The Love Hack

Ben

As I stuck my key in the front door, fresh off a 12-hour shift, I was dreading what awaited me on the other side. My heavy gym bag slung across my shoulder just felt like an additional weight that was grounding me in place, making it difficult to propel myself forward.

I wasn't sure how much more of the silent treatment I could take from Arty.

The first day I had been empathetic– hell, I'd even felt guilty. I thought maybe I could have been a better friend. As if I should have physically restrained Leo until Arty had gotten back from the bathroom. In retrospect, it would have been easier than dealing with all of this.

But either way, I tried. I sat by Arty's door, quietly at first, hoping he'd talk to me. I left him snacks, offered to watch a horror movie of his choosing—something I never did because I hated horror movies with a passion. But not even the promise of watching some blood-soaked nightmare with him could get him to muster a single word.

I did feel for him. I knew exactly what it was like to feel invisible to the person you wanted so badly to notice you.

But by the second day, my sympathy was starting to wear thin.

At first, I told myself he just needed space. That I'd let him work through it on his own. But when he showed no signs of life, I stopped caring if he wanted to hear me or not. I started forcing him to listen to what actually happened that night. That it wasn't my fault or his fault, and that Leo just sucked.

And for all I knew, he could've been asleep or scrolling through his phone while I talked myself hoarse.

And now? Now I was just pissed.

Was Arty really willing to throw away over ten years of friendship for some guy he'd known for two months? He had the audacity to say he wouldn't trust me again, like I'd committed some unforgivable crime, when he didn't even give me the benefit of the doubt—didn't even ask for my side of the story.

The words stung every time I replayed them in my head. They weren't even shouted; that almost would've been better. Instead, they were cold and final. And I was pissed because I hated that they hurt.

I shoved the door open, a little harder than necessary, and dropped my bag to the floor with a thud. Arty's door was still closed, just like it had been for the past two days.

If he wanted to sulk, I was going to let him sulk.

I grabbed my lunch container out of my and made my way to the kitchen, dropping it into the sink with a thud, not caring about whether I woke Arty or not.

I yanked open the fridge, cracking open a can of Coke that I didn't really want, and chugging it until I felt the familiar burn in the back of my throat that radiated to my nose. I slammed the empty can onto the counter, the hollow clink echoing through the house.

He was the one who did this, yet I was the one who was standing here in the dark chugging pop like it was whiskey and just hoping to ease the permanent knot in my stomach. I felt like I was walking on eggshells in my own home.

It wasn't like Arty to hold a grudge—not with me, at least.

He'd get annoyed, sure. He'd whine and complain, he'd roll his eyes. But never this quiet, drawn-out avoidance.

Turning back to the sink, I rinsed out the container from my lunch. My hands worked on autopilot, scrubbing harder than I needed to, as if I could scrub away the frustration that was eating at me– along with all of my fingertips.

That's when I heard it—the creak of a door.

I froze, water still running, the container slipping in my hands. Slowly, I turned my head toward the hallway, optimistic that it was Arty, but knowing that it was probably Jonah about to bitch me out for being so loud.