19. Xander
XANDER
The air was filled with the smell of garlic and cumin as we chilled at an outdoor table in Little Havana.
Miami’s perfect twilight blue hung above us, with strings of lights zigzagging between buildings.
A three-piece band cranked out tunes in the patio corner—guitar strums and bongo beats backing our dinner conversation.
“So this loaded collector… who just dropped twenty grand on Chloe’s installation… asks her if the piece is ‘supposed to be ironic,’” Tara said, leaning in with her elbows on the table, wineglass in hand.
Chloe rolled her eyes hard. “I told him art isn’t a fucking riddle. It either speaks to you or it doesn’t.”
“What did he say to that?” Leo asked, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“He bought another piece,” Chloe replied with a grin. “For thirty thousand.”
Leo howled with laughter, raising his mojito. “To bullshitting the wealthy!”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, clinking my glass against his.
This night felt almost normal. Just four friends out eating, drinking, and laughing.
It was hard to imagine such en evening after the recent shit-storm of Tara confronting her father, and the growing certainty we’d been played.
But we’d promised to forget all that for one evening.
To breathe. To remember what it felt like to just be people, not chess pieces in Hank Swanson’s game.
Watching Leo and Chloe across the table, I noticed their easy vibe. At first, Leo questioned inviting Tara’s bestie to dinner, but I thought they connected instantly. Same smart ass humor, same talent for spotting life’s absurdities.
“You know,” I whispered to Tara as Leo and Chloe launched into a heated debate about whether a banana duct-taped to a wall counted as art, “I think they’re hitting it off quite well.”
Tara turned to me, eyebrows shooting up. “Leo and Chloe?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, glancing their way. “They’ve been flirting all night.”
She stared at me, then erupted into laughter so explosive that Leo and Chloe paused mid-argument to look over.
“What’s so funny?” Leo asked.
“Nothing,” Tara managed, wiping tears. “Inside joke.”
They shrugged and resumed their debate. Tara leaned close, voice hushed.
“Leo is gay,” she said, eyes sparkling with humor. “You’ve known him since Glasgow and you didn’t know he was gay?”
I blinked, brain buffering. Leo? Gay? I looked at my best friend—his perfect hair, his spotless designer clothes, his smooth charm.
I’d always thought his fashion knowledge came from being European, but suddenly, other things clicked.
How he set me up with women but dodged when I suggested girls for him.
“Huh,” I said brilliantly. “I guess it never came up.”
Tara shot me a droll look. “Never came up? Xander, he’s wearing a pink shirt with flamingos on it.”
“I thought that was just... you know, Miami fashion.”
She shook her head, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. “You are hopelessly oblivious sometimes.”
“In my defense, I’ve been a little busy for the last decade,” I said, half-joking. “Trying to outrun my demons and shit.”
Her smile softened, and she reached for my hand. “Well, you don’t have to run anymore.”
Her words hit home and I squeezed her hand, my throat tightening as I tried to swallow it down.
“Anyway,” she continued, mercifully changing topics, “Leo and Chloe aren’t flirting. They’re bonding over a mutual love of judging people.”
I looked back at them. Now that she mentioned it, they did have more of a “partners in crime” energy than a romantic one. Leo showed Chloe something on his phone, both hunched over it, cackling like evil masterminds.
“They’re probably rating men on Tinder,” Tara said.
“How did you know? About Leo, I mean.”
“Gaydar,” she said with a shrug. “Also, he checked out the server’s ass when he walked away earlier.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”
“To be fair, I don’t think he was trying to hide it. It just wasn’t relevant to your friendship.” She sipped her wine, watching me. “Does it change anything for you?”
“No,” I said instantly, surprised she’d even ask. “Of course not. He’s still Leo. Still my best friend.”
She smiled, genuinely this time. “Good answer.”
The conversation shifted as our food arrived—a feast of ropa vieja, lechon asado, tostones, and black beans and rice. Miami’s Cuban food scene was one of the few bright spots in my unexpected relocation, and this restaurant, tucked on a side street, was quickly becoming my go-to spot.
“So, McCrae,” Chloe said after a while, pointing her fork at me, “Tara tells me you’re quite the soccer superstar.”
I glanced at Tara, who looked slightly embarrassed. “I wouldn’t say superstar,” I replied.
“Don’t be humble,” Leo jumped in. “Three-time top scorer in the Premier League, two Champions League titles, Sports Illustrated cover...”
“Alright, alright,” I laughed, hands up in surrender. “I did okay.”
“More than okay,” Tara murmured, and something about her proud tone made my chest tighten again.
“What about you, Chloe?” I asked, desperate to shift focus. “Tara mentioned you’re an artist?”
“Mixed media, mostly,” she nodded, eyes lighting up. “I create immersive installations that challenge perceptions of space and identity. Or at least that’s what my gallery bio says.” She grinned. “Really, I just like making weird shit that makes people uncomfortable.”
“She’s being modest,” Tara said. “Her last exhibition was written up in Artforum. She’s kind of a big deal in the Miami art scene.”
“Stop it,” Chloe waved her off, but looked pleased. “Anyway, it pays the bills and lets me spend my days covered in paint and resin instead of stuck in an office. Can’t complain.”
“I’ve always envied that creative freedom,” I admitted. “Soccer’s been my whole life since I was a kid. Never really had the chance to explore other interests.”
“It’s never too late,” Chloe said. “What are you into besides kicking balls around?”
I laughed at her bluntness. “I don’t know, actually. Never really thought about it.”
“You like photography,” Leo offered. “Remember that vintage Leica you bought in Prague?”
“Yeah, I still have it,” I said, surprised he remembered. I’d bought it on a whim during a post-season trip years ago. “Haven’t used it much, though.”
“Jimmy was into photography too,” Tara said softly. Then, with a glance toward Chloe, she added, “And Chloe knows all the best spots around Miami if you ever want to try it.”
Chloe lit up. “Oh, definitely. The light here is incredible. The Wynwood Walls, the Art Deco district at sunrise, the mangroves at Oleta River State Park… I could show you sometime.”
“I’d like that,” I said, meaning it. The idea of having a hobby, something separate from soccer and its constant pressure, sounded damn good. And in memory of Jimmy. “Thanks.”
The conversation flowed after that, bouncing from art to travel to embarrassing stories about Tara and me. By the time we finished dinner and lingered over coffee and flan, I was stuffed.
“We should do this again,” Leo said as we waited for the check. “Next time at that new fusion place in Brickell? I know the chef.”
“Of course you do,” I teased, elbowing him.
“What can I say? I’m connected,” he grinned.
“I’m in,” Chloe agreed.
After settling the bill (I insisted on paying, over everyone’s protests), we stepped into the warm Miami night. The street buzzed with life—music pouring from open doors, people laughing and dancing on sidewalks. It felt like a party without a reason.
“Night’s still young,” Chloe observed. “There’s a great little jazz club around the corner. Anyone interested?”
Leo checked his watch. “I’m game if everyone else is.”
I looked at Tara, trying to read her face. She met my gaze, a silent question in her eyes. I raised an eyebrow slightly, and the barest tilt of her head was all the confirmation I needed.
“Actually,” I said, turning back to Leo and Chloe, “I think we’re going to call it a night. Rain check on the jazz club?”
Leo’s eyes darted between Tara and me, a knowing smile spreading. “Sure thing, boss. Rain check it is.”
“You kids have fun,” Chloe added with a wink that made Tara blush.
We said goodbye, promising another dinner soon. As Leo and Chloe headed toward the jazz club, I turned to Tara.
“Your place?” I asked softly.
She nodded, her eyes dark and inviting under the street lights. “My place.”
We’d barely made it through the door when Tara kicked off her heels and turned to me with that sly smile that always made my pulse kick up a notch. “Nightcap?” she offered, heading toward the kitchen like she hadn’t just spent the whole dinner driving me crazy under the table.
“Just water,” I replied, following her, my eyes glued to the sway of her hips in that little black dress. “I’m trying to cut back on the drinking.”
She turned to look at me, one eyebrow arched in surprise, and yeah, maybe a little pride gleaming in those dark eyes. “Really? The infamous Xander McCrae, turning down a scotch? Who are you and what have you done with my bad boy?”
I shrugged, suddenly feeling a bit exposed under her gaze, but in a good way—like she was seeing the real me, not the tabloid version. “Yeah, well... it’s time. Been using it as a crutch for too long. Plus, I figure if I’m gonna keep up with you, I need to be at my best. You’re exhausting, woman.”
She laughed, and filled two glasses with water from the fridge. When she handed me one, her fingers brushed mine, lingering just long enough to send a spark up my arm. “I’m proud of you,” she said simply, her voice soft but sincere.