Boys Like Daniel

1. The Morning After

W aking up next to someone used to mean something. At least, that’s what I thought. Now, it only means I drank enough not to go home alone.

The ceiling fan clicks with every turn—a sharp, disquieting sound.

Sunlight creeps through the blinds, casting shadow bars across the rumpled sheets now twisted around my legs.

I stare up at the uneven rotations of the fan blades, willing time to rewind, as if I watch long enough, last night might unravel itself.

The sheets reek of sweat, smoke, and sex, like the club the night before, familiar and forgettable. My head throbs, like it always does the morning after, but it’s not the alcohol. It’s the emptiness that takes longer to shake. Twenty-four shouldn’t feel this used up.

Shifting to free my numb arm wedged beneath a body I don’t remember inviting up, Rick—whatever his last name is—stirs beside me, mumbling something into the pillow before stretching and rolling onto his stomach.

He flops one arm over the far edge of the bed and looks comfortable.

Too comfortable—as if he thinks he belongs here.

It’s clear now we ended up back at my apartment: not his place, not the car, not the bathroom at the park like a month ago. No, last night we ended up back here, my apartment in 2B, where Daniel Whitmire lives.

I’m careful not to wake him. Not out of kindness but because I’m not ready to talk.

Not to him, not about anything. Sitting up, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

My jeans are crumpled on the floor, as if I stumbled in at 2:00 a.m. and peeled them off half-conscious and in a rush, leaving the mess for the morning.

Last night was a repeat of the routine: eye contact, the right half-smile, a drink, then more.

Sliding my jeans back on, I wonder when this stopped feeling like freedom and started feeling like a form of forgetting.

Shirtless, I pad to the bathroom, sidestepping the laundry basket and last night’s bar shirt.

I brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face, avoiding the mirror until I accidentally glance into it out of habit.

The reflection stares back with tired eyes and a too-practiced detachment—like nothing touches me—like I’m just passing through.

From the bedroom, Rick stirs and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like my name.

“Don’t go back to sleep,” I call out. “I’ll walk you down.”

He sits up, blinking against the light. “Are you always this polite?”

“No,” I say, grabbing a clean shirt off the back of a chair. “But it’s a building with nosy neighbors.”

“Subtle,” he says as he dresses, smiling as though last night was more than what it was. He’s not my type in the daylight; he’s too young, too hopeful.

Moving to the kitchen, I decide not to make coffee.

There’s no reason to give Rick cause to linger—nor give him any more of myself than I already have.

Leaning against the counter, I hear a dog bark outside, a car starting, and the sound of Rick’s piss cutting through the surface of the toilet water through the open bathroom door.

The throb of the nightclub’s bass is gone. The script played out as expected: the flirtation, the undressing, the cadence of fucking—like an actor hitting all of his marks. Still, some part of me hoped it might feel different this time. It doesn’t.

I know what to expect afterward: the disinterest and angst, the clean-up, the new name I won’t remember. I don’t feel hungover, just hollow, like I spent something I didn’t have. It feels like Sunday—another weekend lost and folded into the emptiness of all the ones before it.

He walks into the kitchen, hair tousled, shirt clinging to his chest. “Any coffee?”

“I’ve got to run some errands,” I say. It’s not a lie. It’s just undefined.

He nods, looking around like the place might tell him who Daniel Whitmire is. It won’t. The apartment is sparse: a couch, some records, books I haven’t read. There are no photos to cherish, no phone to talk to people, no past to answer for.

“Here,” he says, scribbling his number on a receipt from his wallet. “We should hang out again.”

It lands in the palm of my hand and then on the counter behind me.

Rick lingers a second, maybe hoping for something more. A kiss? A reason? He gets neither as I walk toward the door to hold it open for him.

Taking the stairs down the three floors to the street, he talks about the club, the music, and meeting me. He says I looked like someone who wasn’t there for the music. Who says I was there at all? But he’s not wrong. Nodding, I let him go on, letting him believe I’m still half-listening .

Outside, he brushes my arm. It barely registers.

“You’re not gonna call, are you?”

I meet his eyes. “No.”

He submits a small, resigned smile. “Didn’t think so,” and turns to head to his car.

Humidity curls the ends of my hair, and Midtown moves around me: buses, traffic, people spilling out of the twenty-four-hour nightclub or heading to church in their Sunday best. Both groups worship their chosen salvation: different sanctuaries, yet the same hunger.

I need coffee. Down Juniper, past the florist and bookstore, there’s a café near the corner of Piedmont and North Avenue. It’s not my usual spot, but something pulls me in that direction. Maybe the wind or the chance to disappear.

Corner Café has open windows and a line of patio tables with umbrellas shimmering under the morning light.

I push the door open, and a small bell overhead jangles with forced cheer.

The air inside is cooler and smells like cinnamon and over-brewed espresso.

I order a black coffee with sugar, then step outside to wait under the awning, still shaking off the effects of last night and the thought of Rick peeing in my bathroom.

That’s when I spot them inside the café, across the room, by the windows—two guys at a table in summer clothes. They look too stylish to sweat. The taller one faces me, laughing at something the other in a short-sleeved button-down said. I know that laugh, that grin, that face.

Kevin Summers.

My heart stutters while everything else freezes. I can’t remember the color of Rick’s eyes, or if I even looked, but I remember Kevin’s: that shade of green you only see right before a storm .

He’s broader in the shoulders and more muscular now—he’s grown into his stocky build.

His hair is shorter than I recall; his well-groomed, wavy locks are now cut close to his head like a man in the military.

That’s it—that’s what’s different—Kevin looks like a man now.

Still, he wears that expression like he’s listening with his whole face.

The shorter, leaner, blond guy across from him reaches for Kevin’s hand and doesn’t let go. They’re mid-conversation, casual, and comfortable. They’re close—close enough to matter.

Seeing him hits like a sudden riptide beneath still water. I don’t move—I can’t. My mouth goes dry. My fingers curl against the denim in my pockets. Kevin looks happy. Settled. The other guy leans in to say something, and Kevin touches his wrist in response. It’s a touch of familiarity—of intimacy.

It feels surreal, but it is him. He’s right there and not alone.

I step backward into the awning’s shadow and instinctively turn before he sees me. For a second, I consider walking over and saying his name, explaining what happened four years ago that night. But I’m not ready—not like this.

I don’t look back until I’ve turned the corner, my heart still hammering. The air feels heavier, and I’m two blocks away before realizing I never got my coffee. It doesn’t matter. My heart is beating too fast anyway. The last time I ran from Kevin, he was naked, and I was twenty.

Kevin is in Atlanta, and he’s not alone.

I haven’t seen him in four years, but one look—and everything I’ve buried comes rushing back.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Just surprise. Just curiosity.

So why does it feel like the beginning of something I can’t undo?