Chapter 2
The Bluebird smelled the way it always did. Griddle grease, burnt coffee, and something sweet from the pie case that had probably been sitting there since Tuesday.
Ethan was already in our booth. He had his phone flat on the table and a basket of fries he'd started without me.
"You're late," he said.
"Ten minutes."
"Twelve. I counted."
I slid in across from him. The vinyl made that sound, the one that it always made. Ethan raised an eyebrow like I'd done something obscene.
"Charming," he said.
"It's the booth."
"Sure it is."
The waitress came. We ordered burgers. She wrote it down without looking at us and left.
I stole one of his fries.
"So," Ethan said. "Fourth place."
"Fourth place."
"At the Head of the Charles."
"Yes, Ethan. I was there."
"I'm just making sure you're hearing yourself. Because you've been walking around campus this week like someone who got a B-plus on a midterm, not someone who just placed top five in the biggest head race in the country."
He wasn't wrong. I'd been muted about it, not because I wasn't proud, but because the pride was tangled up with everything else.
My father at the reception. Liam's head on my shoulder.
Next semester's arrangements. Not to mention the person threatening me and Liam over text.
Every good thing that happened now came with a shadow attached to it, and I was getting tired of squinting past the shadow to see the sun.
"It was a good race," I said.
"It was an incredible race. I was there. I filmed it. I have footage of you and Liam crossing the finish line that I'm honestly thinking about submitting to festivals because the look on your face—"
"Don't."
"I'm kidding." He wasn't entirely kidding. "But seriously. You two were something else out there."
The burgers came. Deb set them down with the mechanical efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more.
I picked up mine. Took a bite. Let the silence sit for a second.
"Hey," I said. "I never thanked you. For the room thing. In Boston."
Ethan paused mid-fry. "What room thing?"
"The swap. You and Remy taking the other room so Liam and I could—"
"Oh. That." He dipped his fry in ketchup with studied casualness. "That was Remy's idea, actually."
"Remy's idea."
"Yeah. He came up to me before we checked in and said he thought you and Liam could use some privacy. His words. 'Those two need a room with a lock before they combust in public and ruin everyone's weekend.'"
I almost choked on my burger. "He said that?"
"Remy's observant. Also blunt. It's a combination."
"So you two just... volunteered to room together."
"It wasn't a hardship." Ethan picked up another fry. His ears were going slightly pink at the tips which meant he was deflecting. Barely noticeable unless you'd known him for two years and I'd known him for two years.
"How was that?" I asked. Casual. The way you ask about the weather.
"How was what?"
"Rooming with Remy."
"Fine. He's clean. Doesn't snore." Ethan bit into his burger. Conversation over, apparently.
"You sat together on the bus too."
Ethan looked at me over his burger. The look that said I see what you're doing and I'm not participating. "Eat your food, Harrington."
I let it go for now. But the pink hadn't left his ears, and he'd changed the subject too fast, and Remy's name had done something to his voice that I recognized because Liam's name did the same thing to mine.
We ate. The diner was half-empty. The mid-afternoon dead zone. A couple in a booth by the door sharing a milkshake. An old guy at the counter reading a newspaper. The waitress refilling coffees.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"You're going to anyway."
"Have you ever had sex… sex?"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Like real sex…" I raised my eyebrows, I didn't want to say the word.
Ethan set his burger down. Wiped his hands on his napkin. And looked at me… then it hit him.
"Ohh…" He laughed. "Yes," he said.
"What's it like?"
"Are you interviewing me for a health class project, or is this a real question?"
"Real question. Liam and I have done a lot. Just not that… yet. But I want to."
He leaned back against the booth. Crossed his arms. Studying me.
"It's... a lot of things," he said. "Depends on the person. Depends on whether you trust them. Depends on whether you've done the homework."
"The homework?"
"Prep. Communication. Going slow. You can't just—" He waved his hand. "Do you want to bottom?"
I heard the word and it felt like Ethan had shouted it across the room and pointed at me. A mixture of shame and fear jolted through my chest. I didn't like that.
Ethan noticed the effect it had on me. "Sorry."
"It's okay. It just feels like—"
"I get it."
"But yeah… that."
"It's not comfortable at first. The first time is awkward. You have to talk through it — like, actually talk, not just grunt and hope for the best."
"Sounds romantic."
"It is, actually." He picked at the edge of his napkin. "It works when you're with someone you trust. It's the most vulnerable you'll ever be with another person."
It's exactly what I wanted with Liam.
"And it gets better," he added. "Once you know each other's bodies. Once you stop being scared of it. It goes from awkward and weird to… euphoric bliss."
I smirked. Turning my water glass on the table.
"Have you two talked about it?"
"Yeah… in Boston. We both want to do it, just not sure when."
"You'll know when it's right. And when you get there, just be honest with each other. Tell him what feels good. Tell him what doesn't."
"Thanks," I said. "For being honest about it."
"Always." He picked his burger back up. "Just... buy lube. Really good lube."
I buried my head in my hands and laughed.
"And I'll send you some videos. There's this guy online whose basically the health class we never got."
"Homework?"
"Survival skills. There's a difference." He pointed a fry at me. "Watch them. Both of you. Together, ideally. If you can't talk about it with your clothes on, you're not ready to do it."
That made sense. We ate for a minute. The diner sounds filling the space between us — the grill hissing, country music leaking through the old jukebox.
"There's something else," I said. "My father."
Ethan set down his burger. Wiped his hands. He knew the weight that word carried in my mouth.
"At the reception after the Charles. He found me. Did the whole proud father bit and then he said we need to discuss 'next semester's arrangements.'"
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. He's planning something and he wants to watch me twist."
"Fucked up."
"That's my father. He waited until I was standing there watching the best thing in my life to remind me that he owns it."
Ethan's expression darkened. "He doesn't own you, Alex."
"He owns Kingswell. He owns every room I walk into before I get there." I pushed a fry through a puddle of ketchup without eating it. "And then there's the texter."
"Anything new?"
"Not since Boston. But that's almost worse."
"That's psychological warfare."
"Yeah. And whoever it is, they know things. Specific things. My schedule. When I'm with Liam. Where we've been." I looked at him. "We think it's Braden. But I don't know."
"Braden's an asshole but honestly… he's not that smart."
"So who? I keep feeling like I'm missing something obvious." I stared at the ring of water my glass had left on the table.
"Marcus." Ethan said it quietly.
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"No." I turned my water glass on the table. "He's been friendly. He apologized about the party. Brought up stuff from when we were kids. Got all nostalgic."
"And you bought it?"
"Yeah. I mean he's been in my life since I was eight, Ethan. That's hard to just erase."
Something shifted in Ethan's face and the easy warmth pulled back like a tide going out.
"He called Remy a faggot, Alex."
The words landed flat and hard.
"I know—"
"No. Hear me out." Ethan's forehead scrunched up. "He didn't say something ignorant. He didn't use the wrong word by accident. He looked at Remy and chose that word."
I didn't say anything because he was right and there was nothing to say.
"And now he's trying to talk to you again and you're sitting here telling me he seemed genuine." Ethan's voice was controlled but his hands were flat on the table, pressing down. "People like Marcus don't change, they learn to hide it better."
The heat in his voice wasn't just about politics or principle. It was personal. And I realized that this wasn't just about Remy being a teammate or a fellow queer person in his world. This was Ethan defending someone who mattered to him.
"You're right," I said. "I shouldn't have let him back in."
"What if the apology tour was the point? Get close again. Find out what you're up to." Ethan's voice was still tight. "You said the texter knows your schedule. Knows when you're with Liam. Who better than someone you just let back into your orbit?"
The thought hit my stomach like cold water. Marcus at dinner, sliding into the chair next to me. Marcus on the bus, reading the magazine article about me and Liam, saying enjoy it, boys with a smile.
"I'm not saying it's him," Ethan said, his anger settling. "I'm saying the timing of his redemption arc is awfully convenient. And I'm saying a guy who uses that word doesn't get the benefit of the doubt. Not from me."
"You're right. I hear you."
"Sorry." He exhaled. Picked up a fry, put it back down. "That shit just pisses me off. And maybe it should piss you off more."
I nodded.
Maybe it should. That was the thing I kept circling back to — all the ways I'd learned to absorb cruelty without reacting because reacting would draw attention and attention would mean questions I couldn't answer.
Marcus called Remy a slur and I cut him off, but quietly.
Surgically. The Harrington way. No mess, no scene.
And then he showed up with a sad smile and a childhood memory and I almost let him back in because it was easier than staying angry.
I was so tired of easy.