2. Lance
Lance
The others are already on the terrace when I arrive, scattered around the table in various states of the morning after.
Azure Tides stretches out around us, a high-end beachfront resort, glass and pale stone with the ocean running wide past every window.
Late morning in June, the sun’s already up and warming everything, golden heat with a coastal breeze cutting through it.
Terracotta underfoot, bougainvillea pushing hard in bright pink over the walls, salt in the air.
It feels expensive, dialed in to the point it almost doesn’t feel fucking real.
The weird part is, I technically grew up around places like this. Business trips where the adults disappeared into conference rooms while me and a bunch of other kids got turned loose around infinity pools with too much freedom and hotel keycards linked to our parents’ accounts.
It still feels a little fake seeing myself back in one.
I would probably appreciate the view more if I weren’t busy running a full forensic investigation into the last twelve hours of my life while keeping my shit together.
Trevor lifts his coffee the second I drop into the chair across from him.
He looks fresh and unfairly rested for a man who just got married.
Loose white linen shirt, blond curls, easy grin already in place.
He works on brand partnerships for luxury resorts like this one.
He’s got a marketing degree, but his real qualification is that he’s good with people.
“There he is,” he says, his Australian accent easy in his voice. “The man who tried to outdrink my wedding.”
“I didn’t just try. I succeeded,” I say, reaching for the carafe like I’ve earned it. “Congrats again, Trev. Fucking off the market and everything. Very tragic for the rest of us.” I do a little curtsy in front of Becca. “Mrs. Macklin.”
The half-Black stunner snorts into her cup.
She sits beside Trevor, with her curls pulled into a loose knot, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head.
She has that just-married glow, somehow surviving a full night of dancing and still showing up fresh the next morning, like the rest of us got run over in comparison.
“You disappeared halfway through all that dancing. One of my cousins was asking for you.”
“Good,” I mutter dramatically. “Let her keep the mystery alive.”
“She looked disappointed,” Becca adds.
Trevor grins. “Yeah, you were with Sierra for a while, mate. Thought we’d lose you early.”
“That was the plan,” I say. “No idea where it went, but clearly it didn’t happen.”
Across the table, Vince Holloway nurses an espresso, all brooding focus. Black hair, dark eyes, and tattoos down his right arm that look like ink dragged on in brush strokes. The NFL golden boy, wide receiver for the San Francisco Tritons, built for impact and fully aware of it.
He doesn’t look up. “You got distracted.”
Adrian leans into Holloway’s shoulder like he belongs there, already decided he’s not moving anytime soon.
Lean, golden-haired, warm brown eyes, all of it wrapped up in that easy physical confidence of a man completely at home in his own skin.
An artist by trade, he showed up at our suite ten nights ago by mistake, booked as a stripper for the bachelorette party, and somehow ended up performing for Trevor’s instead.
That one wrong door blew everything open for all of us, because Holloway didn’t just recognize him. He knew him.
High school history, unfinished and carrying a few old scars. First love, first heartbreak, all that shit. The one who got away, depending on who you ask.
And judging by the way Adrian fits against him now, like no time’s passed at all, it’s pretty clear neither of them ever really let it go.
“I wonder what distracted you,” Adrian says, smile knowing.
Trevor points at me with his spoon. “You left with George. Can’t believe you guys retired early.”
I blink. “We what?”
“You left together,” Becca says, matter-of-fact. “We saw you go. I didn’t see you guys after that.”
George shows up behind me at that exact moment in a plain white T-shirt and dark jeans, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly wind-tousled. He pulls a chair out across from me and drops into it. He reaches into his pocket, and sets two acetaminophen in front of me without a word.
I grab them, nod once. “You’re a good man.”
“Drink your coffee,” he says.
Trevor leans back and stretches. “Look at these two. Barely out of bed and already in sync. Becca, babe, when are we getting married like that, hey?”
Becca laughs and sips her mimosa. “We did get married like that, babe. Yesterday. Try to keep up.”
I toss the meds back, tilt the bottle to drink them down, and immediately wince. “Fuck—my jaw hurts like a bitch.” I swallow again and grimace harder. “And swallowing feels like I deepthroated a cactus.”
George, mid-sip of his coffee, chokes violently. The mug nearly slips from his hand as he hacks into his fist.
“You okay there, Big Guy?” I ask, frowning in genuine concern.
George waves me off, eyes watering, still coughing like he’s trying to dislodge a lung.
Holloway reaches over and thumps him hard between the shoulder blades.
Adrian turns his head, studying me and George with open curiosity. “What’s your secret for a long-lasting marriage to this…thing over here?” he says, pointing at me like I’m some misplaced piece of furniture.
George doesn’t even look at him. “Survive. Don’t die.”
Trevor taps the table, grinning. “Anyway, newly married here, yeah? Let me enjoy being the only legitimate couple here before you two go and make it official.”
“Not happening,” George says.
“This guy?” I snort. “Hard pass.”
The conversation rolls on without me for a second, Trevor circling back into something about honeymoon. I take a moment to lean back in my chair, letting the noise of the table blur just enough to create some brief peace.
Across from me, Adrian's still tucked against Vince's shoulder. I lean in over the table toward him, dropping my voice enough that it won't carry past the two of us.
“Hey,” I say to Adrian under my breath. “You remember last night, when I was at the bar? Can't remember shit after a certain point. Any chance you could help me fill in the blanks?”
Adrian leans in too, meeting me halfway, his eyes lighting up. “I can try.”
“Good,” I say. “Great. Fantastic. Fill me in.”
He shifts closer, shit-eating grin on his face. This is already going wrong.
“You mean you don’t remember a thing about coming back to the bar from the dance floor with Becca’s cousin all over you,” Adrian starts, not even trying to keep it down, “and then you and George sat there drinking, looking like you were about to eat each other?”
The table goes quiet for half a second, then breaks into good-natured laughter. I turn and stare at Adrian like I’m seriously considering throttling him for sport.
“Dude,” I say, sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Subtlety. Or basic human discretion. Pick one before I strangle you.”
Vince immediately puts a firm, protective hand on Adrian’s arm, his eyes narrowing at me. “Easy, Bradford. You got your answer.”
“Back off, Holloway. Your man will live. For now.” For a guy who likes to share his boyfriend in bed, he sure gets possessive fast when it counts. I love that for them.
Adrian laughs, completely unbothered. “What? You asked! And you don’t do subtle yourself.”
“Bro code, Adrian. Do I have to teach you everything?” I shoot back.
Trevor is already losing it. “Hang on, mate. What was that about eating each other?”
“Did we miss something?” Becca asks, delighted.
“Nope. Nothing to see here,” I tell them.
Adrian props his chin on his hand, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “You came back to the bar, George was there. You two started talking, and the vibe just…shifted.”
“The vibe,” I repeat flatly.
“Yes,” Adrian says, completely unfazed. “The vibe.”
“And you know all this because you were standing there the whole time taking detailed notes on everyone else’s social lives on a wedding night?”
Adrian’s cheeks go pink. “Yeah, I mean, I was thoroughly fucked in a tent a little way down the beach before that, so my memory’s not exactly pristine, but I’m telling you, I saw it happen. You can still trust me on that part.”
Even I let out a laugh at that one. The image is ridiculous enough to crack the tension for a second. Vince just sits beside him looking smug as hell, not even remotely bothered, like Adrian being this loud and unfiltered is exactly what he signed up for.
George doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything at all.
He’s already watching me when I look up, like he knew I would. The corner of his mouth tugs, almost a smirk before it flattens into an unreadable expression, like he’s caught between finding it funny and not giving anything away. I can’t tell which it is, and that somehow makes it worse.
I break eye contact first. “You’re full of it,” I tell Adrian.
“Maybe,” he says lightly. “It’ll come back to you. And if it doesn’t…well, some things are better figured out in real time.”
I reach for my coffee again, the mug feels too warm against my palms. Everything at the table feels slightly off balance now, with the laughter a little louder, the teasing a little sharper, and the space between me and George suddenly way too small.
And I still don’t have enough of last night to argue my way out of any of it.
The thing about weddings and goodbyes is they always act like they’re simple, then end up being bigger than anyone planned. It’s like you’re supposed to just pack up more than a week’s worth of everything that happened and leave it neatly at the door.
I’m truly happy to be part of it though. Meeting new people, keeping my old ones close, watching everyone collide for a few days and somehow come out the other side still standing. It’s a privilege, even if I’ll be paying for it tomorrow with a twelve-hour shift and no sleep.
So I do my goodbyes the way I always do, quick and loud enough to mean it. I hug my friends and give Adrian a brief look, a nod for what he’s done for the group in the short time I’ve known him. I then step out of it before anyone gets sentimental enough to ruin a perfectly good ending.
George and I walk to the truck.
His Ford F-150 is light faded blue. The bench seat is worn in just right. I climb into the passenger side and it feels familiar, like it always does.
George starts the engine, flips on the stereo without a word. Incubus’ “Drive” settles in through the speakers, low under the road noise. He pulls out of the car park and we hit the Pacific Coast Highway heading south, the ocean stretching out wide and blue on our left.
We drive in silence for a while. It’s not awkward. We’ve always been good at that, sharing space without needing to force words into it.
“So,” I finally say, gesturing at the road ahead. “We’re really just gonna…drive like nothing happened?”
“Mm-mm,” he responds, eyes on the highway.
I snort. “Real talkative today, G. You save all your words for when you’re grunting in the gym?”
George’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close enough. “You talk enough for both of us. Always have.”
“Someone has to,” I say, opening a bag of peanuts I find in the center console. “Otherwise we’d sit here like two assholes listening to your sad-man guitar playlist.”
He glances sideways, one brow raised. “You’ve been singing along all the time whenever we go on road trips. Always been off-key.”
I give him a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck you.”
The song changes to New Radicals’ ‘Someday We’ll Know’. I start singing like I’ve been training for this moment my whole life—full volume, windows-down energy, my voice nothing short of magnificent.
George exhales through his nose. The steering wheel gets a slightly firmer grip.
The Pacific Coast rolls by, Santa Barbara fading behind us, with San Diego somewhere ahead.
The question from this morning hasn’t really gone away. Neither of us goes near it.
Two months later, I still haven’t picked it up.
But my body has started answering it anyway.