After Friends' Cruel Betrayal

The envelope feels heavy in my hands, though it contains nothing but paper and the last of my dignity. Three years of weight condensed into this single moment. I sit in the corner booth of the coffee shop, the cracked vinyl seat familiar against my threadbare coat—the only decent thing I own anymore, though "decent" is generous. The fabric has thinned at the elbows, and there's a stain near the hem I can never quite wash out, no matter how many times I scrub it in the mortuary's industrial sink.

My fingers trace the envelope's edge, and I catch sight of my hands. Calloused. Rough. The skin around my knuckles has thickened from three years of kneeling on cold mortuary floors, preparing the dead for their final rest. I used to have soft hands. Piano player's hands, my mother called them. Now they look like they belong to someone else entirely.

I touch the scar on my forehead without thinking, a habit I've developed whenever anxiety creeps in. The tissue is still slightly raised, a permanent reminder of the day I slipped on the mortuary floor during my first month. Six stitches. I'd been so tired I hadn't seen the wet patch.

Reid and Elijah are twenty minutes late. I check my phone again, though I heard it the first twelve times I looked. No messages. They're probably just running behind. They've been so busy lately, both of them working hard to rebuild after I helped clear their debts. Pride warms my chest despite the coffee shop's chill. Three years of sacrifice, but it was worth it. They're my oldest friends. My only friends, really, after I walked away from my father's world.

I've been rehearsing what I'll say when they arrive. Maybe we could celebrate, just the three of us, like old times. Remember when we used to sneak into the campus music hall after hours, and I'd play piano while they'd make up ridiculous lyrics? Before everything got complicated. Before Ophelia and the plagiarism incident that shattered our college friendships. Before the debts that nearly destroyed them.

But we can start over now. Clean slate. No more obligations hanging over our heads.

The door chimes. Reid walks in first, Elijah behind him. My heart lifts, and I start to stand, but something in their body language stops me. They're not smiling. Reid's eyes scan the coffee shop with the impatient air of someone checking off an errand. Elijah won't meet my gaze at all.

"Hey," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. "I got it. The final payment."

Reid slides into the booth across from me. Elijah takes the seat beside him. Neither of them removes their coats. They're not staying long, then.

"Great," Reid says, extending his hand.

I pass him the envelope. He doesn't open it to check, just pockets it immediately. The gesture feels wrong, too casual for the moment. This is the end of three years. Doesn't it deserve more acknowledgment than this?