The Newly-Deads deadpan every truth question with the solemnity of delivering eulogies.
Gretchen and Greg are together again, judging by the way they serve each other punch then drink from the other’s Styrofoam cups.
Amanda and Luis are fighting, also near the punch table.
“You always ruin group events!”
“At least I show up!”
Does this summer’s matchmaking festival need to haunt Sweetpinesforever?
Peaches tries to sneak a cookie off the refreshment table but ends up with a party hat on her head instead.
I’m not sure how I ended up here with a twinkling name tag and a cup of pink punch. But here I am, smiling too brightly, pretending my heart isn’t still spinning from Beau’s song that I overheard a day ago.
My chest aches every time I remember his voice, the way it felt. He was singing straight from his soul. I’m trying to play it cool, but everything inside me feels shaky, yet anxiously excited also.
Unexpectedly, he is next to me, what looks like a quilt folded under one arm. We still haven’t spoken, but he didn’t just appear. I sense that he was looking for me and found me.
Someone calls for a new round of dares. Beau and I stand just outside the tangle of movement and chatter. Laughter rings nearby, nerves prickle the air, and anticipation pulses around us. It brushes our shoulders, but doesn’t pull us in. Not yet.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my chin, look at him, and speak strongly. “Beau Callahan, I dare you to sing a song you wrote.”
The second the words are out, my stomach sinks hard. An electric jolt shoots through me, hot and breath-snatching. My fingers twitch, pulse racing ahead of my thoughts. Hope and dread wrestle in my throat, each one goading me to look away. I don’t know which would be worse: his refusal or his acceptance.
What did I just do? Have I impulsively betrayed him? Been big in a way that will wound him?
He’s guarded his music, carefully choosing when and who to share it with. And I know why. The last time he let someone in, they used it for themselves and left him behind.Part of me panics at what I’ve done, afraid he’ll see this not as belief in him, but as mockery of his pain.
My dare isn’t to call him out. I do it because I can’t keep standing here, pretending I didn’t hear the most vulnerable, beautiful thing spill out of him last night.
Because when he sang, I felt it, not simply a song, but a call. Raw and searching. The way a wild thing calls for its mate in the dark. Or a mother animal, keening for what was lost, trying to call it home.
And now I need to know if his call was true. If it came from the part of him I think it did.
If he sings now, in front of everyone, it means he’s not running from that part of himself. That part he let me see. The part that seemed to be loving me.
And I believe he has it in him. Not just the music, but the courage to share it again.
But what if he doesn’t?
What if he doesn’t sing, and it means I got it wrong?
I glance over.
Beau’s staring at me, stunned. The quilt drops to the floor, unnoticed. His eyes flicker with wariness that makes my stomach trip, confusion and maybe hurt. I give him the smallest shrug, like it doesn’t matter either way, like this was all in fun.
But it wasn’t.
The crowd waits. Beau blinks. Our eyes lock. They’re an entrancing, restless gray swirled with steel blue, and they search mine, seeking steadiness in the chaos. Looking for something solid before he steps out into open air.
He hesitates. And I can tell he’s weighing something much deeper than a touch of stage fright. He might be remembering the night I walked away after hearing himplay. Maybe his musical journey is playing in his mind, image by image.
And then, I watch it: a flame jumps to life in his eyes.
He’s made a decision, grounding himself with quiet resolve. He’s done protecting himself. Done hiding behind careful silences and sidestepping the past. Whatever this might cost him, he seems to have decided I’m worth it. That the truth is worth it. Even if it opens every wound again.
Beau’s gaze remains on me for one second longer, gathering courage to take his first tentative step onto a tightrope, each heartbeat a choice between staying safe and risking the fall. His jaw ticks, fingers flexing at his side.
