Dark Places

33 | i want to rip this scarf off of you

❝when we were lions, lovers in combat,
faded like your name on those jeans
that i burned,
but I am older now...
and we did it when we were young.❞

☽

"COREY DAVIS, HUH?" Drake muses, as if the email from MECA doesn't exist, locking his phone and tossing it to the passenger seat absentmindedly. "Corey fucking Davis."

Oh. I blink, stepping back. Mierda. The sliver of disdain in his voice shocks my system, but I nod slowly, peering down at him. "Uh, yeah, do you know..."

Suddenly, Drake shifts, cursing under his breath, and peels off Hanover, and then, I'm... I'm left coughing and sputtering in his exhaust, a wafting coil of dirty smoke, barefoot, fumbling to grasp threads of that unraveling reaction. Because Drake Medina always knows más, más, más than I know.

Where is he going? Does he know Corey? What is this... assembly? What is MECA doing?

Disgruntled, I trudge up into the apartment, sifting through too many unanswered questions. He knows something, something, something, so much more than I think. I push the door open and bolt for my bedroom, desperate for a distraction until I can interrogate him to death.

It's cold in the apartment.

I shrug on thick socks and a heavy scarf, settling for chain-smoking between silent bouts of busywork. I'm supposed to be focusing, but I can't seem to bring my brain back to the right space, in here, to assignments, to projects, to a Senior Synthesis of newsprint and charcoal. Somehow, it feels natural by now, being half-there, sitting cross-legged on my wooden floor, sketching mindlessly, and listening to a soundtrack of departures and arrivals. Jonah, leaving for a shift. 4 p.m. Eli and Tiff, slamming doors and slamming back shots of vodka, pregaming, before bailing for another house party in South Portland or Scarborough or Biddeford. 8 p.m. Connor, killing a sludge song, shouting at someone on the phone, throwing his door open, and tripping out of the apartment. 10 p.m. Drake, never... coming... home...

Is Drake going to come home?

Nervousness tightens my chest. Knots.

Eventually, I stand on weak legs, tuck my laptop under my arm, and push into the dimly lit living room. It's empty and silent and dark, hauntingly hazy—a worn couch, a table littered with weed, discarded rolling paper packs, cans of PBR, and a dingy lamp, on a tiny table in the corner of the room, drenching surfaces and edges in a soft, smoky shade of burnt sienna. 11:45 p.m.

I'm alone.

Reluctantly, I sink into the couch, lying my laptop across the top of my thighs. Warmth. Heat. It hums as I open it, searing vibrations through the thick sweatpants and cold skin. Her picture. Jess. Gnawing on my bottom lip, I tap Chrome and glance at my phone anxiously, rereading the bold subject line of that eerie email from MECA: MANDATORY DRUG/ALCOHOL AWARENESS ASSEMBLY FOR ALL MECA STUDENTS & STAFF.

"Luz, MECA is involved in some dark shit."

His words echo.

"It's more than MECA, Luz."

Vague. Fuck him.

Okay, well, if Medina won't tell me anything, Corey Davis seems to be my only lead, or ally, along with a seemingly deceased... connection to him. Tal vez. My fingers clack against the keyboard. Quiet. Delilah Davis Portland. The apartment is too fucking cold, frozen in a snowglobe, a Saturday night. Portland. I drift through the results, void of her obituary, to survey her abandoned socials again. Graphic Design seemed to be her forte. Her last design on Behance, from August 14th, 2019, a snapshot of a logo for a tattoo parlor.