Epilogue
Leo
Today is Archie’s birthday, also known as the one-year anniversary of the day we met.
So, of course, there is only one destination Archie insists we celebrate at.
“I can’t believe I’m voluntarily setting foot in this place again,” I mutter as we push through the doors of Pirates of Pancake Bay.
The burned bacon smell of the fog machine hits me first, the signature fragrance of a restaurant that has committed fully to a theme no one asked for.
Nothing seems to have changed. A mechanical parrot shrieks “Walk the pancake!” at us as we navigate through the restaurant.
The decorative netting still hangs from the booths like a health-and-safety violation waiting to happen.
A large sign warns that the ship’s deck section still rocks on a half-hour cycle because, apparently, this restaurant will commit to simulated maritime trauma until its dying breath.
“It’s exactly how I remember it,” Archie says in the reverent tone most people reserve for cathedrals.
“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
“It absolutely is. This place is a masterpiece. They have not compromised on a single element of their vision.”
“Their vision involves simulated seasickness.”
“Art requires sacrifice, Leo.”
It’s been a year of this. A year of this bantering back and forth, of finding glitter in places glitter has no business being, of being challenged and charmed and everything in between.
It’s been the most amazing year of my existence.
I meet Archie’s gaze, and he must see some of my emotions on my face because he scrunches his nose playfully at me in the way that he does.
The others are already waiting for us at the table.
Billy, Jaymee, Andrew, and Justin have secured a booth on the lower level because, apparently, we have all learned some lessons from last year’s incident.
And there is another person waiting at the table for us.
Dark-blond hair, hazel eyes, familiar jawline.
A year ago, I thought I’d spotted Vaughn at this restaurant, and it had sent me on a revenge rampage armed with maple syrup.
This year, the sight of Vaughn’s face has me turning to see the reaction of the man I love.
It’s worth it.
Archie stops in his tracks when he sees his brother.
He blinks. And then blinks some more.
“Hey, little bro.” Vaughn stands to give him a big hug. “Happy birthday.”
Archie is shaking his head and grinning as he hugs his brother back.
Then, as soon as Archie’s detached himself, he whirls around to me with a suspicious expression.
“Did you know about this?” he demands.
“I might have had an inkling,” I say.
Vaughn had suggested the idea of flying over to surprise Archie when Archie and I were back home for Christmas.
Elizabeth and Vaughn had worked on a reconciliation with Archie’s parents, and the whole thing had gone well overall, with Archie’s parents seeming to accept that their son can make his own choices about his life.
They offered to restore his trust fund, but Archie had declined, explaining that he was now making a respectable living terrifying children with balloon animals and didn’t need the safety net.
Then we’d gone to visit my family, and Archie had continued his campaign that he started at Kimmy’s party and had completely charmed my family.
By Christmas afternoon, he had organized an impromptu talent show in the living room, having somehow recruited me as his elf—an indignity I endured with what I felt was considerable grace—and had Caitlin’s kids hanging off him like he was a human climbing frame.
And Tommy had been there. Clean-eyed, steady-handed, four months into a rehab program that seems to be sticking this time. He and Archie bonded over a shared appreciation for terrible Christmas sweaters.
Vaughn gives me a polite smile now as Archie and I sit down.
“Hey, Leo,” he says.
“Hi, Vaughn.”
The greeting isn’t warm, exactly. It’s the mutual acknowledgment of two men who will probably never choose each other’s company, but who recognize we’re permanently bonded by the fact that we both love the same incredible human being.
Archie slides in next to me in the booth, and his hand immediately finds my thigh under the table. It’s a reflex at this point. I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it.
Actually, no. Archie always knows what he’s doing. That’s sort of the whole problem.
“Present,” Jaymee announces, sliding a wrapped package across the table. It’s roughly the size of a shoebox and covered in wrapping paper featuring cats in party hats.
“Did you wrap it yourself?” Archie says.
“Billy wrapped it. I supervised.”
“I did all the work,” Billy confirms. “She criticized the corners.”
“The corners were tragic.”
Archie tears it open. Inside is a mug that reads Dr. Captain Giggles, PhD, PhD.
“Jaymee had it custom-made,” Billy says.
“It’s perfect,” Archie says.
Justin slides a gift bag to Archie across the table. “From both of us.”
Archie pulls out a framed photo. It’s the four of us during a weekend trip to Bath last month. Archie and Justin in the foreground, wearing Roman legion helmets and pulling identical ridiculous faces, and Andrew and I in the background, wearing identical expressions of weary tolerance.
“Justin chose the frame,” Andrew says. “I chose the photo.”
“You chose the one where we look the most unhinged,” Justin says.
“That narrowed it down less than you’d think.”
Archie smiles at the photo and props it against the salt shaker while Andrew grins at me.
Andrew and I have been friends for nearly a decade, but adding Archie and Justin to the mix has created something new.
The four of us have fallen into an easy rhythm of dinners at each other’s places, weekends away together, and an ongoing group chat that is roughly sixty percent Justin and Archie ganging up on Andrew and me.
It’s also great to hang out with another couple who understands what it’s like when your love story starts with a revenge plot gone wrong.
It’s a slightly different version of The Revenge Club than what Andrew and I first envisioned.
A server appears at our table. He’s holding his plastic cutlass at arm’s length like a man who surrendered to his fate long ago.
“Welcome to Pirates of Pancake Bay,” he says, with the enthusiasm of someone reading their own eulogy. “Would you like to plunder the drinks menu?”
“We absolutely would,” Archie says.
The server’s badge proclaims him to be First Mate Trevor. Which I’m fairly sure is the same guy who served me last year. It’s hard to tell because this place seems to strip the individuality from its staff until they’re all wearing the same expression of existential defeat.
“It’s our anniversary. We met at this restaurant exactly a year ago,” Archie informs the server unprompted as he snuggles up to me.
The server blinks. I’m guessing romantic origin stories aren’t a common feature of the Pirates of Pancake Bay experience.
“Congratulations?” he offers.
“He was so overwhelmed by my good looks that he lost control of a condiment,” Archie says.
“That’s not exactly—”
“His hand trembled. The syrup flew. It was like something out of a movie.”
“A horror movie,” Jaymee says.
“A romance,” Archie corrects.
“Same thing,” I say, and Archie grins at me.
After we order our drinks and food, Andrew turns to Archie.
“So, how is the post-doc going?”
Archie leans back in his chair and gives a bright smile. “The post-doc is going great. I’ve just been asked to give a guest lecture next term to the postgraduate psychology cohort.”
“What about?”
“The role of absurdist humor in building resilience in neurodivergent children.” He pauses. “I plan to do a live demonstration involving balloon animals.”
I was the one who suggested Archie consider returning to academia in some form.
Archie had initially resisted, but then one day, I came home and he quietly informed me that he had applied to UCL’s psychology department.
He planned to study the developmental impact of play and humor on children with social communication difficulties.
It’s something that combines his PhD in evolutionary psychology with every single thing he’s learned as Captain Giggles.
His first paper was accepted by the British Journal of Developmental Psychology before he’d even finished unpacking his office.
My brilliant man is now using his genius to bridge the gap between the lecture hall and the children’s party, and making it look effortless.
Archie continues to talk about his research, his hands moving as he explains something about laughter as a social bonding mechanism in early development.
I watch the way the whole table leans in toward him—Jaymee asking sharp questions, Billy looking confused but invested, Andrew nodding.
And Vaughn is listening with an expression that borders on pride.
Because this is it. The version of Archie that the world nearly didn’t get to see. The man who can hold a room full of academics spellbound and then make a poodle out of a balloon without breaking stride.
He didn’t choose between Dr. Archibald Mansley and Captain Giggles. He made them the same person.
I don’t say any of this. I just squeeze his hand under the table.
He squeezes back.
The drinks arrive, including a tray of bright-green shots.
“We didn’t get to drink these last year,” Jaymee says, distributing the lethal green liquid. “You got covered with syrup instead. Now it’s time for a redo.”
“What’s actually in this?” Billy asks, sniffing it.
“It’s Davy Jones’s Locker Juice,” Jaymee says. “I didn’t ask questions last year, and I’m not starting now.”
We drink. It tastes the way the fog machine smells.
“Oh god,” Andrew says.
“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” Vaughn says.
“Another round?” Archie asks brightly.
“Absolutely not,” Vaughn and I say in unison.
We share a rueful grin.