Chapter 3
RYAN
Ten years ago
My bed is nothing more than a mattress on the floor. The frame is in three pieces, leaning against the wall. Boxes of my belongings towered around me in the form of miniature skyscrapers.
I was supposed to have all my stuff unpacked before dinner.
But we’ve already eaten—lukewarm casserole straight from the cooler, nobody talking, the table barely assembled—and my progress has stalled.
My dad will throw a fit as per usual, but I couldn’t care less.
Right now, my attention is on the boy next door.
The window faces his house, and I can see him in the backyard through the gap between the fence.
He’s bouncing on a trampoline, full of energy and completely unafraid of breaking a bone or snapping his neck.
I’m not the only one in the house defying Dad’s orders tonight. Marvin, my older brother, has been holed up in the bathroom for the past half hour. He walked by my open door with a glossy magazine rolled up under his arm and told me not to disturb his “reading time.”
I’m ten, not stupid. I know he’s not reading articles about fishing. But I also know better than to rat him out. Marvin is sixteen, has arms as thick as tree trunks, and a temper shorter than Yosemite Sam.
Blue light fills the hallway, telling me Dad has settled into his one-man couch—one of the few pieces of furniture he insisted on putting together today—to watch the six o’clock news.
I don’t need to venture out there to have the picture painted for me.
The thunk of heavy boots hitting the floor has already echoed down the hall, followed by that relieved sigh he always makes.
By now, his sock-covered feet will be propped on the coffee table, right ankle crossed over left, the toes slightly curling and uncurling to a beat only he can hear.
I turn back to the window in time to witness Oliver’s body rotating in the air. He lands on his feet and throws both fists above his head in a victory pose.
Why was he so nice to me?
The question has been rattling around in my skull since he bounded over the bushes like a golden retriever who spotted a new playmate at the dog park. Nobody is that friendly for no reason. In my experience, people want things.
Dad wants obedience. Marvin wants to be left alone. And I want…well, I don’t actually know what I want.
What I do know is that he smiled at me. Acted as if meeting me was the best thing that had happened to him all day.
And then there’s the barefoot thing. I keep coming back to the barefoot thing.
In this house, Dad expects a certain level of presentation.
Going outside without socks and shoes isn’t just frowned upon in the Abrams household; it’s an offense worthy of the belt.
I learned that the hard way when I was seven, wandering into the backyard to chase a firefly.
Three lashes across the backs of my thighs. I didn’t sit comfortably for two days.
In a way, I’m jealous. Oliver gets to be barefoot on hot pavement, on grass, on the trampoline. To him, shoes are probably an afterthought.
A burst of laughter floats through my window. Moments later, another voice chimes in. A woman’s voice. His mom, maybe.
Her figure appears on the back porch of his house, silhouetted against the waning sunlight. She says something I can’t quite make out, and Oliver hops off the trampoline. They disappear inside together, and the backyard goes quiet.
I don’t move for a long time after that.
The news broadcast ends downstairs, replaced by the click of Dad changing channels.
Marvin’s exit announces itself in stages: the gurgle of the toilet, a splash of water in the sink, the squeak of hinges, heavy footsteps down the hall, and finally, the decisive bang of his bedroom door.
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, making myself as small as possible. Through the window, Oliver’s house glows. Shadows move behind curtains—a family existing in the easy, unremarkable way families are supposed to exist.
I think about Oliver’s face when he said “Hi.” His green eyes shimmered. His hands found his hips when Dad told him to run off. I’d never seen someone so brave as to stare the man down. My father can be quite terrifying, even at the best of times.
“Ryan!” Speak of the devil. “Those boxes better be unpacked. If I stick my head in there and see nothing’s changed, there will be hell to pay.”
“Yes, sir,” I call back automatically.
I slide off the mattress and kneel in front of the nearest box.
My hands work mechanically—books on the shelf, clothes in the dresser, everything in its proper place because deviation is not tolerated.
But through it all, my mind remains at the window, watching a barefoot boy with spiky black hair do backflips on a trampoline.
His name sticks in my brain like a song you can’t stop humming. When I’m finished unpacking and go to bed, it’s the last thing I think of before sleep drags me under.
Oliver.
Present Day
Walking into the living room of the Hockey House, I pause in the doorway.
Sunlight streams through clean windows, catching on the polished surface of the coffee table where a stack of coasters sits unused.
The leather couch cushions, perfectly aligned, bear no indentation from bodies that collapsed there hours before.
Even the air is free of the expected stench of spilled beer and sweat.
If you’d told me there was a party here last night, I wouldn’t have believed you.
I didn’t go to it, of course. I’m not a party person.
My roommate, Jackson, on the other hand, is.
He tried to convince me to go, and I told him that nothing could tempt me to spend my night in a house full of drunken hockey players.
Sure, my friend Elliot Montgomery would be there, stone-cold sober and attached at the hip to Gerard Gunnarson.
But watching them orbit each other all night while I stood awkwardly in the corner was more than I could bear.
The only reason I’m here now is that Jackson spent the night with his hockey-playing boyfriend, and we’d made plans to catch the new documentary about the moon.
When I was a kid, my mom would wake me up at 3 a.m. to catch meteor showers.
She’d bundle me in her old college sweater, and we’d lie on a blanket in the backyard, counting shooting stars until I fell asleep against her shoulder.
Other times, she’d point out constellations with her slender finger, making up stories about each one that were far more interesting than the Greek myths.
Orion wasn’t a hunter—he was a baker who threw flour into the sky.
The Big Dipper was a ladle for serving cosmic soup to hungry planets.
Then the cancer came. Within six months, the woman who taught me that Saturn’s rings were made of rock candy—a lie I believed until fourth grade—was gone.
Dad became even more militant. Marvin discovered girls and filthy magazines.
And I found that the only person who ever loved me was now living amongst the stars.
“Ryan?”
A voice I used to love hearing as a kid snaps me back to reality. The only guy I’ve ever had a crush on is standing before me, and sweet mother of Galileo, he hasn’t changed a bit.
Oliver’s dark hair is damp. A green polo shirt with The Brew’s logo above his left nipple clings to his chest, revealing how massive his pectorals are.
And his khaki pants…God have mercy. They mold themselves to his thick thighs, and the bulge that the Ice Queen once said would give him back problems one day is staring at me.
I force my eyes back up to his face. His stupidly perfect face that stirs up the butterflies lying dormant in my belly.
I’ve been doing my best to avoid him ever since freshman year, when I learned that he was at BSU too. But then, a few months ago, Jackson dragged me to the Berkeley Shore Polar Bear Plunge, and I realized I couldn’t hide from him anymore.
Now, Oliver makes it a point to acknowledge me whenever he sees me on campus. A wave here, a wink there. I always hightail it in the other direction before he can get too close and ask questions about my family, about life. About me.
It belatedly hits me that I’m alone with him for the first time in years. The only words my brain can conjure up are, “Congrats on the win.”
“Thanks, man.” He crosses the room in three easy strides. “I didn’t see you at the party.”
I know Oliver well enough to know that it’s neither a question nor a statement.
More of an observation, and I don’t know what to think about that.
He’s always been attuned to my thoughts and emotions in a way that not even a therapist could manage.
And unfortunately for me, that sixth sense of his hasn’t gone away after all these years.
The words, “Not really my scene,” come out in a croak. I shove my hands into the pockets of my khakis, not wanting him to see them shake; to see how much he still affects me.
I’ve never told Oliver about my crush on him when we were kids. For all he knows, I only ever saw him as a friend. A surrogate brother. As someone you could never imagine marrying.
“I ran into Jackson upstairs. He said you guys have plans this morning.” He tilts his head, studying me with emerald eyes. “Something about a moon documentary?”
“It’s playing for one week downtown,” I say. “Speaking of which, is Jackson ready? We really need to—”
“RYAN!” Jackson’s voice is followed by the sound of a herd of elephants. He appears in the hallway, disheveled. His shirt is inside out, his hair is shaggier than ever, and…oh my. Is that a hickey in the shape of the Big Dipper on his neck?
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he says frantically while hopping on one foot to pull on a sneaker. “Drew and I were—”
“Watching highlights of last night’s game?” I suggest dryly.
Oliver snorts. Jackson turns pink from his ears to his collarbone.
“Something like that,” he mumbles, finally getting both of his shoes on. “Ready to go?”
“I’ve been ready.” I glance at my watch. “The documentary is in twenty minutes.”
“Shit. Okay. Let me—” Jackson pats all of his pockets. “Keys, wallet, phone…”
“Your shirt’s still inside out,” Oliver points out, far too amused at the situation than I think is warranted.
“Fuck.” Jackson strips it off, and I politely study a fascinating water stain on the ceiling while he fixes it. “Better?”
“Slightly,” I jest. “Can we go now?” Before Oliver decides to strike up another conversation.
“Yes! Moon time!” Jackson grabs my arm and drags me toward the door. “See you later, Oliver!”
“Have fun, nerds.” Oliver waves goodbye, and I convince myself I’m reading too much into him watching me leave. Jackson’s frenzied energy is what has him entertained; I was merely caught in the same frame.
But denial is a river, and I’m drowning in it.