Tammie sank onto her plush couch, the soft glow of her phone screen illuminating her face as she connected the FaceTime call. Her two best friends popped up in split view—Lila with her messy bun and concerned frown, and Mia sipping tea from an oversized mug, eyes wide with anticipation. "Okay, spill everything," Lila demanded the moment the call stabilized. "Are you okay? Did you check the purse? Is anything missing?"
Tammie nodded, holding up the leather bag for the camera, her fingers tracing its familiar contours. "Yeah, I did—everything's fine. Cards, cash, even that stupid keychain you gave me, Mia. All accounted for." But as she spoke, her mind drifted unbidden to the street earlier that night, to Zack's strong silhouette under the lights, his easy smile and the way his hand had brushed hers. A warmth bloomed in her chest, pulling her lips into a soft, involuntary grin. *God, he was handsome,* she thought, a flutter of something new—something like the first sparks of a crush—stirring within her.
On screen, Lila leaned closer, her brow furrowing. "Tammie? Earth to Tammie. Why are you smiling like that? We're over here worried sick about you getting mugged, and you're just... grinning? Are you lost or something?"
Mia chimed in, setting her mug down with a clink. "Yeah, girl, spill—what's with the dreamy look? Did you hit your head too?"
Tammie blinked, snapping back to the present, her cheeks flushing a telltale pink. "Umm, no, I'm fine. Really. I'll talk to y'all later—need to go shower and relax. Love you girls." She blew a quick kiss at the camera before ending the call, the screen fading to black as she leaned back, her smile returning in the quiet of her apartment, thoughts of Zack lingering like a sweet aftertaste.
The city's neon glow bled through the half-open blinds, striping the living-room floor in bruised purple and sickly yellow. Zack shouldered the door shut behind him, the click of the latch sounding final, like a judge's gavel. He off his jacket, shirt half-untucked; the day had wrung him out and left him on the line to dry.
He was halfway to the couch, eyes already closing, when the knock came—three sharp raps that rattled the cheap hollow-core door.
"Yo, Zack, you home?" Matt's voice, muffled but unmistakable.
"Yeah, come in," Zack called, voice gravelly with fatigue.
The door swung open and Matt and Dave spilled in, smelling of cold night air and cheap cologne. Matt carried a plastic convenience-store bag; Dave had a grin that could power the block.
They dropped onto the couch on either side of Zack, close enough that their knees knocked. The cushions sighed under the sudden weight.
"So," Matt said, rubbing his palms together like a gameshow host, "who's sharing news first?"
"I'll go," Dave cut in before anyone could volunteer. He sat forward, elbows on thighs. "Got a job. Dish boy at Mama Rosa's on 9th. Starts Monday. Smells like garlic and regret, but it's a paycheck."
Matt barked a laugh. "Beat that, construction site laborer. Ten bucks an hour, cash tips on the table, and all the sawdust I can breathe. They say the pay's good if you don't mind losing a finger."
Both heads swiveled toward Zack.
He lifted one shoulder, let it fall. "Delivery man. Tony's Pizza. Bike, not car. Tips depend on how fast I dodge potholes."
Dave whooped. "Working men, baby! All three of us." He stood, already halfway to the kitchen. "This calls for celebration."
Zack's fridge yielded three dented cans of off-brand lager and a lonely bottle of orange soda. Dave passed the beers around like communion. Caps hissed; foam kissed the rims.
They drank fast, talking louder with every swallow—old stories, dumb jokes, plans that sounded bulletproof at one in the morning. Zack nursed his can, counting sips. Matt and Dave didn't count at all.
Half an hour later the room tilted gently, like a ship easing into dock. Matt's head lolled against the armrest, mouth open. Dave was folded forward, forehead on his own knee, snoring in soft bursts. Empty cans formed a small aluminum pyramid on the coffee table.
Zack rose, steady despite the buzz behind his eyes. He gathered the cans, crushed them one by one—crunch, crunch—then lined the bodies of his friends along the couch. Matt's legs over Dave's, Dave's arm draped across Matt's chest like they'd fallen asleep mid-wrestle. He tugged the throw blanket from the ottoman and spread it over them, tucking the edges the way his mom used to.
In the bedroom he stripped to boxers, fabric sticking to damp skin. The mattress accepted him with a grateful groan. Streetlight painted a crooked rectangle across the ceiling; somewhere below, a siren dopplered into silence.
Zack closed his eyes. Tomorrow the alarm would scream at six-thirty, and the city would demand its due again. But tonight, with his friends breathing steady in the next room and the faint taste of cheap victory on his tongue, he let the darkness take him.
The alarm didn't stand a chance. By the time its first shrill beep sliced the air at 6:00 a.m., Zack was already upright, skin still beaded with water from the shower. The bathroom door hung open, steam curling into the hallway like a lazy ghost.
He padded barefoot to the living room, hair dripping, and nudged the couch with his knee. "Up. City's waiting."
Matt groaned, one arm flopping over his eyes. Dave muttered something that might have been a curse in another language. The blanket had twisted into a rope around their legs overnight.
"Water's hot," Zack said. "Five minutes, then it's cold."
Matt sat up first, hair sticking out like he'd stuck his finger in a socket. Dave followed, joints popping as he unfolded himself. They shuffled past Zack, trading places in the tiny bathroom like a relay team. The pipes clanked, the shower hissed, and the smell of Zack's cheap two-in-one shampoo filled the apartment.
By 6:20 all three stood in the kitchen, steam rising from mismatched mugs of instant coffee. Matt wore yesterday's jeans; Dave had borrowed a T-shirt that read *World's Okayest Brother*. Zack zipped his delivery jacket, the Tony's Pizza logo cracked across the chest.
Outside, the sky was the color of wet concrete. The hallway smelled of burnt toast from 4B and the faint tang of garbage left too long in the chute. They clattered down the stairs single file, boots and sneakers drumming a loose rhythm.
At the street, the city exhaled: buses hissing, a distant jackhammer, the bodega gate rattling up. Zack pulled on his helmet. Matt shouldered a canvas tool bag. Dave cracked his neck and grinned at the pale sun.
"See you tonight?" Zack asked.
"Losers buy pizza," Dave said.
Matt punched his shoulder. "You're buying, dish boy."
They split at the corner—left, right, straight—three trajectories cutting into the morning, the day yawning open in front of them like a promise they hadn't broken yet.