3
JULES
A light rain pattered intermittently against the windows of Bright Horizons Bookstore, the kind of March drizzle that hinted at the season’s unpredictability. The gentle rhythm paired perfectly with the warm, inviting hum of the shop, offering a cozy escape from the still-cool March air outside. It was the kind of place that wrapped you up like an old blanket, rows of overstuffed shelves, a faint whiff of aged paper mingling with the aroma of espresso drifting from the café tucked in the back. Perfect for a rainy grey Saturday. I hadn’t stepped foot in this bookstore in years, but it felt like no time had passed. The posters advertising local events and author readings plastered across the entryway were new, but the cozy reading nooks and mismatched chairs were the same, down to the faded fabric on my favorite armchair near the fiction section.
I set my umbrella by the door and shook the rain off my jacket, glancing around with a grin. Bright Horizons had always been one of my favorite spots in Havenwood. Even now, years later, it felt like a time capsule of the life I’d left behind. The creak of the wooden floorboards under my feet was familiar, grounding me in a way that nothing else quite did.
“Still the same old Jules,” Callie Nguyen’s voice called from somewhere near the queer lit table. “Late as usual.”
I rolled my eyes as I weaved through the aisles toward them. “I’m not late,” I countered. “I’m just… unpredictably on time.”
Callie was leaning casually against the table stacked high with books, their petite but athletic frame draped in one of their signature jackets, a bold patchwork of fabrics that shouldn’t have worked together but somehow did. Their chin-length black bob gleamed under the soft bookstore lights, the precision of the cut accentuating the sharp angles of their jaw. A constellation of freckles dusted their nose and cheeks, softening the striking intensity of their dark, almond-shaped eyes, which were lined with their trademark winged eyeliner. As always, their look was effortlessly pulled together, with high-waisted jeans giving them an air of playful but polished confidence.
Their grin widened as they saw me. “Uh-huh,” Callie said, handing me a book without even looking at the title. “Here. Something for your Midsummer research.”
I glanced at the cover and snorted. “A How-to Guide for Fairy Gardens? Very helpful. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” They winked, unbothered by my sarcasm. “So, what are we fighting about today?”
I grinned, knowing exactly where this was going. Callie and I never needed much to spark a debate, and this table, with its mix of old classics and glossy contemporary covers, was practically a battleground waiting to happen. I picked up a brightly colored novel and held it out for emphasis.
“Queer lit,” I declared. “I’m just saying, we need more of this. Messy, unapologetic queer protagonists. Not everything has to be a coming-out story or some tragic drama.”
Callie folded their arms, their grin turning playful as they glanced at the stack. “Oh, so you’re just erasing the classics now? What about the stories that paved the way for all your chaotic, joyful space pirate fantasies?”
The ribbing stung just enough to make me laugh. “First of all, space pirates deserve their due.” I clutched the book dramatically to my chest. “Secondly, you’re just mad because I’m right.”
“Mad? Never. Entertained? Always.” Callie’s laugh rang out, their voice smooth and filled with easy confidence, earning us a few side-eyes from nearby browsers. But they didn’t care, and honestly, neither did I.
This was Callie to a T: unapologetically bold, effortlessly charming, and always ready to dive headfirst into a spirited argument. They’d been like this in high school too, dragging me into thrift stores when I was too stuck in my head or convincing me to join an impromptu poetry reading in the park. Even now, after years apart, falling back into this rhythm felt like coming home.
“Okay, fine,” Callie conceded with a dramatic sigh, holding up their hands. “I’ll allow the space pirates. But only if they have fabulous hair.”
“Obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Have you met me?”
Their quick, disarming smile flashed as they reached into their crossbody bag, likely filled with an assortment of sketch pads and fabric swatches. The way Callie could mix banter with affection always made conversations with them feel like sparring with a sibling, equal parts challenge and camaraderie.
The debate was playful, sure, but I couldn’t help feeling a deeper connection to the books on the table, and to the argument itself. After spending years away, working on activist projects and constantly moving, returning to Havenwood to direct A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Playhouse had felt like both a homecoming and a challenge. The play was a dream, literally, an excuse to reimagine familiar material and inject it with queer joy, bold visuals, and unapologetic individuality. But my creativity felt… rusty. Hence the stacks of books.
“Honestly, I could use some inspiration,” I admitted, gesturing to the table. “The costumes, the energy, the fairies, I want it all to feel fresh. Joyful, messy, magical. Like these stories.”
Callie arched an eyebrow. “You’re putting a lot of pressure on one play, Jules.”
“Because it matters,” I said simply. “Queer stories, on stage, on the page, anywhere, they matter. They deserve to be as big and loud and colorful as everyone else’s.”
Callie’s smirk softened into something warmer. “And that’s why you’re the one directing. You’ll make it brilliant, Jules. You always do.”
Before I could thank them, or deflect with a snarky comment, a quiet voice interrupted.
“I think Baldwin would agree with you,” the voice said, steady and soft. “He once said that artists have to bear witness to the truth.”
Callie and I turned toward the voice in unison. A man stood a few shelves away, holding a book about queer figures from the Harlem Renaissance. His neatly cropped sandy brown hair, streaked faintly with grey at the temples, complemented the quiet intelligence in his hazel eyes. The tailored jacket he wore, subtly checkered in muted green, fit well over his solid, slightly broad frame, giving him a polished, academic air. Yet, there was an endearing softness in the way he adjusted his rectangular glasses, as if unsure he belonged in this moment.
“Baldwin, huh?” I said, tilting my head, a slow smile creeping across my face. “Not a bad choice.”
Callie, always quick to pick up on a shift in energy, grinned and took a step back, but unashamed of being heard said, “Well, this just got interesting. I’m grabbing coffee before the sparks start flying. Don’t burn the place down, you two.”
I barely noticed Callie leaving. My focus had locked onto the man who looked like he might regret speaking up. His grip on the book tightened, knuckles brushing against the edge of a simple but classic wristwatch. There was something striking about the way he held himself, like he was both perfectly put together and on the verge of disappearing into the background. I cleared my throat and took a step closer, my curiosity piqued. “You always quote Baldwin to strangers in bookstores?” I asked, tilting my head slightly.
He crossed his arms and smiled. "Oh, absolutely. Quoting Baldwin in bookstores is part of my personal brand. Right between alphabetizing my spice rack and debating the queer subtext in Frankenstein with unsuspecting strangers."
I blinked, then let out a short laugh. "Wow. That might be the most curated personality I've ever heard. Do you have a business card, or do I just follow the scent of well-organized existential crisis?"
He chuckled to himself as he began to walk on. “So,” I said, taking a step closer and letting curiosity soften my tone, “what’s your story? You don’t exactly give off ‘jump into debates with strangers’ vibes. I’m Jules. Jules Moreno.”
He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. For a moment, I thought he might retreat entirely, but then he spoke, his voice measured and calm. “I’m… a history teacher. Here in town.”
A local. That was interesting. The quiet, bookish type wasn’t exactly common in Havenwood, or at least, not the part of Havenwood I remembered. “No kidding,” I said, leaning casually against the table and crossing my arms. “I grew up here too. Just moved back after a long stint of… adventuring.”
“Adventuring?” His eyebrow arched slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was subtle, restrained, like he didn’t want to give too much away.
“It was,” I said with a shrug, as if my life could be summed up in two words. “But there’s something nice about being back. Familiar faces, new ones… like yours.”
That seemed to catch him off guard. His posture shifted, just a fraction, his shoulders straightened like he was trying to decide whether to meet the moment or retreat from it. His eyes flicked briefly toward the café counter where Callie was no doubt watching us, grinning like a cat with a secret. I softened my tone, taking a step back to ease the tension.
“You’re not used to this kind of thing, huh?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
He shook his head, his faint smile returning as if it had been coaxed out of hiding. “Not exactly.”
The silence between us stretched, just long enough to brush against awkwardness without quite falling into it. It felt like the moment was tipping toward goodbye before he nodded slightly. “I should… get going.”
“Sure,” I said, my smile turning playful to lighten the weight of his exit. “But don’t be a stranger, Teach.”
His polite smile lingered for a moment, a hint of something thoughtful in his expression, before he turned and walked toward the register. I watched him go, my gaze inevitably dropping to the way his perfectly pressed pants fitted snugly over his amazing ass as he moved, deliberate and purposeful, like he calculated every step. My chest buzzed faintly, curiosity mixing with a touch of something I didn’t care to name.
As he passed a pair of teens in the corner giggling over their iced coffees, they perked up and waved enthusiastically. “Hi, Mr. Brooks!” one of them called, grinning. He returned the greeting with a quick nod and that same understated warmth in his voice. Mr. Brooks, I repeated silently, filing the name away, though it gave me no real insight into the man who’d already made quite an impression.
“You’re staring,” Callie said, appearing suddenly at my side with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Their grin, as always, was infuriatingly self-satisfied.
“I am not,” I shot back, though I felt the heat rising to my cheeks.
“Uh-huh.” They leaned against the table, stirring their coffee lazily. “So? What’s the deal with Mr. History Teacher?”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t quite stop the smirk that crept onto my face. “Quiet, thoughtful, definitely doesn’t know what to do with someone like me.”
Callie laughed, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Sounds like a project. You gonna see him again?”
“Who knows?” I said with a shrug, turning my attention back to the stack of books. But as I ran my fingers over the spines, my mind wandered back to the man with the tailored jacket and the Baldwin quote. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Callie grinned knowingly. “Might be good for you, you know. Somebody to balance out all your chaos.”
I shot them a look but didn’t argue. Callie had been my grounding force for years, ever since we’d spent our high school days tearing through thrift stores and crashing every open mic night within driving distance. They knew me better than most, knew how easily I got restless, how often I left without looking back. But they also knew when to push me, and I could see that glint in their eye now.
Through the rain-speckled window, I caught one last glimpse of him stepping into the street, his book tucked under his arm. His silhouette blurred slightly against the grey afternoon, but something about him stuck in my mind. A quiet spark, unexpected but intriguing, in the familiar streets of Havenwood.
“Well,” Callie said, breaking the moment, “if this turns into something, I call dibs on officiating the wedding.”
I shoved them playfully, laughing despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it.”
They weren’t wrong.
Before I could retort, two teens appeared at the end of the aisle, whispering and glancing in my direction like they’d just stumbled upon a unicorn. Callie turned to follow my gaze, instantly catching on. “Oh, great. Your adoring fans,” they muttered, crossing their arms with an exaggerated sigh.
The braver of the two stepped forward, a wiry teen with teal-tipped jet-black hair styled in a short, tapered cut. Their slim frame moved with restless energy, hands fidgeting with the hem of their oversized graphic tee, which bore an abstract design in bold colors. A silver hoop glinted in their left ear, catching the bookstore’s soft lighting. “Um, excuse me,” they started, their voice cracking slightly with nerves. “Are you Jules Moreno?”
I blinked, caught off guard, but managed a smile. “I am. And you are…?”
“I’m Jayden!” they said quickly, motioning to their shorter friend, who was wearing a hoodie covered in enamel pins. “This is Maya. We’re huge fans. Like, huge fans. Your videos on design and storytelling are, like, everything to us.”
“Oh my gosh,” Maya gushed, gripping the edges of her hoodie. “I can’t believe you’re here. In Havenwood. At this bookstore.”
Callie, leaning against a nearby shelf, pretended to stifle a yawn. “It’s Jules. He’s just a person,” they teased, smirking at me. “Don’t let it go to your head, superstar.”
Ignoring Callie, I focused on the teens, feeling a genuine warmth spread through me. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you both to say. Do you live here?”
Jayden nodded eagerly. “Yeah, we’re students at Havenwood High. We’re in the GSA, Maya’s the president, and I’m the VP.”
“Would you mind,” Maya started, holding up her phone sheepishly, “could we get a selfie with you? It would mean so much.”
“Of course,” I said, grinning. The kids scrambled to position themselves, and I crouched slightly to fit into the frame. Maya snapped a photo, then another “just in case,” her hands trembling slightly with excitement.
“Thank you so much!” Jayden said, tucking their phone away. Their dark, thoughtful eyes gleamed with excitement as they added, “Actually, we were wondering… Would you ever consider coming to speak to our GSA? It’s a small group, but we’d love to hear about your work and your journey. You’re such an inspiration.”
I didn’t even hesitate. “I’d love to. Let me give you my number so we can set it up.”
I reached into my bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a small notepad and pen. With a quick, fluid motion, I scribbled down my number, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Jayden with a grin.
“Here you go,” I said. “Shoot me a text, and we’ll figure out a time that works. I’m excited to meet everyone.”
Jayden hesitated for a beat before glancing down at the paper, then back up at Jules. “Would it be okay if I passed this on to our teacher? He’s the one organizing things, so he can help set it up.”
My smile widened. “That’s perfect. I look forward to talking with him.”
“You’re seriously the best,” Maya said, clutching her phone like it was a golden ticket. “Thank you!”
The two thanked me about three more times before dashing out of the bookstore, their excited chatter echoing as the door swung shut behind them. Callie let out a low whistle, pushing off the shelf. “Well, well, aren’t you the local celebrity? You’d better watch out, or they’ll start naming streets after you.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling. “They were sweet. And they’re doing important work with their GSA.”
Callie smirked, patting me on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Keep that humility act going. But don’t forget, I knew you before you were a big deal.”
“Noted,” I said dryly, though the glow of the moment lingered as we returned to browsing.
Callie reached for a book on the shelf, flipping through the pages absently. “You know, it’s kinda cool,” they said, their voice more thoughtful now. “Seeing kids look up to you like that. It’s not just about the work you do, Jules. It’s about who you are.”
I paused, glancing at them. “You’re getting sentimental on me, Nguyen.”
“Don’t get used to it,” they shot back, smirking. “But seriously. They see something in you that resonates. And that’s worth something.”
I exhaled, considering that. The idea that my work, my voice, could mean something real to people beyond a stage. That it could help kids like Jayden and Maya see themselves more clearly, more confidently. It was humbling. And terrifying. And exhilarating all at once.
“Yeah,” I finally said, my voice softer. “I hope so.”
Callie grinned. “Well, if you ever need a reminder, I’m happy to keep your ego in check.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Good to know.”
We fell back into browsing, but the bookstore felt a little different now, warmer, more alive. Maybe, just maybe, this homecoming was exactly what I needed.