CHAPTER THIRTEEN

S ebastian

He knows who I am.

The thought sends powder ice tumbling through my veins. One word from Luke Hawthorne to his brother and everything I’ve built—my career, my carefully constructed new identity, all of it—comes crashing down.

Maybe I’m wrong. He left the room, and I think his eyes softened, but I’m not sure. And to be honest, he always looks kind. It’s one of the irritating things about him, because I cannot, must not, trust him.

I sit on the couch, staring at the equipment I need to pack. A boa constrictor slithers around my torso, tightening around me in its terrible embrace. The immaculate suite turns nightmarish.

It’s fine. Really.

I mean, it’s no big deal if he knows he knew me in Ashcove. It doesn’t matter.

But shame bubbles through me all the same. It’s not that I don’t ever think about my youth, about the years before I had my muscles, before I’d bleached my hair, before I could walk into a room with confidence.

Most of my life was spent there. A decade ago, I was miserable. A decade ago, I didn’t think anything would change. And if I hadn’t had my interest in video cameras, maybe nothing would have. If my mom’s third husband-like figure in my life hadn’t owned a pawn shop and not minded if I used the video equipment, a fact, looking back, he should have minded. Caring was never one of his top qualities. Fucking my mom was one of his interests, and he could do more of it if I was occupied.

I fled Ashcove because I’d hated it so much there’d been no other choice.

Shame gurgles through me, scraping against my veins as it surges through my body.

I slide to the floor and press my arms against my chest. My heart thrums violently, like a frightened bird. But I can’t reach and calm it. No one can.

I need to go to bed.

I need to clear my equipment.

I can’t stay on the floor forever. I force myself up and start dismantling the lights. Each piece of equipment goes into its designated case, the routine usually calming. Even counting sheep wouldn’t be soothing now.

A text pings on my phone. It’s Ella. Relief moves through me.

ELLA: How was the interview?

ME: Good.

ELLA: I’m getting things ready for the hometown date.

I stiffen, then call her.

“Hi Sebastian!” Ella says cheerfully.

“Ella, there’s no hometown date in the Christmas specials.”

“I know. But he’s from a fishing village near Boston. We can easily do it.”

“Yes, but—”

“This will give us small town vibes. The audience loves that. This is perfect.”

I close my eyes. “No hometown date, Ella. Trust me.”

I sleep unevenly during the night, plagued by memories of being yelled at by Bryce at random times. He knew I was gay before I did, announcing it during biology class to a group of giggling pre-teens. He used to ask me if I wanted to lick his hairy balls and make me the subject of every joke. Whenever I would approach, because God, we had classes together and Ashcove High wasn’t big enough to swallow us both up, he would announce some variation of “ew.”

I never made friends. School was something I had to attend. I’d like to say there was a silver lining. That I’m tougher now because of the experience. I’d like to say that the experience caused me to concentrate on my classes, that I took solace in science and history and foreign languages.

But the statement would be absurd.

My mind was scattered, unable to hold onto topics and facts, unable to hold onto anything except the fact I was hated, despised, and laughed at.

Each class pushed me to the extreme. I couldn’t concentrate on the numbers or the readings. I never knew when I would see Bryce, and of course, Bryce was not the only instigator. Even when he was gone, his friends would tease me, because that’s what they did around me.

I left Ashcove High after graduation, but not on a scholarship to an Ivy League, the subject of praise by my teachers. I left with no plans beyond getting as much distance between myself and everyone I’d ever known.

But now I’m back in Massachusetts. Worse, I might be going back to Ashcove. I can change my appearance...somewhat. But I’ll always be the boy Bryce used to tease.

I hope Luke hasn’t figured out who I am.

I hope he never does.

God, there were moments tonight when I almost wanted to tell him. But that would have been ridiculous. Because all that would have happened would be that I would see at best sympathy where I’d seen curiosity and wonder. At worst, I would have seen repulsion.

I’m not ready for Luke to view me in that manner, and I don’t want to ponder too hard why that’s the case.

The hometown date better never happen.

I wake up groggy-eyed. Today is a new day, and it will be wonderful. It has to be.

I’m going to watch Luke play against New Hampshire. I make sure I’m completely packed, then head down to the massive breakfast hall. Guests tackle their bacon and sausage with the gusto of those who confine themselves to toast and oatmeal at home.

“Sebastian!” Luke waves when he sees me, and I smile at him uncertainly.

He’s sitting at a table with his friends.

I hesitate.

Luke frowns, as if I’m acting strangely, then he heaves a sigh and stands up. His cotton t-shirt stretches in interesting ways around his chest. My gaze bounces away from him, because there’s no way I’m going to be lusting after him in a room full of jocks.

“There’s a table this way, sir,” the waiter says, flourishes his hand in the direction of a few businesspeople whose pudgy frames and sallow complexions show they are not part of the team.

“That won’t be necessary.” Luke nudges my shoulder, brushing it against his own. “I saved my friend a seat.”

The waiter’s eyebrows leap up, as if even he can tell that “friend” shouldn’t be a term that describes Luke and me.

I don’t belong at the cool table filled with professional athletes. Not the table everyone is eying curiously, some people taking strategically aimed selfies, some just pictures of them.

But Luke ushers me toward it all the same. “Sit down.”

I do so.

“Coffee or tea?” he asks me.

“Coffee.”

“Orange or grape juice?”

“Orange.”

“What do you like to eat?”

“I can get my own food.”

“Yeah, how is he going to know you’re going to pick the good things from the buffet table?” Troy asks.

Luke scrunches his lips together, and the other guys at the table laugh.

We haven’t actually been introduced, but I know Troy is the Blizzards’ goalie.

“Fine. Grab your food,” Luke tells me. “I’ll show you the good stuff and get your drinks.”

Troy snorts. “Better do what he says, Sebastian.”

I follow Luke to the buffet table. He grabs a tray anyway and piles it high with more food than necessary, asking my opinion about scrambled eggs and pastries and fruit salad.

The other guys are still there, and I sit down obediently. Luke busies himself with making sure I have everything, then he slides in beside me.

“Guys, this is Sebastian Archer,” Luke says. “Sebastian, this is Troy—he’s my roommate. This is Noah and Noah’s husband Finn.”

My eyebrows leap upward for a moment, and the table smirks. Realization dawns.

“I-I saw you on TV,” I admit.

Finn and Noah’s romance was splashed everywhere.

“Finn likes the attention,” Noah says lightly.

Finn pinches Noah’s cheek. “I’m romantic.”

“Super romantic.”

Finn stares.

Noah stares.

Troy rolls his eyes, but his lips press together, as if he’s suppressing a smile.

And then, I swear to God, Noah and Finn kiss.

I inhale.

I mean, I’ve seen men kiss before. Obviously. I’ve kissed men before. Many times. It’s one of my favorite things.

I just didn’t expect to see it here.

The conversation changes to the afternoon’s game. Snow falls down at an ever more rapid pace.

“Do you think the game might be canceled?” I ask abruptly.

The conversation stills, and they turn their attention to the window.

“In New Hampshire?” Finn shakes his head. “No way. I know you’re a Californian, but we’re used to bad weather in the Northeast.”

I stiffen at the reminder of my carefully constructed California identity. Luke’s coffee cup freezes halfway to his lips, his eyes darting to me. Does he know? Does he?

Not telling them feels like a lie.