Chapter 8 Adrian
Adrian
The bonfire burns high and steady, its flames sending long streaks of orange into the darkening sky.
The air is heavy with salt from the ocean and smoke from the wood, and every time the breeze shifts, sparks lift and scatter toward the stars, beginning to prick through twilight.
Everyone sits in a rough circle around the fire, relaxed, trading stories and laughing at each other’s expense.
Beer bottles are lodged into the sand, and Trevor has somehow managed to burn the side of his marshmallow while insisting it’s the only correct way to eat one.
Lance, always the one to drift into risky territory when the beer loosens him, tilts his head and asks, “You ever think about it? About what it would be like to kiss a guy?”
Trevor laughs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t outright deny it. “I’ll give you this much, mate. Anyone who says the thought has never crossed his mind is a bloody liar. I did it, and it was fine. It happens to anyone, yeah? Just curiosity, nothing more.”
The firelight flickers across their faces, and I can feel the group balancing on the edge between joking and confessing.
Trevor glances between Vince and me, his grin sharper than it should be.
“Speaking of curiosity, mate, you know you’ve been staring at Adrian more than at the bonfire tonight, right? Just in case you hadn’t noticed.”
The words land lightly but linger with a meaning Trevor probably didn’t intend. The other guys chuckle, though not cruelly. My stomach knots, and I glance quickly toward Vince.
To his credit, Vince doesn’t snap or storm off.
He smiles, tight and polite but still a smile, and lifts his bottle in Trevor’s direction.
“I guess the fire isn’t interesting enough for me, huh?
” he says, clearly playing along, though his voice carries that low strain only I seem to catch.
“Don’t worry, Trev, I’ll make sure to stare at you for the rest of the night. I wouldn’t want you feeling left out.”
That earns another round of laughter, easy enough to pass as good sport, but I notice the way his fingers drum once against the bottle before setting it down in the sand. His shoulders are tense, too tense for someone who just brushed off a joke.
The conversation drifts lazily from one topic to the next, chuckles spilling easily across the fire, but Vince rises before long, brushing the sand from his beach shorts.
He doesn’t look upset, just distant, as if he needs a moment for himself.
“I’m going to stretch my legs,” he says lightly. “Don’t get too comfortable without me.”
Trevor calls after him with a grin, “Oi, don’t wander off too far! As my best man and a vital part of my wedding entourage, I cannot marry any woman without you!”
Vince snorts, flashing a small smile over his shoulder, and I catch the brief warmth before it fades as he steps away from the firelight. He walks steadily into the darkening path, letting the distance grow naturally until the shadows swallow him completely.
Even though I know better, I feel my own body shift, already preparing to follow.
I find him a short walk down the beach, standing near the line where the waves drag up the shore and collapse with a soft rush of foam.
Night has settled fully now, the horizon blurred into darkness, stars scattered overhead like broken glass.
He doesn’t turn when I approach. His body is rigid, his gaze fixed on the black water as though the darkness might give him answers.
“You didn’t have to leave,” I say quietly, my words carrying only as far as the night wind will allow, careful not to push him or break the space he seems to need.
His shoulders shift slightly, a subtle tension running along the line of his back as if he’s reminding himself that he owes no one an explanation.
“I just really needed to stretch my legs a bit,” he says finally, voice steady but with the faint edge of someone who values his own pace.
“I figured a little walk would do me good before I cramped up from sitting too long.”
I take a measured step closer, careful not to crowd him, letting the distance between us speak as much as my words. “It feels like you’re running away,” I murmur, trying to keep my tone neutral, a soft push rather than a complaint.
He lets out a low, dry laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite touch his eyes, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not running from anyone,” he says, the words smooth and controlled, the kind that closes the door without slamming it. “I just needed a bit of air, that’s all.”
“Trevor doesn’t know anything. He was just running his mouth,” I say carefully.
“It doesn’t matter.” The words sound sharp and brittle, as though he’s holding them together by force alone.
I hesitate, then lift my hand, letting my fingers brush against his arm.
The touch is light, careful and tentative, but it sends a jolt through me.
A rush of all the quiet moments we shared, memories we tucked away to keep moving forward, even though probably neither of us ever truly left them behind.
He pulls back almost instantly, and the sudden distance stings, sharp and familiar, though I had braced myself for it.
“Don’t,” he sighs.
The resignation in his voice makes it harder for me to breathe. “Vince, we can’t just walk around pretending we don’t know each other.”
He lets out a short, rough laugh. “Oh, yes we can, Adrian,” he says, my name curdling on his tongue. “I worked every damn day to put it behind me. You show up here, and suddenly it’s all back, like the universe is out to mess with me one more time.”
His words land hard, but I force myself to stay steady. “I’m not asking you to go back. I’m not even asking you to talk about it. I just don’t want us to hate each other. Can we at least agree on that?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks back toward the water, his shoulders heavy and expression unreadable.
“I didn’t intend for all of this to happen. I swear I didn’t know you’d be here. I was just doing a random gig with Holly. Do you think this is easy for me?” I ask, soft but persistent.
A sound leaves him, a scoff, brittle with years of regret. “It always is,” he says, and it strikes me harder than it should.
“You don’t know that,” I say, tone sharper than intended, and I immediately taste its truth.
Finally, he turns, and I see it. It’s not anger or disgust, but devastation layered thick, worn like a coat over years I can’t touch.
“You kissed me,” he says, voice raw. “Backstage.”
“I didn’t forget,” I say, my eyes starting to hurt.
“No,” he breathes, frustration tightening every line of his face. “You moved on. You became this…version of yourself.” His hand gestures vaguely, as if the air could somehow hold the heaviness of what he refuses to name, seeing me as untouchable and free.
I clamp my jaw, forcing the words out without shattering completely.
“And you did great on your own! You’re a superstar.
A fast-rising football player. Huge, successful, living the dream.
What more could anyone ask for?” My voice falters as I look inward, at the parts I never let anyone see.
“Me? I try to make do. I’m okay, sometimes.
And sometimes I’m not. But I’ve never been whole, not since the last day I saw you. ”
His laugh slices the air, like glass cracking under pressure. “What was I supposed to do besides football? That’s the only thing someone like me can do right. And no, Adrian, not all of my fucking dreams came true.” The last words hang heavier than anything else, settling deep in my chest.
“But you still got to be someone you wanted to be,” I counter, stepping a fraction closer.
His throat works, tension bleeding through his frame. “It’s not like I had it easy the same way you did.”
“I didn’t have it easy.” I nearly shout. “You think I walked away untouched? I had to deal with my own hell, Vince. You don’t know what happened to me. But sure, tell yourself I had it easy.”
He huffs, dry and bitter. “I’ve seen enough. I’ve known enough,” he mutters, voice hollow.
I freeze. Grief sits between us, heavier than memory, heavier than the kiss itself. He carries it differently, and somehow it has eaten him alive.
“You think I didn’t replay it a thousand times, wondering what it could have been?” I whisper.
His breath catches. “I got stuck there for a long time, Adrian.”
He doesn’t look at me, and I realize I don’t know what he’s been carrying all these years. Yet I wonder, sharply and bitterly, why he thinks I moved on so quickly, that I left it behind like it never mattered.
“I wanted it to be a beginning,” I admit, voice low, fragile. “But you were the one who shut it all down before it even started.”
“I had to,” he says softly, voice breaking, nearly disappearing beneath the burden he’s carried for too long. “There was no space for what I felt that day.”
I study him in the starlight. His fingers tremble at his sides, lips parted as if holding back words too dangerous to release. This isn’t weakness or shame. It’s mourning.
“I still would have chosen you,” I whisper, letting the truth of it hang between us. “Even if it had cost me, and only me, everything.”
His eyes darken, flash, then dull. “You just say things like that. But you moved on.”
“No,” I say, steadying myself. “I moved forward. That’s not the same.” I wonder quietly if he believes my life was easier because I survived differently.
Every nerve in my body hums as we stand inches apart, the sea crashing behind us, the memory of that first and last kiss burning through me.
He moves suddenly, hands gripping my shirt, pulling me close, and shoving me just enough to jar the air between us.
My chest aches, my pulse spikes, and his eyes are wide, unreadable, full of everything he cannot name or will not say.