Chapter 18
RYAN
My reflection in the mirror is about to commit a felony against fashion, which is ironic, given that I’m dressed the same as always.
I smooth down the front of my white button-down for the seventeenth time, watching the fabric wrinkle right back up, uncaring about my attempts at perfection.
The khakis are pressed. The loafers are polished.
My hair is combed neatly enough to pass military inspection, which is probably the only thing about me Dad would approve of these days. And yet…my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Dude.” Jackson’s voice floats over from his side of the room, where he’s currently wrestling with what appears to be an entire bottle of hair gel. “You look fine. Better than fine.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s supposed to be accurate.” Jackson turns from his mirror, and I nearly choke on my tongue.
He’s wearing a white T-shirt, tight enough to showcase every muscle he’s earned on the football field, tucked into high-waisted black jeans that somehow make his legs look even longer.
A leather jacket—actual leather, not the fake stuff from the Halloween store—hangs open over his shoulders.
His hair, usually an endearing disaster of brown waves, has been slicked back into a perfect pompadour that would make John Travolta weep with envy.
“You look like Danny Zuko,” I say flatly.
Jackson grins, striking a pose. “That’s the idea, baby. Drew’s going as Kenickie. We’re doing a whole thing.”
“Of course you are.”
My stomach churns. Jackson and Drew have coordinated costumes. They’ll spend the evening being disgustingly adorable together while I stand in the corner trying not to spontaneously combust every time Oliver glances in my direction.
Oliver, who will probably show up looking like James Dean, Montgomery Clift, or Marlon Brando.
Oliver, with whom I had coffee just hours ago.
Oliver, whom I agreed to see again tonight because my self-preservation instincts have completely abandoned me.
I turn back to the mirror and immediately regret it. The reflection staring back at me is terrified. Pale as the man walking toward his own execution.
“Hey.” Jackson appears behind me, his hands landing on my shoulders with the familiar weight of friendship and concern. “You’re spiraling. I can see it in your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows don’t spiral.”
“They absolutely do. They get all scrunchy and worried, like two caterpillars having an anxiety attack.” He squeezes gently. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that big galaxy brain of yours?”
“What’s going on is that I’m about to spend an entire evening in close proximity to Oliver Jacoby, surrounded by hockey players who exude confidence in spades.
What’s going on is that every time Oliver smiles at me, my brain short-circuits and my heart tries to escape through my throat.
What’s going on is that I have no idea what I’m doing, have never known what I’m doing, and tonight feels like a test I’m destined to fail.
What if I say something stupid? What if I freeze up?
What if he realizes I’m boring and awkward and not worth the effort of reconnecting with? ”
“Ryan.” Jackson spins me around and cups my face with his large hands. “Oliver literally told you today that he wants to be real friends again. He asked you to come tonight. He accepted your friend request on Facebook, for Pete’s sake.”
“He was being polite.”
“He was being honest. I’ve been watching you two dance around each other for a while now. The guy lights up when he sees you. His whole face does this thing—”
“What thing?”
“I don’t know. This soft, happy thing. Like someone just told him all his exams are canceled.” Jackson shrugs. “It’s cute. Disgusting, but cute.”
I want to believe him, but the voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like Dad and every other person who’s ever looked at me and found me lacking—won’t shut up.
You’re not enough. You’ve never been enough. Why would someone like Oliver want someone like you?
“Okay, new strategy.” Jackson releases my face and starts pacing. “Let’s talk tactics. How not to be nervous around Oliver tonight.”
“I don’t think tactics are going to help.”
“I’m a quarterback, Ryan. My entire life is tactics.
” He holds up one long finger. “Number one: remember that Oliver is a person. Yes, he’s hot.
Yes, he’s the hockey captain. Yes, he has that chiseled jaw thing going on.
But underneath all that, he’s a guy who puts his pants on one leg at a time and probably has embarrassing childhood photos somewhere. ”
“I’ve seen his embarrassing childhood photos.”
“Perfect! Use that! You have history. You know things about him that nobody else does.” Jackson holds up a second finger.
“Number two: focus on listening, not performing. You don’t have to be witty or charming or whatever you think you need to be.
Just be present. Ask questions. Let him talk. People love talking about themselves.”
“Oliver isn’t most people.”
“Everyone is most people when it comes to feeling heard.” A third finger joins the others. “Number three: breathe. I’ve seen you hold your breath when you’re nervous, and then you get all lightheaded and weird. So breathe in, breathe out, repeat.”
I try it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. My lungs expand, then contract, and some of the tension in my shoulders releases.
“Good. See? You’re already less caterpillar-browed.” Jackson drops his hand and grabs his phone from the desk. “Now, final thing. Escape plan.”
“Escape plan?”
“Yeah. In case it all gets to be too much, and you need an out.” He types something quickly, then looks up at me. “If you’re overwhelmed, if you need to leave, just give me a signal. Scratch your nose or something. I’ll see it, I’ll grab Drew, and we’ll be your getaway drivers. No questions asked.”
“Jackson, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” He shoves his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms. “You’re my best friend, Ryan. My weird, space-obsessed, vintage-wearing best friend who deserves to have fun tonight without feeling trapped. So, yeah, escape plan. Nose scratch. Drew’s car. Done.”
I can’t speak. The casual, unconditional support hits me right in the feels. This is what I’ve been missing all these years. Not just a romantic connection but a friendship that shows up. A friendship that plans escape routes just in case.
“Drew won’t mind?”
“Drew will probably volunteer to create a diversion if needed. The man lives for drama.” Jackson grins. “Besides, he likes you. Says you’re refreshingly not obsessed with hockey, which apparently is a rare quality in his current social circle.”
My chest loosens, and something between a snort and a sigh escapes me. “I don’t understand hockey.”
“Neither does half the campus, but they pretend to. You’re honest about it. It’s charming.”
Charming. The word is foreign when applied to me, but I welcome it regardless. Maybe I can be charming. Maybe I can be a lot of things I’ve never allowed myself to be.
“Okay.” I square my shoulders, meeting my reflection’s eyes. The terrified man in the mirror is still nervous, still unsettled, but there’s something else there too. Obstinacy, maybe. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Hell yeah, you can.” Jackson claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. “Now let’s go. Gerard’s probably already there doing the hand jive and traumatizing innocent bystanders because it’s coming off like the universal sign for jerking off.”
I appraise myself one last time in the mirror, and for once, I don’t hate what I see.
Cicadas sing from somewhere in the darkness, their chorus competing with the distant thump of bass from a party across campus.
And there, leaning against the streetlamp, straight out of a movie poster, is Drew Larney.
He’s got the whole Kenickie vibe down to a science—white T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans cuffed at the ankle, cigarette tucked behind one ear, even though I’m fairly certain he doesn’t smoke.
His chestnut hair is slicked back, and the streetlight casts dramatic shadows across his cheekbones.
“Drew!” Jackson’s voice comes out approximately three octaves higher than normal.
A squeak. My six-foot-two quarterback best friend just squeaked.
Drew pushes off the lamppost, a slow smirk spreading across his face. His eyes rake over Jackson from pompadour to polished shoes, and something hungry flickers in his gaze. “Tell me about it, stud.”
The Sandy quote lands like a bomb. Jackson’s knees wobble, and I watch in real time as his brain visibly short-circuits.
“Ryan.” Jackson’s hand lands on my shoulder, grip tight enough to bruise. His eyes never leave Drew. “We’re going to need, like, ten minutes.”
“Jackson, we’re supposed to—”
But he’s already moving, grabbing Drew by the front of his leather jacket and hauling him back toward the dorm entrance. Drew goes willingly, laughing, his hands finding Jackson’s hips as they stumble through the door.
“Maybe fifteen!” Drew calls over his shoulder, and then they’re gone.
I stand alone on the sidewalk, blinking at the space they vacated.
The wildlife utterly unbothered by the hormone-fueled college students.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest—quiet at first, then louder.
I can’t help it. Jackson, “I’ll be your escape plan,” Monroe has abandoned me for a quickie with his boyfriend before we’ve even left.
I settle onto a nearby bench, the wood warm from the day’s sun, and pull out my phone. Might as well check in with someone who isn’t currently defiling a dormitory stairwell.
Me
How’s it going? Ready for tonight?
The response comes almost immediately.
Elliot
Define “ready.”
Me
Prepared? Dressed? Not having a crisis?
Elliot
Two out of three. Gerard has squeezed himself into leather pants that I’m fairly certain violate several obscenity laws. I’m genuinely worried they’re going to split on the dance floor.
I snort, imagining Gerard attempting to contain his legendary posterior in leather.
Me
At least he’ll be wearing underwear. Worst-case scenario, people see some pink boxers.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Elliot
Ryan. Gerard is going commando.
I stare at my phone for a long moment.
Me
I’m sorry, WHAT?
Elliot
You heard me. If those pants split, and they WILL split, the entire Grotto is going to get an eyeful of Gerard Gunnarson’s bare ass.
Me
The Ice Queen will have a field day.
Elliot
The Ice Queen will probably propose marriage.
I shake my head, pocketing my phone. Gerard Gunnarson remains an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in pants that are going to explode. I’ve given up trying to understand him. I think some people are meant to remain unfigured out, their chaos a feature rather than a bug.
That train of thought carries me, inevitably, to Oliver.
He wants to be friends again. He lights up when he sees me, according to Jackson. He carried me across campus on his shoulder while naked and didn’t make it weird. And he has no idea that I’ve had a crush on him since the day we met.
I was ten years old, scrawny and awkward, standing in our new driveway.
The neighborhood was quiet and unfamiliar, another temporary stop on the endless military carousel.
I’d already decided I would hate it. Then a boy appeared.
Taller than me, with dark hair and green eyes and a smile that seemed too big for his face.
I didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t understand why Oliver’s smile made my stomach flip, why I wanted to impress him, why I thought about him constantly. I just knew that being near him felt like standing in sunlight after an excruciatingly long winter.
Ten years later, the feeling hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s grown more complicated, more desperate, more impossible to ignore.
The building door bangs open, startling me from my spiral.
Jackson and Drew emerge, looking exactly like two people who just had sex in a semi-public location.
Their faces are flushed, their hair disheveled despite obvious attempts to fix it, and they’re both walking with a slight hitch in their step.
“Ready?” Jackson asks, slightly breathless.
“I’ve been ready for fifteen minutes.”
“It was twelve.” Drew grins, unrepentant. “I timed it.”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
“And yet, now you do.” Drew slings an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the parking lot. “Come on, Ry-guy. Let’s get our Peppermint Twist on.”
We pile into Drew’s pickup truck—me in the back seat, the happy couple up front—and pull out of the parking lot. The campus slides past my window, familiar buildings rendered strange by the golden light of sunset.
Jackson fiddles with the radio until he finds an oldies station, and suddenly the cab fills with Buddy Holly’s voice.
Drew drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming along. Jackson’s hand rests on Drew’s thigh, casual and intimate.
I desperately wish to have what they have one day. Easy affection and inside jokes, but most of all, the certainty of being wanted.