Vaughn had suggested the idea of flying over to surprise Archie when Archie and I were back home for Christmas. Elizabeth and Vaughn had worked on a reconciliation with Archie’s parents, and the whole thing had gone well overall, with Archie’s parents seeming to accept that their son can make his own choices about his life. They offered to restore his trust fund, but Archie had declined, explaining that he was now making a respectable living terrifying children with balloon animals and didn’t need the safety net.
Then we’d gone to visit my family, and Archie had continued his campaign that he started at Kimmy’s party and had completely charmed my family. By Christmas afternoon, he had organized an impromptu talent show in the living room, having somehow recruited me as his elf—an indignity I endured with what I felt was considerable grace—and had Caitlin’s kids hanging off him like he was a human climbing frame.
And Tommy had been there. Clean-eyed, steady-handed, four months into a rehab program that seems to be sticking this time. He and Archie bonded over a shared appreciation for terrible Christmas sweaters.
Vaughn gives me a polite smile now as Archie and I sit down.
“Hey, Leo,” he says.
“Hi, Vaughn.”
The greeting isn’t warm, exactly. It’s the mutual acknowledgment of two men who will probably never choose each other’s company, but who recognize we’re permanently bonded by the fact that we both love the same incredible human being.
Archie slides in next to me in the booth, and his hand immediately finds my thigh under the table. It’s a reflex at this point. I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it.
Actually, no. Archie always knows what he’s doing. That’s sort of the whole problem.
“Present,” Jaymee announces, sliding a wrapped package across the table. It’s roughly the size of a shoebox and covered in wrapping paper featuring cats in party hats.
“Did you wrap it yourself?” Archie says.
“Billy wrapped it. I supervised.”
“I did all the work,” Billy confirms. “She criticized the corners.”
“The corners were tragic.”
Archie tears it open. Inside is a mug that reads Dr. Captain Giggles, PhD, PhD.
“Jaymee had it custom-made,” Billy says.
“It’s perfect,” Archie says.
Justin slides a gift bag to Archie across the table. “From both of us.”
Archie pulls out a framed photo. It’s the four of us during a weekend trip to Bath last month. Archie and Justin in the foreground, wearing Roman legion helmets and pulling identical ridiculous faces, and Andrew and I in the background, wearing identical expressions of weary tolerance.
“Justin chose the frame,” Andrew says. “I chose the photo.”
“You chose the one where we look the most unhinged,” Justin says.
“That narrowed it down less than you’d think.”
Archie smiles at the photo and props it against the salt shaker while Andrew grins at me.
Andrew and I have been friends for nearly a decade, but adding Archie and Justin to the mix has created something new. The four of us have fallen into an easy rhythm of dinners at each other’s places, weekends away together, and an ongoing group chat that is roughly sixty percent Justin and Archie ganging up on Andrew and me. It’s also great to hang out with another couple who understands what it’s like when your love story starts with a revenge plot gone wrong. It’s a slightly differentversion of The Revenge Club than what Andrew and I first envisioned.
A server appears at our table. He’s holding his plastic cutlass at arm’s length like a man who surrendered to his fate long ago.
“Welcome to Pirates of Pancake Bay,” he says, with the enthusiasm of someone reading their own eulogy. “Would you like to plunder the drinks menu?”
“We absolutely would,” Archie says.
The server’s badge proclaims him to be First Mate Trevor. Which I’m fairly sure is the same guy who served me last year. It’s hard to tell because this place seems to strip the individuality from its staff until they’re all wearing the same expression of existential defeat.
“It’s our anniversary. We met at this restaurant exactly a year ago,” Archie informs the server unprompted as he snuggles up to me.
The server blinks. I’m guessing romantic origin stories aren’t a common feature of the Pirates of Pancake Bay experience.
