Page 96 of After Midnight

Setting my jaw, I pull Tribe up again, then immediately delete my entire profile. The thought of James going through my personal photos makes me feel sick. Though this won’t stop him from keeping an eye on Sebastian.

Seb.

He must be the reason why James is starting to act like this. James never made me feel uncomfortable before—not until he saw that photo of me and Seb getting our toenails painted. Then his behavior changed, and he started to show me his cards.

He’s jealous, I think, lowering my phone slowly to my side, my gaze sliding around my living room once more, even though I checked everything and know that no one is here. And jealous men are unpredictable.

My feet feel glued to the floor, that sensation of fight or flight setting in. But there’s nowhere for me to run. So I force myself to go about my night routine, showering and eating before climbing into bed.

But tonight is the first night that I leave a hallway light on. And every sound the condo makes, every hiss or thump of the air conditioner, has my eyes flying open in bed. I keep telling myself that I’m safe, that all the doors and windows are locked, that no one is getting in here. But it doesn’t ease the tightness in my chest.

In the back of my mind, I’m thinking of my next shift at Caliber, of my naked body on the stage, of all those hungry eyes on me. The thought has never made me uncomfortable before; I’ve always been good at keeping work and real life separate. But now I feel like that separation is gone. And as I burrow deeper into my blankets, I’m suddenly feeling much too exposed.

When I do finally fall asleep, the soft pink brush strokes of dawn are already painting my room. And it’s only in the sunlight that I feel comfortable enough to let go.

chapter 44

Sebastian

THE DAY IS SUNNY, AND I leave the windows down as I coast through Santa Paula. The streets are all familiar, and every time I drive through here, I remember my childhood: riding bikes all weekend, throwing a football with the kid who lived next door, constantly maintaining the shitty old F150 that I bought with money I’d saved up from working at the surf shop.

Those are all good memories; but I’ve got plenty of crappy ones as well.

I try not to think of those memories as I pull up at the little white house on Pleasant Street. The blue trim is peeling in some spots, and the big bush to the right of the porch is overgrown, in desperate need of a trim. But there are a few flowerpots on the porch, bursting with colorful hydrangeas, and I remind myself why I’m here as I put the Raptor in park.

I’m here to see Mom. This has nothing to do with him.

A bit of relief goes through me when I start up the walkway and peek around the side of the house: Dad’s truck isn’t here, just the silver Toyota Highlander I bought Mom for Mother’s Day a couple years back.

Dad was so pissed about that. Mom’s old car was a piece of shit, and I didn’t want her driving around in that thing anymore; it was about a mile away from abandoning her on the side of the road. But when I surprised her with the Highlander, Dad just scoffed at me and made a passive-aggressive comment about how nice it must be to be able to throw money around.

Not like I’ve paid to have his truck fixed multiple times over the years . . .

I jog up the front stairs to the door and pull the screen open, then rap my knuckles against the wood a couple times before opening the door and calling out, “Hey, Ma, it’s me.”

“I’m out back!” she calls, her voice muffled through the house.

I peel off my Vans and leave them next to the door; even though this house is old and small and could really use a reno, Mom keeps it up, and even now, I can see subtle vacuum marks in the living room carpet. I pass through the kitchen and out the back door, which leads to a tiny backyard, where Mom has turned a narrow slab of concrete into a thriving garden.

She’s just taking off her gardening gloves when I step outside, and immediately, she holds her arms out for a hug. I have to stoop over to wrap my arms around her, and it’s like I’m a boy again, held in my mother’s arms, with the smell of citrus and soil washing over me.

“Seb,” she says as she leans away, taking me by the shoulders. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

Smiling, I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Just wanted to see you.”

Lightheartedly, she slaps me with one gardening glove, leaving a smudge of dirt on my gray T-shirt. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve made lunch. You want something to drink? I made iced tea.”

“I’ll get it,” I tell her. “You sit down.”

She rolls her eyes at me but smiles as she eases herself into a patio chair. In the kitchen, I pour us each an iced tea, noticing how much smaller and tighter the space feels now that I’m grown. I toss ice cubes into each cup, then join my mom on the back patio. As I sit down, she points to one of her gardening pots, where a butterfly is perched on a bright pink flower. We watch the butterfly until it takes to the warm air and flutters away.

“Everything looks amazing,” I tell her.

After taking a sip of her iced tea, she nods. “It’s been a good year. My hot peppers are going crazy. You want to take some home with you?”

I have no idea how to cook with hot peppers, but it makes Mom happy when I at least try to use what she grows, so I nod. “Yeah, I’ll take some.”

We lapse into comforting conversation, the way we always do. Mom has always been easy to talk to. And looking at her now, through a man’s eyes rather than a child’s eyes, I struggle to see how she hasn’t let my father dim her light. But she just hums to herself and sips her iced tea, then points out a few bees buzzing around her plants.