3. Connection

By the time I wake up, the spot next to me is empty. I close my eyes again, rolling deeper into the blanket, as if I can hold onto the comfort a little longer.

But my mind doesn’t cooperate.

Bill creeps in—uninvited, unwelcome. Seeing him yesterday stirred something in me, something I thought had long since faded. But I was wrong. So wrong.

He’s messing with my head, and I hate it. Hate how easily he slips past the walls I’ve built, how effortlessly he makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.

I should be over this. Over him.

The doorbell rings, sharp and insistent. I groan, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, but I don’t move right away. For a second, I consider ignoring it.

Then it rings again, longer this time.

"For fuck’s sake," I mutter, kicking off the blanket. I sit up too fast, and my head pounds in protest. Great. Hungover and sleep-deprived.

Dragging myself out of bed, I grab my sweatpants and hoodie, tugging them on as I make my way down the stairs.

The doorbell rings again. "I'm coming!" I yell.

I swing the door open, irritation buzzing through me, only to be met with Brenda’s beaming face.

"Hi, sunshine. A little grumpy this morning?" she teases, slipping past me and making her way into the living room. With a dramatic flop, she lands on the couch.

I let out a tired sigh and close the door, following her into the living room. "What time is it?"

"Too late for you to still be in bed," she says, grinning.

"It was late, and I was drunk." I defend myself.

"You left before midnight."

I blink, frowning. "I did?" It felt later. Much later. "I feel like crap."

"Yeah, and you look like crap too," she adds, with her usual bluntness.

That’s what I love about Brenda—no filter, no sugarcoating. Just her, telling it exactly how it is.

She leans forward, eyes bright with excitement. "I still can’t believe we saw Bill and Tom last night! Did you know they were back? And oh my god, Tom. I don’t remember him being that handsome. He’s HOT. Makes me wonder why I was so obsessed with Bill. I should’ve gone for Tom instead."

She rambles on, but my mind catches on one name—Bill.

The second I saw him, something shifted inside me. A pull, familiar and unwanted.

I force a shrug, keeping my voice neutral. "There was just… something about Bill, I guess."

Brenda scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t worth all the drama."

I glance at her, watching the way she says it so easily, like none of it mattered. Maybe to her, it didn’t.

"You’re still mad at him, aren’t you?" I ask, my voice quieter now.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "No," she says simply. "I just don’t like him."

There’s a finality in her tone, but I can’t tell if she really means it.

Brenda shifts, tucking her legs beneath her, and her gaze sharpens. "So. What about you?" she asks. "Seeing Bill again…?"

I rub a hand over my face. "I don’t know," I admit. "It was just… weird. Comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. If that makes sense."

Brenda studies me for a moment, then narrows her eyes. "You’re not gonna fall for his bullshit again, are you?"

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. "I broke up with him, remember?"

"Yeah," she says, unimpressed. "Because he was leaving. And now he’s back."

"Not for long," I mumble. "they’re just visiting."

"Good." She nods, satisfied. "I don’t want him breaking your heart again."

Something twists in my chest.

I swallow hard. "Brenda, I have a boyfriend." The words come out too fast, too defensive. "Bill can’t break my heart."

She doesn’t say anything at first—just gives me a long, knowing look. The kind that makes my stomach tighten.

"Okay," she says finally. But there’s something in her voice, something that tells me she doesn’t believe me.

And the worst part?

I don’t know if I believe me either.

—

Brenda leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. I take a shower, the hot water scalding against my skin, trying to rinse away the exhaustion. Afterward, I get dressed, making an effort to look presentable. Notthat it really matters.

The day drags, slow. When Wes comes home, nothing really shifts. He sits on his phone, scrolling, absorbed. I make dinner, half-listening to his stories from work, nodding in the right places. It’s a rhythm we’ve fallen into, a routine without thought.

We go to bed early—both of us have an early shift tomorrow. And like always, he reaches for me, his hand sliding over my hip, his body pressing close. It’s predictable, expected. But tonight, something in me aches for more. Not just the act, but connection.

So I straddle him, determined to change this.
But he doesn’t let me.

His hands grip my waist, firm, unyielding, flipping the moment back into his control. His movements are fast, impatient. There’s no pause, no breath, no time to feel. Just motion. A means to an end.

One. Two. Three—Done.

The weight of him disappears as he rolls onto his side, exhaling sharply, already slipping into sleep. No words. No touch.

I stare at the ceiling, my body still buzzing—not with satisfaction, but with something hollow and unnamed.

I don’t know how long I lie there, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his breath.

When I’m sure he’s asleep, I slip out from under the sheets, moving carefully, quietly. My feet barely make a sound as they touch the cold floor.