Page 2 of Wait for Him

God. It has. They both watch me do the math in real time, and I do my best to keep my expression neutral.

Jade flags down the bartender she’s still eyeing hard. “She’ll take another whiskey, hot barkeep,” she practically moans, batting her lashes. When he walks away, she bites her bottom lip, then redirects her attention to me. “After a day like today, you need a good fuck. And that's exactly what I plan to do with Bradley over there as soon as his shift is over," she says, motioning to the bartender with wiggling fingers. “His name is Brandon.”

“I won’t need to know his name as long as he makes me call out for God.” She shrugs.

“Holy hell, I’m questioning my life choices.” I exhale as Brandon winks at Jade and slides my drink across the bar to me. “All of my life choices.”

It's been two years since my brother, Michael, and I moved to Los Angeles. It was an abrupt decision right at the end of his senior year — because some jock, his girlfriend, and their harem of sycophants decided the funniest thing they could do was use his crush against him in the worst possible way. They pranked him, humiliated him, then pointed and laughed when they got the reaction they wanted.

Our parents passed away in a plane crash when Michael was only fourteen. I was twenty-four and in my last year of law school at Westbridge College of Law in LA. I moved back to Houston and into our childhood home immediately, finished the last of my classes online. I had to become whatever he needed without really stopping to ask whether I knew how.

You don’t, not at twenty-four.

You just do it.

Michael broke harder the night of that prank than he did at our parents’ funeral. So, when he said he needed to leave Houston, change his name, and start fresh — I did everything in my power to make it happen. He left Michael Bennett behind, became Bennet Sullivan, and hasn’t looked back since.

Coming back to Los Angeles after everything that happened wasn’t an easy choice for me, but now Michael’s thriving. He’s in school, building something from the ground up, pouring every ounce of himself and his inheritance into it with the kind of focus that only comes from a person who has decided exactly who they’re going to be.

Me, on the other hand.

I’ve been circling the drain since the crash. Going through the motions — finishing school, passing the bar. I set aside my entire identity to be what Michael needed me to be, and I don’t think I’ve been quite able to pick that version of myself back up again.

Even if I could, Michael still needs me, and he comes first. Plus, I’m not even sure the other version of me is still waiting around to be reclaimed.

I don’t fully register that I’ve opened social media until the feed is already in front of me, and I’ve landed where I always land. I’ve been quietly following this family for five years now. They are a small piece of the old life — the Houston one, the one with my parents still in it — and I can’t seem to stop checking in on them. They’re happy. It comes off the screen in waves. Today they took their family to Disneyland out in Anaheim, and knowing they are so close, even for a day, makes my heart ache in ways I can’t express.

They have a big, warm, and crowded family. Samson Monroe is at the center of it. He was Michael’s AP Computer Science teacher and the neighbor two doors down. He’s the one who saw what Michael was before any of us did and pushed him to apply for Mensa. A good man. The best kind.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring into my phone, but when I look up, Jade has Brandon plastered against the wall near the bar and Tyler is chatting up a much older man in the corner.

“Figures.” I laugh to no one and pull out my phone, opening the RAG app for the first time in what feels like forever.

Turns out, it has been forever.

I check my last login and nearly choke on my drink.

Fourteen months.

Jesus Christ. No wonder I’m so goddamn aggravated lately.

RAG has always been my app of choice when I want something uncomplicated and very specifically suited to my tastes. I tried Tinder once, but after the last guy ended up wide-eyed and scrambling away from me, crying, “Red. Oh God, red. What’s wrong with you?” I figured it was probably time to stop fishing in the general population.

RAG is different. The users are heavily vetted; the interface is clean, and nobody is there pretending they’re looking for Sunday brunch and long walks on the beach. Profiles are detailed about interests, boundaries, and expectations, which means there's considerably less chance of discovering halfway through the evening that someone's definition of adventurous begins and ends with leaving the lights on.

It gives me exactly what I need. No performance. No pretense. No awkward morning-after conversation where somebody suddenly wants to know what my five-year plan looks like.

We establish the rules; we have fun, and I move on.

At least, that's how it used to work before I somehow became a fucking nun.

Fourteen months.

I shake my head and take another sip of my drink as I update my status to active. Almost immediately, a small green pulse appears at the top of the screen.

My eyebrow lifts.

Well, hello.