Chapter 27: The Aftermath
The sand was still in his shoes. Kyle could feel it grinding between his toes with every step, tiny and sharp and endless, like the walk home would never actually end. His face was a mess, tear tracks dried into salt on his cheeks, and his eyes were so puffy he could barely see the streetlights blurring past.
He didn't remember making the decision to go to the corn dog place. His feet just took him there. Probably muscle memory. Probably some pathetic, drunk part of his brain that still thought this was a fun night out.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, that same sterile glow that had felt so magical a few nights ago. Now it just felt sad. The place was empty except for a kid behind the counter who looked about seventeen and deeply uninterested in Kyle's existence.
"It's still here," Kyle said out loud. His voice came out cracked and raw.
The kid looked up. "Yeah, we're open twenty four seven."
"No, I mean. It's still here. The building. The restaurant." Kyle gestured vaguely at everything. "It should be gone."
The kid stared at him for a long moment, then went back to scrolling his phone.
He ordered a corn dog anyway. He didn't want it, but his hands needed to do something, and sitting in the plastic booth with a greasy paper basket felt like the closest thing to comfort he could find. He picked at the fried batter, peeling it off in strips, watching the steam rise.
Why did the restaurant survive? He'd wished for it, and it came true. He'd wished Roha free, and that came true too, for all of five seconds. Freed him right out of existence. So why did this place stay? Why did his wishes work when he didn't want them to, and fail when he needed them most?
Maybe the wording was wrong. He replayed it in his head, the careful drafting, Roha's voice coaching him on clauses and themes. Freedom, identity, home, money, fulfilling work, Kyle's well-being. It was perfect. It was supposed to be perfect.
The corn dog sat uneaten. Kyle slid out of the booth and left a twenty on the table, more than enough. The kid called something after him, but Kyle was already out the door.
The apartment building never looked so ordinary. Brick and fire escapes and a flickering light over the entrance, home in every sense of the word, and Kyle almost couldn't bring himself to walk inside. Because Roha had been here. Roha had made horrible coffee in that kitchen. Roha had laughed on that couch.
Kyle climbed the stairs. Three flights. Each one heavier than the last.
He unlocked the door and Joaquin was on the couch, exactly where Kyle had left him, a bowl of chips balanced on his stomach and some reality show blaring on the TV. Joaquin looked up when Kyle walked in, and his face went through a whole journey.
"Whoa. Bro." Joaquin sat up fast, spilling chips everywhere. "You look like a horror movie. What happened?"
Kyle opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His throat closed up, and then the tears were back, hot and stupid and impossible to stop, and he was collapsing onto the couch next to Joaquin like his legs had just given up.
"Hey, hey." Joaquin's arm went around him, awkward but warm. "Talk to me, man. Did someone at the club mess with you? I'll fuck them up."
"He's gone," Kyle got out. His voice was a wreck. "Roha's gone, and he's not coming back."
Joaquin's brow furrowed. He pulled back just enough to look at Kyle's face, like he was trying to read a label on a jar.
"Roha," Joaquin repeated slowly. "Roha. Uhh... which guy was that? The short one in the fishnet shirt and all those earrings?"
"No." Kyle shook his head, frantic. "You met him. He was here. Remember?"
Joaquin's face went blank. The kind of blank that hurt worse than any words could.
"Bro, I have no idea who you're talking about." Joaquin said it gently, like he was letting Kyle down easy. "Was he the redhead from two weekends ago? The one who kept texting you about aliens?"
"No," Kyle said, and the word came out small. "Not the redhead. Roha. He made that awful coffee you spit out."
Joaquin's brow was doing that worried thing, the one he did when Kyle came home too drunk or too quiet. "Bro, I really don't know who you're talking about."
And that's when it hit Kyle. Not like a wave. Like a wall.
Joaquin doesn't remember. His memories faded away, just as Roha did on the beach.
The sob ripped out of him before he could stop it. A raw, ugly sound that echoed in the cramped living room, bouncing off the walls that suddenly felt too empty.
"Okay, okay." Joaquin's hands found Kyle's shoulders, and then he was pulling him up, wrapping him in a full hug. Kyle's face pressed into the fabric of Joaquin's worn-out band tee, and he just let himself be held. "It's okay, man. I'm here."
"I'm sorry, dude." Joaquin's voice dropped, softer now. "I kinda stopped bothering to remember the guys you bring home. I had no idea you were getting serious with someone."
"Serious," Kyle repeated, and the word broke in half. "We were gonna be together. He promised."
"He was amazing. I liked him so much and now I'm never gonna see him again." Kyle's words came out wet and muffled against Joaquin's shirt. His hands were gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him on the ground.
Joaquin rubbed his back in slow circles. "You don't know that, man. People come back. They always come back."
"No, they don't." Kyle shook his head against Joaquin's chest. "You don't understand. It's not like that."
"Then explain it to me." Joaquin pulled back just enough to look at Kyle's face. "Help me understand, bro. Who was this guy? Where'd you meet him?"
The question hung in the air, and Kyle couldn't answer it. Not the truth, anyway. What was he supposed to say? That he met Roha in an alley behind an antique store, that Roha was a genie, that Kyle had freed him and watched him dissolve into nothing on the sand? Joaquin already thought he was losing it over a hookup. The real story would only make it worse.
"He was just..." Kyle's voice trailed off. "He was really good. That's all. He was really good to me."
Joaquin's grip tightened. "Then he'll come back. Good people do."
"Will they?" Kyle looked at Joaquin with red-rimmed eyes. "You don't even remember him."
Joaquin's face twisted with sympathy. "I'm sorry, man. I really am. But maybe that's for the best? Fresh start and all that?"
"Fresh start." Kyle laughed, but it came out broken. "Yeah. Sure."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the TV humming in the background. Some reality show contestant was crying about a breakup too, and Kyle felt a weird kinship with them.
Joaquin tried again. "We can go out tomorrow. Get you drunk, find you someone new. There's always someone new, Kyle."
"I don't want someone new." Kyle's voice was flat. "I want him."
He pulled away from Joaquin's arms, standing up slowly. His legs felt shaky, like he'd just run a marathon. The walk to his bedroom stretched out in front of him like it went on for miles.
"Kyle." Joaquin's voice followed him. "Do you want me to stay up? We can watch something. Or I can call Nell?"
"No." Kyle shook his head without turning around. "I just want to be alone."
He made it to his bedroom door, pushed it open. The room was dark, the curtains still drawn from this morning. His sheets were tangled, the way he'd left them when he and Roha had gotten ready for the beach. Roha's side of the mattress.
Kyle closed the door behind him. The click of the latch felt like an ending.
He collapsed onto the bed, face-first into the pillow that still smelled like Roha. Like something warm and unfamiliar, like a scent that didn't belong to this world. He breathed it in, once, and then the tears came back, and he buried his face deeper, sobbing into the fabric until he couldn't breathe.
The pillow soaked up his tears. The room didn't answer him. And the bed beside him stayed empty.