Chapter 4 Dorian
“A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”
— Proverbs 17:17 KJV
Dorian had forgotten what money smelled like until he was standing in front of the Opal Maree. It was a scent of roasted garlic, expensive perfume, and the kind of floor polish that probably cost more than his weekly grocery budget. He tugged at the collar of his dress shirt, the fabric stiff and unforgiving against his throat. He’d bought the tie an hour ago at a department store, and it felt less like an accessory and more like a noose.
Arthur and his mom were late.
He checked his phone again. Five minutes past the reservation time. Anxiety was already doing laps in his stomach, a familiar, cold churn. He hated coming out to the edges of the city, to the manicured lawns and the silence that felt heavy enough to crush a person.
“Hey, you.”
Dorian flinched. He knew that voice. It was a ghost voice, something from a life he’d packed away in cardboard boxes eight years ago.
He turned slowly.
Elara Monroe stood there, clutching a small clutch bag like a shield.
Oh, fuck.
His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Leave it to Lauren and Arthur. Of course. It wasn’t enough to just invite him to dinner; they had to curate the guest list. This was a setup. The last time they’d pulled a stunt like this, it had been the catalyst that nuked his friendship with Elara from orbit.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to turn around, get in his beat-up sedan, and drive until the gas light came on. Instead, he inhaled deeply through his nose, bottling the rage until it sat heavy and hot in his gut.
Play the good son, he told himself. Just get through the appetizers.
“Oh good, you both made it!”
Dorian looked toward the parking lot. His mom was waving, beaming as she walked up the path, Arthur trailing a few steps behind her like a dark cloud. Dorian forced his face into a smile that felt tight enough to snap. He hugged his mother—she smelled like vanilla and denial—and gave Arthur a stiff nod.
Arthur barely looked at him. He just checked his watch and headed for the heavy oak doors. Elara fell into step behind him, leaving Dorian and his mom on the sidewalk.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Lauren said, looping her arm through his and pulling him toward the entrance. Her grip was firm. “I had Arthur reserve a separate table for you and Elara. I thought it would be nice for the two of you to catch up.”
Dorian’s feet dragged. “Does she know?”
“Know what?”
“That this is an ambush.”
“It’s not an ambush, honey. It’s a surprise.” She squeezed his arm. “And no, she doesn’t know, but it will be fine. Just like old times.”
Dorian’s stomach knotted tighter. Just like old times. That was the problem. Old times were messy. Old times were full of things he didn’t want to look at.
The hostess led them through the dining room, past tables of people who looked like they’d never had to check a bank account balance in their lives. She deposited Dorian and Elara at a small two-top near the window, while his parents continued on to a booth on the other side of the restaurant.
Dorian pulled out the chair. He sat. Elara sat.
They proceeded to look at the menu, the silverware, the water glasses—anything except each other. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was pressurized. Thick.
Finally, Dorian looked up.
She wasn’t the scrawny kid who used to cry when she scraped her knee. The pigtail braids were gone, replaced by a sharp, jet-black pixie cut that framed her face. She had piercings now—a septum ring, an industrial bar in her ear. She looked cool. Intimidating, even.
“You look… different,” Dorian said. He winced internally. Smooth.
Elara raised an eyebrow. It was a familiar expression, at least. “In a good way?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
She set her menu down. “I can say the same about you. When did you get the nose ring?”
She asked it casually, like they were friends who had grabbed coffee last week, not strangers who hadn’t spoken since high school.
“A few years ago,” Dorian said, reaching up to touch the silver hoop. “A friend did it for me, actually. In a kitchen.”
“I’m surprised your mom doesn’t make you take it out.”
Dorian shrugged. He looked down at his hands, his thumb finding the ring on his left hand and twisting it. “I guess she figured it wasn’t worth the argument. She picks her battles these days.”
“What are you messing with?”
Dorian paused. He looked down. He was twisting the mood ring. The cheap, metal band Elara had bought him in middle school during the aquarium field trip. To always remember our first aquarium trip, she’d said, handing it to him with the solemnity of a marriage proposal.
It had been silver then. Now it was a dull, oxidized brown, the ‘mood’ permanently stuck on something akin to mud.
He held up his hand.
Elara’s eyes widened. Her lips curled into a small, genuine smile. “I can’t believe you still wear that.”
“I had it resized a few times,” Dorian admitted, feeling heat creep up his neck. “It’s practically an antique.”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?”
“I know. That’s why we’re—why we were such good friends.”
The correction hung in the air. The smile faded from Elara’s face, replaced by something softer, sadder. She started playing with the pendant of her necklace.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “We were.” She looked out the window. “Do you remember why we stopped?”
Dorian let out a short breath. “Honestly? I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with me after the fallout.”
“Well, yeah. You were a major jerk,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. The gesture was so quintessentially Elara it made his chest ache. “But if you had apologized… I would have accepted it. I mean, you were my best friend, Eli.”
The old nickname hit him like a physical blow. Eli. Nobody called him that anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Dorian said. The words tasted like ash, but he forced them out. “Really, I am. There was a lot going on back then. Stuff I should have been more open about. It made me an asshole—not that that’s an excuse. But…” He reached across the table, palm open. “There isn’t a day where I haven’t beat myself up over losing you.”
Elara looked at him. Her green eyes were cautious, searching his face for the boy she used to know. Slowly, the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“You didn’t lose me,” she said. She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool. “Just misplaced me.”
---
Dinner went better than it had any right to. But the bill came, the spell broke, and Dorian found himself back in the one place he tried to avoid at all costs: his mother’s living room.
He’d made the mistake of telling Lauren he’d switched shifts to get the day off. Now he had no excuse to leave. He sat on the edge of the sofa, knees bouncing.
The house was different. The burnt orange walls of his childhood were gone, painted over in a soft, trendy gray. The family photos that used to clutter the hallway had been replaced by abstract art that looked like spilled coffee. A new glass coffee table sat on a plush white rug. It looked like a showroom. It didn’t feel like a home.
Arthur was sitting in his armchair, snapping the pages of a newspaper. “Seems like you and Elara picked up right where you left off.”
Dorian tensed. He approached the conversation the way one might approach a landmine. “Yeah. It was… it was good to see her again. I missed talking to her.”
“She missed you too,” his mom jumped in from the kitchen doorway. She was holding a tray of coffee cups. “She’s not seeing anyone right now, you know.”
“Good for her.” Dorian took a cup. He prayed the coffee was scalding just so he’d have something else to focus on.
“I can make you two another reservation at the Opal,” Arthur stated. He didn’t look up from the paper. His tone suggested he was organizing a business merger, not his stepson’s love life. “Next weekend.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Dorian said, setting the cup down. “But we haven’t talked in eight years. I’d prefer if y’all didn’t try to set us up.”
“We’re only trying to help,” Arthur said. He finally lowered the paper. “Taking her out again is the right thing to do, son. She’s a great girl. You’d be a fool to mess this up again.”
Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. The urge to snap I’m not your son was a living thing in his throat.
“What he means,” Lauren said quickly, shooting Arthur a warning look, “is that we know you two were really good friends. And you used to—”
“Date,” Dorian finished. “Yeah, I know. In high school. We haven’t spoken in almost a decade. What makes you think we’d want to jump straight into dating?”
“Oh, honey, we didn’t mean… We just want you to be happy.”
“Look, I appreciated dinner. Seriously. But I would like to build back my friendship with Elara on my own terms.”
Lauren deflated a little. She gave him that docile, pleading smile that usually worked. “I understand, honey. But there’s no harm in putting the idea out there, right?”
“Can we please just drop it?” Dorian snapped. “I’m not interested in dating her, okay?”
The silence that followed was instant and brittle. Lauren’s smile dropped. Her eyes went glossy, the hurt immediate and visible.
Guilt bloomed in Dorian’s chest, hot and suffocating. He hated hurting her. He hated that she made it so easy to hurt her.
“Are you interested in women at all?”
The question came from Arthur. It was sharp, accusing, cutting through the guilt like a knife.
“Arthur!” Lauren gasped. Her voice was small.
“It’s an honest question,” Arthur said. He folded the newspaper deliberately. “He’s only ever brought one girl home. Lauren. That doesn’t seem odd to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “That doesn’t mean anything. Right, hon?” She looked at Dorian, her eyes wide, begging him to fix it. Her tone was light, playful, but it wavered.
Dorian’s chest hurt. It felt like a band of iron was tightening around his lungs.
“Mom, I—”
He looked down at his hands. The mood ring was dark brown. Mud.
He couldn’t say it. It sat on the tip of his tongue, the truth he’d been hiding for seven years, but his throat had closed up shop.
“See,” Arthur said. He sounded satisfied. Vindication dripped from the word. “I always knew something wasn’t right with him.”
“Excuse me?” Dorian’s head snapped up.
Arthur stood. He straightened his spine, looming over the coffee table, expanding to fill the room the way he used to when Dorian was a kid and Arthur wanted to remind him who owned the house.
“I can’t say I’m surprised you turned out this way,” Arthur said. “I always told Lauren she babied you too much.”
Dorian stood up. His legs felt shaky, but his hands were fists. “What do you mean, this way?”
His ears were burning. The back of his neck felt like it was on fire.
Arthur looked him dead in the eye.
“A fag.”
Dorian didn’t think.
There was no decision, no conscious choice. The red haze coated his vision instantly. He moved.
The sound of skin impacting skin was a wet, heavy crack that echoed in the perfectly gray room. Pain shot through Dorian’s knuckles, a sharp, throbbing pulse.
Arthur stumbled back. A bright red bloom blossomed across his cheek and jaw. He looked stunned. He touched his face, staring at Dorian.
“Get out of my house,” Arthur spat.
Dorian was already moving. His heart was pulsing in his temples, a deafening drumbeat. His mom was calling his name—Eli, Eli, wait—but the sound was underwater. Nothing she said mattered.
The only thing that mattered was the door. The handle under his hand. The cool night air.
He bolted. He ran for the car, fumbling for his keys with shaking hands, desperate to get away from that house, from the word hanging in the air, from the ruin he left in his wake.