This was real.
And I didn’t know if I was ready for it to be real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Étienne
The Uber driver in Portland didn’t try to make conversation, which was good because I had no idea what I would have said.
Marco sat beside me in the back seat, his knee bouncing in a way that told me he was running through every possible scenario in his head. I wanted to reach for his hand, to feel his fingers laced through mine, but the driver’s eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror.
So, I kept my hands in my lap and watched downtown give way to the suburbs, then to central Beaverton with its mix of newer developments and older structures. The driver pulled up in front of a modern four-story building, all brick and glass with clean lines and large windows.
“This is it,” Marco said with finality.
I checked my phone—3:52 p.m. We were early.
“We could walk around the block,” I suggested. “Give ourselves a few more minutes.”
Marco looked at me, and I saw my own fear reflected in his dark eyes. “Or we could just go up.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “Let’s just go up.”
We climbed out of the Uber, and the afternoon air hit me—cool, crisp, smelling faintly of rain.
The polished wood and glass of the building’s entrance screamed expensive. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed to the elevator bank. I pressed the button for the fourth floor, and the doors slid shut, sealing us in.
Marco’s reflection stared back at us. “We don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “We could leave right now. Tell them something came up.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.” He met my eyes in the reflection. “But I’m scared.”
“Me too.” I turned to face him. The elevator climbed and the floor numbers ticked upward. “But we’re here. And I think… I think we need to hear what they have to say.”
“What if they tell us not to do it? What if they say it’s too hard, not worth it?”
“Then we listen.” The elevator slowed, approaching the fourth floor. “But we decide. Not them. Us.”
The doors opened onto a hallway with abstract art on the walls and soft lighting. At the end of the corridor, the door to 402 opened before we reached it.
Griffin Lapierre looked the same as I remembered—maybe a little more worn, a few more lines around his mouth, but still the same intense presence. His ice-blue eyes swept over us, assessing, and then his expression softened into something that might have been understanding.
“Étienne. Marco.” He stepped back, gesturing us inside. “Come in.”
The apartment was beautiful—high ceilings, large windows overlooking Beaverton, modern furniture in grays and blues, everything clean and organized. But what struck me most was howlived init felt. Two pairs of sneakers by the door, one pair clearly Griffin’s size, one smaller. A blanketdraped over the back of the couch. Photos on the bookshelf of Griffin and Wesley at various places—a beach, a restaurant, what looked like someone’s wedding.
A real life, lived openly.
A man appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray with coffee mugs and a plate of cookies. Warm smile, rainbow Pride watch band peeking out beneath his cuff and radiating an immediate sense of welcome.
“Hey, guys.” He set the tray on the coffee table. “I’m Wesley Hutton. Thanks for coming. Coffee? I’ve got cream and sugar if you need it.”
“Black’s fine,” Marco said.
“Cream and sugar for me, thanks.” I didn’t need the caffeine, but my hands needed something to hold.
We sat on the sectional, Griffin and Wesley taking chairs across from us. The seating arrangement felt deliberate—intimate enough for a serious conversation, but not so close that it felt invasive.
