6. Brayden
brAYDEN
WEEKS LATER
I flipped through channels, landing on some god-awful infomercial about a sandwich that came in a can. A candwich. Humanity’s final cry for help, apparently. The host was way too enthusiastic about “portable convenience,” and I found myself mumbling, “This is why aliens won’t visit.”
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Rosa: What are you doing?
I huffed out a laugh. The universe, for once, was efficient. Rosa was one of those people who never asked questions I didn’t want to answer. No pressure, no morning-after talks. Just two people who knew what they needed and didn’t dress it up as more.
Me: Trying to count sheep. They’re ignoring me.
Rosa: Want some company?
Me: Wouldn’t mind getting a little tired out before calling it a night.
Rosa: Be there soon.
That was it. No preamble. No false intimacy. Just the arrangement.
I got up, ran a hand through my hair, and went to unlock the front door.
The air inside the house was too quiet, too clean—the kind of silence that pressed on your chest. I turned on the shower, watching steam fog the mirror until my reflection blurred out completely.
Maybe that was the point—disappearing for a while.
When the knock came a few minutes later, I didn’t hesitate. Rosa stepped in like she owned the room, her perfume hitting first—sharp, dark, expensive. Her smile was easy, her confidence effortless. “You look like you’ve been thinking too much again,” she teased, tossing her coat over a chair.
“Occupational hazard,” I said, stepping closer.
“Then let’s fix it.”
She cupped my jaw, tilted her face toward mine, and the conversation ended there.
The kiss was hungry—not romantic, not even tender, just desperate in the way two people can be when they’re both running from something.
Her hands slid up my chest, mine found her waist, and the static in my head finally quieted.
For a while, there was nothing but heat and breath and the illusion of control.
Later, I lay flat on my back, the ceiling fan cutting slow, hypnotic circles above me. The rhythmic click of the blades felt like it was mocking me—steady, reliable, the opposite of everything I’d been lately.
Rosa stretched beside me, tracing lazy patterns on my arm. Her skin was warm, her breathing slow. She didn’t ask for promises or apologies, which was why this worked. “You’re quieter than usual,” she said softly, voice still edged with the haze of release.
“Just thinking,” I murmured, staring up at nothing.
“That’s your problem, Brayden.” Her hand paused on my chest. “You think too much.”
I gave a small, humorless laugh. “It’s how I stay alive.”
She rolled onto one elbow, eyes narrowing with that perceptive sharpness that always made me feel too exposed. “No,” she stated, calm but certain. “It’s how you avoid living.”
I didn’t argue. There wasn’t any point. She wasn’t wrong.
When she slipped out of bed, the air shifted. She disappeared into the bathroom, humming something low and tuneless, the kind of sound that filled silence without asking for attention.
I pressed my palms over my face and exhaled hard, the ache behind my ribs returning like clockwork. Sex dulled it for a while—muted the noise in my head—but it never fixed anything. It was like taping over a crack in the glass, pretending it wouldn’t eventually shatter.
My mind went where it always did when the quiet came.
To Myla.
She was still in the hospital. Physical therapy had started last week—a grueling, slow process that made her cry more than she wanted to admit. Every visit, I watched her push through the pain and pretend she wasn’t frustrated, pretending she didn’t see how broken I looked on the sidelines.
She used to skate like she had wings. Now she had to fight just to stand.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
I’d missed two games already. Coach said it was “understandable,” but his tone told me everything I needed to know. Patience only stretches so far when you’re paid to win. My numbers were slipping, my focus shot. Half the team avoided eye contact in the locker room now.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That hockey would always be there. That Myla came first. But I could feel it slipping, that identity I’d built since I could walk. My control, my purpose, all of it was one thread away from unraveling.
The shower turned off. Rosa reappeared wrapped in one of my towels, hair damp, a faint smile on her lips. “You should try sleeping,” she said gently. “Or skating. Or screaming. Anything that gets you out of your head.”
“I’ve tried all three.” My voice came out rough. “This just works faster.”
Her smile faltered a little, but she didn’t argue. She never did. Instead, she started gathering her things, her movements quick, practiced. “You’ll burn yourself out,” she said, not looking at me this time.
“Already there.” The words left my lips but they felt foreign.
She leaned down, kissed my cheek softly—almost kindly—and murmured, “See you around, hotshot.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and the house was swallowed by silence.
I lay there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. My pulse had settled, my breathing was even, but that familiar emptiness was already spreading again—slow and heavy, like smoke seeping through the cracks.
People liked to tell me time heals everything. That grief dulls. That love, or distraction, or a purpose will fill the hole. But they were wrong. It doesn’t dull. It just hides between the noise, waiting for the next quiet moment to crawl back out.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand. My thumb hovered over Karla’s last text:
Just letting you know, your sister did great overnight.
It had been weeks, but I still hadn’t deleted it. I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the steadiness in her words, the calm I didn’t know how to find anymore.
My chest tightened. I dropped the phone back onto the nightstand and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw stars.
Sex was better than drinking, I told myself. At least this didn’t come with a hangover. But as I lay there, listening to the city hum through the window, I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
Either way, when it was over—I was still alone with the noise.