Dark Places

52.2 | no, i hated you

❝i don't remember too much about
the evil things we've done.
i can only tell you what i saw.
there was rain and soot.
there were lovers and blood,
and we learned how to feel in the cold.❞

☽

DENNY'S.

Even at three in the morning, Denny's is glaringly bright. I squint when I step inside, swaying, struck by the onslaught of fluorescent light, and Drake presses a hand to the small of my back to steady us. A flush snakes up my neck into my cheeks. "Sorry," I huff, blinking blearily, forced to follow a hostess, or a waitress, through flickering, sickening swatches of muted orange and red. Nausea. Dark windows, looking out over a deserted parking lot, reflecting glossy signs from behind us, silhouettes, lurking in an empty row of tables.

"Just, uh, water," he's saying to her, "and two orders, scrambled eggs and bacon."

It's cute that Drake remembers our usual tradition, but if I eat anything, I will literally die.

I nearly crawl into the booth.

I yank the gloves off, drop my head onto the table, and close my eyes. Fuuuuuck.

Every bone in my body softens into the stiff fabric, as if recognizing the familiar environment. Getting trashed and ending up at Denny's is like riding a bike. You think you forget it, until you're there, and it feels natural, feels like home, feels like you never left. Faint footsteps, padding across wooden floors. Barely there buzzing. steam. Glass, clinking, in front of my forehead.

Water.

My head swings up. Ignoring the straws, and the waitress, and him, I grab the glass. Arcs of icy condensation, burning my palm to a temperature I can't describe. It bites. I take a cautious sip, but Drake scoffs, reaching across the table to gingerly tip the glass from the bottom, higher and higher. "Mhm, you need it."

I swat his hand away and set it down, inhaling deeply, before I even attempt to look at him.

"So... you didn't hit anything on the way in, Melo," he says, on cue, snagging a straw and teasingly tearing the top edge of the wrapper off with his teeth. "Felicidades."

"Cállate. I hate you."

"Oh, no, you don't." Drake presses the tip of the straw between his lips and points it at me, blows, sending the empty straw wrapper to smack against my face. I blink in surprise. His roguish grin, chewing around the straw and gnawing at my heart. "I'm your best friend."

I roll my eyes as I crumple the straw wrapper and toss it back at him. I'll never live that down. "Well, my options are limited at the moment, cabrón."

"Sí, I'm your only friend."

"That's where I'm at, yeah."

It's Rock Bottom—nowhere to go from here but up.

"I'm the only one that puts up with your shit," he muses, pausing, propping an elbow onto the table to hold my gaze. I scowl silently. "Okay, I guess that's not fair." Drake holds up a hand. "I wasn't always a... uh, ¿cómo se dice, a... walk in the park?"

"You were a sprint through Central Park, Medina."

The corner of his lips curl up.

And I almost lose it.

"No, you- you are, like, a blind sprint through Central Park after dark," I hiss, in a wild fervor, throwing a hand up, "like, being chased by zombies, or- or..."