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He shifted closer, whispering, “Hey, you okay? You’ve been acting kind of off since the whole kissy face thing. I didn’t⁠—”

“You didn’t,” I assured him before he could even get the question out. “I’m good. Really. I just have a call with Donovan I need to take.”

Thankfully, it wasn’t a lie.

“The thing your dad keeps bringing up?” he asked, studying my face intently.

“Yeah. The Aucoin campaign,” I confirmed.

Dad had been riding my ass for the past few weeks about it, harping on the fact that a deal with an elite, global sportswear brand would do wonders for my public image and “the Callahan brand.” What he hadn’t mentioned—and I wasn’t sure if it was because he truly didn’t know or was simply choosing to ignore it—was that Aucoin had made headlines during the Winter Olympics by featuring out LGBTQIA+ athletes in their global ads.

With all these new thoughts running through my head, the fact that he was pushing me toward signing with a company that had built their last major marketing campaign around queer pride gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction.

I nodded, fighting a smirk. “Yeah.”

“You’re really gonna do it?” Mikey asked.

I slid my hands into my pockets and rocked back on my heels. “Maybe. That’s what I need to talk to Donovan about.”

Mikey shifted his heavy duffel bag from his left shoulder to his right so he could step closer. He angled his head back, looking up at me, his gaze probing. “You’re not telling me something.”

I debated how much to say—if anything. The truth was, I wasn’t telling him a lot of things, and I couldn’t decide which of those things, at this very moment, was the one least likely to send me into a panic spiral, so I simply shrugged and said, “Everything’s okay. I promise.”

He narrowed his eyes and gave me a slow, skeptical once-over—a look that communicated he knew that I was bullshitting him. “Fine,” he said, choosing to let me off the hook. “But I’m coming to your room to nap at halftime.”

“Can’t wait,” I said, leaning forward as if to kiss the top of his head, only to catch myself at the last second and yank him into a one-armed bro hug instead.

I felt Mikey chuckling against me.

“Shut up,” I murmured, pushing him away and turning toward the bank of elevators.

When I reached my room, I walked straight to the window, grabbed hold of the heavy blackout curtains, and dragged them shut until not a single sliver of the bright California sun shone through. I kicked off my shoes, stripped down to my boxers, and flung myself onto the bed, where I spread my arms and legs wide like a human starfish and stared up at the ceiling, thinking deep, life-altering thoughts.

My whole life had been mapped out for me based on other people’s expectations. By how I fit into the story of my father’s legacy. By what a Callahan man was supposed to be, which was definitely not gay.

I’d grown up knowing those expectations meant I’d probably never get to have certain fundamental human experiences like arguing with my husband over stupid shit like whether we should have eggs or bagels for breakfast or whether the Caribbean or Hawaii was a better honeymoon spot.

And I was determined to have a fucking honeymoon with Mikey.

I sat up and snagged my phone off the nightstand, scrolled to Donovan’s number, and hit the green call button.

I was composing my voicemail message in my head when he answered.

“Talk to me about the Aucoin campaign,” I launched in, appreciating the fact that he hated small talk as much as I did. “And whether they might be interested in putting me in their Pride gear.”

THIRTY-SIX

CALLY

I was halfway through folding my laundry when I heard Mikey shouting. I paused, a pair of tightly rolled athletic socks in hand, to listen as another string of curses reached me from the living room.

“Oh, you’re gonna throw that at me? You’re a complete fucking potato!”

I shook my head, chuckling at the insult, and slotted my socks into the front left corner divider of my dresser drawer.

“And you’re too fucking slow! You’re gonna get us all killed.”

I was about to go out there to see if I could talk him into playing something that didn’t involve him screaming at the randos he played against when my phone buzzed on the nightstand, the caller ID showing Penny Hartley.