Chapter 6: Was Richard full of it?
The walk home was a blur of frozen sidewalks and harsh morning light. Rachel moved through it mechanically, her body aching with a deep, unfamiliar exhaustion. It wasn’t from lack of sleep, though she’d had none. It was a cellular fatigue, as if every atom had been vibrated at a new, dissonant frequency and hadn’t settled back into place.
Joseph’s flannel shirt was still wrapped around her shoulders, a stolen anchor. She’d tried to give it back as they stood, stiff and stunned, by the rooftop door. He’d just shook his head, his hand briefly covering hers where it gripped the fabric. “Keep it. You’re still cold.” His touch had lasted less than a second, but the imprint of it burned.
She pushed open the door to her apartment, the warmth and the familiar scent of lavender and clean linen washing over her. It felt like entering a museum of her former life.
Mike was on the couch, scrolling through his phone, a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the coffee table. He looked up, an easy, distracted smile on his face. “Hey Rachie. You’re back early.”
The nickname scraped against her raw nerves. Rachie. He’d started using it two months in, thinking it was cute. She’d never corrected him.
“Hey Mike,” she said, her voice sounding thin and far away. She toed off her boots, her fingers automatically tightening the flannel around her.
He stood, walking over. He was handsome in a clean, predictable way—short brown hair, a friendly face, the kind of guy you’d trust to assemble IKEA furniture without cursing. He leaned in, pecking a kiss on her cheek. His lips were dry. He smelled like oat milk and his citrus aftershave.
The casual intimacy of it felt like a violation.
“You okay?” he asked, pulling back, his smile fading into a look of mild concern. “You look kinda pale.”
She could still feel the ghost of Joseph’s arms around her, the solid, desperate pressure of that hug. The way his heart had hammered against her ear, a frantic counter-rhythm to the wind. Mike’s peck was a post-it note on the surface of that memory.
“I need to talk to you,” Rachel said. She walked past him into the living room, slipping the flannel shirt from her shoulders. She held it for a moment, the fabric soft and worn at the cuffs, before draping it carefully over the back of an armchair.
“Okay,” Mike said, his tone shifting to cautious. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sit with me,” She perched on the edge of the sofa, her back straight.
He sat down, leaving a respectful foot of cushion between them, turning his body to face her. He waited. He was good at waiting. It was one of the things she’d liked, initially. His patience.
Rachel looked at her hands, clasped in her lap.
“So you remember when we first started getting to know each other and you asked about my past?” she said, her gaze fixed on a stray thread in the rug.
“Yeah?” Mike said. His posture was relaxed, one arm slung along the back of the couch.
She hadn’t given him much detail when she’d told him. She just said her and a guy used to date. She didn’t say how long. He didn’t ask why they ended or anything. All he knows is that the guy is Monica’s brother.
“Well, Joseph. Monica’s brother. He came back. He’s living with Monica,” she said. The name felt dangerous and heavy on her tongue, a sealed box she’d just cracked open.
He looked at her, his friendly face processing this mild information. “Ohh, okay. His name’s Joseph?” He leaned forward, his expression brightening with a simple, social idea. “We should set up a double date.”
Rachel looked at him. A double date, she thought. What? No. Absolutely not. Her mind flashed to Joseph’s shattered expression on the rooftop, the raw confession that had passed between them in the freezing dark. Was Joseph seeing someone? The possibility sent a nauseating jolt through her stomach.
“Yeah, maybe,” she said. The words were ash in her mouth.
She felt the weight of the lie, a slick, uncomfortable thing settling in her stomach. Mike just nodded, already moving on, his eyes drifting back toward his phone on the coffee table.
A silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of her refrigerator. Rachel watched a shaft of morning sunlight cut across the floor, illuminating dancing motes of dust. It landed on the draped flannel shirt, making the worn red checks seem to glow.
Mike followed her gaze. His eyebrows knitted together. “Is that… a new shirt?” he asked, his tone light, conversational.
Her throat tightened. “No.” She swallowed, forcing her voice to be steady. “It’s Joseph’s. I was cold last night. He lent it to me.” The explanation sounded absurd, even to her. A borrowed shirt from her ex, held onto like a relic.
“Oh,” Mike said. The single syllable hung there. He blinked, his friendly face rearranging itself into an expression of mild, confused calculation. He looked from the shirt to her tense posture on the edge of the couch.
“So you saw him last night? Outside of the group thing?” he asked. He wasn’t accusing. He was piecing together a puzzle where the shapes didn’t fit.
“We talked on the rooftop after Monica went to bed.” Rachel admitted. The memory was a physical press against her ribs. “We needed to clear the air about Monica and Richard. It was… a lot.”
“Makes sense,” Mike said, nodding reasonably. He leaned back again, his arm returning to the couch back. “That’s good. Closure is healthy.”
Closure. The word was a dull knife. What happened on the rooftop was the exact opposite of closure; it was a door, frozen shut for years, being violently wrenched open. She could still feel the imprint of his forehead against hers in the dark, the way their breaths had mingled in the cold.
He checked his watch, a practical gesture that shattered the moment. “I have to go to work I’ll see you later?” He said it like a transaction, leaning in to kiss her on the mouth this time. His lips were a brief, dry pressure.
She turned her head slightly, so his kiss landed at the corner of her lips. “I’m having dinner with Monica and Richard.” She said it to the sunlight on the floor, a brittle excuse she immediately regretted offering.
“Oh yes I’ll see you soon.” He said, already standing, grabbing his jacket from the other chair. He didn’t ask if he was invited. He just left, the apartment door clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
Rachel didn’t move. She listened to the empty echo his departure left behind. The gentle hum of her refrigerator resumed its dominance. She stared at the closed door, then at the shirt.
She stood on unsteady legs and walked to the armchair. Her fingers traced the soft fabric of the flannel’s collar. She brought it to her face, inhaling deeply. It wasn’t just detergent. It was the faint, clean scent of his skin, the winter air, a hint of the spearmint gum he always chewed.
A violent, unexpected sob hitched in her chest. She choked it back, pressing the fabric against her mouth. The tears that came were hot and silent, a release of three years of curated composure dissolving in the safe, sunlit silence of her own sanctuary.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, slicing through the quiet. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, leaving damp streaks on Joseph’s sleeve. It was a text from Monica.
Monica: Dinner at 7. Our place. Richard’s making lasagna.
Monica: Joseph will be here.
The second text came a heartbeat later, a pre-emptive grenade tossed into her chaos. Rachel stared at the screen, the letters blurring. Of course he would be there. He lived there now. This was her new reality.
She typed a single letter. K. She deleted it. Her thumbs hovered. She could fabricate a work emergency, a sudden migraine, a moral objection to Richard’s lasagna.
Instead, she took a shaky breath and typed a full, terrible sentence.
See you then.
She placed the phone face down. The decision vibrated through her, a low, warning hum. She walked to her bedroom, the flannel shirt dangling from her hand. She didn’t fold it or hang it in her closet with her other clothes.
She opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, the one that held old college sweatshirts and winter thermals. She burrowed beneath the bundled fabrics, creating a small, hollow space. She placed the shirt inside, carefully arranged it, and covered it over.
She shut the drawer softly. It felt like burying evidence. Or planting a seed. She couldn’t tell which, and the not-knowing tightened like a coil in her stomach as she went to face the empty, sun-drenched day.
She chose her clothes with a defensive precision: dark jeans, a high-necked sweater, armor against the vulnerability of the previous night. The hours until seven o’clock stretched and contracted with a strange, elastic agony.
At six-fifty, she stood outside Monica’s apartment door, her fist hovering. The familiar walnut grain of the wood seemed different now, a barrier guarding a changed world. She knocked.
Monica opened the door, her face lit with a relief so profound it looked painful. “Hey Rach.”
“Hey Mon.” Rachel stepped forward, hugging her tightly. She felt the slight tremor in Monica’s shoulders and held on a second longer, a silent exchange of forgiveness and fear.
She walked into the warm, fragrant chaos. The scent of garlic, tomatoes, and baking cheese wrapped around her. Richard stood by the stove, poking at a pan of browning meat with intense concentration.
“Hey Rachel, food’s twenty minutes,” he said without looking up, his voice a gruff comfort.
“Smells amazing, Richard.”
Then the bathroom door down the hall clicked open.
Joseph walked out. He wore grey sweatpants and a simple green henley that stretched slightly across his shoulders. His hair was damp, dark tendrils curling against his forehead. He was rubbing a towel over the back of his neck, his movements loose and unguarded in the private space of his sister’s home.
He stopped when he saw her. The easy motion of his hand stilled. The towel hung loosely in his grip.
She looked at him, and the entire rooftop terrace condensed into this single, breathless point in the hallway. The cold, the crushing weight of his arms.
“Hey,” Joseph said. His voice was quiet, a soft rasp that carried over the sizzle from the kitchen.
“Hey,” she said. Her own voice sounded strangely normal.
“Who wants to play poker?” Richard announced, turning from the stove, a spatula in hand like a scepter. “Kill time while the lasagna rests.”
“Yeah, why not,” Monica said, already moving to a cabinet. She pulled out a worn deck of cards and a ceramic bowl of mixed nuts. “Low stakes. Pretzels for chips.”
Joseph walked over to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. It scraped softly on the hardwood. He sat, his gaze flicking to the empty seat beside him, then to Rachel.
She followed. She took the chair opposite him, putting the solid width of the table between them. Monica dealt from the other side, Richard lumbering over to claim the fourth seat.
“Five card draw,” Monica said, shuffling with a practiced flick of her wrists. “Nothing wild. Joseph, try not to be insufferable.”
“I’m statistically lucky, it’s not my fault,” he said, a small, easy smile touching his lips. He accepted his cards, fanning them with a quick glance. His fingers were long, the nails clean and short.
Rachel looked at her own hand. A ten of hearts, a three of clubs, a jack of diamonds, a seven of spades, a king of hearts. A meaningless jumble.
“Bet’s to you, Rach,” Richard said, crunching a pretzel stick.
She pushed two pretzels into the center. “Open.”
Joseph called. Monica raised. Richard folded with a grunt.
The game unfolded in a bubble of familiar, light noise. Richard narrated the bubbling sauce. Monica teased Joseph about a tell he supposedly had. Joseph retaliated by accurately guessing the card she’d drawn. Their sibling rhythm was a comforting, external soundtrack to the silent communication happening across the table.
Every time Rachel looked up from her cards, Joseph’s eyes were there, waiting. They weren’t demanding. They were just… present. A steady, blue anchor in the room’s casual storm. He won a hand with a pair of fours, a humble victory he celebrated by stealing a handful of Richard’s pretzel stash.
“I remember back in high school Joseph. When the second the cards were dealt you weren’t a nice guy, played seriously.” Richard said, pointing his beer bottle at Joseph.
Joseph laughed, a genuine, warm sound that seemed to lift the very air in the room. “Back in high school sure.” Joseph said, stacking his meager pretzel winnings. “Motivation was different. Usually trying to win back lunch money from you.”
“New round?” Monica said, gathering the discarded cards.
“Yeah.” Rachel grabbed the deck before Monica could. Her fingers needed something to do. “Okay, 5 card draw, jacks are better, nothing wild everybody in.” She said.
She dealt the cards with a sharp flick of her wrist, the snap of paper on wood punctuating the quiet.
“How about we spice it up add some cash one dollar limit?” Richard said, slapping his wallet on the table. “Pretzels are for amateurs.”
“Sure.” Everyone agreed, the word a collective murmur.
Rachel watched as Joseph pulled a wrinkled five from his pocket, smoothing it on the table. The casual gesture was intimately familiar. He always kept a single bill folded behind his driver’s license, a habit from when they’d get coffee and he’d insist on paying.
She fumbled in her own purse for change, her fingers brushing against a lipstick, a receipt, the cold metal of her keys. The domestic normality of Mike’s apartment key on the ring felt suddenly alien.
“Ante up, Green,” Richard said, already tossing a quarter into the center.
She found a dollar bill. It went into the pot, a tiny, serious commitment on the scratched tabletop.
The game changed. The silly chatter died. The only sounds were the flutter of cards, the clink of coins, and the relentless timer on the oven counting down the lasagna. Rachel studied her hand: a useless eight, a ten, a deuce, a queen, a four. Garbage.
Joseph’s expression had gone neutral, a placid lake surface. It was the face he used when helping a frustrated child tie their shoes—patient, focused, utterly present. It was also the face he’d used during their most difficult conversations, when he was listening for the meaning beneath her words.
“I’m out,” Monica sighed, tossing her cards down.
“Raise a quarter,” Joseph said, sliding the coin forward. He didn’t look at Rachel.
She met his bet. “Draw two.” Her voice was tight.
He dealt her two cards, his fingers careful not to brush hers. She picked them up. A jack of clubs. A three of hearts. Nothing.
“Check,” she said.
Joseph bet another quarter. It was a slow, deliberate push of the coin.
Rachel felt it then, the high school ferocity Richard had mentioned. It wasn’t mean. It was surgical. Joseph was reading the room, the slight tighten of her shoulder, the way she held her new cards too still. He was playing her, not the hand.
She folded, showing her pathetic cards. “You win.”
He didn’t gloat. He just pulled the small pile of change toward him, his knuckles brushing a stray pretzel salt. “Lucky draw,” he said, not meeting her eye.
They both knew it wasn’t luck. It was calculation. The oven timer beeped, a harsh, electronic shriek that made everyone jump. Richard lumbered up, knocking the table with his thigh. “Lasagna’s done. Let it sit for ten.”
A collective pause settled over the table. The interruption felt like a reprieve. Monica began stacking the cards, her movements neat and final. Rachel watched her hands, feeling the moment deflate.
Joseph didn’t move. He was looking at her now, his gaze a steady, waiting pressure.
“One more game,” Joseph said, looking at Rachel.
“Okay,” she agreed.
Monica and Richard exchanged a glance. “We’re out,” Monica said, standing. “Pot’s too rich for our blood.” They got up, migrating to the sofa, a staged retreat. They pretended to be absorbed in their phones.
Joseph gathered the deck. His fingers were sure, quiet. The only sound was the soft riffle of cards. He dealt this time, sliding five cards face down to her, then five to himself. The movements were ritualistic, slow.
Rachel picked up her cards. A queen, a queen, a queen, a ten, a ten. A full house. Her pulse kicked against her ribs. She kept her face absolutely still, the bland mask she used in stressful meetings.
Joseph looked at his own hand. His expression didn’t change, but she saw the slight, almost imperceptible dilation of his pupils. He had something. Something better. He arranged his cards neatly, setting them down.
“I’m in for two dollars,” Joseph said, placing a crumpled bill in the center of the table.
Rachel smiled, a real one that felt strange on her tense face. She pushed two dollars forward, then added ten more from her small pile. “I see your two dollars, and I raise you ten.”
He looked at his cards, then at her. A faint, acknowledging smile touched his lips. “I fold,” he said.
“What?” Rachel leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I thought that once the cards were dealt, you weren’t a nice guy?” She used Richard’s words from earlier, her tone lightly teasing but her eyes serious. “Or was Richard full of it?”
Joseph held her gaze. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence. He glanced at his discarded hand, then back at her challenging stare. A decision passed behind his eyes.
“I’m in,” he said, his voice firming. He pulled a twenty from his pocket, adding it to the pot. “I raise twenty.”
Monica and Richard were no longer pretending. They got up, heading over to the table, hovering behind the empty chairs. Witnesses.
“I see your twenty,” Rachel said, her blood singing in her ears. She counted out forty dollars, her financial prudence screaming in the back of her mind. The bills made a soft sound as they joined the pile. “Raise you forty.”
Joseph didn’t hesitate. “See your forty,” he said, his voice flat and focused. He added sixty. “Raise you sixty.”
The pot was a small fortune of wrinkled bills and scattered coins. It wasn’t about the money. It was a proxy for everything else—the three years of silence, the rooftop, the flannel shirt buried in her drawer. Rachel felt lightheaded. She met his raise, then pushed everything she had left, a final, reckless shove.
“I see your sixty,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “And I raise you eighty.”
Joseph studied her. He looked at the fierce, defiant set of her jaw, the way her knuckles were white where she gripped her cards. He looked at the considerable pile of money between them, a ridiculous monument to this moment. He counted out eighty dollars, his movements deliberate.
“I’m calling your eighty.” He said it softly, chucking the money down. The finality of the gesture echoed.
The room held its breath. The oven timer had long since gone silent.
“What do you have?” he asked, picking up his own cards, ready to turn them.
Rachel laid her hand out on the scarred wood, one card at a time. Queen of hearts. Queen of spades. Queen of diamonds. Ten of clubs. Ten of hearts. “Full house.”
Monica let out a low whistle. Richard muttered, “Damn.”
They looked at each other across the battlefield of cash. Joseph didn’t turn his cards over. He just held them, facedown, his thumb resting on the back of the top card. He knew. He knew he could have beaten her but chose not to. The straight flush remained a secret in his hand, a sacrifice to the altar of her victory.
A full, aching moment stretched. In his eyes, she saw the unspoken answer to her question. He wasn’t a nice guy when he played. But he was choosing, right now, to be one for her.
“You got me,” he said. A simple concession.
Relief, sharp and sweet, flooded her. Rachel smiled, a real, triumphant, giddy smile, and reached across the table to high-five Monica, who was beaming. “Yes! Pay up.”
Joseph began to laugh, a rich, rolling sound of genuine surrender as he pushed the massive pile of cash toward her. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
The spell broke. Richard clapped his hands together. “Okay, gladiators. Food’s actually ready now. Let’s eat before it congeals.”
They moved to the table, the displaced money a stark, bizarre centerpiece beside the steaming pan of lasagna. Rachel gathered her winnings, the paper feeling strangely insignificant. Her eyes met Joseph’s as she sat, and he gave her a small, private nod.
It felt like a promise. Or a pardon. She wasn't sure which, but as she accepted a plate from Monica, the coiled tightness in her stomach had loosened, replaced by a humming, precarious warmth.