MB Short Story: No Take Backs (Patreon)

“I comprehend that your house is flooded,” Kim said. “But Wiseman . . . why are you here?”

His lips were compressed a little tighter than usual—a clear sign of discomfort in the man’s stoic façade, if one knew to look for it. I decided to remain deliberately oblivious.

“Well, it’s a long story, Rosy.” I smiled with forced cheer, covertly wedging my suitcase into the threshold in case Kim decided to slam the door in my face.

“Summarize,” Kim ordered.

The man had a right to be suspicious. I’d shown up at his apartment unannounced, and it wasn’t as if we were the best of friends. Kim and I barely even qualified as frenemies. Still, his hostility made me bristle.

“It’s not as if crashing at your place was my first choice,” I said. “Gray’s condo is undergoing renovations while he’s visiting his family in London.”

“You have no other friends?” Kim asked, the door inching slowly closed.

“I have plenty of friends!” I protested. “Friends out the wazoo.”

Kim arched a skeptical eyebrow. It made him look annoyingly cool, the bastard. I’d never been able to master the art of the lone brow.

“I have friends,” I repeated, internally wincing at the faint note of desperation that entered my voice.

“Then go stay with them.” Kim attempted to fully shut the door only to be thwarted by my suitcase. I grinned smugly . . . but my smile quickly faded as I contemplated how to react.

I did have plenty of friends, provided prior hookups counted as friends. But staying with an ex, however casual our past relationship, meant having a version of the conversation, and I hated having the conversation even more than I hated Kim’s company. Despite what the tabloids liked to claim, I hadn’t been the one to end most of my serious(ish) relationships. Usually, the less-than-grand finale came in the form of “you’re clearly too busy right now to maintain our relationship” followed by a gentle ghosting.

A few had reached back out over the years to see if my circumstances had changed: it hadn’t, nor was I interested in rekindling a relationship with someone who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—understand my priorities.

I was still close with my bandmates from high school, but they had all married and moved to the suburbs—too far away to accommodate my daily commute to Aeon (plus, they all had toddlers and I valued my beauty sleep). Staying over at Salome’s with Button would’ve felt awkward for nebulous reasons that I didn’t want to ponder; being around Salome in general had begun feeling awkward this last year. When had I gone from thinking about her as “pretty annoying” to simply “pretty”? That was another conversation which I intended to avoid, even in the form of a monologue with myself.

Which left Kim.

“My friends are either out of town or just had babies,” I said. Or I used to sleep with them and despise emotional awkwardness. “You can’t expect me to impose on new parents.”

“Check into a hotel.”

“I tried.” A financial conference downtown which meant the select few hotels which I trusted not to leak my location to the paparazzi were currently at full capacity with middle-aged Warren Buffet fanboys and twenty-something crypto bros from Wisconsin. Sure, I could’ve rented a room at a Holiday Inn, but that would mean having to wade through fans every day on my way to work. My neighborhood was gated; anyone could rent a room at a hotel.

Whatever Kim saw on my face—pathetic desperation, most likely—it made him heave an annoyed sigh. “How long until your place is habitable again?”

“Rennovators say it should mostly be dried out three days,” I replied. “I’ll still have to tear out the floorboards and replace the drywall around where the pipe burst, but at least I won’t need to wade through three inches of water to get to the stairwell.”

Kim sighed again and opened the door wide enough for me to slide in my suitcase.

“Three days, Nick,” he said. “Two nights. You leave on Monday.”

I shouldered my way into the foyer before he could change his mind. “I’ll be the ideal houseguest,” I said. “You won’t even notice I’m here.”

Kim sighed for what must’ve been the eight-hundredth time. “Spare bedroom is down the hall to your left; clean towels are underneath the sink. I leave for work at 6:30 sharp, and I’m not giving you a spare key.”

“Your hospitality knows no bounds,” I snarked.

Kim reopened the door, motioning me back to the hallway if I had a problem with his terms. This time, I was the one to sigh.

“I’ll be ready to leave by 6:20,” I said.

* * * *

Kim’s three-bedroom apartment was much like the man himself: devoid of personality and empty inside. The furnishings were sparse and grey, and the whole place screamed “temporary living” despite Kim having lived in Chicago for the better part of four years. It was almost enough to confirm my theory that Kim was an android but for a few distinctly human details such as muted-tone silk carpets in every room and an expresso machine with an integrated burr grinder that was (I begrudgingly admitted, if only to myself) even nicer than my own. Androids didn’t need caffeine to operate.

I was a naturally early riser, so the only difficulty I faced when meeting Kim’s morning departure deadline was overcoming my desire to annoy him by being late. In the end, my desire not to be homeless trumped the urge to agitate him, and I met him at the front door at 6:22.

“You said that you’d be ready to leave by 6:20,” Kim snarled.

I arched both eyebrows at him (I’d practiced in the mirror last night to only raise the one before giving up after thirty seconds).

“I’ve been up since 5am,” I replied coolly. “Your door was still closed at 6:15, so I figured that you forgot to set your alarm.”

Kim’s glower intensified over the rim of his thermos as he took another long drag of coffee. I resisted the urge to cackle maniacally—there was something utterly delightful about the fact that Ambrose Kim was clearly not a morning person. Maybe it was petty, but it made me feel superior.

“You usually take the subway to work, right?” I asked.

Kim grunted.

“I can drive you,” I offered. “Since we’re heading to the same place.” Damn, I deserved a medal for being a good human being.

Kim briefly looked tempted to refuse, but finally nodded. Apparently even my company was preferable to the crush of public transportation.

Being a civil human being of modest charm, I attempted to make light conversation on our drive to work. Being an uppity asshole of zero people skills, Kim responded to my every overture with pained silence.

Grayson’s constant instances were wrong: there was no redeeming quality about Ambrose Kim.

* * * *

“He let you stay over,” Gray pointed out during our lunchbreak (well, his dinnertime) phone call.

“Well, yeah,” I conceded, “but—”

“No buts, Nick,” Gray sighed. “Ambrose could’ve made you get a hotel room.”

I snickered. “No butts? That must make life difficult.”

“Just play nice.” Gray ignored my joke, but I could hear a smile in his voice. He wasn’t as mature as he pretended. “Who knows? Maybe you two will discover common ground.”

“Pretty sure that we’d rather bury each other under the ground,” I said. “But I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Gray said, sounding like an approving dad during his kid’s soccer game. “Now, what exactly happened to your place? Your text was somewhat cryptic—I doubt that any mermaids have moved in.”

“The mermaids might have been wishful thinking,” I conceded. “I always did have a thing for Ariel.”

Gray chuckled. “You and redheads.”

Nope. Wasn’t about to take that bait.

“A pipe burst downstairs,” I said. “Flooded the living room and hallway, but at least my kitchen is untouched.”

“You know what else has been untouched?” Gray asked. “You, ever since things ended with Sohvi.”

“Things?” I scoffed. “It was a thing at the most. A very brief thing. And I get touched plenty.”

“Doesn’t count if it’s your own hand,” Gray retorted.

“You know, I should really inform the world what an asshole you can be,” I said dryly. “Some might even consider it my civic duty, given the pedestal that the public puts you on. You need to be toppled.”

“I’m simply concerned for my dearest friend’s wellbeing,” Gray said, “and think it’s about time he stop wallowing in denial and go after what he obviously—”

“How’s your mom?” I interrupted.

“She’s better at redirecting the topic than you are,” Gray said. "Honestly, I’m pretty sure that my father and I would’ve murdered each other by the second day of my visit had my mother not acted as a restraining force.”

My phone buzzed. I groaned as I looked down at the text message.

“Speaking of wanting to murder someone,” I said, “Kim just texted. Apparently, he needs to borrow my car.”

* * * *

Kim’s stubborn refusal to disclose why he needed to borrow my Land Rover meant that no way in hell was I letting him go alone. Which is why I was currently driving, in awkward silence, to Johans Prep High School.

We stopped at a red light, and I glanced over at Kim in the passenger seat.

“Sooooooooooo,” I said, drawing out the syllable until a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. “You have a kid?”

“Excuse me?” Kim sputtered—actually sputtered!—in shock.

“A kid,” I said, refocusing back on the road so he didn’t notice my amused smirk. “Offspring. Progeny. Fruit of thy loins. The result of—”

“I understood the question, Wiseman,” Kim growled. “I failed to comprehend why you would ask it.”

I gestured to the gps with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel. “We’re going to a high school for reasons you refuse to disclose. What else am I supposed to think?” I gasped theatrically. “Is it a secret love child?”

The corners of Kim’s mouth tightened. “Pull in here,” he ordered, motioning to an upcoming school sign on the right. “And no, I do not have a secret love child.”

“Ah,” I said, trying not to chuckle. “Probably a good thing if we’re being honest. Some people shouldn’t procreate.”

I timed my sarcastic sigh so that it synchronized perfectly with his exasperated exhale. I  didn’t have had a clue as to why we were headed to a high school, but in some ways Kim remained eternally predictable.

* * * *

Whatever I had expected to happen at the high school, it wasn’t that a sixteen-year-old boy would actually look relieved when Kim stepped out of my SUV. Kim provoked many emotions in others (fear, agitation, rage) but relief? What was wrong with this kid?

“Mr. K!” he cried out, lurching upright from where he’d been leaning against the hood of a beat-up Honda Civic. “Thank you so much for coming! I’m so sorry about your car and that I bothered you at work—I don’t know why it’s not starting, but I need to pick Junie up from school, and I can’t call Mom because she’s already been absent from work that day last week when I was puking my guts out, and her boss threatened to fire her if she missed any more days, and I don’t want to be responsible for her losing—”

“Breathe,” Kim ordered.

The kid sucked in a deep breath, only to choke on it when his gaze landed on me.

“Is that Justice?” he squeaked. “Mr. K, I didn’t know that you worked with The Ideals! That’s so cool!” He wiped his sweaty hand on his cargo pants and thrust it in my direction. “Jesse Paxton, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.”

I shook the kid’s hand and gave him a broad smile. “Honor is all mine, Jesse,” I said. “Any, uh, friend of Mr. K is a friend of mine.”

I could almost hear Kim’s teeth grinding together.

“So, how do you know Mr. K?” I asked, delighting in the way Kim’s eyes narrowed at my usage of the nickname. It was clear that the two weren’t related: Jesse looked like a gangly leprechaun and was paler than Button’s friend, Kent. The kid was also a good several inches taller than Kim, almost able to look me in the eye.

Jesse opened his mouth to reply, gazing at Kim with something disturbingly akin to hero worship.

“Jesse is my neighbor,” Kim interjected smoothly before the kid could speak. “He helps me cut back on parking costs by taking my car to school for the day, since my commute so close.” His dark eyes glared at me in warning.

Jesse shook his head, a lock of strawberry blonde hair flopping over his eyes. “That’s just Mr. K’s excuse,” he said bluntly. “My mom works late hours, and the bus won’t drop me and Junie off at my grandma’s after school. She lives in the suburbs and can’t drive anymore, so Mr. K lets me use his car during the week.”

“Who's Junie?” I asked.

“My little sister,” Jesse said. “She’s seven. I don’t know what we’d do without Mr. K lending me his car.”

“Like I said,” Kim replied without a trace of emotion, “you’re doing me a favor since your school provides free parking.”

Jesse rolled his eyes, but fondly. “Sure, Mr. K.” His face fell in a frown. “I really don’t know why the car broke down, though! There weren’t any warning lights on it when I drove to school, but it just won’t start!”

“Did you call Triple-A like I told you?” Kim asked.

Jesse nodded.

“Then someone will be here to tow the car,” Kim said. “When does Junie get out of school?”

“In twenty minutes,” Jesse replied.

Kim looked at me. His expression wasn’t pleading, exactly. Kim had too much pride to ever beg, but he also lacked the imperious air with which he had demanded my car. At least now I understood why he’d needed my vehicle in the first place:

To pick up a first grader.

Who was this man and what had he done with Ambrose Kim?

“It’s my lucky day,” I said cheerily, opening the car’s backdoor for Jesse to climb in. “I always wanted to be a school bus driver.”

* * * *

I called Gray back that evening, not much caring that it was 2am in London. Gray wouldn’t care that I woke him up, either, once he learned what I had to say, although his initial reaction was to cuss me out and demand that I become acquainted with human decency and “not wake a bloke up in the middle of his slumber.” I swear, he became more painfully British every second he was back home.

“You were right,” I admitted.

Gray’s crankiness instantly fled. “Repeat that,” he demanded, “so I can get it on recording.” He paused warily. “Is this a trick?”

“So little faith in me,” I chided. “I’m man enough to admit when my preconceptions may not be one-hundred percent accurate.”

“Is this about hockey?” Gray asked. “I told you it was the superior sport to football.”

“It isn’t, and it isn’t,” I replied. “It’s about Kim.”

“Go on.”

“He may, possibly, have one or two redeeming qualities.”

A sharp knock rapped on the wall of the bedroom I was staying in.

“Shut up, Wiseman, or I’m kicking you out,” Kim shouted through the wall. “I'm working--fixing paperwork that you filled out incorrectly.”

I groaned. “You know what, Gray? I take it back. There is nothing good about Ambrose Asshole Kim.”