five years... is a long time

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

HEADLINE: Jupiter Records Inks Five Album Deal with Viral Sensation Maya Hart; Adds Producer to Roster

THE "GRIND" PAYS OFF — Following the massive, unexpected success of the early sad girl summer hit "bygone," Jupiter Records scoops Maya Hart from her former relationship with Global Beat.

[ambitious-2022]

HEADLINE: Jupiter Records Announces the Formation of Brand-New Girl Group BitterSweet—"The Fresh Feminine Fire the Industry Needs"

The label promises more to come as the summer kicks off from the curated collection of talented, fresh new voices. Here's everything we know.

[ambitious-2022]

Stepping into his third decade of life, Charlie can’t quite believe how different it already is from the first two.

Granted, he can’t remember much about the first ten years. His childhood memories have never been that clear, blurred by confusion and anxiety, and that’s become even more true in the years since.

Even so, he still has a fondness for the nostalgia. A certainty in his heart that even with its flaws, his youth was a far better experience than most. He loved his parents wholeheartedly; he loved his siblings, despite being the only boy smack in the middle of four sisters and thus ripe for relentless teasing. He was safe, comforted by ample shelter and resources and the luxuries of a stable home. He had the security of an overprotective mother, plenty of financial means, and what seemed like the endless warmth and blessing of God bestowed upon him from birth. There wasn’t much to worry about, it seemed.

It’s only recently that he’s started to look back on those rosy vignettes with mixed feelings; that the memories feel more bittersweet than blessed. Objectively, he knows much of what he felt were positives at the time were good; there was stability in his life. He did have faith in his heart. His family did love each other—even if he didn’t yet know how nuanced that could be.

The next ten years were more complicated. Which is to say, in many respects, they were basically hell. Charlie spent most of his adolescence at war, surviving the battlegrounds in his head. He had the sexuality angle, of course, which started as a tickling yet terrifying uncertainty around fifth grade, and blossomed into a full-blown crisis of faith (of multiple varieties) by the time he managed to claw himself out of the closet on the other side.

But there was also just the classic travails of the era—which is to say, being a teenager, and being a teenager tends to suck. He was nerdy, and awkward, and didn’t quite feel right in his own skin. He couldn’t connect that easily with his female peers, but not for the reasons he should’ve struggled; he couldn’t connect with his male ones, either, for a whole other myriad of reasons. He knew what the expectations were for him but could never quite reach them; he knew what he was supposed to believe, the teachings he was supposed to take as gospel, yet suddenly he found himself questioning more than just his attraction.

Not to mention the decade started with more threats than the previous one, looming specters of calamity he couldn’t name. He watched them wreck his world order by casting out one sister; he found himself consigned to the same fate before his nineteenth year was up. Ultimately, he had to raze the foundations of everything he knew—about the world, about his family, about himself—and rebuild it all into something he could live with. Something truly stable, and with it, more authentic. His second decade of being alive on God’s Earth, it feels like, was essentially a fight to prove he was strong enough to enjoy the privilege of it in the first place. He didn’t ask to be born, to be alive, but suddenly, he had to prove he deserved it—more to convince himself than God. 

In contrast, when Charlie wakes up on the first morning of the next ten years—the pale dawn of May 29th, about five hours into being twenty years old—he’s mostly conscious of how peaceful it is.

That’s not to say there’s not still chaos. There’s plenty of that to go around. It’s not like he has life, or himself, all figured out now; tons of work left to be done on that score. He has no idea what’s going on with Riley and Lucas, only saddled with the knowledge that apparently the latter broke things off between them out of nowhere a few days ago and has gone AWOL since (a fact he knows for certain, because he texted Lucas when he heard to see if he was okay, and received no response). Foundation wise, it feels like he’s in a perpetual state of transition the next couple of months, running out the lease on his current apartment, after which he’ll couch hop for a couple weeks while waiting for his chance to move into his campus dorm at Columbia. He can’t just go camp out in his childhood bedroom to fill the gaps anymore.

There’s that lingering maelstrom constantly eating at the back of his mind, too, ensuring some turbulence for the years to come. He already knows this birthday won’t be like the others, in pretty obvious ways; he’s spent the last week bracing himself for it. There won’t be any celebratory dinner with his family, with custom-decorated cake purchased from their favorite bakery in the Upper East Side. There won’t be the usual adulation from his church community, which would’ve been even more prevalent this year given his birthday has fallen on a Sunday. The congregation may still give the cheerful warm wishes to his parents, and they’ll accept them with tight smiles and awkward gratitude, Charlie simply another shameful family secret burning low and quiet in their chests like a prayer candle. Out of sight, out of mind.

God bless him.

He knows not to expect a call or text from them today, if the way they treated Bridgette is any indication as to what’s in store for him. He prepares for the cold silence that will freeze over the family group chat. Even Agatha—he already has it on good authority from Rosie that his mom decided to do him the favor of telling his eldest sister about his sexuality for him, and he hasn’t heard from her since. Not that he blames her; if the roles were reversed, and he were in her place, the surviving golden child watching each of his siblings knock down the sinful dominos one-by-one, he probably wouldn’t know what to say either.

This fresh new reality is what causes the preemptive lump in his throat when he wakes up before his alarm, blinking the tears out of his eyes that are blurring the clock face reading 6:40 on his nightstand. Welcome to your twenties, he supposes…

Then, like a stray blessing from above, the unexpected calm washes over him.

It will be okay. He will be okay. Things are different now, but that doesn’t mean worse—he should know that better than anybody. This birthday will not be like the others, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be good, special and filled with love in its own right. He knows this for a fact, actually, given the people and plans he’s got in store for today.

For the first time, he’ll be honoring a version of himself that feels real. Authentic Charlie Gardner, finally, after twenty years. That alone should be worth celebrating.

So no dismay today. Instead, Charlie pushes himself out of bed, with two decades of hard-earned resilience powering his muscles, and rises to greet the next one.

He figures there isn’t a more fitting way to kick off the day than by heading to the studio. He wisely booked a practice room at Columbia for this morning earlier in the week—he took the time to head over to the student services office to see if he could get his credentials set up ahead of the fall semester, because he thought he might want access to the campus facilities (and libraries) much sooner than September. It required a bit of persuasion, but gratefully, Charlie thinks he’s getting better at utilizing his supposed God-given charm. Not that he necessarily believes it exists, but if he somehow managed to a) win over Zay Babineaux, and b) convince Lucas James Kinsley, legendary rogue, that he was a worthwhile partner-in-crime, then he can’t act like there isn’t something to the theory.

Lucas is on his mind as he crosses the living room and heads for the door, struck by the sense of how vacant the apartment feels now. His former roommate’s bedroom door is left open (which it rarely ever was when he lived there), showing off the stripped space in the dim early sunlight. Devoid of any personal touches, no trace of him left behind; as if he was never there at all.

Even before the incident with Riley—whatever that incident actually was—his absence was palpable. It feels less like a home now, less lived in and far more lonely. That’s why, unless Zay is there with him, filling the empty corners with his vibrance and vigor and the hypothetical vision of a shared place of their own someday, Charlie prefers to be out of the apartment as much as possible. Loneliness is a dangerous bear to poke these days.

But no dismay. Not today. No wallowing in the maelstrom and letting it swallow him whole.

Charlie clears his throat, pushing the last remnants of the lump he woke up with away as he pulls open the door and heads off to the studio.

Just like he suspected, starting the day with dance was absolutely the right move. Once he managed to get into the studio, after familiarizing himself with the new Columbia digs and dutifully doing his stretches, losing himself in a bit of free-style artistic flow is exactly what he needed.

In all the phases of his life so far, he’s never been the best at processing his emotions—a problem, considering how many of them he seems to have. They usually get the better of him one way or another, whether he’s trying to push them down or work his way through actually articulating them. For whatever reason though, some cosmic design of his DNA, that doesn’t apply when he’s dancing. Tinkering around with choreography, loose and uninhibited and letting his muscles guide him, has always been the most effective way to work through the flurry of thoughts in his head. Journaling is a nice backup, but even then, words have a tendency to stay stuck in his brain—when he puts them into steps, translating the sentiments that defy articulation through movement, very little manages to avoid being expelled with the sweat.

It’s also a great way of burning daylight, as Charlie never has a good grasp of time when he’s lost in a solo recital. It’s close to eleven when he finally leaves campus, and by the time he’s made it back to the apartment, showered, and changed, it’s dangerously close to when he’s expecting his first company of the day.

It’s also now well into waking hours, so his phone has started to buzz. When he gets out of the shower and checks his notifications, he discovers quite a few warm wishes—Bernéz and Emma have sent him birthday greetings from France, as have his friends Hannah from Germany and Matilde from Italy. Evan sent him a brief but kind text, and Zay’s friend Henrik even took the time to shoot him a message. Charlie is surprised he even knew it was his birthday, but his actual note explains that curiosity away.

“yooo happy birthday dude! only know it’s ur bday because Zay talked non-stop about it on Friday when we were chilling lol but gotta send my good vibes regardless”

Of course. Charlie’s chest grows warm. Not just because Henrik was nice enough to reach out, which is sweet, but because the thought of Zay even thinking to talk about it with him at all is a little bit dizzying.

Though he understands why—now Zay is free to talk about him. Now, in this new reality, Zay can tell whoever the hell he wants about Charlie. That Charlie is his boyfriend. That it’s his boyfriend’s birthday this weekend, his boyfriend named Charlie Gardner, who he doesn’t have to hide from the world anymore. How could he not spout off about it to anyone who will listen?

Things are different now.

In the realm of more familiar company, Charlie is touched to see messages from friends who couldn’t be there in the city today. Asher sent him a happy birthday text, wishing him the best; Dylan sent him one too, with more words and many more emojis, lamenting the fact that he and Asher can’t be there to celebrate with him in person. Yindra sent him a paragraph of adoration and good-natured ribbing, and Farkle apologized for his leaving New York sooner than planned so he had to miss the fun. Even Maya bothered to send him something, though once again, the message itself conveys a bit more clarity.

“Zay reminded me it was your birthday today, and I assumed there was an inherent threat in that. So happy birthday, Charlie Gardner, God bless you or whatever they say in your congregation.”

As unexpected as that greeting is, the next one he receives catches him far more off guard. Once he’s gratefully responded to everyone’s birthday wishes so far, he’s surprised when the next time his phone buzzes, it brings a new contact to the top of his messages entirely, rather than someone he just finished sending a reply.

John Duffy: Charlie, my good sir! Happiest, most blessed of birthday wishes to you—I hope you get to spend the day surrounded by people you cherish and eating something delicious. I only wish Aggie and I could be there to join you, but surely we’ll get to see you soon at another time. All our love!

Charlie reads the message over a few times to make sure it’s real. To confirm that he didn’t receive it by mistake, or that maybe he accidentally misnamed a contact in his phone… but no, it’s hard to buy that. The voice is unmistakably John Duffy, utterly sincere without a hint of hesitation or irony. It’s exactly the sort of birthday message he would send; Charlie has received more than a couple of them since Agatha’s boyfriend-turned-husband entered their lives. Perfectly normal, as if nothing has changed.

But things have changed. Charlie was fully braced for the reality that he wouldn’t be hearing from most of his family today—that included John, by extension. It’s not a sign from Agatha directly, no, but it’s not nothing. Sure, there’s a chance that Agatha didn’t tell him about what their mom told her, about Charlie’s new life of sin, but he highly doubts it. They’re a committed pair, as bonded as two people get, so he knows they tell each other everything. Similar to how his classmates used to say Dylan and Asher basically shared a brain, or how his own first instinct when something happens is always to want to share it with Zay.

Which also means Agatha has to know about this text. There’s no possibility John would have sent this without telling her he was going to—not out of obligation, but just because he would be so keen about spreading the joy, he couldn’t keep it to himself. John probably asked Agatha what she was planning to say, if there was anything she wanted him to add on her behalf in his message.

Charlie wonders how she would’ve responded. He wonders if he’ll get a message from her today after all.

He doesn’t get much time to dwell on it. He’s pulled out of it before he can even thank John by an impatient series of knocks at his apartment door, signaling the next phase of his birthday has begun whether he’s ready or not.

Charlie pockets his phone and goes to pull open the door, finding Bridgette waiting on the other side. She’s dressed for the warm but breezy May weather, the last breath of relief before the relentless humidity of summer descends on Manhattan. In her black lace bralette top, midnight blue leather pants, and usual stylized eyeliner, she looks ready for a night out—which is disorienting, given it’s only noon.

(She also, as usual, looks way too cool to be related to him. But that’s something that hasn’t changed with the decades.)

“Happy birthday, Chuckles,” she says, tapping her indigo fingernails against the doorframe. “You ready to rock and roll?”

“Almost,” Charlie agrees, stepping back to let her inside. “I just need to put on my shoes.”

Bridgette nods, watching as he grabs his trusty brown boots from the rack. After a beat, she quirks an eyebrow. “Is that seriously what you’re wearing?”

Charlie glances down at his attire. Plain white tee, light wash blue jeans from the Gap. It’s about as standard issue Charlie Gardner as one can get.

He gives Bridgette a frown. “Um, yeah. Was I supposed to wear something else?”

“No, not necessarily. It’s just… we’re going to a party, buddy. It’s your birthday.”

“We’re going to Chubbies. In the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’m just saying, I thought you might want to spice it up a little bit. Now that you’re like, out and everything, figured you could afford to be a little more flamboyant.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “You know, believe it or not, you don’t immediately grow a sparkly layer of rainbow skin the second you step out of the closet.”

“And ain’t that a bummer.”

Boots laced, Charlie rises back to his feet. Before they leave, though, Bridgette remembers something else, pulling a small, thin, wrapped gift from her back pocket.

“Happy birthday, baby brother of mine,” she repeats, handing it to him.

It’s about the size of a gift card. Charlie takes it, surprised. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Please, I know. Spare me the humility.”

“I’m serious. It’s not as if you or I are rolling around in trust fund riches anymore.”

“First of all, you act like I’m destitute. I do just fine for myself, Charlie, you needn’t waste your daily allotted anxiety points worrying about me. And if I so care to, I’m well within my means to get my brother a silly little gift for his birthday.” She shrugs. “And regardless, this didn’t cost me anything. I pulled a favor.”

Now he’s definitely intrigued—and slightly unsettled. With apprehension, he rips into the paper, finding a small envelope and unfolding it to reveal its contents.

A brand new fake ID.

“Oh God.”

“Wow, an invocation of the Lord’s name! That’s better than I could’ve ever hoped for.” Off his skeptical expression, she elaborates. “I know I gave you one last year before you went abroad, but I think the bouncers around here are going to be a bit more stringent than Europe. Since, you know, the drinking age isn’t eighteen. And unfortunately for you, you’re twenty today, not twenty-one.”

“Alas, however will I live…”

“With this brand new fake, that’s how. The craftsmanship is much more legit on this one; I met a new dealer at a party at school, and he gave me a two-for-one deal.”

“Who needed the other one?”

“Besides, since you’ve like, lived in the last year since I gave you the first one, it was way easier to get a photo to put on it that actually looks like you’re an adult with an interesting life.”

She’s not wrong about that. Whereas the one she put together last time was just barely believable, having mined a photo from Charlie’s school portraits and done some tinkering with it to make it passable enough, this time it looks more legit. She chose a photo his German friend took when he was in Berlin, to help her practice her portrait photography. One of many, but in this one, she took it straight on against a white wall, so it certainly fits the “photo ID” brief.

And Bridgette is right that there’s something different about him in it. Even after just a couple months abroad last summer, you can see the difference—less uncertainty in his eyes, more quiet confidence in his expression. He looks more lived in, bolstered by the beauty of his travels and the freedom to be himself.

“Well, thanks. Not sure how much use I’ll get out of it in the last year I would even need one, but the sentiment is there. I guess.”

“Your gratitude is astounding, truly. And don’t be so dismissive—you’re about to start college. You’re about to discover more reasons for having a fake than you could’ve ever dreamt up.” Bridgette can’t help but smile at his instinctive cringe. “Anyway, you’ll get some use out of it. You may just need it tonight.”

Charlie frowns again. “Huh?”

“Nothing. With that—” She steps back, holding her arm out towards the door. “Let’s go, birthday boy. Chubbies awaits, and you’re the guest of honor. Can’t afford to be late!”

When they arrive at the diner, Charlie takes a quick sweep of the space to see who they’ve corralled to celebrate. Nigel is there, helping the Chubbies manager, Joe, push a couple of tables together in the far corner where they’ve taken up their main stake of the space. He spots Rosie, who is currently glued to her phone and doesn’t notice his entrance (probably texting Uri Minkus, he suspects—it’s unsettling how much her current secret flirtation feels like an echo, a reboot of how he must’ve looked at seventeen).

Speaking of, off one cursory glance, Charlie doesn’t see the person he was really looking forward to seeing. The person he’s always looking for, in the back of his mind; his formerly secret flirtation that never fails to harness his attention like a magnet the second they’re within range. He can’t deny there’s a small disappointment in his chest when he doesn’t immediately find him.

But there are other important people in attendance to appreciate. Riley is the first person to greet them when they walk through the doors, giving Charlie a bone-crushing hug.

“Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” Charlie laughs, letting her sway them side-to-side.

When they pull apart, he takes a quick moment to get a good look at his best friend. Considering her entire world and plan for the future was just shattered a week or so ago, it’s impressive how expertly she’s managed to pull herself back together. At least well enough for a social outing such as this, where other people might perceive her heartbreak. With her hair braided back out of her face, makeup carefully done, and dressed in one of her cutest floral rompers, anyone who isn’t in the know about the happening that just occurred wouldn’t give her cheerful demeanor a second thought.

But Charlie does know, and he knows her, so he can see the chinks in the armor. Her eyes are more tired than usual, which she’s just managed to disguise with some creative shadowing. There are chips in her nail polish, right around the edges, which means she’s been picking at her fingernails (a nervous habit he first noticed backstage during Les Mis, before she was supposed to perform “On My Own” for the first time). Her foundation seems heavier than usual today—she’s usually pretty natural with her makeup—particularly around her cheeks. It seems like there’s a bit of flush peeking through; he can’t help but wonder if she was crying before she glammed herself up to come out here and throw this party for him.

That being said, he only clocks all these little details because he recognizes them. She’s not the only one who is well practiced in presenting for the sake of everyone else.

Charlie wouldn’t point it out, unless they were alone and it felt like a good time to check in on her, but he especially won’t do it now. Not when she went to all this trouble to do something kind for him, to make today about him.

Even so, he does try to signal that she can bail if need be. He walks with her as she takes Bridgette’s cardigan and takes it to the Chubbies back room for safe keeping, dropping his voice to a murmur.

“It’s really sweet that you put this together, Riley, but you don’t have to do all this. Or like, keep playing hostess, if you don’t want to.”

She spins to face him, giving him an incredulous look. “Whatever do you mean? You think I would dare to miss your birthday party? An opportunity to celebrate one of my dearest, bestest friends, one of my most beloved people on Earth?”

It’s remarkable, how Riley can utter things like that and come off wholly heartfelt. Charlie feels the light blush crawl up his cheeks.

“Mutual. But no, of course not. I just mean, like… you know, if things are too…”

He doesn’t know what he means, actually. He isn’t sure how to navigate this nuclear fallout zone they’ve all found themselves in, how to traverse the craters it seems Lucas has incidentally left behind. He doesn’t want to bring it up, potentially open the wound by invoking its presence, but he doesn’t want to pretend it’s not real either. That he doesn’t acknowledge the strength Riley is demonstrating to show up for him today; that he can’t imagine the hurt she must be feeling. He doesn’t need to imagine it, in fact—different circumstances, yes, but he’s carried around similar gaping wounds of his own in the last few years.

Charlie doesn’t have the words, but Riley understands what he’s getting at. How could she not; it’s there at the top of her mind, probably at all times. He sees the reality of it flash through her features, just for a moment, grief and confusion and humiliation flitting through her brown eyes and creating a sympathetic pang in his chest.

But she shakes it off, releasing an exhale and shaking her head.

“I’m okay. I’m fine, and I want to be here to celebrate with you.” She reaches for his hand, and Charlie lets her take it, accepting the warm squeeze of her fingers. “Please don’t spend another second of today worrying about me.”

“Tall order, but I’ll try my best.”

“Good. Thank you.” Another sigh, and then Riley pushes past the melancholia for good. “Besides, we have much more important matters to attend to this afternoon. How could I possibly fall down on the job of one of the highest creative honors I will ever take on?”

She’s not talking about the party. Well, realistically, she’s talking about that too, but Charlie knows that’s not what she’s referring to now. The mischievous twinkle in her eye is indication enough of that.

This gathering isn’t just about his birthday.

“Let’s not exaggerate. But again, thanks for your help. How do you plan to accomplish this, exactly?”

“Simple.” Riley turns to the pile of bags and jackets of their guests, reaching down to the bottom to retrieve her own. She pulls up a camera from its depths, sliding the strap around her neck. “The eye of the camera is going to do all the work for us.”

“The camera lens is going to tell the world I’m gay?”

“Yes. Well, no, but yes. The idea is to claim the narrative, right? To get ahead of the story before someone else does.”

She’s kind to keep it vague. They both know there’s only one major player with the means and possible intent to share his truth before he can, and he shares her family name. He carries so much of her, actually—his mother’s enthusiasm, her bone structure. The obsession with perception and expectations, which he learned so well from her.

But just like how they both know the routine of pulling it together when you’re coming apart, Riley knows a thing or two about complicated maternal relationships. She knows, well enough from her own experience, that naming it doesn’t make it sting any less.

So the external factors prompting this scheme are irrelevant. This plan, this proactive move, belongs to Charlie.

“But that narrative you’re claiming should be the real one. Whatever you decide to do to share your truth with everyone else, it should be done with the most authentic tools at your disposal. When you show the world genuine Charlie Gardner, it shouldn’t be posed.” Riley holds up the camera again. “So you’re going to go out there, and have fun with your friends, and be your lovable, imperfect self. Leave the rest to me.”

It’s hard for Charlie to picture her vision—even though he knows he’s gotten so much better about it, the concept of genuine Charlie Gardner seems impossible to capture—but he opts to trust her. Riley has never had a bad idea in all the time he’s known her, so he believes her approach to this situation must be the right one.

And if it gives her a new project and pleasant distraction from everything else, well, that’s just an additional blessing.

So Charlie nods, granting her the permission to do whatever she has in mind. She grins, quickly lifting the camera to snap an unexpected photo of him right then and there. Candid, unprepared, not presenting for anyone in the comfortable safety of her presence and the dingy back room walls of Chubbies.

Riley peeks at the new image on her side of the camera, smile widening even further.

“After you, honey pie. Your fans await.”

When he and Riley reemerge from the back, the rest of the assembled crew cheers to welcome the guest of honor. It’s still a small cohort—just the two sisters, and Nigel, along with him and Riley—but that’s fine by Charlie. Quality is more important than quantity, at least in his book. Besides, he doesn’t think he’d want to celebrate with a bunch of people he’s not all that close with anyway; people who don’t really know him, or how much it’s taken for him to get here.

All that being said, they have added one more very important presence to their party since he disappeared into the back room.

Zay is here.

Today, he’s wearing one of Charlie’s favorite shirts he owns, a short-sleeved floral button-down—silky and garnet red with pops of tangerine and gold—the top couple buttons left unfastened and sleeves cuffed at the delts. Tucked into a pair of black front pleated pants that are perfectly fitted (tight in all the right places), and paired with his reliable Doc Martens, he looks effortlessly cool. Too cool for this party; too cool for him, just like Bridgette.

He’s also rocking the new textured crop cut he got last weekend. Hair buzzed down, but leaving some short curls along the top, a sleek, lighting-like pattern ever-so-subtly etched into the fade (fitting, given interacting with him definitely feels like a shockwave to Charlie). As Zay put it, having little to no hair to battle with makes concentrating on choreography a lot more straightforward; since he’ll be picking up new routines all too soon when he starts training for Jagged Little Pill, it seemed like the right move. Not to mention, being part of a production usually means being a blank palette for the people with the vision, so having less hair in general probably helps that effort. Though Charlie likes his hair any way he chooses to style it, this choice made logical sense.

And he looks good. He looks so good. He always looks so good, to be fair, but it never fails to hit Charlie like a brick and knock the wind out of him every time he gets the privilege of seeing him again. When those brown eyes meet his own, twinkling with their usual intensity and widening at the sight of him, Charlie feels the pull of them in his bones.

Then he smiles.

God, that smile.

Unfortunately, the world isn’t just the two of them, so Charlie has to shake off the daze that just conked him over the head to greet everyone else. He follows Riley over to the back corner and joins the cozy circle, accepting a quick hug and pat on the back from Nigel and a tight embrace from his younger sister.

“Daisy says happy birthday too,” Rosie tells him. Keeping her voice low, on instinct, as if the knowledge is a secret. Suppose it sort of is, since there’s no chance her mother knows where she actually is right now. “She wanted to come…”

Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“Okay, no, she didn’t. But the birthday wish was sincere, I swear.”

That makes more sense. His youngest sister has always been an introvert, and staunchly opposed to needless social gatherings. She’s more than comfortable going it alone; a trait Charlie envied, at times, particularly when ending up alone seemed like his pre-ordained fate. It makes total sense that she wouldn’t have interest in showing up to something like this, especially considering she doesn’t know anybody else here. He doesn’t take it personally.

The sentiment, secondhand as it may be, is enough.

Riley pulls Rosie into friendly chatter next, freeing Charlie to shift his focus. Since he already spent the drive over with Bridgette, there’s only one more person he needs to greet. He spins back around to find him, heart already pounding a bit harder in his chest.

It’s easier than ever. Zay is right there when he does his one-eighty, having drifted over during the other introductions. They may not be the only people in the diner, but once they’re close enough, it kind of feels like they are. Special effect of their shared magnetism. Charlie can feel his warmth, tauntingly close with the remaining polite space between them.

“Hi,” he says, characteristically low on oxygen.

“Hi,” Zay replies. Smile enthralling and endeared as ever.

Then he steps closer, pulling Charlie into a snug embrace.

It feels like coming home. Like walking through the door of a sanctuary, the safest place he knows. Charlie returns the hug, happily absorbing his heat and luxuriating in the feeling of his arms around his back. Absorbing the reality that he can do this now, hug his boyfriend in public where anyone might see, and the thought doesn’t fill him with unbridled fear. Instead, it’s comfort, security and familiarity and hard-earned trust.

“Happy birthday,” Zay whispers, soft against his temple.

Charlie tucks his head into his shoulder, grinning into his collarbone and inhaling his cologne.

“You smell amazing,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only they can hear.

Zay laughs. “I see twenty hasn’t made you any less weird.”

“Don’t see why it would.” Charlie manages to pull back so he can meet his eyes again, but he doesn’t step out of his embrace. “Odds are I’m only going to get weirder, not less, with age.”

“Can’t wait,” Zay says, smirk teasing yet wholly sincere.

Charlie smiles brighter, stomach flipping and limbs tingling under his touch. The usual magnetism is in full effect, the friendly hug more than welcome but not feeling close enough. His gaze drifts down to Zay’s lips, so close to his and all too tempting. He catches the moment when Zay does the same.

Yes, they’re not the only two people in the world, or in this diner, but can’t he share an impassioned kiss with his beautiful boyfriend anyway? As a treat? It is his birthday, after all…

Thankfully, the universe intervenes to prevent him from embarrassing himself so quickly in his new year. Rather than succumb to the sickness of their shared gravity—where he has no sense of how lost in it he might get—he’s distracted when another pair of familiar faces walk into Chubbies, catching his eye over Zay’s shoulder.

Haley and Clarissa.

“Holy cow,” he exclaims, mirroring the excited smiles they throw his way and surging forward to greet them.

They meet in the middle, the girls colliding with him and squishing him at the center of a three-person hug. He hasn’t seen them since spring semester started—busy schedules, and Haley being all the way in Virginia at James Madison—and now they’re here, showing up for him. To celebrate him, even though they probably had to go out of their ways to do so.

“Happy birthday,” Clarissa chirps.

“It’s so good to see you!” Charlie says when they pull apart. He focuses on Haley in particular, grasping her shoulders. “Oh my gosh, hi.”

He pulls her into another hug, which she obviously appreciates. She giggles and returns it, squeezing tight. Charlie knows Clarissa won’t begrudge the lopsided affection—she’s still in the city, studying at Juilliard, so they see one another more often during the school year.

“When Riley said she was throwing you a party, of course we said we’d be there,” Haley says. “It’s not often we get to celebrate you. With your birthday being so close to the end of the school year and stuff.”

“Especially since you never throw parties for yourself,” Clarissa adds.

“I’m honored. Truly.” He offers another wide smile. “It means a lot that you guys are here.”

They mirror his beam, obviously glad to be there too.

Riley ropes them back into the group, unofficially getting the miniature party started. They settle into easy conversational chatter, enjoying catering courtesy of Chubbies (including plenty of fries, of course). They get away with playing light music on Riley’s portable speaker, an eclectic mix of Charlie’s favorites that was cobbled together by intel from all of his friends—some Harry Styles, One Direction, Fall Out Boy, and of course, Josh Groban. There’s a cut or two by SZA and Frank Ocean, too, though Charlie couldn’t necessarily take taste credit for that; those were definitely an inheritance from the coolest man he knows.

The former is what’s playing on the mix when he finishes up chatter with Nigel about the upcoming semester, as Riley pulls their peer away for help with something behind the scenes.

“Do you need help?” Charlie asks, ready to jump up if needed.

“No, we most certainly do not,” Riley says, waving him down. “Relax, birthday boy, and enjoy yourself.”

Fair enough. Charlie tries to follow her directive, reclining more comfortably in the chair he’s occupied and watching the two of them disappear into the back room. He lets his gaze wander to his sisters instead, who are engaging in friendly conversation with Haley and Clarissa. He has no idea what they could be talking about, since they’ve never interacted this directly—he put so much effort in high school into keeping his circles aggressively separate—but the laughter they seem to be sharing is infectious even at a distance. It’s nice to see it, to see different yet equally important people in his world come together so seamlessly.

Honestly, with those four, they’re probably laughing at his expense. There’s a reason Haley and Clarissa have always felt more like sisters than just friends, and it wasn’t just because of the homosexuality.

Speaking of, Charlie feels a warm kick in his stomach when Zay returns to his orbit, coming up behind him and leaning over the back of his chair to speak into his ear.

“Having fun, birthday boy?”

Charlie smiles in spite of himself. “As a matter of fact. I’m getting better at that, miraculously.”

“Better with age,” Zay jokes, reaching over him to grab a french fry.

“Are you?”

“Better with age? Yes, I am.”

“No,” Charlie says, rolling his eyes. But it doesn’t come off convincingly, given his smile only grows when he looks over his shoulder to look at him. He also doesn’t doubt Zay’s right about that, for the record. “I meant having fun.”

“Oh, sure. I was eavesdropping on your sisters over there with Haley and Clarissa—they were dropping some mad funny anecdotes about you.”

Figures.

“Had to steal some for my repertoire.” Zay isn’t fazed by Charlie’s faux disdain, offering him a cheeky grin in return. He tilts his head, gently massaging his shoulders. “Have you decided what you’re going to wish for yet?”

His hands feel way too good on his back. At this rate, Charlie is sure he’s intentionally tormenting him. “You believe in birthday wishes? I thought you didn’t buy into stuff like that.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think that counts as a product of religious mumbo-jumbo. I can humor non-affiliated forms of magic. Birthday wishes, shooting stars…” Zay brings a finger up to tap Charlie’s cheek, a spark lighting up his eyes. “Good luck charms.”

Right. He would know a thing or two about that… Charlie clears his throat. He can feel the flush undoubtedly turning his ears pink.

“I may have thought about it.”

“Oh?” Zay leans closer, pressing a brisk kiss to his cheek. Because it’s right there, and he can’t help himself. “And what are you wishing for?”

Charlie gives him a playful look, lightly condescending. “Now, Isaiah, come on. You know if you tell someone your wish, it won’t come true.”

Zay makes a face, narrowing his eyes. Maybe disappointed he won’t share his secrets with him—but more likely caught off-guard by the casual use of his full name. Charlie’s picked up the sense that he tends to like it a little too much when he does.

Case in point, Zay closes the thin space between them to steal a kiss. Too chaste, too brief, given the setting and the circumstances, but it at least eases some of the tension buzzing between them. The desire to kiss him Charlie’s felt build since he first saw him at the start of the party.

It’s a very welcome gift. Charlie grins into it and starts another one, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek.

The reprieve doesn’t get to last, however—important birthday obligations await. The reason for Riley pulling Nigel away is clear moments later, when he and Joe come around the counter carefully carrying a birthday cake. Riley claps and gestures for everyone to gather around the table, Charlie already conveniently seated right at the center of the action.

The platter lands in front of him, a beautiful round cake made special for the occasion. Obviously hand-crafted, put together with care, the frosting a watercolor-esque blend of whites and blues with sage green piping around the rim. There are also pops of green in the leaves of the couple of frosted flowers dotting the top, abloom in buttercream.

It’s gorgeous, and very fitting, but it’s the piping text that really captures Charlie’s attention.

Beautiful Gay Charlie Gardner!

He lifts his eyes to meet Riley’s, unable to hold back his grin.

“Dylan?”

“He insisted,” she confirms. “Took a bit of logistical finagling to pass it off, but we made it happen. If he and Asher couldn’t be here in person, he at least wanted to offer this.”

“Thank God for that,” Nigel adds. “Dylan’s baked goods are like crack.” 

It’s a lot of thought and effort—more than Charlie probably deserves. He feels that lump starting to form in his throat again, but this time it’s not so dreadful. This time, glancing around at the people who have gathered to be there with him—and spiritually echoed with the people who can’t, but would be in a heartbeat—Charlie knows these tears aren’t treacherous.

Even so, gratefully, he’s given an excuse to push them aside. Joe does them the favor of lighting the “20” candle on top—he refuses to let any of them touch the lighter in his establishment, lest they burn the place down—while the rest of his loved ones gather around to sing him happy birthday. Zay slips away from behind him and goes to join Riley at the opposite side of the table, throwing an arm around her shoulders and hugging her close. Rosie takes up the mantle of backing Charlie up, coming up behind her brother and giving him a jostling hug.

“Make a wish, Chuckles,” Bridgette says.

It doesn’t take much time to consider. He inhales, holding his breath for a moment.

Then he looks across the table to meet Zay’s gaze, the reflection of candlelight creating a golden flicker in his brown eyes.

Happy birthday to you…

Charlie leans forward, blowing it out with a flourish.

The small party wraps about an hour later, Dylan’s masterful cake half-eaten and the afternoon dwindling into early evening. Rosie is the first to go, though not by choice—she complains about having to go back home before mom starts asking questions as she slips her purse on over her shoulder.

“Heaven forbid I’m out with Uri Minkus or something,” she grumbles.

Nigel rolls out next, claiming he has to run an errand for his parents. But he plans to loop back around to help Riley clean up, so if Charlie happens to still be around then, he claims he’ll catch him later. Bridgette steps out briefly to take a phone call, but she doesn’t seem intent on departing just yet.

Haley and Clarissa are some of the last to leave, the two of them regaling Charlie with tales from their first year of college. He’s happy to hear them, losing track of time in the familiarity of their chatter and not even realizing how fast an hour passes. It seems like both of them are finding their footing at JMU and Juilliard, beyond typical freshman year hiccups.

“You’ll do just as well this year, when you start at Columbia,” Haley says confidently.

“Probably better,” Clarissa adds, “since you’re a giant nerd.”

Charlie makes a face, while they chuckle at his expense. Haley gives him an affectionate smile, squeezing his forearm. The gesture is easygoing, comfortable, no longer laced with the awkwardness that used to permeate his interactions with her (thanks to her not-so-secret crush). Since they’ve dispelled any notion of that romantic tension, and she is well aware of his lack of attraction to all things female, it’s evaporated remarkably quickly.

Freedom, just in a different form.

They probably could’ve sat there and chatted for an hour more, but all things must end—this time because the stake Riley claimed on their corner of the diner is running out, and Joe is going to need to open up those tables again to patrons with money. Riley informs of them of this very apologetically, but they wave off her guilt. Instead, Charlie accepts tight hugs from both girls in turn and agrees that they’ll make time in short order to properly catch up just the three of them. Now that summer is upon them, and Haley isn’t hundreds of mile south in Virginia, they have no excuse.

Once they say their goodbyes and head out, Charlie makes his way over to join Riley. He has a brief moment of visceral déjà vu, seeing her seated at one of the stools near the register and amicably chatting across the counter. But of course, the image isn’t quite right—rather than Lucas listening attentively to her chatter in his pale blue Chubbies shirt, as he’s done a thousand times, it’s manager Joe himself who is humoring Riley and collating receipts.

When they notice him approaching, Joe gives him a gruff nod. Honestly, barring the handful of additional decades on him, the greeting isn’t too far off from Lucas. “So I hear it’s your birthday.”

“As a matter of fact,” Charlie admits shyly. Riley beams at him, reaching up to fondly pinch his cheek once he’s close enough.

“Good for you. And that ain’t a joke—when you get to be my age, you gotta start thinking of each new year as an achievement rather than a given.”

“Cheery,” Riley says.

Joe turns and retrieves a cardboard Chubbies box from the serving buffet, the kind they use for to-go pie orders. He slides it across the surface of the counter towards Charlie. “Boxed up the remainder of Orlando’s cake for you. Make it easier to take with you.”

“Oh, wow, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Like hell I didn’t. It’s my restaurant, kid, I do whatever the hell I want.”

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Riley says to Joe. “Aggressive modesty is kind of a compulsion for him.”

Charlie gives her a look, elbowing her pointedly. She simply smiles.

“It’s as much a favor to me as it is for you. Saves all of us a clean-up task getting you critters out of here so the actual paying customers can take up space.” Joe shrugs, slinging a dishrag over his shoulder. “Anyway, I took a slice of that cake for myself, so we can consider that compensation enough.”

Charlie hums. “The power of Dylan Orlando.”

“Force of nature,” Riley agrees.

“Force of something, that’s for sure,” Joe says flatly. But there’s a small twinkle in his eyes.

Joe offers Charlie a final happy birthday before he heads back to the kitchen. Spinning away from the counter, Charlie takes stock of their remaining company—Zay, and Bridgette, who is waiting by the hostess stand and idly twirling her key ring on her finger. Not saying anything to rush him, but conveying the message effectively enough.

Ready to roll?

Nearly, but Charlie can’t help but check in one more time.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help wrapping up here? I feel bad leaving you to clean everything up.”

“Hey, story of my life, innit?” Riley jokes.

Or at least, that’s the tone she’s going for, but there’s something about the quip that doesn’t quite land. A shade of truth that stings a little bit too sharply under the surface to truly feel humorous.

She brushes off the moment, though, reassuring him. “It’s all good. Nigel is coming back in a few, and he said he’d help me with anything left to do. You of all people shouldn’t be worrying about it, birthday boy.”

“Again, tall order…”

“You have way better things to be doing on your special day,” she insists.

Her eyes flit upward when she catches movement in their direction, Zay heading over to join them and takes up the task of gathering Charlie’s things. She smirks in spite of herself, but doesn’t elaborate.

Rather, she changes topics.

“Oh! Before you go—” She grabs her camera off the countertop behind her, lifting it up with bright eyes and powering it on. “A sneak peek at the snapshots from today’s mission.”

Charlie raises his eyebrows, allowing Riley to pull him in closer to look over her shoulder. She briefly clicks through the pictures now saved on the memory card, blinking back at them on the small camera screen.

To her credit, Riley might have a knack for photography she’s never shared with him. There’s nothing artistic about the photos, per se, but she was successful at her stated objective—she’s superb at capturing candid moments. There’s nothing but authenticity in this reel, glimpses of character and camaraderie amidst some of Charlie’s favorite people. She caught a particularly vivid bit of sisterly teasing between Bridgette and Rosie, the former grinning (a rare feat to capture on the record) while the latter blushes and gestures effusively with her hands. There’s a goofy picture of Zay and Nigel with their pieces of cake, radiating genuine charm despite being posed due to how obviously them it is. She got one of him full smiling, with teeth and everything, in the midst of Dylan’s cake being presented; Charlie is surprised by how it catches him off-guard, seeing his natural grin on camera like that.

Then she clicks to one that truly makes his heart catch in his throat.

Zay is kissing him. Riley managed to catch that small exchange between them before the cake, a brief intimate beat amidst the controlled chaos. He is kissing Zay, leaning into the display of affection even in a room of potential spectators. It’s not tasteless, nothing more than those (all too brief) pecks, but there’s also no room for misinterpretation. Charlie’s hand is on Zay’s cheek, welcoming his lips on his own; the smiles on both of their faces are visible even with their mouths otherwise occupied.

It would take a lot of mental gymnastics to look at this picture and convince yourself there is anything heterosexual about it.

Tangible evidence of just how much can change from one decade to the next. Charlie knew it would be emotional to see it, but it still feels more meaningful than he expected.

It feels powerful.

Given she doesn’t breeze past it so swiftly like she did with the others, it’s clear Riley also senses the impact. When Charlie glances up to meet her eyes, she’s already looking at him, expression colored with warmth and pride.

“That’s the one,” she declares. The one that says everything Charlie intends to, that tells his narrative. The one that’s going to set him free to the world.

Charlie mirrors her smile, nodding in agreement.

“Well,” Zay says declaratively, sliding into their conversation and oblivious to his influence. He swings the bag with Charlie’s things over his shoulder and drapes his free arm around Charlie’s, patting his upper arm bracingly. It makes his skin tingle even more than usual. “Many thanks for your beautiful, best friend-ness services as always, Riley. Wish we could hang around longer, but alas, we’ve got more birthday places to be.”

Charlie furrows his brow. “We do?”

Riley isn’t as confused, smiling knowingly. She nods as she powers down her camera. “It was an honor. But don’t let me keep you from your very important birthday duties.” She touches Charlie’s arm. “I’ll send you these tonight after I organize them and get them on my laptop.”

“Sounds good. But are you sure you don’t need—”

Riley rolls her eyes, exchanging a look with Zay. “Get him out of here, or you’ll never leave.”

“If you insist,” he says, saluting. Then he lets his hand slide down from Charlie’s shoulder to his waist, guiding him away from the counter. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah, seriously, thanks Riley. This was epic.”

“Of course.”

Charlie slips from Zay’s grasp and moves back in Riley’s direction, but only to give her a hug. He wraps her in a tight embrace, hoping she knows how much he appreciates her. That he knows how blessed he is to have a friend like her in his life; that he doesn’t take her for granted. Charlie hopes she knows how loved she is, even if it feels like the universe is trying to send her every cosmic message to persuade her otherwise.

But as he knows, sometimes actions aren’t enough, and speaking a truth can make all the difference.

“Love you.”

Riley returns the hug, holding onto it a bit longer than she usually might. “Love you too, Charlie.”

Once they finally manage to part ways, Charlie and Zay meet up with Bridgette by the diner entrance.

“Okay, you both have dropped more than a couple hints today that there’s something afoot that I don’t know about.” Charlie gives them an apprehensive look. “What am I in for exactly?”

Bridgette and Zay lock eyes, amused mischief echoed back at one another. It’s a bit unsettling, but more than that, the sight actually makes Charlie smile in spite of himself. Never in his wildest dreams would teenager Charlie have put together this vignette. His ostracized, effortlessly cool older sister and his mesmerizing, effortlessly cool boyfriend—he has a boyfriend, for one thing, and for another, that boyfriend is Zay Babineaux—existing in the same place, in the same moment, acting in cahoots. It’s too good to be true.

Things are different now. This is the new reality of his twenties. If it is a dream, he hopes he stays comatose for the next several decades.

Bridgette answers his question. “Remember that wonderful, most thoughtful birthday gift I gave you earlier?”

Oh God.

“Remember when I said you might need it?”

Charlie is admittedly confused when they first explain the plan to him. If the intention is to go clubbing, he thinks it’s a bit too early to be embarking on that quest—it’s still late afternoon, only remotely considerable as evening if you’re being especially generous.

As they drive to Bridgette’s to drop off Charlie’s party favors first, though (Zay driving separately and meeting them there), she illuminates the greater scheme. They’re not just going clubbing; they’re going clubbing in New Jersey, well out of the confines of the city and where they’re more likely to get away with the baby brother fake IDs. Even though Charlie is much bolder and braver than he was in the past, they wisely figured he would spend more time fretting than fêting if he was risking trouble in the city where people might recognize him, especially with Columbia just weeks away. They assumed—correctly—that he wants to avoid starting his college experience with potential public blemishes on his record.

“And anyway, Zay said y’all have some sort of tradition or affinity for New Jersey. I don’t know, you know your weird history better than I do.”

So they make the pit stop at Bridgette’s place, then rendezvous with Zay out on the sidewalk. As it turns out, he’s not alone—Jada has joined him, clearly there to spare Bridgette the pain of having to third wheel with the two of them.

He finds himself nervous in front of her. Partially because she’s chic and cosmopolitain just like her brother, basically a graduate of being trendy and ensuring that the contingent of effortlessly cool people is vastly outnumbering him this evening; mainly because even though he’s met her before, suddenly the stakes feel higher. Now he’s Zay’s partner, not just a friend, and he wants to impress his family rather than fail to live up to expectations. Considering how terrible a start he’s given himself, with his known history of being a flake, it feels even more crucial.

If he’s anxious about that, Jada evidently is not. She’s chill and charming as ever, giving him a grin and being kind enough to pretend her presence is still totally all about Charlie.

“Hi Jada,” he greets her.

“Hi, not-so-secret baby brother boyfriend,” she chirps. She steps forward and doesn’t hesitate to wrap him in a friendly hug, as if they’re long-time friends. “Happy birthday.”

He doesn’t know what makes him feel lighter: the hug, or being referred to as Zay’s boyfriend so casually. Both feel like gifts. “Thanks.”

With the niceties out of the way, a different kind of comfortable acceptance comes into play all too quickly—good-natured ribbing. When they pull apart, Jada gets a better look at him, and her fashion alarms seem to go off. She narrows her eyes; her playfully judgmental expression looks a lot like Zay’s.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” She tosses her incredulity to Bridgette and her brother. “Did neither of you tell him where we were going?”

“Trying to do a little bit of a surprise thing here,” Bridgette says.

“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Zay remarks plainly.

“I did try,” Bridgette defends.

Charlie attempts to push past the embarrassed flush crawling up his cheeks. “Um, you didn’t try. You just asked the same question and then offered zero explanation as to why I should do otherwise.”

“Y’all bitches are foul. Tsk tsk. I thought you were supposed to love his vanilla ass?” Jada places her hands on her hips. “Don’t worry, Charlie, I would’ve given you more credit. I would’ve at least given you the chance to show your skills.”

“Yeah, you with the least amount of experience in Charlie Gardner,” Zay quips. Charlie shoots him a glare, but when Zay simply offers him a teasing beam in return, his indignation melts away like nothing.

Damn him for being so cute.

“Speaking of where we’re going, if we’re going to actually get there, then we need to get moving.” Bridgette leads the way to her car. “Infants, you sit in the back.”

“Infants?” Charlie scoffs. “I’m literally twenty now.”

“A full baby on board. Should’ve brought the booster seat.”

Zay scowls, but he doesn’t disobey as he climbs into the seat behind the driver. “Baby brother this, baby brother that. How many times are you two going to infantilize us when we’re all together even though you’re like hardly three years older than us?”

“Forever.”

“Until you’re dead,” Jada concurs, kicking her feet up on the dashboard of the passenger side.

Zay rolls his eyes, subconsciously mimicking her posture by stretching out and propping up his legs on Charlie’s lap.

Taunting aside, Charlie doesn’t complain about the arrangements. It’s at least an hour to New Jersey with traffic, and stuck in the back, he’s spared the spotlight for a while. He can just relax and listen to Bridgette’s playlist and Zay and Jada’s familial banter, tap his fingers into Zay’s leg and let Zay hold his hand between them on the middle seat.

It takes less than five minutes on the road for Zay to do just that, reaching to close the distance between them and lacing their fingers together. Charlie smiles at the touch, meeting his eyes and pressing a brisk kiss to his knuckles.

Happy birthday indeed.

When they arrive at their destination in the Garden State, a trendy downtown area just outside Trenton, the group of them kill the remaining daylight by grabbing dinner at a local restaurant. Despite his earlier nerves at her addition, Charlie is relieved by how easily the four of them seem to mesh. It weirdly feels like they’ve known each other for ages, like their families have been familiar this whole time—rather than kept strictly in alternate universes for the sake of preserving his former fragile world order.

It’s silly, but Charlie can’t help but wonder if this could be a promising sign for the future. That maybe, against all odds, there’s a version of the new world order where all their families could come together in this way.

It’s a pipe dream, he knows. But he’s always been a dreamer, and this is one romantic notion he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to fully forsake. Even if it’s in his best interest not to get his hopes up.

Check paid and nightfall in full descent, the next phase of the evening is finally ready to get underway—well, almost. Because before they leave the restaurant, Jada stops them, pausing them in the waiting area and turning her eyes back to Charlie.

“Okay, y’all, we need to fix this problem. With full love and respect, we cannot let birthday boy walk into the club like that.”

Charlie swallows, sheepishly stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Is it really that bad?”

“To be fair, I see plenty of boring straight guys wear this shit at the club,” Bridgette says helpfully.

Jada ignores her, staying focused on Charlie. Despite her words, her tone is sincere. “It’s not bad, Charlie. Like, generally speaking. There’s nothing wrong with going simple and classic in your everyday wardrobe—and clearly it works for you, since Zay can’t seem to keep himself from drooling over you.”

Zay clears his throat, making an indignant noise. It does manage to get a small smile out of Charlie, though he’s still self-conscious.

“It’s a fashion mismatch, not a faux pas. I’m just saying, in this circumstance, it would be tragic to let this stand. It’s your debut into your twenties, and you’re hitting up the club—”

“Please, say that louder, maybe the off-duty officers at the table in the back didn’t hear you the first time,” Bridgette mutters.

“And you deserve to look fresh enough to match the moment. That’s all I’m saying.” She gestures to the rest of them, his effortlessly cool company. “Not to mention, the rest of us look slamming, and you’re just sticking out like a bland thumb.”

“Well, this would’ve been slightly easier to address if Bridgette had given me any insight this morning,” Charlie notes, shooting her a look. She shrugs nonchalantly in response. “I’m not sure what I can do about it now.”

Jada taps her chin, gazing at him thoughtfully. Clearly brainstorming, her features taking on a hue of concentration. Charlie sees a shade of Zay in it again, the same crinkle between her eyebrows and spark in her brown eyes that he gets when he’s getting creative with choreography. Her artistic instincts coming to life in real time.

After a beat, she lets her gaze drift to her brother… then she takes a step back, getting a fuller picture. She holds up a finger, glancing back and forth between them. Letting the idea crystallize…

“Are you two the same size? You look like you probably are.”

Charlie opts not to comment on the fact that he’s about a full inch taller now—or that he’s apparently better endowed in the backside (which he only “knows” based on Zay’s commentary over the last three years)—although it’s never not fun to tease Zay about it. For all intents and purposes, they’re pretty evenly matched.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Basically,” Zay confirms.

“Perfect.” Jada points to each of them and then overlaps her arms, indicating a switch. “Zay, you give him your shirt. The pattern and faux silk will save the Gap jeans.”

“Um, faux?”

“I know you got that at the thrift store. I’d bet money it’s not real. But whatever, it passes, that’s all that matters in street fashion. You put on his shirt; a white tee can go a long way with slick pants. Then we’ll be cooking with gasoline.”

Charlie looks to Zay, checking that he’s on board. If he isn’t down to trade, then Charlie will be fine playing saltine for the evening despite all their best wishes. He isn’t going to ask Zay to do something he’s not comfortable doing.

But Zay has no such qualms. He nods.

“It looked like the restrooms were on the other side of the restaurant from where we were sitting, in the back. You can change there.” Jade adds another thought, off-handedly. “Oh, and do something about his hair, too, while you’re at it.”

Charlie wants to ask what exactly that’s supposed to mean, but Zay doesn’t seem at all confused about the directive. “Gladly.”

As they turn and start to head in that direction, Jada shouts one more instruction after them.

“And don’t take forever! We aren’t gonna waste any more club time because y’all can’t keep it in your pants.”

Charlie chokes slightly. If he flushes any more tonight, he thinks might expend his entire year’s worth of blushing on the first day of being twenty.

Zay, naturally, doesn’t share his shame, instead flipping his sister the bird. “Kindly, fuck off.”

Bridgette taps her non-existent watch.

“We’ll be waiting!”

The two of them find the restrooms where Jada said they would, grateful to discover that they’re a couple of gender-neutral rooms opposite one another at the end of the hallway rather than a room full of stalls. That allows them to both step into one together and shut the door, ensuring that no one else will walk in on them swapping clothes and prompt them to have to explain themselves.

“I swear, our sisters are like demon twins,” Zay gripes. He starts to unbutton his shirt. “Same evil, impish energies.”

Charlie pushes through the inherent strangeness of taking off his clothes in a public place, pulling the neck of his tee over his head and peeling the garment off. “I think that’s just sisters. And I thought I was the demon in your life?”

“You are the Catholic demon in my life. Very different beast.”

Zay finishes stripping his shirt down his arms, leaving his torso exposed. His very nice, very appealing torso, the one that always steals Charlie’s breath away when he gets to see it again. He shouldn’t have let himself look, honestly; even though she was just messing with them, maybe Jada was right to call him out preemptively. The heat pooling in his stomach at the sight of Zay is pretty damning.

If there’s a saving grace to his predictable weakness, it’s that at least it still somehow appears to be mutual. Zay seems to freeze for a beat as he looks him over… but he keeps the train on the track and distracts the hormones buzzing between them by tossing his shirt in Charlie’s direction, forcing his muscles to resume function.

Thankfully, they do, Charlie catching the sleek fabric. He mirrors the throw and sends his tee into Zay’s hands, then takes the provided escape hatch from their relentless gravity to focus on buttoning his new shirt.

“Good catch, by the way,” Zay says. His voice muffles slightly as he pulls Charlie’s tee on over his head. “If you let that hit this public bathroom floor, you’d be walking out of here single.”

It’s a beautiful relief to finally be secure enough in their relationship that Charlie knows the comment is a joke. “Please. It’s not even real silk, Isaiah.”

“Fuck you.”

Charlie grins to himself, then braves spinning back to face him again. Zay’s presence is a bit less lethal now that he’s clothed again, but not by much—he looks unexpectedly good in his shirt, certainly more stunning than he ever looks in it. Stunning enough that he’s distracted from his task again, hands seeming to forget they’re supposed to be buttoning.

Zay has never been shy about appreciating the fact that Charlie seems hopelessly bowled over by him (Leo man through and through), but it also often inspires amusement like what’s twinkling in his eye right now.

“Yes?”

Words would be helpful, like functioning muscles. They all seem to have abandoned Charlie.

“Uh…” He clears his throat. “You look good in white.”

Zay’s smile sharpens.

But he risks cosmic destruction to close the space between them anyway, coming to assist. He presses a brisk kiss to Charlie’s nose, then does him the favor of taking over the remainder of his dressing. Adjusting the fabric of the shirt on his shoulders, smoothing out any wrinkles, then letting his hands drift down. The ghost of his touch, leisurely and faint along Charlie’s torso, until he arrives at his hips. Zay dips his head down so he can see what he’s doing, stylishly tucking the hem of the shirt into his jeans at the front.

Then his hands linger, fashion a forgotten afterthought, as Zay lets his pinky finger slip underneath his waistband. Teasingly brushing the skin of his pelvis, dangerously toying with that heat simmering in his abdomen.

Charlie tries to come off warning, but he’s sure it sounds more like a whimper. “Zay…”

Zay lifts his gaze to meet his eyes, giving him a knowing smirk.

Talk about demonic.

But Zay ceases his torment for now. He spares—or forsakes—him, pulling back from his pants and redirecting his attention back to his shirt. He picks up where Charlie left off and does up a couple more buttons, then stops, leaving the last two or three fashionably undone.

Not ready just yet, though. Zay adds a final touch, dipping underneath the shirt and retrieving the chain Charlie wears around his neck. Fingering the dual charms that adorn it, the silver cross and his gold class ring, still faithfully threaded together.

Zay admires it for a moment, turning the ring over in his fingers. Charlie takes the opportunity to steal a spoil of affection himself, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

That gets his attention. Zay’s gaze flits up to look at him, expression laced with a heaviness that wasn’t there a minute ago. The same heaviness that was gripping Charlie then, that they now seem to share—the irrepressible intoxication of this pull between them. The weight of them.

It’s dangerous to toy with their gravity. You can never be sure you’ll keep the upper hand.

Zay swallows hard, gently letting the chain come to rest against Charlie’s sternum. Over the shirt, no longer hidden away as a private token of faith.

This tweak has nothing to do with fashion. This is about celebration; proudly flaunting the most important facet of their new reality, the new decade.

No more secrets. No more hiding.

They’ve drifted closer, naturally, now only inches apart. Charlie nudges his forehead against his, brushing noses, breathing in the oxygen from Zay’s parted lips. Hovering on the edge of something more, their surroundings and circumstances magically irrelevant when they get like this. Suddenly, Charlie doesn’t think he’d feel so hesitant about taking off his clothes.

Zay licks his lips. When he speaks, it’s nearly a whisper—gentle in the face of their fragile tension.

“Charlie…”

When Zay says his name like that, Charlie knows he’s a goner. His voice is shaky when he exhales. “Yeah?”

For another moment, quiet, so soft yet loaded with tension it might shatter them. Zay moves ever so closer, lightly brushing his lips over his. The shadow of a kiss, almost there but not quite… the tantalizing promise of something more…

“Bridgette is probably theatrically checking her watch right now.”

Okay, immediate buzzkill. Charlie groans, causing Zay to laugh as he pulls away from him. Seems like Zay won the battle and bested their gravity—and Charlie.

This round, at least.

“You are evil,” Charlie mutters, wiggling his limbs to shake off the Zay effect.

“What can I say, it’s in my blood.” Zay starts for the door, but then remembers something, doubling back to meet him in the middle again. “Oh, right, one more thing.”

The hair. Before Charlie can question it, Zay reaches up and weaves his hands through his thick brown waves. Mussing it up, ruffling and rousing it out of its everyday presentable state. Evidently enjoying himself, too, seeing as Zay has never made his obsession with Charlie’s hair a secret. Despite his earlier riff on keeping their sisters waiting, he draws out this task far longer than is probably necessary.

(This also does nothing to aid Charlie’s recovery from their momentary near-collision. Considering this sort of treatment from Zay’s hands usually accompanies other… activities, the sensation of him doing it now does little to quell the pace of Charlie’s heart hammering in his ribcage.)

Zay combs his fingers through his hair a few more times for good measure—though whether its to complete the look or just because he can’t help himself remains up for debate—before deeming him effectively disheveled. He steps back to admire his handiwork, Charlie holding his arms out indicatively.

“Better?”

“Absolutely demonic,” Zay concludes. Then, he grins. “Exactly how I like you.”

Charlie returns the smile, letting Zay take his hand and lead the way back into the restaurant.

They rejoin their sisters outside, stepping into the refreshingly breezy May night. Bridgette kicks off from leaning against the wall when they emerge.

“Finally. You all were real close to not beating the pathetically horny allegations.”

“The what?” Charlie asks.

Zay scoffs. “And how exactly would you have determined that?”

“I set a timer.”

Neither of them choose to enlighten her to the anecdotal evidence that would prove her allegations damningly true.

 Jada grants them the chance to skirt it, shifting topics back to the task at hand. She beams in approval as she assesses Charlie’s refurbished state.

“Already leagues better! Bravo. It’s amazing what a patterned top can do, really.”

Bridgette gets a good look for herself, raising her eyebrows. She clocks his wild hair in particular. “And a handsy bathroom buddy…”

“You’ll be fine like this. But I think…” Jada considers, tilting her head, before nodding. “Yes. Just one more touch. Bridgette, do you have eyeliner?”

“No? In the car, maybe, but not on me.”

Jada gasps. “For shame. What kind of a sexy solo woman are you?”

“The one without eyeliner in her pocket, clearly.”

Jada shakes her head, tutting Bridgette’s apparent lack of foresight. She gestures Charlie towards her, and he obliges, letting her guide him against the side of the restaurant so they can stand under the lights.

“Lucky for all mankind, I never come unprepared,” she states, pulling her purse around to the front of her body and unzipping it. She retrieves her own stick of eyeliner and uncaps it, already leaning in before she snaps out of fashionista mode and remembers Charlie is not a mannequin. “Do you care if we use this? I promise I don’t have pink eye.”

Charlie can’t recall at the moment why that should be a concern. He has barely processed the last minute or so. Stuck marveling at how he’s ended up under the streetlights of Trenton, New Jersey, letting his boyfriend’s—boyfriend!—big sister put makeup on him when they’d barely spoken ten words to one another before tonight. Contemplating putting on makeup that has nothing to do with a theater production, the kind of masculinity massacre that would probably send his mother into cardiac arrest.

But his mother isn’t here, on his birthday, and she decided for herself she didn’t want to know what he was up to anymore.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“Sure, go ahead.”

Jada’s smile brightens. “Okay. Look up, and try not to blink.”

It takes a couple of minutes, Zay and Bridgette idly chatting on the curb while Jada works her magic. Zay keeps glancing over his shoulder towards them, perhaps to check that his sister isn’t mutilating his boyfriend’s pretty face—or maybe because, just like Charlie, he can’t help but find it a bit surreal that they’re interacting at all. Let alone so up close and personal.

But on the contrary, surprisingly, Charlie doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all. Jada is obviously practiced at the craft, applying the eye makeup with careful tenderness and softly talking Charlie through it as she goes. Not that it needs explanation, really, but the light chatter helps fill the quiet, which would feel even more imposing given how oddly intimate it is to let someone get this close to your face. Also, there’s an easygoing warmth to her company, a disarming, welcoming nature that Charlie is starting to believe must be an inherent Babineaux trait.

Although he does his best to follow her directives, his eyes are only used to intermittent stage makeup. They end up watering and blinking before she’s finished, likely ruining whatever progress she made. Charlie starts to apologize, but Jada waves him down.

“No, actually, it’s good. This is fine. Because I was planning to smoke-ify it a little bit anyway, so…”

She caps the pen and slips it back into her purse, then zeroes in on Charlie’s face again. With the utmost care, she places her thumbs underneath his eyelids and smears the makeup, expertly guiding the look towards a smokey eye.

“Natural smear. Works like a charm. Not quite as effective as it would be if I had my shadow palette, too, but…”

She finishes it off with a gentle flourish, stepping back to take in the full effect. To his relief, she beams, nodding proudly.

“Now we’re talking. Now we’re ready to party, Charlie Gardner.”

She holds out her hands, taking his and pulling him upright from leaning back against the wall.

Although he can’t actually see what he looks like for himself, he’s pretty certain Jada’s instincts were spot on. Because he can see the reaction of the others, and that speaks volumes more than his own scrutinizing in a mirror ever could. Bridgette smirks and quirks an eyebrow, offering an impressed nod that’s as good as effusive praise from his often blasé sibling.

Then, there’s Zay. Zay, who has stopped moving entirely, simply standing motionless on the sidewalk and staring at him with his mouth parted slightly. His body has gone still, but his eyes are roving, taking in every inch of Charlie yet continuously being drawn back to his face. Drawn back to looking into his eyes, now smudged with liner and apparently difficult to ignore.

Zay won the battle earlier, but those victories never last long in their world. Table set for the next round…

“Okay, enough lollygagging,” Bridgette declares. “Let’s get moving, birthday bitch. The club awaits!”

It’s been a while since Charlie has been clubbing—and he’s never gone in the States, which has a distinct energy to it separate and apart from the Europeans—so it takes him a few minutes longer to adjust to the vibes than it does for his eyes to adjust to the dark once they enter the venue.

Of course, that’s after they actually get inside. There was a line when they first arrived (indicating, hopefully for the best, that this is a popular spot), and Charlie spent most of the wait pretending to listen to Jada, Bridgette, and Zay’s conversation while he talked down his anxieties in his own head. Rolling up to the club was never this stressful in Germany or Italy; it was stressful for other reasons, like not knowing where he was half the time or being surrounded by strangers or language barriers (although sometimes, that helped more than hurt), but there was never any risk to getting carted away because he was underage. Even though it seems like a safe twenty-five percent or so of people waiting in line with them are around his age or younger, and thus also strutting around with fakes, and he and Zay at least have the seasoned and relaxed company of their older sisters to lend them some credibility.

Charlie ends up imagining the worst case scenarios anyway. C’est comme ça. New year, same nervous system.

He knows the more nervous he looks, the less their chances of success are going to be—though truthfully, he wonders if he’ll ever shake off the fear of maybe getting in trouble, even when he’s actually over twenty-one and it doesn’t matter anymore; the specter of potentially violating the rules has always been more terrifying than actually breaking them—so he tries to stay cool. He redirects his shifty gaze to Zay, finding comfort in his familiar presence and doing his best to emulate his natural confidence. 

Not to mention, looking at him definitely does an effective job of wiping most thoughts from his brain. The ones leftover have nothing to do with getting carded by the bouncer. God, does he look good in white…

All his worries were for naught, however, because they enter with no issue. The bouncer barely glances at Charlie’s fake as he waves them inside, so either this dupe is really that convincing, or the security around Trenton is really just that lax.

“God bless New Jersey,” Zay murmurs as they descend the staircase.

Once they orient themselves with the club, Jada stakes a claim on one of the standing tables on the periphery of the dance floor and flags down a server. Bridgette orders a round of shots for the group to kick things off, lifting hers in a toast when they arrive.

“To Charlie, our freshly twenty baby on board.”

“Screw you,” he fires back, earning a bark of a laugh from her.

But they go through with the toast regardless, clinking their glasses together before knocking back the liquor. It burns as it goes down Charlie’s throat, a pleasant kind of heat; it’s nothing compared to the warmth in his chest as he watches Zay down his, holding his eye contact the entire time.

Another big difference between the club scenes—Europe didn’t have Zay Babineaux.

Charlie also takes a moment to appreciate how nice it is to share these libations with friends. Familiar faces, people who actually know him, who love him in spite of twenty years of imperfections. He’s come a long, long way from drinking himself sick off swallows of vodka from his parent’s liquor cabinet, a lonely attempt to drown out the dread threatening to eat him from the inside out.

“Okay, now that that’s out of the way,” Bridgette says, clearing her throat and collecting their shot glasses together at the center of the table. “I’m going to go order something actually enjoyable to consume. What do y’all want?”

“Espresso martini for me, please and thanks,” Jada replies.

Zay shrugs. “I’ll just steal whatever you guys are having.”

“Wow, thanks for asking, bro.”

“It wouldn’t be stealing otherwise, now would it?”

“Charlie,” Bridgette nudges, getting his attention. “What do you want for your very special birthday treat?”

Despite all of the alcohol he consumed abroad, it was usually in the shots territory, so cocktails are still a weak knowledge base for him. There’s no menu immediately available, and Charlie would feel like a major dork asking for one, so he makes a woefully stupid decision instead.

“Um, whatever. Surprise me.”

Based on Bridgette’s resulting mischievous grin, he already knows giving her that power was a mistake.

After she departs for the bar, Jada leans closer so they can hear each other over the music. “I’m surprised you don’t already have a drink of choice, Charlie. From what I’ve heard, you were a real connoisseur of the European nightlife scene last summer.”

Charlie is grateful for the low lighting and colorful hues of the dance floor, because it disguises his seemingly perpetually flushed cheeks well.

“Savoring the flavors wasn’t really a priority for a bunch of college-aged kids so much as getting drunk as fast as possible.”

“Ha! True that,” Jada chuckles. “The good old days… well, actually, not really. I don’t miss the hangovers at all.”

“Anyway, I did partake, but that wasn’t really the main appeal of the clubs for me.”

“Oh, no? What was it, then? The rich bastions of culture?”

Charlie should not be allowed to open his mouth when he’s consumed any alcohol. He’s already painfully bad at knowing the right thing to say, and more often than not he’s a victim of letting something slip that he shouldn’t. His statement was factual, but that doesn’t mean he wants to get into the other siren calls that brought him out on the European summer nights—explaining to his boyfriend’s sister that the nightclubs of Paris and Naples were a great place to scope out attractive young men like him to sample rather than cocktails feels about as appealing as having his teeth extracted.

Let alone in front of said boyfriend. They haven’t totally talked through that whole aspect of his travels, though they’re obviously both aware of it. Zay has been nothing but gracious about it—only letting his potential lingering jealousy bleed through in more vulnerable moments—and he clearly doesn’t hold anything against him. But Charlie still feels a little guilty acknowledging it.

Especially since any such envy feels so ridiculous in his mind. As if Charlie wasn’t thinking of Zay every single time?

Zay also realizes the conversational trap Charlie has backed himself into, and he’s not throwing him a life preserver. Instead, he’s watching him curiously to see how he navigates his way out of this one, amused smile on his face as he absentmindedly taps the rim of his shot glass against his lips.

Yes, Charlie, what compelled you to the clubs? Tell us all about the culture…

Teasing bastard.

So Charlie shrugs, hoping he doesn’t come off nearly as flustered as he feels. If the relaxing effects of the liquor could kick in already and tranquilize the butterflies in his stomach, that would be great.

“I was mostly there to dance.”

This time, he manages the escape. The answer is believable—and colored with truth—so it doesn’t invite any doubt or further interrogation. It also seems to have an impact on Zay, whose expression softens somewhat.

Jada doesn’t question it. “You, the best dancer at Adams, at a club to dance? What a plot twist.”

“Hey,” Zay gripes. “I’m standing right here.”

“Sure are. You can be second best at something, Isaiah, it’s okay. Your ego will survive.”

Zay scowls, both at his sister’s cheeky response and the use of his full name. As Charlie has learned, he’s perhaps the only person who gets a special pass to get away with invoking his godly title.

“We were evenly matched,” Charlie counters as a peace offering. Even though in his opinion, there was an obvious second best, and it wasn’t Zay.

Regardless, Zay appreciates the deference. He meets his eyes, giving him a faint smile. Under the tabletop, Charlie feels Zay’s foot gently nudge his shin.

Bridgette returns carefully balancing their drinks, including a mojito for herself. She slides Charlie’s across the table to him last, offering no context for what it is. All Charlie can tell at a glance is that it’s in the same size glass as her mojito (so probably amply stocked with some sort of liquor), and it’s a slightly concerning shade of neon.

He blinks at it, then looks at his sister. “And this is?”

“A surprise. Just as requested.” She beams. “You’re welcome, Chuckles.”

“Yes, that much I gathered. And that surprise would be…?”

“Looks like Mountain Dew,” Jada comments.

“Looks like battery acid,” Zay snarks.

“It’s called a Cosmic Collision,” Bridgette says, with sarcastic spirit fingers for effect. “I picked it special for you, because it seemed to be the most bizarre thing on the menu.”

Yeah, Charlie definitely should’ve asked for that menu himself. He cautiously lifts the glass under his nose, struck by the sharp odor that warns of pungent alcohol. Like whiskey, or maybe bourbon. There’s also something citric dancing around the edges, but it’s hard to determine what it might be specifically when it’s making his eyes water.

“What’s in it?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I didn’t memorize the ingredients, I was too busy flirting with the bartender.” Bridgette raises her glass. “You can make a game out of it, parse out the flavors for yourself. You know, provided you can swallow it.”

Jada takes a sip of her martini, eyeing him with intrigue. “Well, go on, Charlie. Tell us how it is. I’m dying to know.”

Zay was right about their sisters being impish entities. His sister is certainly a harbinger of chaos, without a shadow of a doubt.

But it’s a new decade, and Charlie isn’t going to be wimp this time around. He steels his resolve and takes a cautious sip, very aware of how all eyes are on him.

The taste is bold as soon as it hits his tongue, citrus present like he suspected but partnered with about three or four other competing flavors that render all of them basically unidentifiable. Indiscernible, but certainly strong, packing a punch on his palette and threatening to make him spit it back up immediately.

Collision is an apt descriptor, that’s for sure.

“My God, Bridgette, what did you subject him to? He looks like he’s going to cry.”

“You don’t have to drink it, Charlie,” Zay cuts in protectively.

Unfortunately, his eyes are watering again, so he can’t act like Jada’s comment is inaccurate. Charlie shakes his head, trying to assuage their concerns but unable to use his words just yet.

After the initial shock, though, it goes down relatively easy. There’s a rather pleasant aftertaste to it all, actually, an allure that sort of makes him want to take another sip even though the first one rammed through him like an electric shock.

Once the cocktail finishes wreaking havoc on his throat, he coughs in spite of himself, but then manages to find his voice again. It’s a bit hoarse when it returns.

“Not bad.”

Bridgette snorts, applauding him. He delicately places the glass back on the table in front of him, noticing how his hands are trembling. Whatever they put in this cocktail, he decides doesn’t actually want to know the specifics.

They continue to banter while they enjoy their drinks, Bridgette and Jada having a much simpler time of it with their very normal beverages. Zay does steal a couple sips of the espresso martini as promised. Charlie braves another taste of the cosmos, which isn’t as staggering the second time around, but he still opts not to consume much more than that. Mainly because he doesn’t know how much alcohol is actually packed into this monster, and while he’s gotten better at holding his liquor in the last couple years, he doesn’t want to flirt with chaos that liberally. The last thing he wants to end his twentieth birthday doing is vomiting on the sidewalk outside of a New Jersey club because he dared to collide with the universe.

He has other flirtations to distract him anyway. Although they’re doing a decent job of being casual above board (at least, Charlie thinks they are), Zay has continued to poke at their boundaries underneath the table where their sisters can’t so easily see. He’s tapping his shoe against the top of Charlie’s foot, pressing insistently along with the beat of the bass line. Pressing his knee into Charlie’s thigh, passively but persistently nudging at the space between them.

But maybe they’re not as subtle as Charlie believes. Bridgette sets them up with some freedom when she takes the last sip of her mojito, dropping the glass decisively on the table and exhaling a sigh.

“Well, I’m ready to explore. Jada, wanna take a lap or two?”

“Sure,” she agrees. She slings her purse back over her shoulder, relinquishing their claim on the table. Apparently, she isn’t planning on coming back soon. “You two gonna be okay on your own for a bit?”

“Yes,” Zay says flatly (and perhaps a bit too quickly). “We areadults.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Do you think if you keep using that bit over and over again, at some point it’ll become funny?”

“I think your sister is the most uproarious comedienne I’ve ever met, personally,” Bridgette declares, throwing an arm around Jada’s shoulders. “Come along, dear. Let us leave the humorless children to their own devices.”

If Zay rolls his eyes any harder, they’re going to fall out and roll all the way back to Manhattan. But he doesn’t argue further, letting the two of them depart and disappear into the crowd, because the rewards of such restraint are too great to risk.

Finally, for the first time all day, they’re alone.

Charlie feels the rush of it as soon as Zay lets his gaze land back on him, beautiful smile instinctively creeping back onto his lips. Though maybe that’s just the cocktail hitting.

Either way, something is creating a whirlpool in the pit of Charlie’s stomach.

“Hey,” Zay says.

“Hi.”

Zay reaches for Jada’s martini, sipping what’s left of it. He eyes Charlie over the glass, licking his lips when he places it back on the table. “Twenty looks good on you.”

Okay, definitely not the alcohol that makes the wave of adrenaline shoot through his limbs now. Zay is far more intimidating an intoxicant than anything they could’ve put in that drink.

“Thanks,” Charlie manages. “Though that may just be the Collision talking.”

Zay snorts, shaking his head. His eyes keep flitting towards the brightly colored drink between them, though, indicating he’s not quite so dismissive.

“You kind of want to know what it tastes like, don’t you?”

“No,” he lies. Another glance, then back to Charlie. “Maybe. But if it almost made you break down in tears, I’m not sure it’s worth sating my curiosity.”

“You say that like it’s hard to make me cry.”

“Emotionally, yes. Not because your senses have been assaulted.”

Charlie traces the rim of the glass with his finger, then slides it in Zay’s direction. “By all means, try it. I can’t tell you what it was like—it defies definition. You’ll have to experience it for yourself.”

“That’s not an encouraging sign. If the most devout devotee of the English language can’t find the words…”

“Many forces in this universe cannot be captured in words,” Charlie counters. He lets his gaze linger. “I’m looking at one right now.”

Zay’s turn to feel the heat. He swallows pointedly, though he doesn’t refuse the compliment.

“Well…”

“Come on, you can do it. Don’t be a chicken.”

That earns an amused scoff. “Wow. Okay. After I defended you against the dual menace of our sisters?”

“It’s not that bad, I swear. On my honor. If Charlie Gardner of all people can brave giving it a taste, so can you.”

“Charlie Gardner is a lot braver than he gives himself credit for,” Zay argues. The sentiment lodges in Charlie’s chest, making his heart skip a beat. “But hell, fine. If I get sent to the hospital and have to cancel the touring gig, you can carry that on your conscience.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “You’ve got months until then, I think you’ll be okay.”

Fewer months than Charlie would like, of course. It’s an impending piece of his new reality that he’s doing his best to ignore, that he’s trying to keep from impeding his joyful experience of the now. Although he’s excited for Zay, so happy for him to start off on his destiny of performing acclaim, he can’t in all honesty say he wants him to go. He does, but at the same time, he’d rather have Zay stay here with him until the end of time.

But they’re being brave. They’re facing the challenges of a committed relationship together, eyes wide open and heels dug in, not letting any universal headwinds send them off course again.

They steer this ship. It’s their time.

Speaking of courage, Zay lifts Charlie’s glass to his lips. He hesitates for another moment, preemptively cringing as the odor tickles his nose, before steeling himself. He makes a point of locking eyes with Charlie, rising to his challenge, and tilts the liquid into his mouth.

If the cocktail has a visible impact on Zay of all people, the most powerful person Charlie knows, then he can’t imagine what he must’ve looked like when the collision did a number on him. Zay winces at first, looking for a split second like he might throw up, before he pulls himself together and inhales a deep breath through his nose. He wills himself to swallow, shuddering—due to the alcohol or the taste, unclear—then gags slightly when it’s cleared his throat.

Charlie grins. “Delicious, huh?”

Zay holds up a finger, silencing him. He screws his eyes shut, taking another deep breath and letting it out before he can speak again. Honestly, Charlie’s glad it wasn’t just him.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Actually, I think he was more of a wine guy.”

Zay opens his eyes, giving him an unimpressed glare. It causes Charlie to laugh, somehow effortlessly endearing in spite of the disdain. The sound seems to be a bit of a palette cleanser, bringing the shadow of a smile back to Zay’s face.

That smile widens when he glances over Charlie’s shoulder, something catching his eye behind them. He nudges the glass back towards Charlie, letting their fingers graze on the tabletop.

“Don’t look now,” he murmurs, dropping his voice conspiratorially, “but you’ve got some admirers.”

Charlie frowns, confused. Naturally, he fails to obey Zay’s directive—probably by design—glancing over his shoulder to see what he’s talking about.

At one of the rounded booths a few feet away, a group of college girls are eyeing their table. There are three or four of them at the moment, all clearly tipsy, and yes, they’re consistently looking in their direction. All giggles and whispers and lingering gazes—and for some bizarre reason, they do seem to be focused on Charlie specifically.

He hasn’t felt this ogled since early high school, when he regularly attended birthday parties of the girls at his church. Just like back then, he has no idea how to respond to the attention.

So he looks away, swallowing and shrugging awkwardly. “Maybe they think I’m someone else.”

“They do not.”

“They’re probably looking at you,” Charlie reasons. “I would be.”

“You flatter me. And generally speaking, I wouldn’t argue with you. But I’ve got a clear view of them, and trust me, they’re not looking at me.” Zay lightly bites his thumb to tamp down his amused smile. “Their eyes are drifting a little too low to be reasonably looking at the front of me from this angle.”

Somehow, the buzz from the alcohol hasn’t stemmed the blood flow to his face. Charlie feels his face flush again, heat rising fast to his cheeks.

“It’s the damn Gap jeans,” Zay says wisely. “Been a victim of their wicked wiles myself a few times.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“What, am I supposed to be mad? It’s not like I can blame them.” Zay lets his eyes drift back to his boyfriend; leisurely sweeping over the view. “If I were in their position, I’d be staring too.”

To be fair, Charlie doesn’t know that he’d be any more equipped to react if it were Zay rather than a horde of Jersey girls. If Zay were some mysterious stranger, and their eyes happened to meet across the bar on a random, fateful summer night, Charlie knows for a fact he wouldn’t have the guts to introduce himself. He got practice in Europe, sure, but as he’s noted, Europe didn’t have a Zay Babineaux. He can handle a pretty guy or two—particularly if he’s sufficiently tipsy—but there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to make him confident enough to face Zay’s brand of captivating beauty. He’s lucky, in spite of the rollercoaster they’ve been on since, that he had the fortune of meeting him in the neutral, safe space of Adams, where they were all but forced to interact.

Even so, the prospect of Zay theoretically checking him out in a theoretical alternate timeline is still less intimidating than a gaggle of girls. Charlie doesn’t know what it is, since he generally gets along well with them and quite enjoys the company of his female friends, but the moment a woman shows even remote interest in him it’s like it sends him into fight or flight mode.

Zay can sense his discomfort, his full lack of preparedness for this scenario, so he steps in to protect him yet again. The valiant effort must be easier than ever, this time… since it also allows him to show off a bit. He leans closer, conspiratorial again.

“Do you want ruin a night or two?”

“Huh?”

“They’re probably debating whether or not to come over here and talk you up. I assume that would be your worst nightmare.” Charlie nods without thinking, earning another smile from Zay. “They might, thanks to the alcohol, even think they have a chance. But they don’t know you, so they don’t know how futile that is—that you’re already taken, or that you’re so far off the field playing for the opposite team that you may as well be on the other end of the globe.”

That’s one way to put it. Charlie is more transfixed by the notion of being “taken.” How simply those words dropped from Zay’s lips; how the truth of it makes his muscles tingle. He almost reaches for the cocktail and takes another sip as a way to occupy his fidgety fingers, before he remembers it’s basically a chemical reaction in a cup and thinks better of it.

“But we know that, and we can do them the favor of letting them know. You’ll be sparing them a whole lot of humiliation if we get that little detail out of the way now. Since it’s not exactly a secret,” Zay reminds him, letting his eyes flit down to the chain resting openly over his shirt, “and you’re not hiding anything.”

Oh, yeah. That’s right. The specter of female attraction was a lot more haunting when he felt powerless to combat it, when it felt like there was nothing he could say or do to dissuade their heteronormative advances. When the potential risks of telling them his truth, his genuine lack of disinterest that had nothing to do with them, was more terrifying than unwanted flirtations or advances.

“Come on, heartbreaker, live up to your old reputation,” Zay teases. He holds out a hand, quirking an eyebrow.

“Dance with me?”

The invitation alone makes Charlie want to melt into the concrete—especially when Zay is looking at him like that. But the implication of it feels even more earth-shattering.

The chance to dance with Zay in public. With no secrets, under no pretenses, plainly far from platonic. To silently proclaim their right to be together, the rest of the world and a room full of strangers be damned; to lay claim to one another, no conditions attached.

Welcome to the new decade.

All that, and the song playing right now is a darn good one, so there’s no way Charlie is going to decline.

“If you insist,” he says, placing his hand in Zay’s.

The grin that spreads across his boyfriend’s face is wildfire. He locks their fingers and leads the way, guiding Charlie away from the table and into the crowd.

They find their way towards the middle of the dance floor, well insulated by throngs of other young, tipsy people drinking and dancing and kissing. There’s a certain amount of anonymity granted to them here, just another pair of bodies in the night, no one else paying them any attention (except, perhaps, the table of college girls who Charlie just devastated). It’s a sense of invisibility Charlie is pretty familiar with from his travels, always finding a bit more freedom at the center of the club.

But yet again, no matter how liberating those hazy European club floors were last summer, they didn’t have Zay. Being at the center of the dance floor with an indiscriminate cute guy he met by the bar can’t hold a candle to being there with Zay, smile glowing white and brown skin hued in the purple, pink, and blue hues of the moody club lighting. Perfectly suited.

His beautiful, bisexual boyfriend.

Once they carve out a little sphere of space for themselves, Zay pulls Charlie in his direction, bringing their bodies together. They naturally fall into the rhythm of the song, trained experts at finding the groove, the bass thumping through the concrete under their feet. Zay lets his hands drift until they land on Charlie’s waist, one snaking around to press the small of his back and guide him closer. Charlie starts with his touch at Zay’s biceps, before he slides upwards to hold his shoulders, giving him a bit more stability—or as much as he can hope for when he’s this close to such a lethal intoxicant.

The music is loud enough here that there’s no chance of meaningful conversation, but thankfully, he and Zay have always been better with movement anyway. Charlie signals his appreciation with a wild smile, one that he couldn’t tamp down even if he wanted to try. Zay mirrors it in an instant, leaning in to nudge their foreheads together.

Despite being surrounded by noise and distraction and dozens of nameless strangers—barely controlled chaos—Charlie is endlessly amazed by how easy it is to get lost in their world. To fully submerge into the moment, find paradise in the groovy bass line of the music and the comfort of succumbing to a shared dance. The feeling of Zay’s body so close to his; warm hands around his torso, holding him steady. Hips together, moving in tandem with the flow of the song.

Zay presses even closer, and for a fleeting moment, Charlie thinks he’s going to kiss him. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor. His lips practically tingle in anticipation.

But Zay leaves him hanging, a tease as always, instead moving his mouth to his temple so he can murmur into his ear.

“I think I just saw the bleach blonde from that table walk out crying.”

Charlie barks out a laugh, feeling unmoored in the best way. Floaty and featherbrained and free.

He lightly shoves Zay playfully, who simply smiles harder, dragging Charlie closer. Wrapping around him tight, secure, so they’re basically hugging. Charlie welcomes the proximity, shifting his arms around Zay’s neck and tucking his head into his shoulder. 

His anchor, always able to keep him tethered to the moment. To bring him home.

They stay like this for a couple of songs, following the flow of the DJ. It’s a new kind of bliss, getting to dance with Zay this way, given it feels like they’ve explored just about every other form of pas de deux together in the last few years. This variation is new, and exciting, and a unique kind of exhilarating…

But it’s also dangerous. Not because of potential prying eyes, but because of that irrepressible gravity they share. A gravity that they are doing absolutely nothing to stave off by sharing the dance floor like this.

Part of Charlie—the small remaining sane part, maybe—always wondered how people had the aplomb, or reckless abandon, to make out in the middle of the club. Some deeply ingrained sense of inhibition (and shame) made the prospect seem implausible, wildly inappropriate, even with the assist of alcohol and the known fact that people practically having sex on the dance floor is almost a given in any modern club setting. Hell, it’s a given at most high school homecoming dances, for that matter. Even so, Charlie usually pulled his European paramours into an alcove of privacy if he felt like things were taking a decidedly amorous turn.

Here, lost in the get down with Zay, it all happens so naturally Charlie doesn’t even think about it. He doesn’t really feel capable of thinking right now, in fact, wrapped in the embrace of two of his favorite things. The DJ doesn’t seem inclined to help them resist either, the last couple songs boasting a decidedly slower, more suggestive tempo than what they started with.

All Charlie is thinking about is how good it feels to be here. Molded into Zay, dancer muscles firm under his fingertips and body heat trapped between them. Comfortably and openly on display with his lover, his boyfriend Zay Babineaux; the lover he survived two full decades of trials and tests to end up strong enough to earn. The lover who was patient enough with him to wait, to give him the time to gain the strength to be worthy of him.

The lover who, in this magical moment, Charlie is feeling so much pent up appreciation for it might make him spontaneously combust. He finds himself yearning for a way to express it, searching for an outlet without disrupting the very important matter of their shared dance.

So he adjusts, just slightly, tilting his head in the direction of Zay’s. He nudges his head into his neck affectionately, tightening his grip on his shoulder and breathing him in—the familiar aroma of his cologne and that indescribable scent that is so distinctly Zay. When he exhales into the collar of his shirt, a slight kick of citrus from his own breath joins the fragrant cocktail.

“Charlie,” Zay says—or it sounds like he does. Charlie can’t be sure. It’s hard to hear over the music and the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Whether it was meant to be an encouragement or deterrent, it hardly matters. Charlie is beyond help, already duly under the influence of him. He hovers his mouth over the sensitive skin of Zay’s neck, still concealed by their embrace. Letting his lips graze in the shadow of a kiss; still not sure, in the last remnants of debate with his sanity, if he wants to fully submit to their gravity and risk ceding any lingering control he might have over it.

He doesn’t get the opportunity to decide. Zay does for him, releasing what sounds like a growl under the current of the Ariana Grande track currently blasting through the sound system, before he switches things up. Charlie feels his hands drift down from his waist to his hips, and then suddenly he’s moving, being pulled into a twirl by the belt loop of his jeans.

Whoa.

When the room stops spinning, he’s landed back against Zay—only now his back is flush to Zay’s chest. Spine warm against his torso, breath warm against the back of his neck. Then Zay wraps an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close and leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek. A detour, refocusing their efforts on the dance, a safer, less risky route.

Well, actually, not really. Because this new position is better in some ways—if any form of being close to Zay could be considered superior to another. That becomes abundantly clear when Zay lets his hands drift down again, sliding them into the front pockets of Charlie’s jeans and guiding him tighter against his hips as they sway to the music.

This is fine. This is very, very normal and sane and fine.

If the stereotypical horny high schooler at homecoming grinding against their date felt remotely as good as Charlie feels right now, then he holds no judgment against them. He doubts they do—he’s convinced that nothing can match the experience of being with Zay Babineaux, the bizarre, unfathomable euphoria that’s unique to this thing between the two of them—but he can empathize. It’s way too easy to lose yourself in it, to bask in the embrace and be concerned with nothing else but the chance to somehow get closer.

And against all wisdom, Zay might try it. Charlie feels his hot exhale on his skin, and then his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the shell of his ear.

Well, who needs wisdom anyway?

Charlie releases a sigh and tilts his head back, expelling any remaining inhibitions and tension and probably his common sense. He sinks fully into Zay’s embrace, a warm tingle shooting down his spine when Zay echoes his sigh into his jaw. Hand still half in his pocket, Charlie feels Zay’s thumb taunt at different territory, tucking the tip of it beneath his waistband.

Charlie moves on instinct, suddenly gripping Zay’s wrist before he can go any further—in either direction. Despite the urgency of the movement, he isn’t sure what exactly he intends to do; whether he’s trying to spare them both and prevent them from getting irreversibly sloppy, or if he’s going to invite Zay to push whatever is left of the envelope they’ve pretty thoroughly shredded. Encouragement, or deterrent? Still unclear, hazy through the smoke.

What is clear that when they’re lost in the allure of each other, mired in freedom like this (and enabled by liquor, for that matter), Zay and Charlie aren’t the best at fighting their gravity.

If Charlie hasn’t consciously made up his mind—at least on the very public-facing nature of the matter—Zay apparently has. He senses both Charlie’s hesitation and his desire, already workshopping a solution. One Charlie is highly familiar with, but that feels a thousand times more potent and promising when it’s coming from Zay’s lips.

His voice is hoarse when he murmurs into his ear again, laced with that husky quality that makes Charlie’s stomach drop.

“We should—”

He doesn’t get to finish the suggestion. Because despite the illusory intimacy of their world, they aren’t alone on this dance floor, and they’re rudely interrupted. A trio of drunk friends barrels past them and unceremoniously knocks into Zay’s back, sending them off-balance and scrambling to reorient. Charlie stumbles and nearly falls into another couple—one well past the second-guessing stage and already passionately locking lips—but Zay manages to save him, grabbing him by the torso and whirling him back in his direction.

Yeah, haze effectively dispelled for now. Charlie steadies himself, placing his hands on Zay’s chest, now face to face again. They exchange a look, taking stock of the situation—how wide Zay’s pupils are, the tautness in both of their muscles, the hot flush to Charlie’s cheeks that’s blatantly obvious even under the rosy mood lighting.

Zay breaks the tension first, offering him a smile that’s teasing… and also the slightest bit sheepish.

“Well. Bet you never did that in La Club.”

Nearly trip and face-plant into the floor? Charlie bursts into laughter, equal parts bashful and unapologetic. Zay grins, bringing his hands up to cradle his face. Surely able to feel the heat in his cheeks as potently as he can see it.

Then he blesses him, gifting him an affectionate kiss. Still proudly public, and unsubtle, though markedly less nefarious than they were tilting towards moments ago.

However, the vague potential of such a detour lingers. Once they pull apart, Charlie licks his lips, trying not to come off too eager.

“So, what was that you were saying before…”

Bridgette had him clocked—he is never beating the pathetically horny allegations. Zay’s smile sharpens into a smirk.

Unfortunately, that illustrious possibility wasn’t meant to be. Before they can make any moves, Jada emerges from the throng and spots them, waving as she approaches with Bridgette not far behind.

“Y’all having fun?” she asks, raising her voice to be audible over the music. Bridgette casts a derisive glance towards the couple making out right behind them.

Charlie and Zay exchange another look, caught between light embarrassment and working overtime not to descend into delirious laughter. Either of which would involve an explanation—one that neither of them are keen to give to their devious older sisters.

“Yeah, fine,” Charlie says.

“You know, just dancing,” Zay says nonchalantly. “It’s sort of a thing we do.”

In so many words. Charlie feels another wave of that overwhelming appreciation, channeling it this time by casually taking Zay’s hand.

He returns the affection without a word, squeezing his fingers while their sisters lead the way back off the dance floor so they can actually hear each other again.

“Start with the one of you and Riley. That’ll get the most attention.”

Charlie looks up from his phone screen, giving Zay a disdainful look. They’re collapsed together on the couch, back at his apartment, swiping through the photos Riley took at the party. She uploaded them promptly as promised, waiting for Charlie’s review when he and Zay finally got home from Jersey well past midnight.

He really owes her for this. Not just for the assist in his coming out mission, of course, but for acting as his camera on one of the best birthdays of his life. The best days of his life, actually. It was wonderful to live it, to experience it in the moment, but he’s more than grateful to have these tangible pieces of evidence that it happened. Snapshots in time, capturing the love and affection between all these people he loves so much. People he’s so blessed to have in his life, he isn’t sure how he managed to hack it.

Though his favorite one, right now, is being characteristically provocative.

“What?” Zay asks, though the mischievous grin on his face gives him away. “I’m being serious. You want people to get eyes on this post, to swipe through and discover your lived truth. I’m telling you, the most effective way you’re going to do that is by het-baiting them. Make them think they’re about to see the most romantic fulfillment of your mom’s delusional dreams… and then bam! There’s me all up on you.”

It’s almost cruel. But unfortunately, Charlie thinks he might be right. “That’s devious.”

“As is my brand,” Zay concurs.

He matches Charlie’s apprehensive look with another smile, sliding his arm around his shoulders and holding him securely.

“I’m just joking, though. Do whatever makes you comfortable.” He waits for Charlie to meet his gaze, brown eyes steady and reassuring. “This is your narrative. Not anyone else’s.”

Right. That’s what this whole thing was about—finding the right material to speak his truth. They have that sermon on lock, the photo of him and Zay in their shared moment already slotted into second position in the carousel. All Charlie’s doing now is embellishing, adding set dressing to make the post feel more casual than it is.

The more he thinks about it, though, the more he kind of likes Zay’s idea. He spent so many years being scrutinized by his community, picked apart and warped to shape the narrative they wanted him to fit. That was cruel, too—so maybe they can afford a taste of their own medicine?

Before he can second guess it, Charlie adds the picture of him and Riley together in their usual Chubbies booth, sharing a fond laugh with Riley leaning her head into his shoulder (Nigel managed to take that one, when he was letting her have a break with the camera to enjoy the party). It’s adorable, no doubt about it—just so thoroughly, ferociously platonic only someone who doesn’t know him at all would see something otherwise.

Zay grins next to him. “Atta boy.”

Once the images are arranged and the post cued up, all Charlie has to do is sign off. He’s never been good at this part. He contemplates what to say, what words could possibly articulate how profound this gesture feels in the cold, usually cutting world of social media. Bold as he feels sending this out into the world, he isn’t ready to pair it with vulnerable sincerity. He also isn’t quite sure he could cobble the words together to do so even if he wanted to. It’s not about them, anyway—a picture is worth a thousand words, and the ones he has locked and loaded are worth a billion.

So instead, he settles for something simple. He types out the sentiment, then takes one last deep breath.

Post.

It takes a moment for the thing to upload, but it feels like an eternity. One last plea from his mother’s God to take it back, giving Charlie the opportunity to backtrack.

But his God leans in, Zay reaching forward to hold the phone with him and steady his trembling hand. Watching the line inch across the screen; holding his breath with him.

Then it’s up. His birthday post, starting with the picture of him and Riley… but containing so much more. The depths of him revealed, just beneath the surface, finally ready to be shared with the world.

He’s out.

Charlie releases an exhale, feeling a bit light-headed. Zay’s still holding his breath next to him, gently taking the phone from his hands to look for himself. His finger swipes to the next image in the carousel, nudging the facade of Riley and his boyfriend aside, to confirm the truth is actually out there for the world to see.

There it is. He and Charlie, openly kissing, on Charlie’s very own Instagram page. Below it, his caption, just two words.

Hashtag blessed.

It’s silly. Silly, and stupid, and a little bit sarcastic.

But he also means it. Charlie can’t believe how blessed he is.

“Charlie, man…”

Zay shakes his head, grin effortless on his face. When he speaks, his voice is laced with what Charlie thinks he recognizes as awe.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Then he’s kissing him. Warm hands on his face, warm lips on his own, pulling him close into the greatest reward Charlie could possibly receive.

He went on this journey for himself, had to do it for himself, but he’d be lying if he claimed the virtue of this—of getting to be Zay’s again, earning the second chance to do it right—wasn’t a major draw.

Zay nudges their foreheads together when they pull apart, keeping him close. He takes a moment to look at Charlie, full of fondness; to soak him up, his bewildering boyfriend, in all of his free, twenty-something, fully out glory.

“No credit to your mother,” Zay clarifies upfront, “but holy shit, I’m so glad you were born.”

Charlie laughs, letting him graze their lips together before accepting another kiss.

For once—for the first year in his two decades and some change—he’s certain he’s glad he was too.

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

On any other given day, Zay would make a crack about the music playing through the car speakers. A theatrical complaint or two, if not reaching forward to skip the track, when he’s feeling particularly cheeky. 

She’s got a family in Carolina. So far away, but she says I remind her of home…

It’s not that he has any specific beef with Harry Styles. He was never into the One Direction thing, but of all the products to come out of that corporate machine, he can admit (with a bit of nudging) that he has talent. His music isn’t grating to listen to, and at least you can say the man has a sense of glamor. Zay can appreciate a guy with a vision. He’s just simply not the first person Zay would ever willingly choose to put on shuffle, or the second—or the twentieth, for that matter. Prior to the last couple of years, he probably could’ve gotten away with claiming he’d never even heard a song by him.

Then Charlie Gardner, closeted gay and One Direction stan, somersaulted unceremoniously into his life. He climbed into his passenger seat and into his heart, and took his share of the aux cord with him.

So now, Zay knows Harry Styles when he hears it. He knows many more things now than he did four years ago.

Still, usually the appearance of Styles would warrant a comment. A dig at the necessity to salvage Charlie’s music taste, lest it be lost on quality forever (which often earns a damningly cute eye roll). And no, his mild disdain for the former boyband heartthrob has nothing to do with the fact that he was very likely a large part of his boyfriend’s repressed gay awakening, and therefore might still hold some minimal fantasy stake in his heart. He’s not jealous of Harry Styles, thank you very much.

Given their plans for the day, he has no reason to be anyway. He can permit the existence of Harry in the car this afternoon, if it brings Charlie comfort, because Zay is certain the direction they’re headed right now has his nerves all sorts of knotted up.

Today, Charlie is going to meet his parents.

Which feels silly to say, actually, because that’s not even technically true. Charlie has already met Zay’s parents. Multiple times over, in fact. They’re driving across the bridge to Queens, which the two of them have traversed probably hundreds of times together in the last four years of their bloody, beautiful history, en route to a house Charlie has already occupied. One that he’s visited so many times before, innocently and intimately, that often felt more like a home than his own. The floorboards already know his steps; his parents already know his unique charms. It won’t take much for him to win them over, if he hasn’t already—when he’s being himself, authentically Charlie Gardner, it never does.

She’s got a book for every situation, gets into parties without invitations. How could you ever turn her down?

All right, Zay will give Styles props for that one. True that. He tilts his head from watching the East River go by to glance at Charlie instead, diligently keeping his eyes on the road as he drives. His very own nerd with a book for every situation, hypnosis hair blowing in the breeze from the rolled-down windows and looking ridiculously good in his ribbed button-down. Supposedly a casual summer style, if you believe Banana Republic, but that almost feels too fancy for the circumstances.

Maybe he’s just grown so accustomed to plain tee and comfortable sweater Charlie—contrasted with truly dolled up suit and tie Gardner—that this flexible middle ground feels unfamiliar. New territory, business casual, that the two of them have never had to venture together. Never had the function—or freedom—to require it.

Zay likes it, of course. It’s a good kind of new. Dressed up, or down (or not at all), Zay has yet to meet a style of Charlie Gardner he doesn’t like.

How would I tell her that she’s all I think about?

Even so, he can’t get past this roadblock in his head that it feels too formal. Like Charlie is overthinking things (typical), putting on his best business casual not because he looks hot in it—which he does—but because he feels like there’s a need to impress. Even though Zay’s parents have already encountered him before, seen him in his graduation finest and dress rehearsal weirdest and plain tee glory without batting an eye. He’s already known, so this shouldn’t necessarily be a big deal. This should hardly count as a major development, in a logical world.

But it is. It is, for the same reason that this drive they’ve taken too many times in their endless summer vacation of a relationship suddenly feels like driving into the unknown. Cresting the horizon of a brave new world, despite the fact they’ve been to Queens an untold number of times.

Charlie has been here before, but he hasn’t. He’s met Omar and Donna Babineaux before, yes, but not really.

Because today, he’s meeting them as the boyfriend.

That’s why Zay isn’t saying shit about Harry Styles. That’s why he knows the nerves are on high alert this afternoon, prickling at Charlie’s shoulder blades and prompting that furrow of concentration on his face despite how many times he’s traveled this road. It’s why Charlie isn’t singing under his breath with the music—still subconsciously trained to keep himself at low volume from years of competing attention from loud sisters and ambitious classmates, all too happy to pick on him for his voice—even though Zay has told him numerous times he likes it when he does. It’s why the ring on his index finger is creating a conflicting tempo as it taps against the steering wheel, far too quick and mindless to be intentional, and definitely not in harmony with Harry Styles.

So maybe Zay does need to say something. At this point, at least a friendly rib would add a sense of normalcy.

“You know, if you’re gonna subject me to Styles, the least you could do is sing along.”

Charlie starts lightly, clearly lost in his own head. A bit closer to Earth now, since Zay bothered to throw out the lasso to reel him back down. “Huh?”

“Your mental code must be freezing up if you’re not at least humming along to this. Isn’t this one of your favorite tracks off this album?”

The question does its job, forcing him to think about something else. Charlie makes a face.

“I mean, it’s one of them. They’re all good.”

Silly him. Zay forgot his boyfriend is incapable of making decisions. “Top five?”

“I think so.” Charlie ponders it, tilting his head side to side. “It can’t beat From the Dining Table or Sweet Creature, and Sign of the Times was like, you know. A moment.”

“Right. Sure. I knew that, obviously.”

Charlie risks road safety to toss him a look. “You knew when Sign of the Times came out. Everyone in the English speaking world did. And then some.”

Zay shrugs coyly. “Maybe I did. But you can’t prove it, can you?”

“Anyway, I like this album, but most of the tracks can’t hold a candle to my favorites from Fine Line. And I’m not sure about Harry’s House, since it only came out last month. Still getting familiar with it.”

“Oh, I’m aware. I’ve probably listened to it as much as you have at this point. Involuntarily,” he adds flatly.

At that, Charlie smirks. A tad sheepish, but mischievous, too.

There’s the boyfriend he knows.

“Such is the toll for spending so much time with someone,” he says wisely. They cruise up to a red light, giving him the permission to gift Zay a full wattage smile. “Aren’t you so lucky?”

Endlessly. Unbelievably. Every hour of every day.

“I’m something, all right,” Zay says instead. He sits up straighter and reaches out to poke at Charlie’s right dimple. Man, he loves that stupid dimple. “See, just share all this delightful charm with my parents, and you’ll have nothing to worry about. Easy, breezy, beautiful. CoverGirl.”

Charlie swats his hand down playfully, but some of that uneasiness has trickled back into his expression. Since he’s been reminded exactly where they’re going, and that this isn’t just another summer day wasted away cruising the streets with his beautiful boy.

Lucky for him, the light changes to green, so Charlie has a temporary excuse to avoid his gaze. But Zay isn’t going to let this drop. He’d rather talk him off the ledge before they get there, so God forbid Charlie doesn’t pass out on his doorstep. Not that that’s likely—he has a lot more faith in Charlie than he does—but he has been known to have a predisposition for light-headedness…

“Seriously, dude. It’s going to be fine. This like, isn’t even that big of a—”

“Yes, it is,” Charlie interrupts, serious.

Zay knows why. He gets why. Yes, theoretically, this engagement should be old news—but this isn’t theoretical, and this isn’t the logical world. This is their world, formally fleeting and frozen in melancholy, spinning back to life in ways that didn’t feel possible once upon a time. Like meeting the parents as more than just Charlie, that friend from Adams who also really likes dance, but rather as Zay’s significant other. The most important person in Zay’s life, who has held that title for so much longer than just a few weeks, now able to be introduced as such. Openly, proudly, without hesitation.

And because they both know there’s no chance of getting to return the favor. There’s no fathomable reality where Zay gets to waltz into Charlie’s homeland as “the boyfriend” to a warm welcome; hell, Charlie’s not even going to get that himself these days, it seems. Their little birthday outing of letting their sisters torment them together was about as close as they’re going to get from the Gardner side of the fence. As far as the traditional step of merging their familial universes go, untraditional as everything else in their history has been, this is about all they’re likely to experience.

So yeah, Zay shouldn’t try to downplay it. No sense in understating the obvious.

“Okay, yes, it is,” he concedes. “It’s a big deal, and we both know why. But it should be a good thing because of that. My point is just that you don’t need to tie yourself up over it. It’s important, but the stakes are like, so low they’re underground.”

“I guess.”

“Like, you’ve already met my parents. They already know who you are. They already like you.”

Charlie nods, but his expression remains unconvinced. It’s concerning how cute he can manage to be, even when he’s a mess.

Suppose he’s had a lot of practice.

“They literally invited you to sit with them at graduation. Trust me, they would not have done that if they didn’t fuck with you. Like, if the situation were different, and Maya were the one wandering around without a crew to hang with, they would’ve greeted her politely and then moved the fuck on.”

“I’m not sure she is the most reassuring example you could lead with…”

“My dad put his career on the line because you reached out with the whole Graham/Yancy corruption racket. Again, he had no reason to go with you on that other than my good word in your favor, and believe it or not, my word isn’t gospel for most people. Least of all my parents. His choice to pull the trigger and help y’all out was based on his own read of who you are, not just mine.”

“Not exactly a low stakes comparable,” Charlie murmurs.

They pull to another stop, two traffic lights from his neighborhood. Charlie still isn’t looking at him, and the knee that isn’t connected to the brake pedal is bouncing a mile a minute.

“Charlie, it’s chill. This will be good.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. But his delivery doesn’t sell it.

“My parents already think you’re cool. You really don’t have to do much other than show up. It’s all good.”

Charlie nods. But that knee is still going. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Zay isn’t sure he does. But the light has turned, and some asshole behind them decides to honk, because he apparently can’t wait a millisecond to get wherever the hell he’s going that’s significantly less critical than their business.

Charlie clams up and focuses back on the road. The other driver decides to swerve around them to pass, and Zay throws up a middle finger at the truck’s quickly disappearing tail lights.

Finally, they turn left onto his street a couple minutes later, the familiar edifices welcoming Zay back to the neighborhood. Although his house is just another stretch away, Zay reaches out and pats Charlie’s bicep.

“Pull over real quick.”

Charlie raises his eyebrows at him, confused. “What? Your house is still—”

“Just for a second. Right here.”

His frown deepens. “This is a fire zone.”

“And I have a fire to put out. Anyway, we’ll be here for like a minute. Pull over, or I’m gonna yank the wheel.”

With another eye roll at his dramatics, Charlie obliges, pulling up to the marked curb. He keeps his foot on the brake, but Zay does them the favor of putting the car in park just in case. Then, the road no longer an apt distraction, Zay turns in his seat to face his boyfriend.

“Do you want to leave?”

Charlie stares at him. “Huh?”

“If you want to go, we can go. Go back to your place, or whatever you want.” Charlie shakes his head slightly, obviously lost. “I want you to meet my family. You know, for real. But if it’s too much for you, or you’re not ready, then just tell me that. I can make something up, and we can put it off for another day.”

Now he’s really shaking his head. “I’m not—”

“Because I want this, yes, but I only want it to happen if you’re good with it. If this is just normal boyfriend-meeting-parents or Charlie-brand nerves, then okay, we’ll roll with that. We’re real good at that. But if this is more than that, if you’re feeling…”

He reaches to touch Charlie’s knee, gently stalling his anxious fidgeting. It’s almost as if Charlie didn’t realize he was doing it; he glances down in surprise, but his leg does still, so that’s better than nothing.

“I’m not trying to send you into a panic. So if you don’t want to do this—”

“No, I do,” Charlie insists. With more certainty than Zay expected, which is promising. “I really want to. Really. I just… it’s—”

Words. Words are hard. Zay doesn’t push him, but he does offer a soft reminder.

“Breathe,” he advises, stroking his thumb over his knee.

Right. Oxygen. Charlie follows the directive, nodding and taking the moment to gather his thoughts. Deep inhale, through his nose, closing his eyes and holding it for a few beats. Then out through the mouth, expelling some of the anxiety with it.

Eyes still closed, he blindly finds Zay’s hand on his knee, placing his own over it and sliding their fingers together.

“It’s a lot. Because it’s important. So important.” Charlie winces. “You know, I don’t have a great track record with first impressions.”

“Well, good thing this isn’t one, then.”

“And I know that, but it still feels… this isn’t a big deal, objectively, yes. I know it’ll probably go fine and your parents will be great and we’ll walk away from it wondering why I got all spun up in the first place, like always.”

“For what it’s worth,” Zay notes, “I rarely wonder why you of all people get spun up about anything.”

“But I want this to go well. I need it to—especially given how long we’ve put it off. Put it off because of me, because of… all this. And I have that whole thing of things historically not going well when the only thing I have to fall back on is me.”

Zay frowns lightly, empathetic. When Charlie speaks again, he’s quiet, instinctively wanting to retreat into the background.

“I don’t want to mess this up.”

The delicate vulnerability to his voice breaks Zay’s heart a little, yet it warms his chest at the same time. Because it’s so clear, bright as daylight, how much Charlie cares. Cares about this; cares about them. He usually wears his heart on his sleeve, but given the nature of their circumstances, there were plenty of times in the past few years where his feelings about Zay felt like the only thing that wasn’t easy to suss out.

Not anymore. These days, Zay can confidently say that he’s never felt more loved and cared for than he does with Charlie. The fact that he’s so stressed over this overall innocuous step with his parents says enough; the fact that he’s brave enough, and eager to do it at all, says everything.

So Zay does his best to return the favor. As long as the two of them can keep doing that, day by day, he doesn’t see how they can’t withstand the worst the universe might throw at them. For real this time.

“I know nothing I say is going to get your anxiety to listen, other than us actually rolling up and doing the damn thing,” he starts.

Charlie huffs in irritation but nods, accenting the point. Even if there’s little they can do to make sense of his nerves when they decide to flare up, at least both of them are well aware enough to recognize their contours.

“So I’ll reassure you of the opposite instead. Let’s say you do flame out, and this meeting is awkward and terrible. Guess what?” Zay shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It won’t make a difference. As you so helpfully pointed out, you’ve already face-planted several times in our relationship, and somehow, we’re both still sitting here.”

“God only knows how,” Charlie mutters.

“God ain’t got nothing to do with it. This insanity is pure you and me, baby. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

That manages to elicit a smile from his boyfriend’s lips, albeit a timid one. So Zay tugs further at the thread.

“Listen, I know you want to make a good impression on my parents, but the great news again? There’s no stakes. Because if for some bizarre reason they don’t like you, and they want me to dump your ass, guess what? I don’t give a fuck what they have to say about it, frankly.”

Charlie laughs, still a bit stiff, but Zay can tell the pep talk is doing its job. His anxious edges are softening, the ropes loosening up around him.

“You and I have plenty of experience going it together even when people express their displeasure, or when forces aren’t in our favor. And I know we want this version of it to be different—which it will, so it’s chill—but even if it wasn’t, okay, we’ll say fuck it and keep riding. So your anxiety may not care to listen to my calm logic and infinite wisdom, but maybe it’ll at least hear me when I say this.”

Zay brings his other hand up across the console to cup Charlie’s face, waiting until he meets his gaze. It doesn’t take long.

“Whatever happens, I don’t give a fuck,” Zay declares. “And you aren’t the only thing you have to fall back on me. You have me.” He brushes some stray hair behind Charlie’s ear, then grips his cheek, tender but firm. “I love you, Charlie Gardner, and for better or worse, we’re stuck with each other. Come hell or high water or disastrous second impressions. Cool?”

Charlie takes him in, holding his breath while he holds in this moment. Absorbing the touch, the proximity, the promise for everything it’s worth. Choosing, with steady faith, to believe in its truth.

Then he exhales, offering a nod. His smile is shaky, but it’s there nonetheless. “Cool.”

This time, it’s Charlie who closes the space between them. He leans forward and steals a kiss, Zay immediately returning it and offering another one for good measure.

Once they pull apart, Charlie takes one more second to collect himself—to let Zay’s touch and the warm familiarity of his lips keep him tethered to the present. Then he sighs, facing the steering wheel again. He physically shakes off the tension with a flourish, blowing air out through his lips, before managing another cautious smile.

“Okay. Here we go. We’re good.”

“Yep.” Zay glances out the window. “Except we’re still in the fire lane, so. Might want to actually get to la maison des Babineaux lest we get towed away in the next five seconds.”

“At least I couldn’t take the blame for that.”

“Um, excuse me? You’re the one who parked in a prohibited space.”

“Because you told me to!”

“Yes, well, that’s still not my fault. I’m just the influence.” Charlie gives him a side-eye as they pull away from the curb. “I know I’m very compelling and persuasive and all that, but that defense wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.”

“Yeah, well, despite my best efforts, you somehow have a knack for getting me to do things I normally wouldn’t…” Charlie mutters. 

But the light smile on his lips undercuts his feigned indignation. 

Yeah, they’re gonna be okay.

Charlie parks a couple car lengths down from his house, Zay’s dad having moved his car earlier in the day so they could take one of the convenient spots on the street. It’s the closest Charlie’s ever parked to his place, even when no one else was home to see him. Already, they’re making major strides.

Harry Styles goes mute as Charlie kills the engine, casting them into silence. Zay raises his eyebrows at him. “Ready?’

Charlie inhales, glancing out the window towards his front door. Actually seeing it again, realizing its intrinsic familiarity, seems to help. He’s been here so many times before—there really isn’t anything to be afraid of.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” He turns back to face him and offers a nervous smile, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Let’s go, Dizzy.”

Zay rolls his eyes at the nickname, but he can’t help but mirror the smile.

Charlie leads the way up the walk to the front stoop, moving with more confidence now that he’s committed to the challenge. Even if he’s doing much better at being authentic, some of his born and bred Gardner training kicks back in automatically, the reflexes to pull himself together and turn on the charisma.

Suppose it’s good they do, because as they take the last few steps up to his house, suddenly Zay finds himself gripped with nerves. He doesn’t know why or where they come from—he knows this really isn’t high stakes by any means—but it’s like by standing on the doorstep of it, he’s overwhelmed by the surrealism. This potential felt so incredulous, even just a few weeks ago, for an ever-evolving wheel of reasons and obstacles. He wonders if his body is going into shock.

The Zay of junior year at Adams would never have believed this. The Zay of seventeen, who wanted this dream to be a reality so desperately it felt like a tangible wound. Who bottled all that want and vulnerability up so that Charlie wouldn’t be burdened by it, wouldn’t have to feel any more palpably how much his personal hang-ups were strangling Zay too. Zay of seventeen carried himself so carefully, so protectively, only letting these desires and disappointments leak out when the cuts he endured were deep enough (like giving all of himself away, letting down any defenses he had left, only to hear it wasn’t sacrificed for the right reasons).

Against his better judgment (at the time), Zay of seventeen cared too much. He loved too hard, too fast, and it bit him in the ass. He wouldn’t be able to see far enough forward to imagine the world where this all works out; he’s stirring in Zay’s chest now, those old scars aching slightly and warning him to run before it can all crumble to dust under his feet.

But then Charlie looks at him. The Charlie of the present—who’s also still carrying the Charlie of seventeen, equally terrified and overwhelmed—who has grown up since then. Who grew through it, truly put in the effort and hard work to be able to stand there on his doorstep with him, under no pretenses on the precipice of something more. His Charlie, then and now, has proven his devotion in ways junior year Zay couldn’t even comprehend.

Charlie gives him a small smile. Shy and apprehensive, but so hopefully sincere, and Zay knows it’s going to be okay.

After another beat, Charlie tilts his head. “You going to open the door?”

Oh. Duh. This is his house. Damn, surrealism will really do a number on you…

“Uh, yeah. Right.” He steps closer, fishing in his pocket for the keys.

Charlie’s smile brightens. Zay feels his hand on his shirt a moment later, giving him an affectionate stroke on his lower back. The casual intimacy Zay of seventeen could only fantasize about…

Warmth gathers in his chest and threatens to pool in his stomach, but somehow Zay manages to stay upright and unlock the door.

As they step inside, his place is not quite the way Charlie has been used to it in the past. There’s actual life occupying the space for once, the comfortable chaos of the Babineaux home, rather than the fragile stillness they relied on when they were sneaking around. It feels lived in, warm and energized, his parents bantering in the kitchen and the sound system in the living room playing the music he’s grown up hearing when his parents had control of the remote. Count Basie is on at the moment, so it seems his dad won the coin toss.

It’s so much better this way. Alive, the way Zay has always known it. He can tell Charlie agrees without even exchanging a word—his green eyes are bright with enthusiasm, taking in the familiar scenery now colored with fresh light and flavor.

Some of that spice appears moments later when Donna arrives in the doorframe to the kitchen, tossing one last snark at her husband before throwing her hands up and greeting them with a wide, welcoming grin.

Hostess mode activated.

“There you are! We were wondering how much longer it would take for you to turn up. Omar was getting worried.”

“Speak for yourself,” his dad’s deep voice pipes up from the kitchen.

“Me, I figured Zay was hogging you all to himself,” Donna concludes, having landed in front of them.

She ignores her son’s scoff at the implication, keeping her focus firmly on their new guest. Walking a strange balance between familiarity and fascination; known yet unknown.

“Hi, Charlie. It’s so good to see you again.”

Already, Charlie is a bit bashful from the attention. He returns her smile, genuine, but a blush crawls up his cheeks in spite of himself. Zay doesn’t mind—he has a dumb amount of fondness for those easily flushed cheeks.

“You too, Mrs. Babineaux. It’s really, really nice to be here.”

And seismic. They all know it, feel it under their feet, even if none of them articulate it. But it doesn’t crumble; nothing collapses to ruins.

They’re all still standing.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“Oh, of course. You’re welcome around any time.” She gestures them further into the house. “And call me Donna. No need for all the formalities.”

“Same goes here,” Omar concurs, still just out of sight.

Charlie looks overwhelmed at the notion of that, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he focuses on taking off his shoes, after Zay lightly nudges him to follow his lead. He knows where to leave them—it’s not his first time making himself comfortable in this house.

“What, no Jada?” Zay asks his mom.

“Alas, not today. She had conflicting plans.”

“Wow, I’m amazed,” he quips. “Considering she is incapable of letting me live, I figured she wouldn’t want to miss this opportunity to heckle us.”

“Believe it or not, child o’ mine, the world does not revolve around you.” That earns an unexpected laugh from Charlie, which means Zay has to shoot a glare at both of them. Maybe introducing them was a bad idea. “Anyway, she claimed she already bothered Charlie enough on his birthday, so she could spare y’all this time.”

Donna leads the way back through the archway into the kitchen area, where Omar is tending to a sauté pan with a dishcloth draped over his shoulder. Zay knows his dad likes to cook, but it’s rarely that serious—he’s definitely playing up the part for their current company.

“My dad fancies himself a Gordon Ramsey,” he mutters into Charlie’s ear.

Unlike Gordon Ramsey, though, his father is much kinder in person. He risks neglecting the food so he can greet Charlie properly himself, offering a warm smile of his own. 

“Charlie,” he says, holding out a hand, “great to see you.”

Charlie accepts the handshake eagerly. “You too, Mister—Omar,” he corrects himself, albeit a bit awkwardly.

Omar doesn’t call him on it, though the corners of his smile turn up higher in amusement. “How are things going? Any more corruption scandals to unearth?”

“Um, not at the moment, but never say never,” Charlie says. Omar chuckles.

Donna pulls open the fridge. “Can I get you something to drink, Charlie?”

“Oh, just water is fine.”

“Ice?”

“That would be great, thanks.”

Omar turns back to focus on prepping their meal, but not before tossing attention back in Zay’s direction. He gently bumps Charlie on the shoulder in a friendly gesture, then nods at his son. “His mind is exploding a little bit. You can tell, because he’s actually quiet for once.”

Zay’s mouth drops open, but given nothing immediately comes out, he supposes his dad is right. The surrealism is doing a number on him once again—and it would hardly matter if he spoke up, anyway, because the shared laughter at his expense is loud enough to drown out any protests he might have made.

But whatever, it’s worth it. It’s worth the playful jab from his parents, so long as Charlie is there to laugh along with it.

There’s not a lot Zay wouldn’t do for that laugh.

Once Donna has gathered their drinks—for her and Charlie, at least, as she points out Zay is more than capable of serving himself—and confirms that what Omar is cooking up is to their tastes (chicken piccata, which sounds fine to Charlie, not that he would ever say otherwise as a guest in someone else’s home), she leaves him to it and corrals the two of them out into the living area with her to chat while they wait. She settles onto the armchair and lets them occupy the couch, Charlie being sure to reach for one of the coasters on the table before putting his glass of water down. Zay doesn’t bother with his Powerade bottle, so goes to show how seriously they actually take those beyond just decor.

“So, Charlie,” Donna says, eyes sparkling with curious intensity. It’s a look Zay’s been known to have himself at times—he’s her spitting image, like it or not. He just hopes his boyfriend can handle her level of Babineaux. “Columbia. Zay tells us you decided to go there in the fall.”

“Yep.”

“Studying…? Dance?”

“Still figuring that part out,” Charlie admits, absentmindedly rubbing his palm on his jeans. “Not planning to pursue dance, but I’m hoping I can find a place for it somewhere. Maybe a minor.” He elbows Zay’s ribs. “I’m not quite as ambitious as the rest of my old classmates.”

Zay tosses him a playful squint, elbowing him back.

Donna raises her hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment here. In all honesty, that makes a lot more sense to my science brain than the stuff my kids are doing. Though based on what I’ve heard, science isn’t exactly your pace either…”

Charlie nods acquiescence. “I’m more of a humanities guy. English, history, that sort of thing.”

“Well, that much I remember. Considering you saved this one’s ass from failing out of Matthews’ course, I have no doubt of your credentials.”

“Yes, we’re all very indebted to his Acute Nerd Disorder,” Zay says.

Although she’s got a reputation for being relentlessly nosy, Zay discovers he’s glad his mom is so full of questions. It keeps the conversation moving, no time for self-doubt, and it seems to be doing a decent job of loosening Charlie up. Zay notices the subtle shifts in his demeanor as they converse; how his hand stops fidgeting quite so much in his lap, and how the tension in his shoulders slowly dissipates. Still not as natural or at ease as he would be just the two of them, but a good start.

(That, and to be frank, Zay doubts anyone else on Earth will ever get the level of unwound and unguarded Charlie that he does. Selfishly, he hopes it stays that way).

“How did you land on Columbia?” Donna asks. “From what I recall, you were balancing a lot of strong contenders.”

“As only one with Acute Nerd Disorder could…”

“It was mostly about location. I knew I wanted to stay in New York, and I like that it’s kind of right in the middle of everything. There’s the great academics, of course, but I was more so focused on just making sure I could puzzle together whatever degree I wanted at my own pace. Columbia covered all my bases for major areas of interest, so provided I got in, it sort of became a no-brainer. Scholarship offer helped too.”

“Sure, that makes sense. But no desire to go far away? Guess you got most of that itch out during the gap year?”

“Hey, don’t say too much about that yet,” Omar hollers. “I want to hear about the gap year travels too.”

Charlie laughs, though Zay catches the hint of sheepishness creep into his features. No matter what he ends up telling them about his adventures, Zay knows, he certainly won’t be telling them all of it. He supposes Charlie didn’t think about that eventual consequence when he was galavanting around Europe, stretching his wings and exploring the culture. Well, that’s what you get when you let your slut win.

But hey, he’s his slut now.

Instead, Charlie opts to focus on the original question.

“I still love traveling, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I’ll ever fully sate that curiosity. But it’s nice to have a home base that feels secure. A place I know really well already. Plus, there are a lot of people still in the area that I want to be able to keep in easy contact with. My sisters—”

For the first time since they walked in, some of that prior anxiety seems to seize Charlie again. He trips over the invocation of his family, then loses his train of thought. The echo of how suddenly and violently everything has changed is still so fresh, ringing around in his ears, despite how much effort he’s been putting into drowning it out.

And the shadow of why it’s all capsized suddenly looms large over them. Charlie needs to do everything he can to keep in touch with his sisters, yeah, because his mother isn’t going to make it any easier for him. His mother apparently wouldn’t care if he never came home again, given what she’s learned about him. And with that visceral offense in mind, God, what would she say if she could see him now… cozying up to the parents of his sinful heathen boyfriend; embracing that in all its perverse promise…

Zay sees it wash over him like a monsoon. The color drawn from his cheeks, his hand starting to fretfully fidget again. Breathe, Charlie, breathe—

He ignores the prying eyes of his own mother, instinctively reaching out and placing his hand on top of Charlie’s. Stilling his fidgeting, stalling the panic like he did in the car. Exchanging a quick, grounding beat of eye contact.

I’m here. We’re good. You’re good. Breathe.

No words, but the reassurance works as intended. Charlie gets the message, coming back down to Earth, offering him a tentative smile and taking a pointed breath. Subtle, but intentional—in through the nose…

The panic only lasts a few seconds, but if Donna noticed it, she’s tactful enough not to acknowledge it. She casually takes a sip of her beverage, inconspicuously filling the pause until Charlie’s ready to continue.

Zay takes back any of his earlier griping. He’s so, so grateful he has the mom he does.

“My sisters still live here,” Charlie carries on. “Well, most of them. My oldest sister is in Pennsylvania, which isn’t too far, so it’s like they’re all still around. And friends, too, of course. Riley’s still in the area, so…”

Against her own wishes, but yes. Donna latches onto this, expression shifting to light concern.

“That’s right. Is she staying at NYU? Zay mentioned she was going to transfer...”

That was the plan… sort of. Riley was planning to do a lot more than just transfer. She was going to drop out of NYU and hitch her wagon to Lucas, jumping clear across the country to follow him to Davis. Before Lucas had a stroke or whatever, and blew everything up.

She would’ve found something to do—it’s Riley, after all—but if Zay is being candid, he’s glad she was forced to hit the brakes. He obviously wishes it didn’t happen this way (not that he had much faith in Lucas not to fuck it up somehow), but at least for now, she may have avoided making the biggest mistake of her life. She can come back from that.

But what that means for her now, unclear.

“We don’t know,” Zay admits.

Charlie treads more cautiously. “It’s… a complicated situation.”

That’s the generous way of putting it. It almost makes Zay roll his eyes, but he holds back. Charlie is always more willing to see the good in people than he is—even when they’ve given him every reason not to. It doesn’t surprise him that he’s still giving Lucas some leeway, offering the benefit of the doubt; it does surprise him that he’s willing to do this for him when his actions have left their other best friend a puddle of her former self half the time as a result. They haven’t discussed it at length yet, really, given how much else they have going on—Zay sort of hopes they never actually have to discuss it, ever. He’s not interested in humoring the apologia right now; he doubts he ever will be again.

And as they’re well aware, they’re working on borrowed time, too. It’s only so long until Zay’s off on travels of his own, and he doesn’t want to waste even one second of his summer with Charlie—his out and proud boyfriend Charlie Gardner—bitching over Lucas James Friar.

“Well, I hope she’s okay. I know she’ll figure out where she’s supposed to be—she’s got that way about her. Woman to be reckoned with.” Donna gives Charlie a nod. “It’s good you’ll be around, though, to be there for her. Hold down the fort until this one can bother to lug himself home.”

Charlie smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

“And in the meantime, well, you’ll just have to figure out where you’ll travel next when you’re not holding it down. Zay mentioned you did some states hopping during your gap year—did you hit the South much?”

“Not as much as I would’ve liked. Had a change of plans. Good change, but still.”

“You ever been to Louisiana?” Charlie shakes his head. “Oh, you’d love it. New Orleans alone is absolutely beautiful, and God, so much history there. We usually take a trip or two down a year to visit Omar’s extended family—you’ll have to come along with us sometime.”

It’s quite a forward invitation to make to the boyfriend of your son you’ve only just met as such. Who, for all you know, has only been dating him for a few weeks.

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? They all know it’s more than that. His parents don’t know all the gritty details, but they know Charlie and Zay’s interpersonal history stretches a lot further back than just this spring. Charlie’s new-ish to their universe, and yet, it’s also like he’s been there for ages. He’s so stitched into Zay, woven into the very fabric of his being at this point, that there’s little doubt Charlie will be around for much more of his history to come. So it doesn’t seem out of pocket for his mom to suggest such a thing. It feels more than appropriate; overdue, almost. It feels right.

It feels damn good.

Zay can tell Charlie is contemplating the same things. The color has returned to his face again; his eyes are shining. When he responds, his voice is softer, like if he speaks too loud, he might just shatter this beautiful gift he’s been handed.

“I’d love that.”

He would. He really would. Zay squeezes his hand, still resting underneath his on his thigh. It’s a relief to feel the clamminess has ebbed, Charlie’s warmth back under his fingertips.

Omar calls them into the dining area, signaling that early dinner is served. As they gather around the table and dig into their food—no unnecessary formalities, like a toast or a prayer to stumble through (though the former wasn’t out of the question, given the inherited theatrics of his mom)—the topic naturally shifts to the aforementioned capers abroad. His parents are yet again full of questions, keeping the focus intently on their fascinating new guest. Zay has half a mind to worry whether Charlie will even get to actually eat, but thankfully, his boyfriend is handling the attention fairly well. In fact, dare he say, Charlie seems to be enjoying it, enthusiastically sharing anecdotes from his journey and doing his best to thoroughly answer all the queries his inquisitive parents throw his way. There’s a comfortable rapport to the conversation, more genuine Charlie rising to the surface the longer they talk.

Zay’s heard most of the stories already, of course, so he has no problem eating his share of chicken piccata. And guess his father had him clocked, because he doesn’t find it at all difficult to keep his mouth shut and let the others carry the conversation. He’s having a much more fulfilling time just watching the three of them interact.

Seeing three of the most crucial people in his life come together, willingly and authentically, is enough to render him appreciatively speechless in a way few things can.

Still, he finds some way to get his admiration across. When his mom pauses to grab more napkins—and another water for Charlie, so you can tell he’s doing his fair share of talking—Zay takes advantage of the brief respite to lightly kick at Charlie’s shin under the table. Once he’s got his attention, Zay gives him a proud smile, quirking his eyebrows.

Doing good. Doing great, even.

Charlie returns the smile, albeit a shade shier. But it’s obvious he agrees; he feels good about it too. Nothing to be worried about.

There’s less shyness in his touch. Charlie braves pushing their boundaries ever so slightly, subtly reaching under the table to squeeze Zay’s knee. Could be considered a return of the light kick, an innocent gesture of affection to commemorate how well this is going. If Charlie weren’t Charlie, and Zay weren’t Zay, that’s probably all it would be.

But it’s more than that. It is affectionate, and tender—but it’s mischievous too. Teasing, catching Zay off-guard in that way only Charlie Gardner is capable of; because he never knows what to expect from him (which he loves), and because he has a knack for taunting him in the exact worst moments (which he hates that he loves). He certainly wouldn’t have expected him to casually flirt under the table at dinner with his parents, who he was terrified of fucking up in front of less than a couple hours ago. Guess much of that hysteria has faded, if he’s willing to get cheeky and threaten to turn Zay on right under the nose of his parents.

Or maybe Zay’s just an easy target, especially with him. But whatever. What the fuck ever. Letting Charlie gain confidence was such a dangerous move. He should’ve known better.

Thankfully, his mom returns to the table armed with the perfect mood killer. Once she hands Charlie his refill—which he politely thanks her for, effortlessly endearing as ever, as if he wasn’t acting with malicious intent just seconds ago like the bastard he is—and settles back down into her chair across from him, she clasps her hands together and leans forward on her elbows.

“So. Let’s address the elephant in the room, shall we?” She drops her hands and crosses her arms on the table in front of her instead. “What exactly is the deal between you two?”

Leave it to his mom to get vengeance on Charlie for him. She dropped this bomb right as Charlie was taking a drink of his water (sure he needed it, with all the evil he was manifesting seconds ago), so naturally, he promptly chokes on it.

It would be hilarious, actually, if Zay wasn’t also unprepared for the question. He sends his mom a preemptively defensive frown, sensing her nosiness rearing its ugly head. Meanwhile, Omar bothers to help Charlie, handing him a napkin as he coughs through his miniature waterboarding next to him.

“What’s that supposed to mean, mom?”

“Hey, don’t give me that look, Isaiah,” she chides, returning his sass right back to him. “I’m just asking the question. Obviously, you two are dating now. You’re good together.”

Well, at least there’s that subtle stamp of approval. It seems to assuage Charlie’s distress a bit, though that might be more because he’s managed to down another sip of water to help heal from the first one. His eyes are still watering.

“But are we really all going to sit here and pretend like that’s the whole story? As if you just waltzed into a romance a month ago?” She turns her intense gaze on Charlie, eyeing him across the table. “Your name’s been in the mouth of this one a lot longer than that.”

Zay prepares his weapons, ready to raise his hackles and run through the usual routine. That it’s not any of her business; that whether or not that was the case, it shouldn’t matter, because they’re here now. Ready to throw her flaws right back at her, point out how her nosiness should be considered a disease, and God forbid he inherits it and becomes a similar menace since he got so much else from her. Zay loves his parents, and he respects his mom. But if she is going to put his boyfriend under the microscope and make him uncomfortable, when Charlie’s already spent so much of his life being prodded and preened under intense scrutiny, then Zay isn’t going to hesitate to jump to his defense.

Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t need it. Charlie beats him to a response, not ducking the question.

“No, you’re right,” he admits. Some nerves back in his voice, but measured. Manageable. He swallows, but returns Donna’s eye contact. “It’s been, um… it’s complicated, to say the least.”

She raises her eyebrows, tacitly inviting more. Zay does too, less an invitation and more a question of his own. Is he sure? He doesn’t have to say anything, share anything more of their history, if he doesn’t want to.

It’s sort of a weird facet to their dynamic now. The backstory. They have this whole legacy, mixed as it is, coloring every moment between them. This lore that they’re intricately, intimately familiar with, but that is lost on everyone else, because they were a secret. No one knew the origin story, Zay and Charlie 1.0, and when that was all there was it didn’t exactly matter. Now, they’re together with no secrets, so everyone knows—but they still don’t know the before. They have friends like Nigel walking around thinking this is their first go at this, like they just suddenly decided to upgrade from friends to lovers oh so breezily; no awareness of the baggage they’re carrying around on an IKEA-sized furniture cart with them.

He and Charlie are aware of this idiosyncrasy, this weird quirk to their relationship. They’ve laughed about it, even. But they haven’t totally figured out how exactly to handle it beyond their shared bubble. They haven’t drawn up lines in the sand of how they’re supposed to divulge it, if they do at all; whether anyone gets to know the reality of their complex history, the highs and the lows. The excitement of their second chance has been the priority, so it hasn’t felt necessary.

Well, now here is Donna Babineaux, making it necessary (by her God-given nature, apparently). And by some magical anomaly, Charlie seems prepared to meet the moment, willing to show his cards.

Only if Zay’s okay with it, though. Charlie glances in his direction, eyes asking the question for him. Waiting for permission to explain, if Zay’s cool with it.

Surprised, but certainly cool with it, Zay nods.

“I had a lot to figure out about myself. Still do, honestly, but I’m working on it. Things weren’t… um…” 

Charlie hesitates, like he’s hit a mental speed bump. It’s harder to talk about than he expected, given all the years spent doing the exact opposite.

“It’s okay, honey,” Donna gently interjects. Zay wonders if she realizes she may have stepped on something tender. She did see his earlier stumble, after all. “You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”

Omar nods, accenting the point. Silent otherwise, listening with quiet respect.

“No. No, it’s okay.”

Charlie pauses, taking a deep breath. Clearly wanting to push through it, now that the opportunity has presented itself.

“Being gay isn’t exactly a welcome part of the culture I grew up in. When I came to Adams freshman year, I wasn’t even… remotely close to admitting that to myself. And once I did, I was always kind of… on the fence about it, how I could be perceived, so I… made a lot of mistakes.” His tempo quickens a bit, now that he’s picked up steam. “Like when you all invited me to dinner during the holidays, a couple years ago, when you were hosting a bunch of Zay’s friends—that’s why I didn’t go. Not because I didn’t want to. It just… in my brain, how it was then, it didn’t feel like I could.”

Donna shakes her head lightly. “I didn’t even remember that.”

But Charlie did. Charlie remembers everything. The good, and the bad. It’s another thing Zay loves about him—though he wishes it didn’t have the power to haunt him so much.

“So yeah, I’ve been working through a lot,” Charlie continues. “And Zay—”

Charlie looks at him again, words catching in his throat. Hit by the weight of it; realizing not for the first time (nor the last, likely) how much he means to him. How profoundly Zay has changed so much about his life. How he’s changed him.

Hit by the surrealism that somehow, against every single odd and cosmic trick of the universe, they’re sitting at his family dinner table and having this conversation with his parents.

Gently, Charlie reaches for his hand on the tabletop. No nefarious intent this time—and no hesitation to let it be witnessed. To be seen. Zay gives him a small smile.

“Zay was a big part of it. Of all of it.” His voice is shaky now, a tad breathless, but he powers through. “And it wasn’t always great. In fact, a lot of it wasn’t. Zay put up with a lot from me; too much, really. And part of that is why he didn’t tell you anything. About us. Because he was protecting me—or, at least, what I thought was protection at the time.” He exhales. “So if you’re wondering why he was so cagey, you can blame me for that. The full history is… layered, for lack of a better word.”

“I can imagine,” Omar murmurs.

“But your son is one of the most patient people I’ve ever known,” Charlie says, earning a disbelieving eyebrow raise from Donna. In this case, his mom’s cheek isn’t unwarranted; Zay is not known for being patient. Not in any other area of his life. “Because he gave me that time. The time and space to figure it out. And I had to do that on my own, no one could do it for me, but he was there for me. Even when I couldn’t return the favor. Even when it probably wasn’t worth it.”

It was. Zay’s not patient by nature, but for Charlie, he’s pretty sure he would’ve waited forever. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.

Because it’s Charlie.

“I can honestly say if it weren’t for Zay, I would not be sitting here right now,” Charlie concludes. “So, um, yeah. That’s the gist.”

They don’t need all the details anyway. The gist is good enough. Enough to sate Donna’s curiosity, anyhow—and far more than Zay ever expected. He wasn’t sure how Charlie wanted to tackle their backstory, but he was fully prepared to bury it underground and pretend it didn’t happen. To act as if this new iteration of their relationship, their second chance, was their fresh start. If Charlie had wanted to erase the past, to skip over the heartache and headaches, Zay would’ve let him, even if it was against his better judgment.

But they can’t just wipe their history, even if it might be tempting. And clearly, Charlie doesn’t intend to; he’s owning the past. He’s not running from it. He wants them, their full story, not some cheaper imitation that leaves him squeaky clean. Neither of them are perfect, and their relationship has no shortage of mess, but it’s their mess. It’s their shared lore.

They are what they are. And even in the lowest lows, Zay—and Charlie, he now knows—wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Thanks for sharing that with us, Charlie,” Omar says softly.

“Yes. Thank you,” Donna echoes. “And thanks for humoring a mom’s morbid curiosity.”

Charlie lets out a light laugh, relieved. “Of course. It feels good to explain it, especially to you all. So thanks for the chance.”

Donna smiles. Then she scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “To be frank, I’m still mostly in shock from hearing the words ‘your son’ and ‘patient’ in the same sentence.”

All right, tenderness over. Omar and Charlie both crack a grin at that, and Zay emphasizes the obligatory roll of his eyes with a stab at the remaining dregs of his chicken.

But the heaviness is effectively dispersed. Another trait of his mom’s he’s proud to have inherited.

From there, the conversation drifts, morphing into more casual chatter. Omar and Charlie end up getting into a lengthy discussion about books—his dad isn’t a big fiction reader, but he diligently pages through a nonfiction tome or two every evening before bed—so they end up passing a couple of recommendations back and forth. It’s all boring to Zay, but he’s far more interested in watching his typically soft-spoken father actually hold up his end of a conversation with genuine verve. If Charlie ends up second-guessing whether he made a good impression or not, that’ll be the first factoid Zay turns to; his dad rarely engages so easily with most of his friends, if ever. He’s not the most extroverted guy (nothing like his mom), but it seems he and Charlie are able to match each other’s wavelength pretty naturally.

They retire to the living room after they’re done eating, and only once Charlie has successfully insisted on helping Omar clear the table.

“Wow, imagine that,” Donna jokes. “A young person in this house being helpful. Omar, grab the smelling salts, I might just drop.”

“You think you are a genuine comedian, for real,” Zay grumbles, begrudgingly grabbing his own plate to cart it over to the sink.

Given the amused smile gracing Charlie’s features as they banter, maybe she is. Not that her ego needs that boost.

In any case, they make it to the living room first, Donna preoccupied with choosing what music to play next by the sound system and Omar finishing up with the dishes (probably for a nice beat of introverted alone time). Zay grabs a Twizzler from the pantry as a post-dinner treat then plops down next to Charlie on the couch, both of them much more relaxed on the cushions than they were at the start of the evening.

Zay takes a bite of the licorice and then holds it out for Charlie, offering him a piece. He hesitates, as if he’s going to decline on instinct… but after a moment he decides to indulge. He leans forward and steals a bite while it’s still in Zay’s hand—only he makes a point of letting it linger between his teeth first, just for a moment, while making sure Zay’s watching.

Then he retreats, slouching back against the couch and giving Zay an innocent smile as he chews.

Oh, he’s so wrong for that. So, so wrong. He is the worst. He is genuinely the most demonic entity Zay has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Somehow, that just makes him love him more.

Zay narrows his eyes at him, but Charlie’s faux modest smile remains. Bastard. Zay leans forward and shoves at him, the mildest of punishments, before it turns into an affectionate arm around his shoulders. He plants a kiss on Charlie’s cheek, feeling the curve of that stupid dimple he likes so much under his lips as Charlie grins in response.

“Last call for recs before I take over as DJ,” Donna calls. “Charlie, any preferences?”

“Oh, no complaints here. I’m good with whatever.”

“He’s got a wide array of musical tastes,” Zay commends.

Charlie puffs up a little from the compliment, but he has a quip ready to go seconds later as Donna rejoins them in the living room. “I’m also sort of used to being bullied out of control of the aux cord.”

Donna lets out a laugh. “With this one, I’m sure.”

“Um, hey.”

“Well…” Charlie trails off cheekily. But then he elaborates. “Not just him, though. Four sisters, you know, my preferences weren’t necessarily top of the pile.”

Once Omar wraps up the dishes and returns to their company, somehow, they end up in conversation about games. As another strong indicator of how much they’re genuinely enjoying his company, his parents suggest they all play one together, if Charlie’s family was also as big on board games as his discussion about his sisters would lead them to believe.

“Omar loves Scrabble,” Donna notes. “You like Scrabble?”

Charlie’s eyes light up, just as Zay feels the academia hater in him shrivel up and die. “Um, no, we’re good, thanks.”

“Hey now, did I ask you, or did I ask Charlie?”

“I love Scrabble,” Charlie confesses.

“Fuck’s sake.”

“Isaiah Babineaux, I know you didn’t just say that in front of me.”

“Heck’s sake,” he amends.

Without being prompted, Omar goes silently and returns with the game, that same subtle twinkle in his eyes.

“This’ll be a hoot. We haven’t played in a while—it’s not as fun with two people, and as you can imagine, this one isn’t very interested in playing.”

“I’m dyslexic!” Zay reminds them, throwing his hands up. “This is a hate crime.”

“Actually, studies have shown that word games like Scrabble, that encourage spelling practice and fun with letters, are very good for children with learning disabilities,” Donna corrects him. God forbid he try to invoke his affliction with his brain surgeon mother. “So in theory, we should’ve made you play it more when you were growing up.”

Zay crosses his eyes, falling back onto the couch.

Charlie throws him a life preserver, lightly elbowing him. “We can be a team.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a warm murmur. “You know we work pretty well together.”

Does he fucking ever.

His parents at least grant him that grace, so Zay relents. He and Charlie get up to let Omar take the couch, the two of them situating together on the floor in front of the table. Even though the experience doesn’t revolutionize his opinion of Scrabble (who invented this shit, for real), Zay does find the game to be less painful than he remembered. Probably because’s grown up a bit, for one, and his sister isn’t here to relentlessly taunt him every time he misspells a word or inevitably ends up losing.

But it’s mostly because of Charlie. Zay’s barely playing, really, just operating as the hands to Charlie’s brain. And every time they discuss their next play, when Charlie instructs him what letters to use next, he leans over and whispers the direction to him. Letting his warm breath tickle his ear, lips occasionally grazing the shell, all under the completely innocuous guise of teamwork and strategy.

With that version of Scrabble on the table, Zay almost thinks he could be convinced to play another round by the time they finish the first (he and Charlie in second place, his father in first, for the record—the highest Zay has ever placed against his family). But it’s deep into sunset just outside the window, and Charlie reluctantly admits that he should probably get going.

As they gather in the entryway to slip back on their shoes, Omar jogs in from the kitchen and holds out a Tupperware of some leftover chicken piccata. “For the road.”

Charlie is surprised. “You don’t have to do that. You put in all the work.”

“And you were our guest, so no chance we let you leave without something to show for it,” Donna retorts. “Besides, you all are the youngings, living busy social lives with no time to cook.”

“You’re a brain surgeon,” Zay says.

“And don’t you ever forget it.”

Regardless, Charlie accepts the leftovers. He also accepts another warm handshake from Omar, and even an unexpected embrace from Donna. It doesn’t surprise Zay much—his mom is more of a hugger than you’d assume at first blush—but it obviously means a lot to Charlie.

“Thanks again,” he says. “For everything.”

“Thank you for showing up,” Donna replies. “I think it means a lot to all of us. Let’s not wait so long for the next time, okay?”

Charlie beams. “Definitely not.”

Zay insists on walking him out, assuring his parents he’ll be right back. They don’t seem entirely convinced, but they let him go, giving Charlie final goodbyes as he steps out into the dusk.

The streetlamps are just switching on as they shuffle back to Charlie’s sedan, moving in companionable silence. Plenty of words already expended throughout the day, so no surprise they’re short on them—not to mention it’s going to take both of them a minute to process what the hell just happened.

Even so, Charlie instinctively reaches for Zay’s hand the moment the door shuts behind them. Keeping their fingers intertwined as they make the short trek to his car, no need for coat pockets or the shadow of night to disguise them.

That being said, Zay is glad they parked a couple spots down from the house rather than directly in front of it. It gives him a semblance of privacy as he pounces on Charlie the instant they reach his vehicle, cradling his face in his hands and pressing him up against the driver’s side door into a kiss. Passionate, proud, one that’s been building inside him all evening and might have made him implode if he held it at bay any longer.

Charlie has no complaints. He grins into the kiss and initiates the next one, sliding his arms around his waist and hugging him closer.

When they break for breath, Charlie speaks first. “That was amazing.”

“You are amazing,” Zay argues, stealing another kiss. “You are brilliant, seriously.” And another. “Fuck, Charlie, you just fucking did that.”

It’s obvious he can’t quite believe it either. He nods enthusiastically, trying to believe it without having to pinch himself.

Not clear if the kisses help or hurt that objective, but Zay gives them anyway. He doesn’t think he could help himself. He gives him another one on his lips, then transitions to the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek, his nose, peppering affection all over his face and causing Charlie to break into breathless giggles. A kiss for every ounce of courage Zay knows that took, even if the worries were unfounded. A kiss for every one Zay of seventeen didn’t get to give, no matter how deeply he wanted to.

They’re so far from those scared teenagers now, grown up, out, and through the strife. They’re together, for real. They fucking earned it. It’s so much better this way.

And they’ll endure whatever comes next. Together. Zay knows they will.

“You should go back inside,” Charlie manages after a few more kisses. “Your parents are going to think we’re being nefarious.”

“I wanna be,” Zay mutters. Too quickly, too eagerly, all out of breath.

After what they just pulled off, and all the little tricks Charlie was pulling all evening, it should hardly be a surprise.

And it seems like that sounds good to Charlie—he catches the flush crawl up his cheeks in the low lamplight, feels his heart pound a little faster under his fingertips. Sees him seriously consider it, let his mouth part and eyes flit down to the closeness of Zay’s body against his. God, the things Zay wants to do with that body…

But wisely, Charlie keeps them on simmer. Because Zay’s supposed to be spending the night with his family, and Charlie made plans with Riley. Smartly, at the time, to keep her company through whatever hell she’s working through tonight; foolishly, now, when all he wants to do is get lost in his boyfriend.

His boyfriend. His fucking boyfriend, out and proud and under no pretenses.

“Later,” Charlie promises him.

A compromise. They can be good tonight, hold it together. They’ll have to get practiced at withholding their desire, after all (Zay tries not to think about it). But the true power comes from being able to offer that deal—to be able to declare, with certainty, that there will be plenty of time for nefarious intent to come.

They’ll be okay. After all…

“You’re so good at being patient, right? Your mom was just saying so.”

All right, that earns a laugh out of Zay. He shakes his head and playfully nudges Charlie back against the car, before taking his face in his hands again. Stroking his thumb along his cheekbone; taking him in for a long moment, just like Charlie did earlier this afternoon.

Really seeing him, for everything he is.

“They fucking loved you, by the way,” Zay assures him. “It was big obvious.”

Charlie blushes. “I don’t know about that, but…”

“They loved you. They fucking loved you.” Zay can’t hold back his smile. “I love you.”

That, Charlie already knows. He mirrors his smile, pulling him close again to share one more kiss. Slow, tender, enough to tide them over.

It lingers when they pull apart. Charlie bumps their noses together.

“See you later, Isaiah Babineaux.”

Later can’t come fast enough.

When they finally manage to peel apart, Zay heads back to the house, but he pauses on the front stoop until he watches Charlie drive away. As he passes him, his boyfriend tosses him one more smile and wave. Zay can hear the Harry Styles just barely through the windows—this time, he’s sure, Charlie will be singing along on the drive back to Manhattan.

Fucking nerd.

Back inside, he discovers only his mom still in the living room. The Scrabble board has been cleaned up, and she has her feet up on the coffee table, reclined comfortably in the armchair with her eyes closed as she enjoys the sounds of Sinatra.

So calm, you almost wouldn’t believe a cosmic earthquake just tore through this place.

Zay makes a quick detour to the kitchen, grabbing another celebratory Twizzler from the stash in the pantry. Of course, now he’s going to think about Charlie every time he has one—he swears, that man is going to permeate every inch of his brain before too long if they keep this up. Not to mention, if a piece of licorice has the potential to turn him on…

God, Zay is down bad. Has been. Will be, he knows, for a long time to come.

And yet, he’s content with that eternal damnation.

He makes his way back to the living room, joining his mother in the aftermath. Donna opens her eyes, watching her son as he flops back onto the couch. He mirrors her posture—spitting image—and props his socked feet up on the coffee table opposite hers.

“Dad head to bed already?”

“Headed to repose, at least,” she confirms. “You know him, he sure ain’t the extrovert in our clan.”

“No joke,” Zay says, chomping at the licorice. “Though tough competition.”

“Thankfully, we’ve given him a lot of practice.”

Donna reaches a hand out, gesturing for him to share. Zay rolls his eyes, but doesn’t mind obliging, breaking off a piece and passing it her way. She pops it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“He had a good time, though. I could tell, since he didn’t make an excuse to leave as soon as possible.”

Zay grins. “That’s what I was telling Charlie. He didn’t buy it.”

“I’ll tell him next time, if he needs the expert opinion.” Donna observes him, a light smile creeping onto her lips. “He was great.”

Zay feels that surge of affection rush through his veins again. “He was. He is.”

“Your dad liked him a lot. So did I.” Donna crosses her ankles. “Particularly now that it feels like we actually know him, to a degree.”

She’s not just talking about the extended face time they got today. She’s probably ruminating much more on the miniature confessional he gave during dinner. The map key to understanding the atlas of Charlie Gardner; a lot clearer with context than when you’re just squinting from a distance.

“I don’t know how true what he told us today was. If he was glossing over any of it,” she starts.

“He was being legit,” Zay corroborates. “Not all the gritty deets—because you don’t need them—but overall, he wasn’t fronting.”

“Well, regardless. No matter how much progress he’s made, or what’s going on with his family…”

Donna pauses, heavy with thought. Then she sits upright, making intentional eye contact with her son.

“You tell that boy he is always welcome here. Always. Understand me?”

Zay assumed that was the case. But it means a lot to hear it said. To have his mom look him in the eyes, knowing the context, and ensure he knows it. To insist that Charlie know it too, considering he’s the one who needs to the most. He needs it the most, since his own family isn’t willing to offer him the same guarantee.

It’s also nice to hear, given Zay won’t be around all the time to see it for himself. Knowing that Charlie will still have this place to call home, to retreat to if he needs sanctuary even if Zay’s not there, makes the prospect of leaving a little bit easier to swallow.

He nods, returning his mom’s resolute gaze. “Understood.”

She mirrors the nod, returning to her relaxed posture. They sit in silence for a long moment, Zay taking another bite of licorice.

“Sorry we made you play Scrabble,” Donna adds.

Zay snorts, tilting his head back against the couch cushions. “It’s whatever. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.”

Because he had Charlie. Charlie makes everything better.

With Charlie Gardner, it’s always worth it.

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

I shouldn't have started that with "dear." Because I'm mad at you. Holy fuck, am I mad at you right now.

How is it that even two years later, long after you got put in the ground (metaphorically, that is, but I don't have the time to get into the semantics here), you're still tap dancing on my life?

I'm sure you'd like to know what exactly you even did. Well, lucky you, I’m going to tell you, because my best way of coping with my emotions is still writing these stupid letters to nowhere that my therapist told me about ages ago. You’d think I would’ve outgrown this by now. Or maybe figured out how to just talk about my issues like a normal person. Nope, I’m still here writing pages to no one, so congrats, you get to keep reading them from the grave. I should start mailing them to your tombstone in Los Angeles, just letting them pile up on your pile of dirt, but that would be giving more manual labor to the people who care for that cemetery, and I’m not going to put this baggage on anyone else.

Anyway. What did you do this time?

I was trying to do a good thing. I was trying to be helpful for once. I’ve been working on this film shoot during the summer with some of my peers. Molly tipped me off to it and invited me to join, which I’m grateful for, because if I’m being entirely honest (which no point not being, since this is a letter to nobody), I’m nervous about going back to NYU in the fall. I know I’ll be fine, in the end, and the semester off was good for me for other reasons. But having to basically restart the social aspect of college all over again is already giving me headaches. Molly told me about this group short film people from my cohort were working on, so I decided I’d join both for the credit and the chance to like, get all thrown into the mix again. In that case, I still think it was a good idea.

But in case you forgot — in case anyone could forget — film boys are obnoxious. They are the worst. And they make up a healthy chunk of my cohort, for some stupid reason.

Things got complicated because I invited Riley to come with me to the shoot a couple of days. Maybe I shouldn’t have, I don’t know, but I was just trying to help. She’s been… not like herself. Since Lucas moved out, and they… whatever, I don’t want to get into all of that right now. I still don’t even really get what happened, and I get that pressure migraine behind my eyes when I try to figure it out. I tried to ask Lucas too, and he didn’t answer me, so that’s about as far as I think I’m going to get since Riley doesn’t seem to have any clue what happened either. A fucking clusterfuck. (At least you can’t shoulder blame for that one too.)

So I brought Riley along. This turned out to be a bad idea. I thought giving her a distraction would be a good thing, like put her mind on something else, especially since she usually likes assisting in creative stuff like that. And she likes Molly, who is also peppy and cheerful and stuff, so they could feed off each other. But it didn’t work. Riley came, and she “helped,” but that mostly meant standing around and sort of doing what people told her and otherwise looking about five-thousand miles away. Just so Not Riley. I’m sure she would’ve perked up or worked harder if I’d said something, but again, she’s already in such a weird place. I wasn’t going to make it worse by criticizing her for something she’s volunteering to do.

Well, one of my stupid film bro classmates didn’t seem to pick up on the fact that she was clearly not doing well. I know I can’t read a room either, but like, come on. He was expecting her to be as hardcore and overly invested as everyone else, despite the fact that she’s not even a film student — like, what was he expecting? — so he started getting all bitchy and throwing shade and generally being a fuckwad. I didn’t want this to get back to Riley or make her feel worse (again, why did I try to do anything? Always a terrible idea, Isa), so I pulled him aside and tried to get him to back off.

Here’s where you come into the equation, dear dead mother of mine. As you always do. Because naturally, we got into an argument with all the high-stress of a shoot and this guy being an idiot and you know, general asshole-ery, so it’s not long before we’re fighting about shit that has nothing to do with Riley.

I can’t believe this is taking up multiple pieces of paper. Ugh. My hand hurts.

ANYWAY. Molly and a couple of other classmates catch onto us arguing (Riley didn’t, thank fuck), and this becomes a whole discussion. Asshole asks why I brought along someone who clearly doesn’t care to a shoot they DO all care about, and I wasn’t about to get into the whole Lucas-Riley-mind-your-own-business clusterfuck with him. And I tried to say that I care too, like I want this short to be good as well, but he cuts me off and is just like “look, if you want make a silly little project with your friends rather than take this seriously, then why don’t you use some of your nepo baby money and do it yourself?"

Nepo. Baby. Money.

So that’s the fuck of it all, isn’t it. It’s never going to be enough. No matter how much I do on my own, no matter how long you’ve been singing up at me from Hell, I’m not going to be able to shake off your legacy. Everything I do is going to be attributed to you. You, and Zachary, and my stupid fucking Hollywood royalty gene pool.

I’m not a fucking nepo baby.

The thing that sucks the most is that people don’t even get I never got the benefits of that. Not in the real way. I never got to know what it was actually like to have you both as parents. I never got to know the “privilege” of being tied to you both from the moment I was born. Sure, it would’ve been equally annoying having you all take credit for my work without a word, just by name, but at least I would’ve gotten the trade-offs. At least I would’ve had you, consistently. Instead, like usual, I’ve just ended up with the short end of every stick possible.

I have to figure out what to do about this. I’m obviously never going to be able to prove I got here on my own merit. Some people are always going to assume the worst. But there has to be other ways to show my own capability. There has to be things I can do to drop the burden of “nepotism,” to show I’m not just using your legacy as a handout. I don’t know how to do that yet. Maybe I should ask Eric. I guess I could pick Zachary’s brain, too, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings on accident if I do.

But I can’t go my entire career like this. I won’t. 

Anyway. Otherwise, things are both fine and objectively shit. Riley’s a mess. No idea what is going on with Lucas, or why he did what he did, but at least he’s still showing up to dinner at Eric’s. Well, sort of. He’s THERE, but since I know there’s shit going on and he’s just blatantly pretending there isn’t shit going on, it doesn’t feel like he’s REALLY there. Whatever, I’m trying to ignore that part, since he’s going to be in California soon and I know, irritatingly, I’m going to miss him not being right here in front of me even when he’s pissing me off.

Farkle still hasn’t talked to me. I don’t know if Maya gave him my letter. She probably threw it away. May as well. I’m so sick of writing letters.

That’s all. For now. I’m sure I’ll be doing this soon enough yet again for another ungodly reason. If it’s because of yet another stupid film boy, I’m burning down the school.

Miss you. Irritatingly, even though you’re pissing me off from the grave.

Whatever,

P.S. One bit of good news in the realm of “slaying film boys” — Jasper, that idiot who tried to kiss me after annoying the hell out of me, transferred after spring semester. Maybe Charlie Gardner is right, and God does exist.

P.P.S. I doubt it, though. If God IS real, they’re getting a pissed off letter next.

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

Even the luxurious white sand beaches of a tropical getaway can’t salve the sting of a blank page.

Maya doesn’t get what went wrong. The rest of EP had come together so easily. Magically, almost. Sure, it helped that Maya already had surefire hits under her belt that were going to take up two of the spots (by her new record label’s demand, of course—they’d be foolish not to capitalize on it). And yes, it’s always easier to create when the stakes feel lower, and the fact that this project is simply an introductory EP rather than a full-blown album leaves a bit of margin for error. But even so, Maya knows that’s not entirely true; since she insisted on smashing her way into the spotlight, corporate buy-in or not, she guaranteed herself extra scrutiny towards whatever she dares to put out. She knew that was part of the bargain, and overall, she feels pretty prepared for it. She felt ready for it, when the songs were coming together seamlessly.

Now, she’s just one song away from completing the EP and sending it off to the label. She’s seconds from the finish line (the first of many, she hopes), and for whatever cursed reason, her bones have crumpled and left her collapsed before she can cross it. Her brain has apparently closed up shop one song short, treating her as if she has nothing left to give. Sorry! Try again next time—if you get another chance!

Well, that’s not entirely true. She did have another song on deck. Another that came easily, a strike of musical inspiration after an intriguing interaction. The idea came to her after she concluded a catch-up lunch with Riley, seeing her usually perky peer within weeks after being dumped by Lucas James Friar.

At least, that’s what she assumes happened. No one really seems to know what went down. Farkle told her, and he got his intel from Charlie, though Maya still can’t imagine what they even talk about or how it would’ve come up. Zay—because of course Maya would go to him first, as her most reliable source of information on the other side of the country due to his broad popularity and ability to get people to trust him, which they for some bizarre reason don’t seem to love giving to her—didn’t have much additional insight to offer. Besides being pissed as hell, that is. No surprise there; Maya thinks he may actually have more genuine disdain for Friar than she did or does.

Yindra was also useless. Jade, too, who claimed even Asher didn’t have anything to offer. Obviously, neither she nor Farkle are going to question Isa, and Maya doubts they would tell them anything even if they did.

Lucas himself, naturally, evaporated as soon as it happened.

But Maya is fiendishly curious to know, which is honestly surprising to her. She usually doesn’t care about the romantic dalliances of her cohort—unless it somehow gets in her way—so she didn’t expect to be so caught off-guard by their dissolution. In fact, she thinks, she should’ve seen it coming; Lucas has never been a safe horse to bet on. If there was one thing you could count on when they shared the hallways of Adams, it was that you couldn’t count on him.

But perhaps that’s all part of it. That’s all part of the strangeness. Because Riley and Lucas were baffling from the start—yet somehow, they worked. Somehow, Riley managed to tame him, to mold him into something worth taking a risk for.

And as far as Maya can tell—and she’s not saying she’s an expert or anything, far from it, but she’s typically pretty sharp at reading people—Lucas was in it. He was bullshitting his way through it, yes, but it was genuine. He was in love. Maya knows what it looks like when someone isn’t—she hasn’t forgotten that, even as every other detail about her father has withered away with time.

For all the petty crimes he might commit, Lucas wouldn’t commit to anything real. But this was different. He was committed to Riley.

Although, apparently not, because here they all are, and now Riley and Lucas are baffling for a whole new set of reasons. Guess there truly are some fools bets you should never take. But the fact that she was insatiably fascinated with this fated fallout enough to contemplate texting Dylan and Asher for information—Asher Garcia, for the love of God—is testament to how powerful a puzzle this has become in such a short amount of time.

Even with the weight of the world’s wonder on her shoulders, though, Riley shows up to their lunch as if everything is perfectly fine. She doesn’t mention her newly ex-ed boyfriend (not that Maya would’ve expected her to, in good times or bad). She proffers her usual sunshine smiles and energizing enthusiasm for all the things Maya is getting up to, eagerly absorbing the sneak peeks Maya shows her from the “Bygone” video shoot on her phone. She doesn’t give any indication that things in her universe have gone horribly sideways, that the world has stopped spinning, even though Riley must certainly know they’re all talking about it and trying to figure it out. Maybe she’s still figuring it out too, behind those bright brown eyes.

That’s what really sparks the fire in Maya’s mental workshop.

Riley Matthews has always intrigued her, to be fair. A woman so differently minded and motivated than her; far kinder and less ambitious with no shame about it, yet who earned Maya’s respect without having to play her games. Usually, Maya finds she develops esteem for someone who can rival her in the fields that matter most to her—diva sees diva, real sees real—but Riley never took that approach. She found ways to demonstrate presence without being a powerhouse; she assumed leadership by natural ascension rather than demanding it. She moves through the world taking just about every opposite step that Maya would have to get to the same place, but Maya fell for her charms all the same regardless.

But it’s this part that puzzles her incessantly. The way Riley holds it all together. For better or worse, Maya’s emotions often get the better of her—she’s prone to diva outbursts and confrontational moods, and it takes a lot to shut her down. She’d rarely, if ever, contemplate bundling it all up inside to appease someone else; Riley, on the other hand, seems a master at doing just that. Pushing her own discomfort aside, presenting as the supportive, passionate leader they all have come to expect, even if she feels as far removed from those qualities as possible. Barely letting any trace of her emotion leak through the cracks, effortlessly keeping the attention on her loved ones rather than herself. Not willing to say a bad word about any of them, remarkably, even when they certainly deserve it—if anyone had the right to go full diva meltdown on New Year’s Eve when everyone managed to show their ass (hilarious as it may have been), it would have been Riley.

If anyone, truly anyone, had the right to bitch to high heaven about the dumbass who dumped them, the man they wasted so much time, effort, and patience on, it would be Riley Erica Matthews.

But she didn’t, and she doesn’t.

Of course, this could all be a façade. Maya knows Riley is a good actress (enough to be considered a threat, at least). She’s had training from overbearing and passive aggressive parents with a disastrous divorce between them; she’s well equipped to fake a smile. All things considered, with maybe the exception of Charlie Gardner (Maya assumes, since she knows the general gist of his personal narrative but doesn’t care enough to get into the minutiae—she’ll leave that snoozefest to Zay), she wonders if Riley is actually the most talented performer in the ranks of the A Class.

She doesn’t have to do this, though. Riley doesn’t have to be there for any of them; she doesn’t have to put up with their bullshit. She didn’t have to tolerate Lucas’s blatant inadequacies. She didn’t have to show up to have a silly little lunch with Maya before she flew back to L.A., and in all seriousness, Maya half-expected her to cancel. If she’s truly in the throes of deep heartbreak over Lucas James Friar, baffling as that prospect may be, Maya would respect that. She wouldn’t hold it against her.

Riley didn’t cancel. She showed up. She carries on, still supportive; still seemingly holding onto hope, even for people who absolutely do not deserve it.

It’s that perspective, that persona so vastly worlds apart from Maya’s own, that inspires enough curiosity to make her want to get creative. She spends the rest of the afternoon as she’s packing ruminating on those observations, trying to understand Riley Matthews. To get inside her head, walk around in her platform Mary Janes, grasp even a glimmer of how the world must look through her eyes.

The curiosity becomes a character, who becomes a song, on the journey back across the states. By the time she meets Josh in the studio, she’s deemed her Isabella, not sure where the name came from but knowing it feels right. She lays out the basic chords for him on the piano—because this song must be piano-based, she insists, another sense of certainty she has from seemingly out of nowhere but that this time feels slightly hued by memory, sepia-toned glimpses of Riley sitting at the keys during performances in their class—and within a couple hours, they’ve crafted another masterful track.

Something about this one feels different, too. Not that she doesn’t enjoy making bitch bangers, but this one is more in the range of “Bygone,” boasting a heft that adds a sense of depth. It’s a new flavor for her, leaning into the piano songstress, and feels like another chance to show the world she has a lot more to offer than they see now. She’s an iceberg, and they’ve only just seen the very tip of her potential. Her stardom isn’t going to be restricted to radio bops and feel-good folly; Maya has a legacy to create.

She’s going to be an artist for the ages.

Josh seems to agree with that assessment. The bits about the song, that is; as fruitful as their musical partnership is becoming, Maya thinks he’d drop dead before he started kissing her ring or puffing up her ego too much (honestly, she prefers it that way—she wants the rest of the world to worship her blindly, of course, but for a true collaborator she needs them to keep it real). He seems excited about the new song too, abuzz with the possibilities of musical texture and lyrical range they can explore moving forward.

It’s a great song—but they can’t put it on the EP.

Josh says so first, and even though she wants to throttle him, as soon as he starts to explain his reasoning she knows he’s right. This new one is a good track, but it doesn’t fit hart 2 hart. The piano would come out of nowhere on a project dedicated to showcasing a more concentrated taste of her strengths; the fictional songwriting feels misplaced on a project that’s meant to be all about her. It’s not a song they should scrap—there will be plenty of room on their next work, when there’s a whole album’s worth of songs to play around with—but it won’t gel next to the badass boss energy of “On My Grind (O.M.G.)” or “Enjoy the Show.” It won’t get proper room to breathe so close to “Bygone,” which will easily outshine it with its viral success and more bombastic production.

So for now, they surrender. Isabella goes on the shelf; Maya gets on a plane for a couple weeks off, joining the Minkus family at their summer home in Bora Bora.

And now she’s here, alternating between staring out the window towards the too-blue water from her beach house bedroom and staring at the too-white blank page in her songwriting notebook in front of her.

It’s not that she has nothing to write about. She knows that’s not true. As noted, she’s usually full of strong opinions and flurrying emotions. If nothing else, she’s got enough confidence to flood the islands, so she could at least throw together another girlboss hit and call it a day.

But she’s already got two of those. She’s got tons of that, and she doesn’t want to phone it in with her first swing at the bases. She also doesn’t want to pigeon-hole herself—Justin and Melissa already did that for her, and she’s doing everything in her power to swim against their tide.

She’s got a song about them, too. Not that she’s naming names (she’s not an idiot). But one on that subject was draining enough; same for the shitshow with Isa. “Bygone” may be her best song to date, but she doesn’t feel keen to open that Pandora’s box so soon again.

So what does that leave her with? A diss track at Asher (which could potentially get some viral traction if people realize it’s about him, since for some God forsaken reason, his pet boyfriend is somehow almost as known an entity as Maya)? An ode to thy miraculously saltine sovereign, Charlie Gardner (which would truly make no noise, unsurprisingly, since no one actually knows nor cares who he is)? Something about New York? By Lorde, how many fucking songs have been written about New York, New York? Where she doesn’t even live anymore?

She’s overthinking it. She knows she is. But that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

With a growl, Maya forfeits for now, slamming her songwriting notebook shut and pushing away from the desk.

Perhaps the sea salt air will get the juices flowing again. She changes into her swimsuit and pulls on a luxury coverup over her shoulders (courtesy of Jennifer—God, she loves being the bride-to-be in the mind’s eye of her best friend’s delusional wealthy mother), before heading down the staircase to the main floor.

When she arrives in the airy, open-concept living area, she finds most of the Minkus clan aren’t present. Stuart is there, sitting with her mother at the dining table and sharing mimosas while they play cards. The only other one is Uri, who is seated all the way at the opposite end of the room with his earbuds in. Well, if you can call it “sitting”—he’s nearly upside down, he’s so slouched, dangling his gangly Minkus limbs over the armrest and back of the armchair he’s crashed in. He doesn’t notice Maya’s entrance, clearly enthralled with a text conversation on his phone. He’s been basically glued to it since they left, according to Farkle (not that she particularly cares).

Katy and Stuart do notice her, on the other hand, and they greet her cheerfully.

“There’s our missing sunshine,” her mother says, beautiful face aglow with a beam. It makes Maya’s chest radiate warmth just to see it; she feels a unique sense of pride that she earns it so easily, just by being. She can’t think of anything more important than her that starlit smile.

(Yes, even money, and yes, even stardom. She’s debated this many times over through her youth, and Katy Hart wins every time).

“We were just discussing what you might be up to. I was hoping you weren’t going to spend the whole afternoon holed up when the weather is so nice today…”

“Whereas I was saying, please, don’t discourage a savvy business woman at work!” Stuart playfully interjects.

Maya can’t help but grin, sauntering over to join them. “Yes, mother, listen to the billionaire. Respite from the labors comes when it has been well earned.”

“For us workaholics, at least,” he notes, twinkle in his eyes. Katy rolls hers. “All my employees are encouraged to adhere to their nine-to-five and embrace a healthy, nourishing work-life balance.”

“Amen. Besides, songwriting is nourishing. What more do I need?” Maya eyes the mimosa in front of her mother on the table, plucking it into her hands. “Actually, I will take a bit of this nourishment too. As a treat.”

“So you’re making progress?” Katy asks.

“All that time you spent tinkering away, surely you’ve got more hits on your hands than you know what to do with,” Stuart suggests.

God, if only.

“It’s… progress,” Maya offers diplomatically, taking a long sip of the mimosa.

Katy manages to wrangle her drink back, asking instead if Maya would like one of her own. Stuart invites her to join their card game—Jennifer is out shopping with Lila and Ezra, so this is most fun they’ll have playing rummy before his wife returns and wipes the floor with all of them.

“If you’re looking for the next skill of the savvy,” he says knowingly, “this is the place to study up.”

Stuart shuffles the deck with flair, accenting his point. Farkle used to always complain that he felt like the black sheep in his family, a theatrical bird with no shared feathers to flock with, but Maya knows better now. Having spent the last couple of years getting to know both Stuart and Jennifer, there is little to no mystery as to how he inherited his streak for the dramatic (even if their professional pursuits are less whimsical in practice).

Speaking of her wayward love…

Maya matches Stuart’s charm, humming as she decides her fate. “The offer is mighty tempting—on both fronts,” she adds, nodding to Katy’s promise of a fresh mimosa, “but I think I should first perhaps locate my missing hip. Any hints as to where middle Minkus might be hiding?”

“He was headed out towards the back terrace last we saw, around the same time Jennifer left for the shops,” Katy says. “I think he was aiming for the beach.”

“Which is good, because the sun will be excellent for his vitamin D levels. Our whole family is deficient, I’m sorry to say—my genes, not Jennie’s. Except Ezekiel, though that’s his sunny disposition for you.” Stuart pauses. “Farkle did have a book with him, though, so there’s no guarantee he’s actually soaking it up…”

Back terrace and down to the beach are as good of leads as any. Maya nods, thanking them both. She leans over to take one more slurpy sip of her mom’s beverage before she departs, earning a playful swat in reply. As she dances away from it, she offers a curtsy.

“I’ll be back to collect on that mimosa in short order, mommy dearest,” she promises. “And perhaps, learn card tricks from the best—provided Jennifer is back by then, that is.”

Stuart scoffs. “Oh, please.”

Maya makes her way towards the sliding doors leading to the patio, taking a brief pause only to poke the adolescent bear. She leans over and taps at Uri’s shin, startling him enough to warrant a full body jolt—he obviously wasn’t expecting to be addressed, least of all by her (which is precisely why she couldn’t resist). He fumbles through getting half upright and pulls out an earbud, so bewildered by the sudden interaction he can’t even act quick enough to put on his perturbed face.

“You’ll want to be careful about all that screen time,” Maya offers sagely. “They say it’s dreadful on the eyes. Surely Charlie Gardner’s prodigal sister can spare you for minutes at a time so you can spare them—if you want to be able to see one another in thirty years, that is.”

Unlike just about everyone else in her orbit, Uri is woefully unprepared for a blast of Maya Hart. He simply stares at her, left wanting for a sensible response—though his pale cheeks do grow pinker at the mention of a Gardner, so he gives himself away without even having to eke out a word.

How simply the mighty fall when it comes to the hormonal winds. So utterly platitudinous.

And utterly amusing to her. Maya doesn’t wait around for his teenaged brain to catch up, blowing a cheeky kiss before fluttering off and disappearing through the doors into the afternoon.

The tropical sun is welcome on her skin. For all her born and bred affection for New York, she’s never been especially fond of the weather—cloudy grey isn’t her style, and the delicious melancholy of it is only fun for so long. She’s certainly drawn to warmer climates; another reason she thinks she may have been destined for Los Angeles, even with the unsavory characters.

Characters she’s working hard not to think about these days. She’s dreading how the question of her split from Global Beat is basically guaranteed to come up when her press tour for the EP starts; she hasn’t figured out how she’s going to dance around it just yet. She and Josh have discussed it at length, but they’ve rightfully been putting the music first. That, and she knows he isn’t keen to discuss them either—his form of betrayal is a far cry from hers, violation in a different variation, but she knows it hurts just the same.

And it feels dangerous. She technically has the upper hand on Justin in terms of damning information (what’s he going to say about her—that she’s a diva? He’ll have to get in line for that one), but she knows that’s not how these industries work. That’s not how society works, for that matter. Coming out about what he did in Malibu would be just as damaging to her career as his, if not lopsided in the wrong direction. No one wants to believe a woman, let alone a woman with a modicum of power; no one in an industry full of enablers wants to work with someone willing to speak the truth.

Even the one song she and Josh are putting on the EP, “Viral,” feels risky. It’s veiled, broadly applicable enough, that it’s highly unlikely anyone will realize its about her former producers. Some savvy Redditors might propose a theory, given her public exit from the label, but you could still chalk that all up to creative differences. Not to mention, given the aforementioned platitudinous obsession of romance by the masses, Maya is sure they’ll spend way more time assuming its about some loser ex-boyfriend. Suppose, thinking creatively, they’re kind of one in the same.

Speaking of loser exes, the influence of their actions are still heavy in the Bora Bora blue.

Although the sun is bright, her best friend is cast in shadow (as Stuart predicted) when she finally finds him. Farkle is on the opposite side of the wraparound porch, stretched on one of the beach recliners under the shade of a cabana umbrella. He has his novel as promised—some ancient classic with yellowing pages and a cracked spine that Maya can’t pretend to care about—but he’s not reading it. The book is resting forgotten in his lap, brooding gaze directed out towards the ocean feet from their accommodations. Staring at the view, but not really seeing it, mind a million miles away somewhere else. Somewhere she can’t join him.

Maya has seen this expression before. Multiple times in their storied saga of rivalry and reconciliation and everything in between. After his bipolar diagnosis, some of those past instances made more sense—when he’s in a depressive swing, it’s much more likely to make an appearance, just by nature of how his brain has decided to operate that day—but she doesn’t think it can all be pinned on his mental faculties. Nothing ever can be; no one is simply their cranial eccentricities, and Farkle is certainly packed with more than enough personality to refute that theory. Her best friend may very well simply be prone to gloom, as uniquely intelligent and talented and utterly inclined to overthink and overdo as he is.

Like the fabled genius Fiyero once said—life’s more painless for the brainless.

But more often than not, she knows, these glimpses of melancholy have a cause. Backstage during Les Misérables, when his father couldn’t even show up for closing night. The last week of school before Kossal auditions, when his forlorn features seemed far more related to the impending departure of their performing arts teacher rather than the audition slot he just threw their friendship away over days earlier. The quick appearances of it all throughout the second half of senior year, come and gone in a blink, when Isa would wander by with Chai Fresco in tow; the almost unbearable presence of it for most of the past year, after Jordan Nelson discovered Farkle’s beautiful, awkward eccentricity and decided to swallow it whole.

This melancholy isn’t internal, the kind that his mind concocts and inflicts entirely on its own. No, for this type, it has an assist—the shadows looming over him feel less like an umbrella and more like a personal storm cloud of wounds. The ones he did nothing to earn, but invited anyway, by virtue of being human and daring to desire connection.

This is the part of it all that isn’t so amusing. Especially when it’s hurting her best friend.

Even though she can’t reach him there—can’t step into the maelstrom with him and absorb the ache for herself (let’s be honest, she’s probably more built to withstand it; he failed fitness week, after all)—she can do her part to try to bring him back to Earth. To cast a line out, deep into his blue, and see if she can reel him in and bring him home.

“You know, the water’s usually much finer if you actually go in it. Rather than just glaring at it.”

Farkle jumps slightly, for a split second looking a lot like his younger brother. But he recovers quicker, registering familiarity rather than fear at Maya’s sudden appearance. Instead, he rolls his eyes, but a smirk lingers at the edges of his lips.

A little closer to Earth. Maya will take that victory.

“Sometimes you can appreciate something just by looking at it,” Farkle argues. “Some things can get away with just being beautiful.”

“Blah. Don’t say that, you sound like the patriarchy. Also, check your privilege, Farkle Minkus. You know so many people would kill to be able to walk right off their porch and into the ocean on a whim. Your wealth is wasted on you.”

“It’s not even my wealth, so…”

“For now. You don’t know what I’ve snuck into your dad’s mimosa…” He cuts her a glare of her own, which she matches with a mischievous grin. “Of course, I’d only pull that off once I’ve rewritten the family will in my favor.”

“You act like you’re joking, but I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“And that’s why you’ll still get your cut—because you’ve always properly assessed my skills.” Maya pauses. “Uri isn’t getting a cent, though.”

Farkle laughs, slipping out of him unexpectedly. It’s nice to hear—Maya hasn’t heard a lot of his laughter lately. She mirrors his smile.

But for as suddenly as it appeared, the levity flutters away just as swiftly. As the two of them sit in the tropical tranquility for a few moments, letting the lapping of the ocean do the talking, the melancholy creeps back up on them. The crinkle reemerges between his eyebrows, the sharpness in his blue eyes dulling again.

Summer has never been good to Farkle. Too much time on his bony hands; not enough projects to absorb his overthinking and overdoing mind. She knows that the lack of early leads with his agent isn’t helping either—he’s sent out a few audition tapes, but the melancholy is also eating into his ambition. She’s told him already that she thinks he should dedicate more time to getting his face out there, but it’s falling on deaf ears right now.

So she’ll have to create distractions for them both. “If you’re not going to swim, you should come inside and join us. My mom is making mimosas—no poison, promise—and your mom is going to teach me how to kill at rummy.”

“That’s scarier than poison,” he quips.

“Exactly why you’ll want to participate,” Maya taps her temple. “Best defense is to know the tricks of your compatriots.”

Charming. But it doesn’t do much to win him over. He brings his knees up and crosses his arms, subconsciously making himself smaller. It’s also strange to notice he’s wearing shorts—Maya sometimes forgets her gangly best friend even has knees.

“I’m good, thanks.” He keeps his eyes on the shore. “Don’t really feel like playing games right now.”

Not that she’s surprised. That’s the influence of the storm cloud, of the dozen little wounds in his brain scratching away their scabs and letting them bleed in harmony. It doesn’t matter what she would’ve suggested—Farkle wouldn’t feel like doing it right now. He hasn’t felt like doing anything, not since the summer started.

Not since Paris…

“Are you really going to waste our entire trip sitting around and sulking?” The question slips out before Maya can stop it. “I know this is old hat to you, but I’ve never been to Bora Bora. I was kind of thinking me and my bestie could tear up the tropics together.”

Sometimes, a guilt trip is a necessary evil. Farkle frowns. “I didn’t say that…”

“Also, are we going to seriously pretend like we both don’t know what this mood is all about?” Off his reluctant expression, Maya digs deeper, leaning closer and forcing him to meet her eyes.“You know what happened with Isa has nothing to do with you, right?”

At that, Farkle truly recoils. It’s like their former friend’s name is toxic; as if she just plucked a poisonous lizard off the side of the cabana and presented it to him.

“Same with Jordan. Both of them, the way they treated you—”

For a moment, some of his usual frenetic passion flickers back through his features. His tone is sharp when he interjects, almost biting.

“They’re not the same.”

Maya takes a beat, collecting herself. She didn’t mean to lump them together as the same collective evil, but she can hear how it came out that way. And given how quickly he jumped back to life to dispute it, she can tell how much more important one of them is to Farkle than the other.

And how much more it probably hurts.

She exhales. “I know. I know they’re not the same.”

Temporary wrong amended, Farkle returns to his listless form. He slouches further in his chair.

“But the compound effect on you all amounts to the same thing. And I’m just saying, it fucking sucks to sit here and watch you ruminate over something you had little to no control over. Jordan was a sociopath and basically played mind games for sport. Isa had their own bullshit going on—which both of us should’ve damn well known, considering they’ve had shit going on since before we even met them.”

Again, Maya wouldn’t claim to be an expert on relationships. But she feels pretty confident in this. She believes in her assessment, which is all that matters in her book. She wishes that Farkle could believe it too, that it was just as simple as converting him to her way of seeing the world.

“Neither of them were ready or willing to be in a relationship, and neither of them deserved their chance with you. That’s on them, not you.”

Farkle shrugs. Not convinced. “I have a long proven track record for fucking things up with people. Seemingly by virtue of just being me. You should know that better than anyone.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Because if you look at all these scenarios, all these case studies of total disaster, there’s only one common denominator.” He clenches his jaw, mouth twisting to avoid bending into a frown and potentially invite more emotion than he wants to acknowledge. Maya can see the evidence of it glassing over his eyes. “I know you hate science, but that’s called repeated trials. And with enough compiled evidence…”

Maya wishes she had a good counterargument. Equally damning evidence to prove the opposite, something more compelling than “because I said so.” She knows Farkle isn’t right; that his self-perception is so warped by past mistakes and untapped trauma and his natural penchant for critical introspection. She doesn’t have the perfect checkmate thesis that will get through to his brain when its sunken in the solemn sauce like this.

Though, maybe that’s not entirely true…

She does have Isa’s letter. The one they gave her as a last-ditch effort to reach Farkle after he fled New York; that they were desperate enough to pass off to her despite their own friction. The same one that is currently sitting untouched in the hollow bottom of Maya’s jewelry box. She has no idea what the contents are—maybe it’ll do more harm than good—but given Isa’s demeanor when they handed it over, she highly doubts that. Maybe if Farkle could read the words from somebody else, from somebody who actually contributed to the maelstrom, he could at least listen to Maya’s voice of reason enough to climb out of the pit.

But that’s not the solution. Maya feels convinced of that, even if she can’t articulate why. She hates keeping secrets from him, let alone one that impacts him so directly, but she trusts her gut instincts. Sure, maybe Isa penned him the most reaffirming declaration of love and fault and reconciliation ever written (though given it’s Isa—who basically holds the silver medal of piss-poor communication, second only to Lucas James Friar—that’s doubtful), but showing that to Farkle wouldn’t fix anything. It may bring him back to life for a minute, shoot some electricity back into those sad eyes, but it would only be temporary. A band-aid on the wounds that are always threatening to self-immolate; not a permanent recovery. She has this strange sense of certainty that if Farkle is going to move past this, if he’s going to abandon this form of self-worth and seek out something more stable, he has to do on his own. He has to find that power; there’s no shortcut to take, lettered or otherwise.

That doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. In fact, Maya is sure, it’s going to be a hellscape—for both of them. Because this is the part about the romantic follies of her peers and contemporaries that she can’t stand, that she cannot pretend to fathom. It makes no sense to her why someone she values, who is so obviously some of the best the ridiculous human race has to offer, can let anyone else hold such an iron-clad grip on their worth. Let alone, as in the case of Jordan Nelson, people so beneath their class it should be criminal.

And it’s not just Farkle. It’s Riley, stitching herself together by tiny threads just so she can keep showing up for everyone else, after some guy below her caliber failed to get his act together. It’s Zay, debasing himself and dropping opportunities left and right to spend time with the human equivalent of a saltine cracker, light salt (and okay, great that worked out or whatever, and maybe Charlie Gardner deserves a little more credit—saltine cracker with ranch seasoning, perhaps—but still). It’s her own mother, beautiful and resilient in the face of every universal wrong, having to deal with any of it in the first place because a piece of trash nobody didn’t deserve to even brush orbits with her starlight.

Maya can’t wrap her head around this stupidity, this never-ending pattern of injustice that seems destined to stretch into infinity. Promising to haunt her favorite people, the most undeserving victims, and give the worst wastes of human space more power than they warrant. It’s infuriating. It’s baffling. It makes Maya want to go to war, or at least slash a tire or two. It makes her want to shake her best friend silly, even though it’ll make no difference (and that powerlessness is maybe the worst part of it all). And when she gets to this point, when she hits a wall and can’t seem to find any other way through…

It makes her want to write a song.

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

[ambitious-2022]

This has to be one of the lowest Matthews holiday weekends in recent memory.

Given their quirky history, Josh knows that’s saying something. He remembers the first Easter after Cory and Topanga announced their divorce. He remembers the first Christmas he came back after he left for college in Los Angeles, where his mother was ridiculously passive aggressive with him and wouldn’t explain why (looking back on it now, the complicated feelings she had towards her youngest going so far away makes more sense, but naturally, Matthews are terrible at communicating those mixed feelings to one another). He remembers the Thanksgiving in high school after dad threw his back out, and he was stuck wearing a brace and was in a particularly foul mood because of it, topped off with the fact that no one else apparently—Eric, Cory, or Morgan—could find it in themselves to make the trek home for the holiday. Josh remembers overhearing Amy’s tears from the staircase to the kitchen as she prepared Thanksgiving dinner, and he felt appropriately terrible about the fact that he bitched a couple days earlier about not being allowed to go spend the afternoon at a friend’s place instead.

Yes, the Matthews clan has plenty of bad luck with holidays to go around, but this July 4th summer vacation is especially bleak.

Which is a shame, because all things considered, Josh should be celebrating. “Bygone” is soaring to heights neither he nor Maya ever anticipated, and Jupiter Records is demonstrating more enthusiasm and excitement towards their potential output than most would get from a new record deal. Josh is grateful to have this new deal at all, since he knows walking away from Global Beat could very well have been tantamount to a career death knell—especially given what he knows about his former mentors.

Instead, his prospects are somehow better than ever before, and he gets to keep making music without the risk of severing his soul in the process.

There is an effort to acknowledge this achievement from his family. Amy makes a concerted effort to remind Josh how proud of him she is, so much to the point that it borders on feeling forced, but he knows she’s being sincere. After their conversations at and after Jack and Eric’s wedding, where they hashed out all of their complicated feelings for once, things are feeling much better between him and his oft wearisome yet well-intentioned parents. Everyone congratulates Josh in some capacity while they’re gathered for the summer holiday, and it gets plenty of chatter around the coffee and dining tables. 

But many of these conversations ring hollow, because they feel more like filler than genuine engagement. No, rather, every empty discussion the group of them have over those few days feel more like exercises in pretending there isn’t something obviously more pressing to talk about, the depressive elephant looming in every room where the family gathers.

They need to talk about Riley.

Technically speaking, she makes it easy for them to do so, if they wanted to. Because even though she shows up to the holiday weekend with Eric and Cory, dutiful granddaughter plastering on her nicest, niece-est smile when she joins them at the dinner table, otherwise she makes herself pointedly scarce. Whereas usually she would be the one catching up with Morgan, or entertaining Auggie, or ensuring she gets in some quality time with Amy and Alan by helping them with chores or regaling them with stories about school, Riley spends most of the visit holed up in the attic where her preferred guest bed is set up. She’s there, but she’s not really there, in body or in spirit.

(Speaking of Auggie, he’s definitely a contributor to the sour mood this year too. Not because anything is wrong with him, per se, but simply because he’s twelve now, and thus he’s too cool for everything and no longer cute nor excited about anything. Clearly, their family needs another baby, and stat, to lighten things up around here.)

And even though everyone knows why Riley is so muted, what feels like a shell of her former self, no one really knows why. The gist is that Lucas and Riley broke up, a fact that surprises some members of the family more than others. The general understanding seems to be that Lucas dumped her, rather than the other way around (another shocking fact to some). But that’s about all anyone knows, and the confusion and uncertainty only makes the topic even more difficult to broach.

Well, for some people. Cory is, not surprisingly, not shy about his disdain for Lucas and has no qualms about spitting venom on his name whenever pockets of their family tip-toe around the conversation. Josh happens to catch the tail-end of one of these moments between Cory and Shawn, as they’re hanging out on the back porch where they grew up, the former spouting some remarkably choice words about Riley’s now ex-boyfriend that Josh is astounded his older brother even knows.

Morgan seems to share a similar outlook. Although she got along with Lucas well enough at the wedding (which was only a few weeks ago, somehow), she’s switched up her perspective on a dime after hearing how he unceremoniously switched up on Riley. After their niece politely passes on lunch for the second day in a row, claiming she’s not hungry before retreating back up to the attic, Morgan takes out some of this misdirected anger on the spuds she’s chopping up for Amy’s potato salad recipe.

“I swear,” she suddenly bites out, bringing the knife down on the cutting block pointedly. “I should beat his ass.”

Josh winces slightly, but doesn’t address the comment. He’s pretty sure Morgan has no idea the personal history Lucas has with violence—at least, he doesn’t see why Riley would’ve ever told her about it. Josh himself only managed to piece it together from context clues and subtle commentary from Eric and Riley over the years, only confirmed by Maya recently after the two of them were debriefing the breakup in the studio one afternoon.

Instead, he tries to deescalate. “Yes, surely that will help the situation. I’m sure Riley would love that.”

“She should. Or at least, she should just not care—he clearly doesn’t care about her.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Morgan lifts her gaze, overprotective glare now directed at him rather than the tubers.

“Joshie, let’s get one thing crystal clear. When it’s family getting fucked over, yes, it is that simple.” The knife hits the cutting board again with a pronounced thud, Morgan’s eyes sharper than the blade. “Especially my niece.”

Noble, and fair enough.

Even still, Josh isn’t convinced. He didn’t know Lucas that well (most people don’t, as he understands it); his familiarity only extended from their interactions at the wedding and whatever Riley has shared about him over the years. But Josh never got the impression that Lucas was taking advantage of her. It never remotely seemed like he wasn’t treating her right, or that he wasn’t one-hundred percent committed to her—hell, he saw the way they were with one another at the brunch and reception. Josh is well aware he’s kind of an idiot about relationships himself, mainly due to his long-standing lack of one, but all he had to do was look at the two of them to see how serious Lucas was about Riley. He saw the way he looked at her—and given he was at Adams by happenstance and not by choice, Josh doesn’t believe Lucas could fake it. An actor he is not.

But of course, that just makes the entire situation even more confounding. The dissolution seems to have truly come out of nowhere, at least from where he’s standing, and no one seems to have any clarity to offer that’ll help illuminate the situation. Not even Eric, who Josh usually relies on to spill the tea, or else offer a compassionate, insightful psychoanalysis of why people are acting the way they are. Even his eldest, wisest brother, a psychological counselor by trade, appears to be utterly stumped.

The next best source would’ve been Jack, given how close he is to Lucas. Josh planned to pick his brain when they arrived, but to his surprise, when Eric arrives at the house this year, he’s alone. Jack decided not to come along last-minute, and Eric gets bristly real quick when Josh asks about why or whether or not Jack could offer them any insight into the Lucas situation.

“You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” he says shortly. Giving Josh the fast impression that this incident Lucas has created may be inadvertently causing friction in more than just his abruptly ended relationship.

The most direct route to getting answers, of course, would be to ask Riley herself. But she makes that harder than usual with her ghost-like approach to visiting this time around. When she does make an appearance, no one dares to bring it up, for fear of scaring her off or putting a spotlight on an open wound.

Josh almost had an opportunity to ask her sooner, and he had every intention to do so. He was back in New York briefly for a weekend in June to help Maya film the music video for “Bygone,” and while he was in town, he figured he’d go check in on Riley in the aftermath of whatever the hell happened. He got word from Eric that she was currently staying with them most nights at the moment—a relief for Isa, Josh has to assume, because no way are they equipped to handle caring for this level of catastrophic heartbreak—so he planned to stop by and pay them all a visit after the shoot wrapped that evening.

And stop by he did, but he never actually got to see Riley. He nearly did, Jack and Eric informing him that she was upstairs if he wanted to say hello, but he only got so far as the hallway outside her guest room door.

Not actually a guest room, technically; he knows, from his own experience staying overnight at Eric’s, that this specific room was set up for Lucas. A mirror base camp for him similar to Isa’s across the hall, even if he never really occupied the space or made it his own the way Isa did theirs.

But for someone who knew him so well, Josh is sure that pieces of Lucas must have been lingering all over that room. Small details—minutia left behind, a faint scent in the bedsheets or sweatshirt in the dresser drawer—that would’ve been meaningless to Josh, but probably feel like a slap in the face to Riley. Or maybe more like a taunt, a bittersweet indulgence, the mocking embrace of something she knows and loves but can no longer have.

Either way, Riley is there when Josh steps up to the doorway, but she’s not alone. Someone else has beat him to a visit this evening.

Dylan Orlando is already there with her. Right in the thick of it with her, curled up with her on the bed and hugging her close from behind. They’re facing away from the door, so they don’t notice Josh approach, exchanging conversation in quiet murmurs. He can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but he can hear the gentle crack to Riley’s usually chipper voice that indicates she must be crying, and that this probably isn’t the best time to interrupt.

So Josh opted not to, backing off and promising himself he’d check in with her another day. She was probably in the best hands she could possibly be at the time with Dylan, who Josh knows has a reputation for being perhaps the most emotionally literate one of Riley’s sprawling friend group.

He can’t help but wonder now if he had remotely any further intel, given his closeness to both parties, or if Dylan was just as shocked as the rest of them when Lucas decided to detonate.

The promise of “another day” doesn’t arise until Matthews family vacation is nearly done, a couple days before Josh is set to fly back to Los Angeles.

In all honesty, Josh would be lying if he claimed he couldn’t wait to leave. Not because of the unbeatable company of his family—although that has regained some of its erroneous charm in the past year or so—but because of what awaits him after his homecoming. He and Maya are due to submit hart 2 hart to the label in the middle of the month, so he only has a few days left to put the finishing touches on it. Even though he’s proud of what they’ve managed to put together, assisted by the fact that they already had two strong singles to bookend with and Maya managed to fill that glaring hole in their track list after her own vacation, he can’t help but be apprehensive about what comes next. He’s never had a project this big launch with his name on it—he’s never had to drop his own work in front of the company bigwigs and hope it doesn’t flame out.

Or rather, he’s never had the chance to, he supposes. Hard to have anything to put in front of the suits when your senior producers won’t even let you put your name on a track.

Regardless, he needs this EP to pass muster, because he already can’t wait to get back into the studio to start working on the next thing. He and Maya have already cobbled together a handful of tracks for her debut album, and he feels much more inspired by that than the somewhat straightforward taste teaser that the EP actually is. He’s grateful for the opportunity, of course, but he knows this is just the tip of the musical iceberg. He knows, especially collaborating with Maya, that there is so much more they’re meant to create.

If his nerves will let him survive hitting submit in a week or so, guess they’ll find out. For now, he’s letting that deadline loom and kicking the can down the road as he hangs around his childhood home, stress eating from his mother’s never-ending supply of hostess treats.

This afternoon, that’s in the form of mini-pies—a leftover product of the real stars from the Independence Day feast. Amy’s pies are always tasty, but Josh has always had an affinity for the miniature versions. They feel more personal, and something about the condensed package allows the flavor to pack a stronger punch.

Well, naturally, Maya texts him, following an utterly charming photo of him stuffing half of one into his mouth in response to her query about when exactly he’s planning to get back to LA so they can hit the studio. The most dazzling delicacies always come in the most petite packages!

Arrogance notwithstanding, Josh kind of hates that so far, she’s proven that right.

The other thing about the mini pies is that it’s way easier to lose track of how many you’ve consumed. Josh is on his third or fourth—he lost count—when Eric joins him in the kitchen, eyeing how much roomier the pastry plate seems. He tosses him a look.

“Enjoying your apple bites, Josh?”

Given he’s got a mouthful of baked goodness in his mouth at that very moment, quite. He doesn’t bother to swallow before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know Cory is gonna throw a fit if you eat all the apple ones. How many have you had?”

Josh pauses. “Two.”

Eric raises an eyebrow at him. Not buying it. His eldest brother has always had a remarkably expressive face—he really should’ve been an actor. It’s even scarier when wielded by a psychologist; he doesn’t know how Isa can stand it.

“All right, three.” He swallows, then reaches for another one. “Maybe four. Or five.”

“God help you. But I guess you oughta enjoy your twenties metabolism while you have it.”

“It’s all good. I balance it out by living on coffee when I’m in LA.”

Eric shakes his head. “It’s a good thing you don’t tell mom anything. When Maya has enough money to hire a personal trainer, I’m gonna request she add you on as a plus-one.”

Brotherly ribbing aside, Eric changes topics. He confirms that both of them are planning to head to the airport around the same time, and that Alan is planning to drive them there.

“You ready to go back to it all?” Eric places his hands on the counter, giving him an inquisitive look. It’s almost more penetrating than the eyebrow. “You excited about the EP?”

Josh finishes chewing his mini pie this time, letting it give him the chance to collect his thoughts. He tilts his head back and forth, then nods. “Excited.”

Then his expression cracks a bit, betraying some of his uneasiness.

“Terrified.”

Seems like Eric may have figured as much. He offers a gentle smile. “It’ll be fine. You’ve been working at this for years; try to appreciate the ride for what it is. And besides, you know Maya will make it impossible to ignore.”

True enough. Josh scoffs a laugh, then returns the smile. “Thanks.”

It’s always been easiest to be vulnerable with Eric. There are the obvious reasons—Morgan is anything but cuddly, as much as they’re comrades-in-arms in this family, and Cory is so consumed with his own problems he couldn’t have spared a wit for Josh’s as a kid. Amy is supportive but overbearing, not to mention telling your mom stuff is awkward; Alan was always a bit hard to parse out, a man of another generation with all the emotional literacy to prove it.

It should’ve been equally difficult to connect with Eric, logically, given their age gap, but Josh never felt that way. Both because Eric put in the effort, but also because of his nature. There’s a way about him, some cosmic charisma, that puts people at ease. The rest of them didn’t get it—in fact, sometimes it feels like a core Matthews trait is being the opposite—but he did.

As did one of the youngest apples from the Matthews tree. One whose usually shining and soothing presence has been palpably absent this week.

“Riley’s flying back with you, right?”

Eric nods. “Same flight.”

“Cool.” Josh hesitates. “Might be the only time I see her this trip, really.”

Josh hopes that doesn’t read the wrong way. He doesn’t want to come off indignant or pushy, but he also doesn’t feel great just leaving their niece’s obvious discomfort unaddressed. They’ve all been dancing around it whenever they aren’t avidly gossiping about it, and Josh isn’t comfortable with either option. But he isn’t sure how to confront it, to bring it up without overstepping or seeming inconsiderate.

Being emotionally inept is another common Matthews trait—one that he surely inherited.

But Eric didn’t, and thankfully, he gets what Josh is trying to say. He’s not sure how he understands, but he does, and he offers him a vague but promising hint in return.

“Because we all know the ride to the airport is the most wonderful time to catch up. Although, you know, I may have caught a glimpse of a little birdie earlier signaling some movement…”

Eric glances behind them, looking out the window over the sink. Josh turns to look over his shoulder, following his gaze.

The treehouse. Riley must’ve climbed through the upstairs window along the tree limb, or else successfully snuck past them all when they were convened in the living room earlier.

Either way is equally plausible—Josh knows she’s no novice at sneaking around. She’s supposedly been learning under the reputed best, the last couple of years…

“A peace offering might help,” Eric suggests, sliding a mini-pie towards him. “She likes the peach one the best.”

Mission accepted. Josh nods, taking the pie and grabbing a plastic bag to carry it. Eric leaves him to it.

Once he’s secured the pastry in his pocket, Josh heads outside and crosses the grass over to the base of the treehouse. Every time he approaches it, he marvels at how simple it once seemed to traverse the thing; nowadays, he feels like he’s destined to break one of his limbs when he thinks about scaling it. It’s strange how so many things seem to get more difficult, not less, as he gets older.

But for his niece, he can risk bodily harm. As Morgan said, when it’s family, it is that simple.

Josh manages to make it to the top without incident, carefully poking his head through the entrance on the floor. At first, a quick scan of the interior doesn’t hold much promise… then he spots a pair of patterned purple socks, poking out from behind the wall on the opposite side of the wall that surrounds the tree at the center. Her legs blend in pretty well with the wood panels of their fortress, but those purple socks are hard to miss.

“Knock knock,” he calls out softly, doing her the courtesy of giving her a warning.

For a second, nothing. Then, his niece’s face appears from around the corner, eyeing him curiously. Not immediately dismissive, in any case.

Risking his precarious balance, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the plastic baggie. “I come bearing gifts. Should your majesty accept them.”

His usual brand of inability to speak like a normal person at least earns a small smile from her. She rolls her eyes, disappearing back behind the wall.

But permission granted nonetheless. “I suppose.”

Not her typical level of pep, unsurprisingly, but he’ll take it. Josh maneuvers his way into the treehouse, wincing as he scrapes his knee on the wood. He had better luck with this back during Thanksgiving, when it wasn’t so humid that wearing the protection of jeans would be a death sentence. Once he successfully hikes himself up and in, he rounds to the other side of the space to join her, plopping down next to her on the cushions and leaning back against the paneled wall.

As promised, Josh hands her the pie. After a moment, she takes it, delicately retrieving it from the bag. She turns it over in her fingers—nails half-coated with chipped sage paint, a remnant from the wedding that she hasn’t bothered to refresh—then hazards a nibble.

But the pastry is back in her lap before long, not too successful at rousing her appetite.

It’s not just the unpolished nails that feel uncharacteristic. Riley’s hair is shorter than Josh has ever seen it, dark brown curls cut into a close-cropped pixie cut. This response he’s somewhat familiar with—for all the single years he spent in college, his friends certainly didn’t. He can recognize a post-break-up chop when he sees it.

He’s just not sure it’s doing much to help with the cope of it all. Riley looks more pallid than usual, especially for the summer months; there are shaded circles under her eyes that she hasn’t bothered to try to conceal with makeup (suppose that hardly matters when you’re not letting anyone see you). Her eyes are puffy, so Josh assumes she must have been crying, but how recently or how frequently he couldn’t say. It probably doesn’t matter, at the end of the day—the reason isn’t changing, so the tears will likely come around again before too long.

Josh sees all this, but he has no clue how to broach it. Lucky for him, Riley does him the favor, skipping right past the pleasantries.

“Go ahead,” she says.

He tilts his head, feigning confusion but feeling distinctly caught. A light flush prickles at his cheeks. “What?”

“You don’t have to beat around the bush.” Riley pokes at the pie listlessly with her pinky finger. “I know what you want to ask. I know what all of you want to ask. It’s not like I’m not well aware you all are talking about me every second that I’m not there.”

“Well,” Josh counters weakly.

“So let’s just get to it. I’ll tell you what I know—nothing.” A warble creeps into her voice, though she works hard to keep it steady. “I don’t know why Lucas broke up with me. No, he hasn’t told me. No, he hasn’t answered me since. Yes, I’m pathetic for trying to talk to him still and yes, I’m pathetic for being so messed up by it even months later.”

“That is not true. And it’s barely even been—”

“And no, I don’t have any grand prevailing theories as to why. It’s not like there were flashing red lights, or lingering warning signs, nagging nuisances that I was glossing over to pretend like everything was good when it wasn’t.” She shakes her head at her lap, the confusion palpable. Like it’s emanating off her, radioactive. “It was good. At least, to me. There’s nothing obvious I can point to in the past year or so of our relationship and go, oh, yeah, that’s why. That’s why it was so easy to break things off.”

Riley lifts her gaze to meet his, clearly trying to push through, even as fresh tears are glossing the corners of her eyes.

“And it’s not like I haven’t tried. It’s not like I haven’t turned over every stone and picked apart every aspect and moment and exchange of the last three years to make it make sense. I have, okay? There’s no answer. There’s nothing.” Her voice cracks. “And I know people want me to be upset with him, or justify their suspicions, or say I told you so. I know people are worried about me, and want me to be okay, or find some way to make it okay. I know that’s why you’re up here too.”

He starts to shake his head, but she doesn’t let him interject.

“But I don’t know what to say, Josh. I don’t have the answers. I don’t have any answers. And someday I’ll be okay, and everyone will be able to stop worrying and we’ll all just move on, somehow, but right now, I don’t have that. I don’t have anything to give. And I’m sorry about that, but that’s how it is.” She inhales a shaky breath, declarative. “So you can go relay that to everyone else, if it’ll make them feel better, but that’s all there is right now. Nothing. There’s nothing.”

The fact that she threw an apology in there, in the midst of all that, speaks volumes. All this confusion, all this hurt and insecurity and utter bewilderment, and Riley’s apologizing to everyone else for making them worry. For not having the answers they want, when she’s the one who needs them most of all.

Unnecessary, but in this sense, Josh can relate. He doesn’t have the answers either. And seeing Riley, his favorite family member, sitting there teary-eyed and torn apart next to him probably only hurts a fraction as much as it hurts her, but it’s still too much. Because he does want to fix it for her, to have the answers to make this better.

But he doesn’t. None of them do. No one except the person who happened to create this chasm in the first place, and there’s no guarantee he even does.

So Josh doesn’t have much to offer, either, except his presence. Except his support. The same meager but sincere contribution as Dylan Orlando laying with her in the quiet, to temporarily hold the burden with her. To remind her she isn’t carrying it alone, not if she doesn’t want to be.

He shrugs, lightly placing his hand on her wrist.

“I just want to spend some time with my niece.”

No matter the state. No matter the circumstances. Riley at her best and brightest or Riley at her most broken, Josh will welcome her with open arms.

Right now, that’s enough. It has to be. Riley’s expression flickers, seeming like she might crumble… but then she manages a smile. Grateful, even if the glass under her feet is too fragile for words at the moment.

Then she scoots closer, letting Josh wrap an arm around her shoulders and hug her to him.

They used to sit like this a lot, when they were younger. When Riley was much smaller and notoriously a cuddle bug, and her biggest objective during these Matthews summer gatherings seemed to be winning over the affections of her youngest and thus unfathomably coolest uncle. No matter what they were doing—playing board games, watching movies, conversing after dinner as a family and somehow all managing to squeeze into the living room—Riley would find her way by his side and snuggle up to him like a lavender-clad puppy. Josh didn’t think much of it, most of the time, except some affirmation that he was nominally more popular than his siblings; for a brief period when he was growing through his awkward early adolescence, he kind of resented it, Riley’s favoritism and fondness feeling more like static cling.

Now, with time feeling slippery like sand through his fingers and knowing it’ll only pass faster still, he knows how valuable it is. Blessed with enough fragile trust from Riley to be allowed to sit up here with her and carry her grief for a little while, even if he can’t offer any solutions or answers. How fortunate he is to have the dynamic he does with his niece; to be growing through the pains of adulthood at around the same time even with his handful of years on her, comrades-in-arms in whatever adventures and agonies the next decade might hold.

Because if the last two and a half have taught him anything, it’s that he never has any damn idea what will happen next.

[ambitious-2022]

HEADLINE: Daughter of Valerie De La Cruz Commits to Giving Away Nearly All of The Late Singer's Wealth

[ambitious-2022]

It only takes a weekend for Asher to understand that Los Angeles is a whole other world.

Some of that is a given, naturally. Even though New York is no picnic in the summer with its concrete-exacerbated humidity (and no, he hasn’t forgotten the accursed record-breaking temps of the cruelest summer, before junior year), the city of angels brings a new commitment to the concept of hot. If they’re lucky enough to get a Santa Ana breeze here and there, that’s all there is to shield them from the creeping heat and relentlessly bright sun. Unlike Manhattan, with the towering skyscrapers and natural green of Central Park and its protective trees, there’s only plenty of barren, sepia-toned sprawl to reflect the warmth back at them whether they want it or not. Asher gets that the never-ending days of sunshine is one of Southern California’s great appeals, but he thinks it could stand to take a vacation or two. Good thing he invested in those new sunglasses.

Then, of course, there’s the industry.

Asher doesn’t judge any of his friends for wanting to pursue a career in this scene. He understand why. The opposite poles of New York and L.A. are basically the only effective avenues to a living in the arts, and he knows some of his friends are destined to be a part of that world. Jade is born for costuming greatness, and far braver than him, so he has no doubt she’ll be able to cut her teeth just fine wherever the journey takes her. He believes Yindra has the talent to make it big, and she’s always seemed more interested in music than theater (of which Los Angeles certainly boasts the commercial advantage); Maya Hart is already made of plastic, so she’s basically made for Hollywood—provided she doesn’t melt.

But that doesn’t make the creep of surrealism that permeates this side of the coast any less unsettling. Sure, New York has its own underbelly, full of cutthroats and raw deals and unappreciated diamonds left to remain dull in the diner grease of obscurity without a good connection or hand under the table. It can be just as cold, and calculated, and bitterly unsympathetic to the woes of a wannabe star.

But at least it will tell you that upfront. Manhattan won’t mince words after it chews you up and spits you out, personalities and prospects as hard-edged as the concrete jungle outside. You give and get it straight in N.Y.C., and you know who you’re dealing with. It’s a city full of actors, but it feels less like everybody’s playing a role.

Not so in Hollywood. As far as Asher can tell, from the stories he’s heard and glimpses he’s gotten, it seems like the performing never pauses in this camp. Everyone is nicer, on the surface, so many charming smiles and such effusive camaraderie—but there’s no obvious clue to figure out what’s sincere and what’s not. An interaction is a transaction, regardless of how much genuine good will there is between parties. Charisma is the name of the game, and flattery will get you everywhere. The starlit smiles are as high-wattage as they come, but there’s no telling if they’re legit—and there’s no easy way to know which ones are hiding their fangs.

To be fair, Asher knows he’s probably biased. It’s not like home doesn’t have its own share of vipers—Jade’s last boss, Anya Kelly, was about as inauthentic a mentor as they come, and she’s a staple of the New York fashion scene. He doesn’t even like Manhattan that much (city living is consistently a lot for a guy who hates mess, and noise, and even the most controlled chaos), but he’s anxious by design, and the devil you know is always better than the devil you don’t.

Even so, it doesn’t take him much to get confirmation of his preference for himself. When he accompanies Dylan out to Los Angeles for his first appearance at PlatCon, he gets enough evidence in the span of a few hours to corroborate what he’s heard from Jade in the span of a year.

Before they ever got here, though, it took Dylan explaining what exactly “PlatCon” even was. Shorthand for “Platformers Convention,” and no, it’s not some meeting of gamers obsessed with console models as one might assume. The “platform” refers to influence, as in that of a public figure, and the convention is rather a gathering of social media and internet personalities the world over with a large enough following to warrant an invitation. It’s a long weekend style retreat where the content creators to convene in one city (often L.A., given the remarkably high concentration of participants being local to the area), network, and engage with fans that fork over hard-earned money to attend.

Essentially, it’s Comic Con for influencers.

It’s admittedly strange for Asher to reconcile the fact that they’re even going, considering he doesn’t ever think of his boyfriend as an “influencer.” He doubts Dylan thinks of himself that way either. He’s rarely if ever trying to sell his followers something—beyond pop diva recommendations, maybe, or a baked good or two—and his “content creation” is far more scattershot than strategic. He never talks about his vlogging as a job (or a “professional pursuit,” as Asher hears more than one attendee at the conference throw around), even if he has managed to net some disposable income from it over the last couple of years. Although he somehow has managed to gain over one-hundred-thousand followers since he started his channel on a whim in ninth grade, he basically never talks about actively trying to build on it (to Asher’s relief—he tries not to remember the reality that he’s a known entity to that many people, however obscurely). Despite his undeniable charm and obliviously strong knack for winning people over, Asher is pretty sure “influence” is one of the last things Dylan would consider himself to have if asked on any given day.

But no, apparently, Dylan Orlando is an influencer, by all standard metrics. Nate makes sure to keep reminding him, after Dylan shares with the techie crew that they’re attending PlatCon in July. Nate throws the word around so much for a couple weeks, it starts to lose all meaning every time Asher reads it—which is kind of nice, in a way.

Influencer? Like the birds get? Dave asks.

That’s influenza, Dave, Isa responds.

Basically the same thing, Jeff quips.

After the first mixer event, Asher has to say he concurs. Not just because the idea of being a content creator seems to have exploded faster than a contagion—suddenly it seems everyone has a hobby they’re trying to commodify—but because most of the people he’s crossed paths with trying to hit it big (or bigger) at this thing have to be some of the most vapid people he’s ever encountered.  

Even Maya Hart isn’t this blatant. She’s a cold-blooded opportunist, yes, but you can’t say she isn’t genuine. She doesn’t have to turn anything on or put up fronts; she’s just naturally that psychotic.

When people here introduce themselves to him, in those few instances he’s on his own by chance and can’t just hide behind Dylan, no one seems actually interested to know anything about him. At least, not beyond his name (he keeps it simple with “Asher” and offers nothing further) or his follower count (relatively speaking, zero, which baffles just about everyone who asks). Either that, or they already know him by virtue of following Dylan’s work (highly uncomfortable to be cognizant of), and they immediately launch into pitching him about doing a collab, and could he put in a good word with his boyfriend? The cross-pollination of their audiences could really do numbers (or something, apparently).

Transaction, transaction, transaction. Would you like fries with your soul?

They’re not all like that, though. Asher searches for the glimmers of more. On the first day, he and Dylan attend a lecture by one of the more prominent vloggers in the activist space, specializing in environmental justice, who discusses how to use your platform to introduce a wider audience to more complex methods of community involvement (Asher notices many of the folks who introduced themselves to him that morning aren’t in the theater for that one). He meets a young woman from Colorado during lunch who tells him about how her channel started around the veterinary work she does for her local zoo, and now it has stretched into advocating for animal welfare and appreciation throughout the country. For every two or three creators who are seeking a cause to add to their “brand,” there is someone who seems serious about making a difference.

They’re diamonds in the digital rough, but they’re there. Hopefully, Asher thinks, they find their way out of the algorithmic dust and get to shine.

And Dylan’s not like the others. He reminds himself of that too. Sure, some of the other attendees could certainly match his boyfriend for energy and charisma, but they don’t hold a candle to his authenticity. No one else has a smile quite so endearing, or eyes that shine as bright, that are incapable of insincerity.

Asher isn’t sure what Dylan wants to get out of this experience, exactly, or if he even knew what he was getting himself into by attending. But if Dylan is here, part of this ecosystem, then it can’t be all bad. And Asher will walk through the unknown with him every step of the way if he wants him to—even if the lingering smarm might be harder to scrub away in the shower than usual.

All that being said, after a full weekend of similar programming, practiced politeness, and way more extroversion than he usually stomachs, Asher is more than ready to go home tomorrow morning. Especially his hands—this Los Angeles dryness is doing a number on them, and the subconscious, nervous fidgeting isn’t helping matters. He got into the bad habit of chewing his fingernails last semester at RIT; now his cuticles are paying the price, exacerbated by the dry skin and fact that he ran out of his travel moisturizer on Sunday.

Damn you, Hollywood.

He’s just finishing patching up his pinky finger with a band-aid when Dylan emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered and seemingly ready for bed. He’s wearing his gold Adams tee as a sleep shirt, the one that all the techies signed the back of at the end of junior year, and it fills Asher with more fondness than he expects to see it. Guess there’s something soothing about the familiarity of it; a grounding reminder than even in the insanity of brand deals and “global reach” and the millions of eyes in an online audience, they’re still just a couple of weirdos who met at school and flocked together. A silly, bizarre school for the arts, but school nonetheless.

That’s authentic. That’s real. Those are the remnants of a life lived that you can’t commodify into a reel.

Well, suppose you could, if you really wanted to, but he doesn’t think Dylan is intent on trying. His boyfriend flops onto their shared hotel bed and releases a sigh, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Given how pronounced the exhale was, Asher gets the sense he’s waiting for an invitation to talk…

But he’s feeling cheeky tonight, so he doesn’t bite just yet. He dabs another bit of Neosporin on the small cut he’s got at the nail bed of his thumb (hangnail casualty, curse the Los Angeles climate, etc.), staying perched in the armchair by the desk. He counts down in his head…

Right on cue, Dylan lets out another theatrical sigh. This one drags on, jumping around several octaves before devolving into a growl. Asher raises his eyebrows, but he can’t help the amused smile that inches onto his face.

“Yeeees?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. I don’t mean to disturb the peace or anything…”

Right. Asher nods. “Okay.”

Peace it is, then.

Only, not. Dylan frowns.

“Ash.”

“What?” He tilts his head at him. “Is there something you’d like to talk about, dearest one?”

Dylan sits up on his elbows, giving him a look. “You’re sassy tonight. What did they put in that cupcake you had at the closing reception?”

“Way too much sugar, for one thing.” Asher shrugs. “But I don’t know, I think I’ve just picked up the tricks of the trade.” He rubs his fingers together, like he’s got imaginary dollar bills. “Absorbed some of that magical influencer rizz.”

Now Dylan is really frowning. “Don’t scare me like that. I’m the one who has influenza, not you. It need not be catching.”

“God willing.”

“So I’m guessing you weren’t that impressed with PlatCon?” Dylan plops onto his stomach instead, propping his elbows in front of him. “What did you think of the whole thing?”

Asher figured that might be where this was going. Not just because it’s the natural topic of surviving three days of said event, but he could tell Dylan’s been spending the last day processing it. At first, Asher thought they might have managed to actually drain Dylan’s social battery too—a rare feat—but then he recognized the classic signs of Dyl introspection. He’s been less talkative today, more thoughtful; observing more than participating. Usually, Dylan doesn’t hesitate to talk things through out loud, even just to himself, so when he gets quiet Asher knows he’s weighing something more substantial. Not casting judgment, simply letting things roll around in his head until he turns them over leisurely enough times to decide what he wants to say about them.

Considering his shower was also about three times longer than usual—he typically can’t wait to get that boring chore out of the way so he can do, do, do—that confirmed his theory as well.

“I think it matters way more what you thought about it,” Asher says diplomatically. “I’m just the arm candy.”

“You are all the things that matter in this world,” Dylan retorts with effortless ease. All part of that unabashed, unaffected sincerity. No force, no sleaze.

Sincere sweetness that Asher is well accustomed to, and beside the point right now, so he waves it off.

“Regardless. I’m not the fish swimming in this producer pond.” He cocks his head. “Did you have fun? Was it worth the trip out?”

There’s a pause. Unmistakable, and one that speaks for itself.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a fun,” Dylan says.

His tone is halting, like he’s not even sure he believes it. Like he’s trying to convince himself. That’s likely the root of all the rumination—Dylan doesn’t like dealing with mixed feelings. He’s always good at finding the bright side, the silver lining, when something is unequivocally unideal; he’s not one to hesitate to laud all the praise on something that is positively positive (including Asher, in his eyes).

It’s that grey area, the middle ground, that tends to trip him up more often. When he wants to feel a certain way about something, but doesn’t quite, or can’t exactly put his finger on how he feels at all. For someone who is so naturally skilled at empathetically picking apart the nuances of his friends and helping them parse through it all, he hasn’t devoted nearly as much practice to doing so for himself.

That’s precisely what he has Asher for.

This time, he doesn’t draw it out with a tease, inviting the conversation more directly. “But…?”

Dylan huffs, rolling onto his back and shutting his eyes. Not necessarily keen to pick apart the complexities, but clearly glad Asher opened up the door for him anyway.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the but is. I mean, it was fun, right?”

“I think that depends on your personal definition of fun. Like, would I have chosen to do all this for a laugh on my own? Probably not, no.”

Dylan opens his eyes and looks at him, the slightest trace of worry in his features. “You’re not upset you came though, right? I know this isn’t your thing—I wouldn’t have made you come if you didn’t want to.”

“No, no. It’s all good.” Asher brushes aside the concern. “Is it my scene, no, but I was happy to be here with you. You know if you need me to be your plus one, I’ll always be there.”

Dylan lets that settle. Then, his lips quirk upward.

“Even in Hell?”

“Just save me a seat,” Asher promises.

The quirk blossoms into a smile. God, what most influencers would pay for that smile…

“Anyway, the fun of this remains up to individual interpretation.” Asher drops the Neosporin tube back into his travel kit and zips it shut. “And it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. You can take some for your fun bucket and leave the rest. So ask yourself honestly—your secrets are safe with me and these hotel walls. Did you have fun?”

With permission for nuance, and a little bit of time to consider it, the answer comes less cautiously this time.

“Yeah. Yes, I definitely had fun at parts.”

“What did you like?”

“It has been cool getting to see all these different people. Especially the really quirky ones—like that dude whose entire thing is paragliding with his hamster. It’s wild how there are so many more weird ass people out there with unique passions than we could ever imagine, and that there’s an audience for their freak. I love that.”

Leave it to Dylan to capture that veritable silver lining, while Asher fixated on the excess gilded gloss.

“And it’s dope how all this stuff, like the stuff we’re talking about here and the global online community, allows those kind of artists to find their people. Like, I love that.”

Asher nods. “Worked for you, too.”

“Yeah! Somehow. And that was really fun too—the fan meet-and-greet on Saturday. That was fucking rad. Especially since most of the people who came to see me were like, normal and not parasocial and insane.” The excitement is back in his voice, shaking off some of the exhaustion. He sits up fully, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his enthusiasm. “It’s like, obviously I know these people exist who are interacting with my videos and stuff. I see their comments and all that. But it’s totally different when you’re like, face to face with a real person and you make that human connection on the other side. And you hear about how you gave them comfort, or a laugh, or just something to look forward to at a time when things may have been hard, or they just needed something to enjoy. There’s something really special about that. I’m not saying that my silly videos are like, as profound as a Broadway show or Isa’s films or anything, but I feel like that’s what being creative is really about, you know?” Dylan searches for the right words. “Even if I don’t really have anything to say, it’s like, the fact that I said anything at all is an avenue for connection all its own. And that’s what being alive on this earth is really about, you know? Being connected.”

His mind never fails to amaze Asher. How even though he’s been with him for years, and he’s heard probably a billion words come out of his mouth, he could listen to Dylan talk until the end of time and never get sick of it. When his eyes get wide and glimmer with that undeniable spark; when the passion in his tone is palpable it’s practically radiating off him like a warm glow. Even when he trips over his own words because he’s speaking too fast or never exactly connects the dots or if Asher has no clue what he’s even going on about.

When Dylan speaks, he falls in love all over again. It’s never surprised him that the rest of the world seems to fall in love with him, too.

“So yeah, that was really awesome. And I liked a lot of the speakers we saw, too, where they talked about the actual mechanics and minutiae of having a platform and what that even means and what you can do with it. Some of that shit was like, hella insightful.”

“Sounds like good stuff to me,” Asher agrees. “So where’s the but?”

Dylan’s expression dims somewhat, coming back down to earth. Asher hates to see it, but he knows it’s worthwhile. He knows Dylan wants to have this discussion, even if it’s decidedly not fun.

“It’s just… I don’t know how to put this. But like…” A beat of quiet. “Did you ever feel like some of the people we met weren’t, like…”

His mouth twists, again searching for the words. Asher waits patiently, quirking his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, human?”

In spite of himself, Asher busts out laughing. Dylan is surprised by his outburst at first, clearly thinking he said the wrong thing.

“Um, yes?! No fucking joke.” Asher unfolds from his perch, letting his legs hit the carpet and slouching in the chair. “My God, some of those people were not well.”

Dylan lets out another exhale—this one relieved. “You thought so too?”

“Dyl, I don’t want to alarm you, but this thing you’ve stumbled into is like, a religion to some of these people. Like, the master grift of all grifts. I know we’ve been joking for years that Maya is as plastic as they come, but I think we’re going to have to take that back. Say what you will about our classmates from Triple A, but at least all of them were one-hundred percent, without a doubt, beautifully and fallibly human.”

“Best horde of misfit freaks to ever flock,” Dylan says sagely, nodding in agreement.

“And you can tell for these people, here, this is like, a career for them. This is their endgame. They want to make content creation how they make a living, however much of their whole identity that requires.” Asher waits a moment. “I don’t know if that’s what you’re looking to do, exactly, but…”

“No,” Dylan says without hesitation. Asher would be lying if he claimed it didn’t give him a rush of relief of his own. “No, def not.” He thinks on it. “And I guess that’s maybe part of it.”

“You mean you don’t want to spend the rest of our lives hawking Hello Fresh? Or Blue Chew?”

“Hello Fresh wishes they had my culinary swagger.”

“Okay, tea.” Dylan beams proudly. “But go on.”

“I guess it’s just the thing of like… having a reality check. Ironic, in Hollywood, but this is the first time my vlog has felt like… real.” Dylan runs a hand through his hair. “Like when I started it all those years ago, it was literally just for the fuck of it. I was just doing it because it was fun and funny and a way to goof off with my friends. And then it was a way to connect with people, people around the world that I didn’t know, and like… talk about shit and share opinions and make memes just like I would with y’all in real life. Just at a different scale. And all that time it was growing, and I was getting more attention, I don’t know, I guess it just… didn’t register. It never occurred to me that that meant something. Or at least, anything real. It was a cool little fun fact, but that was it.

“But being here, and meeting all these different people who are doing the same general thing but with way different goals and results… it just has me thinking. It’s kind of like college, but alternate lane, of like… what do I want to do with this platform I ended up building? What am I in this for?” Dylan props his elbows on his knees, expression laced with contemplation. “Because I’m getting older, and our lives are changing, and it’s not as simple as me talking at the camera because I’m bored and trying not to do my homework anymore. I feel like… now I need to know what I’m doing it all for.”

Asher shrugs. “Nothing, if you don’t want to. It can still just be fun. You should only do it because you want to.”

“I know. I know, and I do. But seeing what some of these people are doing with their platforms, like… that’s what has me thinking. Like the dude who gave his presentation on the environmental justice outreach he does. That was so inspiring. And I’m not saying I’m going to like, become a big activist or whatever—I’m not nearly smart enough to do that—”

“Sure you are,” Asher argues. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“But I can be more intentional. I can find ways to weave the fun part of content creation in with things I think are interesting, or important. Or whatever. Like I was thinking about when Charlie asked us for help with Rosie’s caroling thing, and I was able to put out the call on a whim and people came out to represent. That’s super small scale, obviously, but it still felt really good to help that way. Or like, helping Riley campaign for Jack. Did my input tip the scales, probably not, but it was something meaningful. It was putting this influence, for whatever reason I’ve been given, into a form that matters.”

That’s the difference. That’s the spark, right there on display in the glimmer of his eyes, that gives Dylan more life than half of these influencers could ever fathom. Because Dylan has so much heart, authentic and genuine—and no hesitation to put it to work. Because he’s unexpectedly brilliant, and unfailingly creative, and sees the world in a way no one else does; because he’s so much smarter than he gives himself credit for, and has the power to change that world to better match his image of it. Because he always sees the best, the brightest potential, in everything and everyone.

And when he doesn’t, when something triggers his Spidey sense to prod deeper and process more carefully, he’ll have Asher there to help him through it. Asher reaffirms that to himself, right then and there, even though they’ve already made those promises to one another more than enough times to get the message across. They’re only going to get older, and life is going to get more complicated. Things are certain to get weirder. He wants to remind himself every chance he gets; he never wants to forget how lucky he is.

And when he has the opportunity, he’ll appreciate it.

Asher gets up from the armchair and closes the space between them, dropping down on the bed to join him. Dylan welcomes the new proximity, beaming and naturally leaning forward to give him an affectionate headbutt on the shoulder.

Weird, yes. But his favorite kind of weird. Weird, and authentic, and sincerely one-of-a-kind.

“I think all of that sounds like a great idea. And you don’t have to figure it all out right now. Something to think about—and we can think about it together.” He mirrors Dylan’s grateful beam. “At least you got something out of this whole thing.”

True enough. Dylan nods, accepting that point and letting it assuage his mixed feelings.

He reaches for Asher’s hand, and suddenly his content smile falters. He examines his fingers more closely, lifting them up between them.

“What happened?” he asks, scrutinizing the band-aid on his pinky.

“Influenza casualty,” Asher jokes. Then, he explains. “Los Angeles dryness is not my friend. I wasn’t built for the southwest.”

Dylan frowns, indignant on his behalf. “Damn you, Hollywood.” He leans forward and kisses his pinky. “Guess that guarantees we’re never living here. I like my Bird Bones hydrated and affliction-free, thank you very much.”

Glad they’re in agreement on that front.

But in his heart, Asher knows he’d come here if Dylan really wanted to. He’d go wherever he wants. He has no idea what the future has in store, or where they’re likely to end up, but as long as he’s with him, then he knows they’ll be okay. Even at PlatCon. Even in Hell. 

As long as he’s in his right mind, Asher swears he’s not going to take for granted getting to traverse the unknown with Dylan Orlando.