I dozed off

I dozed off at some point, the silhouettes of their voices lulling me into a sour sleep, weaving in and out of consciousness. I kept waking up, twitchy, to the low rumble of them talking or the sudden spike of Sarah’s laughter ricocheting down the hallway. After two cycles of this, I woke again to the sound of the refrigerator slamming shut, the fizz and hiss of a soda can, and Sarah’s high, delighted laugh. I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and groggily registered it was nearly midnight. For a minute, I lay there, half-hoping the laughter would just keep going and eventually hush itself out, but the place was too small for that.

The blue light from the fridge spilled into the hallway, casting a cold glow across the kitchen tiles. Wiley was still there, hunkered at the table, sleeves rolled up, face pink and shiny, his fat stomach poking out of his pajama shirts, mug cradled in both hands like it was his only tether to the waking world. Sarah perched on the kitchen counter, bare feet swinging back and forth just above the recycling bin, hair loose and wild. She looked up, caught my gaze, and grinned a little sheepishly, as if she’d gotten caught with her hand in the sugar jar—childish and luminous and, for a moment, dazzling.

“Heard you guys from the other room,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes, trying not to sound as annoyed as I felt. “You keep it down or you’ll get us evicted.”

Wiley didn’t even bother to look at me. Just sipped his mug, steam fogging up his glasses, and said, “That’s what you get for living in a box stacked on top of other boxes.”

Sarah snorted, set her can down, and said, “You want soup, babe?”

I shook my head and pretended to yawn, though I wasn’t tired anymore. “I’m going back to bed,” I said, and shuffled past the fridge, shoulders hunched, imagining the scene I’d left: Wiley’s eyes following me, Sarah’s face full of concern, the heavy press of my own pettiness sticking like peanut butter to the roof of my mouth as I drift back towards our bedroom.

From behind me I heard Sarah’s voice rose above the hum, “Don’t be such a bad sport, Liam,” a hint of exasperation softened by gentle amusement.

I heard Wiley’s answering snort, the scrape of his mug on the counter. “Let the man sleep, Sarah. He’s got an honest job and everything.” Beneath the derision, he almost sounded impressed.

The bedroom door made a soft click behind me. I sprawled out on the bed, hands laced behind my head, eyes fixed on the water stain above me. I lay there, ears open, listening to the muffled shell of their conversation. Wiley’s laugh—every time—sent a little tremor up the wall, like distant thunder. It shouldn’t have bothered me. It shouldn’t have mattered.

I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head, but I couldn’t stop the echo of their words. Instead, the memory of the last few hours rewound itself in my mind: Sarah’s sideways smiles, her laughter at Wiley’s stories, and the way she turned toward him as if his presence made the whole room more interesting. And me, stuck outside the joke, arms folded, trying to look like I didn’t care, as I fought to drift to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up alone. Sarah’s side of the bed was still made, the pillow uncreased. I padded out, expecting to find her curled on the couch, but she and Wiley were gone. The apartment was oddly silent. The only sign of their existence was an empty mug on the kitchen table, lipstick smudged on the rim, and a sticky note taped to the microwave:

[Wiley needed a ride to the car rental place, back be after work, don’t be grumpy.]

I stared at the note. It didn’t help.

I wandered the apartment for a while, tried to watch TV, then gave up and took a shower, letting the hot water drum at the tension in my neck, before getting dressed and heading off to work.

Work wasn’t bad. I worked for my dad’s company. I wasn’t upper management or anything, but everyone treated me well because they all knew I was on the fast track to running the company.

When I walked into my house after work, Sarah and Wiley were already at the kitchen table eating pizza. They looked up at me at the same time, both grinning, like I’d walked into a sitcom scene that had been rehearsed without me.

Sarah’s hair was damp, twisted up in a knot, and she wore a big pajama shirt that said “But First, Coffee.” She looked happy, genuinely happy; there was no trace of whatever had kept her out of our room last night. Wiley wore the same shirt from the day before, but now it was stretched at the neck, like he’d yanked it off and on a few times. They had a pizza box open between them and were fighting over the last slice, each with a hand on it, like two kids in a cartoon.

“Liam!” Sarah said, vaulting out of her chair and wrapping me in a quick, greasy hug. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to find a place for my briefcase that wasn’t covered in pizza cheese. “Long day.”

Wiley raised his chin in greeting, then took a bite of the contested slice. “We saved you some,” he mumbled through a mouthful, then wiped his face on a paper towel.

Sarah followed me as I went to change, hovering in the doorway while I tossed my khakis onto the bed. “Sorry about last night,” she said. “We got carried away talking.”

“It’s fine,” I said, though it wasn’t, not really. I buttoned up a clean shirt, just to give my hands something to do.

When I got back to the kitchen, Wiley stood, stretching like a bear waking from hibernation. “So,” he said, “what’s the plan for tonight?”

Sarah looked at me, a mischievous spark in her eyes. “Let’s play something,” she said, her voice too casual, like she was trying to trick me into thinking it didn’t matter. “It’s been forever since we played a game together.”

After dinner, Sarah suggested a game: “Let’s play something,” she said, her voice too casual, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “It’s been forever since we played a game together.”

I really didn’t want to be around that pervert any longer than I had to, so I made up I lie “I’ve got work to do, Payroll stuff.”

Sarah just shook her head, smiling. “Come on, Liam, don’t be boring. It’s only a game.”

I glanced over at the gross pig, who was sitting at my table picking his nose, to my sure he was out of earshot before I groaned “Come on Sarah, I am trying to be nice, but I really don’t want to play a game with him.”

But she whispers back “IF you don’t play, I’ll Walk out here in the outfit I bought for last night.” with a wink.

Shocked I scuffed “You wouldn’t dare. It's lingerie.”

She winked at me before whispering back “It’s skimpy sleepwear. So, try me.”

There was no way I was going to let the pervert see my Sarah in what she bought for me, so I defeatedly followed her to the table before sitting down and asking, “So you got me here, so what game are we playing.”

Wiley gives me a creepy smile as he says, “I was thinking truth or dare.”

“HELL NO!”

Sarah whimpers “Come on Liam, don’t be such a party pooper. It used to be our favorite game.” before leaning into my ear and whispering “Remember what I’ll do if you don’t play.”

I scanned the room, tried to look for a way out, but my only escape meant possibly showing the pervert what was only meant for me, So I groaned, “Fine. But I go first.”

We started slow. Sarah dared Wiley to do a handstand, which lasted maybe a second before he toppled onto the carpet, knocking over a lamp. Then Wiley dared me to eat an entire jalapeño from the fridge. I did, and spent the next five minutes gasping for water while they laughed. I dared Sarah to recite the ABC backwards, which she did, right up until about half way then he started messing up so much that Wiley and her started giggling.

But the game turned quickly. After a few rounds, Sarah asked

“If you could change one thing about the past, what would it be?” She smiled each time, but I could see the way her hands picked at the hem of her shirt, restless.

I glare at Wiley and answer “I would make it, so you never meant him…”

Sarah broke out laughing “Stop joking… Well Liam it your turn…”

“Wiley truth or dare”

He glared back at me “Truth”

“Well Mr. Prefect have you ever cheated.”

He didn’t flinch. “Only once,” he said. “Fourth grade spelling bee. I slipped the word list into my shoe. Still lost to Sarah, though.”

Sarah high-fived him, and I realized, too late, that every answer just made their connection stronger. I felt like a third wheel in my own life.

He smiled back at me as he said “Well Liam truth or dare.”

I wasn’t about to let that pervert dare me to do anything “Truth.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to someone in this room?” he asked.

I know he was trying to drive a wedge between me and Sarah, but I know he plan wouldn’t work so I proudly said “I don’t know why you would want to relive this, but I guess it was when I made it look like you pee yourself in front of the whole school. Not that I needed to do anything, you probably would have pee yourself anyway.”

Wiley winch “See Sarah he just a jerk.”

I was expecting Sarah to defend me but instead so just said “Ok it my turn Liam truth or dare.”

The way she was glaring at me made me hesitated. “Truth.”

She smiled, but there was no warmth. “Why do you hate Wiley so much?”

I shrugged. “I don’t hate him.”

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

I tried again. “It’s just—we’re different, okay? He’s… I don’t know. We’re not the same.”

“So?” she pressed.

I shrugged again, forcing a laugh. “He’s just creepy, Sarah. You know that.”

Wiley bobbed his head as if he’d heard the same thing before. “Creepy how?”

I looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Sarah’s voice cooled. “Is that all?”

“Yeah,” I said, but it sounded flat, even to me.

She laughs “I don’t believe you.” And Wiley added on, “Neither do I but I don’t think either of us can prove it so it’s your turn, Liam, unless Sarah knows something I don’t “

Sarah was shy “Nope I can’t prove it either so it’s all yours Liam.”

Caught in a corner and Annoyed by the little inside game the love of my life and her longest friend were playing against me I decided to go for the throat. “Wiley Truth or dare.”

He hesitated, the tip of his tongue tracing the inside of his cheek, eyes darting to Sarah for some sort of nervous guidance before He straightened, took a breath that shuddered in his chest, and said, “Truth.”

I didn’t even pause to savor the moment; I was too pent up with months—years—of this particular irritation. “Do you have some kind of shrine to my girlfriend? Pictures, whatever. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I made the accusation sound as harsh possible, I didn’t want anyone thinking I was anything but dead serious.

The words hovered above us with a weight I’d never managed to deploy in any other context. Sarah’s laugh, quick and reflexive, “What a waste of a turn… of course he doesn’t.”

"I didn’t ask you now did I” With that we both turn our attention to Wiley who was folded inward: hands curling into fragile fists, spine bending forward, his face blushing so hard and direct it looked like a physical affliction more than embarrassment. He couldn’t meet my eyes. He glanced at Sarah—one wild, **** flick—and then down at his trembling hands.

“N. N. No,” he said, and the way his voice broke on the first word made it sound like a person pronouncing his own execution.

I pointed at him, triumphant, messy, “I CALL BULLSHIT.”

Sarah, for her part, looked at me the way you look at a roommate who’s shit in the bathtub as some kind of prank. “Are you saying he’s lying?” Her voice was neutral, but only the way a knife is neutral about what it’s going to cut.

“Of course I am saying he is lying… So that means the game is over and I can go to bed, right?” I started to push away from the table but Sarah, pliant and sharp at the same time, leaned across the space to keep me rooted.

She winced, searching my face as if she’d find some last-minute mercy before glancing towards Wiley as she said. “No, that’s not how the game works. If someone is lying or failed a dare, then the person who asked can make one thing happen that the other person really, really doesn’t want to happen.”

“All the better. I don’t want him talking to you at all.” It sounded harsh, but I meant it. I’d spent years with this guy orbiting our lives, casting shadows even from hundreds of miles away, popping up in messages and phone calls and in the stories Sarah re-told after every major holiday home. There was always some memory, golden and uncontestable, which only Wiley could provide. I didn’t want a single new one added to the catalog.

Sarah rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “So where’s your proof?”

“What proof? I don’t need proof—look at the sleeve ball.” I gestured at Wiley, who was squeezing his mug so hard I thought it might crack. “You’re telling me he doesn’t look like he is lying? Not at all?”

Wiley took a ragged breath, then abruptly straightened, the collapse and snap-back of his posture unsettling in its suddenness. “AH. The rules of the game say you need to prove it. If you can’t, then I get to make something happen that you don’t want to happen. That’s fair.” His eyes, already watery, seemed to charge with a kind of greasy glee.

I turned to Sarah, expecting her to back me up, but she only shrugged, lips parted in a pantomime of apology. “Those are the rules of our game,” she said. And there it was again: our game. Not mine. Not his. Theirs. As if I have ever played this game by those rules

Wiley’s voice picked up steam, lubricated by victory and sugar and the possibility of ****. “So, Sarah, what does your boyfriend not want to happen?” His words glittered. He didn’t even look at me as he said it.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to mine, then away, refusing contact, as if afraid I might set her on fire just by staring. She took a breath, set her jaw, and answered Wiley—but loud enough for me to hear: “The only reason he’s playing this game is because I said I’d walk out here in the outfit I was planning on wearing last night if he didn’t.”

Wiley’s face transmuted in real time: surprise, then glee, then a kind of predatory awe. “The lingerie?” He said it like he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.

Sarah flashed a color-scatter of embarrassment and pride. “Yeah, but it’s not… I mean… Whatever. It was just a joke and It’s not a big deal.” She sounded frantic while trying to downplay it.

Wiley gave her a slow, wicked, perverted, smile. “Then let’s see it.”

She looked at me, seeking rescue. So, I slowly reached out to her and said, “You don’t have to it just some stupid game!”

That must not have been what she was looking for me to say because she just shook her head no, while saying “rules are rules, and if I want to keep playing game, I must see them enforced.” As if it was drilled into since a young age.

There was a terrible, slow moment where the whole apartment seemed to contract. Even the fridge stopped thrumming. It was just me and Wiley—who couldn’t stop drumming his fingers and stealing glances at me, gloating in a gentle, greasy way that didn’t require words.

When Sarah came back, she did not even try to do a slow reveal. She just stood at the doorway, arms folded inwards, as the soft glow from the bedroom illuminated her silhouette, casting an ethereal light that framed her figure like a masterpiece.

It was as though she was attempting to mentally downplay the gravity of the moment to ease her own anxiety, but the nervous energy still manifested in her fingers, which fidgeted restlessly with the delicate edge of her lingerie. She wore a sheer black robe that cascaded elegantly to mid-thigh, its sash intentionally left untied, hinting at a tantalizing allure. Beneath it, a striking crimson-and-black lace set clung to her curves with the intensity of static electricity, its intricate design both delicate and commanding, begging for attention. Her hair, liberated from its bun, tumbled in wild, luxurious waves over her shoulders, creating a striking contrast against her porcelain skin. The only thing more exposed than her bare skin was the vacant yet piercing way she gazed into the distance, as if lost in a realm beyond this one. In that moment, she was the most breathtaking I had ever seen her, radiating a beauty that felt timeless, as if it belonged to another era, a different existence altogether.

She didn’t look at me, or Wiley, or past us. She kept her gaze level with her own feet, as if bracing for impact from the floor. There was nothing coy in the display, no seduction—the opposite, if anything. Not “look at me,” but “this is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Not “aren’t you impressed?” but “are you satisfied now?” That kind of energy.

Wiley stared with unfiltered hunger. He did not even try to avert his gaze. He drank every detail in, unfiltered, as if trying to memorize the image for all the nights he’d be left with only his own imagination. His hands, resting on his thighs, tensed into doughy claws, and his mouth lolled open, jammed somewhere between a wolf’s pant and a small boy’s awed gasp. He tried to speak, but nothing came out; his throat moved, swallowing an emotion too large for words.

Sarah’s chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. She was shaking, possibly from cool air brushing against her nearly exposed skin but more likely from the adrenaline that comes from being hunted or exposed. For a split second she looked like she might try to cover herself up and block our view—but then, with a visible act of will, she squared her shoulders as best she could and asked, in a voice that tried for banter and missed by a mile, “There. Happy now?”

She looked at me, but only for a second, and her glance barely grazed my face before darting away. Even now, in this ridiculous uniform of lust, she looked like she wanted nothing more than to disappear.

Wiley made a noise, an exhale of disbelief and reverence. “You look incredible, Sara-bear.” He said it softly, like he was making a wish.

She blushes and wraps the robe around herself and belted it haphazardly, only to realize that the fabric was so thin it offered no protection at all. She crossed her arms again, hugging her torso, and repeated, “Okay, you’ve seen it. Game over. I’m going to bed.” Her voice was pinched, high and strained. She didn’t wait for permission—just turned on her heel and retreated down the hall, the backs of her thighs glowing like panic signals with every step. She slammed the bedroom door behind her. I heard the snick of the lock.

Wiley and I sat at the kitchen table, two men who’d spent years pretending not to hate each other. The silence between us was thick and palpable, each second stretching out like an eternity. Eventually, we both rose from our seats, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air, and walked in unison to the sofa, where we would attempt to find rest in the quiet discomfort of our shared solitude