Dark Places

20 | oh, i've got a few ideas for you and i, melo

❝message read on the bathroom wall,
says, "i don't feel at all like i fall."
and we're losing all touch,
losing all touch...❞

☽

III. BAD HABITS

DENNY'S IS A SANCTUARY for the drunk... and the hungover. Unfortunately, I'm neither, and it may or may not be the first fucking time I've entered the Denny's in Portland without stumbling, crashing into a table, and then cursing out the table in a string of drunken Spanish.

Instead, I'm on edge, anxious and jittery, as I shuffle to a booth quietly, stealing glances over my shoulder at Drake Medina. His expression is infuriatingly blank, giving away nothing. I'd only been able to do a double-take on Nikki's name before Drake disappeared from my doorway, leaving an impatient Jonah to rally up the entire apartment, including Elijah, Tiffany, and Connor, for a Denny's trip, under the guise of needing professional help for his raging hangover.

But I know, in the tense, tight silence of our table, that it's a roommate meeting.

I'd lived with enough random people, on and off, in Brooklyn, to know a roommate meeting, just by the energy, and I also know, from his stern, somewhat fatherly expression, that mi hermano is gearing up to be the mediator. It's a recipe for disaster, considering his current state, but when I peer across the table and find those dark, dark, dark eyes on me, I hope Jonah is physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared to break up a fight inside a Denny's today.

Because Drake isn't sober, only crashing. Because Drake is silent, crossed arms, stiff shoulders, clenched jaw. Because Drake is glaring at me, dark hues iced with annoyance, as if I fucking did something to Nikki.

Mhmm, it must be my fault, even though I know nothing. Okay.

I scoff under my breath, rolling my eyes as I focus on Connor, who is squinting and cursing, struggling to order something from a patient waitress. Her gaze shifts to each of us slowly. Denny's waitresses are fucking saints, doing God's work, nodding pitifully, offering timid suggestions to obnoxiously drunk patrons, and putting up with our bullshit. Siempre. So, I order last, keeping my voice quiet, and then, I gather the stack of menus and hand them to her thankfully... just as Connor drops his head onto the table with a loud, overdramatic groan.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"Yeah, I'm fucking sorry, too," Connor snaps, lifting his head with a scowl that sends her flitting away in a hurry. I shake my head in frustration as I steer my gaze to the row of idiots sitting across from me. Connor. Elijah. Drake. "Fuck, I am never drinking again."

Drake quirks a brow dryly. "Maybe Melo has a hangover cure."

"Yeah." I narrow my eyes. "Denny's."

"Oh, sí?"

My heart skips backward, three years, four years, five years, triggered by the soft edge in his voice. Drake is playing dirty, memories disguised as weapons, and I'm unarmed, wide open, defenseless to it. Faintly, I remember those endless nights—stumbling into Denny's, trashed, weaving in and out of consciousness, ordering in an incomprehensible slur of Spanish that he would translate, devouring a plate of eggs and bacon, and then... sleeping it off in the backseat of a shitty Volvo. Fuck.

I bite my tongue, feigning indifference under the taunting reminder of those bad habits that Drake helped create.

"Melo, I didn't know they have Denny's in New York."