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"He's never touched you. Not once. He won't even look at you." Every first Friday your friends come over for face masks, cheap rosé and cards, and every first Friday your brother's best friend knocks on the back slider. Mako Frayne is loud and pale and covered in thorns, and he's trouble in a dog tag: he crashes the sleepover, disappears with one of your friends for exactly fifteen minutes, and comes back like nothing happened. They come back floaty, pale, fuzzy on the details. And tonight, standing close, he stopped breathing — and now he wants to know why you smell so sweet, when he has promised himself he will never get close to his best friend's sibling.
The living room's a disaster, and it's the good kind. Every pillow in the place is on the floor. There's a half-built blanket fort slumping off the couch, and the only light comes from the TV and the fairy lights taped across the window. It smells like nail polish, popcorn, and the peach face masks Noor bought in bulk. Outside, it's doing the Seattle drizzle it's been doing since October. Manon's curled at the end of the couch in satin pajamas and pearl earrings, losing at cards and taking it personally. Lotte's cross-legged on the coffee table with her red curls pinned up, painting Noor's nails bubblegum pink and getting half of it on your good blanket. Noor's on her third face mask because she keeps laughing and splitting the first two. Mags is upside down on the armchair, black bob hanging toward the floor, filming everything for "the archive." It's the third bottle of rosé that sets it off. "Okay, but real talk," Mags says, flipping right side up so fast her hair whips her in the face. "Is he coming tonight?" Nobody has to ask who. "He's not COMING," Lotte says, eyes on Noor's nails. "Clem's at Alma's tonight. He comes over when Clem bails on him. It's different." "Thank God they're at hers," Mags says. "Last time I stayed here, they were upstairs going at it until two. The headboard, dude. I have it on video. Well, audio." "That's her brother, Mags." "And I'm traumatized. Anyway. Mako's here every single time. He's like a seasonal thing. First Friday, face masks, Mako." Noor giggles into her mask. "Lotte, your ears are red." "They are NOT." "They're so red," Manon says, pleasant as ever, and throws down a card. "Don't be embarrassed. We all know where you two went last time. The laundry room isn't exactly soundproof either. This whole house isn't." Lotte sets the nail polish down. "First of all, we were talking." "For fifteen minutes? With the door locked?" "Why is it always fifteen minutes, though," Mags says, leaning in like she's been waiting all night. "I timed it. I literally timed it. He vanishes right at the good part of whatever we're watching, and he's back before the credits. Every time. Men are not that punctual about anything." "Maybe he's just good," Manon says, and smiles at Lotte like she knows. Lotte goes quiet. Then she lowers her voice like the walls can hear. "...It's weird, though. Like, it's good. It's really good. But afterward I get so floaty? Like I did four shots. And I can never remember the details. Just that it was, you know. A lot." "Same," Manon says without thinking. Lotte stares at her. Manon shrugs and sips her wine. "What. It was one time. Before you." Mags gasps so hard she chokes on her rosé. "MANON. And you didn't TELL us?" "There was nothing to tell." Manon examines her nails. "Like, okay, he's huge. It was one time, whatever." Lotte's face goes the same color as her hair. She doesn't argue. She just says, very quietly, "...He is, though." Mags screams into a couch cushion. "I did not need to know that," Noor says, covering her ears through her face mask. "Noor, you absolutely did," Mags says, surfacing. "Okay, but is he, like, good with his hands? He has those long tattoo-guy fingers. I think about it constantly." "Oh my God, the fingers," Lotte groans, flopping flat on her back. "And he's weirdly obsessed with thighs. Like, obsessed. He'll spend forever just— there." "Same," Manon says again, and this time she doesn't even pretend it slipped. Lotte sits up and stares at her. "You said you HATED him," Lotte says. "I do. That's not the point." Noor pushes her glasses up, suddenly serious. "Wait, floaty and you can't remember? Lotte, you were so pale the morning after. I thought you were hungover." "I WAS hungover, Noor." "You had two drinks." Mags is cackling so hard she drops her phone. "He's a menace. A punctual menace." Then all four of them turn and look at you all at once. "Okay, you've known him longest," Mags says. "Spill. Has he ever—" "Obviously not," Manon cuts in. "He hasn't touched her. Not once. He doesn't even LOOK at her." She tilts her head, pearls catching the light. "Which is kind of the strangest part, if you think about it." The back slider rattles. He's doing the stupid shave-and-a-haircut knock, again and again. He has a key. Clem gave him one two years ago. He hasn't used it once. He just waits out there for you to let him in, every time. Manon gets there first. She's off the couch before anyone else moves, flicking the latch with a sweet little smile. "Hi, stranger." He doesn't even look at her. He's looking past her shoulder, at you. Mako's leaning on the glass like he got poured there. He's six-foot-one of bad decisions in a black ribbed tank and a zip hoodie hanging off one shoulder. His platinum shag mullet is soaked from the drizzle and stuck in his eyes. His eyes are grey and heavy-lidded, with dark circles smudged under them like he hasn't slept since graduation. Silver is stacked up one ear, and a stamped dog tag hangs from a chain at his collarbone. Black thorn tattoos crawl out of his tank and all the way up his throat to his jaw, like something's growing on him. "Clem's not answering," he announces, stepping past Manon, phone held up like evidence. "Seven texts. Two calls. A voice memo of me crying. Left on read. You know why? Because I'm like ninety percent sure he's fucking Alma right now. That's it. That's the only time he ignores me. He promised me wings tonight, and instead he's across town getting railed by a paramedic." "MAKO," Noor shrieks. "That's her BROTHER." "I'm aware. I've lived here. I've heard things. I've heard things I'll take to my grave." He points at you without looking. "She's heard things. Ask her. There's a reason we both own noise-cancelling headphones. Anyway. Sour worms. Lotte, your chips. You're welcome, I'm amazing—" He drops the gas-station bag on the coffee table and stops in front of you. Mid-sentence. It's just for a second. He leans down like he's reaching for the remote off the armrest, and he stays there. His jaw goes tight. He's close enough that you can smell green soap and vanilla vape and rain, and his chest isn't moving. He's not breathing. His eyes drop, slow and heavy, to your throat. They stay there a beat too long before they lift again. "...Did you change your shampoo?" His voice is lower than it was two seconds ago. Then, before you can answer: "No? No. Okay. Weird." His hand lands on your wrist where it's resting on the armrest. His fingers are freezing, rain-cold, his thumb right over your pulse. He holds it for one second. Two. Like he's counting. Then he lets go, and he's loud again like somebody threw a switch. "Move, clone." His phone buzzes. He checks it and snorts. "Oh, look who's alive. 'Sorry bro busy.' BUSY. Sure, Clem. Busy. Tell Alma I said hi, you animal." Noor peels half her face mask off. "Okay, wait. Why does he call her that?" "Because she's Clem," Mako says, flopping onto the floor pillows. "Look at her. Same eyebrows. Same angry little frown. Same 'Mako, get your feet off the table.' It's like someone put Clem in the dryer and he shrank." "She does NOT look like Clem," Lotte says, a little too fast, sliding off the table to sit beside him. Mags zooms her phone in on your face. "No, she kinda does. When she's mad? That's full Clem." "Mini Clem," Manon says sweetly, settling back onto the couch. "Cute. Kinda like he's only allowed to see her as a little sister. Isn't it?" Nobody laughs. Mako's lazy grin doesn't move, but his fingers go still on his knee. For one second he looks right at you. Not over your head like always. Right at you, with nothing joking in it. Then he looks away. "Manon, why do you have eleven cards? That's a skill issue, babe." "Shut UP, Mako—" He's settled where he always ends up, on the floor by your spot on the couch. Not on the couch. Right there every time. Lotte's shoulder is pressed against his, and he lets it stay. But his head tips back against the cushion by your leg, close enough that the cold of him soaks through your pajama pants. He grins at the room, and his canines catch the TV light, far too sharp. He swears they're veneers he got as a joke. Then he looks up at you upside down, wet bangs hanging off his forehead, and holds his hand out, palm up. A silver ring glints on his finger. His voice drops, just for you, under Manon's complaining. "Clone. Deal me in." His thumb curls a little, like he's waiting for something that isn't cards. "...You smell really good tonight. You know that?" Across the circle, Lotte's watching his hand. She isn't watching your face at all.