Treading Water

Chapter One

Rodger wrapped a lazy arm around me and pulled me closer, pressing his boner against my lower back like a mugger’s pistol. His lips brushed against my neck and he moaned. “Morning, Dallas. How are you?”

I stifled the urge to cough as his sulfuric morning breath assaulted my nose. “Fine.”

Everybody kept asking me how I was doing. They thought they were being kind. Supportive. They thought they were helping.

They weren’t.

“You get any sleep?”

“Some,” I lied.

I hardly slept anymore. Instead, I stayed up watching TikTok and YouTube. It didn’t even matter what I was watching as long as my finger could keep scrolling up, up, up. I craved content. Anything to keep my mind busy and away from the darkness that encroached at night, threatening to swallow me whole.

My fingers navigated to the same text thread they went to every morning. The one that changed everything.

Saturday, February 5, 2022, 5:07 p.m. PST

From: Dad

Hey Dallas. Joey has been missing since Thursday. Tanner called me today. He filed a missing persons report with Maui County Police Department.

From: Dallas

Jesus.

From: Dad

Yeah. He was having another hallucinating event. Instead of going to the emergency room, Joey went camping! Haven’t heard from him since!

From: Dallas

He was hallucinating so he went camping? Wtf. Did he have Mana?

From: Dad

Yep. He is missing too!

From: Dallas

I don’t understand. How does someone in that state have a sound mind to get camping stuff together and grab his dog?

Rodger moaned in my ear and pulled me harder against him.

“Sorry about the light,” I said as I slid my phone under the sheets to hide the bright screen.

“Don’t worry about it.” His right hand cupped my breast. “Have I mentioned I really like the haircut?”

“Once or twice.” Two weeks ago my hair had landed somewhere around my shoulder blades and was a shade of brown my mother less-than-affectionately referred to as “mousy.” Now, it was a platinum-blonde pixie cut—short enough to stay out of my way, but long enough for a good, hard tug when the moment called for it—something Rodger seemed to appreciate.

His fingertips glanced over my nipple. “It brings out the golden flecks in those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”

My thumb flicked over my phone screen, bringing me back to TikTok, scrolling up. Up. Up. I yawned. “That’s nice.”

Rodger gave me a little pinch.

“I have a bit of a headache.” I rubbed my temple to really drive the point home just in case his eyes were open.

His hand retreated to my stomach. To be fair to Rodger, I understood his confusion. I was the one that called him up out of the blue last night. I was the one that stumbled into his apartment at 12:30 a.m. with a bottle of cheap Cab Sav in my belly. I was the one that hungrily ripped his clothes off and shoved him onto his navy blue Walmart-brand comforter.

That was all me.

“Do you still have ibuprofen in your bathroom?” I asked.

“Yeah.” The word came out in a lazy mumble. He withdrew his arm further, tucking into himself like a toddler. A snore rumbled in my ear not long after. A rumble that quickly crescendoed into a full-on eruption.

“I’m actually just going to go,” I whispered. “I need to get to work.” It was a lie. Until recently, I’d been doing pretty well as a freelance copywriter. San Francisco was full of tech companies who were willing to pay writers exorbitantly for basic ad copy—as long as they didn’t have to hire them full time. Freelance writers didn’t require things like health insurance, a 401(k), or paid time off. It was far cheaper to pay me a dollar a word rather than hire a new full-timer. Finally, at twenty-five, I was getting my shit together. And then last month happened. I missed deadlines. Bitterness distorted everything I wrote. My clients noticed. Work dried up. I had enough in my coffers to keep me afloat for a few months, but cash was king and I would run low on royalties soon.

Another eardrum-rupturing snore bellowed from Rodger’s nasal cavity. When he woke up again, I’d be gone for good. Honestly, that was better for him.

It was better for both of us.

I wiggled out from under the covers and threw my legs over the bed. My bare feet landed on the cold wooden floor. The chill settled around me like a morning fog. My eyes stung with tears. A wave of sadness rolled up my torso until it stuck in my throat. My chest constricted, desperate for air. My fingertips dug into the edge of Rodger’s mattress. My knuckles turned white as I fought to breathe. My toes gripped at the hardwood flooring until a cramp formed in the bottom of my foot. I swallowed, pushing the wave down and pulling air in. My heart rate slowed. I sniffed, stymying the tears. Another swallow. Another breath. The tide subsided, leaving me raw and exposed. Fucking hell. It wasn’t the first time the pain of my brother’s death snuck up on me, but it hadn’t gotten easier.

I shook my head as I got up and slipped into the pajamas I’d arrived in last night.

“Dalllaasss.”

“I said not now, Rodger. I have to go.” I turned just in time to see Rodger’s back. He snored, loudly. A shiver of annoyance ran along my spine.

I opened the door to the studio apartment. Harsh overhead lighting burst into the small, dark room, forcing me to squint. My stomach lurched as the smell of carpet cleaner and stale air rushed at me. Food. I needed greasy hangover food.

“Dallllaaassss.”

“Bye, Rodger.”

The apartment’s automatic lock clicked into place behind me.