interjects so unexpectedly, I almost flinch. “For better or worse.”

“Yeah? Who am I?” Steve asks her like this is some kind of fortune telling experience.

“George.”

“Who’s Paul then?” He frowns in mild confusion.

“Paul is dead,” Kat tells him and turns all the way back, returning to her conversation with Lizzy.

“She’s funny,” Steve grins at me. “We should keep her around.”

“I know,” I mirror his expression.

Then he starts going on another tangent to support his theory but my attention starts flickering. Kat’s sitting next to me, facing towards the front of the van, talking to Lizzy, but her hand is on the bench between us, and considering there’s really no unused space left in here, her wrist is pressed against the side of my leg. 

She noticed what songs I put on the mixtape, which…of course she noticed. But she pointed it out which is an outstanding turn of events. That's at least flirting adjacent, right? So it’s only natural that as I sit here, my hand slides down from my knee and before I can approve the decision, my pinky hooks around hers. Just the pinky finger, a tiny thing, barely anything at all, really. Kat stops in the middle of a sentence. Not dramatically, just enough that I notice. Her eyes drop briefly, then she keeps talking, like nothing happened. Well, I’ll be damned. Interesting. A month ago she would've made a comment, two months ago she would've certainly demanded a written explanation. Now she just…lets me do this. The conversation around us continues uninterrupted but I catch maybe every fifth word. My pulse immediately starts heading towards a health concern. Steve is still talking.

"...look, Black Flag did it all the time–"

"Black Flag also made a lot of questionable decisions."

"That's not an argument."

I nod thoughtfully as if I'm following this conversation. Then, because apparently I've lost all self-preservation instincts, I slide my hand further; my fingers thread between Kat’s. Slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, but she doesn't. And shockingly, the world remains exactly the same. Danny is trying to convince everyone we should stop for food. Nobody notices anything. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here holding Kat Novak's hand.

"...and then Endino said—"

"Mhm."

Steve narrows his eyes. "You didn't hear a word of that."

"I heard all of it."

"What did I say?"

I think for a second. "Something insightful."

"Mark."

"What?"

Beside me, Kat's trying not to laugh, I can feel it more than see it: the little shake of her shoulders. Then she finally glances down, just once, at our joined fingers. Then away again, but I catch a smile. That's about all the encouragement I need to make another terrible decision. So naturally, I push my luck: I settle our joined hands on my thigh.

Her eyes flick downward again, then she exhales through her nose. The faintest hint of amusement, but still doesn't say anything. Which is somehow worse. Or better. Or possibly both.

"...because that's not how compression works."

"Right."

"Oh my fuckin god,” Steve delivers in exasperated monotone. 

"I'm listening."

"No."

"Spiritually."

"Stop saying that."

I grin. My thumb starts tracing lazy circles over the side of Kat’s hand. Casual. Except extremely not casual at all, actually. This is a ridiculous amount of dopamine for a thumb.  

Steve finally stops talking long enough to look at me, then at Kat. His expression shifts slightly to that of a man beginning to understand something and find zero amusement in it. I immediately look away because I refuse to be perceived.

Beside me, Kat's still looking ahead, still chatting with Lizzy, but she brushes her thumb over my skin a couple times. Well. 

* * *

I think that constitutes any kind of believable ignorance going out the window. It's been two hours since Mark held my hand in the van and I don't think I really processed a single word anyone’s said to me since then. On the bright side, my heartrate is finally back to normal and the conservatory of butterflies has moved out of my stomach, for the time being…

I sit cross-legged on the floor in Eva’s room with Gwen and Lizzy, backs against the bed, while Eva is half on the mattress, half hanging off it like gravity is a personal insult. We’re talking about something that feels utterly unimportant. A story Gwen is telling that keeps derailing itself into other stories. Lizzy interrupts every few seconds to ask clarifying questions. I laugh at the funny parts, I contribute at the right moments. Everything is correct.

Except my brain is jammed, replaying one thing over and over again. Pinky first, then the whole hand. Then the fact that he didn’t look at me like it was accidental, which is the problem. If it had been accidental, I would be fine. But he had the audacity to take our hands and put them on his thigh. For it to be accidental, that would have to be the world’s most concerning case of sleepwalking. 

Eva throws a cushion at Gwen and misses completely. Gwen retaliates by leaning over to blow violently into Eva’s face, at which point Lizzy yells about ‘basic spatial awareness,’ which causes Gwen to then start attacking her instead. I should be laughing more. I am laughing, just…slightly delayed.

There’s a knock at the doorframe and Mark appears like he’s been there the whole time and just decided to become visible. Him and the other guys have been in his apartment since we all came back, working on some song arrangements allegedly, although I heard our front door open and close too many times to believe that. I imagine that by the time they show up to their next studio session, the songs will stand just as unarranged as last time and that next time we inspect our kitchen, there will be fewer beers in the fridge and some missing snacks in the cupboards. 

“I come bearing information,” he says.

Gwen immediately points at him. “Whatever this is, I’d like it formally listed as a public nuisance.”

“It’s better than that,” his grin widens. “Pizza’s here.”

A collective shift happens in the room - approval, movement, small chaos. Eva sits up. “Finally.”

Mark continues to lean casually against the doorframe, waiting for us to mobilize, I guess, while looking at us as if he’s taking attendance. Then his gaze lands on me for half a second too long. Not obvious but just enough. 

“Also,” he adds, “I think I’m expanding my definition of public nuisance to include tactile experiences in moving vehicles.” 

There’s a pause. Gwen snorts as she walks past him: “What?”

Mark shrugs, completely composed. “You set the precedent with public nuisance. I’m just building on it academically.” 

Eva laughs under her breath as the rest of us filter out of her bedroom. “Academically?”

“Sure.” Mark’s eyes flick to me again, briefly. “Field research.”

Lizzy shakes her head, smiling. “I’m not sure I want to know what field.”

I feel my face warm, which is humiliating because nobody else is reacting the way I am. Lizzy’s already moved on to laughing at something, Eva is now arguing with Mark about terminology, Gwen’s inspecting the pizza options. 

This is not going to get easier by pretending I don’t notice it, is it… But what am I supposed to do?! I already didn’t pull my hand away, I’m already an accomplice in Mark’s stupid game! At what point is it appropriate to have the ‘this is nice but I’m not looking for a freak accident’ talk?..

* * *

Friday, July 14th

I knew they’d end up here, it’s become some kind of unwritten rule, it seems - people get together at the park, some play basketball, some drift between watching and pretending they’re watching, just sort of gravitating around after the day fractures. Then afterward someone complains about hunger, then everyone migrates in a loose formation toward grease and beer and somewhere to sit down. I knew Kat would be here so I came straight from the studio. And conveniently, I also tend to complain about hunger after spending a day surviving on chips and dreams of grandeur.

Everyone’s already packed in and around a booth, a couple of chairs shoved together for extra seating. Stone looks like he’s mid-story, Lizzy looks like she’s pretending she’s listening, Jerry is actually listening, which means it’s probably about guitars. Xana and Andy are arguing about something but I can never tell if it’s a real argument or just their idea of a fun time. Eva and Jeff are sitting next to each other, sort of huddled, like the rest of the room is optional.

And Kat, in an excellent turn of events, is on the outside edge of the booth, half-turned in, elbows on the table, looking down at something spread out in front of her.

When I get close enough, Stone shifts his chair instinctively to make room and immediately acts like he regrets it when he realizes it’s me. “How’s the selling out going?”

“Stone, you really need to sit down and write some new material,” I tell him and he flips me off with both his hands and a big smile, then nods his head at a nearby table that has extra chairs. 

Instead, I plop down on the very end of the seat right next to Kat. Or more like, against her, really, since there’s barely any room. She turns her head, already smiling, looks into my eyes, then at her shoulder now effectively mashed against my arm, then back up. 

My mouth pulls into a grin before I can stop it. “What’s that?” I redirect our attention to the piece of paper on the table in front of her instead.

“Good question,” she chuckles. “It’s Eva and Jeff’s starchart.”

“Starchart?”

“Yeah. Demri is going through a phase apparently.”

“Does it say anything interesting?” I lean closer towards the paper, not her, but it doesn’t really matter because the geometry is already compromised. Then my elbow finds the top of the booth behind her, totally by accident, and my forearm ends up stretched behind her shoulders. Weird how architecture works. 

In the van, she didn’t move when I took her hand. No correction, no comment, just acceptance and continuation, like the world didn’t need adjusting. That’s either permission or a trap. I’m leaning permission but we’ll see how this goes. 

“Well, disappointingly, it does not say when they’ll die…”

“Kat!” Eva yelps while Stone laughs.

“What? It’s a fair question if somebody claims to be able to read your fortune…” Kat shrugs. “That’s the first thing I’d look for in my chart.”

“She refuses to make those charts,” Xana briefly joins the conversation to let us know and then goes back to whispering something at Andy.

“Are they going to have kids?” I lean in even more; not enough for anyone else to call it anything but just enough that it changes the angle of the conversation for me.

Kat huffs a quiet laugh. “It doesn’t say that either, I also wondered.”

“What about: does Jeff Ament ever stop being Jeff Ament, or is that fixed?”

“Also not on it. First thing I checked for.” Stone pipes in and then has to dodge Jeff trying to flick his nose across the table. 

“Does it have anything useful on it? Like, will Eva’s patience align with Jeff’s volume levels in the next lunar cycle?” I ask.

“Yeah, no, it reads as less of a useful tool and more of an emotional support essay,” Kat says and then turns her head, finally, but not fully. Just enough to look up at me.

Which is already close enough that if either one of us sneezes this becomes a very different conversation. I just raise my eyebrows at her, like a question, or a joke, or something in between. Her expression shifts - tiny, sharp amusement, then she smirks at me, not backing down, not shifting away. This is definitely escalating through mutual negligence. 

“Any favorite songs yet?”

“It’s a very well curated mixtape, I’ll have to listen to the whole thing before I can fully form opinions.” I can feel her breath moving the air between us as she speaks, that’s how close she’s choosing to stay. Which definitely reads as permission to invade her space. Which is potentially bad because that means I’ll keep investigating further. For scientific purposes. To find the line, of course. 

“A mixtape? Classic.” Xana plugs in again.

“Classic what?” Stone looks at her.

“Just classic,” she says but she’s not looking at him; instead, she’s projecting some kind of a loaded smirk at Kat. “What’s on it?”

“Old punk songs,” Kat says while I decide to go with “Love ballads.” 

“Same difference,” I shrug. I’ve been behaving myself, for the most part, which is a stupid way to think about it, but it’s accurate. Kat Novak is very easy to misbehave around. 

“You are so strange…” She mumbles barely above a whisper.

“Punk love ballads?” Xana raises an eyebrow.

“Punk love ballads?” Andy repeats as if he just woke up. “That’s dedication. Many people have no idea how hard it is to toe the line between telling someone you love them and screaming over the sound of out-of-tune guitars…” He starts going on some tangent with a few editorial notes from Stone; Kat, in the meantime, continues casually alternating between looking at whoever’s speaking and facing me with about three inches of space between us.

“If you die before me,” she looks at me again after seemingly deciding she’s done trying to follow Andy’s line of thought, “I will personally engrave ‘he lived and died an unsolved riddle’ on your gravestone.”

“Unsolved riddle? I’m an open book, Novak. Especially compared to you.”

Kat just looks at me for a second longer than necessary with a vaguely concerned smile, like she’s considering whether I deserve a response at all. Then she doesn’t give me one. 

Still no correction which is…notable. Starting to feel like an irresponsible pattern really. Normally there would be something, right? The person leans away, makes a joke, accidentally elbows you in the ribs; draws a line somewhere obvious so you know where the edge is. Kat doesn’t draw lines, I guess. Or if she does, she’s very good at making them look optional. So, I’m either doing something very clever or something I will eventually have to explain to Steve in a tone that suggests regret. 

* * *

Wednesday, July 19th

Mark’s already grinning when he rips the thrift shop door open and storms in; he’s got that look like he’s been saving something annoying specifically for me and starts talking as soon as he’s inside, while still making his way towards me. “Something suspiciously close to pop appears on the horizon if you squint hard enough.” 

Steve is half a step behind him, shaking his head like he’s already tired of wherever this is going, but also sporting a very pleased expression. The bell over the door is still jangling when they come in, letting in a hot burst of July air that smells faintly like wet asphalt and dust. The guy rifling through a crate of old vinyl near the window looks up briefly.

I’m in the middle of the junk shop, a half-sorted pile of clothes at my feet, inspecting something I’ve already picked up twice. He points a magazine folded in half at me, presumably the one my article is published in, like he’s caught me red-handed. “Pop? Pop? How dare you,” he plants himself squarely in front of me, a big grin smeared all over his face. “Pop,” Mark repeats once more.

“I said suspiciously close to pop,” I offer. 

“That makes it worse, Novak,” he says and I smile before I can stop myself. He points at me with the folded article again. “No, no, don’t do that. Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I can’t help it,” I say.

“And messy?”

“You were right, that is obviously a big compliment,” Steve tells me.

“You know what’s funny,” Mark plows on like Steve and I are merely two flies on the wall at his recital. “You spent all this time describing us like we’re barely holding it together, and then you end it like we’re…inevitable.” 

“That's not…entirely true.”

“Threatening to snap apart before somehow finding their way back together at the last possible second.”

I hear myself giggle before I speak: “I love that you read it enough times to memorize it.” Somehow that’s higher praise than anything he could actually say about it.

Steve starts laughing. “He read it probably at least three times, and that’s just when he was reading it out loud for us.”

“I skimmed through a couple of times…” Mark waves the comment off.

“He made everyone at the studio read it and monitored that everyone actually read the whole thing.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve. Anyway, the noise is enormous and alive. Alive? As opposed to dead?” He peers at me, daring me to…I don’t even know what. I think he just really enjoys arguing with me. “What exactly did you mean–”

“Shut the fuck up, Mark,” Steve cuts him off, then looks at me, beaming. “Brilliant writing. I know I’m biased because I loved everything you said about me but the piece really is just excellent. Very accurate, too. I do tear and detail.”

“You really do.” My smile is beyond my control now.

“I especially enjoyed how you compared our songs to bar fights. Also the bit about how they end up dirtier than they started. That was really good.”

“And what’s with the glorious lack of self-importance comment?” Mark continues to deliver his lines like this is a monologue rather than a conversation with two other people. “That feels vaguely offensive.”

“I’m starting to really want to give you something to be offended about…”

“Steve,” Mark says, now looking at him. “She's threatening me.”

“I think she's complimenting you.”

“That's what makes it confusing.” Then there’s a pause, barely there, as Mark looks into my eyes and for some reason it feels like he’s looking for something in them. “You’re really fucking good,” he then says and just like that, all the theatrics disappear. I open my mouth automatically. “No,” he says, pointing at me yet again. “Don't do that thing either.”

“What thing?!”

“The thing where somebody says something nice and you immediately look for the escape hatch.”

“I don't do that,” I protest.

“Actually, you do. I’ve witnessed it firsthand at least five different times just last month,” Steve nods and I roll my eyes, still grinning.

There’s a beat where Mark just looks at me and my mind wanders to holding hands in the van... I can practically feel my palm tingle, which is unfortunate. And ridiculous. And irrelevant!

Then he waves the folded magazine between us. “At the center of everything is Mark Arm…” His face shifts, pure glee radiating from him now. 

“Yeah, he liked this piece a lot more than the one you wrote about Soundgarden,” Steve sighs out a laugh.

“Although I am a little concerned,” Mark says.

“About?” I inquire. 

“This part: impossible not to watch. I mean, good to know Novak,” Mark says with a smirk. There it is. 

Writing about Mark was almost too easy - but the whole time I was annoyingly aware of every word, trying to decide how much I want to say out loud. I think I kept it pretty safe - I don’t think anyone would read the article and think, oh she’s clearly in love with him. Not that I’m necessarily in love with Mark, I just…think about him all the time now...

Steve shakes his head. “You’re actually unbearable.”

Mark beams at him. “And yet, reviewed well,” he says and then he moves - not toward me exactly but behind me. I mean, right behind me with no space to spare in between. His arms go on either side of me and he opens the magazine like he’s showing me evidence. 

This unnecessary closeness doesn’t exactly feel like it demands anything. It’s more like he’s decided to occupy the space behind my shoulders like it’s just one of the options. An unhinged option but an option nonetheless. 

It’s like Mark treats these interactions like a boundary he can approach, test, and bend. If there’s no pushback, he assumes the line has moved. And unfortunately, there is no pushback because apparently I no longer possess reasonable survival instincts. Because I don’t have the self-control to stop it. That’s really the unfortunate truth - it’s fun and nice and…I’m leading him on because I’m enjoying it too much. But does it really count as leading somebody on if they’re not at all interested in anything serious, anything committed, anything that doesn't expire at sunrise? 

His head dips slightly over my left shoulder and he reads the next line he apparently wants to discuss:

“Equal parts sneer, charm, and genuine enthusiasm. Charm, Novak. That's a strong word.” He speaks right next to my left ear.

“Really? Seems pretty neutral to me…” I continue looking at the page.

"Steve, did she call you charming?" 

"Nope," Steve answers without looking up, running his fingers down a stack of cassette cases.

"Interesting." 

“Is it?” I ask, looking at Mark sideways.

His eyes roam all over the side of my face for a short moment, then, quieter: “Do you always let people get that close?”

My first instinct is to turn around properly, reset the configuration, make it normal again. That would be the natural thing to do. If I didn’t like him being his close… “No, I just don’t usually issue warnings for proximity. Also,” I add, “you’re blocking the light of your own dramatic reveal.” 

He huffs a laugh, then straightens up and drops his arms away, stepping back around me. “I like that you put sneer first though, keeps me humble. ”

“Somebody has to.”

"You know, if I wrote Kat Novak is impossible not to watch, people would ask questions." 

“Depends what you wrote it on, really. If it’s a bathroom stall, I doubt anyone would question it.”

“You compared Danny to a knife-juggling maniac, Lukin to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Steve to Puck, and me… I'm the one getting called charming.”

I look over at Steve, expecting some kind of solidarity in the face of this insanity, but he shrugs instead, a smirk already settling on his face. “I also read it once or twice. You did call him charming. You did this to yourself.”

"You make me sound very compelling, Novak."

I make the conscious choice to be honest but completely deadpan about it. "You are compelling." 

Mark pauses. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you like me.” My eyes snap to his automatically but he's already looking away. “Anyway,” he moves on so quickly it almost makes me dizzy. “Remeber that book store that didn’t hire you a couple of months ago?”

“Vividly. No need to bring it up.”

“Guess where I picked this zine up at,” his mouth stretches into a grin and mine falls open in slow motion.

“You’re kidding,” I say.

“Should I write them a note about eating their heart out or will you?”

“You’re kidding!”

“You’re technically a published author whose work is sold at a place that wouldn’t hire you, Novak.”

“Oh my god!”

I’m not sure what’s more exciting: the fact that this is technically true or the fact that Mark is telling this to me like it’s the most exciting news he’s delivered to anyone all month, as if he’s just as pleased about it as I am.

* * *

Friday, July 21st

“...And the drummer just goes down. Like, fully out. Mid-song.”

Kurt holds up a hand immediately. “Wait. Goes down how?”

The guy blinks at him. “Like…passes out.” 

A bunch of us bargoers, so to speak, are huddled under this narrow overhang, the rain deafeningly loud all around. I’m not sure who this guy is - or who he knows here - but he’s been dominating the conversation with disjointed fragments of random stories for the last five minutes and it’s starting to feel like hours. Steve, on the other hand, stopped paying attention about four minutes ago and started talking about something else entirely demonstratively loudly. 

“No,” I say, leaning in slightly. “We need precision. Does he sit down first, or is this a collapse situation?”

“A collapse, I’m guessing,” Kurt asks, like he’s filling out paperwork.

The guy looks between us. “It was a collapse.”

I nod once. “Good. That removes ambiguity.”

“There was no ambiguity,” the guy says.

“There’s always ambiguity,” I tell him.

Kurt points at him. “Where is this happening?”

“A show,” the guy says. “I told you.”

I'm only half-listening; I keep getting distracted by layers of cigarette smoke hanging in the damp air, sinking into one another, and the sounds of stereo and laughter filtering out from inside the bar through the open door. It’s been another long day at the studio. Very emotionally gratifying. But all I’ve had to eat today were once again corn chips and cottage cheese, and that, combined with the stuffy, hot studio, wore me out more than I’d like to admit.

Something across the street catches my eye - two people booking it towards a bus stop down an otherwise desolate sidewalk. I squint slightly and just barely make out Kat and Gwen through the wall of water. There’s another thing I’d prefer to not say out loud - my stomach does a happy backflip at the sight of her.  

They make it to the stop at the same time as the bus does, which hides them from view for a minute. Then it takes off and reveals Kat standing there alone, her tote bag hooked over one shoulder, wiping wet hair out of her face. She hesitates a moment, looking both ways, and when opportunity presents itself, she runs across the street, towards here.

The last ten feet of distance carry with them an unexpected realisation - Kat’s wearing a dress, which wouldn't be especially noteworthy, other than that she looks good in dresses; nothing strange about it. But she’s soaked, I mean completely drenched, head to toe, and the dark fabric of her dress is clinging to every imaginable inch of her body. I can’t look away at first and then I start feeling like somebody should remove me from the premises, so I can’t look directly at her anymore.

“Hello,” Kat finally makes it under the overhang and greets everyone - and no one in particular - while wringing rain out of her hair like she’s trying to restart herself.

I very deliberately look anywhere else. The gutter. The cigarette in someone’s hand. Kurt’s shoe. My own extremely moral and upright thoughts. Matt, in the meantime, takes one look at her and whistles. "You ever consider Playboy?"

"You ever consider silence?"

Matt laughs. "Jesus, you're feisty today, I see."

Kurt tilts his head. “Maybe you should consider silence sometimes, Matt.”

“Did you just agree with me?” Kat looks at Kurt with mock-shock. “Has the apocalypse commenced?”

"Come on, don’t act like we’re not friends,” he grins. “I'm actually very proud of you. Whole career at a zine just to prove to me you’re literate."

"Right."

"I’m still not totally convinced though," Kurt says.

"Fair enough. I'll have someone read my articles to you."

Laughter rings out, then conversations continue overlapping, and I continue to try to focus on literally anything other than Kat’s body, which is really hard to do, considering it’s right there, barely concealed by a thin layer of soaking wet fabric, really fucking hard to miss. 

Kat’s attention suddenly shifts past Kurt. “Birthday!”

Stone, who’s standing nearer the open door with a beer in his hand, looks over immediately. “Hello.”

She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a flat, thoroughly drenched rectangular package wrapped in the classifieds. 

Stone’s whole face brightens. “You got me something?”

“Obviously.”

He tears through the newspaper with considerably more enthusiasm than the situation requires. Underneath is a small wooden frame, its back facing me. He stares at the other side for a second, then looks up at Kat. “This is incredible.”

“What is it?” Steve asks.

Stone turns the frame around and holds it out for the rest of us to see. Inside is a photograph of an escalator. Across the glass, in silver marker, Kat has written: STONE GOSSARD: PORTRAIT OF EMOTIONAL SUPPORT, 1989. Steve starts laughing immediately.

“It’s perfect.” Stone angles it toward the light, admiring it from several directions as though this might reveal additional artistic layers. “You really captured me.”

“I had a strong reference point.”

Stone looks genuinely touched, which lasts about half a second before he hooks her in by the shoulder and kisses her loudly on the cheek.

Kat makes a startled noise and laughs, trying to push him away without putting much effort into it. “Happy birthday, Stoney.”

Stone lifts the frame again, already turning toward Steve to discuss where it deserves to be displayed. Kat steps back towards where I’m standing, still smiling, and I make the mistake of looking directly at her again. The dress is still plastered to her like the rain had ulterior motives and my eyes immediately forget every moral principle I assigned them thirty seconds ago. 

“Mark? Mark!” She snaps her fingers in front of my face, successfully snapping me out of it.

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” She peers at me, rainwater from her bangs still slowly dripping down her face.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that…”

“Can I borrow your blazer? Unless you think you need it more than me...”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” I’m already moving before I finish the sentence, shrugging it off. “Here,” I say, handing it over.

She takes it, wraps it around herself, and immediately looks marginally less like she’s been personally attacked by the weather. “Thanks,” she says. 

“Where did Gwen go?” I ask in my best impression of a normal person. 

“She’s got a date,” Kat pops her eyes momentarily. 

“With Darryl?”

“Hopefully. I don't actually know, she's been going on quite a few dates lately… I should have probably asked, right?” She looks at me, sudden concern curving her eyebrows. “I should, at the very least, know the guy's name and address next time…”

“What, so you’d know who to write the obituary about?”

“Precisely,” she laughs, delighted.

Conversations resume around us in fragments. Kurt is still talking, people are exchanging cigarettes and lighters, and the rain gets louder like it’s trying to participate.

“You're shivering, Novak.” I say after another minute. I can't help it; I can actually feel a chill radiating off her.

“Am I now?” She looks at me completely unamused but it makes me laugh a little.

After a moment of staring at each other she seems to decide that this riveting conversation has been exhausted and shuffles her attention back to the rest of the group. But my hand twitches and then I reach over to tug Kat towards me by her arm.

“What are you doing?” She asks slowly as I wrap my arms around her and pull her in close. Her question sounds reluctant but she gives exactly enough resistance to qualify as principle instead of effort before bumping into my chest. 

“Putting kleptothermy to good use. Unless you've decided this is your day to go?”

Pause; then, speaking right up against the space where my neck and shoulder meet: “Hypothermia seems like it would be a rough way to go.”

“I hear it’s not great.”

“And in July, too. That would be a humiliating cause of death.”

“Plus, you're wearing my jacket. I don't need you dying in my jacket.”

That gets a small laugh out of her and then her palms come up lightly against my chest, not pushing away, just settling there. One of my hands slides to the middle of her back; my other arm locks more securely around her shoulders, pulling her another inch closer. She comes willingly. Right. That’s a problem.

Then she sighs; not dramatically, more like she’s gotten comfortable. Christ. “It's very kind of you to do this to preserve my life.”

“Well.” I breathe out a short laugh. “I'm not exactly sacrificing much here.”

“Only your reputation.”

“Not even that. I’m actually known for escalating.”

“Mm.” That’s it. Just a little sound. No comment, no come back. No pulling away either. 

The conversation around us drifts elsewhere. Kurt's interrogating somebody about whether passing out technically counts as stage diving if gravity does all the work. Then Matt's voice cuts through everything. "Jesus Christ, get a room."

A few heads turn. "Don’t be jealous, Matt," I call without looking up.

"Seriously, I've seen less intimate embraces at airports."

"That's because nobody's happy to see you," Kat laughs faintly against my neck.

“I’m just saying,” Matt points at us with his cigarette. “You’ve been hugging for a very long time. You’re running out of plausible deniability, Firecracker.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, this is hypothermia prevention,” she says.

“That's what the medical journals say,” I add while Steve catches my eye from across the group and gives me a look so pointed it practically has corners. Yeah, yeah. 

Plausible deniability. That’s a funny phrase; I’m not sure who’s supposed to be maintaining it anymore. This keeps happening - I do something that should probably make things weird, she lets me, then we both carry on like nothing happened. Then I do something even dumber. And every time I give her an easy out, she doesn't take it. 

I mean, I’m aware that’s not how permission works but it’s starting to feel like Kat's silence isn't really silence. It’s starting to feel like she’s watching me keep inching forward, waiting to see how long it'll take me to grow a spine.

"Alright," Matt says, flicking away his cigarette. "I'm done being wet."

One by one people start drifting back inside. Kat takes a small step backward and I let my arms loosen. “Thanks,” she says, tugging my blazer a little tighter around herself.

“Anytime.”

“That's a dangerous thing to offer.”

“What is?”

“Anytime.”

She must know what she’s doing to me.

* * *

Thursday, July 27th

The movie ends sometime after midnight, although I’m not sure if anyone was really watching by the end. Jeff and Eva spent the last twenty minutes arguing about something that had absolutely nothing to do with the plot. Gwen fell asleep halfway through and woke up just in time to complain about the ending. Lizzy claims she liked it though, which makes her the only one.

“So,” Gwen yawns out a word while making her way towards her room. “We’re going out tomorrow night?”

“That’s the plan,” I tell her, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

Eva flops backward across the couch dramatically. "And then after tomorrow, six weeks of peace. It's going to be weird."

“Yeah,” Lizzy agrees. "Six weeks of no one stealing our snacks."

"No one strolling in here like it’s a public park," Eva says.

"No one standing in the hallway yelling conversations through three open doors," Gwen adds.

I rinse my toothbrush in the kitchen sink, feeling like I almost don’t want to say the next sentence out loud. "And then we’ll have a new neighbor instead."

The room goes quieter for a beat. Eva glances toward me. "Right."

"It is going to be strange," Gwen says from her bedroom doorway. 

"Wait, how long have you guys lived here?" Jeff asks while taking Eva’s hand and pulling her back up on her feet.

“Almost a year.”

"And somehow this whole year Mark’s been in our apartment," Lizzy chuckles.

"That's because none of you know how to lock a door," Gwen says but when I walk past her, towards the bathroom, she looks sort of thoughtful; wistful even.

Jeff laughs. "Yeah, sounds like he's basically become apartment furniture."

"Very loud furniture," Eva says.

"Questionably house-trained," Gwen points out.

“It will be weird,” I say quietly from the bathroom. Nobody answers immediately and I assume Eva, Gwen, and Lizzy are all thinking the same thing as me - for how much of this past year we spent complaining about all those guys always hanging out here, we will actually really miss all of it.

Then Gwen shrugs. "I guess we'll have to make our own noise."

Everyone starts dispersing, looks like Jeff’s staying over again, goodnights drift through the apartment, doors open and close. The familiar winding-down noises of people settling into their separate corners of the night. I turn off the TV and head toward my room when I hear a faint knock on the door.

"The Jehovah’s Witnesses have gone desperate," I whisper at Mark the moment I swing the door open.

"Prime time to be saved," he grins.

"How'd the studio go?" I ask as I retreat back into the apartment and he follows me.

"Good."

"Actually good or musician good?"

"What's the difference?"

"Musician good usually means somebody hates something and everybody's pretending that's productive."

He laughs. “No, actually good. We did an outstanding take of Come To Mind. I think you’ll like it.”

“Is that it then? All done?”

“Yeah, pretty much…”

He follows me into my bedroom, talking as he does, something about mixing, something about Endino, something about guitar tracks… When I flick my bedside light on, the exhaustion in Mark’s face is exaggerated even more by the shadows cast across it. His hair's a mess, his eyes look heavy and he keeps rubbing them. But underneath it there's definitely an unmistakable brightness, that barely-contained excitement of creative things working out.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, still listening to him. Mark remains standing, probably running entirely on momentum. I grab my book from the nightstand.

He notices. "Oh. Am I boring you?" He touches his fingertips to his chest, tilting his head. 

I chuckle quietly as I pull the blanket over my legs and lean back against the headboard. “No, no, I’m multitasking.”

Mark stares at me, then at the bed, then back at me. A decision visibly occurs and without warning he spins on the spot and lets himself fall backward, making the entire mattress bounce. "This bed is terrible,” he announces immediately. 

"Excuse me?"

"It's awful."

"You've been on it for one second."

"That's all I needed." He throws an arm across his eyes. "Too firm."

"It's not too firm."

"Too small."

"It's a perfectly normal bed."

"Questionable structural integrity."

"You’re just saying words now."

"Your honor, I'd like the record to show this bed attempted to injure me."

"The record will show you're dramatic." I open my book while Mark remains spread across my comforter like somebody abandoned him there. “So, you’re gonna go home or..." I say after a moment of trying and failing to read a single line.

"I don't have the strength."

I shake my head and wait but he doesn't move, not even a little. I look at him, he looks back. The stupid grin that appears on both our faces at the same time makes me laugh again.

“If you fall asleep here, I won’t carry you back to your bed. Just so you know. Never had much of upper body strength.”

“If I fall asleep here? You play a dangerous game, Novak.” He immediately scoots up to lie fully on the bed, kicks his sneakers off, tucks one leg under the comforter, and rolls onto his side with the efficiency of someone who has apparently been waiting for this outcome the entire time.

I consider objecting to him making himself so comfortable. Then open my book again instead. He shifts at some point and this time his foot finds mine under the blanket. Not pressing, just contact, like he’s landed there by accident and decided not to correct it. 

“Alright, Novak,” he mumbles, eyes closed, “this is how people end up being the creepy guy in someone’s bed, right? You say something funny and then suddenly you’re just…the creep in someone’s bed. Be honest, am I a creep in your bed?”

I look over at him for a second longer than I mean to. “You’re not very creepy,” I say, like I’m correcting something factual rather than answering the question. Then I go back to my book, because saying anything more than that feels like stepping into territory I don’t have a map for. Or even any idea of where I’m trying to go… “There’s supposed to be more villainy involved.” 

Then he lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Right,” he says, like he’s taking notes. “So it’s a technique issue.” He shifts slightly onto his side, propping his head up on his hand now, watching me. “Let me try again.”

Before I can answer, he drags his foot a fraction more under the blanket until it hooks more deliberately around mine this time. 

“Okay,” he says seriously. “How’s that?”

I snort despite myself. “You’re improving.”

His eyes drop to my book for a moment, then he relaxes back into the pillow again, but doesn’t fully disengage, just stays there, foot still lightly caught against mine like he’s forgotten to unhook it.

“Anyway,” he says, eyes half-lidded again, “I’m just here to test the structural integrity of your hospitality system.”

“And? How’s it holding up?”

He considers it like it’s a real experiment. “Concerningly well,” he says. Then, softer, almost pleased with himself: “I might have to stay a little longer.”

A few minutes pass, the apartment grows even quieter, Mark stops talking… When I glance over  I see him lying on his side facing me, one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes half-closed. Probably still awake but barely.

What if this was how things were? What if Mark was a domestic, committed relationship kind of guy? Not a different person; not sweeter or softer, not any less himself. Just someone who actually wanted that sort of thing. Someone who didn't just end up in relationships the way people end up at a crappy diner at 3am after a show. Someone who sought them out, actually chose them.

Our friends keep making comments about whatever this is and Mark always laughs. Sometimes he adds another joke. Like when Stone and Steve were performing their bit about trial dating, Mark joked about marriage… And then he carries on exactly as he has been - lying in my bed, holding my hand, touching me in ways that are difficult to classify as entirely platonic - but he never says anything that would suggest he wants to start something substantial with me. He never uses any of those openings to say that maybe they’re right, or that he might want this to become more than casual, semi-romantic touching…

“Take a picture,” Mark mumbles, a lazy smile appearing, eyes already drifting shut again. “It’ll last longer.”

I return to my book. A page later I feel the mattress shift. After some time, when I look over again, he's asleep; breathing slow and even, the sort of sleep that only happens when you’re totally and absolutely worn out.

I close my book against my chest, then reach over to throw the edge of the comforter over Mark. This is ridiculous. I switch off the lamp before I can think about it too much.

* * *

Friday, July 28th

I wake up confused; not existentially confused, geographically. Wrong ceiling, wrong room, wrong– Oh. Right. I never did make it to my own bed. 

Then the mattress shifts slightly and Kat stretches slowly, all sleepy little noises and tangled blankets. Her foot brushes against my bare leg, there’s a pause, and then, still facing away from me:

“Are you not wearing pants?” Her voice sounds different from what I’m used to; lower, softer, slower.

Around three in the morning I'd woken up long enough to realize sleeping in jeans was a miserable experience so I took them off. “Weird,” I say. “Did you take them off while I was unconscious? That’s gonna look really bad in the police report.”

Her shoulders shake lightly with laughter and then she rolls over to face me, rubbing her eyes as she does. “Morning, creep.”

She has a pillow crease across her cheek and…she looks younger somehow. I've seen her pretty close to first thing in the morning plenty of times; I've wandered across the hall to find her all morning hair, pajamas, sleepy eyes, coffee in one hand and an opinion in the other. But that's after the transition's already happened. This is different. This is her still negotiating with consciousness. Her eyebrows keep doing this tiny little pinch every few seconds like she's mildly offended by waking up. She's so fucking cute.

“Morning,” I drawl, totally giving up on trying to control my smile.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

“Why?”

“Timezones, I guess.”

She groans and reaches for the clock perched on the stack of books by her bed, which is when we both find out I’m lying on her hair. She looks at me, then at the hair trapped under my shoulder, then she moves closer and at exactly the same moment I decide to move my arm. Unfortunately we choose completely different directions and my elbow catches her squarely on the side of the head.

“Ow!” She winces, dropping back down on the pillow.

“Shit!” I bolt upright. “Jesus Christ. Are you okay?” 

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know?”

“I haven't conducted any tests yet.” She closes one eye, then the other. “Vision appears operational.”

I gently grab her by the jaw and turn her head toward the light “Let me see if there’s a dent.”

She actually cackles at that which also makes me laugh. Then she reaches up and feels around the side of her head experimentally. “I think I’ll live,” she says and, notably, does not move away at all.

“I hit you really hard.”

“Not that hard actually.”

“You said ‘ow’.”

“People say ‘ow’ when somebody elbows them in the head.”

"Say something in Flemish."

"I don't speak Flemish."

“Good sign.” I run my thumb once across her cheek before I realize I'm still holding her face. Well. Might as well commit. "You should know this isn't standard."

"No?"

“This is my first sleepover-related concussion.”

“Oh, good,” she laughs out heartily, like she finds my words genuinely hilarious, which is amazing for me. "Lucky me."

I finally let go of her face and flop back onto the pillow. "Well."

"What?"

"Now I'm awake."

"You'll recover."

"I was sleeping phenomenally."

"I have to go to work."

"Capitalism ruins everything." I groan.

* * *

It’s disgusting how giddy I am. Really just indecent. I mean, we just happened to sleep for a few hours in the same bed… But waking up next to Mark and then laughing with him before it’s even eight in the morning is, turns out, one of my favorite things to do at this time of day. 

“Are you going to make me leave through the skylight?” He smirks at me, as if daring me.

“You can use the door, I think,” I tell him. “I mean, you do know how to use a door, right?”

We soon commit to getting out of bed, I shrug a hoodie on and he wanders toward the bedroom door, carrying his jeans in a loose bundle under one arm rather than putting them back on. 

“What are you doing?” I ask as I follow him.

He looks down at the jeans under his arm, then back at me. “Leaving through the door.”

“I can see that. Why aren’t you wearing those?”

He glances at them again as though the answer might be printed somewhere on the denim. “Wearing what?”

“Your pants, Mark.”

“Oh. These?” He lifts the bundle slightly. “I’m changing when I get home anyway.”

“So?”

“So putting them on now would just mean taking them off again in two minutes. I’m cutting out unnecessary steps.”

“You’re deranged.” I'm sure the accusation doesn't land very convincingly since I'm smiling at him, laughing a little even.

“Maybe. But I’m not wasting valuable morning time getting repeatedly dressed.”

As soon as we walk out of my bedroom, we’re faced with Eva, standing in front of the stove, scrambling eggs, Jeff doing push-ups in the middle of the room, and Gwen leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, all the way across the apartment, brushing her teeth and astral projecting, probably. The sight of me and Mark really shakes her back to life though because I see a big grin blossom on her face.

“Well good morning, you two,” Eva smirks at us while Jeff glances around, confused.

“Lizzy!” Gwen bangs on her door, eyes still on us. “You don’t wanna miss this!”

“Good morning, everyone,” Mark waves at the room and everyone answers in an eerily perfect choir.

Then Jeff pauses halfway through a push-up. “Why aren't you wearing pants?”

“Personal reasons.”

Jeff accepts this immediately and continues his work out. Eva directs me to a fresh pot of coffee while Mark steals a piece of toast.

“Oh my god,” I hear Lizzy say with all the restraint she can muster. “Morning everyone,” she chuckles and then dips into the bathroom.

“Alright,” Mark says. “As much as I'd love to stay for breakfast… Thanks for asking, Eva… I should probably go put on society-approved leg coverings and do productive things.”

She snorts. “I’m sure one of those is significantly less likely than the other.”

“Probably,” he shrugs, then shuffles his gaze to me while backing towards the door. “I’ll see you all tonight?”

“Yeah,” Gwen answers immediately.

“Definitely,” Lizzy says at the exact same time.

“Of course,” Eva adds.

Jeff gives him a thumbs-up. “I'll be here.”

“Yep,” I say.

The smile that flashes across Mark's face lasts maybe half a second, then he's gone. As soon as the door swings shut behind him, Gwen, Lizzy, and Eva lose their minds. “What!? WHAT!? Are you kidding me?”

“No,” I can’t help laughing.

“What do you mean no?”

“Absolutely not.”

“He slept in your bed.”

“Mhm.”

“ALL. NIGHT.”

“Humans tend to sleep nightly.”

“Jeff slept in my bed once. You know what happened after that?” Eva nods her head in the general direction of her boyfriend.

“I don’t think there was much actual sleeping involved in your case…”

She drops onto a chair next to me. “Okay. Start from the beginning.”

“There isn't a beginning.”

“There is absolutely a beginning,” Gwen says gleefully, pouring herself some coffee.

“When did he come over?” Lizzy sounds slightly exasperated.

“Soon after we finished the movie.”

“And?” Gwen looks at me.

“And he was tired and fell asleep.”

There’s a long stretch of silence during which Jeff gets up, seemingly sufficiently satisfied by the amount of push-ups, and just looks around the room, like he’s not sure who’ll speak next. “That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard,” Eva finally says.

“It's what happened.”

“Why?” Gwen demands.

“Because he was tired.”

“No. Why did he sleep in your bed?”

“Because that's where he was.”

“Oh my God,” Lizzy whispers.

“You let him sleep in your bed,” Gwen points at me.

“I did.”

“Why?”

Because I wanted him there? I can’t possibly say that though. I just can’t bring myself to do it out loud. I don't want to have that same conversation about Mark's dating habits and my neediness, and how this can't actually work in practice. “It seemed mean to wake him up,” I shrug.

“Wait,” Jeff wanders over to the table and we all look at him. “I’m confused.”

“Join the club,” Gwen mumbles.

“You said you weren’t together,” he looks at me and once again, I can’t keep from laughing.

“We’re not, Jeff.”

“But he slept in your bed.”

“Mhm.”

“And now he left carrying his pants.”

“Also true.”

Jeff points at me with a curious grin. “Those seem related. Right? A guy leaves your bedroom in the morning, no pants on… What’s up with that?”

“Good try, Jeff. But you don't know Kat,” Lizzy mutters. “Everything somehow hangs on semantics…”

I’m still smiling into my coffee. I know I am. I can feel it. Every time I think I've gotten my face under control, something about the morning replays in my head and there it is again.

Jeff pulls out a chair and sits down. “Okay, wait. So did anything at all happen?”

Three heads swivel toward him. “Jeff,” Eva says patiently. “We're trying to establish that.”

“No, because if nothing happened then maybe that is different after all.”

“Nothing happened,” I tell him.

“See?” Jeff gestures triumphantly.

“No,” Gwen says. “Nothing happening is the problem.”

“I don't understand.”

“We know,” Lizzy tells him with a pat on his hand.

Eva leans across the table toward me. “Kat. Explain something.”

“I fear where this is going.”

“You let a man sleep in your bed.”

“Yes.”

“A man who's in love with you.”

“Oh come on!” I laugh it off because that is a totally unfounded accusation. Really, Mark is likely incapable of being in love because he probably sees the very concept of romantic relationships as a prison cell.

“Jeff, you’ve known Mark for years,” Gwen looks at the guy. “What do you think?”

“I mean, he’s obviously into you,” Jeff looks at me and then shuffles his eyes between Eva, Gwen, and Lizzy as he continues to speak, “but if Kat’s not interested, then that’s that… Right?”

“Totally missing the point…” Eva mumbles.

“Not interested!?” Lizzy scoffs, then shakes her head, and folds her arms. “Kat, can I ask a serious question?”

“That depends.”

“What exactly has to happen before you admit something is happening?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Which, admittedly, isn't helping my case.

“Oh my God,” Gwen says, throwing her head back.

“No, seriously,” Lizzy continues. “You spend a lot of time together, you’re always giggling when he’s around, he’s always finding excuses to be near you... He made you a mixtape that sounds like it was assembled by a man drowning in his own feelings. And now he sleeps in your bed.”

“First of all, I don’t giggle. And… Honestly, that's a little dramatic, Lizzy…”

“Is it?”

It is. Right? So I flirted with him a little bit. So he held my hand. So what? That doesn’t mean I should suddenly throw caution to the wind, just to see what happens. Because nothing very good probably would, in the end.

I mean, if I just said ‘fuck it’ and went for it, I think it would be great for a minute. And then he’d probably get shifty and dodgy, freaked out by the idea of commitment; he’d probably think things are getting too serious and start finding reasons to spend less and less time around me, and I would be heartbroken. 

* * *

It’s our last night in Seattle before we leave for six weeks, which apparently means everybody has to come out and do exactly what we normally do, only louder and with occasional reminders that we’re abandoning them. That and Bobby suddenly remembers he’s our manager and starts throwing his weight around like being responsible for four idiots in a van is somehow making him look cool.

I’ve spent the last hour drinking, getting pulled into conversations, arguing with people I wasn’t even talking to five minutes earlier, laughing through it all. It’s a fun fucking night. The only strange thing is that I know exactly how many times the door has opened since I got here. Not because I’m waiting for Kat. I’m just unusually interested in doors tonight.

It opens again while I'm listening to Jeff telling a Green River tour story and there she is. She stops, glances around, and makes a beeline for Lukin and Danny, grinning ear-to-ear as she does. I watch her take out two smallish brown boxes from her bag and hand them to both guys. They look inside, beam at each other, and then kiss Kat’s face. Funny how everyone just does that now, I guess. She looks a little taken aback but then pats both of them on their heads as they start devouring whatever she baked for them. And that’s my cue.

“Got anything for me?” I find myself standing in front of her five seconds later and she gives me that slightly surprised look which quickly turns into a smirk.

“Is your birthday coming up too?”

“Wow. Okay, I guess you don’t give a shit about the fact that I won’t see you for almost two months and consequently will be unfed for almost two months,” I cock my head and pointedly glance away.

Kat dives into her tote bag and holds up a third little box in front of my face. “I ended up with some extras…”

I take it and look inside, pretending to be wildly interested in the food. “What are these?”

“Macarons. Passion fruit and caramel,” she lightly pokes the different colored cookies respectively. “Made with highest quality homemade weed butter.”

For a brief few seconds, there's a commotion that picks up around us when someone trips over someone else's foot and almost spills their drink. When I look at Kat again, she's got an easy, pleased smile sitting on her lips, her gaze still lingering on the crowd around us. “You look nice,” I tell her, tugging at the cuff of her denim jacket before letting my hand fall away.

She looks at me for a moment, like she's waiting for the punchline but with each second it doesn't come, the top of her left ear visible through strands of hair turns a brighter shade of pink. “What an odd thing to say, Mark Arm…” She finally says. 

“Felt like a good moment for stating facts.”

“That's…not how facts work.” 

“It is to me.” There it is again. It's virtually impossible to rattle her with insults, jokes, arguments... But say something nice and her whole signal cuts out. Compliments are apparently her one natural predator. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“All of the above. Try to argue your way out of compliments. Look nice.”

Kat’s eyebrows dip and then she touches her fingers to her chin and lips, as if trying to manually rearrange her expression that’s turning into an embarrassed smile. “Thanks…”

“You're welcome, Novak,” I punctuate my words by shoving one of those macaroons into my mouth.

“I had one about an hour ago and I think they’re pretty strong,” she nods at the box in my hand. “You’ll probably want to slow down.”

“You say that like you're not the person who put drugs in a cookie and handed it to me.” 

For the rest of the night I try to find a good balance between following her whenever she moves away by more than five feet and just completely avoiding her altogether for fear of doing something so dumb and embarrassing that it will make her reconsider ever moving to Seattle. Fortunately, those weed cookies and a couple of drinks later it’s not as much of an active concern anymore. Fortunately, Kat is also a couple of drinks deep and seems to be very much okay with constantly finding herself in my immediate vicinity.

At some point Dan's voice cuts across the conversation from a few feet away. “Ten minutes,” he announces.

Matt looks at him. “Until what?”

“Until we leave.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to leave town tomorrow, remember?”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.”

Dan points at him. “Nine minutes.” He moves away before any of us can reopen negotiations.

The reminder is rude. Until now, six weeks has mostly been something everybody keeps mentioning between drinks. Now it has nine minutes attached to it. People begin collecting jackets and finishing whatever’s left in their glasses. Somehow, Kat and I drift toward the door, still close enough that her arm keeps brushing against mine.

“I’ll miss you,” she delivers flatly. In fact, she doesn’t even look at me as she says it. “Will you miss me too?”

I can’t believe she’s questioning that. “Yeah,” I say immediately. 

“Will you call me sometime?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I can too.”

“I know it’s hard for you to figure out how some telephones work.”

“It’s hard for me to figure out how your face works,” I grimace at her.

“I know, right? Never could work it out myself.”

“Simmer down, Novak, I’ll call you.”

“Good. Did I tell you about my new business? I’m selling transparent coffins.”

“Oh? And how’s that going?” I ask politely.

“Remains to be seen…” Kat barely gets it out of her mouth before she bursts out laughing. God, I fucking love how much she makes herself laugh.

“I’ve a new business too, I bake cakes that look like clocks.”

“Is it…time consuming?”

“Hey!” I frown at her for stealing my punchline. “You do that again and I’ll see you in court.”

“Is being faster and cleverer than you admissible in court?” This time, Kat refrains from laughing and instead throws me a smirk, while my whole body drifts closer towards her.

“Rude,” I look right into her eyes and before I know it, I realize that my right hand has somehow found its way to Kat’s left elbow. In all honesty, both my hands would probably be on her right now, if not for the fact that I’m holding a box of macaroons.

The interesting thing is, she doesn't even seem to notice anymore. She stays there, close enough that I can smell her shampoo over the beer and cigarette smoke lingering in the air, and it’s just normal. 

The even more interesting thing is that either I'm somehow totally misreading this or Kat actually likes me. I mean...like likes me. Which sounds like something a fourteen-year-old would write in the margins of a notebook, but unfortunately I don't currently have better terminology. But friends don't look at each other like– Well.  Like she does.

As we continue towards the door, Kat is talking, making herself laugh, delighting in her own jokes, and I'm only catching about every third word. I can’t stop thinking about how annoying it would be if I left for six weeks without finding out what the deal is.

A minute later, we walk up between our band van and someone’s rusted dark blue car. Nobody’s there, the van’s completely empty. It’s just us and a distant noise of music and voices. I set the box of macarons on the hood because I’ve decided I need both hands available. Kat notices. Of course she notices. 

"What?" 

"Nothing." 

"That looked like something." 

"It probably is." 

She waits. Doesn't rescue me, doesn't fill the silence. Just looks at me with that stupid patient expression she gets whenever she already knows where I'm headed and wants to see if I'll make it there by myself.

“This is probably not a good time…” I begin.

“What is a good time, anyway?”

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."

“You invited yourself.”

“See? Didn’t even need to resort to telegrams.”

“That’s because we still live at the same place,” I motion vaguely down the street where our apartment building is around the corner.

It’s one of those Seattle summer days that’s abundantly warm and humid, so I decided to take myself out for coffee and a pastry. I was already at the corner of this street, the coffee shop coming into view, when I saw Mark jogging towards me across the road. And then somehow it turned into this: sitting outside, talking about nothing in particular, people watching, soaking in the sun, reading, writing.

“So dramatic,” he leans back in his chair with a smirk, picking up his notebook as he does.

I like that he invited himself. I like being around him a lot. I like that he goes out of his way to spend time with me… In a very teenage girl kind of way, I also - unfortunately - like it when other people see me with him, see that we’re friends, that we know each other. I really hope this won’t stop when he moves… 

“What?” Mark asks and I realize I’ve been staring at him, head tilted, not saying anything for a while.

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was a passing thought.”

“About?”

I shrug, taking a sip of my coffee to buy myself a second. “About how you seem like you’d be more of a green tea drinker than black.”

“I see.” He doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t pry. “Do you actually like coffee or just the idea of it?” 

“What a bizarre question.” I love that he asked that; I don’t know anyone else who would even think of such a question.

“Well?”

“Both, I guess,” I admit and he nods as if I’ve confirmed a theory. 

“Do you actually read all those poetry books,” he nods at the little stack of three between my coffee and half-eaten croissant, “or do you carry them around to intimidate people?”

“I contain multitudes.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It’s from Whitman, you philistine.”

“I know.”

“Good.” 

Mark laughs quietly and goes back to his notebook, immediately scribbling something down like a string of thoughts and ideas was running through his mind parallel to our chitchat. The conversation wanders after that. Books, music, a guy who just walked by wearing a beanie despite it being seventy degrees, whether pigeons know they're pigeons; mostly nonsense. Then somehow we end up talking about childhood pets.

“I thought you grew up in a house where fun had to be approved by a committee,” I say, watching Mark click his pen against the open notebook page, after he informs me the only pet he’s ever had was a dog. I have a very specific image in my head of what kind of people Mark’s parents were, based on all the nuggets of information I’ve collected over the last few months, and a dog seems like way too fun of a pet.

“We had a brief, highly controversial period of absolute lawlessness,” Mark says, a small, genuine smile tugging at his mouth. “I found this stray mutt down by the train tracks when I was eight. I dragged her home fully prepared for the lecture of my life.”

“And they actually let you keep her?”

“Shockingly, yeah. Looking back, I’ve always assumed my parents must’ve been on the verge of divorce that day or something. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that a stray dog was the better option.”

“What was her name?”

“Howdy.”

“Howdy,” I echo. “Excellent.”

“Yeah… The lawlessness didn’t last very long though.”

“No? What happened? To Howdy?"

“Actually, it was really sad,” a shadow of a frown ripples across his face out of nowhere. “My parents wouldn’t tell me anything at first so I assumed she must’ve run away but I didn’t understand why she would. At this point, I was convinced that she was meant to find me and we were meant to be together for the rest of time. So then I thought that maybe somebody kidnapped her. I was gathering supplies to make posters to hand out in the neighborhood when my father sat me down and told me that Howdy’s been sent away to a turtle farm,” he chuckles but the traces of sadness still cling to his features, pooling in the depths of his brown eyes. He looks so strangely vulnerable… He looks so…different than I’ve ever seen him.

I remember how I felt when my hamster died; I was in third grade and the sadness was bigger than the world. And Howdy’s story sounds ten times worse. And I think it’s still what makes a twenty-seven-year-old Mark feel that same, big sadness. 

“So then a few years later, another shocking realization came when I figured out there’s no such thing as turtle farms for retired dogs. What?” He peers at me curiously a second later. That’s very sweet, actually. Mark’s always very honest but there are definitely things that he doesn’t share with the world, and I feel like this is one of them; this tender, raw, unabashedly childish memory.

“It’s…very sweet…”

“That my parents put my dog down and didn’t tell me?” He laughs dryly. “That’s messed up, Novak.” His face settles into its usual smirk. Mark is very sweet, I guess. And I never realized that that’s a very attractive quality… I thought that’s just a word Lizzy defaults to when she can’t remember any other adjectives.

This is so unfortunate. The more I get to know him, the more into him I am. The more time I spend with him, the more I need, the more entitled I feel to his time… And he thinks men and women are bound by nothing but proximity and biology! Shit. It’s humiliating how much I’d like to be the exception to his stupid, cynical worldview. 

I grab the rest of my croissant and take an unnecessarily angry bite of it, or so it feels. Mark’s still looking at me - or through me… Probably still thinking about Howdy. And then, without warning, he reaches across the table, for my face, picks something off my chin and…eats it. I feel like this is one of those moments that are so odd, my brain sort of short circuits so I just stare at him and he’s staring back, probably realizing what he just did.

“Did you just,” I say slowly, feeling laughter starting to bubble in the pit of my stomach, “eat that…”

“Yeah, sorry… That was entirely force of habit,” Mark holds my gaze a moment longer, his brown eyes comically big and round, and then we both crumble into easy laughter.

This could be a date. I mean, this would be a good date, if it was. Which most dates are not. Obviously, this is not a date but wiping food off someone's face is not necessarily a strictly platonic move, when executed smoothly. In any case, maybe I would consider going on more dates if they didn’t feel stiff and fake, and like everyone’s trying to impress each other and silently keeping score, laughing too loud and sitting up too straight… This is objectively not a date but it’s better than probably any date I’ve actually been on, which is really fucking unfortunate.

* * *

A waitress comes over and asks if we want anything else. “I’ll take a Coke and a chocolate chip cookie, thanks.”

Kat tips her head back with a quiet groan. “You have the dietary preferences of a runaway twelve-year-old.” The waitress leaves smiling to herself and Kat goes back to staring at the page for a little while, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb against the paper. I watch her for a moment; she looks different when she’s reading. Softer around the edges somehow, less like she’s waiting to make fun of something before it can make fun of her first.

“What?” She asks without looking up.

“What?”

“You’re staring. Are you experiencing any face drooping or arm weakness?”

I snort quietly and glance toward the book again. “Which poem?”

She hesitates, like she’s deciding whether she wants to let another person into whatever space she’s currently in mentally. Then she angles the book slightly toward herself again instead of showing me. A beat passes. Then, very casually, like she’s talking mostly to herself, she reads a few lines under her breath.

“The god of dirt

came up to me many times and said

so many wise and delectable things, I lay

on the grass listening

to his dog voice,

crow voice,

frog voice; now,

he said, and now,

and never once mentioned forever.”

Her voice is flattened out from lack of performance, no theatrics, no irony coating it; just the words. And for some reason that gets me. Not the poem itself, not even the act of reading poetry for someone, but the fact that she sounds faintly embarrassed by sincerity while still meaning every word of it.

Kat glances up immediately afterward, already halfway back behind the curtain. “Disgustingly earnest,” she says and I laugh with a shake of my head.

“For someone carrying around Mary Oliver in public, you’re pretty hostile toward emotional vulnerability.”

“You know, when I first met you, I would have never guessed you’d even be familiar with the concept of poetry.”

“Once again, Novak, you and I majored in the same thing.”

“I know, it’s just unexpected,” she cackles.

The waitress drops off my Coke and cookie, Kat looks back down at her book eventually, a smile still tugging at her lips. I drop my eyes back to a page I’ve been writing words that don't belong anywhere near each other and rearranging notes on. Or lyrics. Or a grocery list accidentally masquerading as lyrics. Hard to tell sometimes.

A few minutes later, Kat reaches across the table, breaks off a piece of my cookie, and pops it into her mouth. “Well, well. Look how the tables have turned.”

“Huh?”

“In all fairness, you are usually an excellent source of food.”

“Oh,” she breathes out a barely-there chuckle.

“Decent hand towel too.”

Another quiet laugh, her gaze still glued to the pages of her book. I wonder if she’s actually as oblivious as it seems. The whole ‘to Mark, I’m not even a woman’ comment. The way she said it was like it’s self-evident, like there’s no other possible interpretation. I tap my pen against the paper.

“That's still a very strange thing to think, by the way.”

Kat glances up. “The hand towel thing?”

“Sure. I don’t generally hang out with hand towels this much. The whole rest of the thing too.”

She squints at me but doesn’t say anything, just waits, I guess. A corner of her mouth twitches. “This will sound like another one of those things that’s in line with my inner fifth-grader…” I start, unsure if I have the guts to finish it how I want to finish it. Maybe Gwen was onto something with her unsolicited advice; maybe I could stand to tell Kat things a little more, a little more plainly.

“Ooh! Always exciting when that happens. Lay it on me, Arm,” she looks directly at me and after a pause that’s objectively too long, I lower my gaze to my notebook. The problem is that what I actually want to say is: of course I think of you as a woman, you idiot. Which immediately sounds insane. Not because it isn't true, but because there's no version of that sentence that doesn't make me sound like a creep or that won’t scare her.

“You’re…statistically one of my favorite people to be around,” I say instead.

When I look up again, she’s still staring straight at me, sort of smiling, sort of fighting it. “Well.”

“Don't make it weird.”

That earns me a tickled laugh from her and I feel unreasonably pleased with myself. A few moments pass; people wander by on the sidewalk, somebody’s dog barks across the street, Kat flips her page. Then, without looking at me, amusement settles across her face like she's still turning the words over: “That does sound like something a fifth-grader would say.”

As is customary, Kat soon completely derails and deflects the conversation, jumping from one topic to another. She talks with her hands a lot, like if she stopped moving them she'd lose track of what she's saying, and she has a lot to say.

Right now she's explaining something about coffee, I think, with the sort of conviction usually reserved for political revolutions. I think she's still mildly offended I dared to question her addiction. She has one hand wrapped around her cup, the other sketching invisible diagrams in the air. Every now and then the sunlight catches in her hair and makes it look like gold for a second before disappearing again. It's distracting. Everything about her is distracting. Without a doubt the most attractive hand towel I’ve ever seen. 

My mind wanders to that thing she said to me on the phone about Cornell being into Gwen because obviously, you’ve seen her, she’s gorgeous… Fucking insane. It’s like Kat herself doesn’t know she’s a woman. At the very least she has some pretty distorted ideas of what she looks like, or how people see her, which is weird. For how pretty she is, you’d expect her to be way more obnoxious about it.

“Are you even listening to me?” She cuts into my pathetic thoughts.

“Of course.”

“What did I just say.”

“That coffee with milk and sugar is a moral failure and anyone who drinks it should reconsider their life choices.”

She narrows her eyes. “Okay, you caught the gist.”

“Read me another one.”

“What?” Her eyebrows now knit together for a split second.

“Poem.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because. Reading poetry aloud is mortifying.”

“You already did it once.”

“That was an accident.”

“Do it again.”

Her eyes remain fixated on mine, like she’s trying to determine if I’m actually asking or if there’s a punchline coming. “You sound weirdly earnest right now.”

“I am weirdly earnest right now,” I assure her with a grin.

She looks back down at one of her books, flipping it open, and for a moment the silence is tinted with faint sounds coming from inside the coffee shop, the occasional car engine, somebody hollering down the block. Then she starts reading out loud; again, not performatively, not trying to sound profound, just loud enough for me to hear.

“When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?”

I go very still without meaning to, like I’m afraid to startle her, and her irises continue to slide down the page, wordlessly now, until she speaks again a moment later:

“I don’t particularly love the middle part,” she glances up.

“Continue your performance, Novak.”

“Hey guys, just so you know, we’ll be closing in fifteen,” the same waitress that’s been helping us comes out to let everyone know - although there’s not much of everyone anymore, there’s only two other people sitting at another table outside, not sure if there’s anyone at all left inside.

I reach for Kat’s wrist and take a look at her watch. “Shit. I gotta go,” I tell her as I grab my things and start getting up.

“Was my reading that bad?”

She gets a chuckle out of me. “Try not to become a bath towel while I’m gone.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I nod once like that’s a reasonable thing to say to another human being and head down the sidewalk. Halfway to the corner, I glance back; she’s already reading again, smiling at the page.

* * *

It would be a lie to say I didn’t notice this becoming our routine but there’s just something about how easy it came that makes it feel like it snuck up on me. I offered to take Lizzy to work one, two, three times, then she asked me the next time. And before I knew it, I was knocking on her door every morning, like clockwork. By now I've learned that walking into the Geek’s apartment before nine means finding some version of the same ongoing scene. 

First of all, there’s usually a Mudhoney member or two scattered around the place, behaving as though they pay rent there - making food, performing unsolicited comedy routines for a room full of half-awake people, arguing about something nobody else cares about, whatever. Kat is almost always already dressed for the day, clutching a mug of coffee and either reading, listening to something, or silently observing the chaos like she's conducting a long-term sociological study. We’re…better now, I guess. She gave me a real hard time for a while there but I guess I understand exactly where it came from. Lizzy's the kind of person people instinctively want to protect. Kat just happens to take that responsibility with the enthusiasm of a medieval bodyguard. So I've been making an effort. I think she stopped plotting an assasination that looks like an accident, so there’s definitely progress. I have also learned that Eva is really not a morning person, more so than anyone I’ve met who’s ever described themselves as such. If she’s still home when I show up, I usually find her having one of her amazing smelling breakfasts, like loaded oatmeal or full English, sitting at their big table, away from everyone, eyes closed, slowly chewing her food, tuning everything else out. Gwen tends to be in some kind of hurry, speed-walking around with a mascara wand in her hand, coming out of the other girls’ rooms with armfuls of their clothes in search of the outfit of the day, usually talking about work to nobody but herself.

And of course - Lizzy’s usually just done making breakfast, which I think she started doing later in the morning and making more so I could eat with her, and every time we do, I wonder what I did to deserve such a deeply caring person.

“Hey,” I say as I lean over to kiss her on the temple while she’s plating fried eggs. It’s just her, Eva, and Kat around today. “I brought some orange juice,” I place the jug on the counter.

Lizzy looks at it for a second longer than seems reasonable, then drags her gaze up to meet my eyes. “You brought orange juice?”

“Yeah,” I chuckle a little, mostly in mild confusion at the way she’s looking at me. “I noticed we ran out yesterday morning… I wanted to contribute,” I shrug.

“Jer, that’s so sweet,” she giggles. “You didn’t need to do that!”

“I wanted to,” I say, feeling like I’m suddenly taller by a couple of inches. Lately, every time I do some little thing right, she makes me feel like a golden star boyfriend. And it’s really not hard to do things right around Lizzy. She’s kind and gracious about everything, every little thing, and all I have to do is not fuck it up.

“Thanks, Jer,” she stands on her tiptoes and I still have to bend down to kiss her, which I love.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask as we sit down at the table to eat.

“Pretty good. What about you?”

“Honestly, not enough. I spent half the night listening to Layne spiral about having to move his annual summer party.”

“His…what?”

“It’s this…stupid thing. Every year Layne throws an enormous summer party that starts as a barbecue and gradually mutates into…something nobody can adequately explain afterward,” I huff a laugh at the string of fractured memories. “Usually it's musicians, friends, random people who somehow become friends by the end of the night. The usual Seattle circus. Anyway, because of band schedule, he has to move it to end of August this year, which he thinks is horrible, for some reason.”

“Why is it so horrible to move it?”

“I don’t think there’s any real reason behind it, he just always had it at the end of July,” I shrug. “Anyway, you guys all should come, obviously,” I glance at Kat and Eva as well as I say this.

Kat utters a completely lifeless ‘yay’.

“Woah, control the enthusiasm…” I laugh.

"It's the most enthusiasm you're getting before coffee number two." 

"Fair."

“Yeah, sounds fun,” Lizzy beams. “I’ll put it in our calendar.” Then, after a pause, she looks at her two present roommates, "will Gwen want to come?"

The question hangs there for a second. Because, of course, Mike will be there. "Depends," Eva says carefully.

"On what?" Kat asks immediately.

"On whether she wants to."

"Insightful."

"Thank you."

Lizzy bites her lower lip, a worried little frown appearing on her pretty face. "I just don't want it to be awkward."

Kat snorts. "Why would it be awkward?"

Lizzy gives her a look. "Kat."

"Mike can stay home if it’s gonna be awkward for him,” Kat says and we all laugh, except for Lizzy. I mean, he’s my friend but he’s a fucking asshole sometimes and I agree, he’s the one who should worry about running into Gwen, not the other way around. 

Eva hums thoughtfully into her coffee. "We could poison him."

Kat nods immediately. "That's true."

"Eva!" Lizzy yelps.

"Not lethally," Eva clarifies.

"Obviously not lethally," Kat agrees. "We're not animals."

"Just enough to make him slightly inconvenienced."

“Or incontinent.”

"Food poisoning is very hard to trace."

“You two are impossible,” my sweet, gentle girlfriend looks between her roommates in horror.

“We’re problem solvers of the household,” Eva grins and goes over to the sink to wash her cup. “Anyway, speaking or parties, my birthday is next Friday,” she looks over at me specifically. “You should come too, Jerry.”

“Sure!” I say immediately. Any opportunity to spend an evening hanging out with Lizzy is a pretty easy sell.

“Mike is absolutely not invited though.”

“Understandably,” I nod at Eva’s clarification.

"I want one evening where nobody's ex-boyfriend becomes a topic of discussion."

"A beautiful dream," Kat says.

“You can bring people along,” Eva looks at me again. "Just not that one. And I guess it’s not really a party, we’re just going dancing with some friends."

"Just," Kat repeats.

"Well..."

"There's like twenty people coming."

"Twenty-five, maybe, actually," Lizzy says. “I’m really not sure, I tried to count but it got confusing.”

"That's a party, Eva," I say.

"It's a gathering."

"That's a party with better public relations."

"Either way, the more the merrier."

"See?" Kat says. "This is why Eva's everyone's favorite."

"She's not my favorite." Immediately after I hear myself say it I question what on earth moved me to do it. Three women stare at me. "That was a trap and I strolled right into it…"

The apartment door swings open. Nobody knocks; nobody ever knocks around here. Matt Lukin wanders inside carrying a six-pack and looking vaguely surprised to find people in the apartment despite the fact that people are always in the apartment.

"Morning." He drops onto the couch, way closer to Kat than necessary, and throws his arm across her shoulders. "What are we talking about?"

"Potential near-homicide," Kat tells him.

"Cool."

"No homicide," Lizzy corrects.

"Boring."

I point at him. "Speaking of, you guys should come to Layne's annual summer party. First weekend of August."

"Yeah, totally," Lukin says immediately.

"Finally, a normal response," I laugh.

"Hold on." Kat squints at him. "Aren't you leaving for tour at the end of July?"

Lukin blinks. "We are?" A beat. "Oh yeah, I guess we are."

Kat drops her head into her hands. "And to think Steve and Mark told me they never even considered another bass player."

"That's unfair," Matt says.

"Is it?"

"I remember most things."

"Name one date."

Matt opens one of the beers. "I know my birthday."

"When?"

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Nice try. Anyway, I’m free to party up until end of July, I guess," he looks over at me.

“Lukin!” Kat yelps and he flinches.

“What??”

“You do know you start recording your album next week, right?”

Kat launches into lecturing Matt about calendars like it’s a moral failing and I leave them to it. There’s only so much morning chaos a man can emotionally participate in. When I turn back away from them, I find Lizzy looking at me. Not in the usual way she looks at me - warm, amused. More like she’s studying me now.

“Hey,” she says.

I tilt my head. “Hey.”

“Are you saying yes to Eva’s party,” she asks slowly, “because you feel guilty?”

It takes me a second. “What?” 

She doesn’t flinch, just keeps watching me like she’s trying to line something up correctly. “Because of Dee,” she clarifies with a slight winced, like she doesn’t want to bring it up but feels like it’s important to, for whatever reason.

My first instinct is immediate denial, but it’s not even frustration; it’s confusion that she’s connected those two things at all. “No,” I say, too fast. Then I exhale and slow it down. “No. Lizzy, that’s not… not at all.” I run a hand over the back of my neck, glance down at the table for half a second like it might give me better phrasing. “I’m really not doing some guilt math where I owe Eva attendance because of something unrelated that happened,” I say. “That’s not how my brain is working here.”

Lizzy’s expression stays careful. “It just sounded like you said yes immediately,” she says. “You actually always do that, you always default to a ‘yes’ whenever I ask or suggest something. And I don’t want you making decisions from a place where you feel like you have to earn something back.”

I mean, it’s not wrong that I say yes a lot to her. What’s wrong is the reason she thinks I do it. I shake my head again, more certain now. “No,” I say, firmer this time. “Honestly, that’s not it.” I look at her properly so she has to see I mean it. “Saying yes to spending time with you or you being there, or anything like that, it’s…always the easiest decision I make.”

Her eyebrows soften slightly, like she’s still checking if that’s just a nice answer or the real one.

“It’s not obligation,” I continue. “It’s not guilt. It’s not…accounting for anything. It’s just me wanting to spend time with you.” I realise I’m probably overexplaining, but I don’t stop. “I’m not trying to balance anything out,” I say. “I’m just trying to show up where you are.”

Lizzy studies me for a moment longer, then her shoulders ease a fraction, tension leaving her face like it was never fully committed to staying there. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Just making sure.”

“Of course.”

Then she reaches out, fixes something small on my shirt, and leaves her hand there for a fraction longer than necessary. “You’re really nice,” she says, smiling at me now.

“Careful,” I say, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I might become unshakable.”

“Eat your breakfast,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am!”

***

I’m one of his favorite people to be around. That has no business sounding as sweet as it does. And it’s made so much worse by the fact that he’s one of my favorite people too. I mean, what is happening here? What does he want with me?? Does he like me? I mean, I know he likes me, but does he actually like me? And if he does, so what! I’ve learned my lesson with Chris - if I’m being honest with myself, I become far too emotionally dependent far too easily for anything casual. 

And I’m already too dependent on Mark. I’m already thinking about him leaving for tour. Six weeks. Then he’s back and suddenly everything changes again. Yes, his new apartment is only ten minutes away but things will change fundamentally - there will be no more casual, accidental hanging out. Which should be fine but I don’t feel like it is. I mean, what do I want with him!? 

Mark seeks me out, he tells me nice things that sound genuine, he makes me laugh, he makes me curious in a way that’s almost irritating, like my brain won’t sit still, but more importantly than all that, I feel like he sees me. That’s why he’s so fun and easy to be around, but he also sees the shitty parts of me and he acts like they’re not a big deal. That’s probably why I’ve been looking around all evening. Not looking for him. Just…looking around. Like that means something else. That’s really unfortunate. Because then he turns around and talks about how relationships are just a shortcut to sex and how everything’s just a freak accident.

"Well, if it isn't the woman of the hour." 

I turn around to see Xana striding over to me, the crowd around her parting like she’s holy. 

“Hi,” I say, grinning already, because I haven’t seen her in a while and I always enjoy her oddness. 

“How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I know! I’ve become a published journalist since, I guess,” I blurt the first thing that comes to mind that is not related to my train of thoughts that just got derailed.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve heard,” Xana laughs out. “I’m pretty sure Chris clipped your article for his diary and Andy put it up on his mirror as an aspirational piece. I personally absolutely loved your imagery. Demri and I couldn’t believe how well you captured the soul of it all.”

“Oh, wow… I…” I should just say thank you. “It’s just some words…strung together…”

“Well, they were really good words. And by the way, speaking of Chris… I hear you decided to let him off the hook?”

“I didn’t really have him on any hook,” I crinkle my nose.

“Tomayto, tomahto…” She waves me off, all her bracelets clinking and jingling against each other. “That’s good though. Now we can have you over at our place again.”

“I feel like your obsession with me might be a symptom of some serious cognitive issue…” 

"Please! You're just too cool, Kat. You’re cool and more importantly, you’re real. That’s a golden combination. I mean, originally, I just wanted to make sure you weren't the fumble of Stone Gossard's life…”

“Sorry,” I shrug and laugh. “We just weren’t meant to be.”

“Oh that’s alright," Xana arches her eyebrows, "it turns out your love life is way more interesting than his anyway."

"My what?"

"Your love life."

"I don't really have one."

Xana snorts. "Sure. Chris, your ex, said Mark Arm was acting suspiciously possessive of you at the park the other day."

“Oh my god…” I stare straight through her for a second. I am weirdly pleased by that though; both that Chris would think that and then talk about it, and that Mark was, in fact, weirdly possessive with the whole jacket thing. I’m sure it was a one man show put on specifically for Chris, for my benefit. Which is also very nice.

“You’re not denying it?”

“Chris should reassess his choice of words because I don’t understand what exactly is possessive about lending somebody a jacket.”

“I don’t believe that that’s really what you really think but I can’t prove it yet,” she smirks at me.

“You are all insane in that house...”

“Thank you. Anyway, I’ve always liked Mark. He’s very odd in a very delightful way.”

“That’s actually a good way to describe him,” I smile despite myself.

“It also makes sense that you’d be with him. There’s just something about you both that makes sense together. Maybe I should have Demri do a star chart for you…”

“Excuse me?” I contort my face like that’s not an assumption that excites me to the pit of my stomach. “We’re not together.”

“No? I thought I saw you sitting outside a coffee shop a couple of days ago?”

“It was a platonic sitting outside a coffee shop.”

“Ah, right… And why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was it platonic?”

I let out a laugh that sounds way more exasperated than I actually feel. “That's like asking why a squirrel is in a tree.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It's just where it ended up.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” she shakes her head with a defeated smile. “If you say the only interest you have in Mark is purely platonic, I'll drop it.” 

Philosophically and otherwise, it’s not. Not in any useful sense, not in any sense that leads anywhere. Not in any sense that changes anything. Just in the way that my stomach does something stupid when he smiles at me. I hesitate a second too long and that is answer enough for Xana, I guess. 

“Ah, I know what that look means. So what’s the problem?” She asks and I shrug.

Somehow the fact that it’s Xana, whom I like but don’t know that well or see that often, makes it feel less serious, less daunting. I mean, Gwen and her interventions induce a reaction of physical resistance in me. This is different somehow. “I don't think he's a relationship person,” I say eventually. 

Xana tilts her head. "What does that mean?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I think..." I trail off, trying to find words for something I've mostly been avoiding thinking about. "I don't know if he cares about relationships. I think he just sort of stumbles into them without choosing to."

Xana's expression softens slightly. "And you consciously choose them?"

I laugh. "Unfortunately. Usually too consciously."

Xana studies me for a second. "You’re talking about commitment, right?"

"No. Sort of. Maybe." I laugh, already regretting whatever words will come out of my mouth in an attempt to explain myself. "I think a lot of people think commitment is in labels. Which…I guess you kind of need to label things to know what they are… But I think it’s really about the role, you know? The other person has to treat being with me as filling an important role. Not just something that’s an accident.”

"Totally.” She nods slowly, as if she's turning the idea around in her head. "But Kat...that doesn't really sound like a Mark problem."

"What?"

"Aren’t you just describing trust here?"

I open my mouth and then close it again. "No, I'm describing relationships."

"Those are pretty related concepts."

"Sure. But being invested in a person and being invested in a relationship aren't the same thing."

“That's such a specific distinction… It really feels personally curated actually."

I laugh despite myself. "It probably is."

Xana laughs. "You sound very confused."

"I am very confused, Xana."

* * *

"Happy birthday, nerd."

I look up from my drink just in time to see Stone plunk a paper bag down on the table and Jeff lift a hand in a wave, a big grin on his face. "What'd you get me?" I ask.

"An opportunity to feel gratitude."

"That sounds cheap."

"It wasn't."

"Actually, it was kind of expensive," Jeff says.

“This was all Jeff's idea, by the way."

"No it wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

"Stone."

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s gin,” Jeff tells me.

"He literally made us go to three different liquor stores to get this because Eva likes that one."

"I'm going to break your nose, Stone,” Jeff looks at his friend with the affection of somebody looking at a particularly ugly stray cat. "You talk about gin constantly," he says as he shuffles his attention back to me.

"I do not."

"I’ve had to listen to you rank your top ten before."

I narrow my eyes because my annoying coworker is actually right, I do remember disclosing my favorite gins on a particularly slow afternoon at work once. "Okay, maybe I have opinions."

The thing about Jeff is that he's pretty observant when it comes to random details and completely oblivious when it comes to anything that would actually benefit him. He remembers people's favorite drinks, what music they like, the names of their dogs, and then forgets where he left his coffee three times a shift. 

I pull the bottle out of the bag and immediately laugh - Bombay Sapphire. "No way!"

"See?" Stone wiggles his eyebrows. "Worth every penny just to see the smile on your face."

"You didn't spend a penny," Jeff glares at him.

"I spent emotional pennies."

Jeff groans. I shake my head and grin. “Thanks guys, this is really nice.”

“You’re welcome,” Jeff’s expression softens around the edges. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

“By the way,” Stone looks at me. “You should come out to Bruce’s party next weekend. I mean plural you, obviously.”

“Kat’s going out of town, Lizzy will probably be busy gazing into Jerry’s eyes, and Gwen thinks Bruce is kinda creepy, so we’ll see…”

“Gwen doesn’t even– Actually, fair. Also fair on the Lizzy things. Where’s Kat going though?”

“California.”

“California!?” Stone looks at me like I just spat in his face. “The fuck she’s going to California for?”

“To see her sister…”

The next hour or so passes in fragments. Somebody I haven't seen in months appears out of nowhere to wish me a happy birthday. A friend of a friend buys me a drink. Gwen drags me into one conversation, Lizzy into another. At some point I'm whisked outside by a group heading for a smoke and end up spending thirty minutes talking to people I barely know about absolutely nothing. Somebody pulls me onto the dance floor for a song. Then another. Then somebody else decides I need a birthday shot. Then Kat makes me take another one with her - tequila, which is a hate crime. By the time I finally loop my way back to the bar, I'm sweaty, slightly overwhelmed, and desperately in need of water. 

I find Jeff leaning against the counter, just having finished talking to a couple of people who are now heading for the door. "Hey,” he starts slowly. “Is it just me or did I see Gwen put a martini glass into her purse a little while ago?”

A completely not surprised chuckle erupts from me. “She does that. We keep trying to get her to stop… But we do have some pretty cool glasses at home because of her.”

“Wow. Shows you how good a judge of character I am,” Jeff laughs out. He actually looks mildly shaken by this information, like it’s somehow not compatible with reality.

“Well… You were a dick to me when we first met and now you’re at my birthday party and you brought me a really nice gift. So I guess at least you learn from your mistakes.”

“That I do,” he pulls his lips into a happy grin.

Gwen's stupid question from a couple weeks ago flashes through my head entirely uninvited. So if he asked you out… I feel like this is one of those rare times where we both probably agree, me and Gwen; Jeff is objectively attractive - tall, athletic, nice smile. Doesn’t mean anything needs to happen between me and him, just because we work together.

For a minute we just stand there with our drinks - Jeff with his beer, me with a tall glass of water - and watch the chaos unfold. Across the room, Kat is ordering a glass of something brown and neat, from what I can tell; Lizzy appears to be losing an argument with Gwen, mostly because Gwen has started laughing too hard to participate. Stone is standing on a chair for reasons that remain completely unclear, holding somebody's sunglasses above his head like he won them in battle. 

Jeff follows my stare. "Your friends are weird."

"That would be our friends, actually," I laugh at him.

"That's not my friend," he nods in Stone’s general direction.

"You bought me a gift together. You’re in a band together!"

"That's a business arrangement."

He gets another genuine laugh out of me.

"So you’ve been having a good summer so far?" 

The question catches me off guard. I see him a couple of times a week, maybe more, typically a couple of hours at a time. Sure, it’s at work, but we chat, we share anecdotes… This question somehow feels…different. Like this is the first time he actually conceptualized me having a life outside of work, outside of playing basketball at the park, outside of school too, probably. “Yeah, so far so good.”

“Doing anything fun? Besides gin?"

I think for a second. "I’ve been getting out for jogs a lot lately. Especially in the evenings, which I really enjoy.” I love running at golden hour in the summer. 

"So you just replaced one sport for another," he says it and it almost sounds like a critique, like I should have chosen basketball over jogging.

I roll my eyes. “Trust me, it’s a lot more relaxing just knowing that I can go jogging any time of day, if I feel like it, or not at all. Besides, I have some school work I need to get done before September, which I have a lot more time for now.”

“How much time do you really need for summer school work?”

“Well, yesterday it was six hours."

"What!? That's fucking stupid!"

"The entire concept of education?"

"The amount of hours, Eva,” he gives me a thoroughly unamused look but there’s a smile peeking through. “So the gin was a good gift then?”

“Oh, definitely. Thanks again, I can’t believe you spent all that money on me.”

"I mean,” he shuffles from one foot to another, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t generally spend much money on anything, so… Easy budget to work a bottle of gin into. You know… Just records, guitar strings, art supplies, food."

"Yeah, no surprise there."

“Maps."

I stare at him. "What?"

"Maps?"

I chuckle. "Your budget involves maps? That’s such a weird thing to say."

"It's not."

"It absolutely is."

"It isn't."

"It is." 

He grins into his beer. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Road maps?"

"All kinds."

"Why?"

Jeff shrugs. "I don't know, I just like them. I like looking at them. Sometimes they double as art supplies."

"Looking at them? Just as a…hobby?"

Another shrug. "I like seeing how things connect."

I blink. That's actually a better answer than I expected, I’m not even sure why or how. "Huh."

"What?"

"I'm just trying to imagine you sitting at home looking at maps."

"I do lots of exciting things!" His grin flickers to a mildly offended nose scrunch and back.

"I'm sure."

"You're very judgmental for somebody who voluntarily reads academic journals."

I gasp with an extra sprinkling of drama. "Not for no reason though!"

"I know."

"So… What kind of maps? From around here?"

“Sure, here, there, lots of places.”

"What's your favorite one?"

"British Columbia probably."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Jeff takes a drink. "Spent a bunch of time up there when I was a kid. I still get this…feeling when I look at the massive green on the maps, same feeling I had when I was camping and hiking there. I mean, I loved it."

“No way! I used to live in Canada!”

“Nobody used to live in Canada,” Jeff snorts a laugh.

“I did! My dad used to go there a lot for work when I was in middle school…”

“That is like the weirdest fun fact I’ve ever heard.”

“Why?” I feel my face stretch into a curious grin. 

“I don’t know, it’s just so random. So you went there with him?”

“Well, yeah, he would take us along. I mean, me, my sister, and my mom. Anyway, our passports got stolen out of our car one year.”

"What?"

"Our whole family's."

“How do you just slip these sentences into an otherwise totally normal conversation… What do you mean they got stolen?"

"They got stolen."

"You can't just say that and not elaborate."

“Well, they did. Get stolen, I mean. Out of our car. And then my parents couldn't get everything sorted before school started."

"So..."

"So we ended up staying."

"For a year?"

"Pretty much." As Jeff’s listening to me, his expression is nothing short of cartoonish, like this is the craziest, most unbelievable thing he’s ever heard. “My sister and I went to school there for a year. That’s why I know French…sort of.”

“No way,” Jeff grins at me, totally entertained…or confused. Or both. “You do not speak French. Do you?..”

"Je parle français."

Jeff squints suspiciously. "That sounded fake."

“C'est vraiment pas si impressionnant que ça. Je suis même pu sûr que je le parle comme du monde. Dans le fond, je l'ai jamais vraiment bien parlé, parce que je l'ai appris avec les autres jeunes à l'école, pas dans les livres, pas de la bonne manière,” I punctuate with a shrug.

He stares. I wait. He continues with the staring. "Okay," he says finally.

"What?"

"I don’t know enough French to evaluate that. It did sound more French, I guess."

I break into laughter. "I'll take it."

Jeff shakes his head. "You're making all of this up."

"I'm not."

"There's just no way. Where do you fit all that cool shit in your head?!"

"J'te le jure!"

He points at me. "See, now you're casting spells."

Before I can answer, Stone interjects; I didn’t even realise he was listening. Or around. "I can confirm this is real, she does in fact speak French."

Jeff jumps. "What the fuck?"

Stone grabs a beer from somebody's hand and takes a sip. "She told me this ages ago."

I blink. "Why do you remember that?"

Stone looks offended. "Because it was interesting." Then he turns to Jeff. "Unlike your map collection."

Jeff closes his eyes. "I don't have a collection."

I start laughing and Stone points triumphantly between us. "You guys should talk more. You both have really weird hobbies."

"Go away," Jeff says.

“Friendship with you being among the weirdest hobby,” I tell Stone and he yelps dramatically before limping away despite being completely unharmed. 

"Emotional abuse!" He announces to nobody in particular; a few people cheer.

* * *

Somehow the outside feels almost as suffocating as inside the club - the air is thick with cigarette smoke, humidity, and the general sense of a crowd. As soon as I step out, I recognise a few faces. I wave at a couple people who are also in a band…or between bands…or in multiple bands. Then I chat briefly with a guy I’m not sure how I know… And then I spot Kat, leaning against the wall, smoking, laughing as she flips off a guy walking away, I think it’s her friend Julian…

“Novak, you’re drunk.” My observation arrives way overdue since I’ve seen her take at least four shots of tequila tonight, and that’s just in the hour since I’ve been here. I’m sure there was a preface to that.

“True. Absolutely true, but irrelevant,” she waves it off with her cigarette-wielding hand. 

“I mean, drunker than I’ve ever seen you, actually. So might be relevant.”

“Nonsense!” She laughs out, which only makes her sound all the more drunk. “I’m comfortably drunk. I’m ready to have another heart to heart, but this time you have to be the one talking.”

“Okay, what’s the topic?” I crack my knuckles and stretch my neck in all different directions. “I’m ready.”

“You!” She jabs her finger into my chest.

“Me?”

“Yes, you! You never talk about stuff that’s on your mind, but you always get me talking. You’re always there to listen to me...even when I don’t necessarily want to talk…”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, but thank you?..” I awkwardly crawl over my own words.

“It is a good thing,” she assures me with a vigorous nod, “Kristine also thought you’re a good listener…”

“What?...”

“Yeah, that time Gwen and I overheard her…” She mumbles. “But that’s neither here nor there. Now it’s your turn. Now you talk about you!”

“Anything more specific?” My eyebrows knit together. 

“How come you go by Arm?”

“Took a joke too far. Swear to god!” I cut her off before she can protest.

“You don’t believe in god!” Kat laughs out, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

“Swear to the gods of punk. Next question.”

“Okay… Do you miss Kristine?” The words fly out of her mouth so unexpectedly, I almost falter.

“What a strange line of questioning.”

“Do you?” I know I thought she’s more drunk than I’ve seen her, but this is way more than I thought… “She actually still wants to get back together with you!”

“Okay…” “Okay what?” She presses on. “What kind of a thing is that to say? Okay? Just so you know, she thinks that you’re basically meant for each other…”

“I…didn’t realize you’re that invested in my past relationships,” I say instead of asking what it was exactly that she overheard. I guess I’m not entirely sure that I really care. So Kristine allegedly wants to get back together, so what? Fuck that noise…

“It’s just interesting… She said some really not great things about you,” Kat goes on, her voice full of some kind of misplaced bitterness now, “but she still wants you…”

“What’d she say, that I cheated on her?”

“You don’t have to cheat to be an asshole, you know?”

“An asshole? I don’t like where this conversation is going. It’s not fun anymore.”

“See, you never talk about yourself…” Kat pouts, blinking slowly in her drunken haze. “Why did you never invite her along to hang out with us?”

“Why did you make your boyfriend climb out the window?”

“Why can’t you just fucking answer a single question?” She folds her arms over her chest, pouting at me like a toddler mid-tantrum. “Am I not your friend?”

“Why are you picking a fight with me? What the fuck, Novak?”

“Picking a fight by asking you questions about you?” She snorts.

“That’s a super loose interpretation of what’s going on here…”

“Did you even like her?”

“Did you even like Will?” I snap back; Girl by The Beatles starts playing somewhere in the background and it irritates me even more for some goddamn reason. “Or why did you stay with him for a year and then break up on your anniversary?”

“What the fuck…”

“Right. Not as fun the other way around?”

“How do you even know…”

“Lizzy, of course.”

Kat glares at me for a long moment. Then: “You know what, in vino fuckin’ veritas,” she sighs heavily and, for a split second, looks way more sober than two minutes ago. “I was an emotionally unavailable asshole… And I led him on because I liked how he made me feel appreciated and important…” She stops abruptly and two heavy tears drop from her eyes.

“Shit, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay. I’m just really drunk…” She shakes her head and then there’s a silent pause before we both chuckle. “It’s what we all really want though, isn’t it? To be considered and appreciated and just…known…”

“You really are what they call troubled youth,” I tell her, somewhat relieved that these are drunk tears, that this whole conversation is.

Although… These things she keeps demanding I explain, all these different versions of the same question… Do I miss Kristine? Did I like her? Why didn't I bring her around? Why was I an asshole? Why wasn't she with us? Why did we break up? It's all the same question wearing different hats and Kat isn't usually repetitive unless she's stuck on something.

“But maybe you don't agree…” She peers at me, bleary-eyed, and her face goes through yet another three emotions before settling on some kind of annoyed little frown. “You don’t agree. According to you, relationships are basically a freak accident.”

“What?” My voice goes up. I guess I did say something like that. That was a weird night… And she’s still thinking about that?

“You said that.”

“I did not say basically.”

“Mark.”

“Fine. I might have said freak accident.”

“You definitely said freak accident. A sex contract in other words.”

She is still thinking about that. A sex contract? I mean, I see how that could be extrapolated from my words. I didn’t really mean it, or not universally anyway. And she’s still thinking about that. Jesus Christ. That conversation happened weeks ago at this point. I barely thought about it since. Meanwhile Novak apparently took it home, put it on a shelf somewhere, and has been periodically taking it down to get pissed off at it this whole time. Which is interesting. Most bad opinions get one eye-roll from her, maybe a sarcastic comment, and then they're gone forever. This one stuck. It’s actually kind of encouraging. I mean, not the part where she thinks that I’m a sexist dumbass. That's bad. But she cares about my opinion about relationships enough to be pissed off about it. That’s good, I think.

Another thought lands all of a sudden. She wasn't really asking about Kristine, was she? Or not just about Kristine. She's trying to figure out what kind of person I was with her. What kind of boyfriend I was. Huh. That's a terrifying thing to realize halfway through an argument: this is research.

Because I don’t say anything for a moment and just stare back into Kat’s eyes, she finally clicks her tongue, flicks her cigarette butt, and reaches down for a half-empty bottle of bottom shelf whiskey that I hope wasn’t just sitting there when she got here. “Fine, let’s take shots then,” she starts to lift the neck of the bottle to her lips but I snatch it out of her grip before she gets there.

“I think you’ve had enough, actually.”

“The fuck?” She frowns at me like a grumpy toddler, swaying ever so slightly. “You don’t get to tell me–”

“I do, actually,” I swing my arm away from Kat so she can’t reach the bottle in my hand when she tries; and she does several times. “Stop it!” I scowl at her now, getting a little out of breath from the bizarre dancing with the bottle in one hand and using my other to keep this lunatic away. She’s not super fast or coordinated in this state of drunkenness, which really aids in keeping her at bay. “You can’t even stand straight, stop being a bonehead and let me get you some water.”

“You don’t get to make decisions for me!”

“Get to? Have to! And I am, fuckin’ watch me!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Kat lets out a creepy shrill laugh, probably because she’s pretty out of breath herself by now too. “And what gives you that right exactly?”

“The fact I care about you, genius! The fact you're a disaster and, unfortunately, I've become weirdly invested in your continued existence. Let’s go,” I grab her hand, still holding the whiskey in my other, and when I look at her face, she frowns and rolls her eyes, but allows me to lead her to the bar counter to get a tall glass of water. “Please don’t take any more shots,” I turn back to her after talking to the bartender, entirely ready to fight her again if I have to.

“Fine,” she puts her elbows on the counter and slumps a little as she rests her chin and cheeks in her hands, in the prettiest depiction of defeat I’ve ever seen, and I can’t help but laugh a little. 

* * *

“I’m never drinking again,” I whine from the couch and as luck would have it, Mark walks into the apartment just in time to witness it.

I can see about three different emotions and thoughts go through his head before he settles on arguably the least mean thing he could say, all things considered: “But you’re funny when you’re wasted.”

He goes for the kitchen cupboard to get a box of cereal and I hear myself groan. “Why are you so chipper?”

“Because I didn’t drink my weight in tequila. And then my weight in whiskey on top of that.”

Gwen side-eyes him while flipping her omelette at the same time; an impressive skill, actually. “Should we add your name to the grocery budget?”

“I bought this milk,” he tells her, grabbing a carton from the fridge.

“And? I bought the cereal,” she says.

“I brought her home,” he points a thumb at me. “I think that’s more precious than a few crumbs of your cereal, Gwen.”

“Fair,” she laughs.

“Wait… You took me home?” I’m just now realizing I don’t remember getting back here at all… I just assumed my own roommates would have gotten me back.

“Of course I took you home. Relax, Novak,” Mark laughs after a pause, grabbing a spoon. “I’m sure the day will come when I’m gonna get sloppy drunk and you’ll have to take me home.”

“By the time we came back, you were on the couch, drooling all over him,” Gwen cackles, pointing a spatula at me.

“Drooling?” I repeat faintly.

“Sleeping.”

“Don’t worry,” Mark looks at me gleefully. “My shirt wasn’t that clean anyway.”

“You don’t remember much, do you?” Gwen eyes me between getting all her breakfast components on her plate. I groan again in response and slump deeper into the couch. 

“Well. Just so you know,” the grin on Mark’s face is absurdly smug. “You did tell me I have a nice neck.” 

“I did not…”

“You did too,” he counters cheerfully.

“Why would I tell you you have a nice neck?”

“Because you’re perceptive?”

Gwen snorts and goes to eat at the table but Mark comes over to the couch, landing on the armrest beside me. 

“You also tried to give a guy outside the venue your cigarette because you said he looked emotionally fragile,” he tells me.

“That does sound like something I would do…” 

“Also,” Mark starts again and I already know I will regret hearing whatever he says next. “You told me I need to smile less.” He pauses and I am sure it’s very deliberate. “Because it’s distracting. Your words, not mine.”

“Did I actually say that?” I ask Gwen and she shrugs.

“Probably.”

I sink back into the couch. “Why did you let me talk that much?”

“I didn’t,” Mark says. “You were unstoppable.”

“You got very expressive with your opinions the drunker you got.”

“At one point,” Mark slips down from the armrest to sit right next to me. “I asked what was so distracting about it…”

“Please tell me I didn't answer.”

“Oh, you answered.”

Another groan.

“You thought about it for a really long time too.”

“That's never a good sign.”

“You said the issue is that it always looks real,” he tells me and then just looks at me, that unbearable smirk playing on his lips, echoing in his laughter lines, in the depths of his eyes… Drunk me is a traitor, apparently.  

“That's actually kind of nice,” Gwen says.

Eva’s bedroom door creaks open, thank god, and she emerges looking deeply unconvinced by consciousness, hair still messy from sleep. “Textbook definition of a complete lack of a distracting smile,” Mark motions at her.

"Why are you here?" She asks on her way toward the coffee maker, without even glancing at him.

"Good morning to you too."

"Answer the question."

Mark points vaguely toward the door. "I'm waiting for Steve."

Eva pauses halfway through reaching for a mug, then shrugs, then proceeds. In the meantime, I push myself off the couch in search of food but find that the fridge contains very little of value, considering the current state of my stomach. The one thing that calls to me is a giant bunch of dill. I grab a few sprigs and start eating them on my way back to the couch. Mark watches me for a second. Then another.

“You know,” he says eventually, “every day I learn something new about you.”

“Mm.” I mostly ignore him, pulling another piece free and grazing on it. After a moment I hand Mark the stems. “Can you throw these away?”

“Sure.” He takes them and proceeds to eat them instead. Now I stare.

“You're so odd,” I tell him.

Mark finishes chewing. “You're the one having a bouquet of dill for breakfast.”

“The stems are the bad part!”

“According to whom?”

“Society.”

“Society's weak.”

The apartment door opens.

"Morning everyone." Steve walks in carrying a paper bag and immediately points at Mark.

"There you are."

"There you are. We’re educating Novak about the consequences of tequila."

"Ooh, fun."

“Not fun,” I scowl at Steve as he goes to grab himself a cup of coffee.

“She doesn’t remember much,” Gwen says and Eva perks up too. I know they love me but sometimes it’s really hard to remember that when I’m looking at these evil smiles.

“So we’re filling her in,” Mark says.

“Ah well,” Steve drops onto the couch next to me, “you said something fascinating to me last night.”

I immediately narrow my eyes. “No.”

“Yes. You spent five minutes trying to convince me that Stone and I are the same person.”

Eva immediately starts laughing into her coffee. “That does sound like her.”

“Thank you, Eva.”

“You're welcome.”

“You also claimed Stone is just me after somebody shook me really hard.” Steve grins. “Which is honestly kind of flattering.”

“Weirdly flattering seems to have been the theme of the night,” Gwen cackles.

Just then, Lizzy emerges, still sleepy, hair escaping from whatever hairstyle she'd attempted before bed. “Why is everyone laughing?”

“Kat's public humiliation,” Eva explains.

“Oh,” Lizzy says. “Carry on.”

“Et tu, Brute?”

“Sorry...” She goes into the bathroom.

Steve and Mark end up lingering longer than either of them probably intended. Whatever errand they were supposedly meeting for clearly isn't urgent enough to prevent them from sitting around the apartment eating other people's food.

"We've got twenty minutes," Steve says eventually, checking his watch before dropping back onto the couch.

"Twenty-three."

"Oh, sorry."

"Thank you."

One of them flicks the TV on, the volume low enough to blend into the general apartment noise; Gwen wanders over a few minutes later with a bottle of nail polish and claims the armchair beside the couch; Eva and Lizzy are in the kitchen making breakfast. The smell of coffee, toast, and something involving eggs drifts through the apartment. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Jerry shows up and immediately inserts himself into whatever Lizzy is doing. 

Steve and Mark, still somehow choosing to sit on either side of me, start talking about recording schedules, mixes, songs, things I only half follow. 

"...the bridge still feels too crowded," Mark says.

"Yeah. Because you keep adding more stuff to it."

"So… Scratch whatever we did to it yesterday and just make it fuzzier instead?"

"You’re reading my mind."

I only catch fragments after that. Something about vocal takes, something about arrangements, I’m pretty sure I even hear the word ‘harmonies’ at one point which is intriguing and should be investigated had I not flooded my brain with hard booze last night. 

Then a thought surfaces through the haze. "I was listening to your EP the other day…” The conversation stops. Steve looks over immediately.

“Oh?” Mark perks up, smiling already, and throws his arm across the back of the couch behind me. 

“I was just thinking, I really like Need."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think that's my favorite track off the EP. It is a quintessential Mudhoney song, really."

A grin spreads across Steve's face. "That's all Mark. He wrote the whole thing."

I look at Mark; he shrugs. “I did.”

"It's very good."

"Thank you."

Steve nods. "I also love that song." Mark groans quietly for some reason; Steve continues: "It's just simple folk chords."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Steve immediately starts laughing. "Hey, it’s not my fault you wrote a folk song, man."

"It is not folk."

"It's folk-adjacent."

"It's not adjacent to folk."

"It's standing near folk."

"It's nowhere near folk."

Steve is nothing short of gleeful now. "I swear to God, if somebody played that song on an acoustic guitar around a campfire–"

Mark throws a couch cushion at him, nearly hitting me on the side of the head, and the cushion misses its target completely anyway.

"Violence. That's how you know I'm right."

"That's how you know you need to shut up."

I laugh despite the headache. Across the room, Jerry looks up from whatever conversation he's having with Lizzy. "What are we fighting about?"

"Folk music," I tell him.

Jerry considers this. "Good. Normal topic."

"Boring topic,” Gwen chimes in while inspecting the freshly painted nails on her right foot. “Kat, do you remember that guy at the bar last night?"

"I think you and I both know the answer to this question," I offer Gwen a feeble smile.

"The one who asked for your number?"

"Oh. Him… Actually yeah, vaguely…" Oh god, what else did I do?!

"He was cute."

"Was he?"

"He absolutely was."

"What I do remember is the twenty minutes of him explaining motorcycles to me… He had pictures on him..."

Steve barks out a laugh.

“You really didn’t think he was cute?” Gwen pushes and I shoot her a mildly confused frown. "Right. Let's ask somebody objective. Mark?"

"Gwen?"

"Was he attractive?"

"Who?"

"The guy."

"The what guy?"

"From the bar. The guy Kat rejected."

My hungover brain can’t really process the staring contest I’m witnessing happening between Mark and Gwen so I file it away for later.

"I don't know," Mark says after a moment.

"You don't know?"

"I wasn't really looking at him."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't care what he looked like?"

"Convenient answer," Gwen says.

"Accurate answer."

"Fine. What about her?" After Gwen throws the question out into the room, it takes me a very long few seconds before I realise she’s pointing her the brush of her nail polish at me while looking at Mark.

“Oh, we’re doing this at this hour of the day?” Eva mumbles through a yawn while pouring herself another cup of coffee.

“You ever consider working for the CIA?” Steve inquires.

"Come on, it’s just a simple question," Gwen smirks at him. “I mean, would you say Kat is cute?”

“Of course I would,” Steve answers immediately, mirroring her expression, then leans forward to look at his friend sitting on the other side of me. “Wouldn’t you, Mark?” 

“What is happening here…” I feebly offer my rhetorical question to the room.

“Psychological warfare, apparently,” Eva comes to sit on the couch as well.

"Answer the question, Mark."

“You’re not as effective without a natural disaster and candlelight,” he tells Gwen and I chuckle, then wince because the headache reminds me of itself with a few painful thumps. "But yes,” Mark starts again suddenly, looking at me with the same endlessly pleased expression he’s had all morning. “Statistically, yes."

Gwen stares at him. “Statistically?? What does that even mean? That’s insane.” 

“That’s your version of flirting, huh?” Steve barks a laugh.

“What kind of a brain comes up with that answer?” Eva looks visibly worried by that wording. 

Statistically, yes? Did he actually mean it? Did he mean the opposite of that? This feels like another piece of evidence in the ‘Mark is unpredictable and not emotionally legible’ folder.

“No, no, this is perfect.” Gwen is enjoying this so much she's vibrating.

There’s a jarring, perfectly-timed bell sound on TV, which makes us all look over, then some daytime host smiles from the screen. “In your opinion,” he asks his guest, “what's the height of stupidity?”

I slowly turn my head toward Mark and squint. “How tall are you?”

Steve, Gwen, and Eva all snort and cackle. “Wow,” Mark says, smirking at me. “How dare you.”

“Come on, Mark,” Steve says standing up. “We gotta go.”

A few more jokes later the apartment becomes significantly quieter and I sink even deeper into the couch that’s got a lot more space now. For a moment only the sounds of Jerry and Lizzy cleaning up after breakfast are audible and even though I’m looking at the TV, I am sure Gwen and Eva are either looking at me or at each other.

“Don’t.” I say.

“It’s just nice that he’s starting to admit things openly,” Eva tries to sound normal, casual.

“That man is so into you, Kat,” Gwen takes a totally different approach, her weirdly placed joy about this completely unmasked.

“Right, thanks,” I quickly pull my face into a big grin. I asked Stone to give me a ride to the Soundgarden show - just as a logistics thing. But honestly, I thought about who I'd want there with me for a while and he’s somehow the one person. I mean, he can actually give me a ride, for one, he's also really fun to go to gigs with because he always has some weird off the cuff commentary about whatever is happening on stage, but above all, while he can be nosey and blunt, he can also take a hint and drop a topic if I tell him to drop it. This last part is something my roommates all struggle with to varying degrees, especially when it comes to a certain singer of a band. I am sure that if I took any of them to see Chris that would trigger renewed conversations about the topic. 

“So. You ready to become a serious music journalist?”

“I’ve always been serious.”

“I’ve heard you describe a Skin Yard show as what being trapped inside a garbage disposal probably feels like.”

“Yes, and? That’s evocative writing.”

Stone cackles and pulls out into traffic while I settle deeper into the seat. I don't even know that I will necessarily run into Chris, I might just look at him up on stage, take some notes, and leave… But just in case, Stone is definitely better to have around than any one of my roommates, especially Gwen. 

“How do you know Olive again?” I ask Stone twenty minutes and a heated argument about Nick Cave later, as we're getting out of his car. “She seems so cool and normal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stone snorts. 

“You've introduced me to an array of really odd people, it's just statistically unexpected you'd be friends with someone cool and normal.”

“I mean…” He looks me up and down very pointedly as we head for the entrance of the venue. 

“Yeah, I walked right into that one…”

“Yeah. We used to work together a few years back.”

“Doing what?”

“We worked at a vegan bakery. What?” He eyes me when I wordlessly scrunch my eyebrows. 

“Vegan bakery is even more unexpected. I didn’t know you can bake, Stone,” I laugh. 

“That's a generous way to refer to weighing out flour and dumping it into an industrial mixer. Actually, I've had so many odd jobs in the last few years, I probably couldn't even list them all. Some of them would make the hairs on your neck stand.”

“Right. That sounds exhausting.” I sometimes think about how a bunch of people I know do this, especially people in bands – odd jobs, short term contracts, multiple things at the same time… I think I would get so overwhelmed by the constant change and the constant search of the next thing, I’d stop functioning entirely.

“It’s not so bad. There's the usual moving, painting, cleaning… Then sometimes the more exciting stuff comes along, like screen printing and running an adult video store… Actually, a fair few of these jobs I did with your neighbor.”

“Yeah, I think lately he’s been on the moving and painting stuff.”

“’tis the season,” Stone shrugs as he strides into the venue in front of me.

It’s busy and loud in here. I guess everyone wants to see one of Seattle’s hottest bands. I take approximately three more steps before someone barrels into my shoulder, something cold splashes all across my chest and the smell of cheap beer hits my nose. A guy freezes holding now mostly empty plastic cup. We both look down at the wet stain rapidly spreading across the entire front of my shirt.

“Oh my God,” he says. “I'm so sorry.”

“Fuckin’ A…” The shirt isn't ruined per se, but it's completely soaked.

The guy apologizes another three times before disappearing into the crowd. Stone, in the meantime, is having a grand old time, laughing his head off. I groan and tug the fabric away from my skin.

“Great…”

Stone finally gets himself under control enough to squint at my shirt. “Actually, hold on.”

“What?”

“I might have some shirts in the car.”

A couple of minutes later we're standing in the glow of a parking lot lamp while Stone digs through the back seat of his car. The amount of random junk back there is honestly impressive. There's a toolbox, which is quite shocking. Several milk crates full of records. A skateboard. A box labeled ‘TAX STUFF???’ and several pieces of clothing.

“Aha!” Stone triumphantly yanks a crumpled black T-shirt from beneath a pair of jeans.

When he unfolds it, I immediately wish he hadn't. “No.”

Stone starts laughing again when he takes a look at the front of the shirt: across the chest, in giant faded red letters reads SOUNDGARDEN.

“Absolutely not.”

“It looks clean, I think you should consider. I can’t promise there will be another one.”

“There has to be another one.”

He continues digging. A minute later he emerges with a giant tank top that I’m pretty sure belongs to Jeff. I stare at it. He stares at it. The shirt goes back into the pile.

“Okay,” he says. “The Soundgarden shirt remains our strongest candidate.”

Of all the shirts in all the cars in Seattle, the universe has apparently selected this one specifically to make my life difficult. Then again, I really might just watch the band play from the far end of the room, take some notes, and leave, completely unnoticed and unseen by Chris. It might be fine.

Considering my options are beer-soaked shirt, Jeff’s barely-there-shirt or a Soundgarden t-shirt, god is either dead or hates me. Either way, I end up putting the Soundgarden shirt on while crouching behind Stone’s car and we go back inside. Unfortunately, all the years of bad thoughts and deeds seem to be returning to me tonight in one big karma blow…

Chris, tall enough to stick out like a sore thumb, is standing near the bar with Kim, Matt, and a few other people I vaguely recognize, which is neutral enough in and of itself but because tonight is some kind of a twisted, backwards version of deus ex machina, Chris glances towards the entrance and spots us instantly over the crowd. His eyes land on me, then on the shirt, and his entire face changes, absolutely insufferable amusement written all over it.

I can see how hard it is for him to contain the glee as he walks over. “Hi!” He looks at Stone and then me. I kind of want to just…shoo him. I want to tell him to go away, he knows too much of me and we’re basically just acquaintances now; I have a hard time with that concept. But I’m trying to be better than that; healthier. The thought pulls a sigh out of me. 

“Hello,” I say at the same time as Stone, although mine is a lot more stiff.

“Didn’t realize we had a superfan in attendance tonight.”

I cross my arms immediately. “Please don’t.”

Chris grins wider, looking down at the shirt again. “You buy that at the merch booth?”

“She did,” Stone cuts in. “In fact, she’s become your biggest fan recently. Ever since the traumatic brain injury. She listens to One Minute of Silence six times a day now or she gets confused and wanders into traffic. The doctors said it’s best to just let her give in to the impulses,” he keeps going on and I start laughing. “Better than scraping her off the street.”

“She’s always been like this Stoney, the brain injury had nothing to do with it,” Chris grins and I wrinkle my nose.

“Really? I don’t remember her being obsessed with bands that sound like Mötley Crüe fell down a flight of stairs before the injury.”

“Okay, the brain injury bit is getting overused now…”

“Mötley Crüe!?” Chris gasps over me.

“Maybe a little Whitesnake around the edges too.” This! This is exactly why I came with Stone! Note to self: I need to bake a year’s supply of cookies for him.

“Why is he so hateful today?” Chris looks at me now.

“I don’t know. He also made me wear this shirt…” I mention very conveniently.

“Another six months and you’re gonna start doing splits on car hoods in videos,” Stone goes on, drawing another tickled laugh out of me. 

“He could probably pull it off,” I tell him.

Chris laughs. “See? She gets it.”

“I really don’t, but I support it. I think you have it in you. Good core strength.”

Chris points at me immediately. “There she is.” These words seem to come out before he really thinks about them and for a split second after neither of us says anything. Then Chris lifts both hands. “Sorry. I meant to say—”

“No, I got it.”

I wasn’t fair to him. Chris was charming and interesting to talk to, among other things, but he was also still mostly a stranger and strangers have always scared me more than they probably should. I didn’t want to label our relationship because I knew I’d get too attached if I did, but I never explained any of that to him. I didn’t know him well enough to be able to explain it, I guess. I was giddy and intimidated all at once; but mostly I was afraid of having feelings for someone I didn’t know well enough.

He studies me for a second. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Stone looks between us. “I feel like I missed several seasons of a TV show.”

“You did,” Chris and I say at the same time and then both laugh.

And then after everything… I just shut him out. I was hurt, yes, but now looking back it’s almost embarrassing, the way I acted and reacted, the way I made it so absolute. I just wasn’t fair to him.

“Well,” I look at Chris. “Break a leg.”

“As a serious music journalist, I don’t think you should say that to your subject of dissection,” Stone tells me.

“I might mean it literally, you never know,” I say and easy laughter ripples through the group.

* * *

Only when I come back to the door, carrying a basket of laundry, do I realize I must have locked myself out of the apartment. Dang it! What are the chances one of the girls came back in the time it took me to go to and back from the laundry room? After ringing the doorbell a few times the answer seems to be zero. Crap… Maybe I can just wait, maybe someone will be home soon enough? I don’t even know what time it is right now… And I was really looking forward to making myself some iced tea and just relaxing, listening to some music or watching TV… Bummer!

Maybe Mark’s home? He could probably get in through Kat’s skylight and let me in. I set the laundry basket down and step over to his door; there’s a long moment after I knock where I don’t hear anything but then the door swings open.

“Mark! I’m so happy to see you!” I tell him honestly but he narrows his eyes at me, then sticks his head out into the hallway and looks around suspiciously.

“Lizzy, are you feeling okay?” He asks slowly.

I roll my eyes at him. “I locked myself out…”

“Ah, now that makes more sense.”

“Don’t act like I’m not usually happy to see you though!”

“But it’s funnier that way,” he pulls his lips into a big grin. “You need to get up on the roof then?”

“Actually, I would really prefer it if you did… I don’t love heights,” I tell him with a smile and my best puppy dog eyes.

“So you’re asking me to break into your home? Namely, into Novak’s room?”

“Well, not exactly… But kind of… Yes.”

“Cool. Give me two minutes.” He disappears back into his apartment, leaving the door open, and then much sooner than two minutes later I hear him unlocking our door. “Come in, make yourself at home,” he bows down with a big swoop of his arm and I bring my laundry in.

“Thanks Mark!”

“No problem.” He is really sweet and kind, I stand by my words.

“Mark, how come you and I never do anything together?” I rest the basket on my hip.

“You take too many baths, I don’t like singing Christian songs, you don’t think I’m funny…the list goes on.”

“Ah, yes, it’s because of how annoying you sometimes are…”

“Wow, the truth comes out.”

“I’m just kidding! Come on, let’s do something today.”

Mark considers this for a second. “Okay.”

I…wasn’t expecting that. “Okay?” 

“Yeah. How about now?”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“What were you doing before I knocked?”

“Working, so to speak. Writing,” he pops his eyes momentarily as he says it. “But I think I was about to write something Def Leppard already have so it’s really best if I take a break.”

“Great!”

“But just so you know,” he adds very seriously, “my mother grew up as a Hitler Youth in Germany, so if that’s something that’s too much for you, I’ll understand…”

“You know, from the moment I met you, I knew you’d be friends with Kat…” I bob my head as I stare straight through Mark’s face and when I focus on it again, he’s got this giddy smile. Of course he’s smiling at the mention of Kat. Cute! “Do you want some iced tea? I was going to make some hibiscus.”

“Lizzy, you know I never turn down free consumables.”

I put the kettle on and in the meantime, we somehow end up in my room. I guess Mark sort of drifted along with me when I went to put some of my laundry away. I think it’s the first time he’s been in here, which feels strange considering how often he’s at the apartment.

He starts looking around like he just entered a museum for the first time, slowly making his way around the perimeter of the room. At one point his eyes stop on a little stack of mixtapes on one of the shelves and he picks one up. “For Lizzy. Stop listening to terrible music.” He reads Kat’s handwriting. At least she drew a bunch of hearts all around it.

“She spent like three weeks making that,” I tell him.

“That’s an alarming amount of effort.”

“That’s Katie.”

He continues to look around my room, occasionally touching or commenting on something, while I hang my work clothes and leave the rest of the laundry basket for later. We come back out into the kitchen where I have to explain to him twice what hibiscus is, then we have a brief debate on whether we should use honey, sugar, or maple syrup for the tea, eventually settling on sugar. It’s actually kind of nice, I feel like I never get to talk to Mark this long or see him this relaxed… Maybe that’s not exactly the word I’m looking for but he seems somehow very at ease, probably because there’s not ten other people to pay attention to, which is usually the case in our apartment.

“…and honestly, I think the quiz thing wasn’t even that bad,” I tell him some time later, after we’ve brewed some extra strong tea and put it in the fridge to chill. I have somehow ended up on the topic of Jerry…

“The context made it worse,” Mark says and I just stare at him for a second because that’s absolutely true.

“Yeah… Plus, we just started dating… It’s normal.” I feel like I’m saying this more to myself than him though… I mean, it is normal. We like each other a lot and it has nothing to do with how much we know each other. We’ll get there, it’s natural. Just because we answered some questions differently, doesn’t mean that we’re fundamentally incompatible. “It takes some work, you know? People expect relationships to magically happen but that’s not always how it goes. It takes time and effort to build something solid. And it’s just…complicated, you know?”

“Why are you with him then? Surely you can find someone a little less complicated. This town is full to the brim of long haired cowboys.”

I blink at him, then a laugh bubbles out. “Mark, I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. Why do we fall for the people that we do? I don’t know!” I throw my arms out. “I didn’t choose it but I like Jerry so that’s that. Mark? Mark, what are you thinking about?”

“Nobody,” he says quickly.

“Nobody?..”

“I mean, nothing. Quit asking silly questions, Lizzy. So when’s the rematch?”

“You tell me, Mark.” Whenever you and Kat decide to stop beating around the bush!

“I’ll have to look at my calendar. So, is the tea ready yet?”

“Yeah, probably. We should add some cold water and ice and see if it’s sweet enough,” I say as I walk over to the fridge.

A while later the front door opens. Eva walks in first, then Kat follows. Both of them stop dead in their tracks and just stare at us: Mark and I are sitting at the kitchen table with glasses of tea, listening to Kat’s mixtape, chatting, snacking on some cookies, just hanging out.

“I think we’re in the wrong apartment,” Eva says.

“Yeah,” Kat nods. “I think we must’ve fallen a floor short.”

“Hi guys,” I ignore their bit. “You want some iced tea?”

A few minutes later, while Kat is making herself a sandwich, Mark finishes eating a cookie, rinses his hands, and wipes them directly on her shoulder. Kat immediately recoils.

“Why do you always have to dry your hands on my clothes?!”

Mark shrugs. “You’re my little dog.”

“What?”

“You know how some tribes in Papua New Guinea keep dogs around for wiping their hands? It’s basically that.”

“That makes no sense…”

He looks genuinely puzzled. “It makes perfect sense.”

He really needs to get better at flirting… Kat finishes assembling her sandwich and glances at the clock. “I’m gonna go call my sister.” She disappears into her room with her plate.

The conversation at the kitchen table stumbles on without her. Mark tells us a story from tour involving a broken washing machine, a church parking lot, and somebody's prosthetic leg that somehow gets less believable every time he adds a new detail but he swears it’s all true. Then we tell him about that time Gwen accidentally forgot a bag of potatoes in Eva’s car for a couple of weeks and then it reeked of rotten fish so we had to drive around with the windows rolled down all winter long, which Mark is weirdly impressed by.

A little while later Kat comes back out and finds us all piled into Eva’s room; we typically somehow all end up there whenever we don’t have any guests but today Mark’s privy to it too. Eva graciously shared her leftover soup with him, which he’s currently working on, just sort of hovering all around the bedroom. Kat comes in and plops down on her belly at the foot of Eva’s bed. Eva’s sitting at her desk but facing away from it and I’m sprawled across the rest of her bed. 

“I’m going to California to see my sister at the end of the month,” Kat announces.

“I thought your sister is in DC?” Mark pipes up.

“She’s moving for school. So anyway, Eva, I’ll need a ride to and from the airport…”

“Are you not going to be here for my birthday?” Eva looks genuinely alarmed, offended almost.

“No, no, I will! I’m leaving a few days after. I won’t be here for mine though.”

“That’s lame,” Mark says. “Everyone should be present for their own birthday.”

“I’ll still be alive…”

“In California.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not where your birthday is.”

“Yeah, maybe we’ll still have your birthday party over here,” Eva laughs and so do I. 

Before too long, we get on the topic of bad jokes and each one of us tries to remember the worst one we’ve ever heard, but they all actually end up being hilarious. I only vaguely remember how this one goes, but I still try:

“Okay, so a pastor, a raccoon and a judge walk into a bar—”

“Why is there a raccoon?” Mark asks.

“I don't know… Let me finish.”

“Yeah, let her finish, Mark Arm.”

“So a pastor, a raccoon and a judge walk into a bar. Or wait, maybe it’s a doctor actually…”

“Strong opening,” Eva says.

“No, wait. The doctor matters.”

“Does he?”

“I think so?”

“So is it a doctor or a judge?”

“I don't know…”

Mark is already smiling into his soup.

“Anyway,” I continue, “a pastor, a raccoon, and a doctor walk into a bar and the bartender says—”

I stop.

“What does he say?” Mark asks.

“I don't remember.”

“Excellent.”

“No, wait. He says, ‘We don’t serve raccoons here.’”

“Reasonable policy,” Kat notes.

“Then the raccoon says–” Another pause.

“Oh my God,” Eva groans.

“The raccoon says…something.”

“Incredible,” Mark chuckles.

“I swear it’s very funny when told correctly!”

“I’m beginning to doubt that.”

“No, seriously! Just give a sec, I’ll remember…”

“Lizzy,” Kat says, laughing now, “you've spent two minutes introducing characters.”

“I'm building suspense!”

“You're building a hostage situation,” Eva laughs too.

“Okay, listen. The raccoon says something, then the doctor… Or maybe the judge comes back—”

At that, Mark folds, nearly choking on his soup.

“The judge comes back?” Eva repeats.

“I think he left and returned…”

“Like a recurring character?” Kat asks through laughter.

“Exactly!” By now I'm laughing too hard to continue.

“Did you just make this up?” Eva asks.

“I don’t know, maybe…” I am seriously not sure at this point… I swear it went something like that but for the life of me, I cannot remember anything more…

Mark is halfway through his bowl of soup when he completely loses it, almost dropping his spoon, while Eva and Kat are laughing so hard, they might have stopped breathing. Just then, Gwen walks in to find Mark frozen with the spoon halfway to his mouth, soup actively dribbling down his chin, and Eva and Kat are collapsed against each other on the bed, tears running down Kat’s cheeks. Nobody, including me, is capable of explaining what happened.

Gwen slowly backs out of the room. “Good talk.”

* * *

The original plan, as far as I understand it, was for Jerry and Lizzy to play pool. Unfortunately, Lizzy appears physically incapable of organizing an event that involves fewer than eight people and Jerry goes along with anything she says at this point; I guess he's in his pussy whipped phase.

“Hi, Jerry,” I hear a voice I recognize as belonging to Kat, although I’ve never heard her sound this friendly. I look over and see her smiling at him, Gwen and Mark walking in behind her. 

“Hey,” he mirrors the expression. Seems like she’s done being a bitch to him? 

"Oh good," Kat says the second she spots me. "It's happening again."

"What is?"

She points between Jerry and Lizzy. "You and me getting tricked into attending somebody else's date."

"Hey!" Lizzy protests and I laugh. Yeah, I guess we do have that traumatic experience in common now.

A few games get played, people drift in and out. The whole thing expands the way these gatherings always do, accumulating friends and acquaintances until nobody remembers who was originally invited. Which is fine by me. The place isn't especially crowded, just busy enough to feel alive. The pool tables clack in the background, somebody keeps feeding quarters into the jukebox, beer flows at a pace that suggests most people have nowhere else to be. It's nice. Comfortable. The kind of evening that accidentally lasts five hours.

At some point somebody mentions roller derby; a minute later Kat turns her entire attention toward me after I make what I consider to be a perfectly normal observation: “Those girls are masculine as hell, wouldn’t want to be with one of them.”

“Masculine? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Masculine means masculine.”

“As in, wearing pants is masculine?” She scoffs at me.

“Have you ever been to a roller derby game?”

“Yes, have you?”

“Yeah,” I laugh out, really just amused by her apparent annoyance. “Like I said, those chicks are super buff and intimidating out on that—”

"So I just wanted to clarify something." The second she says it, Jerry starts smiling. He looks fully ready to throw me under the bus just to repair diplomatic relations with his girlfriend’s roommate; the traitor! "Is it okay for women to do masculine things or is that sort of a social faux pas? Do they get a warning first or do you go straight to revoking their woman card?"

"You can play roller derby, football or wrestle for all I care," I say. "You're probably not getting laid though. Not by a dude anyway."

Kat covers her face with both hands and for a second I think maybe she agrees with me. Then she looks back up. "So is it gay," she asks carefully, "to play the sort of more violent sports?"

I grin. "I mean, I've never met a straight chick who was into WWE."

"But men are into it because they're naturally more violent and rough?"

"Generally, yeah."

She rearranges her face into a smile that doesn't look real, like one of those mannequins in department store windows. "Interesting."

"What?"

"I'm just trying to understand."

"Understand what?"

"The rules."

"What rules?"

"The woman rules."

Jerry makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like choking. I point at him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing at all," he says immediately.

"Look," I continue, "I was just saying what I think. Excuse me for having a personal opinion."

"Sexist."

"What?"

"It's pronounced sexist opinion."

I stare at her. "Sexist? That's just how you interpreted what I said. That's not what I actually said at all."

"Ah." She nods, then takes a sip of her beer. Something about that worries me. "You're one of those really dumb people, aren't you?"

"What the fuck?"

"There it is," Jerry mutters.

"Don't be rude."

"Rude?" she asks. "I really wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

She shrugs. "That's just how you interpreted what I said. I was making an observation and you're taking it as an insult, I guess."

Jerry is trying very hard not to laugh. Across the table Gwen looks vaguely pleased, which is honestly worse.

“Why are you all acting like I committed a crime?” I ask.

“Because you keep saying things that sound bad and then act surprised when people think they sound bad,” Jerry says.

“That is not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Gwen throws me a smug smile.

A little while later Lizzy finally remembers she'd originally invited Jerry here to play pool and whisks him away. I head to the bar and grab another beer instead and by the time I get back, the seating arrangement around our table has completely reorganized itself: a handful of chairs have appeared from seemingly nowhere and been scattered around at random angles. Gwen is mostly occupied talking to a couple of girls I don't recognize who must've shown up while I was gone. Mark is technically sitting with us but has turned his chair completely backwards so he can talk to the people at the next table over. I sit down across from Kat.

The conversation bounces through three completely unrelated topics before somehow arriving at relationships. Then girlfriends. Then guys hitting on girlfriends. Then whatever sociology lecture Gwen decides we're all attending.

“Unfortunately, women often aren’t autonomous beings so saying ‘no thanks’ is not enough,” she explains in a bored monotone.

“Tell me about it,” one of her friends sighs.

“Sure it’s enough,” I laugh out. “You say ‘no, thanks’ and move on.”

“Sean, I’m sure you’re smarter than that,” Gwen pins me with her gaze. 

“Sean, how many times have you heard a woman say I can’t, I have a boyfriend,” Kat whines in an oddly convincing valley girl impression. 

“And sometimes even that won’t help, you need an actual man to be there playing the role of the boyfriend,” Gwen continues.

“Personally, in return for all the food, I would expect Mark here,” Kat says with a quick wave of hand toward the guy and he looks over at us while still leaning away, a mildly curious expression on his face, “to step in and pretend to be the said boyfriend and assert ownership over my person because men are born into some sort of bro code of mutual respect, I guess, whereas women are more so just their bodies, and their bodies are simply a hot fuckin’ commodity,” she spits it all out so quickly, I’m impressed she didn’t pass out at the end from restricted oxygen flow.

“Why Mark?” I ask. “He could have ulterior motives too. Or what's wrong with him?”

A tickled snort erupts from her. “Mark? No. Mark is…” She gestures vaguely. “To him, I’m not even a woman. You know what I mean?” She stammers out, at which Mark’s face plunges into an endlessly amused smile as he looks at her as if he’d never seen her before, his hand holding a bottle of beer hovering mid-air.

“What do you mean, Novak?” He asks, now turning the rest of his body towards us.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm not sure I know what you mean either.”

“Oh you know what I mean, Arm,” she insists. “To Mark, I’m more of a hand towel. Or an abstract source of food.”

“Ah,” Mark nods slowly, dropping his eyes to the table. “I have exercised ownership over hand towels and the occasional bite of food before.”

The whole table laughs, except for Kat. She just looks vaguely annoyed, which makes it even funnier. I have a feeling there’s probably many more layers to whatever she just said. Or…I don’t know… Maybe the hand towel thing is exactly what she meant. Maybe Mark genuinely does view her as a reusable household object. Honestly, I don't know these people well enough to rule anything out. 

The conversation dissolves into smaller ones after that. Somebody gets up for another drink. Somebody starts arguing about baseball. Mark gets pulled back into whatever discussion he was having with the people at the next table. The song playing over the bar speakers changes and a second later I notice Kat mouthing along to the lyrics. Not loudly, not even consciously, I don't think. That’s kind of unexpected. “You know this song?”

She glances over. “Obviously.”

“Bob Seger?”

“Yeah?”

“Most people our age don’t listen to Bob Seger.”

“Most people our age are wrong.”

I point at her. “See? Now that’s a take I can respect.”

“Finally,” Gwen laughs. “A bridge between nations.”

“I'm not saying you’re right about everything.”

“Of course not,” Kat says. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Just Bob Seger.”

“Just Bob Seger. And just to clarify, I am allowed to listen to him, right?”

“Huh?”

“You know, since I’m a woman…”

“Oh fuck off.”

"Sean, just out of curiosity…" 

"What?"

"Do you think women emerge from the ground fully formed at age twenty-three?"

"What?"

"I'm trying to figure out where these assumptions come from…" Kat chuckles at her own dumb joke.

“You just don’t look like somebody who listens to Bob Seger.”

“Ah so it’s no longer about genders... Who do I look like I listen to?”

“I don't know. Men named Adrian making experimental whale noises.”

This earns a loud, tickled laugh from Kat. “I’m not sure if you meant that as an insult but I also think I don’t seem like someone who’d listen to Seger. Or Springsteen. Or Tom Petty,” she shrugs.

“Springsteen too?”

“Of course Springsteen.” As she says this, she shoots a quick look at Mark, her eyebrows raised high, and I see him pull a face at her before turning back away. 

“Okay, now we’re talking.”

“Don’t get too excited. I have some controversial takes. Nebraska is his best record and nobody wants to admit it.”

“Totally,” I grin. “Everybody always talks about Born to Run.”

Seems like everyone else moves on to conversations they find more entertaining, which is exactly why Kat’s music tastes seem so unexpected – this is generally not the crowd for discussing Springsteen and Seger.

“What else?” I ask.

“What else what?”

“Your secret collection of normal music.”

“I don’t have a secret collection of normal music.”

“I mean, kinda seems like you do.”

She thinks about it. “Creedence.”

“Good.”

“The Band.”

“Good.”

“Fleetwood Mac.”

“Everybody likes Fleetwood Mac.”

“Not Mark.”

Across the table Mark looks up at the sound of his name.

“Fleetwood Mac,” Kat repeats.

“I don't trust bands where everybody is angry at each other.”

“You listen to hardcore punk…”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“They’re angry professionally,” he says before shuffling his attention away.

“I meant all chicks listen to Fleetwood Mac.”

“We just spent thirty minutes establishing that your understanding of women is not evidence-based. I’d town down the confidence if I were you,” she smirks at me, spinning her beer bottle on its edge.

“And yet you can’t stop talking to me despite claiming you think I’m an idiot.”

“I’m conducting research. It’s fascinating.”

“Sure. What about Neil Young?” 

“What about him?”

“Favorite song.”

She answers immediately. “Powderfinger.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“That’s the correct answer.”

“Oh, I know.” I don’t think we’ve agreed on a single thing all night, until now, which is weirdly attractive. She’s funny too, in a slightly unhinged kind of way.  

* * *

“Oh good, everyone’s on time,” I glance over our basement space filled with guitars, drums, amps, tangled cables, and various unidentified pieces of equipment as I walk in. “Shocking, actually. Concerning even…” My eyes slide over from Mark, sunken into the shitty little couch like a grampa getting ready for a good nap, to Dan, already sitting behind his drum kit, to Matt who’s messing with our boombox, hopefully not breaking it.

“You’re late Steve,” Mark says without lifting his eyes from the magazine in his lap.

“You’re saying that…as a bad thing?”

“Why even have a rehearsal space if we’re not gonna use it…on time…”

“What got your panties in a twist?” I ask while shrugging the guitar case off my shoulder and kicking my skateboard into the corner. He doesn’t answer so I step over and snatch the magazine from him. “Ah. I see.”

“What?” Dan looks up from behind his kit and starts softly drumming out a rhythm.

“Kat’s Soundgarden review is out, it seems.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? What the fuck, Mark? Read it!”

“Glady,” I say, slumping down on the couch way heavier than I need to, giving Mark a minor whiplash.

“Again, shouldn’t we be doing band stuff in here?”

I ignore his question and launch into the article: “Soundgarden have an idea of something they can do with a Gun and that’s starting their set with the subterranean growl of Kim Thayil and Chris Cornell’s guitars that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. The quartet groans into motion—”

“Okay, is it just me or is this already unnecessarily sexual?” Mark cuts me off.

“That’s exactly what a Soundgarden show feels like though,” Matt points out.

“Really? Subterranean growl?”

I choose to ignore Mark again and continue reading instead. “The quartet groans into motion, picking up speed like a locomotive from hell, with Matt Cameron leading on drums and – a brand new addition – Jason Everman on bass. The menacing drawl of it all instantly puts the crowd under a trance, a spell like no other Seattle band is capable of…”

“Now that’s just plain rude,” Mark pipes up again.

“Chris Cornell’s voice comes in commanding and hypnotic…”

“Really??”

“Will you shut the fuck up? Where was I… Ah, right. Chris Cornell’s voice comes in commanding and hypnotic, demanding your attention from the very beginning, and the crowd obeys. There are singers with greater discipline and singers with greater restraint–”

“I’ll say.”

“Mark, have you considered,” I ask, “that maybe you're not an unbiased commentator?”

“I'm extremely unbiased.”

“Sure... There are few with greater presence. His voice shifts effortlessly from a low, smoky murmur to a full-throated wail that seems capable of rattling bolts loose from the ceiling. At times he’s wrestling the songs into submission; at others, surrendering to them completely…”

“I’m sorry but this is pure fiction.”

“Shut up!” Both me and Dan say at the same time. When I look up at Mark, his face looks like somebody just informed him his car’s been stolen. Which, admittedly, is pretty entertaining to watch. Getting him this riled up is no small feat. 

“What kind of a wasp flew up your fuckin’ ass anyway?” Lukin questions while making his way towards the mini cooler.

“He has the hots for Novak,” I tell him.

“Duh. Why’s he mad at the fuckin’ article though?”

“Kat dated Chris Cornell.”

“Really?”

I stare at him. “Matt.”

“What?”

“You knew this,” I laugh out while Mark is scowling at me like what I’m saying is not objectively true.

“I did? Oh yeah, I guess I did… Yeah, this piece does read pretty sexual actually. She’s definitely thought about Chris long and hard.”

“What the fuck…” Mark mumbles.

“His chanting grows more keening by the line,” I start reading again,“liquefying and stretching over the stormy ocean of the instruments…”

“What a foul piece of press.”

“Really? I think it’s actually really good,” I tell Mark.

“I mean, it’s an excellent piece of writing but wildly inaccurate.”

“Right, right… Okay…” My eyes are running down the lines on the page, now purposefully looking for any explicit mentions of ‘Cornell’. “If Gun was a message from the depths of hell then the next song – I Awake – is an exorcism… We can skip ahead here… Thayil’s every solo feels less like a display of impressive technical ability and more like a controlled demolition, reducing whatever came before it to rubble and rebuilding something stranger and more wicked in its place…”

“I don’t know if I want her to ever write about me,” Matt chortles.

“You do, it would be the best PR of your entire life.”

“I don’t know if I could handle this level of dissection by our Ginger Snap… Well?” He widens his eyes at me after a pause. “Is the article over? Keep reading!”

“Jason Everman enters the role of bassist with the unenviable task of following Hiro Yamamoto, and to his credit, he approaches it with confidence rather than imitation. His energy is immediate, impatient even, bringing a fresh urgency to the material while respecting the foundation that was already there. Yet Hiro Yamamoto's absence lingers throughout the evening–”

“You can skip ahead there, she spent way too many words fawning over what a genius Hiro is.”

“How many times have you read this?” I ask while scanning the next paragraph with my eyes

“I've literally heard you refer to Hiro as a musical genius,” Dan points a drumstick at Mark. 

“And?” Mark contorts his face into a momentary expression of dismissal.

“I also seem to remember you being pretty impressed with Chris the first time you saw him on stage. Of course, it was so long ago now, maybe I totally made it up,” I smirk at Mark who's putting on his best impression of nonchalance now. “Alrighty…” I click my tongue a couple of times as I look at the page again. “Ah… The changed lineup has not dulled Soundgarden's peculiar intensity: Cameron continues to steer the storm from behind the kit, Thayil twisting riffs into shapes that ought not exist, while Cornell still seems never to have questioned the decision to leave half his wardrobe at home.”

“Nice, I like that part. That's true journalism.”

“‘Course you do… With music like tar and lead vocals like honey, Soundgarden remains one of the most compelling live acts in the Pacific Northwest.” I lower the paper. “Music like tar and lead vocals like honey.That’s really fucking good.”

“It is,” Dan agrees.

“You know what's weird?” Mark speaks up unnecessarily loudly. “Nobody's talking about the real scoop here.”

“Which is?”

“She spent an entire paragraph describing Cornell like some kind of a cryptid.”

“A cryptid?”

“Commanding. Hypnotic. Menacing. Lives in the woods. Appears at dusk.”

* * *

When I arrive, it seems like the game has already dissolved into the usual chaos. Somebody's arguing about a foul, somebody else is arguing about the argument. The chain-link fence rattles every few minutes when a missed shot finds it. A portable radio is playing somewhere nearby, competing unsuccessfully with the chatter, laughter, and the occasional yelps. The sun’s already started its slow descent, taking with it a few degrees of warmth each minute. My eyes find Andy and Xana on the other side of the court, out on the grass, having a picnic by the looks of it. 

I also spot Kat almost immediately. She's stretched across the bottom row of the bleachers like she's been abandoned there by a previous civilization. One arm hangs over the edge, her Walkman rests on her stomach, headphones cover her ears, eyes closed. Completely detached from whatever is happening on the court. For a second I honestly can't tell if she's asleep. Or dead. Comfortably dead.

I find myself smiling - a month ago I would've kept walking. Now I feel like I get some kind of a pass, even if it's temporary. Not because we solved anything; we didn't, but we talked and nobody got angry, nobody ran away, nobody pretended the other person didn't exist. It’s progress. Tiny, ridiculous, unexpected progress.

I watch her for another second. Maybe she's not in the mood. Maybe she is? Only one way to find out. Besides, if she tells me to go away, I know she can make it funny. I walk up to the bleachers, casting my shadow on her, and her eyelids flinch open.

“Oh, it’s you…” She pulls her headphones off.

“Hi,” I look down at her, my hands stuffed deep in the pockets of my shorts.

“Hi,” she props herself up on her elbows.

“Can I sit here?” 

“Why?”

That gets a chuckle out of me. “So I can ask you how you’re doing, something like that.”

“You can ask while standing.” Pause. “Sorry. Bad joke. Force of habit.”

“No, you’re right,” I say, “that is a skill I possess. So, how are you?”

“I am. How are you?” Kat sounds a little cold but I’m guessing it’s just because she hasn’t calibrated yet. I don’t think I haven’t either but this space we’re in now is a lot softer than anything since March.

“Better now that I’ve confirmed you’re not dead. Could easily be mistaken from afar.”

“Would be a good day to die,” she squints up at me. 

“Yeah, you looked very deceased but peaceful. Should I call someone or just let you rest?”

“Let me rest. I don’t want paramedics ruining the vibe.”

I huff a quiet laugh, then finally sit down on the bench by her legs without waiting for permission. She drops her feet down and sits up.

“What happened to talking while standing?”

I examine her face for a moment; there’s no sharpness in her eyes, only her words, which I take to mean she’s just teasing. “You were clearly bluffing. Also, you didn’t protest.”

“I’m weak. Probably got sunstroked.”

“Right.” There’s a short, comfortable pause. Jeff yells a very heartfelt ‘fuck’ from the court, a ball thuds. “So the days of you mentally drafting my obituary every time you see me are gone then?”

“Officially,” she says with a barely-there smile. “I do that to a lot of people though, don’t take it too personally.”

“Good to know.” 

“Somebody spilled beer all over me and Stone is your biggest fan, that’s why I was wearing that shirt.”

Her explanation is so unnecessary but delivered so seriously, I barely stop myself from bursting out laughing. “I figured some cosmically tragic event had to have happened,” I assure her. “By the way, I liked your review. Or article… Didn’t feel like there was enough scrutiny for it to be a review.”

“That’s good. I have no interest in becoming another pretentious music journalist who tries to poke holes in people’s performances who are infinitely more capable than me.”

“Well, good job. Kim was raving about it for a couple of days, actually. That's really high praise, considering he's probably Seattle’s most literate musician.”

“I remember you to be pretty literate too.” There’s a gusty breeze that blows a strand of hair across her face occasionally and each time she removes it with the patience of someone who’s given up. 

“We did both agree on superiority of your imagery to the usual technical descriptions and gear lists that people typically write about. Maybe that's the literacy talking.” It's true, I liked her piece a lot. It read like what it feels like, not how things sound or look. “You're a really good writer.”

“Oh, you know…I like to…spell things correctly…”

“Right.” I see acceptance of a compliment and a simple ‘thank you’ still hasn’t made it into her repertoire. 

The wind blows hair into her face again and this time she sighs in recognition of it happening. “This is why I shouldn't be outdoors.”

“We're at an urban park, that's a little dramatic.”

“You think Kafka hung out at urban parks? I'm losing.”

“To the atmosphere?”

“To the elements, Chris.”

I bark out a laugh and reach over before really thinking about it and pull the headphones from around her neck. I can tell she stiffens up ever so slightly and watches me with a smile that’s equal parts confusion and curiosity. I settle the headphones on top of her head but off her ears. The headband effect isn't exactly fashionable but it does keep most of her hair back. She blinks at me, then starts laughing.

“Thanks mom. Do I look stupid?” She touches her fingers to her new hairdo. 

“Very.”

“Great.”

“But significantly less windswept.”

My eyes register movement some fifteen feet behind her - it's Eva and Mark. Eva says something to him, then shrugs when he changes course; she goes for the parking lot and he starts making his way towards us, looking like a man attempting to act natural while carrying a lit firework in his pocket. 

“Hi,” I look up at him when he stops in front of the bench we're sitting on. 

“Howdy,” he says; he's got his trademark grin on.

“Is the game over?” Kat sounds somewhat hopeful. 

“No.” Pause; not exactly an uncomfortable one but there’s something there, hanging in the air. Then: “Novak, you cold?”

“Not particularly…” She peers at him, eyebrows curved in mild confusion, as if there’s something in his face that she keeps reading and not quite getting.

“So the goosebumps are a stylistic choice?” He takes his denim jacket off and drapes it over her shoulders without waiting for an answer.

I glance between them: Kat looks vaguely confused by the entire exchange; Mark looks pleased with himself. Interesting. 

The jacket settles around her shoulders. "Thank you?" she says.

I've always found him interesting. Half the time he seems incapable of taking anything seriously, the other half he'll get into an argument with Kim about anthropology of punk songwriting and suddenly sound like the most thoughtful person in the room. It's a strange combination. Hard to tell where the joke ends and the real opinion begins.

What's not especially hard to read right now is whatever he's doing with Kat. I don't know if she's genuinely oblivious to it or if she's choosing to be. With Kat, both feel equally plausible. 

I wonder what she's told him about me. For all I know, she never mentioned any of it, just informed him one day that I won’t be coming over anymore. Or maybe she told him everything, including the spectacular collapse involving Gwen. Hard to say. Kat has always been difficult to decipher, in some ways.

“So I'm assuming you read Kat’s debut article?” I address Mark who remains standing, towering over us.

"About your band?"

"Same one."

“Yeah.” Mark scratches his jaw. "It raised some concerns."

"Concerns?” Kat looks at him like she knows this is about to turn into a circus act.

“Yeah…” Mark’s looking directly at me instead. "Is this inability to get dressed a cognitive issue or…"

Kat laughs, I do too.

“The article is full of these little traps, actually."

“Traps?" Kat looks at him.

“Yeah."

“You mean observations?"

“I mean things that sound complimentary until you actually think about them."

Kat's grin widens. "Oh, like locomotive from hell?"

“Possibly."

“I liked that one." I say.

"Of course you did. You probably also liked commanding and hypnotic."

“Those are compliments," Kat argues half-heartedly while I find it interesting that Mark seems to have memorized excerpts of her writing.

“The crowd obeys."

“They did."

“You know, actually, some of what you wrote does sound sort of…adverse,” I say, just to tease her.

“Whose side are you on?”

“I don't think there are sides.”

“There are always sides,” Mark says.

“That's a deeply unhealthy worldview,” I say. 

“Thank you.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

“I'll take what I can get,” Mark says, making me and Kat laugh. “Nobody else was concerned by any of this? Really?”

“Mark…” Kat is grinning ear-to-ear when she says his name and he looks at her like this is exactly where he wants to be.

“Well, that’s the problem.”

“What is?”

“The problem is,” he looks back at me now, “that she writes well enough to make all of this sound reasonable.” Kat’s actually blushing and Mark’s eyes keep returning and clinging to her laughing face. 

"I went in expecting a concert review."

"And?"

"I came out convinced Chris Cornell lives in a cave and occasionally emerges to scream at the moon."

I laugh so hard I have to look away. When I turn back, I catch Kat nudging Mark’s foot with the toe of her shoe and he grins down at her. There it is again. Small, tiny thing. But I've seen enough people fall in love to recognize the symptoms. 

And Kat… The funny thing is that Kat's probably one of the least flirtatious people I've ever met. Not because she's incapable of it, but because she rarely seems aware she's doing it. She doesn't turn on the charm or go looking for attention. She just gets interested. Then suddenly you're the center of her universe for twenty minutes and she's somehow shocked when people take it personally.

Poor bastard. Kat is many things but easy is not one of them.

"Well," I say, pushing myself to my feet, "I'll leave you two to continue whatever this is."

"What is this?" Kat asks immediately.

"Great question."

As I walk away, I swear I hear Mark say ‘what happened to making out with his car and keying Kim?’ 

* * *

“That’s still not off the table,” I assure Mark as I slip my arms through the sleeves of his jacket and put my hands in the pockets. I'm really not a fan of how unreasonably giddy it makes me feel that he put his jacket on me. “But at this point, purely for the thrill.” I take the headphones all the way off my head since the weight of denim tugged on the cord uncomfortably. 

“So.” He starts and then his breath catches before any more words come out.

“So?”

He just stares at me for a moment, then his gaze drops to the jacket momentarily, presumably, before his eyes find mine again.

“You want the jacket back?”

“No, no.”

“Okay, you’re being weird,” I say slowly.

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I walked up to you.”

“You hovered over to me.”

He opens his mouth and–

“Hey, Mark,” Steve cuts in, jogging over and grabbing the fence next to us. “I need the van keys.”

“I don’t have them.”

“I thought you had them?”

“Nope.”

“So who has them?”

“I thought you did…”

“No. You sure you don’t have them?”

“Get lost Steve,” Mark waves his friend off.

“You guys are talking?” He remains rooted to the spot.

“I guess?” I shrug.

Steve looks at me, sort of squinting, then at Mark, then back at me. “Is it important?” That’s kind of an odd question…

“To be determined…”

“Well, carry on,” Steve pats Mark on the shoulder and jogs away. 

“Is he always that weird or am I just extra sensitive today?”

Mark lets out a tickled laugh. “I ask myself that every day… Look, Novak, I’m—”

“Kat,” Lizzy calls, speed walking towards us with two bottles of water. “Have you seen Jerry, he said he’d—oh, hi.”

“Did you really not see me somehow?” Mark stares at her with a baffled grin and Lizzy just shrugs. 

“He’s over there.” I nod vaguely toward the other side of the court.

Lizzy follows the direction, then looks back at us, smiling in that way she does when she has something more to say but isn’t actually going to say it.

“Sorry,” she says. “Interrupting.”

“Oh, we’re just…chatting…” I start to tell her but she’s already off. “What is happening? What is this Twilight Zone episode?” I look up at Mark with an amused smile but there’s something apprehensive in the way that he looks back.

“So as I was saying, I’m mo–”

“Oi, Mark,” Stone calls, ambling over. “Why are you standing around looking tortured?”

“Kindly, fuck off Stone,” Mark laughs out. 

“Did I see you at our show the other day?”

“I mixed up the venues.”

“Wow. Mark Arm coming to see Mother Love Bone play, will you look at that,” Stone grins gleefully.

“Less kindly now, fuck off. We’re busy.”

“Busy with what?” 

“Talking, I guess,” I tell him.

“Ah, talking,” Stone wiggles his eyebrows looking between the two of us. “Well anyway, make sure to include that in your next write-up, Kat. The Mark Arm came out to see MLB.”

“Will do,” I promise as he turns to leave. “Did you actually? Go to their show?” I grin at Mark.

“I did… And I did actually accidentally go to the wrong place but I stayed for a couple of songs. The show was good, from what I saw. The outfits were fuckin’ dumb though. Now,” he slows down on the last word after saying everything else in one breath. “I was–”

“You were going to say something?” I can’t stop myself, he’s already mildly irritated and it’s just too easy and too tempting.

“Novak, I’m moving out.”

For a second I just stare at him as my brain processes the words. He…what? “Moving out?”

“Yeah… Found a place,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “Well actually it found me. It’s cheaper. It’s not far, just a few blocks away. Just–yeah. Inaccessible by skylight.”

Somehow I'd never considered the possibility of Mark not living across the hall. Which is ridiculous, obviously he wasn't going to live across the hall forever. People get different apartments and different jobs and different lives all the time, that’s normal. Still.

“When?”

“After the summer.”

I nod once. “Right.” The word comes out flatter than I mean it to. Mark doesn't say anything, he just keeps looking at me, just sort of watching.

So he’s not moving out immediately, not next week. Months away, technically; about two and a half. And yet the thought immediately leaves a weird hollow feeling somewhere beneath my ribs.

“Anything beyond ‘right’ or..?”

That catches me off guard so I just stare at him.

“Say something else,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“Something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Anything.” His tone is light but there's something underneath it that makes me look at him properly.

“Congratulations on your financial responsibility?”

“That's trash.”

“I know.”

“This is a disturbingly well-adjusted response.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Should I cry in a park?”

“I didn't say cry.”

“You implied crying.”

“I implied mild emotional devastation.”

I shake my head. I don't know what he wants from me. I don't know what I want from me. Rationally, this isn't a big deal at all. But somehow that doesn't seem to be the point. And Mark keeps looking at me like there's a correct answer hidden somewhere in this conversation and I haven't found it yet.

“You're abandoning the geeks.”

That finally gets a grin out of him. “The geeks will survive.”

“You don't know that.”

My brain keeps getting stuck on stupid details: Mark showing up halfway through dinner and stealing food off somebody's plate. Mark appearing in the apartment three seconds after somebody says his name. Mark climbing through my skylight. Mark teasing Lizzy for sport. Mark and Gwen arguing about politics as a form of affection. Mark coming to our place before his own apartment to look for Lukin. They're all small things and I really don’t mean to dramatize it so much but… It's not just Mark moving either. It's the shape of everything around him changing too - the other guys won’t be there either. That constant stream of people wandering through the apartment at all hours… God, why am I so… It’s not a big deal!

In the meantime, Mark's still looking at me, patiently, like he's still waiting for an answer to a question he hasn't actually asked. Which makes this feel even more like a big deal.

A few seconds pass. Then a few more. Somehow he's still waiting. Finally he exhales through his nose. “Well,” he says. “This is encouraging.”

“What is?”

“The lack of visible symptoms.”

“Symptoms of what?”

“Separation anxiety. I'd hate for my relocation to permanently damage your already fragile mental state.”

“My mental state is fine.”

“That's not what I've heard.”

“From who?”

“Mostly you.” 

I let out a laugh that feels both amused and annoyed and Mark apparently finally gives up on whatever response he was waiting for and drops onto the bleacher beside me.

* * *

“It’s a ten minute walk,” I lean back against the bleacher. “So ‘moving out’ might actually be somewhat too strong of a phrase.”

I actually went to see the apartment the other day; the couple that live there now have all the walls covered in tie dye scarves but it looked decent otherwise. It’s about the same size, one bedroom, there’s nothing that noteworthy about it other than that it’s cheaper. Same neighborhood, slightly different view out the window, that’s about it.

“Oh my god, you’ll starve to death,” Kat has her eyes darted to the ground as she voices a thought that I’m sure just popped into her head. Finally, something that sounds like her.

“We'll have to make arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” She repeats.

“Yeah.”

For a second neither of us says anything. She's still wearing my jacket, which is pretty cool, now that I think about it. But more importantly, she looks disgruntled, like I’ve just ruined her mood. Which is significantly better than looking indifferent.

“You'll forget,” she says eventually.

“I won't.”

“You will. You'll get busy. New apartment. New life.”

“My new life will be exactly the same, just ten minutes Northwest of my old life.”

“Mm.” She makes a noncommittal noise.

I study her profile for a moment. “We’ll make plans. We’ll pencil each other in, as they say.”

“Don’t say pencil. That makes it worse.”

“We’ll send telegrams.”

“Perfect,” she chuckles.

I don't know why I cared so much about telling her. Other than Gwen’s mind games… Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly why, I just haven't come up with an explanation that makes me sound less pathetic.

“Yeah. ‘Novak STOP meet me at the usual STOP bring food STOP’.”

Footsteps crunch against the gravel behind us and I don't have to look to know one set is Steve, the other is either Stone or a small horse. “Back so soon,” I eye them both, already weary of whatever the reason is for their presence.

“Jesus,” Steve says. “Are you two negotiating a treaty?” He steps up, between me and Kat, and takes a seat on the bench above.

Stone follows more slowly, opening a bag of chips as he speaks. “Sounds serious.”

“We're planning our future,” I tell them.

Kat groans. Steve points between us. “Good. I was worried.”

“About what?” Kat peers at him.

“Mark moving out and losing access to his primary hobby.”

I squint at him.

“Getting on Kat's nerves.”

Kat snorts.

“Although,” Steve says, grabbing a handful of chips from Stone. “He seems committed to the project.”

“You say it like it’s one sided,” I steal a glance at Kat as I say this. 

“That's the shocking part. Most people won't voluntarily schedule a second interaction with you, let alone stick around for long-term irritation. Actually,” Steve's eyes drift over Kat for a long second, then back to me. “Maybe we're past casual irritation already.”

“Steve.”

“I'm just observing.”

“It’s unsettling when you do it.”

“You're right.” He nods toward Kat. “Could be completely innocent.”

Kat looks up at him, eyebrows knitting together in mild confusion, then glances down at herself, at the jacket, then at me.

Stone immediately lights up. “Wait. Is that yours?”

“You want one too?”

“Not particularly."

“Good. Because this is how rumors start and people are already wondering about you.”

Kat lets out a tickled laugh. There it is again, that stupid little hit of satisfaction I get every time I manage to have that effect on her. 

“So how’s the planning of future going? Anyone cry yet?” Steve asks us but he’s smirking specifically at me.

“Penciling things in has been mentioned, which is reason enough to cry,” Kat answers in hilariously flat monotone.

“Huh. Actually,” Steve says, “penciling and scheduling could actually solve the problem.”

“What?..” Kat gives him the kind of look that tells me she already doesn’t trust where he’s going with that.

“Make it official.”

“Make what official?”

“Yeah, just for a week at first,” Stone adds.

“A trial run,” Steve nods.

“Like a free sample,” Stone says.

“Of?” Kat keeps looking between them with the enthusiasm of a horse being led into the slaughterhouse.

“Dating.”

Kat stares at Stone; he shrugs. “Low commitment.”

“You two are idiots.”

“We're innovators,” Steve corrects and I don’t necessarily disagree. I mean, better them than me making these brain-dead jokes to test the waters. Especially since I’m already seeing a big problem arising - living next door to Kat carried with it the miserable hope that with time, she might catch on, clued in by my general unshakeable presence. Living somewhere else means I might actually have to communicate like a normal person. Which feels unfair. I've spent years carefully developing a personality that allows me to avoid that.

“Didn't you two win that couples quiz?” Stone cackles.

“You can’t win a couples quiz,” Kat rolls her eyes at him and reaches for a handful of potato chips.

“Yeah but didn’t you get, like, all of the answers right?”  

“No.”

“Only most of them.” I tell him with a big grin, ignoring Kat’s half-hearted answer. 

“The questions were obvious.” She insists. 

“That's not helping your case,” Steve says.

“I don't have a case.”

“You do now. You know weirdly specific things about each other.”

“That’s just because Mark basically lives in my kitchen. Everybody knows weirdly specific things about everybody.”

“Not true,” Stone says. “I don't know Steve's middle name.”

“That's because I don't tell people.”

“Exactly. Mystery. Boundaries.”

“I do frequent your kitchen but I also pay attention,” I try not to sound too…I don’t know, serious?

To Mark, I'm not even a woman. One of the dumbest things I've ever heard anybody say, which is impressive considering I've known Stone and Jeff for years. Does she actually believe that? Because that's a deeply concerning conclusion to arrive at. Not morally concerning, just logic-wise. Like concluding that raccoons are a type of fish. I don't know how you'd even begin to get there.

“Why are you helping them?”

“Why not?” Is this really something she hasn’t considered? Is it me? Is it the lack of long black hair and a sixpack? 

Does she not realize that I like her or is she deliberately ignoring it? Sure, she's never exactly caught me staring at her legs or carving our initials into park benches, but I don't think I've been very subtle. Not by choice, not voluntarily, but still. I mean, I've already been cornered about it by Steve and Gwen, for fuck's sake.

Maybe I'm giving Kat too much credit? Or maybe I'm giving myself too much.

“Relax, Novak. I’m not proposing.” She rolls her eyes. “Little early for that,” I add. “Need at least a week of scheduled hangouts first.”

“Well. Keep us updated about the progress of your arrangements,” Steve nudges the back of my head.

“Get fucked.”

Stone cackles. “That's usually step two.”

“That's a remarkably confident statement from a virgin,” Kat doesn’t miss a fuckin’ beat, making Steve and me wheeze. 

I’m about to be picked up by my new employer, I guess. Technically. She’s a magazine editor that Stone introduced me to and it’s really not so much an employment situation as it is a fortuitous circumstance – she needed to fill a freshly empty spot in her team, I could use to spend a little less time at the thrift store and a little more doing something with some more prospects, loosely speaking. So she’s taking me to a bar on the other end of town that hosts an open mic every Sunday night and I’ll have to write a little piece about it. Microscopic, really. Also, she’s participating in the aforementioned open mic so that feels a little bit like a test or a trap… I think it’ll be good though. I only spoke to her on the phone and she sounded very unpretentious, which is always a big plus in my book.

“Novak.”

I almost flinch at the sound of Mark’s voice unexpectedly interrupting my thoughts. 

“Arm,” I nod slightly as I spot him walking towards me, a dirty green car taking off behind him. I think that looks like Buzz Osborne in the passenger seat…

As Mark shuffles over to me and I get a stupid urge to reach out and take his hand, which I of course don’t. I also want to punch him a little bit… “Novak, ha—”

“See, you do say my name a lot.”

“Have you been avoiding me?” No fluff, all accusations, huh?

“What? No,” I snort.

“You told me you were busy yesterday and then proceeded to play guitar in your room for the next hour.”

I shrug because what else is there to do. “The logic seems to be all there…” I just didn’t feel like hanging out.

I woke up yesterday with my hand curled around nothing and a thin cloud of confusion over my head; I had one of those dreams that doesn’t feel like a dream at all while you’re in it. Too quiet, too slow, not weird enough to question. One of those dreams that feel like happiness, like everything is…just good somehow. Surely, it was fueled by Gwen’s stupid quiz from the night before. And probably the fact that I kept thinking about Mark as I was falling asleep. I mean, you act like you’re low maintenance but you’re not? What the fuck does that mean? How dare he say that so casually, like I haven’t carefully and intentionally tucked it deep down inside, away from prying eyes. And did he mean that as a bad thing?.. It didn’t sound like he did. But it also didn’t really sound like he didn’t… The power came back on immediately after he said that and we all moved on, which was both a blessing and a curse. 

And what about the whole you don’t think I take things seriously comment, also spoken so nonchalantly?! What does that mean? What did he mean to say? That he does take something seriously? Something which is…what?? It’s like he was saying that he’s more serious than I think… And I never thought that that’s a concern for him. Or is it me who doesn’t take him seriously? Why would he say these cryptic things in front of everyone!? Yeah, I think he’s very unserious a lot of the time, most of the time, but then he got very serious all of a sudden when he said that, which is disorienting enough regardless of the contents of his words. The whole thing is so dizzying… And of course then I dream about him…

Just a normal, ordinary dream… Nothing even happened, that’s the stupid part. We were sitting on the couch… Well, maybe ‘sitting’ is a bit conservative. We were cuddling, like it’s the most normal thing, melted into each other. I was right up against him, my head on his shoulder, and… I just remember the feeling so vividly; it’s one of those dreams. And now I can’t stop my mind from going through a series of flashing images of things that never happened. Why? Why does it have to be an emotionally unavailable, or emotionally confusing man who thinks that relationships are basically free sex memberships? Who apparently also thinks I’m needy and difficult…

“Cut the crap, Novak. What's up?”

Cue another shrug. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re fucking annoying, you know that?”

This gets a wide-eyed stare out of me. “It's the high maintenance. Tends to annoy people,” I blurt out.

Mark mirrors my expression for a second, then laughs, pausing a moment before speaking: “I didn't mean that in a bad way.”

“Oh sure, I also compliment people by telling them they're difficult.”

“If this is why you’re mad at me, that’s an easy fix. I didn’t call you difficult, I just said — answering a question I was asked, by the way – I said you don’t like to ask for things.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Sure. I for one think your comment about how I act like shit doesn’t matter was spot on.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I…” Have no idea what to say. “I’m not mad at you and I’m not avoiding you,” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Right. Well if you ever do experience either of those things, you can just tell me. I’ll fuck off if you ask me to fuck off.”

“Very kind of you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

I am mad at him. I’m not even sure why. The thing he said about men and women was both so in and out of character for him… But I don’t know why it irks me this much. And what about that conversation we had a few days ago while he was making mac and cheese? That was so…normal and nice. So oddly validating and at the same time disorienting. It’s like he keeps saying something very honest or personal and then pulling way back and reverting to utter bullshit. It’s just dizzying. 

All of a sudden, this closeness – at least perceived – developed between us; this friendship snuck up on me and now it’s normal for us to hang out because we like it, not because it’s unavoidable. And so now when he calls me needy, it feels extra shitty. If a stranger says something about me, it’s a lot easier to shrug it off than when it’s someone who, I feel, actually knows me. And the fact that he has this one-dimensional view of relationships just feels really disappointing to me. I mean, I guess it’s hardly shocking, considering his last one, but I can’t help feeling like I expected him to hold more nuanced, healthier opinions.

“Seriously, just tell me you’re mad at me. Admit it.”

“I’m not,” I snort.

“You definitely are. Either that or you had a stroke in the last couple of days.”

“This is not a very constructive interaction, seeing as you keep insisting I’m mad and I keep not being mad.”

“So what’s up with aggressively not looking at me then?”

“Aggressively not looking? That’s not a thing,” I say as I pretend to be looking down the street very intently, as if there’s something incredibly interesting or important about to happen over there and I don’t want to miss it. Ugh. Every time I do look at Mark, I keep remembering the dream. Or rather – which is much worse – how the dream felt.

“You’re making it into a thing.” 

“Have you nowhere else to be?”

“Actually, no. What about you?” I can tell he’s grinning now. Not because I looked at him but just by the sound of his voice. “Any specific reason you’re standing on the side of the road at this time of day?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a secret?”

“I’m waiting.”

“For?”

“My ride.”

“You’re right, this is totally how friends who are not mad at each other talk. Silly me.”

I swallow back a laugh with an exaggerated roll of my eyes as I shuffle my gaze to Mark. “Olive. My editor. We’re going to an open mic and I’ll write things about it.”

“Olive?” He snorts a laugh. “What a weird fuckin’ name.” There’s a pause. “Aren’t you going to say something about my name and how it sounds like I should be a porn star or something?”

“Nope.”

“Ah so you being mad at me comes with perks. Good to know.”

“Mark,” I look him straight in the eyes, unamused. “Kindly, fuck off.”

His face splits into a smile, a genuine one from what I can tell. “For the record, you can ask me for things. Like when Cantrell comes over, you don’t need to risk hypothermia on the roof just so you don’t give into violent thoughts. You can come hang out with me instead.”

There’s another, very long pause during which I can’t decide whether to glare or smile at him. Then, before speaking, I let out a long sigh: “I don’t want to bug you.”

Mark seems ever so slightly taken aback, maybe? Just barely. “Since when? Didn’t seem like an issue when you were sneaking Cornell through my bedroom every other day.”

I take my time before speaking again. “Because,” I say, “I hardly knew you then.” But really, it’s because he hardly knew me. Somehow, because Mark knows me a lot better now, the danger of over-exhausting our friendship feels more real. “Now that we’re friends, there’s more at stake.”

He narrows his eyes at me, then shrugs. “Take it or leave it. I like having you around.”

That’s it. No joke, no punchline. No sarcastic twist to his words. That’s all he says; that he likes having me around.

“Can’t wait to read your take on Sunday night open mic crowd,” he puts his hand up in the air, in a stiff wave, as he starts backing away, towards the building and all I can manage is a stupid smile and a stupid roll of my eyes.

I should stay mad at him to stave off the panic about what to do next. I don’t need these stupid dreams and these cryptic things said at random times, and I certainly don’t need this crush on this questionable man.

* * *

“You have got to be kidding me,” Gwen’s voice slices through the noise of the party like a knife and somehow I am sure it’s aimed at me specifically, out of about ten thousand people crammed into this living room. I’ve lived next door to her long enough now, I’ve developed a new sense I guess.

Sure enough, when I turn in the direction I heard it from, she’s somehow both glaring and smiling at me. Then I shuffle my eyes to Kat, standing next to her, pretending not to notice me. Eva’s there too and it takes me an extra second to spot Lizzy with them - it’s the height difference. Looking back at Gwen, I pull my shoulders in a big shrug, accompanied by a clueless smile.

As Eva starts to spearhead the way towards where me and Matt are standing around, Kat reluctantly, demonstratively even, trails behind her roommates. Right, that. She’s still doing that silent-ish treatment thing. It’s been over a week now that she’s been acting kinda cold, kinda distant, kind of a little too polite when she talks to me. I think this conflict or feud, or a squabble maybe…is pretty fucking layered. At this point, I have a feeling it’s probably not just that she thinks I called her needy in front of a bunch of our friends…

“We really thought this would be the one party we wouldn’t run into you,” Eva laughs, her eyes darting between me and Lukin.

“Are you all avoiding me now?” I look at Kat as I say this and she rolls her eyes. She does that a lot lately, there’s probably some serious eye sprain risks associated with the escalated frequency.

“Of course no!” Lizzy steps in. “We just thought maybe this is a different social circle. Olive, Kat’s new coworker, invited us… Well, she actually invited her. Anyway, we weren’t sure if you guys know anyone here.”

“Ah, better luck next time,” Matt throws his arm around Gwen’s shoulders and she shoves him away, laughing. 

“Yeah, this whole place is a village,” I punctuate my words with a sip of beer.

“Shouldn’t you guys be recording an album or something? Where do you find all this time for partying anyway?” Gwen looks at me.

“Oh shit, we forgot to record the album! But actually, when’s that supposed to be happening?” I turn to Matt.

“Are you seriously asking me?” He cackles.

“Yeah, I should probably look into this…” Actually, it sounds like we got bumped by some hotter, tighter band out of our original studio timeslot. So yeah, I should look into that…

“Oh hey, have you guys heard about our last show? It’s a bummer you weren’t there! You would have loved it, lil’ Carrot Top!”

“Was there fish involved?” Kat inquires, making her roommates react in a spectrum of confused facial expressions.

“No, the security meatheads started throwing and manhandling everyone. Shit got pretty crazy, Mark actually kicked one of them in the back,” Matt starts recapping, pointing a thumb at me, while I sip my beer and watch Kat listen to him.

The house seemed to already be at full capacity when we got here - music loud enough to feel in the floorboards, people spilling in and out of rooms, yelps and laughter coming from the back yard, all the hallmarks of a successful house party – so Matt gets louder and more animated real quick, employing physical comedy to illustrate the important parts of that night.

“Guy bent down and I just–” he mimes it with the neck of an imaginary bass, grinning, “—right there. Deserved it.”

“Are you guys talking about how Mark almost got his teeth punched in?” Stone materializes with Jeff at his side behind Lizzy, making her flinch.

“These people are inescapable,” Kat looks at Gwen; Eva looks at Jeff and shakes her head with a shrug; Stone shoves Kat’s shoulder and she lets out a laugh, probably at her own joke.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Lukin cackles. “A couple of those guys wanted to beat Mark up afterward.”

“What happened?” Lizzy gasps.

“I was there,” Jeff raises his hand. “As always, I saved Mark’s dumb ass.”

“He did,” I admit. Not the first time.

“And they say romance is dead,” Eva grins at him.

“I told you, that’s why I left the band,” Jeff looks at her while pointing a thumb at me, which triggers a short discussion on who really left and who was kicked out.

“Anyway, it’s always the same guy,” Stone drawls in monotone. “Same build, same attitude. They really don’t need to do much, just look tough, instead they always act like they have something to prove.”

“Yeah, they always fuck up the ambience,” I bob my head.

“The ambience?” Gwen repeats incredulously.

“Yep. You know, just keep it chill, let it happen, let the kids get a little wild once in a while.”

“You’re describing common sense,” Stone nods at me.

“Precisely.”

“Rare.” We all laugh. 

“Hey Lizzy!” Some girl squeaks, then commotion ensues, some people get distracted, pulled away into conversations, I get shoved aside by someone walking by…

“You’re in a good mood,” Lukin croaks, his gaze fixed on Kat who does seem pretty smiley and content, aside from the excessive eye rolling.

“I’m always in a good mood.”

“That’s objectively not true.”

“It is. You just tend to annoy me out of it,” she grins at him.

“Challenge accepted.”

“Whatever you think that was an invitation for, it absolutely wasn’t.”

There’s a beat where nothing happens - just the three of us standing there, the noise folding around us as I wait for whatever spectacle is about to play out - and then Matt leans in slightly towards Kat, like he’s about to say something.

“Lukin—” He pokes her side, making her jolt. “Don’t.” He doesn’t listen; he never listens really. She grabs his wrist this time, but it looks like she’s already made the grave mistake of smiling. “I mean it—”

“You’re smiling!”

“It’s involuntary!”

He goes in again, faster, and she twists in the spot, shielding herself from him, fully laughing now, pushing at his shoulder.

“Stop—”

“Make me.”

“I’m trying! I will actually punch you!” I bet she would.

“I’d like to see that!” He cackles, then switches tactics — lighter, quicker, fingers at her ribs and I still just stand there, finishing my beer.

“No, no, don’t—” She shoves him again, but he’s already coming back in. “Lukin, I swear!” 

“Come on—”

“No!” She turns, trying to angle away from the maniacal bassist and ends up right in front of me. There’s a split second where she hesitates as I look at her, eyebrows raised. Lukin lunges again and Kat just steps in. Much closer than usual. Hands catching at my shirt and turning us both around, using me as a shield.

Not so mad at me after all, I guess? This whole thing has felt like new territory; Kat being upset at me. Not that I’ve never annoyed her to the point of near-physical altercation… But it’s different now, she’s upset at me but she tries to act like she’s not, to hide something behind ‘I’m fine’ kind of bullshit. This is what girlfriends do to their shitty boyfriends, so that’s new.

“Control your psychotic friend,” she says, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“Oh, is that what you need me to do?”

“I swear I’ll punch you too,” she yelps out, turning us again when Matt tries to get her.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” I tell her and then my hand comes up and around her - easy, steady - resting at her side like it’s nothing. “Fuck off Matt,” I grin at him, very much aware of the fact that as I hug Kat with one arm, she’s still clinging to me of her own accord. I could stand more of this. “The lady said no.”

“You’re no fun!”

“Lady?” Kat pulls a face at me and steps away, almost seamlessly, like the usual amount of space between us relaxed and stretched back out.

“We should hire you as our security next time!” Lukin points at her.

“Did you just say you’re going to hire Kat?” Eva pops up again, bringing Stone, Jeff, Gwen, and Steve – I didn’t even know he was here! - with her, holding two bottles of beer, one of which she hands to Kat. “Honestly, the way Kat looks at Jerry lately, you guys totally should.” 

“I could take him,” Kat mumbles, making everyone chuckle. “I just need one good bitch slap, that would really help me feel better…”

“Strangely arousing,” I say before I can decide if I should, causing an array of reactions from the group, from ewing (Gwen) to whistling, to groaning. “Come on guys, behave. Novak and I are an award-winning couple after all.”

“Did I miss something?” Stone blinks at Kat. “Did you and I break up already?” 

At this, Kat lets out a tickled laugh but doesn’t actually answer Stone’s question.

“Yeah, Gwen made them play this stupid couples quiz thing the other night,” Eva tells him.

“Oh yeah, didn’t Lizzy and Jerry do really badly,” Jeff mumbles; I assume Eva told him something…

“Yeah, Novak and I wiped the floor with them.”

“Wait, are you guys dating?” Jeff looks back and forth between the two of us like he just woke up.

“Nope,” Kat says while I mumble something about how it’s complicated, for added chaos.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy seeing Jerry spazzing out like that,” I smirk at her and she sighs.

“Yeah but I also kinda feel bad… I mean, no comment.” She folds her arms over her chest.

“Yeah, it was kind of rough, watching them,” Eva looks marginally more apologetic than she sounds as she says it. 

“What happened?” Stone goggles at her.

“They just did pretty badly on the quiz…”

“They…haven’t found their rhythm as a new couple yet, I guess,” Gwen takes over. “Lots to learn about each other.”

“Unlike me and young Novak here,” I elbow Kat lightly.

“I mean, you were unsettlingly in sync, I have to say,” Gwen grins.

“What is this bizarre conversation…” Kat mumbles, staring off into nothing, by the looks of it, as if she’s willing herself to disappear. 

“All jokes aside,” I cackle, once again unable to stop myself from speaking, “I recently learned Novak finds me attractive so that’s that, nothing else left to strive for in life.”

“What? When did you admit that?” Eva gapes at Kat; A+ for the use of ‘admit’ here.

“I have never–”

“That night Gwen made out with Starr,” I cut her off gleefully. 

“I thought I made it clear that we shall never speak of this again!?” Gwen punches me in the arm pretty hard. “But yes, I did witness something like that happening. It was actually right after the infamous bathroom rant by Kristine.”

“What now?” Steve looks at her, eyebrows raised.

Gwen shoots a glance at Kat, then looks at me, and then finally at Steve. “That’s probably a story for another time. Maybe Mark will tell you one day.”

“Mark, tell me.”

“I can’t, I don’t know what the whole thing was about.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“They won’t tell me.”

“Well technically, as far as I’m aware, you haven’t asked,” Gwen points out.

“Why haven’t you asked?” Steve looks at me again, evidently suddenly very interested himself. Why haven’t I asked? I don’t know, it didn’t seem like they would have told me, I guess. Maybe I should ask…

“Eh…” I pull my shoulders into a slow shrug, hands shoved in my pockets. “I don’t know that I care what she has to say. At this point, she makes her own truth…” I add, triggering a weirdly quiet pause; as quiet as it can be in the epicenter of a house party.

“Actually,” Gwen finally speaks. “I think she said some truths that even you would agree with.”

“Of all the topics under the sun, we’re still on this one…” Kat whines, making me wonder if I perhaps should ask.

* * *

“Alright, now I must know,” Mark steps squarely in front of me. “Whatever did my cheating cunt of an ex say?” 

That you’re a shitty boyfriend but of course I’m not going to say that out loud now. Nor that she cheated on you because of me, somehow… “She did call you a dog at one point…”

“Really?” He looks amused.

“Well, she was more specific actually…”

“What, like breed specific?” He laughs. “Seriously?” He doubles down when I just continue to look up at him.

“A pitbull, I believe. It was very strange. I’ll tell you about it some other time…” Maybe.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Mark smiles at me, swaying lightly on his feet, standing closer than I realised…

“Kat!” Someone hollers. “Hey! Over here!” 

“Hi Olive,” I smile, a little out of breath after elbowing my way across the room, through a group of people deep in conversation about paper planes, I think… Olive is sitting on a windowsill, dressed in a sparkly denim jumpsuit that makes her look like some kind of a space cowboy. There’s something so cool about her, something that feels the opposite of high maintenance. Actually, when I saw her for the first time the other night, I thought she looked like she belonged in The Runaways. 

“Sorry I pulled you away like that,” she casts a glance somewhere behind me. “I just wanted to say a quick hi and congrats, you’re definitely in. For once, Stone actually delivered on his promises,” she grins at me.

“Thanks, good, yeah, I’m really happy to hear that,” I try to convey the appropriate amount of enthusiasm in my voice; not so much that I sound like a sad loser but enough that she knows I need this.

“I don’t know how you managed to be so funny in 500 words. Anyway, so I was thinking I wanna have you go to a Soundgarden show and write something about their new bassist. What do you think?”

“Sure, yeah…” Literally any other band would be more preferable but yeah…

“Great. And maybe let’s double to triple that word count.”

“So I feel like this is a good time to mention that I once kind of dated Chris,” I spit out in one breath.

“Cornell?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nice! Great. If you can work that into your—”

“I would really rather not.”

“Well… Either way, I expect only the best from you.”

“Cool, so no pressure at all…”

“Other than all of it, no, yeah.”

“So the fact that I dated him isn’t…”

“What?”

“A…deal breaker? Illegal?”

“Kat,” she laughs out my name. “You don’t work for the government, this is a zine.”

“Right…”

“So, that’s your type, huh?” Olive sort of redirects the topic with a tilt of her head towards the end of the room I came from.

“Huh?”

“Musicians?”

I follow her gaze and… Oh, I think she means Mark… “We’re not… No.”

“No?” She narrows her eyes slightly, looking past me, presumably still at Mark, then returns her gaze to me. “You should probably let him know then.”

We chitchat for another minute and then I start making my way back towards where I left my friends. But then I stop in the middle of the room, unsure if that’s really what I want to do. You should probably let him know. I should probably let me know! I really didn’t plan on throwing myself at him but Lukin wouldn’t quit his stupid game and it just sort of happened and then he hugged me and it was just like that stupid fucking dream…

I end up wandering through the house for a little while, doing some people watching as I drift from the living room to the kitchen, from downstairs to upstairs, occasionally seeing someone I kind of know but it’s so loud and crowded that I don’t feel pressured to seek them out to say hi. Eventually I find myself on the back porch, looking over the back yard brimming with weeds and wildflowers. There’s a couple making out on a swing bench, some people leaning on the rail of the porch smoking weed, a couple of groups of people standing around in the grass, talking, laughing… One of those groups actually contains Mark, I notice. He looks up and over at me right as I spot him; we make eye contact but I don’t go over. He’s talking to some people, some of whom I also kind of know, others not at all. 

I go down three creaky steps and grab a beer from a cooler below the porch, then look around like I’ve just woken up in somebody’s back yard, then back at the bottle in my hand, then at the porch.

“Give me that,” Mark walks over to me, already reaching his hand out while fishing a lighter out of his pocket with the other.

“No, you give me that.” He pauses, then hands me the lighter and proceeds to watch me struggle with it for a couple of minutes. Admittedly, I’ve never learned how to do this.

“Wow, we’ve finally discovered the one thing Katie Novak can’t do,” Mark looks at me with unabashed amusement.

“I’ve got it…”

“You don’t got it.”

“I do.”

“You’ve been fighting that thing for like five minutes.”

“It’s the bottle.”

“It’s not the bottle.”

“It’s your lighter.”

“My lighter’s fine.”

“Your lighter sucks.”

He leans over and snatches the bottle out of my hand.

“Hey—”

“Watch,” he tells me.

“I am watching.”

He hooks the lighter under the cap, quick pressure; pop. I squint at it as I take the bottle back. “Okay, that was luck.”

“Yeah. Years of it. Now you do it,” he takes another beer out of the cooler and hands it to me. I set the open bottle down in the grass and as soon as I touch the end of the lighter to the neck of the unopened bottle, I already know I’m not doing it right. Still, I try, then fail.

Mark exhales. “Jesus.”

“What!?”

“That’s not— What are you doing?”

“I’m opening it.”

“You’re not, you’re— I don’t even know what that is. You’re repeatedly assaulting an inanimate object.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

I try again, it slips, I fail again.

“Okay, now you’re just—”

“Shut up.”

“—not listening.”

“I am listening.”

“You’re not doing anything I said.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I did.”

“You said ‘watch.’ That’s not instructions.”

Mark steps closer and puts his hand over mine at which I flinch ever so slightly. “Relax,” he drawls, grinning now. “Move your thumb,” he taps it with his.

“I like my thumb where it is.”

“Your thumb’s in the way.” He nudges it aside. “There. Now…” He adjusts the angle of the lighter and then lets go. I try again, it slips again, and I almost punch myself in the face.

“Shut up,” I tell him preemptively. 

“Do it again.”

“Stop talking.”

“Do it again.”

I try again; same thing. Maybe if Mark wasn’t watching and hovering and crowding me I had a better chance… 

“Jesus Christ—”

“Stop talking.”

“It’s okay, we all have our strengths.”

“Mark, I’m going to stab you…”

“Not if you can’t even open a bottle.”

“Hey, nerds.” We both look up to see Stone leaning on the porch handrail. “Ah, the good old bottle and lighter trick.”

“Unfortunately Novak has a severe lack of talent for it.”

“It’s your lighter, something is wrong with it,” I tell Mark which prompts him to step over to me again and put both his hands over mine, bringing them together to create some mysterious angle with the lighter and the bottle that I am clearly incapable of. And all this, once again, makes me want to both hold his hand and punch him in the face…

“Ah that takes me back…” At least Stone is enjoying this, by the sound of it. “All those parties I’ve watched young Mark do it.”

“Do what?” Both Mark and I ask without looking up, his hands still positioning mine.

“This.” I look up to catch Stone motioning his beer wielding hand towards us. “Whatever you call that. Whenever he didn’t know how to approach someone, he did this. Which was like, anytime he wanted to approach someone, probably.”

“What, like an act?” I turn to Mark who is now back a full two feet away from me. 

“What? I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“No no, he totally did have an act. I’ve personally seen it countless times, maybe six, seve…eight even.”

Mark turns to him. “Okay, now you’re just saying numbers.”

“I don’t remember exactly,” Stone says. “There were a few. It was a system,” Stone says. “You had a whole routine.”

“I did not have a routine.”

“You did,” Stone says. “You’d lean in like…” he half-mimics Mark’s posture, exaggerated just enough, “...‘no, like this’...”

“Old habits die hard?” I give Mark some kind of a smug look - although who knows what my face actually reads as at this point… I just can’t think of anything else to say to deflect from the fact that, I think, Stone’s insinuating Mark is using some age-old pick-up tactic on me. “Actually, it’s kind of surprising that you’d have an act…”

“I don’t have an act.”

“...considering you inevitably stumble into relationships.” My words land heavier somehow than how I meant them.

“Okay, now you’re acting contrived,” Mark says and there’s a distinct note of annoyance in his voice now. “I take back what I said about your emotional health.”

“I’m acting contrived?” I pop my eyes at him.

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s a strange fuckin’ thing to say, I wasn’t sure if I heard it right.”

“Yeah, you did and you are. You keep beating a dead horse, as they say. For days now, days and days.”

“At least I don’t say a bunch of weird shit and then move on like it’s a fever dream that never actually happened,” I flail the bottle and the lighter around.

“Okay this is getting weird. Squabble away my children,” Stone turns on his heel and disappears inside the house.

I shuffle my gaze over to Mark who’s just standing there, looking sort of resigned, or tired maybe, I’m not really sure. “But you’re not mad at me, right?” He says dryly.

“I'm not.” It comes out a touch too loud.

“You know, actually this is exactly what I meant.” A tight smile creeps across his face, not quite reaching his eyes. 

“Cryptic is not your thing, it sounds a little too dramatic when you say shit like that,” I stare at him, my arms hanging at my sides, still holding the stupid bottle and the lighter. 

“Fine, I can be explicit. You can tell me what I did that bothered you so fucking much. You can also tell Lizzy that you didn't get a job you wanted and you’re in a crappy mood, or, you know, you can tell people when something’s wrong, when you’re not okay, but instead you do this…whatever you're doing here. You give people a hard time when they can’t read your mind and it’s shit.”

I can’t believe he just said that, like it’s so easy to always do everything right, like he’s just stating facts, like he’s perfect. My first instinct is to deny or contradict or somehow fight his words but I also can't ignore a nagging thought that he’s right, that I do that, I'm aware and I don't like it either. I think I push people expecting that they’ll leave but hoping that they’ll push back, that they’ll care to push back…

I roll my eyes that are starting to sting with tears that I hope Mark can’t see. “Cool. Do I get to say something shitty about you now?”

“Sure, knock yourself out. But I'm just saying,” he starts nudging an empty bottle left in the grass with his foot, back and forth. “You're really not that hard to…be around. I don’t know why you try to make it so…”

This is really the kind of conversation I’d expect to have with Lizzy or Gwen, not with my neighbor Mark who doesn’t take things too seriously, who has his own life, who’s good at compartmentalising, who says I’m weird for making him talk about things… I just don’t know how to react, I don’t even really know how to be around him anymore. It feels like something’s shifted, small but fundamental, and everything’s just a touch off. But it feels like I shouldn’t get used to this, whatever this is; this communication, this spontaneous emotional intimacy… “Yeah,” I say after a second, quieter now. “It’s a pretty shitty thing I do.”

Mark doesn’t say anything right away, he just nudges the empty bottle again, back and forth, back and forth. The noise from inside keeps spilling out onto the yard in uneven bursts - laughter, music, someone yelling - mingling with the voices outside but it all feels far away, like it’s happening somewhere else entirely. I stare at the label on the beer in my hand. “I don’t do it on purpose.”

“I figured,” he says and it almost makes it worse.

I let out a breath, short and sharp. Another beat passes, too long and too quiet; but at least I didn’t start crying…

“So,” he exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off, “since we’re already in this weird purgatory of a conversation, it’s probably a good time to reiterate that whatever I said the other night or however I said it…I got manipulated into it.”

“Manipulated?”

“Yep. Low barometric pressure from the storm, less oxygen, getting psychoanalyzed by Gwen over candlelight, the list goes on.” 

“Look, it’s fine…”

“Doesn’t feel like it’s been fine the last few days. Or are you gonna stop being passive aggressive at me now?”

“At you?” It really is fine, I don’t think I’m upset at him specifically, not anymore, I’ve just been feeling sort of…angsty.

“I know I’m no Jerry Cantrell but maybe you can punch me, maybe that’ll get you out of this funk? Watch out for the nose though.”

“Tall order. Your whole face is nose.”

“Exactly, it’ll slice your hand right up,” he says, making laughter bubble out of me.

“Yeah, it is a funk… I just need a little shake.”

At this, Mark steps over, puts his hands on my shoulders and shakes me a little. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“So… I feel like Lizzy would want me to ask if you’re okay or if you’ve been sneaking whiskey into your morning coffee and taking too many naps?”

Good to know I’m not the only one who feels like this is a Lizzy conversation. “No, I haven’t actually,” I tell him honestly. 

* * *

“Listen Mark,” Jack’s voice shifts from the last sentence. “I’m gonna cut to the chase…”

“Yeah, I figured my producer didn’t just call to chat about a show we both saw.”

“Right. Well you’re a big boy so I’m just gonna rip the bandaid off. You’re gonna have to wait until next month for the studio…”

“Are you pulling the plug on the album?” I ask at the same exact time. “Oh,” I say when his words register in my ears. “Yeah, that’s fine, whatever.”

“Then you’re probably going on tour pretty much immediately,” he sounds like he’s trying to convince me this is a bad thing.

“That’s fine. We’re still young. Very virile.”

“You’re really fine with that? Not even an ‘aw shit’?”

“It’s not ideal but I’ll live Jack,” I assure him.

“Okay then, now I feel like you don't need that chaser anymore.”

“What chaser?”

“I had some good news up my sleeve in case this conversation went south.”

“This is getting weirder by the word.”

“There’s an apartment not far from where you’re at–”

“I will not prostitute for a home unless it’s a house.”

Jack lets out a sigh that tells me he’s tired - of my bullshit or otherwise. “It’s in the same general neighborhood and it’s pretty cheap.”

“Okay, you should have led with ‘cheap’.”

“It’ll be up for grabs in a couple of months.”

“So what’s wrong with it?” I pinch the phone receiver between my ear and shoulder as I bend over to tie my shoes.

“Nothing,” he answers, maybe a touch too quickly. “Something…I’m sure. Long time renter is planning on moving out.”

“And where is it again?”

A few minutes later, I’m going down the stairs, two at a time, guitar case slung over my shoulder. At one point Jack said ‘it has windows’, which is a somewhat concerning sales pitch...but it is close and it is cheaper, so that’s pretty irresistible. I’ve enjoyed my current apartment a lot actually and I’ve been here for a few years now so that will be weird, to leave. But life goes on, I guess. The more we go on tour, the less sense it makes to keep overpaying for rent.

“Oh, hey,” Gwen nearly rams into me on her way up the stairs from the laundry room. “If it smells weird in there, it wasn’t me,” she points a thumb behind her.

“I wasn’t going there but thanks for the information…”

“Oh. Forget I said anything… It always smells weird in there!” She laughs out when I continue to peer at her. “Oh fuck off!”

“Very neighborly.”

“I mean, how are you?” She grins, making it up the last two steps so she’s on the same level as me.

“Peachy. Actually, I’m moving. Goodbye to weird laundry room smell.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not…”

“The latter.”

“Wait, you’re actually moving? Out?”

“Considering I’ve been living in my apartment, the only way really is out. Yes, I’m serious,” I add when her expression tells me she’s still confused. 

“Oh. I didn’t know you were looking?”

“I wasn’t really,” I let the guitar case strap slide off my shoulder and rest the butt of it on my foot since this interaction is starting to feel less in-passing. “A guy I know heard of a place opening up and thought it’s more in my price range, which it is,” I shrug.

“Why didn’t Kat tell us?”

“Kat?”

“Novak?” Gwen pops her eyes at me impatiently.

“Yeah, I figured you’re talking about that one. She doesn’t know…”

“She doesn’t?”

“It literally just happened, I just heard about the other apartment on the phone…minutes ago…”

“Hm…”

“Hm what??”

“Nothing!” She lifts her hands up defensively.

“Novak’s not privy to everything that happens in my life.”

“She’s not,” Gwen nods in agreement and I realise that I kind of don’t want to tell her. Not because I don’t want Kat to know but because… Why? I’m not sure. Because I don’t want to not live next door to her… That doesn’t make sense, her knowing or not knowing won’t change the fact it’s happening. Maybe it’s because I don’t want this information to upset her – but I’m also hoping that it will, now that I think about it.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her,” Gwen says.

“I’m not worried. What the fuck are these mind games you always play on me anyway?”

“I’m not playing mind games, I’m just reading your mind,” she beams at me.

“Not one normal woman in that apartment…” I drop my blank stare to the floor momentarily.

“So anyway, speaking of Kat…how long have you been nursing this crush?”

“Nursing? I thought only women can do that.”

“Mark.”

“What crush?”

“Don’t act dumb, Mark.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wow. And I really thought having this conversation with Steve was the pinnacle of embarrassment…

“Kat might be a little slow when it comes to these things, but don’t underestimate me, I see what you’re doing, you douchebaguette. All your jokes are weirdly sexual all of a sudden and knowing you, I assume that’s how you show girls you like them.”

“Consider yourself overestimated, because I’m not trying to show her anything. I just can’t stop making those jokes!” I laugh out and as it echoes around the stairwell and back at me, it sounds a lot more panicked than it felt.

“And why are you not trying to show her anything?”

“I don’t think she’d be that interested in being shown anything. Now can you please leave me be with the last shreds of my dignity, for fuck’s sake?” How did I get here, where did I go wrong…

“Wouldn’t be interested?” Gwen completely ignores my plea. “Please, she didn’t have any interest in Chris either but for some reason it took her a while to get over him. I’m sure you know her better by now than to believe whatever exterior she projects.”

“And, did she?” I ask with a nonchalant shrug and a shift of my eyes. 

“What?” Gwen throws me a baffled look.

“Get over him?”

“Oh… You probably know better than I do. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this, but Kat trusts you with her dumb secrets a lot more than any of us.” That is, actually, pretty much what Kristine said. That Kat tells me her secrets. How interesting. 

“And speaking of secrets—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your infatuation,” Gwen cuts me off. “Although if you keep flirting with her like that, I won’t need to say anything anyway. I use the word ‘flirting’ very loosely here, of course...” 

“Stop looking so gleeful,” throw my guitar back over my shoulder and fold my arms across my chest because as she’s saying all this, she's grinning from ear to ear, obviously infinitely amused by my predicament.

“But this is so exciting!”

“For who?” 

“For me!” She laughs, clearly unable to contain herself. “Finally, something interesting is happening in our building! So how long has this been a thing?”

“You know, Gwen… As you often say – you’re a few cans short of a six-pack if you think I’m going to continue this conversation with you beyond this point.”

“Oh but you should because I’m your eyes and ears on the inside.”

“Thanks but I’m not really looking to spy on Novak…”

“Fine, whatever. My advice though – keep doing what you’re doing and maybe invite her to things other than your goddamn band stuff.”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear when I wasn’t asking for advice… I don’t need advice and I’m not inviting Novak anywhere. There.”

“Can you just call her Kat? You know – her name?”

“Nah.”

Gwen lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re no fun.”

“Exactly. Now leave me be. I’ll put my lunch money directly in your locker tomorrow, no need to stalk me.”

She cackles, already turning away towards the stairs leading up, but then hesitates, sort of swaying on the spot before turning back to me. “You’re in a much better position than you seem to think. Try not to sabotage it.”

* * *

“Intervention time!” Gwen comes back from the laundry room, clapping her hands together as she speaks - or yells really.

I close my textbook with a loud thud and push it to the end of our dining table; I can tell this won’t be quick or optional.

Kat, who’s been half-sprawled across the couch solving some crossword in a magazine, doesn’t even look up. “If this is about your red sweater again, I maintain plausible deniability.” 

“It’s not about the sweater,” Gwen says. “Although,” she pauses, narrowing her eyes slightly, “we will come back to that.” 

The front door opens before Gwen can launch into whatever speech she’s been rehearsing in the laundry room, probably. Lizzy steps in, a little windblown, a little flushed, holding her bag like she forgot it was in her hand. 

“Perfect timing,” Gwen says immediately, pivoting toward her like a heat-seeking missile. “Sit.”

Lizzy blinks. “Hi to you too.”

“Hello, sit please.”

Lizzy looks at me. I shrug. Kat doesn’t even pretend to help; she just flips a page. Lizzy sighs and drops onto the couch where Kat just made room for her. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Gwen says brightly, dragging a chair around and sitting down backwards on it. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“That’s…not how problems work,” I say.

Gwen ignores me. “How is Jerry?”

Lizzy hesitates just long enough to be noticeable. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Gwen repeats. “Define fine?”

“He’s…good. He’s been really nice lately,” Lizzy says carefully. “We talk. Things are normal.”

“Normal as in ‘we’re rebuilding trust’ or normal as in ‘we’re pretending nothing happened’?” Gwen asks.

“Gwen—”

“No, I’m just asking questions,” she says, holding her hands up. “This is a safe space to talk about anything and everything. I feel like lately you have separated the time you spend with us and with Jerry and I just want to make sure you’re okay and that you’re treated well.”

I look over at Kat who’s already looking at me; we exchange looks but don’t say anything. Honestly, I would gladly punch Jerry in the face too but Kat’s already been engaging in enough intimidation tactics towards him. Besides, it’s really not up to us, it’s Lizzy’s life and we shouldn’t give her a hard time about it. I just know that if he ever does anything like that again, his body will not be found for a very long time. In the meantime though, I think the both of us could stand to be a bit more friendly with him.

Lizzy exhales. “We’re trying, okay? He…he’s really trying. And I want to try too.”

Gwen studies her for a second, her expression sharpening just a little. “And you’re not just saying that because you want it to work?”

Lizzy’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Maybe both.”

“I respect that,” I tell her. “That makes sense.”

That seems to satisfy Gwen as well, for now. She nods once, like she’s filing something away for later.

“Alright,” she says. “We’ll monitor that situation.”

“Great,” Lizzy says weakly. 

Gwen turns her head toward me so abruptly I almost fall off my chair. “Eva.”

I lean back. “Gwen?”

“What’s going on with Jeff?”

Kat snorts softly from the couch and Lizzy perks up a little, all of a sudden interested, now that her interrogation is over.

“There it is,” I say. “I was wondering how long it would take.” I’ve been so busy and tired that I think Gwen took pity on me but I knew this was coming. She’s a firm believer that there’s only a very thin line between hate and love and seeing as I wasn’t the biggest fan of Jeff for a while, I knew to expect something like this. The thing is, I have grown to like him, we get along at work and it’s been fun playing basketball together, he’s pretty good at it. And yes, physically I would say he’s my type but I think physically he’s a lot of people’s type. Still, I don’t have any kind of deeper feelings towards him and that’s that.

“Well?” Gwen presses.

“Nothing’s going on,” I tell her.

“You’re friendly,” Gwen counters.

“We work together,” I shrug.

“You’re very friendly.”

“Sure, he makes me coffee when I don’t ask for it,” I say. “That’s just good workplace morale.”

Kat finally looks up. “He only does that for you.”

“That’s because the rest of you don’t work there,” I laugh out. 

Lizzy smiles. “Do you like him?”

I pause, mostly because I know if I answer too quickly Gwen will latch onto it like it’s evidence.

“He’s…fine,” I say.

Gwen leans forward. “Wow, once again, fine… This is escalating.”

“Shut up. He’s fine - good coworker, fun to play basketball with. Fine. I’m not madly in love with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Gwen narrows her eyes at me. “So if he asked you out—”

“He hasn’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I take a second, then shrug again. “I’d consider it.”

“Wow,” Kat says barely audibly. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not sure, I said I would consider.”

“What happened to hating his guts?” Kat sounds weirdly alarmed by this new information.

“Oh my god, don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” Gwen says. “What’s his star sign? I’m making a chart.”

“If this is what I get for being honest, I’ll never do it again,” I threaten and she laughs it off, shaking her head.

There’s a beat - a brief, fragile moment where it feels like Gwen might actually be done. I don’t think either me, Lizzy or Kat are naive enough to really think that though. Gwen’s gaze slides slowly and deliberately to the couch.

“Kat.”

“No,” Kat says immediately.

“Yes.”

“Once again, I decline to participate.”

“That’s not how this works.”

Kat drops the magazine onto her lap and finally sits up, already looking irritated. “There is no ‘this.’ You invented ‘this.’”

“Kat, we are friends, we are roommates, we are a team, and we are women. Who else are you going to talk about this stuff with?”

“Talk about what stuff!?”

Gwen smiles, sharp and delighted. “About Mark, of course."

Kat stares at her. “Absolutely not. Why don’t we talk about you instead?”

“I’d love that!” Gwen cackles. “So I’ve been thinking, I wanna start dating more but casually. Definitely don’t need to get into anything serious but I just love going out, going on coffee dates, dinner dates, park dates… Love it!”

“It would be truly fascinating to be you for just one day…” Kat peers at her.

Lizzy shifts closer, curiosity lighting up her whole face. “But Kat, why don’t you want to talk about Mark?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. And don’t encourage her,” Kat looks at Lizzy while nodding her head at Gwen.

“I’m not encouraging, I’m just observing.”

“You’re leaning forward,” Kat points out.

“I am interested!”

I put my feet up on my chair and cross my legs. “You have been…kind of weird about him lately,” I say slowly. It’s true and someone has to say it without theatrics. When Gwen told me she thinks Mark’s into Kat, I think she expected me to need more convincing or maybe to be against the idea somehow… But I think it’s pretty obvious he is and I think it’s great. Kat, on the other hand… Who can ever tell what’s going on in her head? I’m still waiting for her to say more than two sentences about Chris…

“I have not,” Kat says.

“You have,” Gwen, Lizzy, and I say at the same time.

Kat presses her lips together. “Define weird.”

“Avoiding him,” Gwen says.

“Then not avoiding him,” Lizzy adds.

“Then arguing with him,” I finish.

“I don’t— Arguing is normal. I argue with you guys all the time!”

Lizzy smiles. “He likes you.”

Kat freezes for half a second. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh, he does,” Gwen says easily.

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

I shrug. “He’s very different with you.”

Kat looks at me and I feel like beneath the defense there’s an ounce of curiosity, like she actually wants to know. “Different how?”

“Less performative,” I say. “More…there.”

Kat looks between the three of us like we’ve all collectively lost our minds. “You’re projecting.”

“Are we?” Gwen asks. “Or are you just refusing to see it for some reason?”

“Jesus Christ,” Kat mutters.

“He pays attention to you,” Lizzy insists softly.

Kat’s expression flickers - just for a second - and then shutters again. “He pays attention to everyone,” she says. “That’s common courtesy.”

“I mean, true. Mark’s actually a pretty kind person… But I don’t think he pays attention to anyone else the way he does to you,” I say.

That lands. I can tell it does, even if Kat doesn’t admit it. “And so what? So you want me to be with someone who’s going to treat me the way he treated Kristine?” Those words come out quick and airy, almost like she’s hoping they won’t actually be heard.

“What?” Lizzy’s voice goes up. “But it was Kristine who cheated on Mark, not the other way around!”

“I’m not talking about that. He never invited her along anywhere, never introduced her to people, never talked about her…”

“I don’t think it’s fair to judge him based on the one relationship you’ve seen him in,” I chime in and Kat goggles at me openly, pointedly.

“Excuse me, miss All Musicians Are Scum?”

“Oh whatever! Mark is not like that. Mark is Mark,” I throw her a sunny smile.

“Yeah, Mark’s really sweet,” Lizzy adds, staring at her as if trying to put that thought into her head and seal it in there. 

“Excuse me, are we talking about the same Mark here?” Kat laughs dryly.

“Yes, Katie!” Lizzy continues staring. “He does have a questionable sense of humor…but so do you,” she cackles before growing more serious again. “But seriously, he’s kind and sweet, and obviously really cares about you.” 

There’s a pause where we all wait for Kat to respond; but she just exhales, long and slow, dragging a hand over her face. “You’re all insane.”

“Noted,” I say.

“Duly recorded,” Gwen adds.

Lizzy just smiles.

“I didn’t get enough sleep for this. Mudhoney’s been together for a year now. We’ve only got another one, if that. It’s not—”

“Fine, we’ll give the damn interview,” I laugh at his no-bullshit policy of the day. “I’ll sell myself out, piece by piece, just for you. Hey, you see any leeks anywhere?”

“Leeks?” Steve stares at me blankly. Hm. Maybe he needs to get his eyeglass prescription re-measured?..

“Yes, leeks. The green leafy things, distantly related to onion…”

“Oh, yeah. Over there,” he snaps out of it. “Forgive me for asking, but since when do you buy leeks?”

“What’s the insinuation here, Steven?”

“You’ve been on a strict diet of food that comes in cans and to-go containers for years.”

“You’re forgetting jars and grocery store samples.”

“True, true. My bad.”

“Novak forgot to get some leeks so I’m being a good neighbor.” It’s true! I ran into her and Eva on my way out, as they were coming back from running errands. Novak asked if I’m going to a store today and I said probably, and she asked me to pick some fuckin’ leeks up because they had gone grocery shopping and forgot to buy them. I don’t know why Steve’s looking at me the way he is now.

“Ah so you’re Kat’s errand boy now… That makes sense.”

“Errand boy is a bit dramatic. I needed to go to the store anyway.”

“Hey, Mark, you live your life however you want…”

“I just happened to run into her and Eva and they said… Hey, I don’t need to explain myself to you!” I laugh.

“How very interesting…”

“They were coming from the store. Novak asked me if I’m going today… You know how she is, always…asking things…randomly.” I explain in spite of myself.

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus, what’s with the questions?”

“I asked you one damn thing. Get a hold of yourself, man. If you wanna be Kat’s errand boy, that’s totally fine, that’s totally up to you. Honestly, good for you, buddy. So long as it doesn’t clash with your band responsibilities.”

“I’m starting to develop a sense of shame around freeloading off them,” I still continue explaining myself after laughing at Steve’s words. “I have to appear like I contribute sometimes… You would do the same if they were your neighbors. What? What??” My voice goes up in a very undignified way when he continues to peer at me like I’m an anthropology artifact he’s struggling to categorize.

“Mark, you’re one of the smartest people I know…”

“Oh aw thanks, man…”

“…so it’s really odd how dumb you’re acting. You’re not being very inconspicuous, you know?”

“Inconspicuous about what?” I snort and he folds his arms over his chest and gives me a look that says he wants to have this bizarre conversation now so we’re having it now. I guess he got enough sleep for that. Steve’s always been like that, as long as I’ve known him; the healthy confrontational type.

“Cut the fifth grade crap, Mark. What’s the point of hiding the fact you like Kat, you loser?”

“Sometimes I wonder if all that skateboarding has finally rattled the guy’s brain a little too much…” I mumble dramatically, blank stare dropped to the floor.

“Seriously?”

Ah, fuck. What is the point then? Okay, “fine… Okay. How do I say this?” I blink at him genuinely at a loss; how do I say this? I feel stupid when I'm around her?.. “She’s okay,” I say instead.

“Wow.” Steve’s expression grows more sober as he continues to look at me. “Didn’t realize it was that serious.”

“Fuck off, Steve,” I laugh and his stoic facade crumbles too.

Not sure about serious but it’s certainly different. I’ve always felt like ‘the smart one’ when it comes to girls, whatever that means. As if there’s superlatives to be designated within relationships. Why is that? If I dated a woman who is somehow measurably and undeniably smarter than me, what would that do? Probably strip me of my whole personality, which is entirely based in the concept that my intelligence is directly proportional to my worth. If I’m not the smartass in the relationship, then what do I have to offer? I certainly can’t be the pretty one. Kat’s just so attractive to me in everything she says and I feel like I’m totally content just endlessly listening to her. And honestly, lately, everything I have to contribute to our conversations comes out really stupid. It’s better if she does the talking for the time being.

“Well, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Was it?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright then.”

“You spent the last two weeks of tour on the phone with her. Does that not seem odd to you at all? Just a totally normal thing to do?”

“You made me call her!”

“I didn’t make you do anything, I just encouraged you to reach out to a friend seeing as you were on the brink of a nervous fucking breakdown.” Well. There was this one night on tour when it was just me and Matt that went out and I got really fucking drunk at some pub, couldn’t even understand English anymore. I don’t remember why, but we ended up pissing on the gates of some schoolyard… I thought Matt was just as fucked up as me but then he looked at me out of the blue and said ‘that bitch really fucked you up, man’ and just patted me on the back…

“So?” I continue with the snorting while fully aware of how dumb what I’m about to say will sound: “Those were entirely platonic phone calls.” They really were! Maybe not so much in retrospect but they were at the time. I never really thought of Kat as a…woman? No, that sounds wrong… I guess Kristine did bring up the whole thing about Kat being supposedly into me, so that was a thought at some point, but… Fuck, I was loosely committed to Kristine in some shape or form for most of the time that I’ve known Kat; why would I ever have thought of her as anything at all? Obviously she’s very attractive, I’m not blind. She’s also kinda…weird? Peculiar… She became a friend who gets tipsy and orchestrates impromptu uncomfortable, yet probably pretty healthy confrontations about emotional states and about feeling like shit… And I called her that first time because…I felt like I could say whatever I wanted and not say whatever I didn’t, and she would…get it? Or not get hung up on it. Just let me be pathetic without judgment… It was pretty selfish, actually. I called her out of selfishness. I mean, who else was I going to call with shit like that? No one else tells me they’re sorry about how shitty things are and then feeds me ice cream.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve seen her every single day since we’ve been back…”

“That’s weird that you would keep track,” I snort at Steve before clarifying with a defensive shrug: “We live next door to each other, she’s right there.”

“Shitty argument. I don’t even see the people I share my apartment with every day.”

“Our building has a very tight knit community…”

“You seek her out,” Steve enunciates slowly, with some kind of twisted satisfaction.

“You take that back!”

“So you’re gonna move in with her now?” The asshole ignores anything I say as he follows me along the isle when I continue to shop in hopes of ending this can of worms of a conversation.

“Mind your own damn business, Steve,” I laugh, feeling only very mild panic setting in.

“So…does she like you?” He goes on, clearly enjoying this discourse way too much.

“Nah.”

“No?”

“That surprises you?”

“She seems like she likes you…”

“But what about you, Steve? What about you and girls, Steve?” I raise my voice somewhat. “Are you as much of a loser as me?” Kind of a pointless question, really, since I happen to know that while I was on the brink of the aforementioned breakdown, as he delicately put it, some of his daytrips to European museums and galleries actually involved getting at least partially naked with people of the female variety. So really, I know the answer already.

“As I. And no, not at all,” Steve confirms. “Actually, I was just with a young lady last night. And this morning. Hence the lack of sleep,” he flashes me a grin momentarily.

“Anyone I know?”

“Not really, no. It’s that one cashier at S&M. Dark hair, short girl,” he adds cheerfully.

“Ah. So you’re seeing her now?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll see her again.”

“Why not?”

“She wasn’t very interesting. Awful record collection, too. Just disgusting.”

“Ah. I see.” I smile mechanically, wondering what Kat would make of knowing I feel stupid around her.

About thirty minutes later I let myself into my neighbors’ apartment because the door is once again left unlocked. Steve follows me in; no comment on how much time he spends here.

“How’s it going?” Eva asks me as I place the grocery bag on the kitchen counter between the sink and the fridge, while Steve makes a bee line for Kat. I don’t know how or what, but I’m sure he’s up to something.

“Swimmingly. Selling out one interview at a time. Should be on MTV by next May. You?”

“Work sucked but now I have two whole days off so yay.” She looks really tired, actually.

“So what’s up with you not showing up for our gigs anymore?”

“What…”

“What are you, too good for us now?”

“I don’t show up once, once…” Eva sighs. “Anyway, I heard you covered Bette Midler. I’m bummed I missed that.”

“That’s a mildly offensive thing to say.”

“What!?” She yelps out a laugh.

“We have plenty of our own songs that are…not subpar. Actually, can you even name a single Mudhoney song?”

“They have names..? I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Yeah, I know songs like… That one about sliding in and out?”

“Of what?”

“Graves…?”

“No but I should have written that. Very sick and twisted.”

“Okay, I don’t know that one, but I do know…Lock That Door?”

“Close, actually…”

“Oh, oh! Come Bite the Apple!” She perks up with her spoon raised to the ceiling like some kind of a weapon in this horrific assault on my dignity.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask evenly but grasp at my chest for added gravitas and drama.

“What..?” Her eyebrows sink low.

“I cannot believe you think I’d ever write anything even remotely as campy and weak as Mother Love Bone shit… Cool name, by the way… But lame as shit music. Have you even been to our shows?? Do I wear a cape on stage, Eva? I mean, what the fu—”

“I’ll have to stop you here dude. You are so fucking weird, I mean, seriously spectacularly weird… And let’s bear in mind I live with Katie Janine Novak… I do not have time for this performance of yours today. I swear I’ll come to your next show, I just need to…get a few years of sleep in first…”

I grin at her for a second, genuinely amused by her exasperation. Also, Janine? “Okay, I’ll let it slide this time. So, you’re still on a trajectory to pro sports?” Oh my love, Janine, I'm helpless for your smile.

At this, Eva snorts while scraping the inside of her now empty ice cream bucket with a spoon. “No… I think I might quit. I guess I’ll just have to become a scientist.”

“Oh, good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Your live-in friends have been saying you’re too tired to keep up with that noise. Plus, you play basketball with Jeff, among other people… That’s reason enough to quit.”

“Among other people.”

“Yes. So for me personally, it was the fact that Jeff was constantly getting into physical altercations at Green River shows.”

“Huh... He really does have some kind of a cognitive issues, I think...”

“Well whether it’s nurture or nature, it became a safety concern. A concern for my safety, that is. So I had to dump him.”

“Right… I just I needed to schedule in time for naps.”

“Also a very valid reason.”

“Well, I really need to get back to work,” Eva sighs out before chucking the empty ice cream container into the bin underneath the sink.

“Work? I thought you have two days off?”

“Oh, Mark,” she lets out a sad mix between a sigh and a dry laugh and walks off, shaking her head as she does.

I realize I’m alone in the living room and then I hear Steve’s voice coming from Kat’s bedroom so I go to investigate. He’s sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her Jazzmaster while she’s plugging it into a little amp. I find myself leaning against the doorframe.

“What?” Kat narrows her eyes slightly as she straightens up and catches me looking at her; the ever-present smirk playing on her lips.

“What?”

“Maybe Mark is also thinking this color looks good on you,” Steve offer with a shit eating grin and motions a hand at Kat’s dark green sweater while she throws him a quick, somewhat concerned sideways look. Then, the asshole that he is, he starts playing the unmistakable riff of Girl U Want. Kat, in the meantime, rolls her eyes. Why is she rolling her eyes? I do actually think it looks good on her, if I think about it…

At some point Kat starts cooking dinner with some help from Gwen (mostly talking while she’s supposed to be chopping and occasionally helping Kat find her beer that she keeps misplacing).

“Are you leaving?” Kat shuffles her attention to me as I step over to the door another half hour later.

I look at my hand on the door handle before answering. “It appears so.” I can’t take Steve’s smug energy anymore. The whole time, he kept giving me looks and saying weird things to Kat.

“You’re not staying for dinner?”

“Uh…” I look at Steve now who’s sitting on the couch, his ankle propped on the other knee, some kind of tabloid in hand. He mirrors my grin.

“You brought the leeks, I assumed you’d demand to stay for dinner,” Kat goes on.

“Novak. Do you want me to stay for dinner?” I ask slowly as I continue to look at Steve.

“Why are you like this…” The redhead sighs out on her way to the stereo system and starts running her fingers through a tower of cassettes; I follow her over.

* * *

It’s been several days since I last spoke to Jerry on the phone but I’ve replayed his words in my head so many times, it almost doesn’t even sound real anymore. I think I’m past the initial shock and it definitely helped to have my friends and family be there for me as I navigated all these emotions, but… It’s just hard to reconciliate the Jerry that’s sweet and protective and honest, and the Jerry that’s drunk in the back of a cab… I mean, he’s still sweet and protective and honest, but…

And what about my role in all this?! I’m the one who practically made him go out and meet up with his ex. I was just so set on making it happen, I was so sure he would get the closure he surely needed and move on, that I never stopped to consider that his ex is a real person that has real history with him… I feel like it all happened so quickly, me and Jerry, and I got so caught up in it, in our thing, that I forgot how recent their history is… I mean, I definitely believe Jerry when he said it’s really over but every ending needs to unfold in its own time and maybe I rushed him too much…

And then at some point I’ve started wondering if he doesn’t think I can…please him in certain ways. I know I don’t exactly scream sexual experience, but— Ugh, one thing Kat is absolutely right about is that I need to stop spinning out about this.

I’ve already made my decision and it’ll take time and talking, but I know it’s going to be okay. The rest is confetti, as they say.

Still, the image creeps in anyway, uninvited, unwelcome. Not detailed but enough to make my stomach churn a bit.

“Earth to Lizzy, Earth to Lizzy,” I realize Eva is snapping her fingers at me from the kitchen sink.

“Huh?”

“You’re thinking about Jerry again, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…”

“You want some tea?” Eva asks a bit softer now.

“Yeah. Hey… I need a…second opinion…”

“Or third,” Gwen points out as she crosses the room towards the bathroom.

“Or tenth,” Eva chuckles. “Go ahead then…”

“I’m gonna ask you something and you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“Me specifically?” She eyes me curiously.

“It’s gonna be something weird, isn’t it,” Kat also peers at me from the other end of the couch, half her face hidden behind a book.

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay.” Eva holds up her hands. “Go.”

“How do you…” I’m trying to word this in the least crude way but I’m struggling. “Give a good…” I trail off, still trying to figure out how to ask it.

“Oh my god,” Kat lowers her book to her lap. “Are you asking Eva how to give head?”

Eva looks at me, I still don’t say anything but I can’t help smiling.

Another pause. “Oh,” Eva says, grinning. “Oh my god, we’re here.”

“Eva…”

“No, no, I’m not laughing,” she says, immediately laughing a little.

“What did I miss?” Gwen returns with a mascara wand in one hand and a little mirror in the other.

“Lizzy wants Eva to teach her to give head,” Kat fills her in and I groan.

“Wait, why Eva?”

“I mean… You’ve probably done…everything the most of us all,” I look over at Eva while Kat and Gwen snort and chuckle.

“I guess I can…give you some tips,” I can tell Eva tries to sound gentle, “but you know that’s not how that works, right? You don’t seriously think that’s why this happened?”

“For one, Jerry doesn’t even know how your performance ranks yet. And secondly, that is objectively now how it works, as Eva said,” Kat adds.

“No, but some pointers for future reference wouldn’t hurt…”

“You are the woman of every guy’s dreams, Lizzy, you really are…” Gwen shakes her head slowly.

“I don’t know. I just keep thinking about it.”

“Of course you do,” Kat mumbled. “But this whole thing has nothing to do with you.”

“Seriously, this has nothing to do with you not being…something enough, you know that, right?” Gwen peers at me.

I exhale, sinking into the couch a little more. “I think I’m gonna call him.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Right now?”

“Yeah.”

I drag the telephone into my room and close the door behind. I don’t usually mind if my roommates can hear my conversations but this one, I feel, I have to do alone. Jerry picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I’m suddenly painfully aware of my voice. I don’t want to channel anything into my tone that I don’t think or feel.

There’s a pause. “I thought you weren’t gonna call,” Jerry sounds cautious.

“Really? Why? I said I would…”

Another pause. Longer this time. “I don’t know. Figured you might be done with me.”

“I’m not,” I assure him. “I just needed a minute.”

“No, that’s fair. I get that. I just wasn’t sure if…” He trails off.

“What?”

He’s taking his time again before I hear an answer: “You have very protective friends.”

“That I do… I actually got into a fight with Kat…”

“Because of me?” There’s something in his voice, something small and strained and hard to pinpoint at first.

“Sort of…”

“She hates my guts, doesn’t she…” It’s not really a question; Jerry’s not asking, he’s just…accepting.

“Listen Jerry… I’ve been thinking about everything a lot and… Well, first of all, I believe you.”

That seems to catch him off guard. “You do?”

“Yeah. I do. I think you told me the truth and that’s not nothing. And I think… You wouldn’t have told me if you didn’t care.”

“I do care,” he says quietly. “You have no idea how much I’ve been beating myself up over this. I really fucked up and I’m so, so sorry and…if you let me, I will spend as much time as it takes making it up to you.” I think it’s guilt. He sounds really, genuinely guilty.

“I know.”

There’s another pause but it feels less tense now, like something is slowly loosening, like the air is thinning back to normal.

“Do you think you can forgive me?”

“I mean, I’m still…” upset? Mad? Disappointed? The latter sounds worse somehow. “Processing…things. But I don’t think you’re a bad person, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I really want us to have another chance.”

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “That’s all I can ask for. That’s a relief. And that’s the thing, I want you to know that I won’t push you and you can take all the time you need, and I’ll do anything you ask me—”

“Do you maybe want to come over later?” I cut him off. I mean, all that and I still just miss him. Lately, being with him, just seeing him, has been so exciting and so blissful, and I don’t want to lose that. I just really hope that I can get back to that same feeling, same place… “We could just hang out, get some food, watch a movie.”

“At your place?”

“Yeah.” I know he’s wondering if the girls are going to be around and if I’m being honest, there is a tiny little part of me that doesn’t want to tell him, just to have him squirm a little tiny bit more.

“Yeah, I’d like that. And, uh… Lizzy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry. I don't expect you to just move on or forget. I don't even know if I really deserve a second chance,” he sounds so miserable, “but I’m willing to work for it. I care about you a lot, Lizzy. I want to be with you. I just need you to know that.”

I close my eyes for a second, letting that settle, sighing out the weight that’s been pressing on my chest. “I know. And I appreciate you telling me the truth. That means a lot.”

“I won't rush you. Just…don’t give up on me.”

* * *

“Bit dramatic?” Mark’s head pops out of his skylight after a loud creaking sound.

“What? Oh…” I guess I am leaning back against the slanted roof, arms crossed, eyes closed, rain starting to pick up momentum.

“Kind of the makings of a hazard. If you slip and fall off the roof it may bring the rent prices down but I don’t know if becoming a stain on the sidewalk is a dignified enough exit strategy.”

I smile a little, keeping my arms crossed over my chest; Mark continues holding the window open above his head. “Jerry just came over,” I say and feel my eyebrows droop over my eyes.

“Oh?”

I let out a heavy, somewhat impatient sigh. “He…sort of…there was this whole thing…bad thing—”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“You have?”

“Come on, it’s Lizzy’s personal life we’re talking about.”

“Right…” I chuckle. Of course she would have thoroughly briefed Mark on it by now. Occupational hazard of sorts, the occupation being our neighbor. “So he came over and I don’t yet know how to exist around him without throwing my boot at his head… Which I probably shouldn’t do… So I conveniently came out here to have a cigarette when he knocked on our door. Thirty minutes ago.”

“Ah.” Long pause. “You wanna come in?”

I nod and a minute later, as I clamber in through Mark’s skylight, it occurs to me that I haven’t been here in a little while. I guess since that time he told me to break in and retrieve the Lou Reed ticket, which feels like ages ago.

He’s waiting for me in the doorway of the room. “You look cold.”

“I don’t look cold,” I wrinkle my nose automatically.

“Are you cold?”

Pause. “Yes…” I guess it had started raining a bit heavier than I realized.

Mark opens his closet, pulls a sweater off a hanger, and throws it at me – and the shock of learning that he actually has and uses hangers is not lost on me.

I follow him out of the bedroom into the little living room and… Wait… “Were you…cooking?” I follow the sound of bubbling water into the kitchen to find a pot overboiling on the stove.

He rolls his eyes but his face splits into an obviously unvoluntary grin. “I was about to make mac and cheese when I was distracted by the smell of cigarettes coming from my bedroom.”

“Right…” I actually cannot keep from smiling as I watch Mark step over to the stove, lid of the pot in one hand, a box of pasta in the other. This is deeply amusing for a number of reasons.

“Okay now, enough with the staring,” he laughs. “How about you make yourself useful and find something at least half decent to watch.”

I nod, same grin on my face, come back out into the living room, and pull Mark’s sweater on over my head. It hangs unexpectedly big on me, necessitating a rolling up of the sleeves, and it smells faintly of laundry detergent and something else, something barely there, the way clothes have a scent when they belong to someone, when they’re not brand new. This was so perfectly timed… Whatever would I do without Mark? Either be getting hypothermia on the roof or brawling with Jerry in our apartment.

“So were you a jackass to Lizzy because of the Jerry thing?” Mark asks loudly from the kitchen as I turn the TV on.

“Did she tell you that?” I mute the TV sound so we wouldn’t have to yell over it.

“Rumor has it.”

“Just tell me what else you’ve heard…”

“That the hot chocolate was delivered to her bed. Sounds a bit homoerotic but who am I to judge…”

“Please, my love for Lizzy transcends gender norms. It’s a girls thing, you wouldn’t know,” I smile to myself. “But yes, I…overreacted about the Jerry thing, apparently.”

“I can’t imagine a time when you all didn’t know each other. I mean, what, there were no geeks? Weird.”

“Right? I should tell them I love them more often,” I add after a pause as I flip through the TV channels.

“Why don’t you?” Mark asks after another one.

“Easier done than said, isn’t it? I guess I default to other ways of showing it.”

“Like baking?”

“Like baking. I only really drop the L bomb on their birthdays…”

“So just drop it on other days too, easy.”

“Dude, I’m so emotionally out of whack…”

“Bullshit. You’re the most emotionally intact person I know,” he says so matter-of-factly.

“That’s because you’re a man and your social circles are primarily comprised of men. That’s really such a low bar. It’s actually pretty offensive that you’d even pay me this supposed compliment.”

My words draw a hearty chuckle out of Mark. “I’m glad I met you in this shitty old world, just to bring diversity into my social circles, if nothing else. And for the record, I actually do think you’re pretty emotionally apt. You’re very self-aware, which is more than most people could say for themselves.”

“Again, the bar is so low…” I give up on absently skipping through the TV channels for the time being and curl up on one end of the couch as I look at the kitchen doorway, occasionally catching a glimpse of Mark’s elbow. Sounds like he’s chopping something?

“The bar is at good height. I’ve known you for a hot minute, I’ve had a few conversations with you, I can come to my own conclusions, thank you very much.”

I realize I’m grinning from ear to ear. Somehow, this feels just like our phone conversations and it makes me feel giddy, kind of like right after you take a whiskey shot. “Thanks,” I say. “That’s a very nice thing to say to a human failure.”

“Failure?” He laughs out. “Don’t let this get to your head but I think you’re a definite success of a human being.”

“Being alive is the bare minimum, that doesn’t count as a success.” I don’t know why I keep fishing for compliments, I really don’t mean to… I just feel like it’s okay to admit these things; here, now.

“You’re good to be around. I think that’s a success.”

“Well…” I grin to myself and bury my face in my hands that are starting to disappear in the sleeves of Mark’s sweater again, “this absolutely will get to my head.”

“How come you tell this stuff to me anyway?”

“It is the confessional effect, isn’t it? Just like the phone calls.”

“Ah, so I’m just a stray ear that happens to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Please,” I drawl with a roll of my eyes. He is in fact exactly the ear I want, most places, most of the time… And I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud.

“You know, not to sound like I’m obsessed with my cheating cunt of an ex-girlfriend, but she did say that you tell me things because you want me to be your special friend.” Oof.

Apparently, the cheating cunt of an ex-girlfriend also thought that Mark wanted me to be his special friend, but I better not say that out loud either because it would sound very… I don’t know how that would be received. I don’t know how I’d want for that to be received. “A special friend, as in special needs friend? Do I come across as someone with a learning disability?” I say instead.

“Ah I’ve really missed hearing this snark in high definition,” he chuckles through his words.

“For the record,” my cheeks hurt from smiling, “there’s plenty I don’t tell you.”

“Sure. You also do tell me plenty. Which is good, don’t stop,” Mark adds the last statement very quickly and a bit clumsily.

Right. “Do you feel like…it was, I don’t know…easier to talk about stuff on the phone? The whole confessional effect and all?” I start picking at the frayed bottoms of my jeans.

“Stuff like…what? Your questionable taste in music?”

“My questionable taste in men, your breakup, our respective childhoods, our respective emotional and mental issues as it often pertains to our childhoods, just things that we don’t normally talk about…”

“We don’t?”

“Well…” God, why am I like this?? Why do I sound so needy? “Since you’ve been back, it doesn’t seem like we do… I mean, since you’ve been back, I haven’t learned any new incriminating information about you,” I add quickly to make it sound more nonchalant.

There’s a long pause. “You know, the last couple of weeks, I have been feeling a little ill. Must be that European brain eating amoeba…” Another pause. “I always enjoy talking to you though.” And another. “I’ll try to think of some juicy secrets…”

I let out something between a sigh and a groan. “This is so contrived…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is emotionally healthy,” Mark enunciates. “So… Any more questionable men lined up on your horizon?” The clanking of dishes and silverware intensifies in the kitchen.

“Not if I can help it,” I laugh dryly.

“Is that something you generally can’t help? How interesting. Like a compulsive disorder? Does it have a name?”

“What is happening in there?” I laugh his silly questions off. “Are you being assaulted by haunted cutlery?”

It’s you. You are the questionable man; so attractive in so many ways and so fun to be around, but evidently terrible to be with. And either way, just because Kristine said that I’m totally his type, doesn’t mean it’s true. She was probably jealous of anyone and anything that moves on two legs, by the sound of it.

“Et voila, as the French say,” Mark comes out into the living room, a steaming bowl in each hand.

“This… I…am actually speechless,” I peer at the mac and cheese topped with an array of chopped things like olives and onions and…are those sun-dried tomatoes? I guess they too come in cans and jars…

“Don’t be rude.”

“I’m very impressed!”

“The perks of setting the bar on the floor.”

“Thanks,” I say as I take the bowl from him and try to ignore the soap bubbles popping inside my chest.

* * *

“Hey Jeff, I’ll be right there,” I speed walk past him and into the back room. Admittedly, it’s been pretty fun getting to a point where the two of us can tease and rile each other up, but not today… I’m running a touch late and I don’t want to give him even the slightest reason to be remotely irritated by me. Considering that I’m about to deliver the news to him… God, why do I feel so guilty about it?!

“Hey,” he throws me a lopsided smile when I re-emerge, all ready for a shift of coffee slinging. “You okay?” He shoots me a sideways glance while steaming a pitcher of milk.

“You ask me that a lot lately,” I point out, stepping over to the sink. I mean, I guess a lot of people, especially ones I live or work with, have been asking me that lately…

“I meant, how’s it going?”

“I’m fine, Jeff.”

He doesn’t look totally convinced but doesn’t say anything more. Also, he did take my shift the other day, when Kat asked him.

I probably wouldn’t have agreed to anything, had my roommates ran it past me beforehand but I realize now that I really desperately needed that extra down time. It’s just been kind of unexpectedly hard to keep up with everything and also have at least an okay time doing it. I am excited to be working on my degree, I’m good at being a barista and I enjoy it, and I love playing basketball. But I didn’t realize it would be so hard keeping up with all that at the same time while also trying to have a social life and have time for my other hobbies and somehow not totally reject the concept of rest and sleep.

It's gotten so bad that all this stress has started taking a toll on my body. I haven’t been sleeping very well even when I do have the time for it and my skin is getting all fucked up again, and that hasn’t been an issue for the last couple of years. So yeah, maybe Jeff doesn’t even realize it but he’s done a huge favor for me; I really needed that.

“Okay, you look…frazzled. Not in a look-like-shit kind of way,” Jeff adds hastily with a laugh. “Just…kinda frazzled…”

“Dude, I feel frazzled. Which, by the way…” I turn to look at him while grabbing a clean rag. “Thanks for covering my shift the other day. I had no idea Kat had asked you until the morning of and—”

“Don’t sweat it buddy,” he shrugs a bit awkwardly. “Sounded like you could use some extra down time lately. Plus, you have saved my ass before so… You know, it’s fine,” he says as he places two drinks on the end of the counter for two construction guys.

“Well,” I grin at the thought of how shocked me from a few months ago would have been to witness this conversation. “Thanks.”

“Besides, Kat did bribe me.”

“She said you agreed before you even knew what the bribe was,” I smirk. “Actually, she mentioned you agreed almost suspiciously quickly.”

“Okay, okay, don’t push it,” he grins at me while rinsing out some pitchers and cups. “So you feel any more rested?”

“Yeah actually. And…” I don’t know why but suddenly I feel kind of nervous to say it. I guess part of it is that I don’t actually even want to say what I’m about to say but I know I have to…

“Hey, losers,” Stone storms into the café, causing a small flock of teenage girls who were deciding on their drinks to yelp and part, making way for him. “Did you tell him yet?” He looks at me.

“Tell me what?” Jeff darts between frickin’ Stone and me.

“I take that as a no then. Anyway, I’ll take a mocha.”

“Tell me what, you doofus?” Jeff doesn’t budge.

“Stone, you ever shut your big fuckin’ mouth?” I throw a rag at him, which he catches and stuffs into his jacket pocket; the weirdo…

“You know, I liked you more when you sounded less like Jeffrey.”

“Tell me what?” Jeff looks at me now.

I inhale and then sigh out. “I’m quitting basketball.”

“Why!?”

“You know why, Jeff,” I roll my eyes because I can tell this whole thing is already turning out a lot more dramatic than I anticipated.

“But it’s summer, don’t you get a break from school?”

“Yeah, I get somewhat of a break but…” Maybe I don’t need to quit basketball? But then the faces of my roommates float into my mind, listing all the reasons why this is the move and I can’t argue. Plus, I have a feeling that if I came home and told them I didn’t quit, there would be violence, either verbal or physical…

“Quit the whining, Jeff,” Stone pipes up, “Have some dignity. By the way, still waiting for that mocha.”

We both ignore him. “We’re gonna miss you, you’re one of the best players…”

“I mean, I’ll come by occasionally, I just can’t commit to a regular schedule, it’s just too much…”

“Yeah, that makes sense…” Jeff mumbles. “It just… Yeah, kinda sucks.” Wow, I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be fun for a handful of reasons but I had no idea Jeff would be so upset by it. “I mean, you love it.”

“Yeah, I do,” I admit, quieter now. “That’s kind of the problem.”

There’s a beat where neither of us says anything. The espresso machine hisses, Stone continues to demand a drink that he has no intention of paying for, and we continue to ignore him.

I turn to search for another rag. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jeff hesitate, like he wants to say something else but he doesn’t. Stone, of course, chooses that exact moment to barrel back into relevance.

“So is this where we all cry or…?” he leans on the counter, watching us like he paid for front row seats. “Because I can do a speech if needed.”

“Shut up,” Jeff says flatly, sliding a cup of drip across the counter, glaring at Stone.

Stone takes a sip, grimaces. “This is terrible.”

“Then don’t drink it.”

“I won’t,” he nods, taking another sip.

I huff out a laugh. Jeff exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I guess you have been dropping shit, zoning out mid-order, you almost gave that guy oat milk when he asked for whole yesterday—”

“That was one time.”

“—and you called me ‘Kat’ the other morning.”

“Okay that one’s concerning,” I admit.

Stone perks up immediately. “Seriously, I can give a speech.”

“Please leave,” Jeff gestures vaguely at Stone and the door.

“I’m a paying customer.”

“You haven’t paid.”

“Semantics.”

* * *

“Turn the light on,” Dan says to no one in particular.

“I thought I did,” I stop in the middle of the dark room. Huh, I really thought I did. I squint at my right hand, still holding my apartment keys, then at my left one, as if one of them is bound to have some kind of record of having touched the light switch.

“Seems like you didn’t,” Steve flicks the switch. Nothing happens.

Lukin steps over and flicks it again. Nothing happens again.

“You need a new lightbulb,” Dan tells me after he also tries his hand at the switch flicking.

“My lightbulb is fine,” I assure him as I make my way towards the kitchen, tripping over a coiled cable in the dark. I go to turn the light on in there but it’s not working either.

“Did you forget to pay the electric?” Lukin croaks while Steve opens my apartment door again. It’s dark out in the hallway. Huh.

“Was that always like that?”

“I don’t believe so,” Steve answers.

“Huh.”

“Uh huh,” Dan adds.

Lukin ‘hmm’s.

“Curious,” Steve mumbles. “Where’s your flashlights?”

“I don’t have flashlights,” I snort.

“Why don’t you have flashlights?”

“You should probably buy some flashlights,” Dan points out.

“Actually, I have something better. I have neighbors,” I walk past the three guys and out into the hallway. They all pile out of my apartment behind me.

“Do they have flashlights?” Lukin asks.

“Doubt it,” I say as I bang on their door and rattle the handle. “But they might have some…” Eva rips the door wide open and reveals their place decked out in candles like a catholic church on Christmas Eve. And of course, Novak, curled up on the end of their corner couch, looks fuckin’ beautiful in the glow of all the flickering flames.

Just then, it thunders outside and a lightning strike flashes pale blue through the skylight in the living room. “Cool,” the redhead cackles quietly. “Anyway, it’s the night after tomorrow.”

“What’s the night after tomorrow?” I can’t stop myself from butting in.

“Kat starts her new job.”

“Not quite…”

“New job?” I look at Kat.

“Job implies that I’d be getting paid more than enough for a pack of gum.”

“You’re not becoming a stripper then, I take?” Why on earth did I just say that…

“I don’t have enough hand-foot coordination for that. It’s a writing thing,” she goes on somewhat reluctantly when I continue to look at her. “I have to go to an open mic tomorrow and write about it. Riveting stuff.”

About half hour later Matt has taken it upon himself to eat all the food in the fridge so it doesn’t go bad. Eva kept insisting that the blackout likely wouldn’t last very long but at some point joined him and is now perched on the kitchen counter, grazing. Dan is doing some kind of merging experiments with a few candles and every time there’s lightning, the shape of his creation looks more and more possessed. Steve’s been awfully quiet, just watching, as if he’s waiting for something to happen. Gwen went to take a shower “since there’s nothing else to do”. Lizzy’s curled up under a blanket on the couch, next to Steve. I’m pretty sure she’s been dozing off between conversation. Kat is sitting on the floor at the edge of the room, fiddling with her guitar, unplugged of course, learning to fingerpick by the sound of it, and I’m balancing on the back two legs of a chair at the dining table, just sort of spacing out to the sound of rain on the skylight.

“Kat, how do you feel about going on a blind date with a guy I work with?” Gwen storms out of the bathroom, releasing a thick cloud of steam as she does.

“Negatively,” Kat doesn’t miss a beat as she looks up at her friend.

“He’s totally your type.”

“What’s my type?”

“You shouldn’t say no before you even give it a chance,” Gwen starts brushing her wet hair, inadvertently flicking water droplets at me, “you never know what you might miss out on.”

“What is my type, Gwen?” Kat repeats. Ooh, I hope she says dirty blondes, brown eyes, about six-two…

“His name’s Darryl and he’s a musician.” Ew.

“People named ‘Darryl’ are definitely not my type, sorry.” Ha!

“He’s totally your type, he plays like five different instruments.”

“That’s absurd. The fact that I’ve been known to favor people who play music is not a type, it’s a compulsion. A mental disorder, really.”

“So…what you’re saying is, you’re kind of compulsively into Mark?” Steve, the asshole, asks her right in front of everyone. What the fuck, Steve? This is the kind of thing you ask her when she’s drunk and not paying attention; not when everyone’s looking, geez.

Kat pinches the bridge of her nose with a pained frown. “Quit trying to make my love life happen, Gwen,” she glares at her friend. “It’s not worth resuscitating. Let it rest in peace.”

“Oh my god, you drama queen, just because you’ve had a couple bad dates doesn’t mean your entire love life sucks,” Gwen snorts back. Well, this is getting interesting.

“Come on Kat, everyone has crappy dating stories,” Lizzy’s apparently awake again. “It’s just what happens until it doesn’t anymore.”

“Yeah, I think you would really like him, actually, Kat,” Gwen continues with even more conviction in her voice.

“I already like plenty of people, thanks.”

“He definitely likes you. I’ve showed him a picture of you,” Gwen’s dark eyes glisten with the reflection of flames and wow, I’ve just witnessed the existence of pure evil. That was it.

“Anyway,” I throw in a fake yawn as I land on all four legs of the chair with a thud. “Who wants to—”

“Not anyway, you thrifted Iggy Pop,” Gwen clicks her tongue, making everyone howl with laughter, not excluding myself…

“Gwen, I don’t even want to know what picture and why on earth you would even do that… I want nothing to do with this,” Kat pores in a monotone, to my delight, I have to say.

“What if he’s already asked to see if you’d meet up with him?”

“Ew!”

“Seriously, Gwen, ew!” Eva echoes Kat’s disgusted expression.

“Shut up if you’re not gonna help,” Gwen sticks her tongue out at our favorite barista scientist. “Mark, what do you think?” She reroutes so suddenly, it gives me mental whiplash.

“What do I think?” Is all I can say, a politely surprised expression on my face.

“About blind dates?”

“Uh… I think that, for the most part, the congregation, so to speak, between man and woman is a complete freak accident. In my years of being alive, I’ve noticed that guys really tend to favor the company of other guys and women thrive amongst other women. Really, we should all try to be a little more gay, the world would probably be a happier place.”

“That’s…really fucking weird,” Gwen voices the thought that also seems to be reflected in Kat’s face.

“You guys are here all the time,” Eva points out and grabs a pack of cookies out of Matt’s hands. “These don’t need to be refrigerated, you bozo… You hang out with us a lot. You know we’re women, right?”

“He’s been saying a lot of weird stuff lately,” Steve mumbles. “Don’t take it personally.”

“It’s ‘cause that bitch Kristine fucked him up,” Matt croaks.

“What?” My incredulous voice goes a touch higher than intended. “I’m just saying… People have sex because it feels good and relationships just make it easier to keep having it. It’s a freak accident but also inevitable, so whether it’s a blind date or—”

“I just wanted to know if you would or wouldn’t go on a blind date…”

“Sure, why not? Not any less rhyme or reason to it than going about your life hoping for a spontaneous meet cute scenario. Not that I’m saying you should go out with Darryl…” I gesture in Kat’s general direction and see her watching me with an oddly glazed stare. “Darryl is a serial killer name anyway.”

“That actually explains a lot about your last relationship…” Gwen widens her eyes at me. Ouch.

“Let’s not go there, okay,” I stretch my mouth into a smile.

“You sound like someone who’s never been in love and that’s really just sad.”

I haven’t? I think I have. But that’s not the point, and definitely not one I would want to voice to Gwen along with a roomful of my friends. “Very Austenian. Should I throw a glove at you now?” I laugh out.

“It’s very likely it’ll happen to you one day. And then you’ll realize what a boring whore you’ve been,” Gwen grins. “And maybe it’s already happening.”

“What? Steve, you promised you’d keep our love affair a secret,” I deflect clumsily.

Even in the relative dimness of the candle light, Gwen’s eyeroll is impossible to miss. Then, she turns to Kat again: “You don’t like blind dates, do you? You’ve never been on one.”

“I’m not looking for a mate. And even if I was, I’m with Montaigne on this one.”

“Who…” Dan’s apparently been following the conversation, too.

“Michel de Montaigne, the French philosopher… Doesn’t matter. Even if I was desperate, it would still make more sense to base a relationship on friendship and strategic blindness, not blind dates and passionate non-stop fucking.” As she says that last part, she definitely looks irritated. “That’s a twisted, Hollywood-induced idea.”

“That’s very pragmatic,” Gwen says.

“I mean, I don’t necessarily agree with him completely but I also don’t care to go on some weird courtship meeting with a guy who saw my picture,” Kat sounds increasingly annoyed as she stands up, setting her guitar down, and heads for the little appendix of the room, with a little couch underneath the only window we’re allowed to smoke at. As she disappears around the corner, I look up and catch Gwen peering at me. She meets my gaze and gives me a weird smile; not really sure what sentiment it’s supposed to convey. Then she goes back to the bathroom.

I give it an appropriate amount of time, maybe two minutes, before I get up and nonchalantly make my way into the direction Kat just went. When I round the corner, I find her kneeling on the loveseat couch facing the open window with a cigarette in her hand.

“I broke up with my first girlfriend because she was a terrible actress,” I say as I slump down onto the seat beside her. She doesn’t look at me and it feels very pointed. “She kept trying for parts in school plays but all of her auditions involved a dramatic reading of a scene from whatever her favorite TV show at the time was, and the scene always culminated in tears. Every time. She really did cry a lot, that girl… Wonder if she ever got diagnosed with some tear duct disorder…”

“Funny,” Kat finally mumbles, still not looking at me. What did I do?? I thought she was annoyed with Gwen’s blind date suggestion.

“So you’re gonna see Darryl?”

She scoffs. “As previously stated, I’m not desperate enough.” Then, after a pause: “Do you actually think people get into relationships to get laid regularly?”

“Sure, loads of people do. Some don’t, I guess.” I mean, statistically speaking, more people probably end up with someone because it started with sex in one way or another.

“What a drag…”

“Why do I feel like that was the wrong answer?” I eye Kat who’s looking at me now, frowning slightly.

“There’s no wrong answers,” she shrugs and, I’m sure, swallows the rest of what she’s thinking instead of saying it. “Just curious… What are platonic relationships for then? If we’re categorizing things so transactionally…”

“This feels like a trap.”

“You know, if I think about it, I can see how I’m the most emotionally intact person you know.”

“Sounds like an insult but I can’t really tell…” I narrow my eyes at her, smiling, but she just quirks her eyebrows and faces out the window again.

I want to ask her why she’s mad at me, but I also don’t. She didn’t like my comments about men and women, did she? I mean, it makes sense. I didn’t entirely mean what I said either. Although my experience has been something along those lines, so far. I certainly wouldn’t have ended up with Kristine if the world didn’t work like that at least some of the time.

And love? I think I felt that a lot more when I was a teenager. The older I get, the more complicated everything seems. It feels like there’s not enough time to get to know someone enough to figure out if I love them before we either get together or go our separate ways. So, sex is simple.

There’s a loud bang on the apartment door which makes Kat turn around automatically even though we can’t see it from here. “Expecting someone?”

“Hopefully a serial killer,” she says as another lightning flashes outside. She then crushes the cigarette but in a little ashtray, closes the window, and sits down next to me. “I’m guessing it’s Jerry though. He always bangs on our door like he’s being chased.”

“So where do we stand with the whole boot throwing thing?”

“We?”

“That’s the transaction. You throw a boot at a guy’s head – I throw a boot.”

Finally, she smiles, hallelujah! “No physical violence but brutal sarcasm tends to fly over Lizzy’s head so feel free to throw that at him as much as you want.”

“Gotcha,” I grin at her.

I kind of like that she’s upset at what I said, in a weird way. The fact that my opinions on dating got a pretty pronounced reaction out of her somehow feels…constructive. I want her to tell me how I’m totally wrong and why; to spell her every thought out for me. Huh. What is happening here? What do I want with her?? I mean… Nothing specifically. Just sort of everything… What the fuck is that all about?

* * *

“What are you doing?” Dan looks down at me arranging pillows and cushions on a blanket I put down in the middle of the floor.

“Making myself a reading island,” I motion at a little stack of magazines and a few candles at the edge of said island. “What does it look like??”

We all flinch when the muffled howling of wind and the sound of raindrops on the living room skylight is abruptly interrupted by loud banging on our apartment door. Steve swings it open and right as I lay my eyes on Jerry standing in the hallway, there’s a loud bang of thunder and a flash of blue lightning that makes the whole scene suddenly very dramatic.

Turns out he had tried calling Lizzy but telephone lines are also affected by the storm so he couldn’t get through. He heard about a power outage in this part of town and came to check in on ‘us’ (we all know it’s just Lizzy that he wanted to check) and brought quite an impressive assortment of snacks (the perks of a guilty boyfriend). Poor guy had no idea that we have four extra stomachs around tonight; not even five minutes later all the bags, boxes, and packets are open and being enthusiastically snacked on.

At some point we all end up sitting and lounging around with the storm continuing in the background, now joined by crackly music on Kat’s little portable radio, just barely louder than the havoc outside. It’s really humid and the orange tinted darkness makes it feel hotter than it probably is. I’ve noticed some of us started whispering here and there instead of speaking at a normal volume, probably unwittingly. There’s the kind of deep calm in this apartment that I would have never guessed this group of people is capable of relishing. I love storms like this. It almost feels magical, like anything could happen, like people might forget themselves… Eva’s walking around replenishing and relighting some candles when I spot something interesting on the cover of one of the magazines. SECRETS, SCANDALS & SOULMATES: Test Your Love IQ NOW! “Oh, this is perfect.” No one reacts to my words but I’ve decided: “we’re doing this.”

Kat squints at me from the couch where she’s finishing off a bag of potato chips. “You’re about to make us do something really fucked up, aren’t you…” She licks her fingers.

I hold up the magazine, jabbing a finger at it. “Couples quiz.”

Lizzy perks up immediately. “Wait, like those compatibility things?”

“Yes.”

“This is gonna be the easiest A+ of my life,” Jerry leans back in his corner of the couch, putting his arms up behind his head as he does. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Kat whose eyes narrow and nostrils flare momentarily.

“We need two couples.”

Everyone exchanges confused looks for a second; Matt blows a kiss at Eva who frowns at him, then at Steve. “That’s you two, obviously,” I gesture at Lizzy and Jerry. “And you two.” I point at Mark and then at Kat. I know she won’t pass up this opportunity to battle Jerry at least figuratively.

Kat raises an eyebrow. “You’re aware we’re not—”

“You are for the next ten minutes,” I cut her off and look at Mark who’s the only contestant not already sitting on the couch. “Sit.”

“Novak doesn’t really like me much right now… It might be hazardous for my health to sit—”

“Just sit down,” Kat says quietly as if the volume is going to distract from the fact she just agreed to play pretend a couple with Mark. “This is gonna be stupid.”

“That’s the point,” I cackle. That and seeing just how compatible this future couple is.

Mark takes a seat next to Kat and the contrast between the two teams, let’s say, is hilariously stark: Lizzy is snuggled up against Jerry who’s looking a touch too relaxed, if you ask me… While Kat’s curled up with her chin on her knee and Mark is sitting with his ankles crossed, no part of the two of them touching one another.

“Okay. First question: how does your boyfriend or girlfriend take their coffee?”

I barely have enough time to finish the sentence when Mark and Kat answer at the exact same time.

“Intravenously.”

“With a gun to his head.”

Everyone laughs, then Matt and Eva join Steve and Dan at the dining table to watch this spectacle from there. I lower the magazine and look at Lizzy and Jerry. “Lizzy, same question.”

Lizzy doesn’t hesitate. “With milk.”

Jerry pauses and looks at her. “I usually drink coffee black, maybe some sugar…”

Lizzy frowns. “You don’t drink it black.”

“I do.”

“Youadd milk, I’ve seen you do it…”

“Sometimes.”

“Really? I thought you pretty much always add milk…”

Jerry shakes his head with a chuckle. “That’s not—”

Okay, let’s move on before this turns into a court case. “Order! Next question. Can your boyfriend or girlfriend cook? What’s their signature dish?”

Mark doesn’t even look at Kat. “Come on, these questions are a waste of paper.”

Kat tilts her head, deep in thought, by the looks of it. “Shockingly, he kind of can.” Everyone turns to her. “I mean, he can boil water. Did you guys know that?? He made me mac and cheese last week. He used sun dried tomatoes,” she adds for…clarification, I guess.

“Wait, was it that night you came home wearing his sweater?” Eva grins at Kat. Yes! Good job, Eva!

“Yes, now move it along. Lizzy?” Kat gestures over at her very demonstratively while Mark, I notice, sits quietly, looking extremely pleased.

“Umm…”

“Interesting,” I hear Steve say.

“Jerry, how about you take this one?” I look at the guy.

“You made really delicious scrambled eggs the other morning.”

“Eva made those…” Lizzy droops visibly. Wow. Rocky start…

“Alright, let me skip ahead to some more imaginative questions,” I say quickly as I scan down the list in the flickering light of candles. “Okay… Ah, what is their most used phrase? Lizzy, Jerry?”

They look at each other, the cogs in their heads obviously working overtime. “Hmm.”

“I can’t really think of anything,” Lizzy says.

“We don’t speak in catchphrases,” Jerry smiles at her.

“Boring but I guess we’ll count that. Kat, Mark?”

“Statistically speaking,” Mark starts, peering at Kat. “You swear a lot.”

“So do you,” she says slowly and I can tell she’s holding back an involuntary smile.

“That feels correct.”

“Yeah. Probably some variation of fuck.”

“Classic,” Mark grins.

“Actually, I’d like to make an amendment, if the judge will allow,” Kat perks up a little.

“Permission granted.”

“You,” she turns back to Mark, “say my last name a lot.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement from our audience at the dining table.

“I mean… Yeah.” Mark shrugs. Nothing else, no comment, just straightforward admittance.

“Also boring but very accurate… Next question! What does your partner think is a dealbreaker in a relationship?”

“There’s a laundry list,” Mark grins.

“Where do I begin…” Kat starts at the same time; everyone chuckles. “Wait, Mark… You do know this is a question about what you don’t tolerate, not what other people wouldn’t tolerate about you,” Kat pulls a funny face at him.

“Cheating then, I guess.”

“Ah. Very good. And boredom,” she adds.

“Yeah,” Mark nods. “Sustained boredom. Sexual acts, if we’re being more explicit on the cheating part. Cheating at cards is tolerated.”

A brief silence follows Mark’s clarification; Kat bites back a smug smile with her eyes darted to the floor. Surely, instead of staring Jerry square in the face.

“I’d say not putting in effort,” Lizzy speaks up. “You know, if someone’s not trying, not prioritizing the relationship.”

Jerry nods slowly. “Yeah, I mean… Sure.”

“Umm…” I mark down the points without voicing them. “Next: how important is money to them?”

Once again, Kat and Mark speak at the same time: “Not very.”

“Who are you answering for?”

“Him,” Kat points at Mark while he says ‘her’ at the same time. They could not be more in synch if they tried and they must be noticing it too because now they seem to make a deliberate point to not look at each other.

“And? Is it correct for both of you?” I grin at them.

“Sure,” Mark says while Kat shrugs and nods. Still not looking at each other.

Lizzy speaks up: “Not that important.”

“For…you?” Jerry looks at her.

“For you…”

“I mean,” he starts slowly, “It’s kind of important.”

“Not that important though, right?” Lizzy looks at him sweetly.

“It is if you don’t have any…”

“Next question,” I cut it off abruptly. Why on earth are these two trying to start a domestic dispute with every answer!? I thought they were good…I mean, aside from the obvious. “Okay, there we go… What do they value most in a relationship?”

“You value all the same things I do, I think,” Lizzy looks at her sweetheart as she answers. “You know, communication, respect, loyalty…”

Kat makes an abrupt sound that’s neither a cough nor a laugh. Jerry’s eyes flicker in the dimness as he shoots her a quick glance that goes unnoticed by Lizzy.

“Kat? Same question.”

“Getting laid, apparently,” she delivers in deadpan monotone.

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kat finally looks at Mark -- with mock confusion. “What’s the nuanced version?”

“It’s a contributing factor,” he says with an ounce of uncertainty and a goofy smile. “It contributes to the value…”

“Wow. Poetry.”

“Okay, I have to give this point to Lizzy and Jerry so that’s…” I consult the tally I’m keeping on the bottom of the page, “five to one.”

“Five to one!?” Jerry doesn’t seem so relaxed anymore, poor guy. Kat though looks like she’s enjoying the game more and more.

“You’ll catch up. Next question… Ooh. Who holds grudges longer?”

There’s a pause, only Matt’s loud chewing is audible over the sound of the rainstorm for a moment. Then Jerry speaks. “Probably me.”

“Unfortunately,” Kat mumbles quietly but not enough so that it could be ignored.

“You say something?” Jerry leans forward to look at her around Lizzy while Lizzy in turn just whines Kat’s name.

“Me? I don’t think so,” Kat shrugs.

“Behave,” I look at her, then shuffle my attention to Mark. “Mark, same question.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to say for self-preservation purposes,” I wink at him. Kat rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Alright, moving on… Who starts arguments more?”

Once again, Jerry and Lizzy are frozen with hesitation. I’m sure neither one of them wants this answer to serve as the beginning of their next fight, so they both just shrug and mumble something about not fighting much. Mark and Kat, in the meantime, immediately point at each other.

“You start arguments about concepts, just to see what people will say,” Mark smirks at her.

“You start arguments about nothing at all, not even a solid concept behind it,” she laughs and, by the looks of it, they’re both in agreement.

“Moving on… Who has more exes?” I look at Lizzy and Jerry. Surely they can get this one right.

“Uh…”

“I’m not sure, actually,” Lizzy squints slightly.

“Maybe you?” Jerry shrugs.

“Why me??” Her voice goes up slightly.

“I don’t know, maybe I do?” He shrugs again. The ice is so painfully thin on that end of the couch…

“Kat?”

“Likely Mark.”

“Why me?” Mark laughs out staring at Kat.

“Sexual gratification has a much faster turnover rate than emotional connection,” she pulls her shoulders into a stiff shrug while Mark slowly turns his whole upper body to face her. This is actually hilarious.

“Why are you so upset that I said that?” He’s smiling at her. Yes, perfect. Less Lizzy and Jerry drama, more Mark and Kat! This is how it’s supposed to go!

“I’m not upset.”

“You seem upset.”

“You do,” I agree with Mark and earn myself a death glare from the redhead. “Okay, fine… We’ll get back to that later,” I cackle. “Next question! Who is more romantic?” Oh I can’t wait for Kat’s answer but first, I turn to Lizzy and Jerry.

“Me,” they both say at the same time.

“I mean, we both are, but it sort of comes with being the guy in a relationship. I’m supposed to woo you, not the other way around.”

“Is that what you call that?” Kat mumbles and Jerry sits up quickly again to look at her.

“You want to elaborate on that?”

“Disregard her, it’s a compulsion,” I assure him.

“It really is, I’ll stop…” Kat sinks into the couch a little as she mumbles with a guilty glance at Lizzy.

“Mark, Kat, same question.”

“Define romantic?” Mark looks at me.

“Definitely me, considering Mark revealed to us that he gets into relationships for the sole purpose of getting laid.”

“Oh my god, will you stop going on about that. Mark, just take your stupid words back so we can move on.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I hate to be the one to point this out,” Eva starts, “but you did just break off a friends with benefits relationship recently. The benefits being kind of the whole basis of that sort of thing…”

“Next question!” Kat yells, making people laugh.

“Who’s more invested in the relationship?”

“Me,” Mark says immediately.

“Delusional,” Kat scoffs.

“I’ve been carrying this relationship emotionally.”

“I’ve been carrying it physically.”

“I’ve given you three beautiful boys,” Mark wipes a fake tear as he points at his bandmates with a dramatically wide sweep of his other hand.

“And it’s ruined your hip joints… Hence the physical carrying.”

“Okay you weirdos, I’ve heard enough… Lizzy, Jerry?” I look over at them.

Lizzy answers immediately. “We both are.”

Jerry hesitates, just slightly. “Yeah. I mean… Yeah.”

She turns to him with a soft smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just… Yeah, both.”

“You hesitated,” she points out, still smiling, but it’s tighter now.

“I didn’t hesitate.”

“You did a little.”

“I was just thinking about the question.”

“It’s a pretty straightforward question.”

“Okay,” he exhales, a hint of ire creeping in. “Then yeah, we’re both equally invested.” Another pause.

“Great!” I clap my hands together. “Mutual investment. Love to see it. Now, what’s their biggest red flag?” I read the question out loud before I have time to process it. Oh no. Lizzy and Jerry better behave themselves or we’re throwing them a relationship intervention party.

“He uses humor as a social crutch,” Kat doesn’t miss a beat.

“She weaponizes insight,” Mark shoots back.

“That’s not a red flag, that’s a skill.”

“Not mutually exclusive.”

“I’m writing down ‘deeply concerning but wildly compatible’,” I say as I tap the page with my pen. “Lizzy, Jerry?”

“Only green flags here,” Jerry grins at his girlfriends – I think they have officially moved on to these terms since Lizzy took him back.

“I know you’re not gonna give me a good answer Lizzy,” I wrinkle my nose at her as she giggles. “So moving on, what does your boyfriend or girlfriend misunderstand about you?”

“I mean,” Jerry starts slowly. Oh come on, what do you mean!? “Probably a lot of things…”

“Really?” Lizzy looks at him alarmed.

“Just because we’re still getting to know each other… Not in any big, meaningful way, you know?”

“I guess… Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. I’d like to think I also understand a lot of things about you…”

“You definitely do,” Jerry smiles at her warmly as he rubs the back of her hand with his thumb. Lizzy seems like she accepts the answer. Finally, some normal young couple behavior.

“Come on, you two,” I shift my gaze to Mark and Kat. “Maybe something a little more real for an answer?”

“What do you mean, real?” Kat’s pitch goes up. “My answers have been very real.”

“You think I don’t take things seriously,” Mark says, his arms folded, gaze casually rested on his feet or the floor, can’t tell.

“That’s only because you don’t.”

“I do,” he says, short and simple. “Just not out loud.”

There’s a pause. I don’t think I’m the only one who feels like we’re suddenly witnessing a glimmer of something deeply personal here but nobody says anything.

“Okay,” Kat says, a touch softer, also looking somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. “That’s fair.”

“Kat?” I prod her on.

“Huh?” She looks up at me.

“Your answer?”