Dark Places

03 | it's been a long time, melo

❝and baby, there will always be a soft spot
in my cardiac arrest...❞

☽

DRAKE MEDINA DRIVES ME TO DRINK.

He always has.

"Mmm," he hums softly, and the secretive edge in the sound almost draws me closer, inch by inch, out of habit, into the trap. It's something in his presence, a heartbreaking haze, that effortlessly charming grin, loose and lazy, just like I fucking remember. "Hey, Melo."

I offer him a bitchy smile. "Medina."

Drake Medina is swimming in loose fabric, a paint-spattered black sweatshirt bunched up at his elbows to reveal too many familiar tattoos, dark ink twisting down to his wrists. Drake fucking Medina is lost in a cloud of smoke, iced with a history that I refuse to thaw, and served straight, with the promise to sink any chance of survival or... sobriety.

He leans forward from the tattered couch, twisting a joint between his fingers. "I'd say it's good to see you," I drawl sweetly, "but we both know that I'd be lying."

His foggy eyes flash in amusement. "Ah, well, I'd never want you to lie to me, princesita."

The red flags are blinding, waving violently between blinks, as clear as the Dominican flag on that key chain that Drake used to snatch from me when I was too fucking drunk to drive.

He takes a long hit, dragging out the thick silence, and... it's imposible to look away, completely captivated by how little Drake Medina has changed since I left. His eyes, always curious, always dark, always glazed over, trail down my body. "Qué rica estás, mami."

"Ugh, ¿en serio, D?" Jonah rolls his eyes, passing me with a groan, and for a split second, the separation seems to give me a moment to breathe. But then mi hermano is tossing Drake the keys, snagging the joint, and dropping onto the couch beside him. "I told you not to hit on my sister."

Drake toys with the Dominican flag. His gaze never strays from me, and despite the intoxicated veil, there are a million things beneath the temptation of rum that threatens to drown me. Drake Medina is the catalyst to everything I've ever fucked up, with his small, secretive smiles, and it takes one look at him, one moment, one second, to remember why I needed to move 300 miles away. "I'm not hitting on her. I'm just complimenting your hermanita," he teases, his lips twitching. "It's been a long time, Melo."

I almost scoff. "Ah, sí, pero not long enough."

"Tres años, Melo. New York did you dirty, and it looks good on you."

My teeth grind together. "Fuck off."

Laughter floods the room. Drake snickers. I avert my gaze, biting back an irrational desire to cry as I take in the group of people I thought I'd left behind forever. Jonah picked his friends, and as I grew up with him, I'd learned that, in some tragic way, I was stuck with them. Connor. Tiffany. Elijah. Drake.

His friends from Portland High.

They're all still here, smoking weed and drinking PBR, splitting rent for a shitty apartment in Portland. It's the same. I knew everything would be the same. Drake Medina is still able to piss me off with a single smile. Drake Medina is still staring, staring, staring, in rum-soaked intrigue, as if I'd never left. Drake Medina is still high.

"I guess you're the same," I mutter, waving a hand at him. His brows raise. "I guess you've been high since I left, huh?"

Jonah sighs. "Guys, no pele—"

"Yeah, and I guess you've been down a bottle since you left."

It hits me like whiplash, frustration clawing through my chest too quickly to control. I clench my fists together, cock my head to the side, and narrow my eyes at him. I don't need this. "I'm not down a bottle, pendejo."

"Oh, por favor, I've heard the conversations between Jones and your parents," he scoffs, defiance glinting in his dark eyes. Admittedly, I'd always admired how Drake never walked away from a fight. It kept Portland on its toes, but it drove me wild. "I live here, Melo. I've heard all the updates on your glamorous life in New York."

My heart stops. "You... live here?"

Fuck. No.

Desperately, I search his expression for the lie. I catch the delay in his eyes, a flicker of surprise sparking and dying, only to leave an icy taunt. He grins. "Ah, yes, mami, I guess tu hermano didn't tell you," he breathes, his words slurring together into a tangled strand of Spanglish that stokes something vicious in the pit of my stomach. Nausea. Anger. Disbelief. Refusal. I can't do this. I knew I couldn't do this—even before Drake Medina was included in this mock attempt at a 12-Step Program. "I'm your new roommate, but no te preocupes, Melo, I'll keep you sober."

"Fuck you."

I whirl around abruptly, whipping through the kitchen with a string of Spanglish curses. The reaction is instant, a chorus of voices calling for me from the living room, and I can hear all of them, twisting together in a faint apology, but beneath everything, I hear him.

"Ah, fuck, Melo..."

This is why. This is why I can't do this here.

Home?

This has never been home.

The apartment door swings open, crashing into a set of cymbals with a loud sound. I shove through the dimly lit hallway blindly, frantic to reach the shadowy nook and the empty street. I'll walk to the station. I'll take another Greyhound to New York. I'll leave tonight.

Suddenly, I'm staggering into the dark night, cold air lashing at my cheeks, and as I rush across the porch, down the steps, onto the sidewalk, the silence of Portland seems to warp. His footsteps thunder after me.

"¡Ay, ay, Melo, espera!"

☽

—I'll be real. I'm living for enemies to lovers right now, but this one... this one is gonna be a slow-burn, guys. But I'm all in for their banter and their history(!!!), so I'm still excited. 😂

Sorry this chapter is so short! I'll be back soon with another update. I'm thinking of trying an update schedule again, but I don't think I've had one since I was posting CBA back in 2018, and even that derailed when I started posting chapters every day. Uh... do you guys prefer an update schedule?? 👀

BESOS. ❤️