That train of thought carries me, inevitably, to Oliver.
He wants to be friends again. He lights up when he sees me, according to Jackson. He carried me across campus on his shoulder while naked and didn’t make it weird. And he has no idea that I’ve had a crush on him since the day we met.
I was ten years old, scrawny and awkward, standing in our new driveway. The neighborhood was quiet and unfamiliar, another temporary stop on the endless military carousel. I’d already decided I would hate it. Then a boy appeared. Taller than me, with dark hair and green eyes and a smile that seemed too big for his face.
I didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t understand why Oliver’s smile made my stomach flip, why I wanted to impress him, why I thought about him constantly. I just knew that being near him felt like standing in sunlight after an excruciatingly long winter.
Ten years later, the feeling hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s grown more complicated, more desperate, more impossible to ignore.
The building door bangs open, startling me from my spiral. Jackson and Drew emerge, looking exactly like two people who just had sex in a semi-public location. Their faces are flushed, their hair disheveled despite obvious attempts to fix it, and they’re both walking with a slight hitch in their step.
“Ready?” Jackson asks, slightly breathless.
“I’ve been ready for fifteen minutes.”
“It was twelve.” Drew grins, unrepentant. “I timed it.”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
“And yet, now you do.” Drew slings an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the parking lot. “Come on, Ry-guy. Let’s get our Peppermint Twist on.”
We pile into Drew’s pickup truck—me in the back seat, the happy couple up front—and pull out of the parking lot. The campus slides past my window, familiar buildings rendered strange by the golden light of sunset.
Jackson fiddles with the radio until he finds an oldies station, and suddenly the cab fills with Buddy Holly’s voice.
Drew drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming along. Jackson’s hand rests on Drew’s thigh, casual and intimate.
I desperately wish to have what they have one day. Easy affection and inside jokes, but most of all, the certainty of being wanted.
19
RYAN
Drew’s truck rumbles into the parking lot at the same time that two other vehicles pull in from opposite directions. Oliver’s beat-up Jeep and Kyle’s sensible sedan. I half wonder if the universe coordinated our arrivals for maximum dramatic effect, which, knowing Gerard’s involvement in tonight’s planning, might actually be the case.
I step out of the truck and immediately forget how to breathe. Oliver Jacoby is walking toward us in a red jacket. No,thered jacket. The iconic cherry-red windbreaker that James Dean wore inRebel Without a Cause. The collar’s popped, a white T-shirt is visible underneath, and his jeans are cuffed perfectly above a pair of black leather boots. His dark hair is swept back in a careless quiff that probably took him thirty minutes to achieve.
“Ryan!” Gerard’s voice shatters my Oliver-induced paralysis. “BESTIE! You came!”
I tear my gaze away from Oliver—which takes more effort than it should—and immediately choke on my saliva.
Gerard Gunnarson has transformed himself into a blond Elvis Presley. His hair has been slicked into a perfect ducktail that gleams. He’s wearing a pink shirt with the collar turned up, pairedwith those leather pants Elliot warned me about. They’re so tight I can see the outline of his penis.
“Gerard.” My voice comes out strangled. “You look…”
“Like the King?” Gerard strikes a pose, one hand pointing at me, the other on his hip. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
“I was going to say ‘likely to cause a riot,’ but sure.”
Elliot appears at Gerard’s elbow, dressed in a simple but elegant period-appropriate suit. “I told him the pants were a mistake.”
“They’re not a mistake; they’re a statement!” Gerard stamps his foot on the pavement.
Behind them, Nathan emerges from the Jeep, looking like Frank Sinatra’s younger, more athletic brother. The fedora tilted at a jaunty angle, the slim-cut suit, and the loosened tie are all so perfectly coordinated that I suspect Elliot had a hand in it.
And then there’s Kyle, climbing out of his sedan with Alex in tow. Both of them are dressed like characters fromMad Men.Kyle is in a charcoal suit with thin lapels and a skinny tie, his expression suggesting he’s already regretting the decision to participate. Alex wears a similar navy suit, reminding me of a junior executive who’s terrified of his first board meeting.
“This is ridiculous,” Kyle announces to no one in particular.
