Refraction

Scott and Kirstie have started playing a game with each other. It's called "Tumblr or Tinder" and Mitch knows they're playing it whenever they try to sneakily watch him out of the corner of their eyes while they're giggling together. Mitch usually rolls his eyes and depending on his mood, either shouts at them or plays up his reaction to whatever he sees on his phone. He doesn't know who's winning. He doesn't know how often they even know the answer, because Mitch splits his time pretty evenly between the two apps and because of the extremely explicit images on both, it's become a habit for him to keep his phone angled at his chest.

"I'm going Tinder," Scott murmurs with a grin.

Kirstie squints over at Mitch, clearly looking for some sort of signal, before shaking her head and saying, "Definitely Tumblr."

Mitch is not in the mood today. "I will fucking throw this at you both," he says. He wouldn't, really, because he can't imagine intentionally throwing his phone ever, but surely he can find something non-breakable to throw at them. The half-eaten granola bar on the side table, for instance.

"No, you're right, definitely Tumblr," Scott says. He's not even whispering now, and his voice is choked with the barely contained laughter that means he thinks he's hilarious. Mitch is sure the wine isn't helping.

Mitch hurls the granola bar at them. It bounces off Scott's shoulder and leaves crumbs in the folds of his hoodie.

"Was I right?"

Kirstie, who is definitely the smartest of the pair, comes and curls up next to Mitch, resting her head on his arm. "Sorry, babe."

Scott rolls his eyes and barely even waits a few seconds before grinning at Kirstie. "Was I right?" He asks again. He comes over to the bed and tries to scoot in next to Mitch, where there's absolutely no room for him.

"Oh my god," Mitch groans, quickly shoving his phone into his pocket. "I'm gonna kick you out, I swear."

"Ooh, maybe it is Tinder," Scott teases. He slides off the bed and returns to the desk, where his glass of wine is waiting.

Mitch takes off his shoe and aims for Scott's head. He misses, but the intention was clear. Kirstie, again proving she's the smartest, hops up and drags Scott by the arm to the tiny hallway of the hotel room. "We're gonna go down to the bar," she says with false brightness. Her grip on Scott's arm tightens. "I'll text you later."

The door opens and closes, leaving Mitch in frustrated silence. Today's just been a bad day, and he knows it's not Scott's fault. It's not anybody's fault. It's not even his own fault, no matter how much his brain is sniping at him that it is definitely his fault.

Mitch changes into a pair of sweats and scrolls through his phone for a while trying to find music to blast, something to distract him, but each song he plays just ratchets up his annoyance. It's too loud, it's too slow, it's too heavy, too repetitive, too angry, too, too, too. Too much. He finishes Scott's abandoned wine, but it's lukewarm and extremely unsatisfying. He's not even buzzed, and he's not sure it would help anyway.

Sorry about earlier, Kirstie texts several minutes later. U ok?

K said u were upset, Scott texts, right on Kirstie's heels. No apology, no question mark, a simple statement of fact. Then: I think u need to get laid.

"Fucking asshole," Mitch mutters. He doesn't respond to either of them, trusting Kirstie to keep Scott occupied for at least a little while longer. He considers calling Esther but she's a problem solver, and this isn't something she can fix. She can't just knock some sense into Scott and make it all better, because Scott isn't really the problem. It doesn't matter that Mitch can recognize that; the bad headspace lingers. He needs to relax somehow. Besides, Mitch doesn't feel like talking. He decides to call Avi instead. Without even waiting for a hello, he says, "Scott's being annoying and I can't get out of my head and I need you to help me chill out."