Page 41 of Citius

Jenna caught me on a lot of bad days. And one terrible day.

Two more years passed before I could drive again—and by then, my only friends left were Jacobi and Grace.

Now, ten years later, I still take medication for migraines, seizures, muscle pain, and depression.

But my sense of smell never returned. And my relationship with Jenna never recovered.

***

I sat at a picnic table inside a pavilion near the football operations center, moving pasta salad around with a fork, glowering at my phone, waiting in vain for the fresh air to soothe even a single nerve. The autumn sun warmed my back, which might have been relaxing in other circumstances. Not today with a five-alarm migraine.

Jacobi’s latest barrage of texts didn’t help. The long-awaited Owen update had not gone over well.

This is horseshit. Absolute horseshit. I’m going to sue for piano custody. Didn’t spend years working on Tolliver Yards for a bunch of fuckwits to move in. Bet it reeks now. Going to ask Kelsey. If it smells like cat piss, I riot.

Surely, I had the capacity to send one decent text. Something that would assuage his misplaced guilt and settle his anxious heart. I tried a few different drafts, but every intended reassurance came across as passive-aggressive—don’t worry, it’s not your fault, you couldn’t have known. Nothing I ever wanted to hear, let alone say to my best friend.

“Oh, fuck it.” I deleted everything and typed what I really wanted to say to him. Sensitivity and appropriateness be damned.

Why are you so upset? There’s a hot guy in your shower. All your showers.

“You’re thinking too loud. Could practically hear it from the parking lot.” Joaquin slid onto the opposite bench, wearing aviator sunglasses and a black hoodie over another Belcrest Ballet t-shirt.

I glanced at the takeout bags he set on the tabletop, my gaze lingering on the delicate lines of the red spider lily tattooed across the back of his right hand.

“Lunch date?”

“It was supposed to be,” he said, eyes locked on me, sunlight glinting off his piercings. “Think I’m getting stood up. Something about last-minute social media planning.”

“It’s the Wakeland State game this weekend. Can’t post substandard taunts.” I choked down another bite of pasta salad.

Joaquin flashed that sly grin of his, the leonine one with too many teeth. That did nothing to detract from his striking features.

“How did a ferret like you end up working for Northport?”

I didn’t take the bait. Fishers and ferrets were both Mustelids, just like weasels.

“Probably the same reason you’re working at the ballet rather than touring with a band or something more your style. Reliable employment is nice.”

“My job is pretty sweet and solid.”

He dug into a bag and set an overloaded takeout container on the tabletop. He opened it to reveal slices of well-sauced beef brisket, cheesy potatoes, coleslaw, and a thick, flaky biscuit.

“Are you planning to stay in Northport, or is this just a pit stop?”

“Don’t know yet. Still interviewing.” I surveyed his food, unable to check my envy.

Pasta salad was a simple, filling lunch. Perfect for an unsettled stomach. But it wasn’t barbecue, slathered in zesty sauce.

“Does Alijah know what he’s missing out on?”

“Yup,” Joaquin said with a smirk. He speared a large bite of brisket, making an exaggerated groan of appreciation while he chewed.

I rolled my eyes at him.

“It’s his favorite food truck. Follow their location calendar just for him.”

“Very thoughtful.”

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