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Alex is in panic mode as he pulls me out of the booth, shouting profanities at the short redheaded man that is frantically mopping up my vomit.

Once I’m on my feet I push off of Alex and grab the other man’s shoulder.

“Wha-- what was that guys name? The one who was serving us?”

“Sir, I assure you, I’ll be speaking with him about this as soon as possible--”

“Shut up. No. I don’t care about that. What was his name?” I’m sure I smell disgusting, and I probably look worse, but I-- I have to be sure.

“Brendon, sir.” The man looks confused, but I don’t care, because I feel like I’m going to pass out.

//

I show up the next day, stand outside the building, contemplate going inside.

I can see him through the glass door, wandering from table to table, giant trays of food balanced on his hands, smile bright as he approaches costumers, but fading quickly once he leaves.

He looks so different.

I think of what I’ll say.

“Oh, hey Brendon, what are you doing here? Oh, working? How’s that going? Oh, by the way, sorry I left without any notice or anything. My bad. Your hair looks good.”

I pace back and forth in front of the doors, hands pressed into my eyes. This is too much. This is a mistake. This is--

“What are you doing here?”

My head shoots up, and there he is, standing right in front of me, looking shocked but un-phased as he lights a cigarette. He was always the king of nonchalant.

“I--” I don’t know what to say. What does one usually say after a three year absence? “How are you?” I settle for the basics. Stay away from sticky situations.

My whole life is a sticky situation.

“Fine. You?” He bites back, the sarcasm is dripping, and yeah, I deserved that.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah.” he takes a drag, and I feel frozen; my muscles are stiff, and my heart may have stopped beating in fear of this being some kind of fucked up dream, and if I make too much noise, I’ll wake up.

Run-on sentences are my specialty.

“So what have you been doing, since, y’know, you left?” He asks, so casual, like we were best friends.

“Getting stoned, mostly.” I figure I should be honest. “You?”

“Working.” And that’s that. I’m unsure of what to say next.

I take a few breaths, he blows out smoke; it’s tense.

“You fucked everything up.” he says, and the brutality of his honesty maybe hits me harder than I had expected.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” he stops, lets his cigarette burn, and stares at me. “Everything changed. Not just being alone. You didn’t have to deal with the aftermath. Every day people were asking about you. Every fucking day, Ryan,” he sounds so serious, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say, because sorry isn’t enough. I don’t think anything is.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. It’s all bullshit. You didn’t leave me anything. You left me a piece of paper.”

“I’m sorry.” And it’s barely a whisper, but it’s the most honest thing I’ve said in a really long time.

“I’ve got a life now,” he says, staring at his feet, “I’ve got a life now, and I don’t want you to ruin this one, too.” he takes a drag, “So, I need you to leave. Alright?” He says, and it almost sounds like we’re having an actual conversation.

I nod, slowly, unsure.

I begin to walk away, and I hear him exhale, “At least, that is, until I figure my shit out.” it’s loud, too loud, but it sounds like a second chance. I nod, and continue walking, and I feel like I may explode.