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Throat thick, I glance to where Phoebe throws her rainbow boa over Shawn’s neck, being careful to not touch him with anything but the feathers. He’s glowering down at her, his deep set brows pulled in tight over his eyes. She bats her lashes up at him and I shake my head with a smile.
Just past them, Jeremy’s squinting off somewhere down the street, his profile lit up by the sun streaming down, turning his hair a blinding white. Hell, his whole body practically shimmers, seeing as he’s basically naked. It’s nothing I haven’t seen during past Pride events, and definitely won’t be the most scandalous outfit we see today, but by the confused, yet troubled look on Mason’s face when I glance over and catch him staring, something tells me he’s not used to this version of the boy he grew up with.
He must sense eyes on him, because he suddenly jerks his attention my way, his gaze widening when it clashes with mine. I arch a brow and his cheeks flush. He ducks his head and quickly turns away.
Well fuck.
I think about the rainbow feather boa buried hidden at the bottom of a bag. No one would think twice seeing him wearing rainbows to a Pride event. Everyone wears rainbows to Pride.
Itshouldn’tmean anything.
But I have a feeling it kind of means everything.
3
WAYLON MCALLISTER
It’s so loud here.
Asphalt chips away under my boots as we make our way down 12th Street. Brick townhouses and row houses of varying shades of brown and burnt sienna close in on us from either side, mottled black around the edges by the glare of the sun bearing down on the city.
It’s a little after noon and the festivities have just begun to pick up momentum.
Vendors line up along the sidewalk selling Pride merchandise. Surrounding streets have been closed off, and many cars have been parked elsewhere for the day, allowing the floats and hordes of people swarming in on the neighborhood to pass through easily.
Upbeat music blares from somewhere up ahead, clashing with whoops, yells, and indecipherable chatter, as well as the occasional beeping of horns, and the rhythmicthuh-thuh-thumpof a steel drum.
It’s chaos.
The kind of chaos I’ve always been drawn to, yet always felt apart from no matter how hard I tried to fit in. Like I was on the outside looking in on a world that should’ve been mine, and yet never felt quite right.
The kind of chaos that once upon a time would have me feeling more alone than ever, and send me spiraling down a bottle of whiskey, chasing companionship in nameless girls, and doing anything and everything I could to justfeelsomething. Anything other than that restless, itchynothingnessclunking around inside me,the one that made me feel like I was crawling out of my skin.
I thought I was broken.
I thought it wasme.
Someone stumbles into me and I get a whiff of something sour and pungent—beer. My throat clenches, and I shrink away from the group of girls drunkenly skipping and twirling past us, clearly having the time of their lives. Green solo cups wave in the air, sloshing the foamy amber liquid all over the place.
I work at a bar for fuck’s sake. The scent of beer is far fromtriggering.But I’m not in a bar right now, and if there’s one thing I learned in the last seven months, it’s that for whatever fucking reason, shit like that makes a difference.
Changes of setting.
Changes of seasons.
Just when I get used to being sober for one thing, a challenge comes my way, testing my resolve.
A hand grips my bicep, steadying me when I all but jerk away to avoid getting sprayed with the stuff. As if one of the girls could at any moment lunge forward, wrench my mouth open, and pour the stuff down my throat against my will.
Or hell, worse, I’ll reach out on reflex alone and steal a sip of the stuff.
Almost did that at work a time or two.
Twisting my head, I have to squint past the glare to make out Will’s expression. His mouth curves up, despite the hint of worry tightening the corners of his eyes. He’s quick to release his hold on me, like it’s a reflex at this point. “You good?”
The tension unfurls from my limbs. Shaking my arms out, I nod. “Yeah.” And I find that I mean it. Appreciate it even. My sobriety.
It’s not every day that I do, especially in a setting like this where the envy and fear of missing out on the fun feels like nails raking along the edges of my consciousness. Some days, it takes everything in me to keep that voice out. Some days, no matter what I do, it’s not enough, and all I can do is hide away in my room and lose myself to a book, to Will, to a game on my phone. Chugging coffee or soda or water…
