It’s nearly noon by the time my phone is charged enough to receive the six missed calls from Mom. That really fucking sucks.

  Taking a deep breath, I sink down to the floor beside the outlet and return her calls. The line rings twice before she picks up.

  “Hey, Baby Girl,” she says in her signature scratchy, spaced-out voice.

  “Hey Mom,” I exhale, leaning my head back against the wall. “Sorry I missed your calls. What’s going on?”

  She’s silent on the other end, a few beats of thumping and bumping echoing through the phone. “I just wanted to talk. It’s been a while, you know?”

  “I know.” Swallowing, I close my eyes, preparing for whatever emotional bomb she’s going to drop on me this time. “I’ve just been busy with work.”

  “Making any friends?”

  “Yeah,” I lie through a smile. “Everything’s going really well.”

  “That’s good.” She falls silent again, long enough that I think she’s fallen asleep or forgotten she’s on the phone at all. Then, static, and she gasps into the phone. “When are you gonna come see me?”

  A frown pulls at my lips. I wish I could just hate her. This would be so much easier that way. “I can’t today. Are you eating still?”

  She laughs; a wicked, sharp sounding cackle. “Of course I’m eating. Don’t worry yourself with poor old Mom.”

  If only it was that simple. “I’ll bring over a casserole sometime soon. Straighten up the house and all that.”

  “You’re a good girl, Ally.” She coughs out something wet and grotesque sounding. “You making any friends?”

  My stomach curls and my eyebrows pull taut. “Are you high, Mom?”

  “That’s none of your goddamn business,” she says in that pinched, defensive tone. “I called to have an actual conversation with you and all you care about is—”

  I end the call before she can finish.

  I used to call her from school just to tell her I love her. Now I call to see if she’s eaten. Life’s funny like that.

  Setting my phone face down on the floor, I just stare at the opposite wall. Empty. That’s what this feeling is. Empty and lonely and pathetically sad. My boxed wine is still on the counter, probably gross and stale from being left out. Next to it, the Nectar. I want to throw it at the wall. It’s stupid of me to pretend I can be anything except lonely and sad when that’s all I’ve ever been.

  At least I didn’t wake up with a hangover. That’s a plus, tangled somewhere with all the negativity. Maybe I’m just overreacting. I did go through a very embarrassing emo phase in my early high school years. Maybe the drama is in my blood.

  A few minutes—or hours, I don’t really know—pass before I finally stand back up. My legs feel heavy, and my arms are numb. I guess grief does that. And I’ve been grieving for a long time. Once my sister was old enough to start beating on my mom, my dad left with her. Then it was just us. Just me, mostly. Fun times. Good memories. Real American Dream shit.

  I try to distract myself with laundry. I have an entire mountain of folding to do. I don’t even know why I fold my clothes anyway. It’s not like anyone sees me in these. Honestly, I could just crumble them into balls and throw them on my bedroom floor and it’d be exactly the same outcome. But it’s something mindless. Any work clothes get hung up. Well, they get put in the “to be hung up” pile. Whether I’ll get to the actual hanging up is up for debate.

  My dad was always the one who did the chores. After he left, the house became a nightmare. Paper plates and pizza boxes everywhere, unwashed clothes tossed around the house. I can’t even count the amount of times I nearly stepped on needles and broken lightbulbs before I just resigned to wear shoes at all times.

  Okay, I have to stop wallowing, or I’m definitely going to cry, and that’s not what I want for my day. I think I’ll just put on a movie. Something stupid. Popcorn, because apparently I hate myself.

  And so, into the microwave goes an off-brand buttery popcorn, and onto the couch I flop. I lost the remote a long time ago, so I have to unplug my phone to connect it to the television. I’m thinking something like Monty Python—The Holy Grail, obviously, a classic— or a cheesy romcom. Something with Amy Schumer or someone equally as unfunny.

  Definitely not the romcom.

  I thumb through the options, jumping from Netflix to Max to Prime, before I land on something that shatters my expectations. Troy. Something about Achilles and Helen and Orlando Bloom. Honestly, Orlando Bloom alone could convince me to watch just about anything. And Brad Pitt. What a power move on the Producer’s part.

  While Prime loads on my shitty internet, I gather the popcorn, an extra plush blanket from my bed, and an old can of soda from the back of my fridge. Finally curled up in the corner of my couch, popcorn in hand, I start the movie. It’s already getting dark out by the time the opening credits roll. Where did the entire day go? I definitely didn’t get enough laundry done to write off the amount of time that passed.

  Maybe I disassociated somewhere along the way and accidentally stared at a wall for a few hours. Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. Probably won’t be the last.

  Stop overthinking literally everything, Alira. Watch the damn movie.

  Right off the bat, Brad Pitt is absolutely a dream boat. Honestly, if I was that big guy, I’d let him cut me up, too. Exposition, gore, something about Orlando Bloom and some queen that has really nice hair, an older brother, and some girl that Brad Pitt has the hots for.

  I’m halfway through a scene about a bunch of men and some poor women—priests? Honestly, that’s pretty fucked up—when the air shifts.

  I don’t even clock it as weird until:

  “No way, is that supposed to be Achilles?”

  My head snaps to the side just in time to see Hermes throw himself over the back of the couch. He lands with a soft thud, right on top of my toes, bares his teeth, leans forward, and stretches his wing out sideways before leaning back again.

  “Don’t patronize Brad Pitt,” I say simply, popping another piece of popcorn into my mouth and sliding my toes out from under him.

  He gives me a sly smile. “Are you watching a movie about the Trojan war?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t return the gesture, curling my legs closer to myself. He’s way too casual for a dude in a toga. “Don’t make it weird, please.” It’s already weird. “I’m just trying to wind down.”

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  “Bad day?” he asks absentmindedly, his attention glued to the screen.

  “Something like that.”

  His eyes flick to me, the popcorn, then the still-unopened soda can. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.” Reaching for my phone, I turn the volume up.

  We sit in silence as the movie plays, Hermes’s feet tapping annoyingly against the carpeted floor. He looks like he’s going to explode. Maybe this is, like, nostalgic for him or something. I wonder if he used to be a war god or something like that. Or maybe he was fighting for the wrong side, or something. Was there a wrong side?

  “This has got to be a joke,” he says emphatically, his hands gesturing toward the screen. “Helen was not in love with Paris.” He looks at me with a crooked expression. “Paris was the biggest crybaby I’ve ever met. He cried because Apollo called him undignified. Speaking of which—” He gestures wildly again, his curls flying around him like a halo of gold— “where are all the gods? I haven’t heard a mention of anyone who actually had a play in this war.”

  His arms fold across his chest, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. “You’re taking this very personally.”

  “Of course I’m taking it personally!” He sinks a bit further back into the couch. “I was there, and they’re absolutely butchering all of this.”

  I raise an eyebrow and pop another piece of popcorn into my mouth. “And pouting about it is going to make it better?” He looks at me like I’ve wounded him. “It’s Hollywood. They ruin everything they get their hands on. I’m sure they didn’t mean it as an attack.”

  His eyes narrow, but his attention snaps back to the screen. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees, his wings tucking into his back in a way that seems way too natural for something so…unnatural. “You could at least share the popcorn.”

  My arms wrap around the bowl, holding it closer. “It’s my popcorn.”

  “And I’m your personal narrator. Not even paid for my work. I think you owe me.” Those little dimples carve into his cheeks again, and I guess I’m weak because suddenly I’m sitting up.

  “Don’t get greedy,” I mumble, grabbing a handful just in case he decides to take more than his share. “This took a lot of work to make.”

  Without waiting for me to put the bowl between us, he reaches out and plucks a few pieces from the bowl. Popping them into his mouth, his expression turns sour. “You made this?”

  I let my face fall into feigned offence. “Do you not like it?”

  His lips flatten into a thin line. “No.” When I scowl at him, he breaks out in a grin. “I can tell when you’re lying, Alira.”

  Leaning forward, I scoff and set the popcorn bowl on the coffee table. “That’s bullshit. Where’s the fun in any of that?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “You’ll just have to get better at it, I suppose.”

  The blanket wraps me in a cocoon of aggravation as I grumble about gods and their stupid rules. He keeps that annoying smirk on as he eats most of my popcorn and criticizes literally every aspect of the movie.

  “Achilles and Patroclus weren’t cousins!” he shouts, his mouth falling open in shock. “They were lovers.” Then he stills, blinks a few times, and cocks his head to the side. “Actually, there’s not much a difference in Ancient Greece, is there?”

  “Are you ever gonna shut up and just enjoy the movie?” I ask in a tone that’s just as annoyed as his own.

  “No, I’m not.” He pulls his legs up and sits Indian style on the couch, his knee pressing into mine through the blanket. “This is almost as bad as that film about the titans. As if I would ever wear such an offensive set of armor.”

  My eyes trail down him, the toga, the sandals. “No. Your sense of style is so dignified. I can’t imagine why they would dress you in such scandalous clothing.”

  “Hey,” he snaps out, tossing a piece of popcorn at me. It bounces off my forehead and falls pathetically into my lap. “My sense of style is completely dignified, thank you. It’s not like you have much room to talk anyway. You’re still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

  The blanket falls off my shoulder as I shake my head at him. “So are you!”

  “Yeah, well that’s because I’m a god.” He squares his shoulders and focuses very intensely on the screen.

  “So, being a god excuses you from laundry duty? Or is that just not your job?”

  He opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something snarky in response, then his face drops. He’s not smirking anymore. Not joking. For once, I think he might actually be watching. King Priam is walking through the camp toward his son’s body. I watch as Hermes deflates.

  “I was here for this,” he says in a low voice, blinking at the screen. “I escorted Priam through enemy lines to get his son’s body.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. His hand comes up to cover his mouth as the king speaks with Achilles, his brows drawing together.

  “Ares was so mad at me for getting involved, I thought he was going to start a whole second war over it.”

  I swallow, debating whether or not I should reach out and try to offer some comfort. Instead, my mouth just opens and closes like a fish struggling for oxygen.

  Then, Hermes smacks his lips and sits back again, stretching his wings out wide. “Anyway, it was all very dramatic. I do not recommend pissing off the god of war. Very scary.”

  “Were you…” I pause, not knowing if this question is even appropriate to ask. But when he turns to look at me, his eyes full of thousand-year-old guilt, I push through. “Were you punished for helping him?”

  Hermes pinches out a smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “But the other gods looked down on me after that. Kindness and weakness are one in the same in Olympus.”

  “Then why’d you help him, if you knew it was going to get you in trouble or whatever?”

  His eyes lock with mine, and for the briefest of moments, I see a flash of raw sadness behind those molten gold irises. “The other gods don’t seem to understand just how permanent death is. All I saw was a father grieving his son.”

  I hold his gaze for a moment longer, before turning back to the movie. “Well, I bet he appreciated that more than you know.”

  He adjusts next to me, the edge of his wing brushing against my exposed shoulder. “I know.”

  The rest of the movie is a drag, if I’m being totally honest. Up until Achilles gets shot in the heel, it’s pretty much just death on death on death. I probably could’ve picked a better movie.

  As the final credits roll, Hermes tosses a piece of popcorn at the television. That makes, like, twelve pieces total. “Boo!” he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Paris never would’ve made that shot without Apollo’s help.”

  “Oh my god.” I scrub my hands over my eyes. “I would hate to go to a movie theater with you. You are literally the worst movie watcher ever.”

  He lets out a long groan as he stretches his arms up into the air. “I think you just pick terrible movies.”

  I wave my hand dismissively at him, uncurling my legs to stretch them out in front of me. “Whatever. You just don’t appreciate art.”

  His finger wags through the air in front of my face. “Oh no. No no no my dear Alira. I appreciate art far more than I appreciate pretty men in pretty wigs. That’s the problem.”

  “Oh, come on,” I laugh out, batting him on the shoulder. “Be for real, pretty men are art.”

  His eyes roll back as he rises to his feet, his wings retracted back into him, grazing my back along the way. “Say whatever you want. The movie was garbage.”

  “It was okay,” I retort, standing as well. “Like, I would definitely watch it again just to see that one guy scream at Orlando Bloom.”

  “Paris,” he corrects with a smile.

  “Okay, show off.”

  “What can I say?” he says in a rugged tone, reaching his arms up to flex his biceps in the most dramatic way possible, his wings flaring out as a backdrop. “I am the most knowledgeable god in all of Olympus.”

  I know it’s a joke. It’s a joke. But he looks like a statue standing there like that. Like he could be carved out of marble, and I wouldn’t even blink an eye.

  “Careful,” he continues in a rumbling tone. “Keep looking at me like that and I might develop an ego.”

  That’s so embarrassing, holy shit. Refusing to admit my mistake in staring, I curl my lip. A scoff pulls out of me as he watches me with an amused expression. “Yeah, because that would obscene.” I wonder if he can see the blush creeping up my neck.

  “I know,” he says with a dramatic flair, “humility is my best trait.”

  As he runs the back of his hand along his—honestly, not that defined—jaw, I fix the sleeve of my dress, covering my shoulder again. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Then, I suppose you’re an idiot as well for enjoying my company so much,” he says in a ridiculously pompous accent.

  Reeling back, I cross my arms over my chest. “Who said anything about me enjoying your company?”

  “I can tell by the way you look at me.” He flutters his eyelashes dramatically, plastering on what has the be the stupidest smile he’s ever mustered.

  “Okay,” I laugh out, catching my bottom lip in my teeth.

  He watches me for a second longer, his head slightly cocked, before he lets out a long sigh. “I should probably get going.”

  Something in my stomach coils. I force a smile anyway. “God duties?”

  His smile is short lived. “Something like that.” I feel the change in the air as soon as he finishes his sentence. Then his eyebrow twitches upward. “Same time tomorrow?”

  The question settles somewhere deep in my chest, like a breath waiting to be exhaled. I nod; my words stuck on the lump in my throat.

  His smile broadens just a fraction, he shoots a wink my way, and then he’s gone.

  And my apartment feels emptier than it ever has before.