Chapter 19
RYAN
Drew’s truck rumbles into the parking lot at the same time that two other vehicles pull in from opposite directions.
Oliver’s beat-up Jeep and Kyle’s sensible sedan.
I half wonder if the universe coordinated our arrivals for maximum dramatic effect, which, knowing Gerard’s involvement in tonight’s planning, might actually be the case.
I step out of the truck and immediately forget how to breathe.
Oliver Jacoby is walking toward us in a red jacket.
No, the red jacket. The iconic cherry-red windbreaker that James Dean wore in Rebel Without a Cause.
The collar’s popped, a white T-shirt is visible underneath, and his jeans are cuffed perfectly above a pair of black leather boots.
His dark hair is swept back in a careless quiff that probably took him thirty minutes to achieve.
“Ryan!” Gerard’s voice shatters my Oliver-induced paralysis. “BESTIE! You came!”
I tear my gaze away from Oliver—which takes more effort than it should—and immediately choke on my saliva.
Gerard Gunnarson has transformed himself into a blond Elvis Presley. His hair has been slicked into a perfect ducktail that gleams. He’s wearing a pink shirt with the collar turned up, paired with those leather pants Elliot warned me about. They’re so tight I can see the outline of his penis.
“Gerard.” My voice comes out strangled. “You look…”
“Like the King?” Gerard strikes a pose, one hand pointing at me, the other on his hip. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
“I was going to say ‘likely to cause a riot,’ but sure.”
Elliot appears at Gerard’s elbow, dressed in a simple but elegant period-appropriate suit. “I told him the pants were a mistake.”
“They’re not a mistake; they’re a statement!” Gerard stamps his foot on the pavement.
Behind them, Nathan emerges from the Jeep, looking like Frank Sinatra’s younger, more athletic brother. The fedora tilted at a jaunty angle, the slim-cut suit, and the loosened tie are all so perfectly coordinated that I suspect Elliot had a hand in it.
And then there’s Kyle, climbing out of his sedan with Alex in tow.
Both of them are dressed like characters from Mad Men.
Kyle is in a charcoal suit with thin lapels and a skinny tie, his expression suggesting he’s already regretting the decision to participate.
Alex wears a similar navy suit, reminding me of a junior executive who’s terrified of his first board meeting.
“This is ridiculous,” Kyle announces to no one in particular.
“This is fun,” Gerard corrects. “Say it with me, Kyle. F-U-N.”
“I know how to spell. I just don’t know why I’m subjecting myself to this level of absurdity.”
“That’s because you haven’t had enough to drink yet.” Drew appears beside Kyle and claps him on the ass, which earns him a growl. “Give it time.”
We converge as a mismatched collection of hockey players and their adjacent humans, all dressed in various interpretations of old-school style.
Jackson’s Danny Zuko stands next to Drew’s Kenickie, who stands next to Gerard’s Elvis, who’s vibrating with excitement next to Elliot’s quiet exasperation.
Nathan adjusts his fedora. Kyle glowers.
Alex tries to become invisible. And Oliver walks straight toward me.
“Hey.” His voice is warm and pitched low. “You look perfect.”
I glance down at my usual outfit—white button-down, khaki pants, loafers. “I look how I always look.”
“Exactly.” Oliver’s smile devastates my cardiovascular system. “Perfect.”
Before I can formulate a response that isn’t vowel sounds, Gerard herds us all toward the entrance. “Come on, come on! The night is young and so are we! Mostly! Kyle’s spiritually about seventy-three, but the rest of us—”
“I will murder you in your sleep, Gunnarson. With Drew’s dildo.”
“Empty threats! Let’s GO!”
The double doors of The Grotto swing open, and I step into another era.
The first thing that hits me is the music.
A band on a stage at the back of the room, complete with matching suits and slicked-back hair, croons Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea.” The lead singer’s voice soars through the space, rich and smooth, wrapping around the melody as if it were written specifically for this moment.
The second thing is the smell. Vanilla and cherry, sweet and nostalgic, wafting from a soda fountain along the left wall.
Beneath that, the warm scent of burgers sizzling on a grill, the sharp tang of pickles, and the comforting familiarity of fresh-baked pie.
My stomach growls despite the nerves still churning through it.
The third thing is the decor. Checkered floors in black and white, stretching toward a dance floor where couples are already swaying to the music.
Red vinyl booths line the walls, their surfaces gleaming under the warm glow of neon signs advertising Coca-Cola and Schlitz beer.
Chrome accents everywhere I look—the stools at the soda fountain, the trim on the jukebox in the corner, the frames around vintage movie posters featuring Monroe, Brando, and Dean.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Right?” Oliver materializes beside me, his presence a sudden heat along my left side, making me acutely aware of the scant inches between us. “Gerard did some research. They do theme nights every few weeks.”
I can’t respond. I’m too busy absorbing everything—the laughter bubbling up from a nearby booth where a group of elderly couples shares milkshakes, the click of heels on the checkered floor as a woman in a poodle skirt twirls past us.
This is the era I’ve been chasing through vintage shops, old records, and carefully curated playlists. And it’s real, at least for tonight.
“Table for nine!” Gerard announces to the hostess, a woman in a pink uniform with her hair done up in victory rolls. “Near the dance floor, if you please!”
She doesn’t even blink at our group. Just grabs a stack of menus and leads us through the restaurant.
Our booth is a massive curved affair, positioned with a perfect view of both the stage and the dance floor. We pile in with varying degrees of grace—Gerard vaults over the back, Nathan slides in modestly, Kyle enters with rigidity.
I end up sandwiched between Jackson and Oliver, which is either a blessing or a curse, depending on how you look at it. Jackson’s bulk presses against my right side, familiar and grounding. Oliver’s thigh brushes mine on the left, sending sparks up my spine with every accidental twitch.
“This place is incredible,” Nathan says, craning his neck to take everything in. “How have I never been here?”
“Because you spend all your time either at the rink or eating protein bars in your room,” Drew replies. “You need to get out more.”
“I get out!”
“The dining hall doesn’t count.”
The hostess distributes laminated menus with pictures of burgers, malts, and something called an “Atomic Onion Ring Tower,” and promises that our server will be with us shortly.
Gerard immediately starts reading the entire menu aloud, complete with commentary.
“Ooh, the Blue Suede Burger! That’s gotta be named after Elvis, right?
Ryan, bestie, what do you think? Should I get the Blue Suede Burger?
It has blue cheese. I don’t know if I like blue cheese. Elliot, do I like blue cheese?”
“You’re allergic to blue cheese, Gerard.”
“Right! That’s why I don’t like it! Mystery solved!”
The band finishes “Beyond the Sea” and launches into “Splish Splash.” As the tempo picks up, the dance floor fills with younger couples eager to show off their moves.
I watch a man in a bowling shirt lead his partner through a complicated series of spins, their movements synchronized in a way that speaks to years of practice.
“You’re smiling.” Oliver’s voice is close to my ear, soft enough that it doesn’t carry over the music.
I turn to find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. “Am I?”
“Yeah.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s nice. You should do it more often.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I stare at my menu, pretending to study the appetizer section with interest. “The music is good.”
“It is.” A pause. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re smiling.”
Before I can figure out how to respond to that, our server arrives—a young woman with cat-eye glasses and a name tag that reads “Patty.” The table descends into chaos as everyone attempts to order at once.
“One at a time!” Patty says, her pen poised over her notepad with the patience of a saint. “Let’s start with drinks.”
The drink orders alone take five minutes.
Gerard wants a chocolate milkshake, but also a cherry phosphate, but also maybe a root beer float?
Kyle orders water. Alex quietly asks for a vanilla malt.
When it’s my turn, I order a cherry cola, and Oliver orders the same thing with a grin that suggests he did it on purpose.
Food orders are even more time-consuming.
Drew and Jackson engage in a passionate debate about whether cheese fries are superior to regular fries (they are, obviously).
Gerard finally settles on a burger that is explicitly not the Blue Suede Burger.
Nathan orders the most protein-heavy item on the menu.
Kyle orders a salad and then changes it to a steak when Alex quietly points out that hockey season is over, and he’s allowed to indulge.
I order a classic cheeseburger with the works, and when I say “with the works,” Oliver catches my eye and mouths “same,” and I feel like we’ve shared something significant even though it’s literally just burger toppings.
The band transitions into “At the Hop,” and the dance floor explodes with energy.
Patty returns with a tray, expertly balanced on one hand, and skillfully distributes our drinks.
My cherry cola arrives in a frosted glass with a striped straw, and when Oliver’s identical drink lands beside mine, our eyes meet over the rims.
“Cheers,” he says, lifting his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To fifties night.”