1. Black Coffee

one

Cam

Commode. Loo. Toilet. Whichever term suits your vocabulary, my head is two inches past the rim as coconut-infused bile rises up my throat.

Ugh. Malibu.

A gentle hand rubs circles across my shoulder blades, while another holds my tangled, dirty blonde hair behind my head, away from the acidic geyser currently possessing my body.

"I don't want to say I told you so, but—"

Blegh.

"I told you so," Adrian finishes, still rubbing my back as they hand me a cup of water.

I wrap my fingers around the blue plastic cup and tilt my head back to let the smooth, cool water glide down my throat. Disguised as relief, the anticipation in my nauseated body eases. But the water quickly returns, like a letter sent to an address that doesn't exist, and once again, I find myself up close and personal with The Porcelain Throne.

A loud knock erupts from the bathroom door, ricocheting off the insides of my hungover skull, and an angry voice booms through the barricade.

"Can you hurry up already? I have to take a shit!"

"Sorry, out of order!" Adrian sings back, their tone much kinder than that of the voice outside the bathroom. The hinges of the door slowly chip with each knock against the wood, and my brain practically rattles. I think I'm going to throw up again.

"Can you open the door?!"

I take another sip of water, this time locking my throat closed as I gargle the liquid and allow it to soothe my burning tonsils. I don't think there has ever been a relief as sweet as this. Adrian lets out a subtle sigh, and I lift my head to watch as their dark, dainty hands twist the gold in the center of the doorknob. Click.

The door opens, and Adrian's roommate Avery stands bitterly in the frame. Short brown locks shoot out in every direction possible, and his thick brows furrow over his squinting, hooded eyes.

"I really gotta—"

Blugch.

The last contents of my stomach now forever swims in the pool of Adrian and Avery's latrine. I slide my bare forearm across my face, wiping the sour residue off my mouth. Another exhale slips from Adrian's lips, and they hang their head.

"Okay, let's get you some Gatorade," they say in defeat.

If anyone should feel defeated, it should be the person who just threw up twenty-three dollars' worth of Zabinski's Takeout. Adrian's hand extends to me, and I weakly place my palm against theirs.

"Dude. You're fu—" Avery starts to speak, but I hear a slight waver in his voice. He swallows instead. "How are you still—" Gulp.

He wants to make some snarky remark about me heaving like a momma bird, but it seems he's having trouble getting his words out without an astringent taste in his own throat. I look at him, perplexed, then turn to face Adrian for answers. I've never seen anything quite like this before.

"Avery is emetophobic," Adrian explains, their shiny, jet-black coils bouncing. "He's terrified of vomit."

The corners of my lips tug at the sides, forming a cocky smirk I have no remorse for. Avery Clark is many things, but above all, he is annoying. So, the thought of him being so sensitive to something like puke amuses me.

Avery is less amused. His brows dig further into his eyes, a red tone rising to his squared cheeks.

"Fuck off," he sneers, before turning into his bedroom and furiously slamming the door closed behind him.

I lock eyes with Adrian, and after a brief moment of silence, we erupt into uncontrollable, gasping-for-air laughter. My ribs start to ache, and my vision goes blurry as tears create a glossy coat over my eyes. Adrian's arms flex, tightly gripping my pale, shaky hands in theirs as they pull me to my feet.

"Remind me to never drink Malibu again," I say as I follow them to the living room.

Empty bottles litter the counters and coffee table, and the entire apartment reeks of booze. The smell is so nauseating that I'm grateful there's nothing left inside of me to projectile vomit. I reach down and move a pair of unconscious legs to the side so I can sit down on the tawny, pilled sectional.

"Mmfffgmm."

"That's not a real word, Hayden," I say, grabbing the blanket trapped underneath him and pulling it over myself. Hayden huffs as he rolls over, though not enough to make the blanket-pulling any easier.

"Bright," he finally manages to croak. His arm drapes over his eyes dramatically to shield him from the sun peeking through the blinds. At least I know I'm not the only one who got a little too drunk last night.

Adrian, Hayden, Avery, and I held a cocktail party. "Party" meaning us and the dogs. Pumpkin, Avery's prehistoric Chihuahua, sat most of it out, and Eloise, Hayden's retired service dog, spent most of the night passed out under the table. Dawson and Major, however, partied just as hard as we did. If not harder.

"Cam, I love you," he mutters, still not opening his eyes. "But I am never celebrating anything with you again."

Look, I'm not usuallythe party type. On my birthdays, I like to binge True Crime and spend an absurd amount of money on books that will probably take me years to read. But last night marked the end of something huge. Bigger than a birthday. Better, even.

Yesterday was my last day working at The Dog Shop.

The Dog Shop is any dog groomer's biggestnightmare. It's worse than chipped blades and matted coats, angry parents and labor violations. It's worse, because it's all of those things combined. I mean, if the gays have a place in hell, so does corporate America, given that it fucks pretty much everyone. Everyone except the founders of corporations like The Dog Shop.

Honestly, I'm surprised they don't have more lawsuits on their hands. Maybe it's because years of overbooked schedules, micromanaging supervisors, and neglected animals make you too tired to do anything. But the days of putting up with that are finally over.

"You could throw up," I suggest. "It made me feel better. Kinda."

Hayden's hand moves to his stomach, his fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.

"Please, please don't talk about throwing up right now."

Major, a white standard poodle puppy, nudges Hayden's hand with his nose, and I watch a soft smile slowly form on his face as he complies with his dog's demands.

Hayden is just about the most charming man in existence. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. Well, minus the congenital heart defect. His blonde hair is lighter than mine, thicker too, yet somehow always perfectly styled. Even now, after a drunken night passed out on the couch, his hair is messy in such a precise way you wouldn't know it wasn't supposed to look like that. Mine is frizzy and tangled, like a lion's mane. A lion who desperately needs a deep conditioning treatment. His eyes are blue, but not blue like the ocean. They're softer, gentler, with just the slightest tint of purple in the right lighting. And that smile. Hayden has the type of smile that can get you to do just about anything. It's bright and sweet, effortless but not perfect in a way that seems fake.

Hayden Ayers is the type of person you should be in complete, uncontrollable love with. But, for some inexplicable, universal revenge, it would feel like incest if anything were to happen between us. I can't say I hate that, though. He makes a pretty good fake brother.

"So, are you excited for your first day?" he asks, slowly pulling himself upright. I sink further under the blanket, trying not to make any sudden movements that could trigger my stomach acid's evacuation.

"Yeah," I say casually, trying to act as if my entire insides aren't vibrating with excitement and anxiety. "I'm pretty stoked."

If I'm being honest, I thought I was going to work at The Dog Shop until it was time to crawl into my grave. Not because I had to—my contract ended two-and-a-half years ago. Not even really because I wanted to—who would want to work somewhere so hostile?

No.I was going to work at The Dog Shop for the rest of my life because the thought of starting over somewhere new was terrifying enough to make me stay.

Key word: was. Thanks to my psychologist, Dr. Burton and Adrian's pleas to Avery as their supervisor, I am now officially an independent contractor at Furry Friends Pet Resort, starting Monday.

Furry Friends isn't really a grooming salon. According to Avery and Adrian, it's more of a five-star hotel for dogs. Customers had been requesting they add grooming services for years, and last month, the owner finally agreed.

That's what Avery says, at least. I would be lying if I said I wasn't shocked that he picked me. Even though Pumpkin is one of my most loyal clients, Avery and I aren't exactly one another's favorite person. So, when Adrian told me he hadn't even posted a job search, my jaw practically shattered from hitting the floor. Avery told me that he picked me because he doesn't trust anyone else with his own dog, and to not "read too much into it."

I read too much into everything, yet this was a riddle even I couldn't quite solve.

A forty-five-pound black ball of energy thrusts itself on top of me, sending my stomach swirling and goosebumps rising on my skin as the nausea builds. I clutch my churning gut and curl into the fetal position.

"Dawson! Off!" I command.

Completely oblivious to the immense discomfort he has just caused me, Dawson obeys, sinking into a wiggly sittingposition. A long strip of hair from the top of his neck leads down the center of his back to his forever-swaying tail, forming a coarse mohawk. Peppered white paws and a patch of wispy white hair on his chest contrast against the remainder of his dark coat. He looks up at me lovingly.

"Freakin' border collies," I mutter, as if he isn't the love of my life.

Dawson isn't a border collie, at least not entirely. Honestly, I'm not exactly sure what he is. His body screams collie, but his wiry coat is that of a Brillo Pad. My hand cups the underside of his chin, and I scratch him gently. From the kitchen, Adrian tosses two cold, red bottles of fruit-punch-flavored Gatorade at Hayden and me.

"So, I was thinking," they say cheerily, like they didn't down four Monacos last night. Adrian has this superpower that makes them physically incapable of being hungover. At least, I've never seen it. "Do you want to carpool on Monday?"

Everyone is scared of something. I was scared of starting a new job, Avery is scared of vomit, and Adrian? Well, Adrian is terrified of driving.

I've come to the conclusion that this fear was a major contributing factor to them moving in with Avery. The two mostly work the same shifts, so they carpool. I mean, that has to be a factor, given that Avery is bothersome most days, though I think I'm the only one who notices.

Not that I'm always pleasant company myself. Adrian always says that I'm not a "glass half-full" or a "glass half-empty" person, but more of a "drinkable water is a finite resource" type. But my relentless anxiety attacks about global warming and life changes and that thing I didn't mean to throw away that one time, aren't really in my control. Avery's blunt comments and egotistical stance? Yeah, that's all on him.

I narrow my eyes at them in suspicion.

"Are you just asking me because Avery opens and you don't?"

Adrian's expression shifts, and they cross their arms over their body.

"Snitch."

A loud chuckle erupts from the bathroom, and Adrian flips Avery off through the wall. They turn back to me with pleading, puppy-dog eyes, and I swear they are the human embodiment of sunshine. Their bouncy black curls, their smooth dark skin, that adorable gap between their two front teeth. Adrian Barlowe might be one of the sweetest people ever born. When they aren't angry, of course.

I roll my eyes. "Are you going to complain about Luigi?" I ask with a sigh. Adrian gives me a coy smile, and bats their eyelashes.

"Is he going to break down again?"

Luigi is my golden 1999 Lexus LS400. The car boasts fabulous leather seats and a mechanical moonroof, complete with a polished wooden interior. That being said, Luigi is a real piece of shit. He gets about twelve miles to the gallon on a good day, is always leaking something from somewhere, and has a love letter engraved on the outside of the driver's door that reads "cunt," left by my charming ex-boyfriend Cody. Still, I love him. Luigi, that is. Cody can get hit by a train.

"Probably." I shrug. Adrian frowns. "He's on a pretty good streak right now. It's been—" I count silently on my fingers. "Three weeks with no trouble?"

Hayden clears his throat from the couch. "Cam, don't you think it's about time to let him go?" He runs his fingers through the thick white fluff posted on top of Major's head. "I told you my parents and I are more than willing t—"

I shoot Hayden a glare that I hope he can physically feel.

1"I'm not getting rid of him," I say flatly. "Ever."

I don't care that Luigi's repairs cost more than his worth. I don't care that he stops working on a regular basis. To me, he's invaluable.

The creaky moonroof, and the worn leather of the seats brings back memories I'm scared to forget.

The wind funneling through the sunroof on hot summer days. The CD station that was once new and high-tech but is now "retro" and rarely touched. My dad getting on me for allowing Cooper, my childhood dog, to sit on the seat beside me.

"Cameron Felicity Miller, he's going to rip a hole in the leather!" he'd always say, but I could still see him smiling through the rearview mirror.

Those memories, I'm scared I'll forget. But his voice could never slip my mind.*

Hayden puts his hands up defensively, and Adrian sucks in a breath through their teeth.

"Okay, okay," he says. "The offer is always there."

"On second thought," Adrian says, smiling awkwardly. "Luigi is perfect. I love him actually. No complaints here!"

The pitch of Adrian's voice reaches a frequency that is a little too high for someone as hungover and non-caffeinated as I am. As if he's reading my mind, Hayden peels himself off the couch and moseys his way to the door.

"I'm making a coffee run," he squeaks, shoving his feet into a pair of Avery's slippers that are much too large for him. "Who's coming?"

Evergreen Grounds is the world's best drive-through coffee kiosk. Or, Greenrock Valley, Washington's, at least. You wouldn't expect the most delicious coffee to come from a green shed on the side of the road, but it's our go-to stop, no matter our destination. I think our group single-handedly keeps the business afloat, which might say more about us than them.

"One dirty chai, one hot caramel macchiato, one iced pistachio latte, and one black coffee, right?" the barista asks, her dark lashes almost long enough to touch her bangs.

"And two—" I look behind me from the passenger seat to make sure I'm counting correctly. I'm not. "Three pup cups please."

Pumpkin stayed home.

The barista nods, scribbling onto a blue notepad. "Anything else?"

"We love you, Aurora," Adrian says, blowing a kiss through the back window. Aurora laughs brightly and blows a kiss back before sliding the drive-through window shut.

Adrian doesn't really know Aurora all that well. None of us do. We see her frequently, sure, but it's not like you're going to make best friends with your drive-through barista. Unless you're Adrian, of course. That's exactly the kind of person they are. They love everyone until they have a reason not to. I wonder how they do it, and sometimes, I'm jealous of it. But I know that realistically, it's more of a curse than a blessing.

On the way home, after the dogs have licked their cups of whipped cream clean and everyone but me has passed their drinks around to taste test, Adrian starts to talk about their business, Rise.

The business doesn't exist yet, and to be honest, sometimes I struggle to understand what it even is. If someone held a gun to my head and asked me to describe it, I only ask to be buried somewhere warm.

I guess if I had to try, I'd say it's like if a bookstore, café, and art gallery had a threesome. And then a bar, yoga studio, and meditation retreat joined in.

In retrospect, the vision is there. It's just a matter of learning how to explain it to somebody else.

"—and on the walls, I'll line up all my paintings. Well, not just my paintings, but other local artists too. And on Saturdays, we'll drink mimosas and do yoga."

"Can you do those things at the same time?" Avery asks, cradling Dawson on his lap. Adrian shoots him a glare, and Hayden adjusts his rearview mirror like a disappointed father.

"Be nice," he says like a warning, really embodying the paternal role.

"It's going to be awesome, Ry," I say, sipping my coffee. The bitter flavor hits my taste buds, melting into my mouth before I swallow. I don't particularly like black coffee, I'm not going to lie. I don't hate it, it's just a bit plain. But I haven't tried it any other way. It's overwhelming, staring at the menu, knowing that, out of hundreds of combinations, you could pick the one you simply don't like. Or worse, one that gives you a gurgling, upset stomach. I know what black coffee tastes like. I know how it affects me. So, I order it every time. That way, I know what I'm getting. That way, nothing changes.