Chapter 3: The Morning After
The morning sun was a blade. It cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows and sliced across Apollo’s face, dragging him from a sleep that felt more like a faint. He was still on the couch, one arm pinned under him, his mouth dry as parchment. His phone was a cold, dead weight in his other hand.
He sat up. A wave of nausea rolled through him, part cheap wine, part pure dread. The events of the previous evening didn’t arrive as a memory, but as a series of echoes—the pressure of a body against his, the low murmur of a voice in his ear, the shocking, undeniable pleasure. He could still feel George’s hands on him, a ghost imprint. He looked at his own palms, as if they might be stained.
He stood, his body stiff, and walked to the shower. He turned the water as hot as he could stand, scrubbing his skin with a coarse loofah until it was pink and raw. It didn’t work. The feeling wasn’t on the surface; it was underneath, in the layers of muscle and bone. He was marked.
Wrapped in a towel, he made coffee. The routine was mechanical: grind, pour, wait. The rich smell usually centered him. Today it just smelled like bitterness. He was staring at the slow drip into the carafe when the door banged open.
“Rise and shine, princess!”
Marco. Of course. His best friend never knocked, just shouldered his way in like he owned the place, his board under his arm dripping saltwater onto the concrete floor. He was grinning, his face wind-burned and alive. “Dude, you are missing it. Swell is pumping, glassy as hell. It’s a gift. Get your suit.”
Apollo forced a smile. It felt like a physical contortion. “Hey. What time is it?”
“Time you got wet.” Marco dropped his board and went straight to the fridge, pulling out a jug of orange juice and drinking from the carton. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You look like shit. Late night?”
“Something like that.”
“With Victoria? That why you’re walking funny?” Marco laughed, a loud, easy sound that filled the sleek apartment.
“Shut up,” Apollo said, but there was no heat in it. He turned back to the coffee, pouring a cup. His hands were steady. He was impressed with his hands.
Marco came up beside him, smelling of salt and neoprene and coconut sunscreen. He clapped a heavy, friendly hand on Apollo’s bare shoulder. “Seriously, get moving. The tide’s right now.”
Apotle flinched.
It was instantaneous. A full-body recoil, the coffee sloshing over the rim of the mug onto the counter. He stepped away, his shoulder burning where Marco’s hand had been.
Marco’s grin faded. He held his hands up, playful confusion on his face. “Whoa. Easy, killer. You that hungover?”
“Sorry,” Apollo mumbled, grabbing a dishcloth. He wiped at the spill, not looking up. “Just… spaced out. Didn’t sleep great.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Marco leaned against the counter, his eyes tracking him. The easy energy had dimmed. “Everything cool with you? You’ve been kinda distant lately.”
“I’m fine. Just work stuff. You know.” Apollo took a gulp of coffee, the liquid scalding his throat. A familiar lie. Work stuff. The catch-all for every secret he kept.
“The famous director ‘work stuff’?” Marco asked, his tone light but with an edge of genuine curiosity. “How’s that going, anyway? You landing any real jobs from that guy, or just a lot of ‘meetings’?” He made air quotes, his brow furrowed in a joking skepticism.
The words hit Apollo like a slap. He saw the canyon house. The bed. George’s solemn vow. Everything stops if you say so.
“It’s going,” Apollo said, his voice tighter than he intended. “He’s connected. Things are moving.”
“Cool, cool.” Marco watched him for a second longer, then shrugged, the moment passing. He was not a suspicious person; he took the world at face value. It was one of the things Apollo had always loved about him. Now it felt like a canyon between them. “Well, your ‘things’ can wait. The ocean won’t. Twenty minutes. I’ll wait.”
Marco ambled out to the balcony, leaving wet footprints on the pale wood. Apollo stood in the kitchen, trembling. He wanted to tell him. The words were a solid mass in his chest, pressing against his ribs. Marco, something happened. I think I let something happen. Or I wanted it to happen. I don’t know. He could imagine the way Marco’s face would change—the confusion, the slow dawning, the inevitable withdrawal. The friendship curdling into something awkward and fragile. He couldn’t lose this. This was his anchor.
He pulled on his wetsuit, the neoprene familiar and constricting. He grabbed his board. He would go surf. He would let the cold Pacific wash him clean. He would be Apollo again, the sun-bleached surfer, his best friend’s dependable wingman. The guy with the easy smile.
On the balcony, Marco was pointing out at the water, talking about the break. Apollo’s phone, left charging on the kitchen counter, lit up silently.
Two new messages appeared on the screen.
G_E_O: Good morning. I’m looking at the proofs from your test shoot. You’re a natural. More than you know.
G_E_O: I’d like to see you today. My place. 4 PM. We have much to discuss.
The phone went dark. Outside, Apollo laughed at something Marco said, the sound carried away by the wind, toward the endless, waiting sea.