Chapter 3
Kent
My alarm was the first to go off in the morning.
I reached toward the bedside table to silence it, but the table wasn’t there.
Thinking I’d just rolled to the center, I reached further, hoping to find it.
With a thwump I hit the floor hard, groaning as the cheap carpet dug into my skin.
My eyes peeled open at last, and I saw the couch, the unfamiliar apartment, and the side table where my phone kept ringing over and over again.
Fuck. I’d completely forgotten about crashing at James’s place.
I pushed myself up off the floor, my shoulder aching from the impact. The apartment was dim, early morning light barely filtering through the thin curtains. I fumbled for my phone on the side table, squinting at the screen. Six-fifteen. Jesus Christ, who the hell set an alarm for six-fifteen?
Then I remembered. I did. Because I had a seven o’clock meeting with the site manager about the Belltown project, and the commute from Brittany’s place—from my old place—took half an hour.
Except I wasn’t at my old place anymore. I was in Capitol Hill, in a studio apartment that smelled like lavender and clean linens.
I silenced the alarm and sat there on the floor for a moment, letting reality settle over me like a wet blanket.
This was my life now. Crashing on my stepbrother’s couch because my girlfriend had kicked me out.
Rock fucking bottom. At least I had an extra fifteen minutes to get ready, not that it made things any better.
From across the room, I could hear James breathing. Soft, even breaths. Still asleep. Of course he was. Normal people didn’t wake up at the ass crack of dawn unless they had to. I glanced over at his bed, just barely making out his form under the covers, turned toward the wall.
My mouth tasted like something had died in it. I needed coffee. I needed a shower. I needed to get my shit together and get to work so I could pretend my life wasn’t falling apart.
I stood, my knees cracking loud enough that I winced, waiting to see if James would stir. He didn’t. Good. The last thing I needed was an awkward morning conversation about feelings or boundaries or whatever the hell gay shit he’d want to talk about.
I made my way to the bathroom, each footstep feeling too loud on the hardwood.
The soggy box was still sitting in the tub where James had left it, looking even worse in the morning light.
I’d deal with it later. Right now, I just needed to piss and brush my teeth and figure out where the hell James kept his coffee.
The bathroom was exactly what I’d expected.
Neat. Organized. Expensive-looking products lined up on the shelf above the sink.
There was moisturizer, face wash, and some kind of serum.
I picked up one of the bottles and read the label.
Retinol night cream. Sixty dollars. I set it back down, shaking my head. He was worse than Brittany.
After I finished in the bathroom, I crept back out into the main room. James was still asleep, his breathing unchanged. I moved toward the kitchen area, if you could even call it that. It was more like a corner with a small fridge, a two-burner stove, and about three feet of counter space.
I opened the cabinets as quietly as I could, searching for coffee. The first cabinet had dishes: white plates stacked neatly, matching bowls, glasses arranged by size. The second had food. Organic this, gluten-free that. A bag of quinoa. Fucking quinoa. I was living with someone who ate quinoa.
Finally, in the third cabinet, I found it. Coffee. But not just any coffee. It was some fancy shit in a bag with a label that looked hand-drawn. Small batch roasted. Single origin. Twelve dollars, probably, for eight ounces.
I grabbed it anyway. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The coffee maker was one of those pour-over setups, all glass and faux luxury. I stared at it for a long moment, trying to figure out how the hell it worked, then gave up and just looked for a regular pot. There wasn’t one. Of course there wasn’t.
“Fuck it,” I muttered under my breath, filling the electric kettle I found next to the sink.
The kettle was loud as it heated up, a low rumble that seemed to fill the entire apartment. I watched James’s bed, waiting for him to wake up, but he still didn’t move. The guy slept like the dead.
While the water heated, I pulled open the fridge, looking for something to eat. Milk. Well, almond milk, actually. Some vegetables in the crisper. Eggs. Butter. A container of leftover pasta. And there, on the top shelf, a package of bacon.
My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything real since lunch yesterday, unless you counted the protein bar I’d stolen from James last night. I pulled out the bacon and the eggs, setting them on the counter.
The kettle clicked off, and I poured water through the pour-over setup, making a complete mess of it. Coffee grounds floated on top of the water. The stream was uneven, splashing onto the counter. But eventually, something resembling coffee dripped into the mug below. It would have to do.
I took a sip. It was terrible. Weak and bitter at the same time. But it was caffeine, and that was all that mattered.
I turned my attention to the stove, pulling out a pan from the cabinet below. The bacon went in first, sizzling immediately as it hit the hot surface. The smell filled the apartment—grease and salt and protein. Real food. Man food.
I cracked three eggs into the pan once the bacon was done, watching them bubble and pop in the rendered fat. I didn’t bother looking for a spatula. I just used a fork to scramble them, scraping the bottom of the pan with metallic screeches that cut through the morning quiet.
Behind me, I heard movement. Sheets rustling. A soft groan.
I glanced over my shoulder. James was sitting up in bed, his hair sticking up at odd angles, squinting toward the kitchen with confusion on his face.
“Morning,” I said, turning back to the eggs.
“What...” His voice was rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”
“Making breakfast.” I scooped the eggs onto a plate I’d grabbed from the cabinet, then added the bacon. “You want some?”
“It’s six-thirty in the morning.”
“Yeah. So?”
He rubbed his face with both hands, and I heard him exhale slowly. “I don’t usually eat until eight or nine.”
“Well, I’ve got work at seven.” I grabbed a fork and started eating, standing right there at the counter. The eggs were good. A little overcooked maybe, but good. The bacon was perfect. Crispy on the edges, but still chewy in the middle.
James climbed out of bed, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that had ridden up slightly, showing a strip of his toned stomach. He padded over to the kitchen, looking at the mess I’d made. Coffee grounds on the counter. Grease splattered on the stove. The pan still sitting there, unwashed.
“You could’ve asked before using my stuff,” he said quietly.
“You were asleep.” I shoved another forkful of eggs into my mouth. “Besides, I’ll replace it. Relax.”
“That’s what you said about the protein bar.”
I looked up at him, irritated. “Jesus, James. It’s just food. I’m not robbing you blind. And I didn’t exactly have time to go grocery shopping between getting kicked out and ending up here, did I?”
I realized my mistake the moment the words left my lips, but he didn’t respond. He just stood there, arms crossed, looking at the disaster I’d made of his pristine kitchen. His jaw was tight, and I could see him biting back whatever he wanted to say.
Good. I didn’t need a lecture this early in the morning.
I finished the eggs and dropped my plate in the sink. “I’ll clean up when I get home tonight.”
“Sure you will.”
There was an edge to his voice that caught me off guard. I turned to look at him, really look at him, and saw something in his expression I didn’t recognize. Not fear like when we were younger. Something harder.
“You got a problem?” I asked, stepping closer.
He held my gaze for a moment, then looked away. “No. No problem.”
“Good.” I grabbed my phone off the side table and headed toward the bathroom. “Because this is already weird enough without you being pissy about some eggs.”
I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away, but he didn’t say anything else. The bathroom door closed behind me with a solid click, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
This was fine. Everything was fine. James was still the same pushover he’d always been, and I’d be out of here in two weeks. I just needed to keep my head down, save up some cash for a deposit on a new place, and not let his passive-aggressive bullshit get under my skin.
I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. Steam began to fill the small bathroom, fogging up the mirror. I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the spray, letting the hot water beat down on my shoulders.
As I stood there, I couldn’t shake the image of James’s face when he’d looked at me.
That hardness. That flash of something I’d seen in his eyes before, years ago, when I’d pushed him too far one time and he’d actually shoved me back.
Just once. Then he’d apologized immediately, practically in tears, like he’d committed murder.
I scrubbed shampoo through my hair, working it into a lather. The bottle was some organic bullshit that smelled like tea tree oil. Everything in this apartment was organic or sustainable or ethically sourced. It was exhausting just being around it.
By the time I got out of the shower, James was back in bed, covers pulled up to his chin, facing the wall again. Playing dead. Whatever. If he wanted to pout, that was his business.
I got dressed in yesterday’s clothes since they were the only dry things I had and grabbed my keys. The garbage bags in my truck would have to wait. I didn’t have time to dig through wet laundry to find work clothes.
“I’ll be back around six,” I called out as I headed for the door.
No response.
“James.”
“I heard you.”
His voice was muffled by the pillow, but I caught the irritation in it. I almost said something, almost turned around and told him to grow the fuck up, but I bit it back. I needed this place. I needed him to let me stay. Starting a fight on day one would be stupid.
So instead, I left, pulling the door shut behind me maybe a little harder than necessary.
The stairwell was cold, and I could hear someone’s TV blaring through one of the doors as I passed.
The same curry smell from last night, or maybe it was a permanent fixture in the building.
When I pushed through the front door, the morning air hit me like a slap.
It was crisp and damp, a typical Seattle autumn.
My truck was right where I’d left it, and miraculously, no one had stolen my shit from the bed. I climbed in, started the engine, and sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel.
My phone buzzed. A text from my dad.
Dad: Haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything okay?
I stared at the message. The old man had a radar for when things went wrong in my life. It was like he could smell failure from across town.
Me: Yeah, all good. Just busy with work.
I sent it before I could second-guess myself, then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and pulled out into traffic.
The drive to the Belltown site took twenty minutes, and I spent most of it trying not to think about the look on James’s face when he’d seen the mess I’d made.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. It didn’t bother me.
He was being dramatic about some spilled coffee grounds and dirty dishes.
But that’s what he did. He overreacted to everything and made mountains out of molehills.
But something about it sat wrong in my gut.
I cranked up the radio, letting some classic rock station drown out my thoughts, and focused on the road ahead.
Work was work, of course. The site manager was pissed about something with the electrical subcontractor, and I spent two hours mediating between grown men who acted like children. By lunch, I had a headache that wouldn’t quit and a growing sense that this day was going to be a long one.
I grabbed a sandwich from a food truck and ate it in my vehicle, scrolling through rental listings on my phone.
Everything was too expensive or too far away or required first and last month’s rent plus a deposit.
I’d blown through most of my savings on that trip to Vegas with the guys from work last month.
Yet another thing Brittany had been pissed about.
You’re irresponsible, Kent. You’re almost thirty and you have nothing to show for it.
I deleted the rental app and opened a different one. Dating apps. Maybe that’s what I needed. A distraction. Someone new. Someone who wasn’t going to nag me about my life choices. Maybe and old woman with some cash and a spare room.
I swiped through a few profiles, not really paying attention. Blonde. Brunette. Redhead. They all looked the same after a while. Smiling. Posing. Looking for something serious or something casual or something in between.
I closed the app.
My phone buzzed again. Another text.
Mark: Hey Kent, it’s Mark. Heard you and Brittany split. You need a place?
I stared at the message. Word traveled fast, apparently. Brittany must have been running her mouth to everyone we knew.
Me: Already got something figured out. Thanks though.
The reply came fast.
Mark: Cool. Let me know if you need anything. We should grab a beer soon.
Sure we should. Mark said that every few weeks, and it never happened.
But I typed back a thumbs-up emoji anyway and shoved the phone back in my pocket.
For a moment I paused, thinking maybe I should take him up on his offer this time.
But I’d promised myself I’d cut back on the drinking.
That was another thing Brittany had thrown in my face during our last fight.
You drink too much, Kent. You use it to avoid dealing with anything real.
“Fuck,” I muttered, putting the truck in gear.
My lunch break was over, and I still had my entire fucking life to sort out.