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“Fuck,” I pant into an empty room as my back arches off the bed.

The orgasm hits me harder than I anticipate, and my body quivers through it, every part of me pulsating. Pleasure is a high that I love indulging in, and I momentarily revel in that relaxed feeling, my chest rising and falling as I catch my breath. But just as quickly as the pleasure raced through me, the familiar feeling of emptiness is quick to replace it.

The endorphins are useless against the onslaught of my reality.

Sliding my hand up and out of my pants, I place my vibrator on my nightstand and drag myself off the bed and into the shower. I don’t feel shame about self love, but I’m starting to regret allowing myself that small moment of reprieve, because the fall off the edge was bliss, but the landing was brutal.

I push all thoughts of the stunning woman to the recesses of my mind, where she belongs, where the simple idea of her doesn’t have me spiraling into an existential crisis about being alone versus being lonely.

Truth be told, I know there is supposed to be a difference between the two, but between the empty side of my bed, and the ever-present silence in my house, I couldn’t find it.

4

CLEM

“Holy fucking shit, that never gets easier.” I slide the key into the front door and unlock it. “I literally can’t feel my legs.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Arlo, one of my foster brothers, says as he follows me into the house. “You only asked for me to kill you once this time. It’s progress.”

Entering the house, I force my tired legs to carry me down the hallway and into the living room, where I throw my exhausted self onto the couch. “I fucking hate you.”

“You know you love me,” Arlo retorts.

I keep my gaze on him as he drags his sweat-stained tank top over his head and throws it haphazardly into his bedroom before making his way to the kitchen. On the days our schedules align enough to work out together, Arlo and I have a pretty good morning routine. We wake up early, exercise, then come back to the house, where he makes breakfast for whoever is home.

Emptying the fridge of almost all its contents, Arlo starts cracking eggs and chopping up vegetables to make omelets. “Can you tell the other two that if they’re not up in ten minutes, I’m eating their omelets and mine?”

I have four foster brothers in total, but only three of them live with me. Truth be told, even if we aren’t blood siblings, referring to them as foster brothers always feels like an underwhelming description of what these men mean to me.

After growing up together in a group home, the bond we share borders on co-dependant, but when you grow up trusting next to no one, you tend to latch on to the most important people in your life and refuse to let go.

Arlo and Frankie are older than me at twenty-seven and twenty-six, while Remy and Lennox are younger, at twenty and twenty-two respectively. And for all intents and purposes, I’m the middle child, and yet I never feel more like the only adult than I do with them.

Dragging my body off the couch, I trudge across our living room to Lennox’s bedroom and rap my knuckles against the wooden door. It’s too early for me to be catching him in any compromising positions, but from experience, I know you can never be too sure.

“Lennox,” I shout while knocking again. “Rise and shine, sunshine. I’m coming in.”

I push the door open just as he pops his head up from underneath his pillow. His face creased from sleep, his eyes barely open.

“What do you want?” he groans.

“Arlo’s cooking omelets, are you in?”

“What’s the time?” he asks.

“I don’t have my phone on me, but it’s probably around eight thirty.”

He groans again and then drops his head back onto the pillow. “I’ll be out in a second,” he says. “I’m just going to shit and shower first.”

“Awesome,” I say sarcastically. “I definitely needed those details.”

Closing the door, I move on to Remy, loudly knocking on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” Remy calls out.

I swing the door open to find him awake, freshly showered, and sitting at his desk, tinkering with an old camera. The complete opposite of Lennox.

“Morning,” I greet. “Arlo’s got breakfast if you’re interested.”