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I barely slept the night before, and when I did, my dreams were hazy and restless. Flashes of golden-green eyes, bodies pressed against me, the song I couldn’t quite recall haunted every second.
The moment I stepped out of my car in the school parking lot, it was like a wave of shame hit me all over again, after seeing myself in all those strangers’ arms, in every post I was tagged in. It felt like the entire student body was staring at me. Like they knew something. Something I didn’t. Like they were whispering about whatever mess I’d made of myself.
Rationally, I knew that couldn’t be true. People had better things to do than obsess over my every move, right? Still, paranoia gnawed at the edges of my brain. I just couldn’t help but think I stood out so I kept my head down, shoved my hands deep into my hoodie’s pocket, and forced my legs to move forward. I wanted to blend into the background, to disappear between the noise and motion, to be just another face no one remembered.
Just act normal.
But I felt like some other version of me and my brain refused to cooperate. It kept flashing back to him. To the way he had looked at me. To the way I had almost—
No! Not thinking about that.
I braced myself for the worst—whispers, weird looks, maybe even someone outright laughing in my face. Instead, I got… nothing. No mocking, no hushed gossip behind my back. If anything, people were… normal. Or at least as normal as high schoolers could be on a Monday morning.
I still kept my head down, as I made way to my locker, and tried to focus on the simple, safe movements:
Open locker. Switch books. Close locker. Breathe. Pretend like you belong here.
Just. Act. Normal.
“Yo, Beau!” A voice came from behind me.
I turned, a little on edge, as Tyler appeared at my side, way too enthusiastic for someone who’d also partied not so long ago.
“Hey,” I said cautiously.
“Dude,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder like we were war buddies. “That party was legendary. You’re officially invited to every one of my future ragers from now on.”
I blinked at him. “I—uh. What?”
I was invited to more parties? Was this a prank? Had I been inducted into some secret frat initiation without my consent? What the hell was happening?
Tyler just laughed like I’d said something hilarious and shook his head. “I mean, I don’t remember half of what happened, but I do remember you were pretty wild.”
Which was deeply concerning, because I didn’t remember being “wild.” I remembered being deeply confused, overwhelmed, and staring at Edward like a lovesick fool. Also I’d rather not be called “wild” by Tyler.
“Right. Cool,” I said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to deep existential dread.
The rest of the morning was a blur of party recaps. Jessica wouldn’t stop talking about how crazy it was and how she spent all of Sunday cleaning the house, Angela, ever so kind, asked if I was feeling okay, and Mike, for some reason, looked vaguely impressed. He made some joke about how he didn’t think I had it in me to “let loose” like that. And, well, I didn’t know I could either.
“Didn’t think you could party like that, Beau,” he teased, nudging my arm. “Guess I was wrong.”
I forced a laugh. “Guess so.”
It was easier to play along, to let them talk while I kept my face neutral.
Then, to my growing horror, some upperclassman—whose name I either never knew or had erased from my brain for survival reasons—walked past and slowed just enough to ruin my whole day.
throwing me a knowing grin.
He threw me a grin that made my skin crawl. “You disappeared on me,” he said. “Missed some good stuff at the end. But next time, yeah?”
Next time? My stomach turned. Oh, absolutely not.
I gave him the best yeah man, totally fake grin I could muster and barely resisted the urge to slide down the nearest wall into the void. My palms felt clammy. What did he mean, next time? Had I agreed to something? Was I supposed to be somewhere with him? Was I being rude?
By the time lunch rolled around, my nerves were shot. I barely heard a word my friends were saying as we walked into the cafeteria. I nodded when I was supposed to, laughed when it felt appropriate, but my thoughts were orbiting one singular, inescapable, anxiety-inducing point: Edward.
And then I saw him.
It wasn’t even voluntary. My gaze locked onto him like gravity. One glimpse and it was like the rest of the cafeteria dimmed. He sat at our usual table, laughing softly with Alice and Angela, elbows resting on the table, posture relaxed, like he hadn’t spent the weekend turning my brain inside out.
Like he wasn’t still haunting the edges of every thought I’d had for days. I kept scanning his face, waiting to see how he’d act today. If he’d avoid me, ignore me, or if he’d look at me the way he did that night.
He wasn’t avoiding me. He didn’t flinch when I looked at him. He looked… perfectly normal. Like nothing had changed. Like I wasn’t sitting just a few seats away, losing my mind, wondering if I’d imagined everything, if I’d gone completely mad.
I swallowed hard.
Okay. Play it cool. If he’s acting normal, you act normal. Simple.
I forced my gaze down, poking at my food like it had personally wronged me, trying to will myself not to overthink it. I could feel him though—every cell in my body recognized him, tensed for his voice, for his attention. Even when I tried to ignore him, I was hyper-aware of him. Of the way he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. The way he said my name. The way he laughed quietly with Alice. The way he always knew when I was looking at him, even if he never let on.
Maybe this was for the best. If Edward was pretending nothing happened, then I could do the same.
So when I walked into Biology, I didn’t hesitate. I went straight to my seat, sat down like everything was fine, and when Edward turned to me with that familiar, unreadable gaze, I forced a chuckle.
“If I’m being totally honest I don’t even remember much from the party,” I blurted, keeping my voice light.
Edward tilted his head, assessing me like he could see every fracture in the mask I was wearing. “No?”
“Nope,” I flipped open my notebook with way more energy than necessary. “Guess I overdid it a little.”
He was silent for a moment. I felt his gaze on me, sharp and assessing, but I kept my eyes on my notes. Finally, he gave a small nod, like he was accepting my answer and the corners of his mouth shifted just a little upwards.
“Be careful next time,” he said, voice low, yet soft.
I tried to smirk, to ignore the way my pulse jumped, but my face didn’t quite cooperate. “What, you worried about me?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Always,” he said, like it was a fact. And my heart responded the way it always did when he said things like that.
I laughed—too fast—and gripped my pen tight enough to leave dents.
This is fine. You’re fine. This is normal. It’s just a word. You can handle this.
Before I could spiral further, Mike strolled up to our desk, all bright-eyed and completely unaware of the emotional crisis occurring in real time. “Hey, man,” he said, grinning. “So, about you filling in for Liam on the volleyball team—”
I blinked. “I—what?”
“At the party,” he said, like it was obvious. “You said you’d do it. We’re short a guy.”
I scrambled for an excuse, fast. “Right. Yeah. About that—uh, I totally would, but I just remembered I already signed up for the school band. And unfortunately, I don’t think I can do both.”
Mike’s face fell, big golden-retriever eyes dimming. “Oh. Damn, that sucks.”
“Yeah. Tragic,” I said, trying not to visibly cringe. I didn’t want to hurt him. When he finally wandered away, my guilt trailed after him like a kicked puppy.
The second he was out of earshot, Edward started laughing, low and warm. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I glared at him. “No, I’m not.”
“You just told Mike you’re in the school band.”
“Yes. Because I am.”
Edward raised an eyebrow, mouth tugging up at the corner. “Interesting. Because as the captain of the school band, I don’t recall seeing your name on the roster.”
I froze. “You’re joking.”
He leaned slightly closer, that stupid beautiful smirk still there. “Nope.”
I dropped my face into my hands. “Oh my god.”
Edward’s voice dropped, a little husky, way too amused. “There are no take-backs. Welcome to the band, Beau.”
I groaned. “You’re trying to kill me.”
Edward chuckled. “Cheer up. It won’t be so bad.”
I peeked at him through my fingers. “You say that because you’re in charge.”
“Exactly. Which means I get to make sure you have a great time.”
I groaned again, face muffled against the desk, but my lips betrayed me, twitching into a smile I couldn’t suppress. This was not how I planned to escape volleyball.
And worst of all?
Some terrible, stupid, pathetic part of me was already looking forward to it.
***
By the time Gym was over, I was wrecked.
Not just tired—full-body, soul-drained, legs-might-collapse-at-any-moment wrecked.
I blamed the alcohol. It made sense, right? I’d also barely exercised properly in months. I used to handle this stuff way better—back when I was still training regularly. Back when I cared about being flexible, light on my feet, balanced, keeping control over every single breath. Back when I still danced. At the time, I told myself I hated it. I hated the rehearsals, the posture corrections, the quiet, exacting discipline of it all. But the truth was… I didn’t.
I hated the performing. The eyes. The lights. The silence before the music, the way people watched—like they were waiting for you to mess up. The applause that always felt too loud and too far away, like I was being watched through glass in a zoo. I got good at it, but that didn’t stop the panic attacks—sometimes before, sometimes after, once or twice during. I’d get dizzy backstage, hands shaking, lungs tight, sometimes even after it was all over. There were shows I barely remembered getting through. Ones where I nearly didn’t.
Still… now that no one was making me go, no one expecting pliés and perfect turnout, I kind of missed it.
The movement itself. Not the performances. Not the forced smiles and itchy costumes and the panic behind the curtains.
Just the quiet moments. The stretching. The way my breath synced with movement. How music felt when I carried it in my body instead of just listening to it.
I think I only ever liked dancing when no one was watching. Is that weird?
Maybe it wasn’t the dancing itself, but the solitude of it—the way movement felt truest when it wasn’t being judged, timed, or applauded. It was supposed to be an art meant for eyes, but the only time it ever felt honest was in the silence after everyone left.
Is it still performance if no one sees it? Or is that when it finally becomes yours?
Maybe I should start exercising again. Running more, maybe. Something to get my body back to where it was before I let myself get so out of practice.
I sighed, dragging myself to the locker room, changing at the speed of a sloth, and by the time I finally got outside, most of the parking lot was empty. I didn’t realize I could move that slow.
I walked to my truck, climbed inside, and exhaled, letting my forehead rest against the steering wheel.
Just a second. Just to breathe.
The day had been long, and between avoiding Mike and volleyball, pretending to be fine around Edward, and the ever-present existential crisis in the back of my head, I was at full capacity.
And then the passenger door swung open. I jolted so hard I nearly hit my head on the roof.
“Dios mío—” I started, whipping around, only to see Jessica sliding into the seat like she owned the place.
“Hi,” she said, way too casually.
I blinked. “Uh—hey? Were you planning on announcing yourself before getting into my car, or…?”
She ignored me, shutting the door.
This was fine. Normal. Just Jessica committing minor trespassing.
She looked… nervous? Which wasn’t like her at all. Jessica was usually all confidence and easy chatter, but now she was fidgeting with her sleeves, avoiding my gaze.
I sat up properly. “What’s up?”
She hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to talk about… the party.”
My stomach twisted. I had spent the entire day avoiding thinking about that night, and now it was back, front and center.
I forced a chuckle. “What specifically about the party? The part where I apparently became Forks’ new party king? The part where—”
Jessica cut me off, serious now. “The part where you walked in on me and Lauren.”
Oh. That shut my mouth quickly.
Jessica sighed, pressing her lips together. “You—uh. You didn’t… tell anyone, right?”
“No,” I said quickly. Only to realize I did tell someone. I shouldn’t have even though I knew my friends wouldn’t tell anyone I still shouldn’t have. I made some questionable choices lately.
She nodded, looking relieved. “Good.”
A beat of silence.
Then, softer: “How did you know?”
I blinked. “Know what?”
“That you were, you know…” She gestured vaguely, her eyes flicking up to meet mine for half a second before looking away again. “Gay.”
I sat back, suddenly feeling the weight of the question.
How did I know?
I thought about all the times I had tried to convince myself I wasn’t. About the excuses, the bargaining, the hours of research when I was younger, desperately looking for something to tell me I wasn’t different.
The way it had felt when I let myself accept it. The terrifying, aching relief of finally saying it out loud.
The way people in this town acted, even if they didn’t realize it. In Forks, people didn’t always say what they were thinking, but you could feel it in the air. Sometimes it was the way someone’s eyes lingered just a second too long, or the way conversations suddenly shifted when I walked into a room. I overheard things—jokes, slurs, whispered assumptions—casual words people threw around when they didn’t think anyone was listening. And not all of it was about me being gay. This town was small enough that everyone had a version of your story before you even opened your mouth. I wondered… how those same people would treat me if I wasn’t the son of the respected police chief—if I didn’t have that invisible shield of borrowed authority around me. Would they still be nice to me at the grocery store? Still wave from their porches like we were all part of one big, polite community? Or would they say out loud what I only ever caught in glances and half-finished sentences?
The way I felt when I looked at Edward. When I let myself admit that I liked the way his voice got quieter when he was focused on something. The way he’d glance at me sometimes like he was thinking something he didn’t want to say. The way my heart had practically stopped every time I thought back to the party, to his fingers brushing against my neck, casual like it was nothing—but it felt like everything.
The way I felt the moment I told someone for the first time. Tía Isa had always been my favorite person, she saw me in a way no one else did. The day I came out to her, I was shaking so hard I nearly dropped the mug of tea she made me. But she just pulled me into a tight hug, held me like I was five years old, and told me she was proud of me. Told me there was nothing wrong with me. Told me I was exactly who I was supposed to be. But then there was my mother. She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She just blinked, went quiet, and acted like I hadn’t said anything at all. It was like I’d spoken in another language she didn’t understand—or refused to. She just pretended it never happened.
The day Tía confronted her, which led to the biggest fight I had ever witnessed. They were never particularly close and that day was the nail in the coffin. The fight, the feeling of being personally responsible for destroying their whole relationship, which even years of repressing couldn’t erase from the back of my brain. My mom lashed out at her sister in the cruelest way possible, yelling “Don’t tell me how to raise my child when you couldn’t even keep yours alive.” Those words—those cruel, unforgivable words—cut deep into the fragile heart of my aunt who lost her daughter only a year prior in a car accident. She’d barely been able to breathe after that. And my mom threw it in her face like it meant nothing. Tía moved away a month later. My mother cut her—and the rest of our extended family—completely out of our lives. And just like that, the one person who truly got me was gone.
The way Mom still acted like I didn’t tell her I was gay after, kept pretending everything was fine. Kept trying to set me up with daughters of her friends, making passive comments like, “You’ll grow out of it,” or “It’s just a phase.” How exhausting it was, to the point that I stopped fighting her on it, let her live in her delusion because it was easier than forcing her to accept something she refused to see. It didn’t matter what I said—she only heard what she wanted to hear. The fact that it took her a year to stop trying to fix me, yet never really acknowledged the fact that her son was gay and just avoided the subject altogether.
And honestly, that kind of silence? Sometimes it was worse than rejection.
And still—despite all of it—there was a strange kind of peace in just knowing. It didn’t fix everything—didn’t make it hurt less or make the past go away—but it gave me something real to stand on. I might not have had all the answers. I didn’t know where I fit or what came next. But at least I knew this. And even if the rest was still a mess, at least that one part of me wasn’t.
I thought about saying that to Jessica. But all that could possibly fry her brain. So I debated whether I should go with the whole I kinda always knew thing or say something light.
I decided on the latter. I sighed dramatically. “Well… it’s really hard for me to talk about, but if you must know—” I met her eyes, lowering my voice like I was about to confess something truly life-altering.
Jessica straightened a little, watching me intently.
“One day, I watched Pride and Prejudice like five times in a row, and well—” I exhaled heavily. “Matthew Macfadyen’s Mr. Darcy walked through that foggy field, and my life was never the same.”
Jessica stared at me.
Then, after a beat. “Shut up.”
I grinned.
“No, seriously,” she groaned, shoving my shoulder. “I thought you were gonna say something deep.”
“I did,” I said solemnly. “Did you see that coat? That walk? That look?”
Or even better, Edward dressed like him?
Oh, God help me.
She rolled her eyes, but was smiling now. “You’re the worst.”
“I know,” I said, still grinning.
A moment passed, her smile fading a little, she went quiet and started fidgeting again.
“I’m not sure how it happened,” she admitted, her voice softer, uncharacteristically small. “We were talking, and then… she kissed me.” Jessica stared down at her hands, like the answers might magically appear there. “I don’t know what it means.”
She exhaled sharply, frustration creeping into her voice. “I don’t know why I kissed her back. Now I don’t know what I feel. And it’s—” Her fingers clenched around the hem of her sweater. “It’s confusing. And scary.”
I nodded, keeping my voice gentle. “I get it. And… it’s okay not to know.”
At that, something seemed to crack open, because suddenly it all came spilling out of her.
“I just don’t know what to think,” she said, her words tumbling over each other in a rush. “Like—why did she kiss me? Does she have feelings for me? Do I have feelings for her? Or maybe I was just really drunk? And what if it didn’t mean anything to me but it did to her? Or worse—what if I’m the one making it into a big deal and it actually was nothing, and now I’m overthinking it? And does this mean I’m—”
“Whoa, breathe,” I said, raising a hand. “Let’s just take a moment before you spiral into the void.”
She let out a sharp exhale, rubbing her temples. “Too late.”
I gave her a lopsided smile. “Okay, first of all? That was a lot of questions in very little time. I think you broke some kind of world record.”
Jessica groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I feel like my brain is melting.”
“Yeah, I can see that much.” I leaned back, watching her. “Second, I’m not some kind of gay Yoda—I don’t have all the answers. But I do know that none of this is something you have to figure out overnight.”
Jessica looked at me, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes.
I shrugged. “If Lauren is queer, if she does have feelings for you and that’s why she kissed you, then she probably thought about it for a long time. You, on the other hand? You just got hit with this out of nowhere. It’s okay to be confused. To not have a label. To just… exist in that uncertainty for a while.”
She chewed on her lip, considering that.
“Maybe it was just the alcohol. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t. But the only way you’ll really know is if you stop freaking out long enough to actually feel what you feel. Not what Lauren feels, not what you think you’re supposed to feel—just you. No pressure, no rush.”
She was quiet for a moment, letting it sink in. Then she sighed. “God. Why are you actually making sense right now?”
“I have my moments.”
A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She shook her head, exhaling, like she had finally let go of some of the tension.
“Thanks, Beau.”
“Anytime,” I said, meaning it. “Just—maybe next time? A little heads-up before you ambush me in my own car would be nice.”
Jessica rolled her eyes, but laughed, and for the first time since she climbed into my car, she didn’t look like she was about to have a full-on existential crisis. Maybe she didn’t have her answers yet. But at least now, she knew she didn’t have to have them all at once.
And that was enough… I hoped.
**********
The next day, after class, I made my way to the band practice room, my acoustic guitar slung over my shoulder, already regretting every decision that had led me to this moment.
Maybe Mike had cursed me. Maybe this was karma for lying. Maybe I should’ve just agreed to volleyball after all—at least that would’ve been over in like a month, until Liam healed his broken arm.
The hallway was mostly empty, the late afternoon light filtering in through the windows, casting long shadows. As I approached the door, I heard it—soft, careful notes drifting through the air.
I slowed my pace.
It wasn’t a song I recognized. The melody was slow, achingly beautiful, full of something I couldn’t quite name. It pulled at me, the way certain memories did—ones you couldn’t place but still felt in your bones. I stopped just outside the door, listening, gripping the strap of my guitar case a little tighter.
Edward. I didn’t have to see him to know it was him.
There was something about the way he played—like the music wasn’t just coming from his hands but from somewhere deeper. Like he felt every note.
I leaned against the doorframe, holding my breath, letting the music settle over me. The last notes faded into silence, and for a moment, I just stood there, unwilling to break whatever spell he had just cast.
Shaking my head, I stepped inside. Edward let his hands rest on the keys for a moment, head tilted slightly, lost in thought. Then, without hesitation, he started playing again—this time, something familiar.
I blinked in surprise as the opening notes of Under Pressure filled the room.
The corner of my mouth twitched.
My footsteps were soft against the floor, the sound of the piano filling the space between us. He looked effortless. His fingers moved over the keys with a kind of reverence, like he wasn’t playing the piano so much as coaxing the music out of it. Something in my chest ached.
I took another step closer. Then another. He still didn’t notice me—his focus still on the piano, on the steady rhythm building under his fingers. I stopped just behind him, watching the way his shoulders moved with each chord.
“You know what,” I said right next to his ear, my voice deliberately casual. “I think I changed my mind.”
Edward startled slightly, fingers faltering just for a second before he turned his head to look at me. There was something unreadable in his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure if he should be scared or intrigued.
I smirked. “I’ve decided Changes is actually the best Bowie song.”
He blinked at me. “Beau,” he sighed, shaking his head like I was his greatest disappointment. “You can’t keep doing this.”
I shrugged, stepping around the bench and setting my guitar down. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules. David Bowie does. And he told me in a dream last night that Changes is the definitive winner.”
Edward huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, shifting over on the bench slightly. “Sit.”
I hesitated for half a second before sinking down beside him, my leg just barely brushing against his. He didn’t move away.
I could still hear the ghost of the last notes ringing in the air. Edward turned back to the piano, running his fingers over the keys absently. “And for the record,” he said softly, starting to play the song again, “I know you still think Under Pressure is the best.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the way my lips twitched up at the corners. “Yeah, yeah, you got me,” I admitted, stretching my arms out along the back of the bench. “But don’t let it go to your head, Eddie. I can still change my mind again.”
His hands faltered ever so slightly before resuming their fluid motion over the keys. He smirked. “I’d say you’re indecisive, but I think you just like arguing with me.”
I scoffed. “Me? What—nooo. Why would you possibly think that?” I tilted my head toward him just to mess with him. “Besides, you were the one who started this whole debate in the first place.”
Edward hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if considering. “And yet, you agreed with me in the end.”
“Regrettably.”
His eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, the amusement in them shifted into something else. Something heavier. “Mmm.” The sound was low, almost thoughtful. “You keep surprising me,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Oh? And what exactly is so surprising about me?”
His fingers stilled on the piano for a second—just a second—before picking up again, as if he hadn’t meant to hesitate. But when he spoke, his voice was smooth, deliberate. “You think you’re easy to figure out, but you’re not.” He cast a sideways glance at me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You keep me guessing.”
Something about the way he said it made my throat go dry. I should’ve had some kind of snappy response ready—should’ve joked, teased him, brushed it off—but my brain short-circuited for a second too long.
The door behind us swung open. I straightened instinctively, like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to. Edward, of course, was completely unaffected. He stopped playing and stretched, his fingers flexing as he glanced over.
“Hey, Edwa—” A tall guy with shaggy black hair strolled in, followed by others. He spotted us at the piano and smirked. “Oh,” he said, eyes flicking between me and Edward. “We interrupting something?”
“No—”
“Yes,” Edward said at the same time.
I turned my head to squint at him. He met my gaze, unbothered, a ghost of a smirk still lingering on his lips.
What was that supposed to mean?
Before I could overthink that, more students rushed in, instruments in hand, splitting off into what I assumed were their usual groups. The room filled with overlapping conversations, tuning sounds, and the general energy of people settling in. Someone trying out some beats on the drum set in the corner. I glanced around. I recognized one person—Ben. I made a mental note to go talk to him—he was the only person I actually knew here, besides Edward, and Edward was… complicated to say the least.
The room buzzed with easy chatter, the kind of social energy that felt effortless to everyone else but always made me feel slightly out of sync.
Edward stood up, stretching his arms above his head, his sweater riding up slightly, revealing a v-line. I looked away too fast, pretending to adjust my guitar case.
Get a grip, Beau.
The door opened one last time.
The shift was instant. Voices lowered, conversations paused mid-sentence. I turned to look, and there she was—Esme Cullen, easily my favorite teacher here.
She didn’t have to say anything. She had that kind of presence—the kind that didn’t need to demand attention because it was given freely. Her eyes swept over the room, lingering on Edward for just a fraction longer than the others before she clasped her hands together.
“Alright,” she finally said, her voice calm but firm. “Let’s get started.”
