Summer at the edge of us

7:44 AM, June 3rd, 2026

Asheville, North Carolina

The bell had been ringing since daybreak, but I decided not to let the bitch outside in.

My phone beeped. I opened my swollen eyes slowly, barely having slept all night. Wobbling, I picked it up and went straight to the message on Instagram. Dad. My stepdad.

"Hey son" — he loved calling me that — "don't miss your flight cause I booked it already, 10 PM."

I knew 10 PM was a typo. Before I could think, he doubled back.

"It's 10 AM. Please come home. If that bitch still hurts you, LA is home."

Then before I could even set my phone down, another one came through.

"I know my Caleb doesn't hurt. You are strong. Come home. LA is waiting."

I smiled. Dad. Zion Covey. I loved him so much.

I took a warm shower then stood at the mirror longer than I needed to. My eyes were less swollen now — just heavy, like the rest of me. I studied my face for a moment. I still looked like myself. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't spent the whole night on the floor of my feelings. I lotioned up, dried my dreads, threw on a white round neck tee, a yellow jacket, blue jean shorts, socks and sneakers. Simple. Clean. Like I wasn't falling apart.

I packed a few things, then texted Liam.

"Hey, can you take me to the airport? 👍"

I sat on the edge of my bed waiting for him to reply. Then the bell rang again.

"It's me, Caleb. I'm sorry for last night. It was a mistake."

He had been saying that every time. Every single time. And every time I had found a reason to believe him — until last night took that reason and burned it to the ground.

Shayna. She was in his Advanced Painting class, the kind of beautiful that filled a room before she even opened her mouth. I had seen the way Pierre looked at her at the last department showcase — quick, careful, the kind of look a man gives when he's hoping nobody catches it. I caught it. I filed it somewhere quiet and told myself I was being paranoid.

I wasn't being paranoid.

I placed my headphones on and went straight to Instagram. I had already ghosted him on every handle — no need to listen to what came next through a closed door.

The first thing I saw stopped me cold.

Pierre and Shayna. Dancing at the party. The same party he was supposed to pick me up for, the same one we were meant to walk into together. She had her hands on his chest and he was laughing — really laughing — the kind I used to think was only for me.

I remembered every second of last night. I showed up anyway, did my best to ruin it — and from the way it was already all over Instagram, I'd say I succeeded. UNC parties were always memorable. Last night was unforgettable for the wrong reasons.

I didn't notice the tears until they were already on my jaw.

Two years. I had given him two years and an entire life I'd built somewhere else. I left Los Angeles. Left my family, my home, my friends — everything — to be here in Asheville with him. I had been one of the best students in Film and Video Writing back at CalArts, genuinely thriving, when Pierre came through for a painting programme from UNC and turned everything sideways. And just like that I found myself transferring, packing boxes, telling myself it was love and not running away. Telling myself Pierre was the reason and not the excuse.

Two years wasted on a fucking love story.

I really thought moving across the country worked out. It always did in the movies.

I heard a car pull up outside. Liam. He would definitely try to punch Pierre in the face — I had to get ahead of that.

I was outside before any calamities could unfold.

"Hey Caleb." Pierre was standing at the door. He was wearing one of my shirts — the one I gave him a few days ago when he got caught in the rain. That had been a good night. Quiet, warm, the kind of night that made you forget every red flag you'd been collecting. I pushed it out of my head before it could settle.

I was not going to cry in front of him. I refused.

"Hey," I replied, holding everything together by a thread.

Liam leaned against the car watching. I had already signaled him to stay calm.

"I'm really sorry about last night," Pierre said. "I fucked things up and I know it. I'm really sorry."

I studied his face. He looked genuinely sorry — eyes low, voice careful. But Pierre always looked sorry. That was the thing about him. He could break something and hand it back to you so gently you forgot he was the one who dropped it.

"It's fine," I said after a beat. "But I have a flight to catch."

"I have something for you." He held out a frame. A painting — he had promised to paint me once, somewhere in the first few months when everything still felt new and possible. I had almost forgotten he'd kept that promise.

I took it and felt my throat tighten immediately.

It was my last day at CalArts. Two years ago. I was standing outside the main building, laughing at something off frame, completely unaware anyone was watching. He had painted it from a photograph I didn't even know he had taken. He had been carrying this the whole time — carrying me — while simultaneously carrying on with someone else.

That was the cruelest part. The tenderness and the betrayal living in the same hands.

Don't cry. Don't you dare.

"Thank you," I managed.

I moved toward the car, then stopped. I still don't know why I stopped.

"For what it's worth — I enjoyed being with you." I swallowed hard. "Last night won't make me quit school. I'll be back next semester."

I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know if I meant it. I think I just needed him to know he hadn't completely destroyed me. Even if he had.

He smiled softly and opened his arms. I turned away and got in the car. The disappointment on his face was quiet, dignified. Pierre always kept his calm.

Liam, however, gave him the middle finger without blinking and pulled out of the lot.

I let everything go in that car. Every tear I had been forcing back since last night came out at once. Liam drove with one hand and patted my back with the other, steady and wordless, the way he always was when it mattered.

We pulled into the airport parking lot. I could already see it on his face before he even turned to me — that look he got when he was trying not to show something.

"You're not coming back, are you," he said. It wasn't really a question.

I laughed, shook my bag so he could hear it rattle. "If I wasn't coming back I wouldn't be carrying this."

He let out a long breath. We walked into the terminal together — packed, loud, everybody moving somewhere with somewhere to be. I checked in at the desk, confirmed my flight, and we found a bench and sat scrolling through our phones like we had all the time in the world.

I could still see it on him though. Still sad.

"Hey." I reached over and wiped the tear off his face before he even knew it was there. "I'll come back."

He looked up, caught off guard. Then something in him broke quietly.

"I don't want to lose you over some freak," he said, pulling me into a hug, his head dropping to my shoulder. "You're my best friend."

Liam had no real friends. Everyone around him was drawn in by the money — the wealth that followed him everywhere like a shadow he couldn't shake. I was the first person who came to UNC and genuinely didn't give a fuck about any of it. Probably because I came from enough myself. He had helped me find my footing in Asheville. I think I did the same for him in ways neither of us ever said out loud.

"All passengers on flight S2405, please begin boarding. Departure in twenty minutes."

I pulled back. "I'll come back. I promise."

He nodded, then glanced at my phone. Instagram was still open.

"Isn't that your stepbrother?"

I looked down at the screen.

Jordan. At some LA party, moving through the crowd like gravity worked differently for him. Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the whole room was just background. He had gotten taller somehow — or maybe broader, I couldn't tell through a phone screen. He looked good. He always looked good and I had spent two years in another state trying to be okay with that.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "That's him."

I locked my phone before I could look any longer.

Part of the reason I ended up here. Maybe most of the reason. I had never said that out loud to anyone — not even Liam. Some things you carry so long they start to feel like they belong to you.

"Plane touches down in Atlanta first," I said, standing. "Today's going to be long."

"You gotta go." He stood too.

We looked at each other for a second — all the things two years of real friendship hold — and then I pulled him in. A real hug. The kind that says everything you don't have words for.

"Hold it down," I said into his shoulder. "Party hard. Because I'm going to be partying a lot."

He laughed. Nodded against my shoulder.

I let go, picked up my bag, and walked toward the gate. I didn't look back. I knew if I looked back I would stay — or worse, I would cry again in the middle of a packed terminal and give Asheville one last thing to remember me by.

I kept walking until the crowd swallowed me whole.

9:53 AM — Asheville Regional Airport, North Carolina

One hour to Atlanta, Georgia.