Chapter 1 #2
"I'm always right. It's my cross to bear." Sylas flops back on my bed dramatically. "Now, can we please clean this disaster zone you call a bedroom? If that Shame-fucked Gollum does ghost you for good, at least you'll have a tidy space to have your breakdown in."
We're halfway through reorganizing my closet, Sylas insisting that "colour coordination is next to godliness", when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. My heart does that stupid little flip when I see the name on the screen.
"Speak of the Micro-peen devil," Sylas mutters, eyeing my phone like it's contaminated.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen.
"You don't have to answer, you know," Sylas says, suddenly serious. "You can just... not."
The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.
I stare at the phone, trying to imagine a world where I don't jump every time Ryan calls.
A world where my weekends aren't spent checking my notifications, where Tuesday nights don't feel empty when he cancels at the last minute.
What would fill all that space? Who would I even be without this constant cycle of hope and disappointment?
But the alternative, Ryan moving on, finding someone else, forgetting about me entirely, sends a cold wave through my chest that makes my finger tap "accept" before I can think twice.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual like my pulse isn't racing.
"Barrett," Ryan's low and warm voice comes through. He only uses my last name when he's in a good mood. “What are you doing tonight?"
My eyes flick to Sylas, who's making elaborate gagging motions. "I'm hanging out with Sylas and going to some Halloween parties. Why?"
"Ditch him. I've got a better offer."
Sylas, who can clearly hear Ryan's voice, mouths "fuck you" at my phone.
"What kind of offer?" I ask, trying not to sound too eager while looking at Sylas with pleading eyes, praying he understands.
"There's this Halloween thing on campus tonight. The carnival at Thompson Field." Ryan's voice drops a little lower. "I thought we could go. Together."
Freezing, my free hand tightening around a shirt I was folding. "Together? Like... together together?"
Sylas's head snaps up, his painted-on eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
"Yeah," Ryan says. "I mean, it's Halloween. It'll be fun."
"In public? You want to go somewhere public with me?" I want to clarify because I'm surely misunderstanding something.
Ryan laughs, and the sound slides down my spine like honey. "Yes, with you. Unless you'd rather hang out with Sylas?"
"No!" I say it too quickly. "That sounds... that sounds great."
"Cool. Meet me by the west entrance at eight?"
"I'll be there," I promise, mentally cataloging what I could wear.
"Later," he says, and the call ends before I can say goodbye.
I stare at my phone for a moment, then look up at Sylas, who's watching me with an unreadable expression.
"He wants to go to the Halloween carnival," I say, my voice breathless, even to my ears. "Together. In public."
Sylas's skepticism is palpable. "Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit."
"I know what you're thinking—"
"You have no idea what I'm thinking," Sylas interrupts, crossing his arms. "But I can tell you're about to ignore every red flag we just discussed because he's throwing you the tiniest crumb of attention."
"It's not a crumb! It's progress, Sy." I can't keep the excitement from my voice. "He's never asked me to go anywhere public before."
"It's Halloween," Sylas says flatly. "Everyone's in costume."
"So?"
"So it's the perfect cover, isn't it? He can be seen with you without actually being seen with you."
My shoulders droop a little but I quickly rally. "Or maybe he's taking a step. You know, baby steps."
Sylas sighs deeply. "Ethan, honey—"
"No, listen." I grab his hands, squeezing them tightly. "What if this is it? What if he's finally ready to stop hiding? He knows how much this means to me."
Sylas looks at me, his tough act crumbling as his expression softens. "Okay. Let's say, hypothetically, that Mr. Closet Case is having a revelation. What are you going to wear to this momentous occasion?"
Relief floods through me. Sylas isn't convinced, but at least he's not fighting me on this. "I have no idea. Help me?"
"As if I'd let you costume yourself. You would probably throw on some scrubs and call it a costume." Knowing he's right, I blush as he drops my hands and turns to my closet with a new purpose. "We need to make you look so fucking hot that every queer on campus will be jealous of our mystery man."
I grin, excitement buzzing through my veins. "You think it might be real? That he's ready to go public?"
Sylas pauses with a navy button-up in his hand. When he turns, his expression is gentle but serious. "I think you need to be prepared either way, babe. But..." he sighs, "if this is what you need to do, then let's make sure you look devastatingly fuckable while doing it."
Launching myself at him, I wrap him in a tight hug. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," he mutters, hugging me back. "I'm still coming up with a contingency plan if this goes sideways."
"It won't," I insist against his shoulder, ignoring the tiny voice of doubt in the back of my mind. "This time, it's different."
Sylas pulls back, his eyes searching mine. "For your sake, I hope so." Then, his face shifts into a mischievous grin. "Now strip. We have work to do."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I groan when I see the caller ID.
"We should feel so blessed; he's calling twice in one night?" Sylas's sarcasm drips heavily off his tongue.
"Nope, my mother." I take a deep breath before answering. "Hi, Mom."
"Ethan," my mother's voice is tinny and distant. "I was just checking in. Your father and I were talking about Thanksgiving plans."
Sylas gives me a sympathetic look as he continues rifling through my closet.
"That's still a month away, Mom."
"Well, you know how busy everyone gets. Your sister's bringing the kids this year."
I roll my eyes at Sylas, who mimes hanging himself with an imaginary tie.
"I have clinicals that week," I lie. "Probably can't make it."
"Oh," she sounds vaguely disappointed, but not enough to argue. "Still focused on that nursing thing, then?"
"It's not a 'thing,' Mom. It's my career."
"Of course, dear. Your father just wondered if you'd reconsidered medical school."
Sylas mouths "bitch" and I struggle not to laugh.
"Nope, still just nursing," I say, my voice tight. "Still just gay, too, in case that was your next question."
There's an awkward pause. "Ethan, don't be like that. We're very... supportive."
"Right."
"Are you seeing anyone?" she asks with forced brightness. "Someone... nice?"
I think about Ryan, but I will never try to explain that situation to her. "Not really."
"Well, you're focusing on your studies. That's good. Plenty of time for dating later."
"Sure, Mom."
"I should go. Your father's waiting to leave for golf. Love you, honey."
"Love you, too," I say automatically before hanging up.
Tossing my phone on the bed I flop down next to it with a groan.
"That woman has the emotional range of a teaspoon," Sylas observes, pulling out a pair of tight scrubs from my closet.
"At least Ryan seems to like me," I say, staring at the ceiling. "Even if it's just behind closed doors."
Sylas pauses, scrubs in hand. "Honey, if that's your bar, we must raise it drastically." He tosses the scrubs at me. "Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted by the ice queen, strip. We have work to do."
Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the person looking back.
Sylas went along with my plan, but he picked old scrubs from the back of my closet.
I really should have donated them because they barely fit.
The scrub top stretches tight across my shoulders and chest, and the pants. ..
"Holy shit," Sylas breathes, circling me like a fashion predator. "Turn around."
Like the world's most reluctant ballerina, I turn slowly, feeling self-conscious.
"Your ass is CRIMINAL in these, Ethan." He fans himself dramatically. "All the working out you did this summer did you a favour, honey."
Heat crawls up my neck. "It's too much. Ryan doesn't like attention—"
"That's the whole damn point." Sylas puts his hands on my shoulders, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "If Lord Gaslight-a-lot is finally taking you out, we're making sure every queer eye on campus is on you."
"But—"
"But nothing. Sit down. I'm not done with you yet."
Lowering my ass onto my desk chair, I watch as Sylas rummages through his backpack, producing a makeup bag that seems to defy the laws of physics with how much it holds.
"What are you doing?"
"War paint," he says simply, pulling out brushes and palettes.
For the next half hour, I submit to Sylas's orders, wincing only slightly when he lines my eyes with more precision than should be legal.
"Hold still," he commands, dusting something over my cheekbones. "If he can't handle you at your sparkly best, he doesn't deserve you at all."
"I don't want to scare him off," I murmur.
Sylas pauses, brush hovering near my face. His expression softens. "Ethan. If being your gorgeous, glittery self scares him off, then he was never going to stay."
His words sit heavy on my chest, but I nod anyway.
"Almost done," he says, standing back to assess his work. "Just one more thing."
He grabs the scrub top I've taken off, lays it on the bed, and then pulls a glitter marker from his seemingly bottomless bag.
"What are you—"
"Shh. Artist at work."
I watch in horror and fascination as he writes across the back of my scrub top in large, sparkly letters: NURSE HOTTIE.
"You can't be serious."
"Dead serious." He blows on the paint to dry it faster. "Now, put it on."
"Ryan will hate it."
"The Incredible Sulk will deal." Sylas hands me the top. "Or he won't. And then you call me, and we go for ice cream with a side of vindication."