Chapter Twenty-Three
Ashton
Luke doesn’t bother knocking anymore when he comes over. He has a spare key—intended for emergencies only—but he’s never been big on boundaries. We shared a bedroom growing up, and I guess that philosophy stuck. What’s mine is his. Privacy optional.
I’m halfway through pouring a mug of coffee when the front door flies open.
He stumbles in with wide eyes and chaotic energy. His dirty-blond hair sticks up in every direction, cowlicks rebelling against gravity. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, and he looks visibly hungover.
Serves him right for getting shit-faced on the boat last night. His date practically had to carry him off the dock.
“Bro!” he shouts, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. He barrels into the kitchen, sneakers squeaking across the tile, and tugs my sleeve with frantic urgency. “Did you hear what happened after the fireworks?”
I pause with my mug halfway to my mouth. “No. What?”
“You remember my buddy Mason? From high school?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. He’s a lifeguard now.”
“Right,” Luke says, leaning closer. A scowl pulls on his mouth like he’s about to say something foul. “And get this—I heard he kissed a guy last night. In public. On the sidewalk.”
My mouth falls open, and I nearly drop my coffee. On the long list of things I expected to come out of Luke’s mouth, Mason kissing a man would’ve ranked dead last.
“No way,” I breathe. It’s the only response I can manage.
Luke just nods, already at home in my kitchen. He grabs a mug from the cupboard, pours himself coffee without asking, and takes an unhurried sip. Leaning back against the counter, ankles crossed, he studies me over the rim.
“Yeah. My friend heard it from his sister. Not sure I believe it, though.” He shrugs. “Could be a prank. You know Mason—he doesn’t act gay. He’s always been a total ladies’ man.”
My grip tightens on the edge of the counter until my fingers ache. I stare into my coffee, watching the surface ripple as my hand starts to tremble.
I force out a slow breath. “Yeah, you’re right. Probably just a rumor, man.”
But the possibility lodges in my chest, bright and dangerous.
The idea that Mason might be gay—or at least not entirely straight—sparks something I can’t describe.
Hope, maybe. Like I wasn’t the only queer kid growing up in Claremont Shores.
Like there were others hiding in plain sight, just as confused and scared as I was.
Like maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
“This town runs on gossip,” Luke says, already moving on. He wanders into the living room and drops onto my couch.
I follow and sit beside him, propping my feet on the coffee table.
“Anyway,” he says, nudging my knee with his, eyebrows waggling, “you and Phoebs were snuggled up on the boat last night. Did you get laid after the fireworks?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The truth is, I did end up getting laid last night. My ass is still sore in a way that makes it hard to sit too comfortably. But Luke doesn’t need to know who was in my bed.
“Sure did,” I say with a casual nod.
Luke laughs and smacks my shoulder. “Atta boy!”
I snort softly and lift my mug to my lips, letting the coffee hide the smile I can’t quite contain.
The sharp blast of a horn makes me flinch as I step out of the barn, wiping my dirty hands on my jeans. Gravel crunches under my boots as I look up.
Troy’s van is parked crooked near the fence, windows down, music faintly spilling out. He’s leaning halfway out the driver’s-side window, a grin stretched wide across his face. The sight of him makes my heart flutter, and I can’t stop the smile that tugs at my mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I call, heading toward him.
He scrunches his brows in mock offense. “Surprising my hardworking boyfriend. Is that a problem?”
My fingers flex around the lip of the open window, heat rising to my cheeks. “No—no, of course not. I just—”
He cuts me off by leaning forward and catching my lips in a quick kiss. It’s brief, a soft press of his mouth to mine, but it steals the rest of my rambling anyway.
And just like that, the tight coil in my chest loosens.
It’s ridiculous how easily he does that—how he steadies me without even trying. He’s the only person who’s ever been able to quiet the noise in my head, to pull me out of the spiral of overthinking and second-guessing. With him, everything feels simpler. Lighter.
“I’m heading up to a bar in Grand Rapids to make a cider delivery,” he says, brushing a warm hand across my cheek. “Wanna join me?”
I blink a few times, startled. “Oh. I, uh…”
It’s not that I don’t want to go. The idea of riding along, of spending the evening with him in the city, of sitting beside him with the windows down and the music up—it all sounds dangerously appealing.
But I glance down at myself: dirt ground into my palms, sweat dried stiff against my T-shirt, orchard dust clinging to my jeans.
Troy catches the flicker of uncertainty in my expression. His grin falters, just slightly.
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly, lifting a shoulder in a casual shrug that doesn’t quite hide the disappointment in his eyes. “I just thought it might be fun. But if you’re tired, or busy, or—whatever. No pressure. I’d just enjoy the company.”
Guilt pricks at me. “No, I want to,” I say immediately. “I do. I’m just… gross. I’ve been out in the orchard all day.”
He laughs, the sound warm and low. “We can stop by your place if you want to take a quick shower.” His eyes drag over me in a way that makes my stomach flip. “But for the record? I don’t mind the dirt.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, really?”
“It’s kind of sexy,” he says lightly.
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the heat climbing up my neck again, betraying me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly pleased with himself.
I shake my head, fighting a smile, then circle around the front of the van. The smell of cigarette smoke hits me as I pull open the passenger door and climb in, the scent baked into the upholstery. The seat is warm from the sun.
He shifts the van into gear, and we roll forward, tires kicking up a cloud of pale dust as we head down the winding dirt trail that cuts through the orchard. The trees blur past in neat green rows, late-afternoon sunlight flashing between the leaves.
After a quick stop at my place to shower and change into clean clothes, we merge onto the highway toward Grand Rapids.
The windows are cracked, letting cool air sweep through my still-damp hair.
Troy drives with one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting on my thigh, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against the fabric of my jeans.
I try not to stare at his hand—but I do. The ink winding over his knuckles, the silver of his rings flashing in the late-afternoon sun. There’s something grounding about the weight of it there.
It takes about an hour to reach the city.
I don’t make this drive often. Multi-lane freeways and crowds make me anxious, but Troy handles it like it’s nothing.
He weaves through traffic with easy confidence, unfazed by aggressive lane changes and blaring horns.
He’s from Chicago, I remind myself. He probably learned to drive in conditions far worse than this.
The skyline slowly rises ahead of us, buildings cresting the horizon, their windows glowing amber as the sun dips lower.
The river slicing through downtown catches the fading light, rippling beneath steel bridges.
I rest my head against the cool glass and watch the city unfold—people crowding sidewalks, someone walking a tiny dog wearing pink booties, clusters of college kids laughing too loud as they spill out of bars.
Troy pulls to the curb in front of a red brick building humming with music. Neon signs glow in the windows, casting pink and blue light onto the sidewalk. Bass thuds faintly through the walls.
Then I notice it.
A Pride flag hangs above the door, bright stripes shifting gently in the breeze.
I swallow hard. “This is… a gay bar?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
Troy glances at me, reading my expression carefully, then nods. “Yep.”
I look back at the flag, then at the crowd gathered near the entrance—men with their arms slung around each other, women laughing hand in hand, a couple sharing an easy kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“And they want to sell our cider?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Uh-huh.” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches for the door handle, then glances at me, eyes bright. “C’mon. Wanna help me unload the kegs?”
My body goes rigid. I’m still staring at the Pride flag rippling above the door, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m about to walk into a gay bar—with my boyfriend.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit quietly, my gaze fixed on the dashboard.
Troy pauses halfway through opening the door. “Do what?”
“Go inside,” I manage, my throat tight.
He studies me for a moment, then lets the door shut again with a muted thud. He exhales slowly, heavy but controlled.
“Baby,” he says gently, turning toward me. “It’s not a big deal. I worked at a gay bar in Chicago for a few years back in the day. It’s just like any other bar”—he winks, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth—“just a little hornier.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus.”
He chuckles under his breath, the sound warm and familiar. “Relax, baby. We’re just business partners making a delivery.”
I shake my head. “Troy—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly. His hand finds mine, warm and steady. “I know it’s scary walking into a place like this.” He squeezes my fingers. “But maybe it’ll be good for you to see what it’s actually like. To be around other queer folks.”
The word makes something flutter low in my chest. Queer. It still feels foreign on my skin, like a label I’m not sure I’m allowed to wear.