“I think your friend Amy is still here. Better hurry,” I suggest.
Without another word, she dashes out the front door, bare back on full display. The smoke alarm finally does us all a favor and cuts off, providing enough silence for me to catch the low chatter coming from Gage’s end of the hallway.
I think his room is empty at first, but after walking in and looking toward the en suite bathroom, I find them. Heston is sitting on the counter, one leg bent and propped up on Blythe’s vanity stool. Warren sits on the edge of the tub, legs spread and resting his elbows on his knees. Gage is leaning against the wall with one boot crossed casually over the other.
Each one of them has a lit cigar in their hand.
I cough and wave my arm through the air as smoke billows toward me. Before yanking the stool from under Heston’s foot for me to sit on, I crack the nearest window.
“Saved you one,” Gage says, holding a cigar in my direction.
My mouth curves into a crooked grin as I take it from him and trap it between my teeth.
“In our twenties, this would have been a red,” Warren says, holding up his cigar to inspect it in the light.
Heston chimes in with a sigh. “Be a lot cooler if it was.”
“Don’t tell Blythe, by the way,” Gage adds. “These were supposed to be for the wedding. And Tripp, you owe me.”
“That’s bull, I don’t owe you shit. I didn’t snitch to Warren when you started banging the living daylights out of his little sister. I’d say we’re even.”
Gage chokes on a thick puff of smoke, and Warren rubs at his temples like he wishes, for the millionth time, he could erase the image. Riling them up is so elementary. I get way too much enjoyment out of it.
Heston leans over to shove my shoulder, harder than I saw coming, because I slam into the wall next to me. That meansshut upin caveman. I lift my arm to shove him back, but he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and tosses it right at my chest instead.
“Thanks.”
It doesn’t take long before we hear the distinct sound of stomping from the stairs to the loft where Blythe and Sav were having a girls’ night.
“Shit,” Gage mumbles, tossing his cigar in the sink. Warren follows suit immediately.
The pair of stomps grow closer, now echoing in the hallway. I lean toward the open door to give us away. “In here!”
Heston and I make eye contact while the other two try and fail to dart out of the bathroom at the same time. They can’tbothfit through the narrow doorway, so it’s a full-on fight for who’s going to look less guilty and make it back to their beds first.
For the first time in, maybe ever, Heston is as amused as I am. With the cigar still in his mouth, he adjusts the brim of his hat and laughs. It’s low and short-lived. But it’s there.
It’s a wonder why, in this moment, instead of laughing along, I sober up and an unsettling clarity sinks in. The feeling itself is awful, and it’s the exact reason I usually distract myself with women or another drink—to avoid thoughts like this one.
The new and confusing disconnect between my brain and my dick is one thing to stress over. More concerning though, is the fact that I’m missing something that’s still right in front of me.
Against my will, change is threatening to shake things up even more than it already has. The older we get, the more different things become. I know that. Butfuck,it pisses me off. I made theperfectlife, and I’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much. It’s disturbing to think I don’t have much choice in the matter.
After nodding toward Heston, I trudge back to my empty room. It’s quiet compared to its normal state. No stray undergarments hanging from the ceiling fan. No disruptiveprank knocks at my door or rambunctious music filtering in from the living room.
I hate it.
3
MESA
I never should have installedWi-Fi at my cottage. The virtual meeting requests are really starting to fuck with the vibes.
My shoulders drop as the Zoom invite pings like a bad omen. Knowing it pertains to an important email I received earlier this week, I don’t have the luxury of declining this one.
It’s my own fault. If I wanted to be left alone, I shouldn’t have helped create an app that ended up selling for eight figures, with stocks and a percentage of sales for the next five years. Even after stepping away from the finished product, the work never ends. Notreally.
I was raised to believe that a combination of higher education and good old-fashioned hard work would help set me up for life. My mom was the one who encouraged that rigorous approach, and while staring my career options in the face at the ripe age of eighteen, I’d have sooner jumped headfirst into a woodchipper than disappoint her. I grew up admiring her success and independence. With time, I believed that it would all work out in the end for me too if I trusted her advice.
