Chapter 8: Fraying Threads

The dining room was filled with cinnamon and control, the table groaning under Sarah's Sunday brunch spread—stacking pancakes, an orange juice pitcher dripping on the October morning, popping bacon in a cast-iron pan. I stood stiff in a wooden chair, the ring box a dull weight in my pocket, smiling as cousins chattered and forks scraped against plates. Sarah had left Timothy out of this one—"No distractions today, Moses"—and the silence was like an ache, a space that should have been filled with his laughter. Emma was across from me, her eyes lighting up softly brown with concern, her fork poking at a strawberry in a circle around her plate as if she didn't know what to do with it either.

"More juice, Emma?" Sarah asked, voice as chilly as glass, running ahead of Emma's capacity to respond. She'd pulled out the good plates, the ones Dad used to joke about—"Fancy plates for fancy fights"—and her navy sweater was ironed, hair back off her face. She was warm, but her eyes kept darting around to me, shining and alert, as if she could see the cracks I was hiding.

Thanks," she whispered, bending in to receive the juice, the smile twisting thin and tight. She glanced up at me hesitantly and I nodded again at her, the motion automatic. I'd received hardly any sleep the night before after poetry club—Jade's "You're drowning in him" still echoing in my ears, Timothy's disapproving glare burned into my eyes across the quad. I'd run before he'd caught up to me, abandoning Jade's sneer and his bewildered face behind, but the pressure accompanied me home, weighing more than it normally did.

Sarah clapped her hands, cutting through the chatter. “Moses, tell Emma about the venue we’re looking at,” she said, her tone leaving no room for escape. “It’s perfect for spring.”

I swallowed, dry throat, and lied. "Oh, yeah. It's got this back garden, big windows. Wonderful location." The words felt bitter on lips that weren't mine, lines I never used. Emma smiled, the wobble returning, and I wasn't certain she detected the lie in my voice, if she felt the same cage slamming shut.

Sounds good, she breathed, quietly, but her gaze scanned across mine, as if holding her breath for me to crack the illusion. I looked aside, poking at a pancake with my fork, the syrup thickening like blood on the plate. Sarah smiled, smug and pinched, and inched toward a cousin, into some conversation about wedding bouquets, her voice a murmur I tuned out.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, a gentle nudge against my thigh, and I coaxed it out from beneath the table. Jade's name popped up: "Poetry slam tonight, 8pm @ The Bean. You in?" The Bean was a coffee shop on campus, all scratched-up tables and dim lights, where the poetry crowd laid bare their souls every month. I'd heard the rumors—posters on the dorm bulletin boards, students talking about it in the quad—but I wasn't attending. Not after last night.

I glared at the message, thumb resting, ring box pressing into me.

"Is something wrong, Moses?" Emma's voice broke me out of it, soft and inquiring. She leaned in, strawberry still whole, and I shoved the phone back into my pocket quickly.

"Yep, just… checking something," I grunted, attempting to smile. It didn't quite make it to my eyes, and she didn't question me, only nodded and looked down, like she was accustomed to omission lies. Sarah's eyes darted toward me, furrowing, but she still didn't call me out on it.

The brunch lingered on, cousins making fun of some dumb viral clip, Sarah circling all the topics back to Emma and me—"They'll make such a pair"—and I bobbed stupidly, a puppet on strings. When at last it was finished, Emma waited in the doorway, coat over her arm. "See you soon?" she said, her tiny, eager voice.

"Yes," I told her, the lie burning on my lips, and she walked out, heels disappearing down the driveway. Sarah shut the door after her, eyes cold once more. "Good for you," she murmured. "Keep doing it." I didn't say anything, simply walked up the stairs, stairs creaking beneath me as if they'd break. My room was a mess—notebooks strewn across the table, Timothy's band posters glinting back at me—and I fell onto the bed, the ring box bouncing against my leg as I pulled it out. I opened it, the silver shining in the light of the lamp, and stared at it, breathing shallowly.

Emma's hesitant "It's real now" over the tea rang out, framed against Jade's "You're drowning in him", and Timothy's face—golden, questioning—seared behind my eyes.

My phone had called then, ringing clear and loud, and breaking the hush. Timothy's name lit up on the screen, and I bunched hard in my chest, a fist around my ribs. I answered it, holding it to my ear, his voice crackling out. "Mo, hey! What's happening? Missed you at brunch—your mom cut me out, huh?"

"Uh-huh," I said, my voice steady, holding on to the phone too hard. "She's finicky about guests."

Finicky? He laughed then, though it was a bit strained, with a raw edge to it. "Felt like a ban. What's going on, man? You've been MIA—pizza, the quad, now this. You're all right?"

"I'm fine," I lied, the words burning on my tongue. Sarah's "This ends tonight" lingering in my head, I gritted my teeth, fighting not to tell him it all. "Just busy."

"Busy," he mimicked, disgust heavy in his voice. "You sound like a robot, Mo. What is she doing to you? I'm coming over—we need to talk."

"No," I snapped too curtly, and winced at the suffocating silence that ensued. "I mean, not tonight. Things I need to do."

"Stuff," he grunted, softer now, hurt edging in. "Right. Call me when you're not so 'busy,' yeah?" He hung up before I could respond, the click a blade in my gut, and I gazed at the screen, his name erasing to black.

I tossed the phone on the bed, running fingers through hair, tugging taut. He'd been injured—I'd hurt him—and Sarah's claws gouged deeper, tearing at the remainder. Jade's text sounded again: "Slam's gonna be crazy. Come lose it." I didn't respond, just sat there, ring box still in my hand, Timothy's words mingling with hers—"What's happening?" "You're drowning"—until the room started to spin dizzy.

Hours later, I found myself back on campus, dancing around the poetry slam. The Bean's lights glowed in the distance, thump and laughter spilling out, but I couldn't go over to it—Jade's eyes, Timothy maybe crashing again. I walked the quad instead, the night wind nipping at my skin, streetlights humming overhead. My phone was silent, Timothy's pain an apparition that haunted me everywhere, and I did not know if he would ever call again, if he'd break down my defenses as usual.

Footsteps pounded behind me, hard and heavy, and I turned, racing heart. Timothy came out of the shadows, his jacket flung open, cheeks flushed with the run. "Mo!" he yelled, staggering to a stop, misting breath in the cold. His hazel eyes locked onto mine, rough and wild. "Why are you pushing me away? What the hell is going on?"

I stood, dry mouth, heavy ring box, Sarah's words a chain—"This ends tonight." I didn't have time to answer before headlights cut through the darkness, a car idling at the quad curb, engine roaring. Sarah's car. Her outline in the driver's seat, waiting, and Timothy's eyes flew to it, then to me, confusion materializing into something sinister. "Mo?" he asked, voice cracking, and the night closed around me, holding me between them.