I woke up with an ashy taste in my mouth, sunlight filtering softly through the glass block window in my room and distorting slightly on the floor. I could already tell it was much earlier than I was ever awake on a usual day, the pale of the walls illuminated by the brightness, stinging my eyes. It was another night of not enough sleep, matching the past week of not enough sleep.

I had dreamt of Jackie, then of Sam. I dreamt of the memory of warm, soft skin on top of me, beside me, smooth hair tickling my shoulders, tangled in my fingers. I dreamt of the last time Jackie had told me she loved me, heady from pot but directly into my ear, what felt like directly into me. And I dreamt of Sam's smile, how she would cover it with her hand because her front tooth was slightly turned in, how graceful her hands always looked, intricate bones that created a patchwork under her skin that I found so beautiful. But when I woke up, I was alone, as I had been for months, the memories of them faded into the background. The weird thing about these dreams is that they stopped being sexual to me. I stopped needing to jerk off after waking up, I'd just stopped waking up hard. But now, I just didn't want to wake up at all. Emptiness wasn't a new feeling for me, but the amount it now nagged at me was. The evidence that I was alone and would always be alone surrounded me constantly, always on the verge of choking me, and the fact that I could no longer sleep it off seemed cruel.

I threw off my covers but didn't get out of the cot yet, the cold penetrating through my clothes and forcing me to keep my eyes open. I didn't have to be at the store for hours still and I briefly thought about not showing up at all. They could get by without me for one day, couldn't they? But I knew one day could turn into two, could turn into ten, and the store was all I had anymore, I couldn't risk losing it.

Sleeping alone had been a weird readjustment to get used to, in fact, doing most things alone again felt hard. I had spent more years of my life alone that I ever did with the people I fell in love with, but it was like my memory of that time had been erased. I had to relearn how to take up more space and to let my body fill in the cracks and crevices of the areas that were once shared. The cot was only made for one person but I still crammed myself as close to the wall as possible, anticipating the weight of someone eventually sliding in next to me, even though it never came. The front seat of my car felt gigantic and monstrous, like I was a young kid pretending to drive their parents car. I worried that I'd just keep getting smaller and smaller, shrinking away until I could no longer be found.

The house was quiet. Red and Kitty might have told me they were going somewhere, I couldn't remember, but I could feel Forman's presence even two floors above. It wasn't a huge house by any stretch, but it was still an easy place to avoid someone in, and I'd been successfully doing that for awhile. But it still took so much effort to do, to constantly be on the alert, to have your heart stop at the slightest sound or sudden movement like a prey animal. Red had never said anything to me after Eric got back about still being here, didn't even give a knowing look, but I wondered if he was curious about why I wasn't gone. I still couldn't really figure it out for myself. For a little while I had taken a few hours off of work to drive to Madison, toured a few apartments there. I could've tolerated the commute, and it would've been nice to live somewhere that wasn't just a small town shithole, but I never followed through on anything. Pamphlets and brochures piled up under my bed that I didn't have the heart to get rid of, hopeful that I'd one day find the balls to do it. To do anything.

I could only wallow in my own self pity for so long, I realized, finally feeling the stiffness in my joints and the fogginess behind my eyes. I needed coffee, and with Red and Kitty gone, I could make it as strong and black as I liked it, and Kitty wouldn't be able to get on my case about the acid wearing down the enamel on my teeth. I crept slowly into the kitchen, the door to the basement creaking shut behind me. I was never a morning person, but these were the mornings I loved, where everything was still a little bit dark and almost medicinally clean, the floors cool despite the heat from the furnace. The kitchen was spotless and the appliances gleamed in the little light. Reveling in this moment alone, I padded over to the cabinet and began measuring out my coffee, more than I would probably realistically drink which was always my problem with making coffee, and was why I was never allowed to make it when I was home, my old home.

Kitty, I think, forgets sometimes how long I went without things like the dentist when I lived with Edna, how many other doctor's appointments I never had and vaccinations she forged paperwork for me receiving. Or maybe she really didn't know. I remembered how Edna would always tell me that this was freedom, that she was taking me off the grid, that it would be harder for the government to find me if ever ever did something they "didn't like" and I should accept this like some huge gift. But I knew even then that it was just poverty. I knew enough from being around my friends' families, even Kelso's, that my life was different. Forman and Kelso's families celebrated holidays, they complained about getting shots or having cavities, their moms made sure they were home by seven every night for dinner, their clothes were always clean and they always showered. They didn't eat peanut butter straight from the jar when they came home to an empty, dark house. They didn't wake up some mornings to find a strange man in their kitchen wearing their mom's open robe and scratching their balls as they rooted through the fridge, or wake up in the middle of the night to one of these men hovering over them in bed, one of his rough gnarled hands slipping under the band of their underwear.

I grimaced and took a sip from my mug, relishing in the too-hot taste of the slightly burnt grounds, warming my hands through the ceramic. I used to wish that I lived here with Forman when we were younger, used to dream that Laurie was gone or maybe never even existed in the first place, and that bedroom down the hall was mine. I wanted everything that Forman complained about, a mother who gave a shit, a house that was even worth doing chores in, things that felt like mine, a father who was there at all. But I never said anything about any of it, not to Forman, not to anyone. The only one who ever came close was Jackie, and only because once, in the low light of the early morning, she slid a hand lower and lower down my leg and I completely freaked. I tried to throw excuses at it and lie my way out, but she saw through it immediately, I could only tip-toe around the truth and she still didn't know the whole story. No one would, probably. What's the point?

"'Morning." a cautious voice sounded from behind me, freezing me in place. My eyes slid over to the clock on the stove. It was barely six, why was he up?

"Yeah." I replied, voice catching slightly in my throat. I quickly took another sip of coffee to try and cover it. I didn't turn to look at him, practically hearing the unease, feeling the shift of Eric's weight through the thin linoleum. I was so fucking uncomfortable with him back, dodged him every chance I could so we'd never be alone in the same room, still so angry at him. I knew it was misplaced, it had to be, it didn't make any sense. I was mad at him for, what, leaving me alone to deal with my own problems like an actual adult while he tried to build a real life for himself?

"Do you have to work today? I was thinking we could maybe go on a drive or something, for old time's sake." He eyed the coffee and I heard him clatter mugs in the cabinet, searching for the yellow one I knew was his favorite, the one I've always avoided using since he left. I kept my eyes fixed on the screen door, staring at the empty driveway as he rummaged around the kitchen for milk and sugar, heart in my throat.

"At noon."

He grunted in response but said nothing. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled at the awkwardness of this situation. I couldn't tell if he noticed, it felt like it was radiating out of me, mixing and crashing with the giant wave of embarrassment and rage I felt whenever he was near. I turned to evacuate to the living room.

"It's early, maybe we can fit one in before you go." He said at last, smiling as our eyes met. "You've been so busy lately, I've hardly seen you."

I felt myself redden slightly, shifting my weight foot to foot, itching to get out of there. "Yeah. Well. I'm sure you haven't minded too much." The words came out sharper than I meant them to, almost biting, but I didn't let my face give anything away.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, that same feeling of hurt and confusion that I saw on his first night back clouding over his eyes. I looked down at his bare feet instead, unable to look at him. He must have been cold, he knew better than I did how poorly ventilated this house was, and how the heat from the furnace only gathered near the ceiling and nowhere near the floor, why wasn't he wearing socks? Glancing further up, beyond his bare feet and the tattered hem of his flannel pajama pants, he was only wearing a t-shirt, one that I quickly realized was from me, one I'd given him a few Christmases ago, a Beatles "Revolver" album shirt that matched my own, and my heart lurched. I'd remembered how much he'd liked mine and when I gave him one that looked just like it, but in a different color, his face lit up and I remembered feeling purely...happy. For whatever reason, the thought now overwhelmed me. Like he didn't deserve to have it anymore. Like it meant something that had long been forgotten.

"Nothing. Forget it." I brushed past him, he didn't follow.

We'd made it through the rest of the day not speaking or running into each other at all. By the time I made it to the store, I had almost completely put it out of my mind. Sundays were slow days, thankfully, and I was the only one scheduled for the closing shift. My plan was to stock shelves and smoke in my office until seven. Sometimes I spent the night there in a sleeping bag stashed in the corner for when the idea of going back to the Forman's felt too unbearable, which had been often lately. There were too many memories at that house. The room was small, but not as small as my basement bedroom, and at least I wasn't underground. Depressing as it was, it was a step-up, at least. I'd never had a place that truly felt like mine.

Eventually, it was quiet. No customers had come in a few hours and everything was still, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. It was almost time to lock up and at this point I'd tucked myself back into my office, all boxes of records accounted for, floors cleaned, windows fogging up in the Wisconsin winter night from my breath and movement. If someone came in I could rely on the bell on the door to alert me to it, and I could stay back there, cocooned by four cinder block walls. Though it was calm, I was a livewire of pent-up adrenaline, dreading returning to where Eric was. Maybe he'd go to Donna's again, though even the thought of that was hard to swallow too. I tried to focus on the purchase order forms on my desk, but my mind kept wandering back to him. I genuinely hated being like this. It would be easier if I could just be mad and not care, the way it was easy to be angry at the stupid high school kids who kept trying to shoplift, at every teacher I ever had who tried to get me to engage before realizing I was just a lost cause, at Edna for leaving. More importantly, I hated being like this to my best friend, I hating being this passive aggressive and blindsiding him when all he was trying to do was follow a dream and start a new life. Just because we'd spent most of ours together in tandem didn't mean he wasn't allowed to create a new one on his own. Shoulders slumping, I thought of the three, perfectly rolled joints in my desk drawer, all calling my name. I'd been making an effort to try and smoke less, something else that was completely unlike me, in an attempt to take this job more seriously, but sometimes the need to not have to think anymore was too strong. Swiftly, without bothing to second guess, I began switching off lights and locking the main door, flipping the "Open" sign over to "Closed," chanting the same mantra over in my head that I somehow kept believing, if I just got a few hours to myself, maybe things would be fine, maybe things could go back to the way they used to be, and I would feel the way I used to.

Alone in the office, shut out from the rest of the world, I took a joint out of the drawer and rolled it absentmindedly between my fingers. I hadn't seen Leo in months, didn't have many contacts left anymore, these joints were the last of my stash, I could either savor them, take a few hits and then stub them out and put them back where they came from for next time, or get ridiculously stoned and be shit out of luck for the future. Both options weighed heavily on me in a way I wished they didn't, hated that it was a choice between feeling restless and feeling even slightly complacent. Tonight I chose complacency, and tried to not think about how soon I wouldn't have a choice at all.

The knock at the front of the store came when I had scarcely taken a drag of the first joint, and I froze. A customer likely wouldn't have knocked, they'd have read the sign, but it couldn't have been any of the other employees either, why would they go out into the cold if they didn't have to? I debated whether or not to move, hoping maybe it was someone at the wrong place and would realize their mistake, but the knocking came again and more insistently.

"Hyyyyyyyyyde!" a somewhat garbled voice called. "Hyyyyyyde, Hyde, Hyde!"

I began to thaw and rolled my eyes. Fez. I should've known. Since he and Jackie got together, every few weeks Fez would get plastered and show up at the store, wracked with guilt over it. I hadn't been upset about it in ages, to be honest. It wasn't his fault that Jackie and I broke up, and it wasn't his fault that she fell in love with him. I just wanted her to be happy, but no matter how many times I told him exactly that, like clockwork, he was always back. I took my time walking to the front of the store, flipping on a light or two as I went to see more clearly. There he was, pressed against the glass of the door, barely able to hold up his own weight.

"Fez, man," I called out to him. "Go home, you're wasted."

"Hyyyyyyde!" he became more insistent with the knocking, or rather, slapping, of the glass door. "I have to talk to you!"

"No you don't, bud, go home, it's dark out and I'm closing up shop here." He slapped again and I eyed the bottle of whisky he hooked his thumb around, a little afraid that it might break against the glass and be another thing I'd have to clean up later.

"It's about Eric!"

That gave me pause. I didn't want to do this right now. In all likelihood, it was random, drunk nonsense, probably just Fez wanting to wax poetic about how much he had missed Forman, and how nice it was to have him back, or whatever, but I was in no mood.

"Fez," I replied, warningly. "Get out of here."

"I found something in his room! I didn't know who else to tell!"

"Why the fuck were you in his room? And why should I give a shit?"

"Please, just let me in!"

I shook my head. "No, dude. I don't care that you found Playboys, or whatever, I'm calling you a cab." I turned to go for the phone back in my office, when he shouted:

"He's gay!"

My breath caught in my throat, and I turned to face him again. "What did you say?"

Suddenly, Fez looked scared. The slight drawl in his voice from drinking seemed to clear up some. "I-I was looking for weed. I thought maybe he'd have some, maybe he brought some home from Africa, some he didn't want to share, I know it was stupid but he used to keep some there. But I l-looked through the bag under his bed and I found...I found this." He dug around in his jeans pocket, and pressed a creased Polaroid to the glass. Too curious to look away, I got closer to examine it. It was a photo of Eric and another dark skinned man, both shirtless, and...kissing. I couldn't look away, and time seemed to have stopped completely, my hands making for the lock on the door without my knowledge, stepping out into the chill night away. Soon there was nothing between me and it, Fez still holding the photograph with an outstretched arm, almost like he couldn't stand to be near it.

"Give it to me." I said finally. He didn't move, and our eyes locked. I felt the rage bubbling up inside of me that I'd spent the rage trying to subdue, my words coming out icy and low. "Give it to me now, Fez."

"I didn't know who else to tell." He said again, and pressed it into my hand like an apology. "I didn't know what to do, I-"

"It's fine." Was it?

"What do we do, Hyde, I don't kn-"

"Leave. You need to leave. Go home." My voice sounded alien even to me, all clipped, smooth, and low. Fez still looked worried, but began to back up and walk away, and I stood in the doorway until he was gone, sliding the picture into my pocket where it burned bright red and hot against the fabric and my skin. Finally alone, I slipped back inside, locking the door firmly behind me, too afraid to look at what I now had, too afraid to know what this all could mean.