Colorful banners dot my vision and another unlucky site gets swiped left. My search for workout attire has landed empty. Why can't I find what I'm looking for? It's as if all options disappear when I'm searching for them. Do physical stores no longer exist?

There's a tap on my shoulder. I raise my head, meeting Dax's piercing gaze. "This, this is for you." He nudges a plastic, clear cup of a familiar liquid toward me. Ice floats to the surface of the golden liquid, bobbing through the bubble and pilling near the top of the enclosed cup. Swiss lemonade. Warmth tickles my insides, and I have to blink rapidly to shake the feeling away.

"Thank you," I reply, shifting back into my seat, a corner table at the edge of the cafe, by the front window. With a straight view of the laundry facility across the street, this is the optimal setting. "I see you still favor this too."

A glance into his clear orbs makes me think that there's pain somewhere near the mention of this liquid. Maybe something that reminds him of the Fridays we went at the family-owned diner downtown, Freddie's. "I guess some things never change." His phrase confirms my hypothesis. There's something there waiting to spill, supported by his broken tone and the small flinch that shows at his jaw.

Forget it.

I roll my shoulders, scanning my phone. Nothing. Not a single place to pick something up, no attainable place. The problems, of which there are many, I am not rich and therefore lack the means to buy damn expensive bits and bobs. Not to mention, these stores are out of reach. It's a thirty-minute drive with no traffic. But there is traffic. There always is from what I've seen and heard. Two weeks in this city hasn't taught me much, but I can tell a thirty-minute one-way trip isn't feasible.

"Are you alright?" Dax shifts, sliding his drink to and fro, left, right, left, right.

Not looking up from the infuriating page, I mutter, "Brilliant. And you?"

"Great, great. What have you been up to?" Still scrolling, I tap on another site and groan, a bust. The place is like a golden palace, too expensive. Do cities just have to jack up prices? Is this the nature of cities? Of Los Angeles? I should know by now.

A clench of my jaw and the tightening of my shoulders encourages me to keep my business to myself, so I stitch for vague. "I got a new job here. I'm freelancing. You?"

Not just any job, this could be my big break into the professional dance industry.

But the costume is trashed in a mask of orange.

"Cool, cool. I've got an art showing a week from now."

I managed a nod at his words. "Yeah?"

Red still ahead of me, glowering up from the nicely labeled. Bullseye. There's a city Target. That will have to do. Sliding my finger up on the screen, I venture to my maps app, crossing my fingers as I type my target location into the search bar. Damn it.

"It's a really big deal to me, you know? Like the kind of thing I used to dream about with you." A sigh. "And now it's happening."

My mind whirls, trying to grapple a solution to my all stores out of reach or too-expensive dilemma. How do people even shop here? Or maybe I'm just too cheap.

"Okay."

The damn prices. The damn mileage. Too many damn problems.

"Are you even paying attention?" His voice carries a hint of something that tangles my insides and makes me freeze. My gaze snaps to him. The angle of his brows is fraught with a curve I know all too well. The tick of his jaw and anxious tap of his foot let a knee slam into my nose.

"No, I wasn't," I admit, placing my phone flat against the table. Somehow, I can't find it in myself to say sorry to the fool. Vindictive maybe? Why should I care? "Continue, if you will."

Biting his cheek, he doesn't continue, only staring into my eyes and nodding to himself. "Do you need any help? With finding a store, I mean. I've lived here for a few years."

"Perhaps." One voice rings in my head, screaming for my abrupt escape. There's another voice, whispering. That voice wants me to utter a damning phrase, a plea for help. I oblige the latter. "Where is the nearest and preferably inexpensive athletic wear store?"

I listen to his slow slur of words while mentally tracing my next steps from here to there, both a washer and dryer in mind. Dax finishes his phrase, and I can tell he knows my ears weren't attentive. He seems to know I was in a daze but says nothing. Dax, he only breathes. A slow motion that makes chills seep into my bones if I pay close enough attention.

Ease, I realize. The sensation that had been growing in my chest lessens and the occasional tick of my jaw slackens. Somehow, someway, finding a store for normal athletic clothes doesn't feel so urgent.

I have one change of clothes in my bag. An out. A single moment of reprieve. The clothes, in the bag, are in the far corner of my narrow living quarters, in the dim light under the far window sill, next to a rug I had drug from my home's attic.

Home. A suburb of Houston that sat at the tail end of the Brazos River in Fort Bend County, supposedly the best area to live in the entirety of Texas. I have to disagree. Nicholasville couldn't keep up with the high life standards of our neighboring counterparts. Just south of the other Fort Bend schools, everyone knew where the money went. Not Nicholasville.

"Thank you." The words press through my lips harsher than I intend. A glance at the two cups of lemonade before me makes my head spin again, shaking up my newfound, quite odd, calmness.

Visions of my bag carve themselves into my mind. This, the thoughts, are a rather convincing mode of transportation. And thinking it through, I have plenty of time to gather my bag, find a replacement costume, and take care of replacement clothes later. Now, I need to catch a bus, touch base with the company's enlisted designer, and collect some version of the costume.

There, a skeleton of a plan.

I gulp and clear my head. My watch read with a mere nine minutes on the clock. Nine minutes before I trek back to the laundry room, toss my unbleached clothes in a dryer, and abandon Dax shortly after.

Committing my brain to my next moves, I lean onto my clasped hands, attempting a relaxed stance. "What else have you been up to?"

"Driving," Dax says, tone flat, gaze locked to the ceiling littered with nothing more than eggshell white paint. "I mean like cab driving. It's actually pretty good." A smile spills onto his hardened expression, a small one, more familiar than any previous. "Except when it's not."

"That is?" I steeple my fingers, pressing hard into the pads of my respective hands, in a fight I only register in my mind.

He scratches his neck, gesturing to the left with his other. "I mean, it's an odd thing to be in. I didn't exactly expect to get into the industry. I mean, I've got this upcoming showcase, maybe I can be more than just a lame ol' taxi driver." Another tight expression resembling a smile passes his face. "But I can't pay rent without it."

Dax seems oddly comfortable as if back to the beginning of our double-digit years, sitting under a shade tree. He talks like nothing has changed and no time has passed. He almost tricks me with the performance fraught with small smiles and open conversation.

"But sometimes I just want to escape. Do you ever get that feeling?"

I answer without a second thought, voice piercing. "No, I don't experience this phenomenon, Dax." A burn tingles the base of my throat, begging to spill an onslaught of words with negative and derogatory illusions.

Factually, hard work pays off. Where there is no work, there is no profit. Where there is no effort, there is no progress. Where there is nothing, you get nothing.

"Okay, okay." Dax shakes his head. "No need to be so grouchy." Turning his body outward, one-foot pivots to the exit, and the other remains on me.

Mixed attention is quite a wonderful combination within this mess. I take the subconscious action as a cue. "My washer timed out."

Dax nods, standing quickly, bouncing on the balls of his feet when he is fully upright. I don't give him a second glance, marching out, across the street, and into the facility, the sun's and his gaze burning holes in my back.

To go lemonade planted in the far corner of my laundry basket, my gaze lands on Dax's back. He retreats to the far side of the room, transferring his own load, that he pressed play on while I was contemplating the meaning of my professional life, to a dryer.

Immediately, I retrieve my phone after the dryer's first revolution. Finding Samantha's name proves difficult in my sea of too many contacts. She's a manager at the designer business Marlin Breen picked for the showcase costumes. I thank everything for the connection or semblance of one, I made with her. We met at a gym I tried out my first week. She had approached me claimed to recognize me, proceeded to talk, and let me build a lock of relation, something I haven't genuinely tried to reciprocate since Dax.

Superficial relationships come easily. A connection and only connection. Nothing deep. Just a relationship with mutual benefits. That's how life is, how it was, and I've grown used to its familiar phantom touch.

I find her contact. The dial rings like the beat of some lively hip-hop rendition, pounding and pumping my blood harder.

"Hey, Bronagh! I'm a bit busy here. But what can I do for you?" Sucking in a deep breath, I note Samantha's tone, sharp but oddly friendly,

She predicted my plead for help. Nonetheless, I smile, hoping the gesture would transfer to my tone. "I had some trouble with the costume for the Marlin Breen showcase. I was wondering if there was a demo costume on hand or a duplicate that got made for a pull-out?"

"The showcase is today," Samantha mutters through the phone. A rustle and clatter of metal on wood sounded in my ear. "What's wrong with the costume? Also, I do have a few drafts but no extras."

Eyes traveling rightward, I find Dax staring at me, arms crossed over his chest and his own eyes narrowed into silts. With a breathy sigh, I reply, "I was going to wash it–"

"That's a horrible idea."

"–but someone poured bleach into the machine I was using." If only I had noted a load of whites sitting a few paces from the machine, my failure could have been avoided. "And so the story of bleach goes."

"Shit, Bronagh." On the other line, any sound ceases. "Obviously can't fix it" –noise resumes, a click of a pen– "Can't make an entirely new costume. I can try tailoring one of the demo show pieces. Make the adjustments Marlin Breen wanted and all."

Again, silence falls. Simultaneously, a light balloon rises in my chest. My plan is working thus far.

"But I may not have time." The line shifts, making muffled scrapes and crackles pop through the phone. "I have some personal business to take care of. I'm closing shop a bit early. I'll try, just make sure to call me a bit before pickup."

"Noted. Thank you, Samantha."

Beside me, Dax gives a small curve of his lips, not quite a smile, not quite a flat expression either.

She replies, this time, voice nothing shy of sincere, "Any time, Dawn."

I take a cursory glance at the dryer. Eighteen minutes stand between now and the time I kick Dax off my tail. With that ticking thought in mind, I collect my bleached athletic wear, folding the mess, a foul taste enveloping my mouth. The disgusting taste increases exponentially when my fingers lace with my showcase costume.

"You like L.A. so far?" Dax asks. My gaze pierces into him. He steps back.

"Enough with the small talk, Dax. Explain."

To my utter surprise, my former, admittedly quiet, actor of a friend, didn't feign confusion at my command. "In... junior high?" he questions. I nod. "Everything happened, Olly." His face cracks, almost literally, jaw twitching along with his fingers.

And I flinch.

The reality I had created shatters. The "truth" I chose with my conscious mind was easier to hate. To get over quicker. To ebb away the pain faster.

Dax left. He chose no contact, to forget me.

I know the truth deep, deep down.

Not quite the full story, my knowledge only through the whisps of rumor-filled chatter, twisted truth, that had floated in the thick summer air. But I could have pulled the story together. I had been to the Marten residence prior. I knew Dax well. I could have, but I didn't.

Police, almost the entire, very small, department, were involved. My mom had said the Martens left for work, never bothering to explain the police. The neighborhood gossip group had said Dax's father got involved in the wrong crowd. The folks who hung around Freddie's had said his parents were fatally injured out on the Gulf Freeway.

No one had a logical explanation for Dax.

"You knew they had problems, Olly. We knew they had problems."

I blink, staring into his eyes, checking the irises for something, maybe shallower than what Dax was throwing down. Shallow? If I was looking for shallow, why did I stare into those eyes brimmed with salty tears? He looks away. And so, I move my gaze to his hands. Pain splatter presses against his palms, yellow, green, orange, red, so much red. The paint, a draw to memory of a deep red that coated his nose when we last parted.

"They overdid it one day," Dax continues, "The day after we came off of summer break. Remember that day we stayed after school? That last day in the school year?"

I remembered. The sun had scorched the Texan earth, numbing the football field in a blanket of heat. The sun didn't feel the same after that day. The junior high football team had gathered at the grassy field that doubled for soccer. This was the same day Dax had slid from my side, nothing unusual, and had taken a silent place with the team. He was a player, a decent one at that. But he could still get hurt.

I last saw his nose bleeding. Upon second thought, his nose was broken, but I had doubted Dax would seek medical attention. Even now when I stare him down, his nose is crooked.

"I do," I reply.

He clears his throat. "After I got back to their house, it was like literal chaos, Olly. There was police everywhere," a shaky pause, "Okay, I'm exaggerating, but like almost the entire force was there. Like three entire different cars. Not to mention social services."

"No wonder," I start, "no wonder you didn't contact me." When I raise my head to meet his gaze, I want to hug him but refrain. I continue, "Let me guess the rest. You went into foster care, moved, and weren't able to call–you probably forgot the sticky note with my number." I burst into unrestrained laughter. Maybe a gesture of self-loathing or a release of constrained idiocy I had carried for years.

But Dax has been an adult for the last four years, and the internet and stalking exist.

He nods. Once again, he clears his throat. "Your clothes. They're done by now, right?"

A glance into his not-at-all-shallow eyes pulls my head into the right place. I need to fold my clothes.

Warmth rushes to my palm upon smoothing the tops and pants down in a practiced pattern. Dax no longer stands at my side. I know he's here, folding his own clothes, but somehow, in the pit of my stomach, a feeling I knew so well after his disappearance sets in. The feeling, another friend I wanted to forget.

Forgetting pain is a brilliant feeling, nothing short of elation.

And yet, in a way, I didn't want to forget.

This much I gather from the pinch in my chest when I step past him. He trails behind, out the door, down the sidewalk, to the bus stop. Ahead, timed perfectly on my planning part, the city bus stops. I climb aboard, Dax staring from the walk, eyes following my footsteps.

Dax catches my eye, nodding at the bus, a silent plea to join me.

I can't shake the conversation from my mind. He wasn't complaining. He didn't hang his head or cower away or even let a tear slip from his eyes.

Maybe that's why I let Dax join me, fifth aisle, window seat.

And there's another chapter!

Thoughts on Dax so far?

What do you think about their previous relationship?

Word count: 2,873