There’s Something Wrong with Jordie Mitchell

TWENTY-SEVEN

CALLUM

The clink of jars and the cold, clean precision of bottles dull the static still circling from tonight. Not even the symmetry of the lined-up iced coffees—labels facing out the same way—can erase the way she looked at me or how close we’d come to . . . something.

The fridge beeps at me. I don’t know how long it’s been open. Most of the contents sit on the counter. Produce. Jars. Containers.

My eyes catch on the Sriracha bottle. Red, green-lidded, bright against the dull clutter.

Jordie and I once had a spirited debate about where the Sriracha goes once opened.

Pantry or fridge.

Stay or go.

Friend or—

Now, I wonder if there’s any way to put everything back in its place.

But there’s not.