“What?” I ask, trying not to sound defensive.
“How’s blondie doing over there?” Eric says, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s fine. Quit burning holes in him with your laser eyes,” I mutter.
“I don’t trust him,” Eric says, folding his arms across his chest.
“I can tell,” I snort.
“Hey, play nice, man,” Nick says, nudging Eric with his shoulder. “He’s changed—give him a chance.”
Eric snorts, shooting him a look. “And how exactly do you know he’s changed? Don’t tell me you actually bought those interviews. That stuff was pure PR.”
“I believe the interviews,” Nick says with a shrug. “Mark does too. And I trust his judgment—so if he’s willing to give Sawyer a chance, that’s good enough for me.”
I blink at him, caught off guard—and weirdly moved. “That’s very sweet of you, big brother,” I say, smiling. Then I tilt my head and add, dryly, “But seriously—how did you even get his number? Care to explain?”
Nick goes red fast. “I, uh…I asked him for his number on Halloween.”
Eric frowns. “When was that? We were with you the whole time.”
“When you were distracted,” Nick says quickly. “What? I just wanted to make sure he got home okay. You can’t leave someone who just got roofied on their own.”
I pause and look at him. “That’s…actually decent of you,” I say, narrowing my eyes a little. “So what, you two are pen pals now or something?”
Nick rolls his eyes and points a finger at me. “You need to talk to him, Marco.” Then he turns to Eric. “And you need to back off and go hook up with someone, because clearly you’ve had way too much free time lately.”
Eric and I just stare at him, equally stunned.
“What?” Nick says. “You know I’m right, kids.”
Suddenly, he flicks a glance behind me and falls quiet—and that’s when I turn to see Moon walking up with a plate in his hands.
“Hey,” he says, eyes on me. “Can I steal you for a sec?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He gives Nick and Eric a quick, apologetic smile, then follows me into the kitchen. The moment the door swings shut behind us, muffling the noise from the party, I turn to face him. Moon stops just short of the counter, staring down at his plate like he’s trying to figure out how to begin.
Then he looks up.
“Is Eric…are you guys together or something?” he asks, and even through the wine flush on his cheeks, I see his face go redder.
I snort—caught so off guard I almost drop my drink. “No. No, we’re not. He’s just my best friend.”
“Cool,” he says, nodding. Then after a pause, “I think he hates me.”
“He doesn’t,” I say automatically—though even I can hear the hesitation in my voice. “He’s just…overprotective.”
Moon nods again. “I get it. I’d hate me too, all things considered.”
I don’t say anything to that—just take a sip of my gin and tonic and ask, “How’re you handling things?”
“You mean the media meltdown? Or the raging homophobes?”
“Both.”
He shrugs. “I’ll survive. I probably deserve it anyway.”
