Chapter 3: Sheep in Kitten Clothing
The bus doors hissed shut, sealing them in a capsule of warm, recycled air and low-grade diesel fumes. It was crowded, the late afternoon slump of students and workers heading back across the city. Every seat was taken. They stood near the back, gripping the cold metal poles as the bus lurched into traffic.
Emily stared out the grimy window, her reflection a ghost over the passing storefronts. She held her body perfectly still, but Jay saw the white-knuckle grip she had on the pole, the rapid flutter of a pulse in her throat. The vibrant, smiling woman from the fabrication shop was gone, folded away into some interior pocket of stress.
The bus swayed, throwing them together for a second. His shoulder bumped hers. She didn’t react.
“You okay?” The words were out before he could stop them, soft under the rumble of the engine.
“Fine.” It was the same flat, final tone she’d used outside the shop. A wall.
He nodded, looking away. He watched the city blur past: neon signs flickering to life in the gray drizzle, a man sleeping on a bench under a newspaper blanket, a group of kids in pristine private school uniforms waiting for a light to change. Two different worlds, scrolling by on the same reel. He was usually in the other one, watching from behind a car window.
The bus hit a pothole. A woman with overstuffed grocery bags stumbled. Emily’s hand shot out, steadying her elbow before Jay even registered the movement. “Careful,” Emily said, her voice gentle for the stranger. The woman thanked her, and Emily’s face softened for a fleeting moment before the shutters came down again.
They rode in silence for ten blocks. The tension in the small space between them was a live wire. Jay’s mind chewed on the fragments of her phone call. Yuna. How much? Don’t do that. I’ll handle it. It painted a stark, familiar picture: someone needing a bailout. He’d heard similar calls his whole life, but the currency was usually social capital or stock tips, not what sounded like rent money.
The bus shuddered to a halt at a red light, the sudden silence amplifying the low buzz of his own confusion.
Emily finally turned from the window, her gaze landing on his troubled expression. She rolled her eyes, but the edge had left her voice.
"Quit looking so gloomy," she said, a faint, tired smile touching her lips. "It's my friend, Yuna. She needs weed for a thing she's having tonight."
The admission hung in the air, simple and stark. "I was saving it for after this project but I'll contribute since I have tonight off."
Jay stared at her. The careful architecture of concern he’d been building in his mind—crippling debt, a family crisis, some grim, monolithic trouble—shattered into absurd, glittering pieces.
He burst out laughing, absolutely shocked at the juxtaposition of scenarios playing through his head. The tense, pallid woman from the phone call dissolved, replaced by this pragmatic person discussing botanical contributions to a social event. ‘I didn’t know you smoked. So what you’re saying is you’re inviting me to your friend’s kickback?’
The bus lurched forward again. A faint blush colored Emily’s cheeks, but she held his gaze, a defensive spark in her eyes. “I smoke sometimes. It’s nice to relax every now and then. And it’s not an invitation,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual finality. “It’s a cramped apartment in the Vernon complex. There will be cheap beer and someone’s awful playlist. You’d hate it.”
“You think I’ve never been to a bad party?” he asked, leaning against the pole. The earlier tension was gone, replaced by a giddy curiosity. This was a door, cracked open.
“I think you’re used to curated experiences. This is… uncut.” She looked away, but the rigidity had left her shoulders. “Yuna’s cool. Her friends are architecture dropouts and line cooks. It’s just people.”
People. Not a scene. Not a transaction. Just people. He thought of MJ’s endless, polished rooftop parties, the same faces saying the same things. He thought of the silent, efficient partnership they’d built over coffee-stained drafts and metal shavings. This felt like the next, logical, terrifying step.
“What time?” he asked.
She turned back, her expression genuinely surprised. “You’re serious.”
“I need to see how my partner unwinds.” He grinned. “For research. Human behavioral patterns in relaxed, communal settings.”
She snorted, a real, ungroomed sound. “Nine. Apartment 4B. Don’t wear that sweater. Someone will spill on it.” The bus groaned to a halt near the campus gates. “This is me.”
“See you at nine, Kang.”
She disappeared into the flow of disembarking students without a backward glance. Jay stayed on the bus for two more stops, his mind buzzing. He pulled out his phone and texted MJ. Need a fashion consult. What does one wear to an ‘uncut’ kickback?
The reply was instant. Context. Now.
Jay stepped off the bus into the cool evening air, the drizzle a fine mist on his skin. He typed as he walked. Emily’s friend. Vernon complex. Nine pm.
Three bouncing dots appeared. Then: Do you own a single item of clothing that isn’t ethically sourced or monogrammed?
Jay laughed again, the sound strange and light in his own ears. He looked at the distant, lit windows of the Vernon complex, a concrete block tucked behind the sleek graduate dorms. It felt like crossing a border. He headed toward his own building, already mentally rifling through his closet, searching for something that wouldn’t look like a costume.
The navy sweater was too soft, the black jeans too perfectly distressed. He settled on an old grey henley, threadbare at the elbows, and a pair of dark chinos that had seen better days. He texted MJ a photo.
MJ: It’s a start. I’ll meet you there at nine. Bringing reinforcements.
Jay: What reinforcements?
MJ: A six-pack that doesn’t cost twenty dollars. See you in the trenches.
Apartment 4B smelled like sandalwood incense and stale fry oil. Emily toed off her shoes by the dented metal door, the familiar chaos of Yuna’s living room wrapping around her like a worn blanket. Mismatched lamps cast a dim, yellow light over thrift store furniture and textbooks stacked as side tables.
“You look stressed,” Yuna said, handing her a cold can of cheap lager. She was perched on the windowsill, her Docs kicking rhythmically against the radiator. “Project hell?”
“Project’s fine. Better than fine.” Emily popped the tab, the fizz a welcome sound. She sank into the lumpy couch, its springs groaning in protest. “It’s the partner.”
“The rich kid.” Yuna grinned, lighting a joint with a quick flick of her lighter. The tip glowed orange. “The one who ‘doesn’t know what handled looks like.’”
Emily took a long pull of beer, the bitterness sharp on her tongue. “He’s trying. It’s disorienting.” She accepted the joint, the familiar herbal scent cutting through the incense. She held the smoke in her lungs, let it blur the day’s sharp edges—the panic in Yuna’s voice on the phone, the calculated risk of the metal shop, the unsettling warmth of Jay’s laugh on the bus. She exhaled slowly. “He wanted to come tonight.”
Yuna’s eyebrows shot up. “Here? To the Vernon? Is he slumming it for a grade?”
“I don’t know.” Emily passed the joint back. The tension in her neck began to unknot. “I told him not to. I doubt he’s coming.” She checked her phone for the first time in an hour. No messages. A quiet relief seeped into her muscles. This was her space, messy and real, and for tonight, the two worlds could stay separate.
They talked about Yuna’s manager, a petty tyrant who scheduled her for closing shifts five nights in a row. They talked about the leak in Emily’s bathroom ceiling, a brownish stain that slowly expanded like a ghostly map. The conversation was easy, a well-worn path. The joint made its second circle, softening the room’s hard corners.
Emily was mid-laugh, describing Mr. Park’s gruff approval, when a firm knock echoed from the door. Not the tentative tap of a neighbor. A confident, declarative sound.
“Pizza’s early,” Yuna mumbled, unfolding herself from the sill.
Emily’s laugh died. A cold clarity pierced the pleasant haze. She knew that knock.
Yuna peered through the peephole, her body going still. She turned back, her eyes wide with theatrical shock. “You have got to be kidding me.” She swung the door open.
Jay stood in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. He’d swapped the cashmere for cotton, but he still looked like he’d been photoshopped into the decaying frame. MJ loomed beside him, holding a cardboard carrier of bottled beer, his friendly face breaking into an apologetic smile.
“Delivery for Apartment 4B,” MJ announced, hefting the box. “We come in peace.”
Jay’s eyes found Emily instantly, scanning the scene: the half-empty cans, the smoldering roach in the ashtray, her relaxed posture on the stained couch. His usual confident smirk was absent, replaced by a curious, open hesitation. He was completely, utterly out of his element.
The momentum of the evening screeched to a halt. Emily slowly set her beer down on a textbook, the click of aluminum on plastic echoing in the sudden quiet. All the relief from moments before evaporated, replaced by a sharp, defensive heat. He’d crossed the border anyway.
He’d crossed the border anyway. The silence in the wake of the open door was absolute, filled only by the faint hiss of the radiator. Jay’s eyes held Emily’s for a suspended second, a silent question hanging between them.
Then Yuna broke the spell, her voice artificially bright. “Well, don’t just stand there letting the heat out. Get in.”
MJ slid past, the practiced peacemaker. “We brought libations. Not the swill you people drink, but actual beer with flavor.” He grinned, holding up the carrier. “Where’s the ice prison?”
“Fridge is a war zone. Follow me.” Yuna waved him toward the tiny kitchenette, throwing one last, wide-eyed look at Emily over her shoulder.
MJ follows Yuna to the refrigerator to put the beer away and Jay takes a seat on the chair adjacent to Emily. It was an ancient armchair, upholstery scratched and dented from a hundred movie nights. Yuna mouths to Emily how hot they both are, her eyes deliberately comical before she disappears behind the fridge door.
Emily did not smile back. She took another swallow of beer, the can denting slightly under her grip. The pleasant haze from earlier was gone, replaced by a sharp, sobering irritation. “You didn’t have to come.”
“You said nine. It’s nine.” Jay leaned back, the old chair groaning under him. He surveyed the room—the peeling band poster, the pile of sketchbooks by the TV, the overall lived-in mess. His gaze wasn’t judgmental, just intensely observant. “This is where the magic happens?”
“This is where the rent is cheap.” She countered.
From the kitchen, the clatter of bottles and Yuna’s loud laugh echoed. MJ was saying something about hop varieties. The normal sounds of the apartment resumed, a buffer against the quiet tension at the couch.
“The gusset worked,” Jay said, changing tack. He pulled out his phone, swiped to a photo of the assembled model piece. “I showed the schematic to my structures prof. He called it ‘elegantly pragmatic.’”
The professional praise was a lifeline. Emily’s posture eased a fraction as she took the phone. The image was clear, their joint effort solidified into sleek, digital perfection. “It’s just a gusset.”
“It’s our gusset.” He repeated her word from the shop, watching her face.
She handed the phone back, her fingers briefly brushing his. A static charge, or just the dry air. “So you came here to celebrate our bracket?”
“I came because you looked like you were carrying the world on that bus.” His voice was lower now, just for her. “And then you told me it was just weed. It was the most unbelievable relief.” He offered a half-smile. “My problems are usually more boring. Stock dips. Family reputation. This felt… real.”
Emily studied him. The threadbare henley, the cautious way he sat in the broken chair as if respecting its history. He wasn’t playing tourist. He was trying to read a language he didn’t understand. “Real isn’t always fun, Jay. Real is my downstairs neighbor screaming at his fax machine at 3 a.m. because it’s the only job he could get.”
“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “I heard him on the way up. He sounds passionate about document transmission.”
A surprised, choked sound escaped her—not quite a laugh, but something close. She looked down at her hands. “Why are you trying so hard?”
Before he could answer, Yuna and MJ returned, each holding two fresh bottles. Yuna plopped onto the floor by Emily’s feet, handing one up to her. MJ took the other side of the couch.
“So,” Yuna said, popping her cap off with a lighter. “Jay. Emily says you design bones. Explain that to someone who failed introductory geometry.”
It was an interview, plain and simple. Emily tensed, waiting for the polished, abstract spiel he’d given in their first lecture.
Jay took a slow drink, buying time. He looked at the water stain on the ceiling, then back at Yuna. “It means I used to design things for magazines. Now I’m trying to design things for the people who read them while waiting for the bus.”
The answer was so far from what Emily expected that she just stared at him. It was the truth, stripped bare.
Yuna nodded, approving. “Okay. And what does Daddy think of that?”
“Yuna,” Emily warned.
“It’s fine.” Jay’s jaw tightened, a faint muscle flickering. “He thinks it’s a phase. A dalliance with reality before I come to my senses.” He said it like a recitation, a well-worn family script. “He’s probably right.”
“Bullshit.” The word came from MJ, who was lounging against the couch arm. “You’ve put more hours into that transit hub than you ever did into the yacht club proposal. You just hate that he’s right about you having no clue.” He said it without malice, a simple diagnosis. “You’re here for a clue.”
The room got very quiet. The fax machine guy downstairs started another tirade, muffled through the floorboards. Jay didn’t deny it. He just looked at Emily, his expression unguarded and raw. He was waiting, she realized, for her verdict. For her to tell him he was wasting his time, or that the clue wasn’t here.
Emily felt the weight of it, the unbearable intimacy of being seen as an answer. She reached for a new joint on the coffee table and lit it, exhaling towards the ceiling and offering it to Jay.
Jay took the joint, his fingers brushing hers again in the transfer. He held it like an artifact, examining the glowing end before bringing it to his lips. The inhale was cautious, controlled. He held the smoke for a beat too long, and a cough erupted, harsh and unrefined, cracking the room’s quiet tension.
Yuna barked a laugh. “Oh, he’s a tourist.”
MJ winced in sympathy. “Easy there, tiger. It’s not a competition.”
Jay’s eyes watered, but he waved them off, passing the joint back to Emily. “Noted,” he rasped, voice rough. The chemical warmth spread through his chest, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. It softened the edges of the peeling wallpaper, muted the frantic energy humming in his veins since he’d stepped off the bus. He watched Emily take her hit, the way her eyelids dipped slightly, the line of her throat as she exhaled. This was a version of her he hadn’t seen—looser, present in her body instead of battling against it.
“So, MJ,” Yuna said, reclaiming the joint. “You’re the best friend. What’s his damage? Really.” She gestured at Jay with the roach.
MJ leaned back, sipping his beer. “His damage is a pathological need to be the smartest guy in the room, except he’s only ever been in rooms full of sycophants and yes-men. It’s boring. He’s bored.” He looked at Jay, not unkindly. “This is more interesting.”
“I’m right here,” Jay said, but there was no heat in it. The weed was doing its work, melting his defensiveness into a passive curiosity. He looked at Emily. “He’s not wrong.”
Emily met his gaze, holding it. The music from Yuna’s phone—a fuzzy, melancholic indie song—filled the space between words. “Being bored is a luxury,” she said finally. Her voice was low, almost lost in the guitar strum. “Try being tired.”
The words landed in the center of the room. The fax machine enthusiast downstairs had gone silent. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of the radiator and the muted city hum through the window.
Jay nodded, absorbing the correction. He didn’t apologize. He just said, “Tell me what that’s like.”
It wasn’t a patronizing question. It was a request, earnest and clumsy. Yuna and MJ exchanged a glance, a silent agreement to let this play out. Yuna got up, mumbled something about more beer, and pulled MJ toward the kitchen by his sleeve.
Emily watched them go, then turned back to Jay. She drew her legs up onto the couch, hugging her knees. The oversized hoodie swallowed her frame. “It’s like the gusset,” she said, her eyes on the water-stain map on the ceiling. “You’re the primary structure. Everything keeps loading weight onto you. Rent, grades, your mom’s expectations, your friend’s crisis. You design a fix, a tiny brace, so you don’t snap. And then you do it again the next day.” She looked at him. “There’s no novelty in it. Just fatigue.”
Jay stared at her. He thought of his own life—a series of chosen, aesthetic burdens. The weight of his father’s expectation was real, but it was a phantom weight, one he could shrug off with a plane ticket or a charitable donation. This was different. This was granular and constant. “The bracket we made,” he said slowly. “It was for the model. But you were designing it for yourself.”
A faint, weary smile touched her lips. “Maybe. It held.”
From the kitchen, Yuna’s laughter pealed out, followed by MJ’s deeper chuckle. The normalcy of it seemed to recall Emily to the present. She uncurled slightly, reaching for her beer. “Your turn. Tell me something real about you. Not the bored rich kid thing. Something that actually costs you.”
The joint had circled back. Jay took it, thinking. The easy answers—family pressures, superficial insecurities—felt insulting here. He thought of the café, her cold fury when he’d intervened. He thought of the silent bus ride. He exhaled smoke. “I’m afraid this is all I am,” he said, the words coming out quiet and raw. “The money, the name, the connections. That underneath it, there’s just… a very well-dressed hole. And soon enough, you’ll see it, and you’ll walk right past me like I’m furniture.”
The confession hung in the incense-heavy air. Emily didn’t look away. She studied his face, the genuine fear in his eyes, so at odds with his polished jawline. “Everyone’s afraid of being empty, Jay. The difference is, most of us are too busy filling the time to notice.” She took the joint from him, her touch deliberate. “And for the record, I don’t think you’re empty. I think you’re unpracticed.”
“At what?”
“At being a person. Not a persona.” She said it lightly, but it cut through him. Before he could respond, Yuna and MJ returned, dropping back onto the floor with a new pack of beer and a bag of chips.
“Deep shit over here?” Yuna asked, ripping the bag open with her teeth.
“Structural analysis,” Emily said, her tone shifting back to casual. She passed the dwindling joint to Yuna.
MJ clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Now that the therapy session is winding down, can we please talk about something important? Like why this building smells like old broth and regret?”
The mood lifted, buoyed by MJ’s easy charm. They fell into a simpler rhythm—talking about terrible professors, a new noodle place near campus, the absurdity of graduate school. Jay listened, adding a comment here and there, but he was hyper-aware of Emily beside him. Every time she laughed at MJ’s joke or argued with Yuna about music, he felt a small, electric charge.
At one point, her knee brushed against his as she shifted on the couch. She didn’t pull away.
The night wore on. The beers emptied. The joint became a memory in the ashtray. Yuna was telling a long, convoluted story about a customer at the vintage store where she worked, her gestures expansive. MJ was engrossed, nodding along.
Jay leaned closer to Emily, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. “Thank you.”
She turned her head. Their faces were close now, close enough for him to see the faint gold flecks in her brown eyes, the soft curl of hair at her temple. “For what?”
“For not walking past.”
She held his gaze, and for a second, the noisy apartment fell away. He saw her decision—a cautious, fragile thing. She glanced at his lips, then back to his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it,” she whispered.
Then Yuna’s story culminated with a dramatic shriek, and she flung a chip at MJ, who dodged it laughing. The spell broke. Emily leaned back, putting a few inches of worn couch fabric between them again. But she was smiling, a real, unguarded smile that reached her eyes.
Jay’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to capture that smile, preserve it. He looked at the room—the chaos, the warmth, the simple, unpolished truth of it—and for the first time, he didn’t feel like an observer. He felt, impossibly, like he might belong.
“I should go,” MJ said, checking his phone. “I have a disgustingly early tutorial on sustainable materials.”
“Liar,” Yuna said, but she was yawning. “You just can’t handle my superior taste in music.”
They all stood, the movement awkward and punctuated by the cracking of joints. Emily walked them to the door. Yuna gave her a quick, tight hug, whispering something in her ear that made Emily roll her eyes but smile.
At the threshold, MJ clapped Jay on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He headed down the hall, whistling.
Jay lingered, turning to Emily. The hallway light was harsh, highlighting the fatigue under her eyes but also the delicate curve of her cheekbone. “I’ll walk you out,” she said, stepping into the hall and pulling the door closed behind her.
They stood in the silent, dimly lit corridor. The smell of old carpet and disinfectant replaced sandalwood. “Tonight was…” Jay started, then faltered.
“Unexpected,” Emily finished for him. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “For me too.”
“Can I see you? Not for the project. Just… coffee. Or a drink. Or a bus ride.” He cringed internally at his own eagerness.
Emily considered him, her head tilted. He could see the calculation—the risk assessment, the weighing of time and emotional expenditure. Then she nodded, once. “Okay. But I pick the place. And no interfering with the staff.”
“Deal.” The word came out with too much relief. He fumbled for his phone. “When?”
She took the phone from his hand, her fingers deft. She typed an address. It wasn’t a café. It was a park by the river, a place he’d never been. “Saturday. Four p.m. Bring your own coffee. And wear shoes you can walk in.”
He took the phone back. “I will.”
She pushed off from the wall, a signal the conversation was over. “Goodnight, Jay.”
“Goodnight, Emily.”
He turned and walked down the hall, feeling her eyes on his back until he reached the stairwell. The night air outside was cold and clean, shocking his system. He looked up at the window of apartment 4B, a yellow square in the concrete face of the Vernon. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there.
He started the walk back to his dorm, the city sounds crisp and distinct. His mind replayed the feel of her knee against his, the whispered warning in her dark eyes. Don’t make me regret it. It was a boundary, but it was also an invitation. For the first time in a long time, the emptiness inside him didn’t echo. It hummed with anticipation.