Chapter 1: Keys and Cigarettes
The key scratched against the metal before finding the hole. Lee shoved the door open, stumbling into the dark kitchen, bringing the night in with him—the smell of smoke, cheap beer, and cold pavement. He fumbled along the wall, his knuckles brushing rough plaster until he hit the switch.
Light from the single bare bulb flooded the nook, harsh and sudden.
Abby didn’t flinch. She was sitting at the small wooden table, a calculator in one hand, a half-empty glass of red wine in the other. Spread before her were neat stacks of envelopes, a laptop glowing with a spreadsheet, and the tax forms, still unopened. She looked up, her eyes meeting his. They were tired, circled with shadows the weak light couldn’t erase.
“Hey,” Lee mumbled. His voice was slurry, thick.
“Hey.”
The air was close. It smelled of cinnamon from the forgotten muffins on the counter and the faint, sour-metallic tang of his own unwashed hoodie, which was draped over the chair back like a shed skin. The fridge kicked on with a low hum, a familiar vibration in the silence.
“Sorry,” he said, though the word was hollow, automatic. He kicked the door shut behind him and leaned against it, not moving further in. “Lost track of time.”
“It’s four in the morning, Lee.” Her voice was flat. She set the calculator down. It clicked against the wood. “‘Lost track’ implies you were keeping track to begin with.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling the lint, a crumpled receipt. “So I’m late. What’s the big deal? You weren’t waiting up.”
“No,” she said, taking a slow sip of wine. Her eyes never left him. “I was doing the math. Again. Your share of the rent was due twelve days ago. Conor’s covering you. Again.”
“I’ll get it to him.”
“When?”
“Soon. Jesus, Abby, can I at least get in the door?” He pushed off from the door and walked to the sink, grabbing a dirty glass. He filled it with tap water, drinking it down in long, noisy gulps. His reflection in the dark window over the sink was a ghost—pale, messy hair, eyes dark and unfocused.
“Soon isn’t a date. Soon is nothing.” He heard the scrape of her chair. When he turned, she was standing, one hand on the table for balance. She was wearing an old t-shirt of his, the fabric soft and thin from washing, hanging off one shoulder. The sight of it, of her in it, sent a sharp, unwelcome pang through his gut.
“I know what it is,” he said, the beer making him brave, or stupid. “You just want to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight. I want you to be a fucking adult for five minutes.” She picked up her wine glass, drained it. “But that’s asking too much, isn’t it? You’d rather be out with Mark and whoever, doing whatever, while the rest of us keep the lights on.”
“Fuck you.” The words were out, cheap and easy. “You’re not my mother.”
“Thank Christ for that.” She moved to put her glass in the sink, brushing past him. The air between them wasn’t just tense, it was charged, a live wire sparking in the cramped space. He could smell her shampoo, something clean, and underneath it, the warm scent of her skin. It cut right through the beer and the smoke on him.
His hand shot out, not to hit, but to stop. His fingers closed around her bare wrist. Her skin was warm.
“Don’t,” she said, but she didn’t pull away. She just looked at his hand, then up at his face. Her breath hitched, just barely.
“Don’t what?” His voice dropped, low and rough.
“Don’t start this.”
“You started it.” He tugged her closer. She resisted for a second, a faint pressure against his grip, then she yielded, stumbling into him. Her body collided with his, soft against hard. The calculator clattered to the floor.
He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was all tongue and teeth and the stale taste of beer meeting wine. A fight with a different shape. She made a sound against his mouth, a muffled curse or a groan, and her hands came up, fisting in the front of his shirt, holding on.
He walked her backward until the edge of the countertop bit into the small of her back. He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “You’re such a bitch,” he whispered, his lips against her jaw.
“You’re a bastard,” she gasped back, arching her neck as his mouth found the pulse point there.
“Yeah.” He shoved the t-shirt up, his hands rough on her hips, her waist. His fingers dug into her skin, claiming, leaving marks he knew would bloom later. She wrapped one leg around his, pulling him tighter against her. He could feel the heat of her through his jeans.
He fumbled with the button, the zipper, his fingers clumsy. She reached down and did it for him, her knuckles brushing against him, hard and urgent in his boxers. He hissed. He shoved her leggings and underwear down in one frantic motion, not even to her knees, just enough. He lifted her, her ass hitting the cold laminate of the counter. The half-empty coffee mug wobbled and fell, shattering on the floor. Neither of them looked.
He was inside her in one deep, driving thrust. She cried out, a sharp, raw sound that was swallowed by the hum of the fridge. It was wet, and tight, and so fucking familiar it made his head spin. She locked her ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his hips slamming into her, the counter rattling against the wall with each movement. “You sitting here in the dark, waiting to pick a fight so it could end up here?”
Her eyes were shut, her head thrown back. “Shut up,” she panted. “Just shut up and fuck me.”
He obliged. He drove into her, hard and fast, no finesse, just a desperate, grinding rhythm. The pleasure was a bright, brutal wire pulled taut from his balls to his spine. Every thrust was a punctuation to their silence, to all the things they didn’t say. Her nails scored down his back, through the fabric of his shirt. He hoped they drew blood.
He could feel her tightening around him, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps near his ear. “Lee—” His name was a broken thing on her lips.
He slid a hand between them, his fingers finding her, rubbing rough, fast circles. She shattered with a choked-off scream, her body clamping down on him in waves that pulled his own climax violently from him. He came with a guttural groan, spilling into her, his forehead dropping against her shoulder as his body shook.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the fridge’s relentless hum. The air reeked of sex and sweat and broken things.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out of her. He let her legs drop, but didn’t step back. She stayed on the counter, her head down, her hair a curtain hiding her face. He reached for the crumpled hoodie on the chair and handed it to her wordlessly.
She took it, swiping at herself between her legs with the dirty sleeve before letting it fall to the floor. She hopped down, wincing as her feet touched the ground, and pulled her leggings back up. She wouldn’t look at him.
He tucked himself away, zipped up. The reality of the kitchen rushed back in—the broken mug, the tax forms, the clock on the microwave blinking 4:22 AM.
“I’ll get the rent,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Next week.”
Abby walked to the sink, ran the water, splashed her face. She glanced at his reflection in the window. Her eyes were empty. “Sure.”
She left the kitchen, padding down the dark hall. Her bedroom door clicked shut, not a slam, but a final sound.
Lee stood in the wreckage of the light, the taste of her and the wine and his own failure sour in his mouth. He looked at the tax forms, at the numbers that never added up right. He picked up his hoodie from the floor, put it on.
The debt remained. The silence grew thicker. It was just one more time, he told himself. One more time in a long line of times, ending exactly where they always did: nowhere.