Chapter 8 #2
“Yeah.” My throat’s tight, because I want him to get it, to really feel what this means. “I don’t know if we’re ready, but we’re gonna try. We’ve got a week to put something together.”
“I don’t doubt you will.” And there’s something in the way he says it—simple, solid, like he’s already certain of me—that damn near undoes me.
The silence between us stretches, warm and weighted. But in this moment, it feels like the line between us is a lifeline, not a divide.
“Rafe?” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called.”
My chest aches, sharp and sweet. “Me too, Captain. Me too.”
I hear him breathe out, almost like he’s smiling, though I can’t see it. I drum my fingers against the bedspread, restless as hell, because part of me wants to keep him here all night. Just his voice in my ear, no cameras, no governor, no basketball pressure. Just Ollie.
“So,” I say, trying to keep it light, “what’s the tux situation? Classic black? Or are you pulling off some James Bond navy velvet shit?”
He laughs—really laughs, low and unguarded. The kind that doesn’t sound like anyone else but him. “Classic black. No velvet. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Damn shame,” I tease. “I could’ve written a whole song about velvet Ollie.”
He groans, but it’s full of warmth. “Please don’t.”
“Too late. Lyrics are already happening.” I grin into the phone, because his laugh does things to me I can’t explain.
We drift quieter after that, but not in a bad way.
It’s easy, like letting a record play on the last groove.
He asks about Rosa, if she’s still bossing me around.
I tell him she’s upgraded from bossing me around to stealing my clothes.
He admits Lindy does the same, though she texts him first so he knows what’s missing.
“I miss her,” he says, softer now. “Though if I’d managed to get an invite to Aspen over the holidays and not come home, I would have taken it too.”
The admission sits heavy. It’s rare for him to crack open even a little, and I feel it like a gift. “Bet she misses you too,” I say, even as my gut twists for him that being home is the last place he wants to be.
There’s a pause, like maybe he’s thinking of saying something more, but before he can, a voice cuts sharp in the background. A woman, firm but not unkind, says, “Oliver! The car is waiting—come on. We’re leaving in five.”
My gut twists. He’s heading to a world of crystal flutes and cameras and last names that open doors.
He sighs, quick and quiet. “That’s my cue.”
“Duty calls.” I keep my voice easy, even though the taste in my mouth is bitter.
“Yeah.” A beat follows. Then, softer, like he doesn’t mean for me to hear it but wants me to anyway, he murmurs, “Thanks for calling.”
Something clenches in me, sharp and warm all at once. “Anytime,” I tell him.
There’s a shuffle, muffled voices around him, then his hurried goodbye before the line clicks dead.
The call clicks off, and I just sit there, phone loose in my hand, staring at nothing.
The house hums around me—Papá laughing at something on the TV in the living room, Mamá humming low as she folds laundry, Rosa’s music drifting through the wall from her room.
It’s warm, it’s home, and it’s everything I love.
And yet my chest feels like it’s been rewired.
Ollie.
We’re worlds apart, yet somehow I feel closer to him than I’ve felt to anyone. That laugh, that soft confession about missing his sister. The way he said thanks for calling like he meant it, like maybe he needed it.
Fuck.
I shove off the bed, restless as hell, pacing my old room like it’s too small to hold me. The posters on the wall, the stack of vinyl in the corner, the beat-up bass propped against my dresser—it’s all familiar, grounding. But I can’t sit still.
I grab my notebook from the desk and flip it open, pen already in hand before I even know what I’m writing. Words spill out, jagged and uneven:
Tux and tamales,
chandeliers and cracked leather couches.
You’re the captain with a leash,
but I want to know the boy who blushes.
The pen scratches, fast, my brain tumbling ahead of itself. It’s always like this lately. Since the day he saw me, since that look across the hallway, since the blush that knocked the air out of me. He’s in every lyric, every line. I can’t seem to write about anything else.
I press harder, the letters carving deep.
Your laugh is rare and I want to steal it.
Your silence is louder than a scream.
I’d burn my lungs just to get closer,
peel back the armor and find the dream.
I stop and drag a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath.
Jesus. He’s a muse I never asked for, and it’s driving me insane.
I want to peel back his layers, get under that tight control, find the real him.
The one who misses his sister, the one who blushes when our eyes meet, the one who maybe—maybe—wants more than the golden path his parents and the whole damn state have laid out for him.
And fuck, I want to be the one who finds it.
I close the notebook, too wired to keep going, and drop onto the edge of my bed.
My fingers itch, so I grab the old acoustic leaning by the dresser.
The strings are a little dead, but the sound’s enough.
I strum, low and steady, chasing a melody that matches the scratch of my pen.
Something raw, something that feels like him.
My pulse slows a little, not much. The frustration’s still there, buzzing. Because it’s not enough. Lyrics and chords don’t give me his voice in my ear, his eyes on me, that look that makes me feel like I’ve been pulled into his orbit without permission.
I want more.
And that scares the shit out of me. Because he’s got a leash he doesn’t think he can escape. And me? I don’t chase closeted boys. I don’t. But here I am, already chasing him on paper, in my head, in every fucking note.
My phone buzzes on the bed beside me. Just a text from Rosa asking if I want hot chocolate. I laugh under my breath, text back yes, and set the guitar down.
But I know when I close my eyes tonight, it won’t be sugar and cinnamon I taste. It’ll be Ollie’s voice, soft and careful, saying Thanks for calling.
And fuck if I don’t want to hear it again.
I’m still sitting here, strung tight with music and nerves, when the door creaks open without so much as a knock.
Rosa steps in, two mugs in her hands and that smug little smile that says she knows something I don’t want her to. Sixteen going on thirty. She sets one mug on my nightstand and blows on hers dramatically, flopping onto my bed like she owns it.
“You’re grinning like an idiot,” she says. “What’s her name?”
I snort, reaching for the hot chocolate. “Maybe I’m just happy to see you, brat.”
“Please.” She nudges my notebook with her toe. “You only look like that when you’re writing love songs. And I heard you talking to someone. You were smiling then too.”
I roll my eyes, sip the hot chocolate, and let the sugar settle me a little. “You eavesdrop too much.”
She shrugs, hair falling into her face. “You’re obvious.” Then her eyes narrow, sharp as hell. “Wait. Was it a him?”
My throat closes up for a second. She knows I’m bi, has since I told her four years ago, but that doesn’t stop the way my chest tightens. “Why do you care?”
“Because you’re my brother, and I like being right.” She grins, wicked. “So… was it?”
I shake my head, but the smile tugging at my mouth betrays me.
She gasps like she’s just won the lottery. “Oh my God. It was.”
“Rosa,” I warn, though my voice is weak as hell.
She just laughs, pulling her knees up. “You never smile like that about girls. Not really. You get all… quiet. But this? You look like you’re about to write the greatest album of your life.”
I groan and drop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re in trouble,” she sings, nudging me again with her toe.
She’s not wrong. Every lyric in my notebook, every restless hum in my chest, every damn thought lately—it all circles back to him. Ollie. Captain Golden Boy with the careful smile and the weight of Wisconsin stitched into his shoulders.
“Don’t tell Mamá and Papá,” I mutter. It’s not that they don’t know my sexuality, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting them know about a crush, a hookup, or anything in between until I’m in a position to be serious.
Rosa softens at that, sitting up straighter. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. Just… be careful, okay?”
I glance at her, surprised by the seriousness in her voice. She shrugs. “I don’t wanna see you hurt.”
Something catches in my throat. I reach over, ruffle her hair until she yelps, and say, “You’re a pain in the ass.”
She beams anyway. “And you love me.”
I do. God, I do. But I’m already thinking ahead—to LA, to the practice room with my guys, to the stage lights. To the text threads that light up my phone, and the quiet moments I don’t want to admit I crave with someone I shouldn’t.
I sip the last of the lukewarm chocolate and lean my head back against the wall. I’m already itching to get back. Not because I don’t love it here—I do—but because everything I want, everything that makes my blood run faster, is waiting there.
And most of all, he’s waiting.
Whether he knows it or not.