Back in high school, we were two boys holding hands in the dark, careful and brave in equal measure. Miles was out, but quietly, like he kept his queerness folded neatly in his pocket. I was out like a marching band. And I don’t know, haven’t known for twenty-five years, whether this version of me would feel like growth to him or distance. I inhale slowly, then straighten in the booth. You didn’t build this life by flinching, I remind myself. You didn’t survive this town, this industry, this world, by pretending to be smaller. So, I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “It’s not just a gay bar,” I say. “It’s a drag club.”
Miles’s eyebrows lift just a fraction. Not shock. Just recalibration.
“We do full shows,” I continue, the words coming easier now that I’ve started. “Drag, cabaret, themed nights. Tourists, locals, the whole thing. It’s kind of the heart of the winter season now.”
He nods slowly, still watching me. “And?”
“And,” I add, letting a little more steel settle into my spine, “I’m the headliner.”
That does it. His eyebrows shoot up this time, his mouth parting in a quiet oh.
I rush the next part, not because I’m ashamed, but because the moment feels fragile. “Onstage, I go by May North. Big hair, bigger lashes, sparkle for days. Think glamor with a side of relentless ball-busting fabulousness.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Miles smiles. Not politely. Not cautiously. He smiles like something just clicked into place, like he’s looking at a puzzle piece he didn’t realize was missing. “Of course you are,” he says, awe threading through his voice. “Jesus, Mason. That’s…that’s perfect.”
I blink. “You’re not—”
“Surprised?” he finishes. “A little. I won’t lie.” He chuckles softly. “But not in a bad way. More like, wow. You took what you always were and turned the volume all the way up.”
Something in my chest loosens, a tightness finally giving way. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “You always belonged on a stage. Drag just feels like you stopped asking permission.”
I laugh, the sound shaky but real. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He tilts his head, studying me with that familiar softness. “So…May North.”
“That’s me,” I say, then add more gently, “Most people just call me May now. Even out of drag. Mason’s still fine, but May fits better these days.”
He rolls the name around once, thoughtful. “May,” he says. Then he smiles again, warm and certain. “It suits you.”
The way he says it, like it’s obvious, like it was always inevitable, makes my throat tighten just a little. Like he’s not justseeing me, but really seeing me. Not the memory of the boy I used to be. Not the idea of what he expected to find.
Me. Now.
I try not to make it a big deal. I smile and sip my latte like my heart’s not performing Swan Lake behind my ribs.
Right on cue, his phone buzzes against the table. Miles glances down, grimaces, and sighs. “That’s my cue. I’ve got a hot date with a busted toilet and a very judgmental cat who lives in the linen closet.”
I laugh, the tension breaking. “Sounds glamorous. Don’t let it steal your heart.”
“No promises,” he says, standing slowly but lingering. His hand rests on the back of the chair for a second too long, like he’s not quite ready to leave. He looks at me again, soft and searching, then offers a half-smile. “Can I see you again?”
“You just did,” I tease, but the words are warm, not evasive.
He grins, that same crooked grin I remember from all those years ago, the one that made me want to throw caution, and maybe my entire future, to the wind. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” I tilt my head, letting the moment hang between us like mistletoe waiting to happen. “And yeah. I’d like that.”
Miles nods, satisfied. “Good. Then I’ll be seeing you, May.”
And damn if that doesn’t do something to me. He turns and heads for the door, his flannel-clad back disappearing into the morning bustle of The Brew House. The bell above the door gives a cheerful jingle as he steps into the cold.
And okay, I admit it; I watch him go. The man fills out a pair of jeans like it’s his job. Broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, strong legs, and yeah, that ass. It’s just as good as I remember, maybe even better now, age and confidence workedinto the way he moves. It’s all very cowboy in a holiday rom-com, and I hate how fast my brain fills in the rest of the fantasy. Old habits die hard, and apparently, my teenage crush on Miles Dalton is still very much alive and doing backflips in my ribcage.
I look away before I embarrass myself with a sigh and stare into the dregs of my latte instead, the foam now just a swirl of cinnamon and memories. It’s strange, this thing between us. Like no time has passed at all, and yet everything’s different. We’re older, wiser, maybe, definitely more complicated, but the pull hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s stronger now, sharpened by distance and grown sweeter with age. He looks good. He feels good. And talking to him again, it’s like slipping into an old favorite song, the lyrics already half-remembered, just waiting for your mouth to catch up.
