Chapter 18: Best Friends Forever

Bret slammed the apartment door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty space like a gunshot. The walls seemed to close in immediately, the silence deafening after Steve’s departure. He leaned against the door, sliding down until he sat on the floor, knees drawn up, head buried in his arms. Anger burned hot in his veins, a raging fire that consumed everything else. How could Steve do this? After everything—after the nights of holding him through tears, the mornings tangled together, the passion that had felt so real last night. Bret’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He was furious. At Steve for denying what was between them. At Bianca for waltzing back in like she hadn’t shattered everything. At himself for falling so hard, for letting hope build into something unbreakable, only to watch it crumble.

The apartment felt like a tomb. Steve’s jacket still hung on the hook by the door, a forgotten pair of sneakers kicked under the couch. Bret stared at them, the anger twisting into something sharper, more painful. Depression settled over him like a heavy blanket, suffocating. He missed Steve already—the easy laughter, the way he’d bump shoulders in the kitchen, the warmth of his body at night. Without him, the space was cold, empty. Bret pushed to his feet, pacing the living room, trying to outrun the ache. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, but it tasted like ash. He poured it down the sink, slamming the can into the trash.

“Fuck you, Steve,” he muttered to the empty room. “Fuck you for making me believe.”

The night dragged on in a haze of fury and sorrow. Bret tried to distract himself—flipping through channels on the TV, scrolling his phone, but everything reminded him of Steve. A stupid meme they’d laughed at last week. A song from their road trip playlist. He threw his phone across the room, watching it skid under the couch. Tears burned his eyes, but he blinked them back. No. He wouldn’t cry. Not over someone who called what they had a mistake. But the depression clawed deeper, leaving him hollow. He loved Steve. And losing him felt like losing a part of himself.

On the other side of the city, Steve sat in Bianca’s living room, the takeout containers from dinner still scattered on the coffee table. The veggie pizza had gone cold, uneaten slices congealing in the box. Bianca had gone to bed early, kissing his cheek with a soft “Goodnight, babe.” He’d smiled, but it felt forced, his mind a whirlwind. Things with her felt ... off. Like trying to force a puzzle piece into the wrong spot. He stared at the TV, some mindless reality show droning in the background, but his thoughts kept circling back to Bret. The argument replayed in his head: Bret’s face twisted in pain, his voice breaking as he accused Steve of ditching him. Steve’s chest ached with confusion. He wasn’t gay. Last night had been a fluke. But why did missing Bret feel like this? Like a constant pull, an emptiness he couldn’t shake.

He needed to clear his head. Move on. Prove to himself that this was just residual mess from the breakup. Steve grabbed his jacket, slipping out quietly so he wouldn’t wake Bianca. The city streets were alive with Friday night energy, lights reflecting off wet pavement from the earlier rain. He walked aimlessly at first, then headed toward a club he’d been to before—loud, crowded, the kind of place where thoughts drowned in bass and booze.

The line was short. Inside, the music pulsed through his body, lights flashing in sync with the beat. Steve made his way to the bar, ordering a whiskey neat. Then another. The alcohol burned going down, loosening the knot in his chest. He scanned the crowd, bodies moving in waves, laughter cutting through the noise. A girl at the end of the bar caught his eye—dark hair, bright smile, dancing in place to the rhythm. She glanced over, held his gaze. Steve smiled back, the whiskey making it easy.

He approached, leaning in to be heard over the music. “Buy you a drink?”

She nodded, grinning. “Tequila shot?”

They clinked glasses, salt-lime-chaser. Conversation flowed in snippets—her name was Mia, she worked in marketing like him, loved the same bands. It felt normal. Safe. They danced, her body pressing close, hips swaying against his. Steve tried to lose himself in it, in the familiarity of flirting with a woman. When she leaned in to kiss him, he met her halfway. Her lips were soft, tasting like lime and lip gloss. But it felt ... wrong. Hollow. No spark, no heat. Just going through the motions. He pulled back after a minute, mumbling an excuse about needing air.

Outside, the cool night hit him like a slap. Confusion swirled thicker now. That should have felt good. Right. But it didn’t. He walked, feet carrying him without direction, until he found himself outside a gay club he’d passed before but never entered. The bass thumped from within, rainbow lights spilling onto the sidewalk. Steve hesitated, heart pounding. Maybe this was the test. Prove to himself that last night with Bret was nothing, that he didn’t crave that.