Page 21

ALDER

"Focus, A! Where's your head today?" Tucker snaps his fingers in front of my face, pulling me back to the present moment—his living room, now transformed into a makeshift gym with kettlebells scattered across expensive rubber mats.

"I'm focused," I growl, but it's a lie, and everyone knows it. Even our trainer, Marco, exchanges a knowing look with Gunnar from where they're working on lunges.

Tucker snorts and shoves a medicine ball into my chest. "Yeah, right. You've missed every throw in the last five minutes. Stop checking your phone and get your head in the game."

I reluctantly tuck my phone back into my pocket.

No new messages from Lena anyway. My third text today—and it's not even noon—has gone unanswered like the others this week since she noped out of eating dinner with me. I hate that she’s busy trying to move out of my house, and I hate that it’s the right thing for her job security.

"Maybe your boy's got lady troubles," Gunnar calls from across the room. "How's the dentist, A?"

"She's got a name," I snap, hurling the medicine ball back at Tucker with unnecessary force. He catches it with a grunt. "And she's fine. "

Tucker gives me a pointed look. “Sounds totally fine. You've been moping around all week."

"I'm not moping." I reach for a towel, wiping sweat from my brow. "I'm just... a little tired."

Marco claps his hands. "Alright, circuit change. Twins on the battle ropes, Gunnar on box jumps. Three minutes each, then rotate."

We move to our stations, but not before I check my phone one more time. Nothing. I shove the phone back in my pocket, ignoring the twist in my stomach.

"Trouble in paradise?" Tucker mutters as we position ourselves at the heavy ropes.

"There is no paradise," I grunt, gripping the heavy ropes. "We're just roommates."

"Right." Tucker's eyebrows lift skeptically. "That's why you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds."

"And three, two, one—go!" Marco starts the timer before I can respond, and we begin slamming the ropes against the floor, creating waves that travel between our hands.

The physical exertion helps distract me, but not entirely.

It's been a week since the disaster at Sunday dinner, and Lena has been avoiding me ever since. That’s not fair.

She’s been focused on her to-do list and trying to get out of her lease, and she’s not letting me help.

Then she got upset that I was trying to sic my uncle on her landlord to grease the wheels of her real estate issues.

The few times we've been in the same room, the conversation has been painfully polite and brief.

I thought we reached an understanding on my parents' porch.

Partners, we'd agreed. But partners in what, exactly? This question keeps me up at night, along with memories of that kiss at Brad's apartment. And the worst part is I’m being a total dick about it because Lena is keeping things profesh and being a roommate while I’m hanging around like a sad puppy .

"Time!" Marco calls, and we drop the ropes, breathing heavily. Gunnar steps over, sweat dripping from his face.

“So, you and the Doc are going through a rough patch," he says casually, as if commenting on the weather.

I glare at him. "There's nothing to gossip about," I insist, though my chest tightens at the idea that other people are discussing us. "And we're not going through anything because we're not together."

Both my brothers exchange skeptical looks that make me want to throw something.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing." Tucker grabs his water bottle. "Just wondering why you're so pissy about someone you're supposedly not with."

I open my mouth to argue, but Marco claps his hands again. "Less talking, more sweating! Gunnar on ropes with me, Tucker on box jumps, Alder on push-up holds. Let's go!"

As I drop into plank position, my mind drifts back to Lena. I understand she wants to solve her problems, but is it really so bad if she leans on legitimate connections she’s made? Like my lawyer uncle…

Maybe she doesn’t quite trust me yet since her fucker ex messed with her head so much. It’s been a minute since I made any progress on our revenge plans. What if pulling the lever on that barbershop quartet to humiliate Brad at work helps Lena see that I mean what I say?

I walk through the front door of my townhouse, immediately greeted by the sound of the shower running and Gordie's enthusiastic slobber. At least someone in this house is still happy to see me.

"Hey, buddy," I ruffle his fur, dropping my gym bag by the door. "Where's our roommate hiding today? "

I hear singing from the shower, and Gordie yelps in response.

I settle at the kitchen island with my laptop, Gordie curled near my feet on his fancy bed. Time to get back on top of the petty revenge situation. Something to remind Lena why we teamed up in the first place.

The barbershop quartet idea had been her suggestion—having singers interrupt Brad's class to shame him publicly. I remember how her dark eyes had lit up at the thought, one of the few times I'd seen her genuinely excited.

I type "singing telegram Pittsburgh" into the search bar.

Several options pop up, but one catches my eye: "The Four Flats: Specializing in Personalized Musical Embarrassment Since 1996.

" Their website features photos of four middle-aged dudes of varying races in striped vests and boater hats, apparently delighting in making people squirm at office birthdays and retirement parties.

Perfect.

Next, I search for Brad Reid at Pittsburgh University.

His faculty assistant page appears, complete with a smug-looking headshot and a list of his summer courses.

I click through to the department schedule, and—bingo—he's giving a lecture on "Ethics in Modern Philosophy" tomorrow afternoon at 2 p.m. The irony is almost too perfect.

I dial the number from the quartet's website, explaining my request as Gordie watches me with his head tilted curiously.

"So let me get this straight," says the quartet leader, who introduces himself as Barney. "You want us to interrupt a university philosophy lecture to sing about what a cheating mooch this professor is?"

"Exactly." I grin, imagining Brad's face. "How much?" I give him the details—classroom location, time, Brad's description—and suggest "No Scrubs" by TLC as the song .

"Classic choice," Barney approves. "We'll prepare something special for the occasion."

I hang up just as the shower turns off. A few minutes later, Lena emerges in her bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She startles slightly when she sees me.

"Oh! I didn't hear you come in."

"Just got back," I say casually, closing my laptop. "How was work?"

"Fine." She doesn't quite meet my eyes. "Busy."

"Too busy for dinner tonight?" I try to keep my tone light.

She tightens the belt of her robe. I resist the urge to step into her space and pull it off her. My god, I am a sleaze. Lena says, "I really need to catch up on patient files. Rain check?"

There it is again—the same excuse. No wonder.

"Sure," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Maybe tomorrow night instead? We could order from that Thai place you like."

"Maybe." She shifts uncomfortably. "I should get dressed."

Before I can say anything else, she disappears down the hall, leaving me with Gordie and the increasing certainty that something is very wrong.

The next day, I'm practically vibrating with anticipation. I've arranged to "coincidentally" run into Lena at the training facility around 1:30, giving us just enough time to "spontaneously" decide to visit Brad's lecture. It's the perfect plan.

Except Lena doesn't show up for our "coincidental" meeting, despite my careful timing based on her schedule. By 1:40, I'm pacing the lobby, sending increasingly desperate texts.

Are you still at the facility?

I'm in the lobby if you want to grab coffee

Lena ?

Finally, at 1:45, I get a response:

In a meeting with management. Can't talk now.

My heart sinks. The quartet is already en route. In fifteen minutes, they'll burst into Brad's classroom and deliver a musical humiliation that was supposed to be for both of us to witness.

For a brief moment, I consider calling them to cancel. But the thought of Brad's smug face stops me. No, this is happening, with or without Lena.

I race to my car and speed toward campus, hoping to at least document the moment for her.

I park in someone’s reserved spot, leave my blinkers on, and manage to slip into the lecture hall just as the clock hits 2 PM.

Brad is at the front, gesturing dramatically as he discusses something about categorical imperatives.

The room is about half full, with students typing on laptops or staring vacantly at their phones.

And then, right on cue, the doors on the opposite side of the lecture hall swing open. Four men in matching striped vests and straw boater hats stride in, humming in perfect harmony.

Brad stops mid-sentence, confusion spreading across his face. "Excuse me, what is?—"

"Brad Reid?" the lead singer interrupts cheerfully.

"Yes, but I'm in the middle of?—"

"We have a special musical message for you!"

What follows is three minutes of exquisitely crafted public humiliation.

The quartet launches into a barbershop version of "No Scrubs," with lyrics modified to address Brad's specific offenses—living off his girlfriend, cheating with another man, and claiming to be an ethics expert while displaying none.

Students are recording on their phones, some laughing openly .

Brad's face cycles through confusion, shock, anger, and then a sickly kind of resignation as he realizes resistance is futile. He stands frozen at the podium, knuckles white against the wood.