Hunter
The bottle is half-empty before I even realize I opened it.
I told myself I wouldn’t. That I was better than this now. But I know it’s a lie. A few weeks of being sober doesn’t make me better. It was Charlie that made me better. He kept the guilt at bay and made it feel like the sun was shining.
After I got back to my apartment, the silence that followed me around the space was deafening. And Robby’s voice wouldn’t shut up. So I went out and bought a few bottles to drown him out. Like I did before Charlie.
Now, I’m drunk. Really fucking drunk. The kind where the room tilts and I’m positive I don’t even know what a straight line is. It’s perfect.
I sit on the edge of the couch, staring at the half-empty bottle in my hand like it might give me answers. My phone is on the coffee table, screen dark. No new messages from Charlie. Not since that single apology text this morning that I still haven’t answered.
Charlie: I’m really sorry about last night. I thought I could handle it, and I panicked. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I ruined it.
The words gut me every time I read them. I should have answered. I should have told him it wasn’t his fault. That I pushed too hard. That I’m the one who’s broken, not him.
Instead, I drank.
Robby’s voice is louder tonight, slurred and cruel, mixing with the alcohol in my blood.
Look at you. Back to this. One bad night and you’re right back where you belong. You really thought that soft little twink was gonna save you? He’s probably already moved on. Found someone who doesn’t pin him down and make him cry.
I take another long pull from the bottle, the burn barely registering anymore.
He’s probably right.
I took something good and turned it ugly, just like I always do.
My phone lights up on the table. For a stupid second, my heart leaps. But it’s not him. Just a spam text.
I laugh, bitter and hollow, and finish the rest of the bottle in one go.
The room spins harder. Good. I want it to spin until I can’t think about golden curls or smoke-gray eyes or the way he moaned my name. Really, I just want the blackness to come and take me under.
I stand up too fast and nearly fall. The walls tilt. I catch myself on the back of the couch and laugh again.
I should go to bed. Sleep this off. Pretend tomorrow I’ll do better. Instead, I grab my jacket and head for the door. I need to see him.
Even if it’s just from across the street. Even if I’m too drunk to say the right thing. Even if all I do is stand in the shadows like the creep I am.
The subway ride is a blur. I keep my head down, the half-empty second bottle burning a hole in my jacket pocket. Robby keeps talking the whole way, louder with every stop.
You really think he wants you back? After you held him down and made him cry? He’s probably relieved you left. Probably already texting someone else. Someone who doesn’t remind him of the past.
I get off at his stop and walk the familiar blocks on unsteady legs. The cool night air does nothing to sober me up. When I reach his building, I stop across the street, under the shadow of a closed bodega awning, just like the first time.
The lights are on in his apartment. His curtain’s wide open for anyone to see inside.
Lucy is standing in front of his television on the wall, gesturing wildly. Charlie is on his couch—I can see him from the shoulders up—and he throws his head back and laughs. It punches me straight in the gut. He’s happy.
I’m a sad drunk.
And he’s happy without me.
The sight of him laughing like that twists something ugly in my chest. I should feel glad and relieved that my fuck-up didn’t break him completely. Instead, all I feel is this hollow jealousy.
See? Robby sneers, louder than the traffic. He didn’t want you any more than I did. Laughing with his bestie like you never existed. That’s how little you meant.
I take another pull from the bottle, the liquor burning down my throat but doing nothing to quiet the voice. My vision swims. The street tilts. I lean against the bodega wall to keep from falling, eyes still glued to his window.
Charlie says something, still laughing, and Lucy sits down beside him and ruffles his curls. It’s innocent. I know it is. But the easy affection makes my stomach turn.
I watch them for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. Charlie gets up at one point, still smiling, and disappears toward the kitchen. Lucy follows, still talking animatedly. The normalcy of it burns worse than the alcohol.
My phone feels heavy in my pocket. I pull it out with numb fingers and open our chat. The last message from him sits there unanswered.
Charlie: I’m really sorry about last night. I thought I could handle it, and I panicked. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I ruined it.
I type something. Delete it. Type again.
Nothing feels right.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and take another drink.
Robby’s right. I ruin everything I touch. Charlie deserves to laugh like that without me around to fuck it up. He deserves someone who doesn’t pin him down and trigger his worst memories. Someone who isn’t a walking disaster with burn scars and a dead ex haunting him.
I should leave. I should go home and drink until I pass out and never come back here again.
But I stay.
I stand in the shadows like the pathetic creep I am, watching the boy I’m falling in love with be happy without me, while the bottle in my hand gets lighter and Robby laughs in my head.
When Lucy leaves, I watch her from the shadows.
Then I turn my attention back to Charlie and his window.
He moves over to his easel in the corner and starts taking out supplies to draw or paint with.
I can see his face, at least the side profile of it.
His chest rises in a deep breath I can see from here, and then he lifts his hand and starts drawing.
I lean harder against the wall, the rough brick biting into my shoulder.
The healing skin there throbs in time with my heartbeat.
I watch Charlie’s profile, the way his curls fall into his eyes, the small furrow of concentration between his brows.
He pauses, tilts his head, then keeps going.
The motion is hypnotic. Beautiful. Mine.
Or it was.
My breath catches as his gaze turns toward the window, feeling as though he can see me in the shadows. But then he turns back to his work again.
I pull out my phone and open our text thread.
My thumbs are clumsy, the screen swimming. I type anyway, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
Me: I’m sorry. I fucked up. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years, and I ruined it like I ruin everything. I miss you. I’m outside your building right now like a fucking creep because I can’t stay away. I’m sorry.
I hit send before I can delete it.
I watch him.
Charlie stops drawing. He reaches for his phone on the table beside the easel.
His face changes when he reads it—the small furrow between his brows deepens.
He chews on his lower lip, that familiar nervous habit, thumb hovering over the screen like he’s debating whether to reply.
His gaze goes to the window again, searching the darkness.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
Answer me. Please answer me.
Then he stares at the phone for a long moment, slowly sets it face-down on the table. He gets up, walks to the windows, and pulls the curtains shut with a quick, decisive motion. The warm light disappears. The view is gone.
I stand there for a second, swaying, the bottle dangling from my fingers. Then the need takes over. I cross the street, stumble up the steps to his floor, and pound on his door with my fist.
The sound echoes in the hallway. I don’t stop. I keep knocking, harder, until the door finally cracks open.
Charlie stands there in the doorway. He looks exhausted. Hurt. And still so fucking beautiful it hurts.
“Charlie,” I start, voice slurred. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He cuts me off.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, the words flat.
I try to straighten up, try to look sober. “No. I’m fine. I just… I needed to see you.”
Charlie snorts softly, the sound tired and sad. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed tight over his chest.
“I can smell it on you, Hunter.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. The lie won’t form. I just stand there, swaying slightly, the bottle still heavy in my jacket pocket like evidence.
Charlie’s eyes flick down to the slight bulge, then back up to my face. “Come back when you’re sober. I can’t do this right now.”
The door closes in my face with a soft, final click.