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1. Hey Jealousy

Malik pressed the heels of his paws into his eye sockets and took slow, deliberate breaths. He knew where he was at least. He’d been in that same apartment more times than he could remember. It still smelled the same. Smelled like her. He missed that smell.

He got up and trudged to the bathroom, still wearing his clothes from the night before. Not the en suite one upstairs with the garden tub and shower; the downstairs one with just the sink and toilet. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was a wreck. Trash. Bloodshot eyes. Rusty fur sticking out in all directions. He ran cold water in his paws and rubbed it into his face and neck. He vaguely remembered that his mom used to call it taking a whore’s bath. He pulled his shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply. He pulled his shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply. Cigarettes. Stale beer. Someone’s cheap perfume. He thought for a moment about spraying himself down with the air freshener, but the scent was something floral. He’d rather just wear his shame.

He tried a bit more to make himself presentable. When he stepped back out of the bathroom, he saw a t-shirt draped over the back of the couch. He held it up and spread it open. His old band’s logo like something half remembered from a long time ago. “Thanks for the shirt,” he called toward the kitchen. His own voice made his head pound.

“It’s yours. I kind of kept it as payment for all the shit you put me through.” Emily. Her voice, even as pissed off as she was, even hidden in the echo of the kitchen, was like music. How long had it been since he heard her? Probably a few hours. When he begged her to let him sleep at her apartment. When he thanked her a thousand times as she made up the couch for him because he was too wasted to even stand. “Guess you can have it back now.”

“I really appreciate it,” Malik said, keeping his voice down to spare his aching head. “You got anything I can take? My head,” he trailed off, not wanting to talk any more than necessary.

“Coffee table,” Emily said as she emerged from the kitchen. This wasn’t the same little mouse Malik knew. The mouse who dated a chronically drunk wannabe rock star. Who defended Malik to her friends to the point that many of them cut ties. She looked the same. Same slender frame. Same glossy black fur. She held herself differently, though. Stood straighter. The adoration was gone from her eyes. “There’s cereal in the pantry. Drop the key through the mail slot after you lock up.”

Malik nodded slowly. Her words barely registered. There was a bottle of water on the coffee table beside a bottle of ibuprofen. “Can we talk?”

Emily looked at her watch—that was new. “I have to get to work. This doesn’t pay for itself,” she said, gesturing to the apartment.

“I just want to say thanks for letting me crash.”

“You’re welcome,” she glared, adjusting her purse over her shoulder. She was wearing a dress. She looked professional. Where did she work that she needed to dress up like that?

“You have every right to be pissed at me.” Malik took a tentative step forward.

“You smell worse than you look.” Emily took kept her distance, skirting toward the door.

“I should pay you back,” Malik offered. He held up the shirt in one paw. “For everything.”

Emily opened the door. “Pay me back by not being here when I get home.” She could have slammed the door, and that was what Malik was expecting, but instead there was just the gentle click of the latch and the terrible silence that followed.

The fox stripped off the shirt from the night before and put on the one Emily had left for him. It still had that plastic smell from the printing process, like it had never been worn. He pulled at the front and looked at the logo again. He could read the words ‘Elbow Grease’ upside down. There was an arm bent holding a microphone. How long ago had it been since the band broke up? Three years? Four? Well, the band didn’t actually break up. He just got kicked out. The same way Emily kicked him out of her place.

Malik threw three of the pills in his mouth and took deep gulps of the water. Dehydration. He drained the bottle completely and belched as he crumpled it in his paws. He’d probably done that to more than a few cans the night before. He couldn’t remember.

He was surprised she still trusted him enough to let him be at her place alone. He knew where she kept her emergency cash—at the back of her underwear drawer. He knew she had some jewelry that could bring a few bucks. He couldn’t do that to her. He rubbed his face as he remembered a time when he would. When he did.

He did his best to fold up the blankets and set them by the door. She’d need to wash them. If he had her access card for the laundry, he would do it. Wash and dry. Simple. For a moment, he thought about looking for the spare card. The one he used to borrow to get into the pool. He let it go. He didn’t want to give her another reason to hate him. Then a pang of regret. Emily didn’t hate him. If she hated him, she wouldn’t have let him into her apartment. Wouldn’t have left him alone there. Even in her anger and disappointment, she didn’t hate him. That was probably for the best. He had more than enough hate for himself.

He tidied up a bit more and wrote a note on the pad of paper magneted to the fridge. His thanks. His number. He didn’t know how to close it out, so he just wrote his name. The ibuprofen was kicking in as he closed the door just as Emily had—gently so that the only sound was the latch. Then he locked the door. He could keep the key. Pretend he lost it. Then what? He dropped it through the slot in the middle of her door and made his way down the stairs.

“Fuck!” he growled and looked back at the door. He’d left his shirt. She might think he did it on purpose. Maybe not. There was a fifty-fifty shot that it was something unconscious but intentional that pushed him to leave it. Something in him wanted a reason to come back. Or he was just an idiot that would lose his tail if it weren’t screwed into his ass.

He continued down the stairs to the pavement below. He’d about forgotten how nice the complex was. They keep the trash picked up and the greenery trimmed. The water in the pool was always that nice blue color instead of the green that would bleach his fur. But that wasn’t his home anymore. Where was he staying? He had to think. He wrestled his phone from his pocket and tapped at the screen a few times. Dead. It was downtown, he knew. Who did he know downtown? Michelle. He’d been there a couple of weeks now. She’d be worried. He sighed and shoved his paws into his pockets.

It was a good thirty-minute walk to Michelle’s place. One of those artist’s lofts in a repurposed warehouse. She probably got money from her folks or something to pay for it. Even a shit hole place downtown was four or five grand a month, and all Michelle did was go to college. Someone called her a professional student once and she didn’t object.

Malik buzzed Michelle’s loft from the front door because he couldn’t remember the code and didn’t have his key. Had she given him a key? Or the code? He leaned his head against the glass as he waited for her to respond. He hadn’t thrown up, which was probably a good sign, though, all he had on his stomach was a bottle of water and some pain pills. He’d have to eat at some point.

The door unlocked with a bright buzz without Michelle calling back down. Silent treatment. Bad sign. Regardless, he let himself inside and stepped onto the rickety elevator. He mashed the unlabeled button for the top floor. The motors groaned and whined as the elevator shivered its way up the open shaft. He steeled himself. She could be pissed. He’d deserve it if for no other reason than not calling the night before. He rehearsed different apologies and explanations in his head. Thought through scenarios from best to worst.

The elevator stopped. Shuddered. With a loud clank, all movement stopped and Malik slid the grate open. As he raised his fist to knock, the door opened. There was Michelle, small and pretty and meek. A little white mouse with cinnamon spots. She tilted her head and smiled. It was kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. Polite smile? “Hey, Malik. What happened? Are you ok?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I got a little wasted and slept on Emily’s couch.” Was he planning to say whose couch it was? Probably not. He meant to say it was a friend or something else vague like that. “I was gonna call, but my phone died.” He hung his head. Shrugged. He figured that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re sorry.

“You smell,” she crinkled her nose and stepped back from the door. “Get inside before the neighbors see you.”

Malik did as he was told. He was good at that, at least. “Sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll take a shower if that’s ok.” Michelle’s place was well-furnished. New appliances. Curtains coordinated with the flooring. Plush sofa. Antique dining table.

“Yeah,” she said distantly. She was quiet for a minute, wringing her paws. “Hey. Did you fuck her?”

“What?” He stopped. “No.” He took a breath and repeated, “No.”

“Are you sure?”

Asking if he was sure was more shocking than the initial question. It would have felt like an attack, but there was none of the spite or ire that came with an accusation. Looking into the mouse’s eyes, he saw sadness. Desperation. Was he sure? He’d been blackout drunk before. Forgot a whole week at one point. Not this time. He remembered. He was drunk, but he still had enough sense to not try to get back downtown. “I’m sure,” he said. He would have gone over to give her a hug or touch her face or something, but as he started forward, she backed away. Maybe after a shower.

He stripped off in the bathroom. It was just a shower, sink, and toilet, but everything was custom built for the space, and the rugs matched the countertop. The water felt good as it soaked through is fur. It took away the smells of stale alcohol and cigarettes. The smells of strange perfumes and hastily cleaned vomit.

“So, how’s Em?” Michelle asked. She was sitting on the toilet lid, paws in her lap.

“We didn’t really talk. I think she got a new job, though.” The fox scrubbed the body wash into his fur. It was supposed to be floral, but he thought it smelled more like fruit punch.

“She’s at a law office.”

Malik rinsed and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel and began rubbing at his fur. The only bad thing about a shower was drying off. Michelle had an electric drier, but he figured that it was probably better to stay damp and talk than insist on getting comfortable. “Really? When did she start that?” When did she ever talk to Michelle?

“Last year.” Michelle scanned the fox’s body, making him a little self-conscious. She’d seen him undressed more times than he could remember, but he’d never felt so exposed. “It’s something she said she’s really wanted for a while.”

“That’s great. I’m really happy for her.” Malik wrapped the towel around his waist. He still felt damp, but at least he was clean.

“So, what do you want? Really want.”

He was about to say something lewd. Something about her ass probably. He didn’t let the idea fully form. “To be happy,” he decided, though maybe with less thought than he should have.

“And how do you plan to get that?” Her dark eyes studied him. He felt like he was stuck in a cage, being examined.

“I mean, with you. You make me happy.”

Michelle laughed. Laughed at his stupidity. “First, if I made you happy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She was right. “Second, you can’t rely on someone else to control your happiness. You have to own it.” Right again.

He’d almost forgotten how smart she was. Smart and kind and pretty. Hot too. She was everything he thought he wanted. In a girlfriend. In a wife. “I guess I don’t know.” He surprised himself with his honesty. No joking or sarcasm. Raw sincerity.

She took his paws in hers. Her touch was so soft. Warm. “Look. In spite of everything, I really do like you,” she paused. “A lot. I’d like to be part of your happiness, but this can’t happen again.”

The ultimatum. He’d heard it so many times before from so many different partners that he had a script. This time felt different, though. He looked down at Michelle. That felt wrong. She was so much better than him. He lowered himself to his knees. Made himself small. That was better. He looked up at Michelle for a moment before lowering his eyes. His ears dropped and he took a deep, slow breath. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Michelle ran her thumbs over his knuckles and smiled. It was a tired smile, but it was genuine. “Do you want to?”

He didn’t WANT to get shitfaced. Didn’t WANT to disappoint everyone, himself included. But he couldn’t remember life without drinking. That was a lie. He could remember. He could remember being some young punk getting ready to go on stage, and his brother, bass player, handing him a bottle and telling him that it would help. It did. He felt looser out on stage. The nerves were gone. He slept with some rabbit groupie after the show. What was his excuse now? He hadn’t played a show in over a year. Hadn’t picked up a guitar in eight months. What the hell was he doing? “Yeah,” he croaked. “I need to.” It wasn’t the first time he’d been half naked and hungover, kneeling beside a toilet, rethinking his life choices. This was different. Was it, though? Hadn’t he hit the same point with Emily?

Michell stood. “You know the drill,” she announced.

Malik blinked.

“None of this,” she gestured over her body, “until you have two clean tests a week apart.”

He threw out his paws. “I didn’t fuck anyone,” he insisted. There was some anger in there. They were having a moment. Weren’t they? It might have felt like it, but not really. She was being herself, and he was being honest for probably the first time in forever.

“Them’s the rules,” Michelle shrugged. “You can sleep on the sofa,” she called back over her shoulder.

Malik closed the bathroom door, teeth and fists clenched. He was trying. He was connecting to his vulnerable side. Guess that wasn’t good enough for Princess Michelle. It wasn’t fair for her to cut him off like that. To shut him out. He breathed hard through his nose. He’d walked all the way back to her overpriced apartment from the far end of town. He didn’t have to do that. He could have let her worry. What a bitch!

Then he saw the furious creature in the mirror. The fox with ears back and teeth set. What if he looked at Michelle like that? Had he? Of course he had, and probably more than a few times. Probably in front of her friends. That’s why they wouldn’t come around when he was there. He softened. Shrank. He was the asshole. He was the problem. The anger returned. Focused inward. Michelle deserved so much better. Emily too. All of them had. They put up with him. Gave him second chances. And far more than that. He drew back to punch himself. Claw at his face. Inflict physical pain to make up for the emotional pain he had caused. Michelle loved him. Really loved him. And he was using her. Even still.

The thought of drastic options quickly vanished. Because she did care, it would only hurt her more if he ran away… or worse. Those were coward’s options. Ways to pretend he was doing something for her when he was really avoiding responsibility. Again. He took a breath. “I am such a piece of shit.”