Chapter 3
The Devil’s in the Details and the Horror House
ETHAN
Ten minutes feels like an eternity when your heart is breaking.
I'm wandering through the carnival in a daze, barely registering the flashing lights and screaming laughter around me.
Why did I even suggest ten minutes? Some childish part of me hoped Ryan would chase after me, that he'd realize what he was about to lose and fight to keep me.
Isn't that what happens in movies? The desperate confession, the dramatic reunion?
But this isn't a movie. This is me, Ethan Barrett, standing alone at a carnival while the guy I've wasted over eight months on is probably already texting Brad-fucking-Thompson from Laguna Beach.
Ten minutes won't change anything. It was just a number I blurted out to give myself an exit strategy, enough time to get lost in the crowd, but not so long that I'd have to stand around waiting for someone who isn't coming.
The annual University Halloween Carnival is in full swing, with every student organization running their own attraction.
Sorority girls in matching witch hats sell caramel apples at one booth.
The Debate Club runs a surprisingly intense dunk tank.
I should be enjoying this, but I count seconds in my head while my chest aches with each breath.
A couple walks past me, fingers intertwined, matching skeleton face paint that doesn't stop them from stealing kisses. I look away, something sharp twisting in my chest.
This. This is what I want. Not stolen moments, secretive touches, or a boyfriend who wears a mask to go out with me.
Stopping at a ring toss booth run by the Women's Rugby team, watching as a girl throws ring after ring, missing each time.
Her girlfriend cheers her on anyway, wrapping her arms around her waist from behind, whispering something that makes them both laugh.
They don't care who sees them. They're just… happy.
When was the last time I was happy with Ryan?
My phone buzzes with a text.
Sylas
Status update?
I stare at the screen, unable to type the truth. Unable to admit that he was right. I slide the phone back into my pocket without responding.
It's been fifteen minutes, not ten, when I finally make my way to the Ferris wheel. Ryan is there, hands in his pockets, and the devil mask is firmly in place. He straightens when he spots me, and his body language is defensive.
"Thought you weren't coming back," he says as I walk up.
"I said I would." Unlike some people, I keep my promises.
An awkward silence stretches between us, filled with carnival music and distant screams from the haunted house that one of the frats is running at the edge of the field.
"Look," he finally says, "maybe this was a bad idea. We could just go back to my place instead?"
Of course. Back to his place, where no one can see us, and I can be a secret again.
"I thought we were going to enjoy the carnival together," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He shifts his weight, looking around. "It's crowded. And loud."
"That's the point of a carnival."
Another silence. We're reaching a breaking point, but I'm not sure what to say.
"What about that?" Ryan suddenly suggests, pointing to a tent across the path from us. THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS, the sign proclaims in dripping red letters. A banner beneath it reads: "Presented by Delta Psi Omega Fraternity."
Below, I notice smaller text: "SMALL GROUPS ONLY - TIMED ENTRY EVERY 5 MINUTES" and "Experience true terror..."
"It's dark in there," he continues. "We could... You know, have some privacy. No one else will be around for at least five minutes."
The haunted house, where we can be together but not be seen together, is the perfect metaphor for our relationship.
"Fine," I say, too tired to argue. Maybe inside, away from the crowds, we can have an actual conversation. Maybe he'll take off that stupid mask and talk to me.
We walk toward the horror house, Ryan careful to maintain a bit of space between us. Now and then, his hand brushes against mine, but only when no one else is looking our way.
When we reach the entrance, my jaw aches from clenching it so hard.
The haunted house's creepy lighting and loud sound effects make me uneasy.
Usually, I like haunted houses and feeling like I'm about to be ambushed, but this is different.
This is me possibly breaking up with my boyfriend…
exclusive hookup… I don't even know where we stand anymore.
Ryan glances nervously around, still worried that someone might recognize us.
A frat guy with DPO painted on his cheek collects tickets at the entrance. I recognize him vaguely from campus, but can't place his name. When I turn to face him, his eyes widen slightly as he takes in my glittery makeup. I'm guessing he also saw "NURSE HOTTIE" written across my scrubs.
Just what I need on top of everything else tonight. A homophobic frat dude.
"Nice costume," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice as he takes our tickets. "Small groups only. Follow the red arrows, and don't break anything. The scare actors aren't allowed to touch you... But nothing in the rules says you can't touch each other."
Glancing over and catching one of the other frat guys wiggling his eyebrows at us with a smirk, "Have fun!"
Ryan stiffens, edging away until there's enough space between us for plausible deniability. The frat guy's smile slips, replaced by a confused frown as Ryan puts that obvious distance between us. Great, another witness to my humiliation. At least this one doesn't know my name.
The zombie ticket taker misses all the undercurrents; he just winks at me, and Ryan again shifts uncomfortably beside me, his devil mask revealing nothing.
"Delta Psi Omega guarantees it's the scariest tent at the carnival," the zombie adds with pride, stepping aside to let us enter. "Next group in five minutes."
We step inside, immediately engulfed by darkness broken only by strange, pulsing lights. The walls are lined with mirrors, some normal, others warped and distorted. In one, I'm ten feet tall and pencil-thin. In another, we're squat and wide. In all of them, Ryan is still a faceless devil.
Ryan's demeanour changes as soon as the entrance curtain closes behind us. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the maze. I can feel the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of my costume, and a shiver runs down my spine.
"Alone at last," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate.
I glance around, suddenly self-conscious of our surroundings.
The pulsing lights and distorted mirrors make it feel like we're in our own little world, isolated from the rest of the carnival.
I wonder if he has something planned or is just taking advantage of the sudden privacy to try to placate me again.
Stepping away from his touch, turning to face him.
In the weird lighting, with mirrors reflecting us from every angle, I finally accept what Sy has been trying to get me to admit to myself for months.
This relationship is a fake, one-sided excuse for dating.
Ryan might never want me to be anything more than a secret fuck-buddy.
"Take off the mask," I say, my voice steadier than I feel with all these reflections watching us.
He hesitates, shifting his weight. "What?"
"Take it off. No one can see us in here." I gesture at the mirrored walls surrounding us, creating an infinite loop of just us two. "Isn't that the point of bringing me here? Privacy?"
"It's part of the experience—" he starts, one hand moving protectively toward his face.
"Bullshit." The word echoes slightly in the narrow corridor, bouncing back at us from every angle.
My reflections all wear the same hurt expression.
"It was never about Halloween. You just didn't want anyone to know you were with me.
The mask, the secrecy, the late-night texts.
.. It's all so that no one connects you to the gay guy, right?
So you can keep your precious reputation intact. "
"That's not fair," he protests, but makes no move to remove the mask. His hands hover near it protectively, like I might try to snatch it away.
"Isn't it?" My hands wave around us. "Look at us, Ryan. Really look."
In the mirrors all around us, I see our reflections everywhere: me, all sparkly and out there, and him, just a blank face, all hidden. It hurts to see me being so open and him so hidden away. No matter which way I look, it tells the same story.
"This is us," I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I refuse to back down now. "Me showing up fully, and you... hiding. Always hiding."
"I'm not hiding, I'm being careful," he counters defensively. His voice rises slightly, echoing back at us from a dozen directions. "Not everyone can be out and proud with glitter on their face and 'Hottie' across their back. Some of us have more complicated lives."
The words sting, but I stand my ground. "I'm not asking you to wear rainbow flags. I'm asking you to acknowledge me as someone who matters to you."
"You do matter," he says, stepping closer, hands finding my waist. "You know you do, baby."
But only in private. Only in the dark. Only when no one else can see.
"I'm tired of being your secret.” The words are painful but necessary. "I'm tired of being something you're ashamed of."
"I'm not ashamed," he insists, fingers digging into my hips. "You're just... a lot, Ethan. With the glitter and the tight clothes and the—"
"Being myself?"
He sighs, frustrated. "You know what I mean."
"I'm starting to," My voice is barely a whisper.
We've reached a section of the scare house filled with dark corners and creepy shadows.
"Maybe this was a mistake," he mutters, still not removing the mask.
"Which part?" I ask. "Tonight, or us?"
The question hangs between us, heavier than I intended. Ryan's hands twitch at my waist.
"Don't start this again," he warns. "Not here."
"Then where? When?" My voice snaps louder than intended. "You never want to talk about it. You never want to define what we are or where this is going."
"Why does everything need a label?" he barks. "Why can't we just be?"
"Because 'just being' for you means hiding me away like I'm something shameful!"
The long fabric curtains hanging all around us muffle our voices. We've stopped walking and are facing each other in the dim, pulsing light.
"You knew what this was," Ryan says, his voice low and hard. "You knew I wasn't ready to be out."
"It's been eight months, Ryan." The admission hurts. "And nothing's changed."
"So, what do you want from me? To blow up my life? To lose my family, my future, so that we can hold hands at a stupid carnival?"
Each word is a knife, but also a clarification. Walking further down a tunnel, I turn a corner. In his mind, being with me openly means losing everything.
Before I can respond to him, a deafening roar fills the narrow space. A massive figure lunges from behind the curtain we had been walking past, arms raised, giant hands holding a spiked baseball bat high. His mouth is open in a bloody snarl beneath a half-face skull mask.
It happens in an instant.
Ryan yelps, a high, panicked sound that echoes in the darkness around us, and his hands slam into my back, pushing me hard toward the scary figure. I stumble forward, my arms flailing like a windmill, and crash right into the chest of a baseball-wielding maniac… frat guy.
He's big… Like really big, dressed in torn, dark clothes, with fake blood smeared across his mouth and a terrifying half-skull face mask.
Strong hands catch me by the shoulders, stopping me just before I can fall.
I look up, a little breathless, into the face of a stranger whose scary monster look shifts into genuine concern.
The man's hands are firm, and I feel a strange mix of safety and excitement standing so close to someone who’s supposed to scare me. As I shake off the shock, I glance back at Ryan, expecting him to be right there.
Instead, my stomach drops as I hear the sound of receding footsteps. Ryan is running in the opposite direction, abandoning me without a second thought. Confusion quickly turns to anger, bubbling up inside me like a pot about to boil over.
The scare house suddenly feels very quiet.
The frat guy is tall and broad-shouldered, and the mask he wears can't hide how good-looking he is. He still holds me by the shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. The Greek, ΔΨΩ, DPO letters on his sleeve match the ones painted on the zombie out front.
"You okay?" he asks, his deep voice suits his monster costume.
Staring up at him, while my now ex-whatever-he-was's panicked footsteps pound away from us, I realize I don't know how to answer that question.