The word makes something flutter low in my chest.Queer. It still feels foreign on my skin, like a label I’m not sure I’m allowed to wear.
“You didn’t get that growing up in Claremont Shores,” he continues, voice calm and patient. “You didn’t have spaces like this. But you do now. And you’re not walking in alone.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I’ll be right there the entire time.”
I close my eyes, taking a few steady breaths.
The odds of running into someone I know here are slim—but not impossible. Fear gnaws at me from the inside out, sharp and relentless.
But above the terror, there’s something softer. Excitement. Hope, even. Like maybe I could walk through those doors and not feel so goddamn alone. Like maybe I could stand beside Troy—close enough to touch—and the sky wouldn’t fall. Like maybe holding his hand in public wouldn’t mean the end of everything.
“Okay,” I finally say, barelyabove a whisper.
Troy’s smile is soft, proud. He leans over, presses a quick kiss to my temple, then climbs out of the van.
I feel numb as I climb out too, moving on autopilot. The air smells like asphalt and beer and something fried drifting from inside the bar. Together, we unload the cider kegs, stacking them carefully onto a trolley. The metal clinks softly as Troy shuts the van doors and grips the handle.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
I nod, even though my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Trailing behind Troy like a shadow, I follow him inside.
The second the door shuts behind us, the world shifts.
It’s nothing like Old Harbor Tavern. Colored lights slice through the dim space, flashing pink and blue across the crowd. Electronic music pounds through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the soles of my boots. The dance floor is wide and packed—bodies moving together in a way that feels fearless. On an elevated stage, a drag queen DJ commands the room in a short red dress and towering beehive wig, manicured nails flying over a laptop as she bobs to the beat.
The whole room smells like sweat and heat and the promise of sex. It nearly knocks me off my feet.
Troy, meanwhile, looks completely at home. He navigates through the crowd with steady confidence, guiding the trolley toward the bar at the far end of the room.
Behind it stands a tall, slender man with medium-brown skin and long black hair pulled into a neat bun. He smiles when he sees Troy approach.
“Troy,” the man says warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand.
“Craig,” Troy replies easily.
They shake hands and smile at each other. Troy starts unloading the kegs, lifting them one by one with flexed muscles and maneuvering them behind the bar.
Craig’s gaze shifts to me.
“And you must be Ashton,” he says, offering his hand across the counter. “Owner of the orchard.”
I force myself forward, uncrossing my arms. My hand feels stiff and foreign when I place it in his. “Yeah,” I manage. “That’s me.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Craig says with an easy grin. “I’ve heard good things. I’m really looking forward to selling your cider—I have a feeling it’s going to be a hit.”
“Oh,” I say, blinking. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Behind us, Troy slides the final keg into place and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Appreciate you taking a chance on a small local brewery,” he says.
Craig waves him off. “Of course. I like supporting other queer-owned businesses.”
My stomach flips.
I know Troy isn’t completely closeted like I am. He doesn’t deny his sexuality to those who ask, but he hasn’t made some grand announcement to the local community either.
So how the hell does Craig know?
“Why don’t you guys stay for a drink, maybe dance a little?” Craig suggests, nudging Troy’s shoulder. “You came all this way. Might as well have some fun before you head back home.”
