Waking up the next morning felt like tearing myself from quicksand. Heavy, dreamless sleep. Another roller coaster ride in the abyss. I blinked open swollen eyelids, my vision blurry, my mouth dry as a desert.

Cold. A glance down told me I was only wearing underwear. I had a vague memory of stripping off my orange jumpsuit and crawling into bed, barely having the strength to pull the covers over myself.

At least I wasn't alone in my cold quicksand bed.

I crawled over to Michael and curled around him, digging stiff fingers into his unzipped jacket until I could feel the warmth of his skin. If he wasn't awake already, the sudden presence of a freezing body atop his certainly did the trick.

"Ah, fuck," he mumbled, but didn't move to push me away. "Your hands are fucking ice."

The pain behind my eyes was coupled with simmering nausea, the kind that made me want to puke just so it would go away. "I know." My voice came out raspy. "That's why I'm tryna warm them up."

He let me wrap around him, hands under his shirt, legs intertwining with his. I had socks on, flimsy ones that offered pathetic resistance against the biting cold.

I peeked one eye open to gauge Michael's expression. He looked obnoxiously well-rested. "Dude, I think I'm still high."

That made him laugh. "You're such a lightweight."

"I'm a cheap date," I said.

I felt him kiss my hair, messy as it was, and nuzzle into it, hands reaching up from his sides to hold me. "Does that mean you'll let me take you on a date?"

My heart spiked with sudden fear, a dizzy spiral of questions. What would that look like, how should I act? Almost as quickly, I pushed them down. "Yeah, okay," I said. Then, thinking that sounded pretty lame, added, "I'd like that."

"Okay..." When I glanced up, he looked happy, slightly surprised. "Okay," he said, more confidently. "Cool."

"Cool," I echoed. Bright round balloons of euphoria rose up, up, up, and burst in a deafening pop. The reality of our situation rushed in to sweep away the remnants of bliss, leaving me with a sickening dread in my stomach.

I pressed my ear to his chest, counting down heartbeats as I debated my next words. My impulse control was something I was trying to work on, but so was my communication. I decided to say it as directly as possible.

"Michael, you need to break up with Heather."

Immediately he tensed, I could feel it. "I'll figure it out," he mumbled.

I set my jaw. I was torn on how to respond. Half of me didn't want to respond at all, just curl up with him and forget about it for another day. Half of me wanted that so bad.

"You've been saying that for a month." The words were out before I could stop them, phrase them better, acknowledge my own role in the problem. I bit my lip and stared at my hands while I waited for him to reply.

"I'll figure it out today." With all the determinism of a kid saying I'm going to build a rocketship to the moon!

I love you, I wanted to scream at him. I love you and I'm ready to give up everything for you, why won't you do the same?

Or was it all simply too little, too late? All the weeks I'd wasted playing hard to get, pushing him away, denying my feelings. How could I blame him for not wanting to deal with that?

Michael nudged me. "Hey, you should try to go to class today." Ever since Rhoda got us kicked out of World History, I hadn't felt like showing up to my other classes. I mostly sat in the back and didn't talk to anyone.

"Listen, as long as I do the homework, I don't really need to go to class," I reasoned. "No reason why it should affect my grade."

He gave me a look. Half-cocked brow, little frown, like a disapproving mother. "Okay, but are you doing the homework?"

"Well..."

The nudge graduated to a full-on shove. "Come on, I don't want you to get sent home. I'd be all alone."

"I dunno, that sounds nice. Have this whole room and the kitchen to yourself?" Some days I still came home annoyed to find Michael there, cooking up some monstrosity in the toaster oven Meg's grandma had given him. But most of the time my irritation was accompanied by far more disturbing feelings... comfort... routine... safety.

I looked forward to coming home to him, eating dinner in bed because we didn't have any chairs, falling asleep in his arms. It just felt right. In the wrongest way.

"Yeah, sounds too good to be true. They'd probably stick me with a different roommate," he teased. "Who knows what could happen."

"Fuck you."

"Kidding." He pulled me back and kissed my cheek. I let him hold me for a few seconds, feeling his warmth, the tickle of blonde curls on my forehead, solid biceps beneath his t-shirt. "Want me to make you breakfast?"

"Is this a thing we're doing now? Cooking breakfast?"

"I don't see why not." His palms slid down my back and I quickly straightened up. If I stayed in bed with him much longer I definitely wouldn't be making my first class. Probably not the second one either.

I shrugged. "Seems pretty married-couple-ish."

"Maybe I like married-couple." His perfectly shaped brows were just slightly darker than the messy curls that hung down to frame them, his eyelashes dark and thick despite his light eyes. They were the color of glaciers, ringed with dark blue. A couple of odd freckles on his cheek and neck. He looked like a fucking painting.

I gave him one kiss before climbing out of bed. Soft but finite, not a kiss to get lost in. It was a shame I liked him so much. It would be fun to enjoy the physical aspect of our relationship without the emotional rollercoaster.

"I was thinking eggs in a basket," he said.

Whatever that means. "Yeah, okay. Have at it." I stepped over my discarded jumpsuit on the floor and padded to the bathroom.

The sight in the mirror made me remember exactly what happened after we got home last night. I would have to wear a turtleneck just to hide the carnage on my neck. In high school, kids with hickeys wore them with pride, like they were carrying around a big sign that said I'm fuckable, but now it just felt embarrassing. No one in my 11 a.m. Composition class needed to know about my sex life.

When I came back from the shower, I hurried to get dressed. Not for modesty's sake, but because I was still freezing. I threw on a hoodie and a pair of sweats.

In the kitchen, Michael held up a small sheet pan to show me. "Check this out. Found it on sale for five bucks."

Then he showed me how he made the eggs. He took two slices of bread and used the rim of a glass to cut out their center. He cracked two eggs against the side of the pan and let them drop into the hole in each slice of bread. A spread of butter around the edges and into the oven they went.

"These should be fried in a pan," he told me. "But you know what, I kinda want to see how they'll come out."

I just shrugged. I wasn't much of a chef. One time I almost caught our apartment on fire microwaving some ramen because I forgot to add water.

"So what if I'm insulting my heritage? My mom would be proud of us for being so innovative." The way he said us when this was so clearly just him combated the twinge of pain I felt at the mention of his mother. He looked at me and dropped his head a little. "Ah, well. It's not that interesting."

A rush of panic. I couldn't tell if he had realized what he said, or realized it had bothered me. But I didn't want that. I didn't want to be that guy with some trigger subject.

"Does your mom cook a lot?" I had to force the words out, which felt something like digging both hands into an open wound and tearing in opposite directions.

"Yeah." He smiled like he was imagining her standing in front of him. "Home-cooked meal almost every night. Family's traditional like that, I guess. She took Fridays off to order a pizza." He laughed. "Shit you don't miss till it's gone one day."

I tried to picture Michael's family, faceless strangers eating dinner. His dad waiting at the head of the table while his mom brought out the food. Two teenage boys pulling back chairs after rushing in late. Traditional. Were they happy like that? Was his mother miserable? Did I only want them to be miserable because I knew I'd never have what they did?

"What about your uncle?" I asked.

Michael's brow furrowed. "Does he cook?"

"No, I mean..." I tilted my head to the side. "He's not traditional. What's his deal? Is he gay or something?"

A short chuckle. "Nah, nah. As far as I know, that's just me. But he's the only person in my family I ever told voluntarily. He started telling me about all the friends he had before he dropped out of college, gays, lesbians, transgender... He tries his best to be progressive. You know the sort."

I wasn't sure I did. But I nodded along.

"Ah, look at us. Getting deep while we're both sober. What the hell?" He clapped my shoulder in passing and pulled two plates from the cabinet.

"Dude, speak for yourself," I muttered. My head still felt off, beyond the usual brain fog that came with being hungover. Those little gummies were powerful.

When the eggs were done, Michael slid one onto a plate for each of us and took out a beer from the fridge for himself, a glass of water for me. The bread was now crispy, the eggs cooked in the center. I'd never seen anything like it.

I was about halfway through my toast when Michael cleared his throat a little. "Just letting you know, I asked Heather to come over."

I stopped chewing and looked up. He was staring at his plate. Now I wondered if he planned to placate me with food before he told me.

"I think it's time she and I had a conversation."

I shot down the glimmer of hope in my chest before it could grow wings and fly. "Why do you have to do that here? At least take her out somewhere, buy her lunch before you dump her." Then I kicked myself. "Oh, my bad. You wanna hit it one last time."

"Okay, first of all, I've never hit it. Second of all, I don't really want to dump her. I'm going to ask how she feels about a... less constrictive relationship."

"Less constrictive relationship," I repeated. "Huh?"

"You know, like ethical non-monogamy."

My brow wrinkled involuntarily as I stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means we would be defying the oppressive standards that society imposes on-"

"Woah, woah, woah. She's not gonna go for that. Have you met that girl? And just because you convince her to let you cheat on her doesn't make it ethical whatever-you-just-said."

"It's a valid sexuality," he said.

"Oh, fuck me." I slipped past him and put my discarded crusts in the sink, along with the pile of other dirty dishes that had accumulated that week. "Thanks for the... egg bread."

All of a sudden, I was so pissed off. Not at Michael, or Heather, but myself. Pissed off at my own stupidity. Did I seriously think for a second that Michael was going to leave his girlfriend for me? It was almost worse now. He was trying to weasel a way to have his cake and eat it too.

I grabbed my backpack off my bed, which hadn't been slept in for weeks, and angrily shoved my books inside. The shred of self-respect I still possessed was begging me just to end things with Michael, but that was impossible now. I couldn't go back to sleeping across the room from him and pretending we were nothing more than roommates. I'd drop out of college first.

"Hey, maybe Heather could help you out," Michael said as I pulled my sneakers on. He gestured to the side of his neck. "She probably has some... makeup thing or something."

"Yeah, that'd be hilarious, wouldn't it?" I scoffed and reached for the door. "You're a dick."

His jaw dropped. "Why're you mad now?" The last thing I saw of Michael was his stupid, dumbfounded expression, arms raised outward in disbelief.

I nearly tripped over my shoelaces on the stairs as I struggled to unlock my phone. I was still getting used to not having to wade through a slew of texts from Sarah each morning, making my lock screen look very empty. Shit you don't miss till it's gone one day.

At the bottom of the stairs, I gazed out the window in the direction of the building my Comp class was in. I felt so hopeless. My head still hurt, my stomach still felt sick, and now I was depressed to top it all off.

I stood in place for a while, staring out the window, until someone bumped me from behind and grumbled to watch out.

"Sorry," I murmured, but the guy was already on his way, hood pulled up, AirPods buried in his ears. Probably late for his 11 o'clock class. The class I should've been in.

I shuffled to the small lounge area in the lobby and sank into an uncomfortably stiff chair. After a few minutes' deliberation, I called the only number I could think of.

I wasn't expecting her to answer. I was assuming she was just as hungover as me. Probably sleeping through all her classes. And yet after a few seconds she picked up, voice groggy and low.

"What's up?"

I sucked my lower lip between my teeth and bit down on it. "Hey..."

"Hey. Everything okay?" Despite the dehydrated rasp, Rhoda's voice was audibly softer.

I sighed. Closed my eyes and leaned into the chair for a heartbeat. The thing might have been uncomfortable as hell, but I could have fallen asleep there. I thought about heading back up to my room for a nap, but Michael would still be there. "Can I just come over?"

"Sure, I'm just hanging out with Milo. Is that cool?"

"Can I come over, like... indefinitely?"

A long pause. "Ben, what happened?"

I searched for the words. It was hard to explain my feelings to myself, let alone to another person. I knew I was in love and I knew I couldn't bear to live with Michael and not have him. It had to be all or nothing. And right then, it was feeling like nothing.

"Don't worry about it," Rhoda said suddenly. I realized I'd been silent for nearly a minute. "Just come over."

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"Would you look who it is? Under Armour." Milo was sitting on the floor when I arrived, wearing a white knitted pullover and a bunch of rings on both hands, two long necklaces too.

Rhoda had flakes of last night's mascara on the dark circles under her eyes. Her wavy brown hair was a frizzy mess, tossed up in a scrunchie. Somehow she managed to make even that look beautiful.

"Hey." She stood and crushed me in a hug. "Sorry, I probably smell so bad."

"You smell fine." I stayed buried in her arms like a little cocoon, then straightened up. One look at her and my throat tightened. "I'm about to have a fucking mental breakdown."

"Okay, hold on. Why don't we sit down? Or-" She flashed a look at Milo, who was eying me warily. I suddenly wondered how much she had told him about the car fistfight incident. "Or go outside? Wanna go outside?"

"Sure. Look-" I raised one hand, palm half-covered by the sleeve of my hoodie. "I'm not gonna hit anyone or anything."

"No, no, of course not." Rhoda kept her arm around me, rubbing my back gently. For some reason that made me want to cry. "I didn't think that. Let's just go sit outside." Silently, I scrubbed at my eyes although there were no tears. Anything to busy my shaking hands. I wasn't just upset about Michael and Heather anymore. I started thinking about my parents, the way my dad always resorted to violence when he was angry, how my mom used to hug me when I was little.

I could barely remember the happy times, when she was still around, when my dad still had a job and we had everything, but I knew they were real. She was real. Once.

"Do you guys, like, have anything?" I asked Rhoda and Milo. For the first time in my life, I was starting to understand my father. And that was the scariest thought I'd ever had.

Rhoda looked back. "Like...?" Milo grimaced in return.

"Literally anything."

"Everyone drank all the vodka," Milo shrugged. "There's still the Malibu."

I sighed. I hated rum. Especially flavored rum. I started reconsidering therapy. A flash of me on that chaise lounge had me shuddering. "Malibu it is."