Chapter 37
OLIVER
One second, I’m helping Ryan out of the Jeep in a parking lot that looks like any other parking lot, and the next, we’re stepping through velvet curtains into what can only be described as stepping into the past. Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs.
Booths upholstered in deep burgundy leather curve around the perimeter.
A stage dominates the far wall, where a full band is setting up, instruments gleaming under the soft golden lights.
“Oliver.” Ryan breathes. “What is this place?”
“The Blue Moon Nightclub.” I rest my hand on the small of his back, guiding him further inside. “It’s been here since the fifties. My parents met here.”
His head swivels toward me, eyes wide. “Your parents?”
“Yeah. Dad even proposed to Mom at that table over there.” I point to a corner booth, slightly elevated, with a small brass plaque I can’t read from here, but I know it says Reserved for Romance. “I called ahead. That’s our table tonight.”
The sound Ryan makes sits somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about family history or dinner reservations.”
A host in a tuxedo approaches us, his silver hair slicked back in a style that hasn’t been fashionable in sixty years but somehow works perfectly here. “Mr. Jacoby? Your table is ready. Right this way.”
We follow him through the club, weaving between tables filled with couples in various states of elegant dress.
Some are older, clearly regulars who remember when this kind of place was the norm rather than the exception.
Others are younger, dressed up for what I’m guessing are special occasions.
Anniversary dinners. Proposals. First dates that matter.
Our booth is everything I remembered from the one time my parents brought me here for my eighteenth birthday.
The leather is super soft, the table set with crisp white linens, and more silverware than any meal should require.
A single candle flickers in a crystal holder, casting dancing shadows across Ryan’s face as he slides in across from me.
“This is incredible.” Ryan surveys the room with the wonder of someone seeing magic for the first time. “I didn’t even know places like this still existed.”
“Most don’t.” I accept the leather-bound menus from our host and pass one to Ryan. “This one survived because the owner’s family refused to modernize. They figured if people wanted the past, they should get the real thing.”
Ryan runs his fingers over the menu’s embossed cover, and I watch his expression shift from wonder to something deeper. “My mother would have loved this.”
I reach across the table and find his hand, threading our fingers together. “I hoped she would have. I mean—I hoped youwould. Because of her.”
His eyes meet mine, and they’re suspiciously bright.
Before he can respond, the band launches into their first number.
The opening notes drift across the room, and I recognize it immediately—a jazzy instrumental that sets the mood without demanding attention.
Background music for now, but I know from research that the real show starts after we order.
Our waiter appears, a young woman with victory rolls in her hair. She takes our drink orders—sparkling water for Ryan, the same for me because I’m driving—and leaves us to peruse the menu.
“Everything looks amazing,” Ryan says, scanning the options. “And expensive. Oliver, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” My voice is firm enough to cut off his protest. “This is our first date as boyfriends. I’ve been saving my tips for months for exactly this kind of occasion.”
“Months? We’ve only been official for a week.” Ryan’s fingers tighten around mine. “Filet mignon. If you’re insisting on extravagance, I’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“That’s my boyfriend.”
Our waiter returns with our drinks and takes our orders—filet mignon for Ryan, the rack of lamb for me, plus an appetizer of oysters Rockefeller because I’ve lost all sense of financial responsibility.
She disappears toward the kitchen, and the band transitions into something slower, more intimate. And then the singer takes the stage.
She’s stunning in that old Hollywood way—curves wrapped in a sequined gown, hair piled high, microphone held like a lover. When she opens her mouth, the room goes still.
The song is immediately recognizable. A classic about flying to the moon and playing among the stars. Her voice wraps around the melody like silk, transforming the familiar tune into something achingly beautiful.
Ryan’s grip on my hand tightens almost painfully. “My mom used to sing this whenever I couldn’t fall asleep. She was so happy—”
He can’t finish. I see the tears threatening to spill over, see the way his jaw clenches as he fights to hold them back. I don’t say anything. The singer continues, her voice soaring through the chorus, and I watch Ryan’s face as the past and present collide.
“I didn’t know,” I murmur when the song transitions to a softer bridge. “About the song. I swear I didn’t plan this part.”
“I know.” He takes a shaky breath. “It’s just—this whole night. Everything you’ve done. It’s like you reached into my head and pulled out every dream I didn’t know I had.”
“Good dreams, I hope.”
“The best.” His eyes are still wet, but there’s a smile there now, tremulous but bright. “You’re the best, Oliver. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
“Pretty sure I’m the lucky one.” I lift our joined hands and press a kiss on his knuckles.
The singer finishes the song to enthusiastic applause. Ryan joins in, clapping with one hand while keeping the other firmly in mine. The music shifts to a more upbeat tempo, and the mood in the room lightens.
Our appetizers arrive—six oysters arranged artfully on a bed of rock salt, each one topped with a golden crust of breadcrumbs and spinach. Ryan eyes them with curiosity.
“I’ve never had oysters,” he admits.
“First time for everything.” I pick one up to demonstrate the proper technique. “You just tip it back. Don’t think too hard about it.”
He follows my lead, and his expression as the oyster slides down his throat is absolutely priceless—surprise, then consideration, then cautious approval. “It tastes like the ocean. In a good way.”
“That’s the idea.”
We work through the oysters together, and the conversation flows easily between bites. We talk about the club, its history, and how my parents met here when my mom was a waitress and my dad was a nervous college student trying to impress her with his nonexistent knowledge of wine.
“He ordered a white wine with his steak,” I tell Ryan, grinning at the memory of my father’s embarrassed retelling. “My mom still gives him grief about it. Says she almost didn’t give him her number because of his wine crimes.”
“But she did.”
“She did. And here we are.”
Ryan’s smile softens into something private. “Here we are.”
Our entrées arrive in a parade of silver-domed plates.
The waiter lifts the covers with a theatrical flourish, revealing food so beautiful it almost seems wrong to eat it.
Ryan’s filet mignon is a perfect cylinder of pink-centered beef, surrounded by a moat of red wine reduction.
My lamb chops are arranged like a crown, each bone wrapped in a tiny paper frill.
We eat in appreciative silence, too focused on the food to form coherent sentences. Eventually, though, conversation returns. And with it, the topic I’ve been avoiding all summer. “So,” I say, spearing a bite of lamb, “I have to ask. What do you think the deal is with the Ice Queen?”
Ryan pauses mid-chew, his eyebrows rising. “The Ice Queen?”
“She’s been weirdly nice lately. Drew says she apologized to him, unprompted with genuine remorse for her actions last semester.”
“That does seem out of character.”
“Right? Jackson thinks she had a personality transplant. Gerard is convinced she’s been replaced by a more pleasant clone. And Elliot—” I pause, remembering Elliot’s assessment. “Elliot thinks she’s ‘recalibrating her social strategy,’ whatever that means.”
Ryan considers this, twirling his fork thoughtfully. “Maybe she grew up. People do that sometimes. They realize they’ve been acting terribly, and they change.”
“You think so?”
“I think it’s possible.” He takes another bite of steak, chewing contemplatively.
“So you’re saying we should give her the benefit of the doubt?”
“I’m saying people are complicated.” Ryan’s eyes meet mine, warm and thoughtful. “We all have the capacity to change. To be better than we were. Isn’t that what this whole experience has been about? You and me, finally getting our act together after years of being too scared to try?”
“Maybe she’s thinking about her legacy,” I muse, setting down my fork. “She’s about to be a senior, right? Same as us. Maybe she looked around and realized she didn’t want to be remembered as the girl who stalked Drew and Jackson and obsessed over Gerard and Elliot.”
“That’s surprisingly insightful.”
“I have my moments.”
Ryan laughs, and the sound warms me. “So your theory is that the Ice Queen is having an existential crisis about how history will remember her?”
“Something like that. Senior year does things to people. Makes you think about what you’re leaving behind.” I reach for my water glass. “God knows I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”
“What do you want to leave behind?”
I consider his while the singer continues performing. “A team that knows how to win without me. Friends who are happy. A boyfriend who knows exactly how much he means to me.”
Ryan’s fork clatters against his plate. When I look up, his eyes are shining again. “Oliver Jacoby. You can’t just say things like that while I’m trying to eat an expensive steak.”
“Watch me.”
We finish our entrées, occasionally trading bites across the table. The lamb is incredible, but nothing compares to the way Ryan’s face lights up when I offer him a taste.
The band wraps up, and the female singer takes her final bow to appreciative applause. There’s a brief intermission while the stage is reset, and our waiter appears with dessert menus that look more like novels.
“Chocolate soufflé,” Ryan says without even glancing at the options. “If they have it.”
“They do. I checked.”
“Of course you did.”
I order the soufflé for him and a crème br?lée for myself, because I’m a sucker for the satisfying crack of caramelized sugar.
The waiter disappears, and the lights dim slightly as a new performer takes the stage.
He’s young—maybe our age, maybe a little older—with dark curly hair and the kind of easy smile that suggests he was born to perform.
He adjusts the microphone, and his voice fills the room.
“Good evening, everyone. Hope you’re enjoying your night so far.” He pauses, letting the murmurs of agreement settle. “I’d like to invite all the couples out to the dance floor for this next one. It’s a special song for special people.”
The opening bass line is unmistakable. My heart stutters in my chest.
“‘Stand By Me,’” Ryan gasps, recognition flooding his face.
“Dance with me?” I’m already on my feet, hand extended. Ryan stares at me for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then he takes my hand and lets me lead him to the dance floor.
Other couples join us—the older pair from the booth near the entrance, two women in matching red dresses, a nervous-looking young man with his equally nervous date. The floor fills with bodies, but I only have eyes for Ryan.
We find our position naturally, my hand settling on the small of his back while his rests on my shoulder. Our other hands clasp between us, and we begin to sway.
The singer’s voice wraps around us, rich and soulful, and I feel Ryan relax against me. His head tilts up, hazel eyes meeting mine, and the look on his face makes my breath catch.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi yourself.”
We dance, moving together like we’ve been doing this our whole lives. The song swells around us, the singer hitting every note perfectly.
I let myself get lost in the moment. In Ryan’s warmth against me. In the soft brush of his breath against my jaw.
“Oliver,” Ryan says as the song begins its final verse.
“Mm?”
“After dessert.” He swallows, and I can feel the nervous tension in his shoulders. “I’d like to go home. Back to my dorm. And I’d like to—” He breaks off, cheeks flushing pink. “Jackson said the room would be empty.”
It takes my brain approximately three seconds to process what he’s saying. When it does, I nearly trip over my feet.
“Ryan.” My voice comes out strangled. “Are you saying—”
“Hanky-panky.” The word is so ridiculous coming from his mouth, delivered in that old-fashioned cadence of his, that I almost laugh. But his eyes are serious, his expression earnest. “If you want. I mean, only if you want. I’m not trying to pressure you.”
“Pressure me?” I blink at him. “Ryan, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be saying that to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve never—and I don’t want you to feel like you have to.
” I’m fumbling over my words like an idiot, but I can’t seem to stop.
“There’s no pressure. Zero pressure. I’m perfectly content to just kiss you and then go home and jerk off in bed like I’ve been doing for months.
I don’t want you to feel rushed. Or obligated.
Or like you have to do anything just because we’re official now.
I can wait. I’m very good at waiting. I’ve been waiting my whole life, so a little longer won’t—”
Ryan kisses me.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s firm and sure, cutting off my rambling mid-sentence. His hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing.
“I’m ready,” he says, his thumb tracing my jaw, featherlight. “Take me home, Oliver. Please.”