Chapter Six
Dylan didn’t return to Rhodes for closure or revenge or a meet-cute with fate.
They came because Jazz asked—and when Jazz asked, you showed up.
No questions. Jazz was the first person who made being queer look like a party they’d want to be invited to.
But seeing Vicky again? That was the wild card.
Would it undo them? Revert them to the mousy girl they believed they were in high school?
But standing at Rock Around the Clock on Henry Street, Dylan felt grounded. Changed. Pride crept in as their old friends, Annie and Lola, scrambled up to gush. “Dylan, you look so cool,” Annie said, disarmingly sincere. “No wonder I couldn’t find you online!”
Dylan blushed, hands in their pockets. “Thanks, guys. Yeah—guess I look a bit different than when we knew each other. And I use they/them pronouns now.”
Even though they’d come out dozens of times, there was still a wriggle of fear, quelled by the looks of understanding and acceptance on Lola’s and Annie’s faces.
“Gender’s a journey, amiright?” Dylan added.
“Amen,” Annie replied. “But not like amen. Haven’t asked the J-man to take the wheel; still doing all my own driving. And I’m she/her.”
“Same,” Lola said. “She/her.”
For the first time in twenty years, Dylan met Vicky’s gaze.
It was, perhaps, the most satisfying moment of their life: watching Vicky Fang freeze like a MacBook with the spinning wheel of death.
Dylan hadn’t changed for her. But they hadn’t not changed for her, either.
“Her/she,” Vicky managed to get out. “Hershey.”
Dylan almost laughed. This was all better than expected. “Hello, Vicky.” Dylan indicated Vicky’s white button-down. “Come straight from work?”
It took a moment for the dig to land. Vicky let out an insulted cough. “No,” she retorted. “Nothing about me is straight.”
So, Vicky Fang embraced the inevitable. Dylan ignored a flare of excitement. “Finally.” Dylan gave her an approving nod. “Congratulations.”
Vicky looked mildly offended. “I’ve been out since college. Sophomore year.”
“Sophomore?” Dylan couldn’t resist; something about Vicky fired up their competitive side. “I came out my first year.”
Vicky let out an annoyed huff.
Lola and Annie slid back into the booth. “Take a seat,” Annie offered.
Which was next to Vicky. She was wearing a spicy, floral scent, both feminine and a little dangerous, as if a peony was brandishing a knife. Dylan inhaled quietly, liking it.
Bizarre being back in their old booth. Twilight zone shit.
Age looked good on everyone. The town had changed, too.
Dylan expected gentrification—a Sweetgreen, a natural wine bar pushing small plates.
But the top of town was largely frozen in time, and this end was fading away like a half-finished thought.
“Sorry I’m late,” Dylan said. “Train delay. I went to the theater but couldn’t find Jazz. Is the meeting over?”
“Yep,” Annie said. “Jazz wants to revive our play—”
“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” Lola supplied.
“—as a fundraiser,” Annie finished, “to reopen the theater, with us four in the leads.”
“Cool idea.” Dylan glanced at Vicky, catching her gaze tracing their biceps.
“Huh?” Vicky flushed, and Dylan resisted the urge to flex.
Annie and Lola continued explaining Jazz’s plan until the waitress dropped off their drinks and curly fries, her eyes glued to Dylan. “Hi again. Can I get you anything?”
Dylan gave the waitress their best lazy smile. Another upside of cultivating self-confidence: learning to flirt. “What’s good?”
“The burgers are tasty,” their waitress said, nibbling the end of her pen, “but don’t snooze on the eggplant parm.”
Dylan looked to Vicky. “What’d you get?”
“The Garden Delight Salad,” Vicky replied, as if this was what Dylan should strongly consider.
Dylan addressed their waitress. “I’ll do the parm.”
Vicky frowned. Lola and Annie hid smiles.
“Excellent choice.” The waitress scribbled on her notepad. “Anything to drink?”
Booze felt essential. Dylan addressed the group. “Should we split a bottle of wine?”
Vicky and Annie looked to Lola. “Lola has an event…?” Vicky let it dangle.
“That I’m going to skip,” Lola said. “It’s been too long, and I could really use a glass of sauvignon blanc, if that works?”
“Definitely.” Dylan smirked at their waitress. “It’s hot tonight.”
The waitress blushed, walking backward to the bar.
Vicky sucked down her Diet Dr Pepper so violently she rattled the ice cubes. Dylan grinned, relaxing further into the booth. Annie kept the conversation going. “We didn’t think you’d show.”
“Anything for Jazz, right?” Dylan popped a curly fry in their mouth. Just as good as they remembered. “And the timing worked out: I’m based in L.A. but needed to be here for work.”
“And what is that?” Lola asked.
Dylan met Vicky’s eyes. Hopefully, this would be good. “I’m a chocolatier.”
Vicky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp. “A chocolatier?” she squeaked. “You make…chocolate?”
“Mm-hmm.” Dylan nodded, resisting the urge to purr like the Cheshire Cat. Of course, Vicky was still a sugar monster. “A gay Willy Wonka: That’s me.”
“That’s, like, my dream job. If I wasn’t a lawyer.” Vicky looked either impressed or furious. Maybe both. “You do that full-time?”
“Yup.” Dylan gave the pitch, perfected over the past three years.
“We’re a slow-made, handcrafted chocolate start-up, using natural, organic ingredients.
We were just an online business for a few years, but we opened our first retail location in Silver Lake last summer.
New York’s too expensive but I thought Upstate might work for us.
Figured I’d scout some locations and, y’know”—they wiggled their eyebrows—“suss out the vibe.”
Annie leaned forward, her sky-blue eyes all lit up. “So you’ll be running a chocolate shop, nearby?”
“Not me personally,” Dylan said. “I’m just looking for a space, seeing if it makes sense, then heading back to L.A.”
“L.A.,” Annie repeated in breathless reverence. “I’ve never been.”
Vicky scoffed. “You’re not missing much. Desperation, gridlock, way too much sun.”
Dylan grinned back, unfazed. “Also tacos, the beach, and sexually curious smokeshows.”
Lola chuckled. “L.A. has character,” she allowed, reaching for a fry. “What’s your start-up called?”
“Marlowe,” Dylan replied.
“That was your great-aunt’s name!” Vicky sounded like she was making an accusation.
Surprise lifted Dylan’s chest. They did not expect Vicky to remember. “That’s right. We were close.”
“I’ve heard of Marlowe!” Lola was excited. “It was in a swag bag at an event. Cuffing something…?”
“Cuffing Szn,” Dylan said. “We have a core collection of classic flavors, but we also do seasonal drops. All the flavors come from me: my interests, my imagination. Each drop tells a different story. Cuffing Szn was inspired by late-night mistakes and”—they met Vicky’s eye—“early-morning cravings.”
Vicky looked somewhere between stunned and starving.
“Meow,” Annie commented.
Dylan laughed, digging into their bag to unearth three small samples wrapped in shimmery silver.
“The base is dark chocolate,” Dylan went on, as the trio peeled open the wrappers, “with espresso nibs—because bad decisions hit different at one a.m.—a salted caramel swirl for some sticky-sweet chaos, and a dusting of cayenne pepper to keep things hot.”
“This is incredible,” Lola enthused, savoring a bite.
“It’s a hookup in chocolate form,” Annie moaned.
Vicky’s eyes had glazed, her muscles slackening.
“What d’you think?” Dylan prompted her.
Vicky snapped to, cinching herself together. “Yeah, it’s—all right.”
“All right?” Dylan did not believe this for a second. “Pretty sure I just saw your o-face, Vee.”
Vicky blushed, shoving Dylan in a fluster. “You did not just see my o-face! You will never see my o-face!”
Dylan grinned, addressing all three women. “Thanks, guys. It’s all a ton of work, but super rewarding. Feels like I’m finally on the right path.”
“Sounds wonderful, Dylan,” Lola said, more wistfully than Dylan would expect a famous, successful actor to sound.
“Yes.” Vicky sounded almost annoyed. “Impressive.”
The waitress was back, placing four wineglasses on the table.
The quartet had never been old enough to drink when hanging at the diner after shows: The procurement of alcohol was a small but important thrill.
The waitress filled each glass, giving Dylan the largest pour, which made Vicky narrow her eyes.
“What are we drinking to?” Dylan asked, as they all raised a glass.
“Old friends,” Lola said.
“New adventures,” Annie added.
“To the playhouse,” Dylan said, then looked to Vicky, prompting her with a raised brow.
Vicky wrenched her gaze away from Dylan’s mouth. “To…Jazz.”
“To Jazz,” the others echoed, clinking their glasses.
They all drank, eyes on one another. Dylan could almost see electric sparks zinging between everyone in the group.
Was this quartet situation an open playing field? Not that Dylan was planning on getting sexually messy with anyone. But if they were to get accidentally sexually messy…Who was single? Still doing gay stuff?
Annie couldn’t meet Lola’s eye without blushing. The air between them seemed spiky. Unfinished business. That answered that. But not this: How was Vicky Fang just as hot, if not hotter, than she was twenty years ago?
· · ·
The wine helped ease the friction. Lola stepped out to speak with her driver—someone she’d booked for the whole night—to make sure he could wait.
She returned to the dish Annie had ordered for her, gasping at the sight of the Rockin’ Roast Chicken Salad Sandwich.
“You remembered! The perfect meal.” She unfolded the napkin across her lap. “It’s roast chicken—
And here the others joined in with her, reciting, “It’s salad, and it’s a sandwich.”
“Hey, she said what she said.” Dylan slouched back against the leather booth, holding a fry as if it was a cigarette.