The next day

The next morning, I woke up once again to an empty house; this time, the note on the fridge was from Wiley.

[Thanks for letting me stay. You two are lucky to have each other.]

My heart skipped a happy beat; that disgusting pig was out of my house, and hopefully, I would never have to smell his greasy fat self again. Despite my back being sore and my neck being in a stiff knot from sleeping on the sofa, I went to work as happy as I have been in weeks. I thought nothing could bring me down. At least that was until I got a text for Sarah.

Her text landed just as I was shuffling between my first meetings and second. I stared at her message for a long time, thumbing over the pixelated words until they blurred into nothing. “Wiley said he was going to stay at a hotel after last night. I insisted he stay with us.”

No emoji, no exclamation point, just that. WHY THE EVER LOVING FUCK WOULD SHE OFFER THAT. I JUST GOT HIM OUT OF MY LIFE, AND THERE WAS NO WAY I WANTED HIM BACK IN.

I found myself writing, then deleting, a reply three times over. “Why?” was my first impulse, blunt and childish. My next: ”You could have asked me”—sounded too whiny, but I just couldn’t find a way to say no without upsetting her, and since she already offered it I just had to accept it and hope that fat pig would turn down the offer, so I sent ” Fine. Whatever”.

The day bludgeoned on, meetings, phone calls, with all my joy being replaced by fear of the pig accepting her offer. By five, I had developed a low-grade headache and a cold, slow burning beneath my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to get home, kick off my shoes, and dissolve into the sofa. Instead, I walked into a new cold war: all my hope of him not accepting the offer was for not as Wiley was wedged into my armchair, knees to chest, scrolling his phone; Sarah in the kitchen, making an unnecessary show of chopping vegetables, her knife hitting the board as if she were breaking bones. They had both heard my key in the lock, but neither looked up.

We ate dinner almost in silence, the only noise Sarah’s knife against the plate and the wet, open-mouthed chewing of Wiley as he tried to keep pace with her. I watched their body language like a naturalist studying a pair of strange birds: Wiley hunched, shrinking into his clothes, Sarah upright and alert, hovering above the table with a predatory stillness. When she finally spoke, it was with the exaggerated patience of a kindergarten teacher.

“Ok, enough of the silent shit,” she said, setting her fork down. “Let’s play a game.”

I barked a laugh, too sharp, “No… No way in hell, and certainly not truth or dare.”

Wiley dropped his fork, the metal clatter just loud enough to startle me. He rubbed the back of his neck, flushing, eyes fixed on Sarah like he could see right through her clothes. “Yeah Sar-Bear, I don’t think truth or dare is a good idea.”

Sarah, eyes never leaving Wiley, said, “Fine, then cards.”

She dug an ancient deck from the living room drawer, spreading them across the table in a small, fan-shaped rainbow. The room grudgingly thawed as we played, first to three, nothing at stake but pride. The first round, I took by luck: a decent hand, and Sarah distracted by her phone. She got up between shuffles to grab beers for the table, coming back with bottles so cold they left goosebumps along my forearm. The second round she won easily, grinning at me as she raked in the pot. It was the first time she’d smiled at me in days.

By the third hand, the air in the room had warmed, the tension evaporating and condensing into a lazy, drunken fog that made everything feel more permissible. Wiley was even starting to joke, making little self-deprecating quips about his luck, the way he always did in high school when he pretended he didn’t care about losing. Back then, Sarah used to parrot his jokes, egg him on. Tonight, she just rolled her eyes, but fondly, the way you would at a particularly stubborn child.

Sarah emptied her third beer, sat back, and stretched with a long, satisfied groan. “This is boring,” she declared, “We should spice it up.”

I hiccuped, “I am fine with boring, honestly. I didn’t want to play anyway.”

She glared at me, not playfully, but with a calculated meanness, like she was daring me to become the villain of the evening. “No, you’re playing. You ruined last night’s fun, so you’re not getting out of this.”

I could feel my resistance whittling away. “Fine,” I croaked. “What do you have in mind?”

Sarah’s eyes lit up, the old competitive glint returning for the first time in ages. “Winner gets to ask for anything from the losers. Anything.”

I tried to laugh it off, but the beer made my tongue thick. “What, like money? Or are we back to the public humiliation thing?”

She leveled her gaze at me. “What are you afraid of, if it’s Wiley? He hasn’t even won yet.”

“Yeah, what are you afraid of?” Wiley echoed, and for a second, I heard the old resentment in his voice, the one I’d spent years ignoring.

Sarah started shuffling. “Just so you know, if I win, I am asking you to be nice to Wiley forever.”

I snorted. “If you’re asking for something that big, I’m going to ask that we never have to see him again.”

Wiley pulled at his collar. “That’s a little severe, isn’t it?”

But Sarah was already dealing the cards, her face a bright, shiny mask of anticipation. The hand was over in less than five minutes, and to my absolute shock, Wiley won. I saw his hands trembling as he collected the cards—the victory meant something to him, more than I could admit. I braced for the worst, some humiliating dare or a grudge-fueled ****. Instead, he just looked at me and said, “Can you get me another drink?”

I blinked. “That’s it? After all that, you just want a drink?”

Wiley managed a sheepish smile, as if he, too, knew this wasn’t the moment for escalation. “Yeah. That’s it.”

I stood, and for a second, I felt almost grateful. Maybe it would end here, a draw. I went to the kitchen, grabbing a beer for Wiley, another for myself, and the coldest water bottle I could find for Sarah. As I came back, I heard them talking, their voices low and conspiratorial: old friends trading secrets while the world outside blundered on.

“I think we should stop,” Wiley was saying. “It feels mean, now.”

Sarah gave a huff of a laugh. “Why? All I have to do is win, and he’ll have to be nice to you.”

Wiley, voice barely above a whisper, “Sarah, it’s just a game. I doubt he’ll change.”

“It’s worth a try,” she replied, and for a moment I saw the girl I’d fallen in love with: stubborn, competitive, unwilling to let anything—especially the past—beat her.

He asks, “Aren’t you afraid of him winning.’

She giggles, “Why, I know you have been letting us win.”

Wiley’s next win was even more decisive. This time, he asked me to get him a glass of water. The round after that, I thought I had finally gotten the upper hand, but out of nowhere, Wiley snatched victory just as the cards were running out. I slammed my hand on the table, unable to control the surge of anger. “He’s GOT TO BE CHEATING!”

He looked me in the eye, his gaze steady for the first time all night. “I’m not.”

I spat it back, “Yes, you are, you fucking cheater.”

Wiley’s face changed then—a flicker of something old and ugly, the same look he’d worn whenever I’d gotten past his defenses. “Call me a cheater one more time and I’ll ask for something a hell of a lot worse than a stupid glass of water.”

Sarah reached across the table and put her hand on my forearm, not gently. “Liam, please. He’s not cheating.”

I glared at her, feeling suddenly alone on an island of two enemies. “He’s a fucking cheater, Sarah.”

Wiley stood up so fast his chair toppled over. “Sarah. Deal.”

She did, her hands trembling, the cards barely shuffling as she fanned them out. Wiley won in a landslide.