"Bro, it's me," he said flatly when Jake answered.
"Let's go out later tonight. I need a drink." His voice was hoarse but steady.
"Yeah, bring Cholo too. I'll send you the place."
---
The bass thumped through the walls of the private room in the club, muffled but steady, like a second heartbeat. Colored lights spilled faintly through the half-closed door as bottles of liquor sat lined up on the table.
Dylan leaned back on the couch, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling loosely in his hand.
His friends, however, carried themselves differently—Jake was already draped over the backrest, playfully whispering into the ear of a girl perched beside him, her laughter cutting through the music.
Cholo, on the other side, had an arm casually thrown over another girl's shoulder, flashing that lazy grin he always wore when he was half-drunk, half-serious.
Meanwhile, Dylan sat stiff, unmoved by the noise around him. A couple of girls had tried to catch his attention earlier, but he brushed them off with nothing more than a polite smile. He had a girlfriend—and even if he hadn't, he had no interest in losing himself tonight. Not like them. Not like this.
The private room wasn't just a room—it was luxury turned into a playground. Crystal glasses gleamed beneath dim amber lights, velvet curtains framed the space, and a haze of cigarette smoke curled in the air.
Beyond the door, the main dance floor pulsed with bodies moving in sync with the beat, neon lights cutting across their silhouettes. Every now and then, laughter spilled in from outside before the door closed again.
Jake, ever the charmer, leaned into his companion with a grin. "You know what they say about basketball players? We don't just score on the court." The girl laughed, swatting his shoulder.
Cholo rolled his eyes. "Bro, that line's older than my grandma. No wonder you're still single."
Jake shot him a mock glare. "Excuse me, some of us actually have standards."
"Standards?" Cholo snorted. "The only standard you have is if she laughs at your corny jokes. Which, apparently, still works."
The girl giggled again, proving Cholo's point. Jake groaned dramatically, tossing a napkin at him, which Cholo caught with a flourish before pretending to present it to his girl like a bouquet. She laughed, leaning into him, and Jake muttered something about betrayal.
"So... she's moving in?" Jake asked suddenly, breaking away from his playful banter just long enough to shoot Dylan a curious glance.
Dylan smirked bitterly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Not just moving in. They're getting married. Soon."
Jake let out a low whistle, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, the girl at his side pouting as his attention slipped.
"Damn. Your dad really doesn't waste time, huh? Makes me want to fast-track my love life too."
Cholo scoffed, fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass while the girl beside him leaned closer.
"Classic Xavier Montenegro. Always getting what he wants, no matter who gets hurt in the process."
Then he raised his drink toward Dylan.
"Congrats, bro. Soon you'll have a stepmom. That's one way to upgrade your family tree."
"Shut up," Dylan muttered, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips.
Jake chuckled. "Don't get mad. You know us—we cope with jokes. If we don't laugh, we'll end up crying with you."
The girls looked confused, exchanging glances, but neither dared to interrupt.
Dylan's expression hardened again. "It's not just about her. It's the timing. Mom hasn't even been gone that long, and he's already parading her around this house—our house. And now he expects me to smile and accept it."
He downed the rest of his drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to drown the heaviness in his chest.
"Honestly, I don't blame you for being pissed," Jake said, shaking his head. "But... bro, what are you going to do?"
Dylan didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted to the dim light reflecting off the glass bottles, the muffled bass outside vibrating through the floor beneath them. He finally spoke, his voice quiet but sharp.
"I'll do what I always do." He poured himself another drink.
"I'll handle it my way."
Jake and Cholo weren't strangers in Dylan's life.
They were his closest friends—his shadows since freshman year of high school, bound together not just by friendship but also by the game that first pulled them into the same orbit: basketball.
The three of them—Dylan, Jake, and Cholo—were practically inseparable on and off the court.
They were known as the trio everyone watched out for in their varsity team: Dylan, the natural leader with raw energy and determination; Jake, the strategist, always reading plays before anyone else could; and Cholo, the wildcard, whose unpredictable moves made him both frustrating and brilliant.
But beyond the court, they shared another bond: Wealth. All three came from well-off families, their names carrying weight in the city's social circles. Expensive cars, designer clothes, and nights like this were normal for them.
To outsiders, it looked glamorous, enviable even. But to those who knew better, money didn't erase the cracks in their lives.
Jake, despite his easygoing charm and constant flirting, was often left alone at home—his parents more concerned with business trips than family dinners.
Cholo, the joker of the group, wore his grin like armor, hiding the tension between him and his father who expected perfection in grades, sports, and reputation.
And Dylan? Dylan was the glue, the one who somehow held them together when things threatened to fall apart. But lately, it was Dylan himself who was unraveling.
"Okay, real talk," Cholo said, pointing his glass dramatically at Dylan. "If I were you? Easy solution. Toss your dad's fiancée into the ocean. Problem solved."
Jake burst out laughing, nearly choking on his drink. "You're insane. Next episode: 'Cholo vs. The Stepmother.' Sounds like a Netflix special."
Even Dylan couldn't stop the small laugh that escaped him, though it was short-lived.
"You guys don't get it," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "It's not just about my dad moving on. It's about him expecting me to accept it like nothing happened. Like Mom's memory is just... disposable."
Jake's tone softened. "No one's saying it's disposable. But maybe... this is how he's coping. People grieve differently."
Dylan's eyes snapped up, cold and sharp. "Grieve? He's not grieving. He's replacing."
The room fell quiet for a beat. Even the girls shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension.
Cholo broke the silence by leaning closer with mock seriousness.
"Fine. Then solution number two: adopt me. That way you'll have a new sibling without needing a stepmom."
Jake facepalmed. "That's the dumbest solution I've ever heard."
But Dylan actually chuckled this time, shaking his head. "You're both idiots."
"Yeah," Jake grinned. "But we're your idiots."
Time blurred inside the club. Waiters came and went, topping off glasses, replacing bottles. More people drifted in and out—friends of friends, classmates from school, even strangers who just wanted to bask in the glow of Dylan's circle.
Jake entertained everyone like he was hosting a late-night show. He convinced a random guy to attempt a dance-off in the middle of the room, cheered him on, then made fun of his own terrible moves.
Cholo kept the drinks flowing, inventing ridiculous "rules" for drinking games that made no sense but somehow worked:
"Rule number three—if you blink while the bass drops, you drink!"
"Rule number seven—whoever has the longest name has to finish their glass."
Jake groaned. "Bro, that's targeted bullying."
"Cry about it," Cholo shot back, grinning.
Even Dylan cracked a smile here and there, though he remained mostly quiet, his glass his only company.
At one point, Jake leaned back toward Dylan. "You know, man... you don't have to carry this alone."
Dylan didn't respond, but the look in his eyes—half gratitude, half exhaustion—was answer enough.
By the time the girls left and the music outside dulled, only the three of them remained in the room. Cholo stretched out across the couch, humming off-key to whatever song played faintly beyond the walls.
Jake scrolled lazily through his phone, still grinning at his own jokes.
Dylan stood, adjusting his jacket, his expression unreadable.
"You leaving already?" Jake asked.
"Yeah."
"Need a ride?"
Dylan shook his head. "No. I'll drive myself."
As he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the bass fading behind him, Dylan felt the chill of the night air brush against his skin.
His mind replayed the evening—the laughter, the bitterness, the promises unspoken.
Handle it my way.
But even as he repeated the words to himself, a flicker of doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve.
Because sometimes, handling it "his way" meant pushing everyone away until there was no one left.