Guilt pricks at me. “No, I want to,” I say immediately. “I do. I’m just… gross. I’ve been out in the orchard all day.”
He laughs, the sound warm and low. “We can stop by your place if you want to take a quick shower.” His eyes drag over me in a way that makes my stomach flip. “But for the record? I don’t mind the dirt.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, really?”
“It’s kind of sexy,” he says lightly.
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the heat climbing up my neck again, betraying me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly pleased with himself.
I shake my head, fighting a smile, then circle around the front of the van. The smell of cigarette smoke hits me as I pull open the passenger door and climb in, the scent baked into the upholstery. The seat is warm from the sun.
He shifts the van into gear, and we roll forward, tires kicking up a cloud of pale dust as we head down the winding dirt trail that cuts through the orchard. The trees blur past in neat green rows, late-afternoon sunlight flashing between the leaves.
After a quick stop at my place to shower and change into clean clothes, we merge onto the highway toward Grand Rapids. The windows are cracked, letting cool air sweep through my still-damp hair. Troy drives with one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting on my thigh, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against the fabric of my jeans.
I try not to stare at his hand—but I do. The ink winding over his knuckles, the silver of his rings flashing in the late-afternoon sun. There’s something grounding about the weight of it there.
It takes about an hour to reach the city. I don’t make this drive often. Multi-lane freeways and crowds make me anxious, but Troy handles it like it’s nothing. He weaves through traffic with easy confidence, unfazed by aggressive lane changes and blaring horns. He’s from Chicago, I remind myself. He probably learned to drive in conditions far worse than this.
The skyline slowly rises ahead of us, buildings cresting the horizon, their windows glowing amber as the sun dips lower. The river slicing through downtown catches the fading light, rippling beneath steel bridges. I rest my head against the cool glass and watch the city unfold—people crowding sidewalks, someone walking a tiny dog wearing pink booties, clusters of college kids laughing too loud as they spill out of bars.
Troy pulls to the curb in front of a red brick building humming with music. Neon signs glow in the windows, casting pink and blue light onto the sidewalk. Bass thuds faintly through the walls.
Then I notice it.
A Pride flag hangs above the door, bright stripes shifting gently in the breeze.
I swallow hard. “This is… a gay bar?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
Troy glances at me, reading my expression carefully, then nods. “Yep.”
I look back at the flag, then at the crowd gathered near the entrance—men with their arms slung around each other, women laughing hand in hand, a couple sharing an easy kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“And they want to sell our cider?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Uh-huh.” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches for the door handle, then glances at me, eyes bright. “C’mon. Wanna help me unload the kegs?”
My body goes rigid. I’m still staring at the Pride flag rippling above the door, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m about to walk into a gay bar—with myboyfriend.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit quietly, my gaze fixed on the dashboard.
Troy pauses halfway through opening the door. “Do what?”
“Go inside,” I manage, my throat tight.
He studies me for a moment, then lets the door shut again with a muted thud. He exhales slowly, heavy but controlled.
“Baby,” he says gently, turning toward me. “It’s not a big deal. I worked at a gay bar in Chicago for a few years back in the day. It’s just like any other bar”—he winks, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth—“just a little hornier.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus.”
He chuckles under his breath, the sound warm and familiar. “Relax, baby. We’re just business partners making a delivery.”
I shake my head. “Troy—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly. His hand finds mine, warm and steady. “I know it’s scary walking into a place like this.” He squeezes my fingers. “But maybe it’ll be good for you to see what it’s actually like. To be around other queer folks.”
