Page 20 of Better as It

The knock on the door is soft, almost hesitant. Instantly, I look for Skye, my ever-watchful dog, she isn’t here tonight and I have to remember that. Being at the compound, I didn’t bring her. Even though I’ve had her for a few years now, she still hasn’t relaxed around people. Hell, she didn’t even tolerate Benji well some days. She didn’t bite him which is an improvement since she bit my brother once just for coming over. Benji she simply mean-mugged and barked at. As long as he didn’t mind her sleeping between us, they had a mutual understanding of each other. She came first. It is her house and she’s kind enough to let him hang out.

It's funny because with all the people who she literally has to be caged if they stop by, and how she was with Benji, the only person she ever embraced and accepted in her own was is Justin.

In the beginning she barked wildly but he would come in and somehow in moments she calmed down. Over time she stopped even barking at all when he came. I don’t know if it’s because he seemed to be the one always drawing the short straw of ‘Dia Duty’ to pick me up after I went out or what. BW told me once, Justin volunteered to be my keeper so to speak. I don’t knowhow true it is. But according to my dad he knew Justin and I had a thing long before the man came to him and spoke up.

We don’t talk about it. What happened with me and Justin or the club and how it all came to fall apart.

Maybe we should have.

Maybe we should talk about Benji more.

Except those are these inside pieces of me that feel too raw to share with anyone so I’m thankful they don’t want to talk about either man.

The knock comes again, softly. I don’t move at first. I don’t want company. I don’t want to pretend. It’s why I stayed here instead of going home after last night.

But something in me stirs. Some flicker of curiosity or maybe just habit. I get up, pad barefoot to the door, and open it.

Justin stands on the other side, holding a takeout bag and two drinks. He looks the same and different. His beard’s a little longer. His Hellions hoodie has paint on the sleeves. His eyes meet mine—warm, steady.

"Didn’t know what you were craving, so I went with Thai," he says. "Figured it’s hard to cry into Pad Thai for lunch."

I huff a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

"Can I come in?"

I hesitate, but step aside. He walks in like he’s done it a hundred times before, but with a new kind of caution. Like he knows he’s entering a museum of grief and doesn’t want to knock anything over.

"You didn’t have to?—"

"I wanted to," he says, setting the food on the counter. "And regardless of the past, I’m still your friend. I’m not going anywhere."

That makes something in my chest tighten. Because we do have a past. A long, complicated, beautiful and broken one. And for a moment, I wonder if this is a mistake—letting him in. Butthen I realize I don’t have the energy to fight him on it. And maybe I don’t want to.

We eat in silence for a while. The food is good, or at least I think it is. I can’t really taste much these days. But I appreciate the warmth of it, the way it fills the quiet between us.

"You’re letting yourself feel it, Dia," he says after a while. "That’s what matters. You don’t have to rush through this."

"It doesn’t feel like I’m feeling it," I murmur. "It feels like I’m dead inside. Like him."

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer me a platitude. He just nods.

"I know. I’ve felt that too."

We don’t talk about what we were. Not that night. We don’t talk about how we burned hot and fast once, or how we ended before we really got started. He just stays. And I let him.

A month passes with many evenings just like this one. A quiet dinner with nothing heavy spoken, shared, or felt.

Justin pops in with coffee. With groceries. With a new chew toy for Skye. Sometimes he doesn’t say much. Sometimes he tells me about the shop or the clubhouse or the dumb shit his crew did that day. I start to expect him, even though I never ask him to come. And he never pushes.

He’s just there.

Patient.

And it means more than I can say.

It began after the party and has continued on for the weeks since.

Some nights I cry and he holds me. Other nights we sit on the couch watching shows I don’t remember the next day. He never tries to fix me. He never asks for more.

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