Jae Ham
"She changed her number. Her email address. She deleted all of her social accounts," I grumble, crossing my arms on the square wooden table, burying my face in my arms.
"Dude," Res says, warily pulling the empty can of beer from my hand. "You need to sleep."
"One more," I say between hiccups, flailing my hands in the air. "Three more."
I can feel someone patting my head. "You said one, not that I was gonna give you any. Bro, it's one in the morning. You chugged at least thirty cans.."
"You're exaggerating."
"No, I'm actually being nice. You emptied more than fifty cans and threw up four times in the toilet, twice in the bathroom sink, once in the kitchen sink. Luckily for you, I'm your best friend, and this isn't the first time I played nurse."
"Just one more beer.." My words are slurring, my vision is blurring, and my head is spinning. I can't even open my eyes because my lids are too heavy..
I hear Res release a heavy sigh. "You moved on from Melanie. You can move on from Sage too."
My jaw clenches. I force myself wrench my eyes open to glare up at my best friend. "Bullshit, Res. It's easy to say that when it's not your problem. It's not your life. It's not your pain."
"Jae." Res eyes me with sympathy, which I loathe. "You asked for two weeks, and she gave it to you. Need I remind you that it was you who said, that whatever decision she makes, you'll respect it?"
Now he's pitying me, which I despise as well. I grit my teeth as I glance up at him irritably. "You don't get it. No one will ever understand how I feel."
"Come on, man.. it's not like you're in love with her, right?"
When I don't respond, his green eyes widen, and he runs a hand through his brown hair. "Dude? Have you fallen for Sage? How long?"
Again, I say nothing, but Res, like me, isn't easily deterred. "Since when did you like her?" he persists, trying to goad a reply, to no avail. "Do you love her?"
I raise my head, finding a pair of green eyes that look at me eagerly, expecting an answer. But I remain quiet as I bang my forehead on the table, while Res grunts in dismay.
"Get me more alcohol," I demand.
Penelope Day
Monday morning finds me in the living room of the apartment I share with Arrow.
I'm in a sports bra, yoga pants, my wavy hair is in a high, ginger ponytail, and I'm performing my daily workout session, which consists of following the dance-exercise video on the wide flat screen television.
After three hours of exercise, I feel exhausted as I enter my bedroom, making a beeline for the bedside drawer containing the brown envelope, which I take out and stare at for a full minute before carrying it into the kitchen.
Once I've gotten hold of a lighter, I approach the kitchen sink and click the lighter to life, setting the envelope on fire.
"Shit," I say in panic when the smoke detector goes off, sending an ear-piercing noise throughout the whole apartment, alerting the fire department of my epic screw-up.
They'll be here any minute. I'm hopping with agitation, chanting, "Come on, come on!" At the half-burnt envelope dangling from my thumb and index finger.
"Whew," I breathe, watching intently as the last centimeter of paper vanishes into dust. I twist open the faucet and let the cold water erase any incriminating evidence in my possession.
DING DONG DING DONG
"Is anyone home?" booms a man's voice. "This is the Los Angeles Fire Department. Kindly open the door."
At lightning speed, I sprint into my bedroom, grab a bunch of random stuff, and toss it into the trash can, which I rush onto the coffee table in the living room. I throw the lighter in before hastily opening the door, summoning an innocent smile on my face.
"Good morning, officers. How may I help you?" I'm panting, but I'm in yoga pants, so that's a good alibi.
A group of muscular males in their late twenties politely ask to come inside. I open the door wider to permit them entry, hoping I look innocuous and nonchalant.
They conduct the usual protocol of checking all rooms even though my bullshit excuse for the fire is sitting on the living room's coffee table. I fed them the lie that I was, out of anger and bitterness, burning some items that my crappy ex gave me.
To my relief, the firemen wore looks that said, "This isn't the first time this happened." Then they gave me a short speech about not doing it again, to be wary of fire, and to move on from my horrible relationship.
The youngest fireman, whom I'm guessing is in his early twenties, just a few years older than I am, shows me a shy smile as he slowly lets his co-workers leave the apartment first.
"Hey, are you single?" he asks timidly.
"Yes, I am." I return his smile, because he seems nice, and he's cute.
Mr. Cute Fireman nervously rubs his nape while gazing at me. "Can I have your number?"
"I'm gay," I confess before he gets too hurt.
"Oh." His shoulders sag in disappointment. We both hear his superiors calling his name. He looks so disheartened, I can't help but feel bad for him.
But the thing is.. I'm honestly attracted to him, despite my preference of girls. "Wait," I say abruptly when he turns to leave. He looks at me, hope filling his eyes. "Um, can I write here?" I ask dubiously, unsure where to jot down my digits because his uniform covers everything but his face.
"Sure," he beams, holding out his glove-clad palm.
I don't know what I'm doing, but it feels right.
