There’s a chorus of “cheers,” the clink of glasses, and then laughter. I look around—at Hunter, at Sara, at the friends I never thought I’d have, at Aaron beside me—and I realize, for the first time, I don’t want to be anyone but myself.
I catch Aaron’s eye over the rim of my cup. He winks, just for me, and in the flicker of candlelight his face is the only thing in focus.
At midnight, we leave and head out into the city—cold, dark and shining all at once. Aaron laces his fingers through mine, and this time, I don’t let go.
On the walk back, we don’t say much. The night is loud with possibility, the spaces between the words filled with everything we haven’t yet done.
At my building, Aaron stops, pulls me in, and kisses me under the streetlight.
No crowd. No closet. No costume.
Just us.
And this, I think, is the real beginning.
Epilogue
A year can do terrible and beautiful things to an apartment. Aaron and I have painted over the drywall scars, replaced the cheap vertical blinds with blackout curtains, and even managed to erase the perma-smell of gym socks and microwave popcorn that once haunted every surface. Tonight, our living room is a cathedral of low light and higher ambition—flickering candles wedged into thrift store candelabras, strings of battery fairy lights tangled across the ceiling like synthetic constellations, a playlist of moody synthpop bumping under everything.
The couch is shoved against the far wall, its cushions replaced by a landscape of throw pillows scavenged from Sara’s post-moveout leftovers. The coffee table is gone, replaced by an actual laboratory bench I found on the Wilcox U surplus forum, every inch of it loaded with solo cups, off-brand beer, and a punch bowl containing a neon-green fluid of Aaron’s own design.
Over it all, a dozen vintage movie posters fight for airspace, their colors hyper-saturated in the candlelight. In one corner, a group of chemistry majors attempt to re-enact the climactic scene from Rocky Horror, voices warbling with fake bravado and—pretty sure it’s—vodka.
It’s the first time I’ve ever hosted anything that could be called a party, let alone an anniversary. Not that Aaron and I are the types to count months and days, but this—twelve months since the closet, since the kiss, since the absurd wager that detonated everything and then, weirdly, rebuilt it—is worth marking in some tactile way. He’s the one who insisted on the theme—Legends of Cinema: Come as Your Inner Icon. All I hadto do was get through the night without crawling under the kitchen table and hiding until morning.
But it’s working. I’m working. I stand by the door in my Roger Rabbit getup—white plush ears stitched to a battered ballcap, a blue bowtie with yellow polka dots that lights up with a hidden battery pack, and overalls so red they look Photoshopped onto my legs. My face is painted a dead ringer for the cartoon—Sara’s handiwork, obviously, though she threatened to “accidentally” Sharpie the nose if I didn’t stand still. Every time I open the door for another guest, the wave of laughter and secondhand smoke hits me first, followed by an RSVP’d face and the ritual “Whoa, nice costume!” They all expect me to shrink back, to fumble the greeting, but tonight I don’t. I hold the line. I make eye contact. I even remember people’s names.
Aaron drifts through the crowd in his full Jessica Rabbit regalia, a custom-sequined dress hugging him in all the right places, purple gloves up to his elbows, same auburn wig cascading down one shoulder as I wore last year. He’s taller than anyone else in the room by a clear margin, and the way he moves—deliberate, theatrical, hips cocked for maximum effect—turns every conversation he passes into a gravity well. It’s both hilarious and hot, and he knows it, pausing every few minutes to bend down and let someone take a selfie with his “Hollywood’s Finest” tag showing. Sometimes he even spots me across the room and gives a wink, which turns the area around him into a radiant field of double-takes and giggling.
At 10:04, Sara shows up in a full Morticia Addams getup: black velvet dress, pinched-in waist, hair flat-ironed and blacker than a moonless night. She glides over the threshold, surveys the scene, and makes a beeline for me. Her hand darts up to fix my ears, which are, apparently, “listing to port.”
“Spence, you have to hold the pose,” she says, snapping my head into place with two fingers under my chin. She leans in,inspecting my makeup. “Still perfect. You’re the sexiest hare I’ve ever seen.”
“You say that to all the rabbits,” I say, grinning because I know it’s what she expects.
She softens, scanning the room. “I can’t believe you pulled this off.”
“Me neither.”
Behind her, Aaron is mixing drinks at the lab bench. He’s flanked by two of his friends from the gym—a pair of collegiate Spartans in barely-legal gladiator tunics—and a girl in a Charlie Chaplin mustache who keeps trying to get him to break character. He’s doing his best Jessica Rabbit, but every few seconds he sneaks a glance my way, making sure I haven’t evaporated.
Sara nudges my arm. “So… how does it feel to be hosting your own social experiment?”
I look around, the apartment running at max capacity: two former TAs arguing about whether The Big Lebowski is a classic or a cliche; the Rocky Horror crew now serenading the kitchen with a rendition of “Sweet Transvestite” that manages to be both out of tune and out of time.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” I say, and realize I mean it.
She beams. “You’re doing great, babe. Aaron is, too.”
A thump from the stairwell cuts off the next line. The door bursts open and Hunter enters, sporting what can only be described as “Victorian Demon on Spring Break.” He’s draped in a velvet smoking jacket and a ruff that’s definitely made from the collar of a thrift store coat. His horns—cardboard, spray-painted gold, and attached with fishing line—gleam in the candlelight. He has a cigarette holder in one hand, an already-open beer in the other, and a self-satisfied grin that could power a small Midwestern city.
He spots me, then Aaron, then Sara, and sweeps a deep, theatrical bow. “Ladies and gentlemen! It is my distinct pleasure to announce that this party is officially LEGENDARY.” He points at Aaron. “You, sir, er, ma’am, have outdone yourself.”
Aaron raises his glass, eyes sparkling over the rim. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Caldwell.”
Hunter swans over, drops the cigarette holder into his jacket pocket, and pulls me into a one-armed hug. “Look at you! Out of the closet and into the spotlight.” He releases me, then leans in, stage-whispering: “Are you wearing pants under those overalls, or is this a full Roger?”
I push him away, but I can’t stop the laugh that escapes. “Don’t make me throw you out of my own apartment.”
