Page 46

Dennis stumbles through his front door, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet. The first drink goes down too fast. So does the second. And third.

By his sixth glass of scotch, he's sprawled on the couch, studying Jason's photos.

Something's off about the whole thing. If Chris wanted to frame him through electrical failure, it would've made sense—Dennis's name sits on every permit. Chris knows construction inside out, approaches everything with military precision. Yet these photos show amateur work, sloppy execution.

Maybe Chris hired someone. Someone who botched the job.

The photos blur as thoughts of Chris invade his mind. Not just the betrayal either—other memories keep sneaking in uninvited.

His apartment feels massive. Empty space that’s too quiet without Chris's constant noise. No horrible puns, no terrible jokes, no random humming.

Dennis drops his head back against the couch. Goddammit. He misses Chris.

Why can't he just hate the bastard properly?

His glass hits the side table with a thunk. As he shifts in the armchair, Chris's ukulele catches his eye. His fingers brush the strings—a gentle plink echoes through the silent room. Almost without thinking, he grabs it by the neck, settling it against his chest the way Chris showed him.

Chris never taught him beginner songs. No "Country Roads" or "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

Just one song—the first song Chris had ever sung to him, that very first night when everything changed. The first time they'd tasted each other, their bodies learning a new touch. That first night where they had ended up naked and huddled up together on Chris's balcony.

Chris had held him close against his chest under the stars, lips brushing Dennis’s ear as he'd murmured, "Something special, just for you."

The song Chris wrote for him.

Dennis's song.

Their song.

His fingers find the first notes, cringing at how out of tune it sounds. He adjusts the pegs carefully until the melody rings true.

The memory shifts to another night on that same balcony—Chris had just brought home their new outdoor cushions, sneaky grin on his face as he'd spread them out then pulled Dennis down to join him on them.

They'd collapsed into giggles and snorts, shushing each other between kisses, hands covering mouths to muffle their laughter. Under the cover of darkness, they'd made love right there in the open air, reckless and brave, trusting the night to keep their secrets.

"Why do I have to play it?" Dennis had asked later, tired and satisfied, nestled nude between Chris’s legs.

"'Cause I'll be doing the singing."

"You can't multitask?"

"Course I can." Chris's fingers had traced his arm. The slope of his shoulder. The curve of his neck to the back of his ear.

"I multitask great. You love it when I'm up here—" A finger tapped Dennis's mouth. "And down here at the same time." He'd squeezed Dennis's softened cock, making Dennis yelp-laugh through his nose and smack Chris's hand away.

"When I'm all over you." His nose had nuzzled into Dennis's throat as Dennis tilted his head back, offering more skin, smile lighting up his face even as his fingers mangled the chords.

"If that's not it, then what?" Dennis had asked.

"Would you rather do the singing?"

"No." Dennis, who'd never sung a note in his life, had shot that down immediately. But he'd let Chris teach him anyway, asking again weeks later: "Tell me why."

Chris had thought about it then replied: "Cause we're a team."

The strings screech under Dennis's fingers. His jaw locks as rage surges through him. Every good memory feels like poison now—each tender moment tainted by betrayal, every sweet word revealed as lies. He grips the ukulele's neck tight, swinging it high over his head, aiming for the coffee table.

His phone buzzes. He freezes mid-swing. Another buzz. Then two more in quick succession.

"Ugh, what?!"

The ukulele drops onto the couch as he snatches up his phone. Unknown number, but he knows exactly who it is.

Meet me tomorrow, If you don't want to see me again after this I won't bother you again.

I promise

Please I have something

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, then he’s tapping furiously:

Leave me alone Chris

Ugh. Delete.

Fuck off

Delete.

You ruined everything and now you want me to give you a second chance. You still think you're the big deal don't you? I hate—

Delete delete delete.

With a frustrated groan, he tosses the phone next to the ukulele. Drains his glass in one swallow. Slams it back down on the coffee table with a hiss at the burn. Time for bed instead.

His temples throb with the beginnings of what promises to be a vicious hangover.