Chapter 5: Confessions by the Pool

The light came through the curtains like a blade.

Joe’s eyes opened to a world that felt wrong, too bright, too loud, the air itself somehow hostile. His skull pulsed with each heartbeat. His stomach churned, empty and acidic.

He lay still for a long moment, bargaining with existence. The night before surfaced in fragments. Elena’s hands. Ben’s voice. The taxi ride home as the sky turned pale. He’d been in bed by ... what? Five? Six?

His phone said 8:47 AM. Three hours. Maybe.

A knock at the door. Jeff’s voice, thin and wrecked. “Joe. Breakfast.”

Joe opened his mouth to answer. What came out was a croak.

The buffet line stretched before them like an endurance test. Joe grabbed a plate, stared at the scrambled eggs, and felt his gorge rise. He settled for dry toast and a glass of water. Jeff’s plate held a single banana and a cup of black coffee that his hand shook slightly as he raised it.

They found a table in the corner, away from the windows. The sunlight seemed personal now, aimed directly at their faces.

Jeff sat down heavily. His skin had a grayish tint under the new tan. Dark circles carved hollows beneath his eyes.

“I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“How do you know?”

Joe bit into his toast. The chewing felt like work. “Because I feel worse than you look, and I’m still alive.”

They ate in silence. The clatter of plates, the hum of conversation, the distant splash of the pool all of it pressed against Joe’s skull like a dull assault.

Ten AM found them on loungers by the pool. Joe lay back, closed his eyes. The sun hadn’t reached full strength yet, but the heat already shimmered off the concrete. Sweat gathered at his temples. His limbs felt heavy, separate from his body.

Jeff had claimed the lounger beside him, but within minutes he was in the water, standing chest-deep, letting the coolness wash over him.

Joe watched through half-closed eyes. He looks like hell.

At eleven, the pool bar’s shutters rolled up with a metallic clatter. Jeff was out of the pool before the bartender finished setting up. He walked over, water dripping from his trunks, his expression serious.

“Drink?”

Joe’s stomach turned at the thought. “Yeah.”

Jeff nodded, turned, walked to the bar. Joe watched him go. Watched him order. Watched him return with two glasses. He handed Joe one.

“Rum and Coke.”

Joe took it. The glass was cold, wet with condensation. He looked at Jeff’s glass bubbles rising.

“You got a Coke?”

“Plain Coke.”

Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re not drinking?”

Jeff settled onto the lounger, his wet trunks leaving a dark stain on the cushion. “Not today, not yet at least.”

Joe studied him. In twenty years of friendship, he’d seen Jeff turn down a drink maybe three times. Once during a stomach flu. Once when his daughter was born. That one time in Vegas.

He’s hurting.

Joe sipped his rum and Coke. The sweetness hit first, then the burn. His stomach protested briefly, then settled. He took another sip, larger this time.

Jeff nursed his Coke, staring at the pool’s surface. His eyes were distant, unfocused.

Time passed. The sun climbed higher. Joe finished his drink. The rum had dulled the edges of his headache, softened the world into something manageable. He set the glass down on the concrete beside his lounger. He looked over at the pool. Jeff had moved to the edge. His arms were crossed on the coping, his head resting on them. His body was still, his breathing deep and even. He fell asleep. In the pool. Joe blinked. Damn. He really must have a bad hangover today. He’d only seen Jeff in this shape a handful of times. Once after a night in Vegas with some college friends, tequila shots and a lost bet. That night, Jeff had drunk himself into a stupor and Joe had carried him to bed. This was different. This wasn’t celebration or grief. This was escape.