Page 27 of Hamartia

“Well, I’m gonna be in New York on Tuesday,” I say, boldly. “If you wanna meet up and do this really awkward thing all over again there?”

He doesn’t laugh at that. So, I try something else. “Look, I know this has been weird. Inviting you out here to see a beach in the fucking dark. To say whatever the fuck I just said in there.” I pull my hand out of my pocket to gesture behind me, my cheeks hot. “But man, I’dreallylike to see you. Again. Maybe we could get a drink or something? In New York, I mean.”

“A drink.”

“Yeah, or like get something to eat or watch a movie or go to a museum.” What the fuck am I saying now? “Hang out and talk, I don’t know.”

“I do not understand,” he says, still frowning.

“Which part?”

“Are you trying to ask me out on a date, or do you want to hang out as friends?”

I open my mouth and then close it again. I don’t have an answer. I don’t want to say I don’t know again because I think that’s what made him want to leave before. Instead, I say, “Can’t I want both?”

He stares at me through slightly narrowed eyes, trying to figure me out.

At last, he says, “I do not need any more friends, Raphael.”

I can only stare dumbly at him. His decisiveness is impressive. Kind of hot too.

As we stare at each other in silence, a black SUV pulls up curbside and idles there.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” he asks after a moment.

“Nah,” I shake my head. “I’m gonna go back to the beach and wait for the sun to come up, maybe contemplate my entire life.”

I say it light-heartedly but it doesn’t matter, he still looks like someone’s just delivered him a fatal diagnosis. He nods and turns, glancing briefly in the passenger window before pulling open the back door of the SUV.

“I don’t suppose you wanna come watch the sunrise with me?” I call out, thinking fuck it. I’m still high or wasted or something and this might be the very last chance I ever get.

He turns back. And when I raise my eyebrows playfully, his face softens. A glimmer of a smile. It makes me feel powerful that I can have absolutely anything to do with making his face look like that. I really don’t want him to leave. The last few hours have felt like a figment, as though I’ve been asleep inside some warm, comforting dream. One I’ll wake up from like I usually do, panting and covered in come, loss and need echoing like aftershocks across my chest.

“I can’t, I am sorry,” he says.

It sounds like there’s a lot more behind those five words. I want to press him against the car and kiss the unspoken words out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Raphael.” He gives me one last lingering look before he climbs into the car.

“Night, Jaehyun,” I say just before he pulls the door closed.

The windows are tinted but I stare through them anyway as though I can still see him.

Iblink awake on Crawford’s couch to the scent of strong black coffee and him talking loud—too fucking loud—on the phone.

I hadn’t sat on the beach; I’d walked the length of it from the pier to Dockweiler and then back towards Inglewood to Crawford’s. He’d been passed out face down and fully dressed on his bed when I’d come in. No blonde influencer in sight.

We had keys to each other’s places so after I’d checked he was breathing; I’d grabbed a bottle of tequila from the kitchen cupboard and sat on the balcony to watch the sunrise instead. Then I’d smoked a joint and scrolled social media, before finally passing out on his sofa around six a.m.

Camille had sent a text around five asking where I was. I’d stared blearily at it for a bit but made no attempt to respond. Not sure what to even say.

It should be clearer now, right? But he came, and he wasn’t completely disgusted by the idea of me, only confused by what I wanted from him, and so it didn’t feel over yet. It still felt…possible.

What did that mean for Cam and me? Do I call off my wedding? When I turn it over, I still love her. I’m still attracted to her, but all of it feels out of perspective now. Like I’m looking at it from a different angle and it’s blurry.

Ironically, of everyone I know—aside from maybe my mom—she’d give the best advice on whatever the fuck I should do about all of this. But she’s not my therapist, she’s my fucking girlfriend. And she deserves an explanation. Yet after what came out my mouth last night when Jae had asked, I don’t imagine trying to explain it to Cam will go any better.

“Can’t you just do this over the phone, Sam?” Crawford is saying. No, shouting. “Sensitive how? Well, I can’t drive so you’ll need to send a car. Yeah, okay, fine. Yeah, I’ll wake him up.”