Page 12 of Rebound My Alpha
Me: Nothing about that night was underwhelming and you know it.
A long pause. Then:
Benji: You don't know anything about what I know.
Which would be a solid, dismissive mic-drop, except he sent it at 1:00 a.m.. Meaning he was lying in bed thinking about me at 1:00 a.m..
Fuck this. I’m tired of the circling. The texting is good—honestly, it’s the best part of my day right now, which is a thought I absolutely refuse to examine—but it’s not enough. The restlessness under my skin won’t quit.
I type the message before I can second-guess myself.
Me: You catfished me, used me, and kicked me out. Twice. If you're done with me, say it. If you can't say it, meet me somewhere tomorrow. Your pick.
The typing indicator bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear again. My pulse does a weird little stutter.
Here’s the thing I won’t admit to anyone, definitely not to myself: if he shrugs this off, if he shows up tomorrow and treats it like a casual check-in so he can walk away with a clean conscience, I’m done. I don’t chase people who don’t want to be caught. I’ve spent enough of my life being the guy who stays too long in rooms where nobody asked him to sit down.
Benji: [Location pin — Elm Street Park]
Benji: 5pm.
No banter. No snarky qualifier. Just the pin and the time. I put the phone facedown on the counter, pick up my sketchbook, and draw another jawline with freckles. I'm fine. I'm always fine.
My phone rings on the walk home. I’ve been dodging my mom for over a week, and the guilt finally outweighs the avoidance, so I hit accept.
“Baby, I was starting to think you’d changed your number.” Her voice is warm, but there’s that bone-deep exhaustion in it. The same exhaustion she’s carried for years. I hate how much it still makes me feel like a kid who can’t fix anything.
“Sorry, Ma. Been a busy week.”
“You’re always busy.” It’s not an accusation. Just a fact. “Your father’s got that appointment Thursday. Dr. Okafor wants to talk about the program.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s doing.” A heavy pause. “He’d love to see you. It’s been a while, Knox.”
“I know. I’ll come this weekend.”
“You said that last time.”
“I mean it this time.” And I think I do. But I said that before too, and then Sunday rolled around and I found a reason not to go. Because sitting in that house, with my dad looking hollowed out and my mom trying to hold the walls up, makes it hard to breathe. The last time it got that heavy, I bolted. I did something I can’t undo.
I tell my mom I love her, she tells me to eat something that didn’t come from a gas station, and I hang up. The call sits heavy on my chest for the next three blocks. My dad in that house, my mom holding it together, and me over here slinging ink and chasing an omega, pretending I’m not the kind of guy who leaves when things get complicated. I left them too, in a way. Not physically, but every dodged call and skipped visit is its own kind of ghosting.
When I pass Benji’s building, my boots slow down on the pavement. I look up at the third-floor window. The light is on. Istare at it for a second, jaw tight, before I force myself to keep walking.
Elm Street Park is exactly the kind of place that makes me want to turn around and leave on principle. Green grass, a bubbling fountain, benches everywhere. Couples doing couple shit. I’m early because my legs dragged me here before five, and I claim a bench, crossing my arms and trying to look like I don’t give a fuck.
This is it. My last real try. If he sits down and gives me the closure speech, I’ll let him.
Benji walks up the path, and my entire body goes dead still.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, and he looks fucking incredible. I can’t explain how both of those things are true at the same time. Black skinny jeans, beat-to-hell combat boots, a vintage band tee with a ripped collar. The electric blue streak in his hair catches the late-afternoon sun. He’s got eyeliner smudged around his eyes, and he walks toward me like he’s stepping into a cage match.
He sits on the other end of the bench. He leaves exactly six inches of empty space between us. It feels like a goddamn canyon.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say.
