AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I take a moment to consider her words. “Will it just be us?” I ask, nervously biting down on my lip.
“Yes,” she shrugs. “Why?”
I point at my hair. “I’m not sure if I can share this with anyone just yet.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “What do you mean? You showed it off at O’Jackie’s right after having it done.”
Sighing, I try to explain how I feel like two people, and that I need time to… I don’t know, make them fit, somehow. “It just feels private. Does that make sense?”
Luce grabs her phone, no doubt to shoot a text off to her husband. “I get it,” she says softly. “You know, when my cousin came into my life and held me to the deal I’d made for my freedom, I felt like I had to make two versions of myself become one. Take all the time you need.”
My throat feels thick as I swallow, feeling a bit fucking silly for making such a big deal of nothing. Unlike Luce’s situation, mine isn’t life threatening or even high-stake. But being the amazingly brilliant friend, and now business partner, that she is, she doesn’t give me a hard time.
“Right, Sy’s spending the evening with Soren and Mickey. Something about… actually, it doesn’t matter. But yeah, they’re indisposed.”
Disappointment and relief war inside me, both fighting to be the dominant feeling. I’m glad it’s just going to be us, really, I am. But I’m also slightly… no. I’m not ready for anything else, so this is for the best. At least that’s what I tell myself as I try very hard not to think about what it would be like to spend the night with both Mickey and Soren.
Soren
The chill of the January air clings to my skin as I tread across the hardwood floors of my house, the sounds of my footsteps swallowed by the silence and gloom that’s settled over Mickey like a shroud.
While his house is getting redecorated, he’s staying with me. So far it’s been one week out of an estimated eight, and it’s not like I mind at all. Normally, he’s the easiest house guest. But tonight… tonight he’s not his usual self.
“Another round?” I ask, holding up the fresh bottle of whiskey, the other disappeared not too long ago.
Unlike me, Mickey didn’t go to sleep when we returned from Cupid’s Court. Instead, he started drinking his sorrows away the moment we stepped through my front door.
He doesn’t look up from the depths of the leather sofa that’s become his refuge, just holds out his glass with a hand steady as a surgeon, despite the haze in his silver eyes.
“Keep ‘em coming,” he mutters, the words slurred but laced with an edge sharp enough to cut. There’s no hiding from this day—January first, the anniversary of every shattered dream he’s ever had. It’s the day Simone’s mask slipped, revealing the cunt she really was.
“Jesus,” I mutter, but fill his glass back up.
Mickey’s laugh is more of a rasp, as if each chuckle scrapes against raw flesh. “What a great start to the year, right?” he says, and there’s nothing happy about it. Not for him. Not today.
The doorbell rings, slicing through the tension, and I immediately go to open it, already knowing who it is. Sawyer stands on the threshold, a gust of cold air sneaking in behind him as he steps inside. A nod is all we exchange before I lead him into the living room, where Mickey has sunken deeper into the couch.
“Hey, Mick,” Sawyer greets, trying for casualness, but his voice wavers, betraying concern.
“Save it, Sawyer,” Mickey snaps, lifting his glass in a mock salute. “It’s just another glorious day.”
Sawyer glances at me, questions in his eyes, and I shrug. What can I say? We’ve been here before, watching Mickey unravel, each year the thread pulling a little looser.
“Come on, man,” Sawyer says, sinking into the armchair across from our friend. “There’s more to life than dwelling on the past.”
“More to life?” Mickey echoes bitterly. “Like what? Empty hookups, meaningless games?” His gaze drifts toward our friend. “Getting married?” he sneers the last part in a way that’s very unlike him.
Sawyer doesn’t take the bait. “Like the future,” he insists, ignoring the cruel barb.
“Future’s nothing but a rerun of yesterday. Of last year. Of fuck all,” Mickey retorts, draining his glass again. He’s spiraling, and we’re just spectators to his self-destruction.
“Enough of this shit,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. I need to yank him back, remind him he’s got something worth fighting for, even if he can’t see it through the whiskey-soaked veil. “We’re going out tonight. No arguments.”
Mickey scoffs, a hollow sound. “To watch you play hero while I drown in memories? Pass.”
“Christ, Mick,” I snap, my patience splintering. “Can’t you just—”
“Can’t I just what, Soren?” he fires back, his eyes blazing with a challenge I know all too well. “Forget? Pretend? Move on? Fuck. You.”
