The pool. The moonlit water. Twenty-something naked idiots sprinting across campus in a scene straight out ofPorky’s.
Ryan’s hand on my shoulder in the deep end, his fingers curling against my skin.
Ryan in those tighty-whities.
I squeeze the mug in my hand harder than necessary.
“You’re going to break that.”
I glance to my left. Alex Donovan is standing at the prep station, his small frame nearly swallowed by The Brew’s oversized green apron. His soft red hair is tucked behind his ears, and his large hazel eyes are watching me with quiet attentiveness.
“I’m not going to break it,” I say, loosening my grip.
Alex isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t push it. He returns his attention to the pastry case and arranges the blueberry muffins equidistant from their neighbors.
Working with Alex is like working with a ghost. He moves silently, completes tasks without being asked, and communicatesprimarily through nods, head tilts, and the occasional whispered sentence. Most people find it unnerving. After years of managing a hockey team full of personalities that could fill stadiums, it’s just what the doctor ordered.
The bell above the door chimes, and a girl in running shorts shuffles in, earbuds dangling from her neck. She orders an iced Americano, and I make it on autopilot. She takes the mug and disappears to a corner table.
The espresso machine hisses and sighs. Jazz music tiptoes through the speakers, piano notes falling like gentle rain. Upstairs, metal chair legs scrape against hardwood, followed by a muffled “sorry” that no one downstairs was meant to hear.
“Alex, can I ask you something?”
A tiny furrow forms between his brows. “Sure.”
“How did you and Kyle avoid getting caught Saturday night?”
The furrow deepens, and a pink flush creeps across his pale cheeks. For a second, I think he’s going to pull the drawbridge up, lower the portcullis—the whole medieval defense system he deploys when conversations get uncomfortable. But then he does something unexpected. He almost smiles.
“We weren’t naked,” he says simply. “When Drew created a diversion, Kyle and I pulled back. We walked to the edge of the quad, where the other students who had come out to watch joined us. Nobody gave us a second thought.”
Sons of bitches.
“Kyle pulled his hood up and put his arm around me,” Alex adds. “Made it look like we were just a couple watching the commotion.”
The image is unexpectedly tender and catches me off guard. “Smart,” I say.
Alex nods, and the almost-smile lingers for a beat before retreating behind his usual neutral expression. He picks up a cloth and starts wiping down the already spotless counter, telling methe conversation is over. Alex operates on a strict word budget, and I’ve received a generous allocation.
I turn to restock the cup lids, and my mind wanders again. I keep thinking about what Ryan said in the pool.I told him he was taking me away from my best friend, and I’d never forgive him.Ten-year-old Ryan screaming at his military father. For me.
The thought balloons inside my chest, creating a warm ache that presses against my ribs.
I want him back. The kid who built cardboard space helmets with me, who grabbed my head in a public pool and nearly drowned me because he was scared, and I was the only thing within reach.
I want another Saturday night. The version of us that existed in that pool, honest and unguarded. I want to hear about the constellations he’s discovered since we were kids, want to tell him about every goal I’ve scored that he wasn’t there to see. I want my phone to light up with his name at two a.m. when he can’t sleep, want him to know he can collapse against my shoulder when the world gets too heavy.
The problem is, I don’t know how to bridge the gap. One wrong move, one too-eager text, one moment where I push too hard, and Ryan will retreat into his shell faster than Alex at a frat party.
“Oliver?” Alex’s voice cuts through my spiral.
“Yeah?”
“You seem…distracted.”
Coming from anyone else, that would be an invitation to talk. From Alex, it’s an observation as detached as a weather report.Partly cloudy with a chance of emotional turmoil.
“Just thinking,” I say.
