Guess she won’t be coming back to answer my questions.
Liam presses his lips together.
“It’s fine,” I tell him before he can say anything. “I’ll catch her tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go study lines.”
And then make out.
32
“How many more tables do you need?” an older man in a blue Community Center polo shirt asks. The Winter Banquet is being hosted in one of their meeting rooms.
Bowie rubs their head, looking over their clipboard and tapping their foot. Cheyenne was supposed to be here to deal with decor, but they texted they were going to be late, so Bowie had to take over, in addition to managing the setup and caterers.
“Five more rounds, two more eight-footers. Oh, and two more carts of chairs. No, three.”
The man nods and disappears into the back hallway. Bowie takes a deep breath.
“Hey,” I tell them. “You got this.”
“Thanks, Jacks. It’s just, I really want tonight to go well.”
“Why don’t you leave the tables for me? You go talk to the event manager.”
“All right.”
I grab my tape measure out of my backpack and start checking placement, because you never know when theToxic Safety Fandomfire marshal might show up to rain on everyone’s parade.
Cheyenne finally arrives, blown in on the winter wind. They’remy height, but wearing chunky boots that give them a couple inches over me, and they’ve got long, luxurious blond hair. If I had hair like that I would be sweeping it around dramatically every chance I got.
“Sorry I’m late,” they say breathlessly. “Had to something-something.”
They hold up a plastic bag with a Trans Pride flag sticking out of the top.
Even though the night’s theme is Starry Night—like the Van Gogh painting, not like creepy looming cardboard cutouts of celebrities—one wall is supposed to be covered with as many Pride flags as can fit.
“Can you somethingsomethingsomething?” they ask, looking around the room wildly and talking faster than I can make out.
“I have no idea what you just said,” I tell them. “Say again?”
“Sorry.” They flip their hair over their shoulder and start talking super slowly, which honestly makes it worse. “Where’s Bowie? Did somethingsomething?”
“Bowie’s trying to find the event manager.”
They keep looking at me expectantly.
“And Braden?” they finally ask.
“He’s with the caterers.”
Cheyenne rolls their eyes. “No. Did. Bowie. Talk. To. Him?”
I fight the blush coming on. Cheyenne’s the worst.
“About what?” I ask.
