Page 7 of Stars Like Confetti

“I mean, did you want me to have more of a reaction? It doesn’t bother me.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t come from the best background. I’m not used to people just… accepting it.”

Tyler’s hand found my shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’re in a different place now, Shea. Not accepting it won’t fly here.”

My stomach flipped. Emotion clogged my throat. “Thanks.”

Tyler took charge from there, babbling all the way to the dining hall. He was twenty-five—same age as me. He’d worked at the bakery since he was a teenager, working his way up to taking over the place. That turned into the science behind baking, and I found myself utterly fascinated. I hadn’t realized that something as simple as a cinnamon bun was so… technical.

Tyler led me to a seat near the middle of the dining hall. People of all ages and genders filled the place, a low hum of conversation echoing through the building. I scanned the room, finding Theo near the front. They leaned against a support beam, arms crossed over their chest and having a conversation with another one of the staff. The guy was tall and broad, with messy red hair and a well-kept beard.

Tyler’s words trailed off, and he followed my line of sight. “Hello, Daddy.” When I snickered, he added, “You weren’t staring at the redhead, were you?”

As if Theo could sense me staring, they turned their head and our eyes met. Even across the room, they shone in the afternoon light. The corner of their mouth curled into an easy grin, and they held my gaze as they continued their conversation. “No,” I murmured in response to Tyler’s question. “I wasn’t.”

“Good, because he’s totally my type. And it looks like Theo is yours.”

That caught my attention. “You know them?”

“Yeah, most people do. They’re⁠—”

The redhead interrupted Tyler’s thought by animatedly leaping onto one of the tables. “Alright, listen up everyone! I know you’re all eager to explore and get to know each other, so I’ll keep this brief. My name’s Jordan, my pronouns are he/him, and I’m one of the staff here. Our wonderful organizer is a bit stage-frightened, so I’ll be the voice of reason.” A quiet voice called him a bastard, and everyone laughed. “I know you’ve all read all the paperwork—hopefully—so I won’t harp about the little things. The most important thing is consent. In some ways, your attendance here does count as consent—you will see other campers existing in a kink setting, because that’s exactly where you are, but the degree of participation and involvement in that kink is entirely up to you. Everyone is encouraged to use safewords and make them known. Check in with each other—your roommates, anyone you’re in an activity with. If you’re unsure of a safeword at any point, the camp will operate on a traffic light system. For the nonverbal peeps in attendance, all staff members carry a traffic light card on their lanyard. ‘Red’ means red. It means stop. It doesn’t mean try and convince the person, it doesn’t mean try again in five minutes—leave them alone. If anyone challenges a safeword, staff will intervene and it could result in you being removed from the camp. Have I made myself clear?”

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the room, and Jordan went into the code of conduct, allergy routines—thankfully not naming anyone; I’d never be able to handle that. He even ran through a demo of how to use an EpiPen and said there would be staff making their rounds before bed to do the same.

When his words blurred into a mass of activities, I zoned out. The itinerary had been set for months, and I’d already picked which activities I wanted to do. Most of them centered around the lake, keeping me as close to the water as possible. I came back to the conversation in time to hear Jordan rush out his last words.

“… I’m going to turn the tables over to our wonderful organizer, the owner of Playhouse and the mastermind behind this summer camp. I know they have stage fright but I don’t care. Theo Brealey!”

I choked on my own spit, and Tyler smacked me on the back. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed the feeling down, wiping tears from my eyes. “Theo’s the owner?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know that?”

I shook my head as Theo began to speak. “No, I didn’t.”

Chapter Four

Theo

Damn it, Jordan.

I kept my speech short and sweet, hopping off the table as fast as I could. That bastard knew I hated being the center of attention and I was going to murder him the first chance I got. This wasn’t exactly how I planned to tell Shea that I was the one who founded Playhouse. I’d checked his sign-up forms—he’d found the camp online, which meant that unlike the other campers, he’d likely never been to Playhouse.

The campers dispersed after the welcome meeting, some helping themselves to food while others took to the field, the lake, or other activities.

I didn’t see Shea for the rest of the evening, and that was… fine.

Okay, that was a lie—it totally wasn’t fine. I wanted to track him down, confine him to my bed for the week, and demand to know what he’d been up to for the last nine years. God, I’d spent so long searching for him. Now I know why I couldn’t find any trace of him, especially after he turned eighteen.

His parents never liked me. Shea and I became fast friends and considering the leisurely way I was brought up, their tyrannic approach to parenting didn’t sit well with me. I would bring him changes of clothes, hair ties, and even makeup remover to scrub away the mask they forced him to wear every day. l. If Shea was with me, he was going to be the person he truly was, not some dolled-up version of his mother living vicariously through him—and they hated it. I was too sloppy, too masculine and way too much of a bad influence. Unfortunately for them, it didn’t scare me away. The confidence that poured from him when he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with his hair tied away from his face and able to express himself in his true form was intoxicating, and I fell quickly—and hard.

Naturally, being horny teenagers and all, things heated up quickly, which made us sloppy. Neither of us heard Shea’s parents come home early, or the door open. We were caught with my hands in the cookie jar—literally.

They moved a month later, and I hadn’t seen Shea again.

Until now.