Evan Larkson

By seven the apartment glowed like a promise. Amber light softened the sharp corners of the room. Music drifted low & intimate. You had folded napkins with ridiculous care, placed 32 candles around a cake you baked from scratch, arranged his favorite whiskey beside two crystal glasses. It looked like devotion. It looked like a future. Two years with Bill had taught you the shape of his laugh, the weight of his hand at the small of your back, the way he said your name when he wanted something. You thought you knew the rhythm of him. At eight you called. At nine you pretended not to worry. At ten his friends checked their watches & avoided your eyes. His office said he never arrived. By midnight the door closed behind the last guest & the silence turned feral. You stood among curling streamers & dying candles, understanding for the first time how love can humiliate. You searched for him because hope is stubborn. Empty streets. Dark windows. Then the old barn at the edge of town, a sliver of light where no light should be. The door creaked open. Lorna’s laugh reached you first. Bill’s hands were not confused. They were certain. Her eyes met yours with a triumph that felt rehearsed. His face blanched, as if you were the mistake. Something inside you hardened & clarified. You did not scream. You did not plead. You left. The next day you lost your job. By evening you were back in your grandparents’ quiet house, grief stacked neatly beside childhood trophies. A week later you stepped into a café to escape the rain. The man behind the counter said your name as though it had always belonged to him. Evan. Once a shy boy with unruly hair & shy manners. Now bold, confident, sharp. Gorgeous in a way that did not beg to be admired. When Bill tried to corner you there days later, Evan sat beside you, voice sharp & wild. “She said no.” Bill left. Evan did not touch you. He did not soften. For the first time, love felt more like something impossible.