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Memories swirl. Years of studying comics the way Toren studied Van Gogh, of finding all the right things for my makeshift Starfire costume so he could go as Nightwing—the same costumes we’d worn on every Halloween while he blew out candles on the cinnamon roll that I’d buy him from the little old lady’s shop next to the library.
Toren squats down as I use his shoulder to stand, ignoring the strained irritation I can feel emanating from my father just to my left.
“Yeah? You like those comics then?”
Toren’s voice is so deep and warm, a panging of longing shoots through my chest at the sound. How many days has it been since I heard that.
“Comics?” I ask.
Liam looks up at me proudly, puffing his little chest out. “Yeah. Toren gave me his favorite comics. And they’re my favorites now too.”
Another tall, tux-clad hockey player steps forward. Rhys Koteskiy, I realize, standing just behind Liam with his arms crossed and a more protective, severe look on his face than I’m sure I’ve seen before.
“Liam, you can’t just run off like that. You scared Anna and Sadie.”
The kid’s bottom lip pouts, eyes wide as he turns around guiltily. “I did?”
As if he’s expended all his stoicism, Rhys crumbles and reaches down to pick up the seven-year-old. “C’mon. They want us to take a few family photos.”
When they walk away, Rhys’s quizzical stare lingers over Toren, who keeps his eyes on the ground even as he unfolds to his full height.
Sahara is speaking to my father, but her eyes are on Toren, something like concern shining in them. I step closer to him, dropping my voice.
“I didn’t know you even still had them,” I say, gentle, with a smile. “So that was why Liam was jumping around like an acrobat on the mats last Saturday, hmm?”
For a second I try to imagine those kids we were once. Calm in each other’s presence. Safe.
The charity gala background around us blurs until it’s cream walls and scattered acrylic and oil paint tubes. Toren’s hand in mine stretched across lavender sheets. Him staring up at the glowing stars on the ceiling. Me staring at him.
Happy, just us. Even if it was only a few hours—it was worth it.
“Yeah.” His voice shakes me from the memory. “It’s whatever.”
It’s not, and he knows that, but he won’t say anything. He doesn’t expect the kindness he’s given to that child to be returned. He never does. It’s the same reason he looks so surprised every time Liam or any of the kids call out for him during Learn to Skate. The same reason he seems shocked whenever Sahara dotes on him like a . . .
Like a mom might, I think.
It’s the same reason I know that despite everything he said to me in the shadows of my room, the hidden playful glances and meaningful touches, he doesn’t truly expect me to choose him, not really.
Toren Kane doesn’t expect anything for himself because he’s been so unbelievably disappointed by everyone around him his entire life. The dreamer he was as a kid is gone, buried so deep beneath walls of anger and fear.
But I can still see it.
Forget it. I can’t do this anymore. I want to be with him—it’s that simple. Everything else is just noise.
“Toren,” I plead quietly, reaching for him. And for one moment, I swear I see hope in his eyes, until he clocks the gaudy ring on my right hand. I watch his face change and shift until there’s nothing but an aching display of anger and jealousy and disappointment.
“Wrong hand,” he snaps, storming off.
I step forward to follow him, but my dad catches my arm, pulling me tight.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls. But Harris is too close again, Sahara frowning as she takes in our stance.
“Christopher?” she says, her voice like wind chimes. “Have you met Anna Koteskiy? I know you spoke with her husband earlier. She sponsored the entire event.”
My dad turns sharply, releasing me almost hesitantly. It doesn’t matter. I’m sprinting—and tripping—toward where Toren has disappeared into a darker hallway. Fake candlelight spills from sconces along the beige wallpaper of the hall, and a shadow moving slowly away from the grander ballroom.
“Toren, wait—”
