I must’ve played that note thirty times by now. Not because it’s particularly profound or overtly flirtatious. But because it’s him. Because I liked the way he said our next date as if it were a given. It’s not just nostalgia, or even plain old attraction, either. It’s something steadier, warmer, like I finally tuned back into a frequency I didn’t know I’d been missing.
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, watching the way it catches the light. I didn’t come here tonight with a plan. I didn’t come expecting anything. But if I’m being honest? I’m hoping for more. More time. More May. More of whatever this thing is that's blooming between us.
The lights dim. The background music fades into silence as a quiet ripple moves through the crowd. Heads shift toward the stage, sitting up straighter, leaning forward, and the air changes, as if everyone knows something is about to happen. Then the lights flare, and there she is.
May.
Her silhouette alone steals my breath. She steps into the spotlight with practiced poise that makes it look effortless. A red gown hugs every line of her body, sequins catching the light with every subtle move. Her hair, a tower of glossy, vintage cherry-red curls, defies gravity and good sense. Her makeup is dazzling and severe in the best way. She looks like a dream cooked up in the middle of a snowstorm. Dangerous. Decadent. Divine.
And I’m gone for her all over again.
The room hushes, caught in the gravity she pulls without even trying. She stands still, eyes scanning the crowd, taking us in like we’re the ones on display. She lets the silence stretch just a moment too long. Makes them ache for it. Makes me ache for it. Then, with the slow pull of a smirk, she lifts the mic.
“Well, well, well. Sleighbell Springs, you beautiful frostbitten queerdos. You came back. And here I thought I was the only one dumb enough to leave the house in heels tonight. Either way, baby, I love you for it.”
The crowd bursts into laughter, applause, and a few dramatic whoops from a table near the front. She’s magnetic, completely in her element. Like the lights and the glitter and the cheers all exist just to orbit her.
“Welcome to Sleigh Queen, where the glitter is non-refundable, the heels are high, and the rules are simple: tip well, cheer louder, and if your ex is here, pretend you’re hotter than them. Especially if you’re not.”
The room erupts. May gives the crowd a faux-simpering look, then fans herself with a rhinestone-studded folding fan she snaps open from the folds of her dress. I’m honestly not sure where it came from. I don’t care. I love it.
“And tonight? Oh, honey, tonight we’ve got a show so good it might just melt your snowballs. I hope you stretched first. So why don’t we get this night started, shall we? Please give the warmest welcome to our first performer! You know her, you love her, please welcome Sleigh Queen’s resident disaster queen, Dee Pression!”
More applause. More cheers. Then she steps to the side, cueing the DJ with a flick of her wrist. The music kicks in, and the first queen struts onto the stage, the energy immediately skyrocketing. I try to keep watching the performance. It’s good, damn good. But my gaze keeps drifting back to May, just off-stage now, leaning against the velvet curtain like she was bornto run this place. She’s watching the performer with the same intensity she gave the crowd. Encouraging. Calculating. Proud. She’s not just the star; she’s the glue. She built this, this space, this stage, this energy. It’s all hers. Every neon-drenched inch.
I lean forward slightly, bracing my forearm on the edge of the bar. The next performer slides into a sultry number with endlessly long legs peeking from a dangerously high slit in her gown, and the crowd eats it up. May disappears behind the curtain, probably for a costume change, and my chest feels a little hollower for it.
It’s funny, I used to think I knew what confidence looked like. Back in high school, it was swagger and touchdowns and pretending I didn’t care about things I wanted too badly to name. But this? This is confidence, this is power. May shines so brightly it makes everything else look like it’s still waking up. God, I want more of her. In every version, every iteration. I just want her, him, them, whatever. I just want May.
The crowd claps as the second number ends, and May sweeps back onto the stage in a new outfit, deep blue now, velvet and rhinestones, a faux fur stole draped dramatically over one shoulder.
“Give it up one more time for our dazzling disaster, Alexa Turnoff!” she calls, voice smooth and just this side of wicked. “She’s got legs for days and morals for none, just how we like her!”
The crowd whoops and cheers, but I’m barely hearing it. I’m watching her. All of her. She waits a beat, letting the room swell with energy, then holds up a single finger. “Now, my little snowflakes, it’s time for a personal favorite. A classic, just like your grandma’s Jell-O mold, only this one’s got a little more wiggle.”
The music kicks in, sleek, sultry, familiar.Feeling Good, but not the standard version. This one’s bold and brassy, thehorns swaggering like they know how lucky they are to back her up. May takes the center of the stage in slow, deliberate steps. She doesn’t rush, she doesn’t have to; she just moves, and every eye in the room follows. Every breath seems to sync with hers. The first verse curls around the room like smoke as it sings about birds flying high. May doesn’t lip sync like most queens I’ve seen. She embodies, she interprets, she makes the lyrics feel like her truth and ours, all at once.
When she drapes herself across the chaise at center stage, one leg kicked high, her gaze sweeping lazily over the crowd, I feel it like a punch. A good one, right to the ribs. Because that boy I used to know? The one who used to draw doodles in the margins of his chem notes, who hummed show tunes under his breath, and who flinched when someone knocked too loudly? He’s gone. Or no, not gone. He’s grown into something bigger, bolder, more himself than I think he ever got to be back then. This isn’t some costume. This is May. This is Mason, unfiltered and turned all the way up, and God, she’s luminous.
The chorus hits, and she stands, arms wide, chin tilted up like she’s soaking in the light. Like sheisthe light. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone so alive. And in that moment, sitting there in the dark with bourbon in hand and a thousand tiny mirror-ball sparkles flickering across the walls, I don’t feel like a man watching a show. I feel like a man witnessing something sacred. Maybe that’s overdramatic. Maybe it’s the lighting, the bourbon, or the way my heart’s been unspooling from the second I walked in here. But I think it’s just May.
The song winds down, slow and sultry, and she holds the final pose like she’s claiming the air itself. Then she drops into a bow, lips parted in a smirk, eyes catching mine for a fraction of a second across the room. I don’t think she knows she’s looking at me. But I know. Something catches in my chest,sharp and almost sweet, like the first breath of cold air when you step outside after a snowstorm. The room erupts into cheers, whistles, people on their feet, and I let myself get swept up in it, but it’s automatic. My hands move, but I’m somewhere else. Somewhere older. Somewhere newer.
The boy I left behind was all untapped electricity and aching silences. The kind of kid who never quite fit into his own skin, who laughed too loud and apologized too fast, and looked at me like I was the whole world, even when I didn’t know what to do with that kind of devotion. But this May? She’s fire and poise and intentional glitter. She’s built herself into someone unstoppable. Someone whole.
And I could’ve missed this. All of it. If I hadn’t come back. If I hadn’t walked into the Brew House last week like some cliché rom-com setup. A few months ago, I didn’t even know what I wanted. Now I do. I wantthis. Not just the glam and the show, though God, watching her command that stage is like watching the sun decide to grace the earth with its warmth. I want the person behind it. The one who texts me late at night with screenshots of bad reality TV. The one who still bites his lip when he’s trying not to laugh. The one who hesitated before giving me his number, then followed it up with, “Don’t make me regret this, Dalton.” I haven’t. And I have zero intention of making May regret a single thing ever again, at least when it comes to me.
I finish the last sip of my drink, the bourbon gone warm in my hand, and set the glass down carefully. I didn’t come here tonight with a plan. I didn’t even know what I was hoping for, not really. But now? Now I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m staying. I’m showing up. I’m going to prove that I’m not the same boy who left, and she’s not the only one who’s grown into something stronger. I want to earn my way back into her orbit, slowly if I have to. Loudly, if she’ll let me. Whatever version ofherself she wants to be next, I want to be there to see it. To deserve seeing it.
I settle back in my seat as the next act is announced, a ripple of laughter moving through the crowd, but it all fades into soft static at the edges. And I’m not going anywhere. For so long, staying felt like the risk. Like if I lingered too long in one place, I’d get trapped, or exposed, or disappointed. Leaving was always easier. Cleaner. You could convince yourself it meant something. But tonight, sitting here with the echo of her performance still humming under my skin, I understand something I never did before.
Leaving was the mistake.
This doesn’t feel reckless. It doesn’t feel nostalgic or impulsive or like I’m trying to reclaim something that doesn’t exist anymore. It feels deliberate. Grounded. Earned. Like choosing to stand still for once and letting the rest of the world catch up.
I didn’t come back to Sleighbell Springs looking for anything in particular. I told myself I just needed a place to land. Somewhere quiet, somewhere temporary. But watching May take that stage, watching her claim it so completely, I know this much for certain:
I didn’t come back by accident.
