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Chapter forty-six

Elliot

Mike was spiraling.

And when Mike spiraled, he dragged the entire fucking house down with him.

“I hate this,” he groaned, yanking his sweater off for the third time in ten minutes. “Why do I have no clothes? What kind of self-respecting gay man am I? I own nothing to wear!”

I leaned against the doorframe, watching the carnage unfold.

His bedroom looked like an apocalypse had hit—a mix of sweaters, button-downs, and entirely too many pairs of pants were strewn across the bed, the floor, the lamp. At some point, he had thrown a shoe at the mirror, where it had landed perfectly upside down in the laundry basket.

Homer sat perched on his pillow. His eyes were wide, and I was fairly certain he was braced and ready to bolt should some article of clothing sail his way.

“Mike,” I said, fighting back a grin, “you do realize you’re going to a high school event, right? It’s not the Met Gala.”

Mike whirled on me, his eyes wild. “Do you know what people say about first impressions? Do you?!”

I held up my hands. “I’m gonna guess a lot.”

He stabbed a finger at me, then at his closet, then back at me like I was personally responsible for his ensemble crisis.

Then he muttered, “Jesus Christ, I’m going to be naked.”

I smirked. “I mean, if that’s the look you’re going for, I fully support it. It’s definitely on theme for an LGBT event. It might be a little much for this particular age group, but they’ve gotta learn sometime, right?”

Mike groaned, throwing himself onto the bed dramatically, narrowly missing a pile of his own discarded clothes and launching Homer like a rocket out of the room. “Elliot, I’m serious.”

I sighed, pushing off the doorframe to sit on the edge of the bed. “Babe. Take a breath.”

He huffed into the sheets.

I patted his back. “No one’s coming to this thing to rate your outfit, right? They’re coming for the kids.”

His head popped up, curls a disastrous tangle of auburn madness. “What if no one comes at all?”

I blinked. “That’s . . . a separate issue entirely.”

“No, but seriously,” he continued, sitting up with wild gestures. “What if it’s just Mateo, Jamie, and me sitting in an empty classroom like idiots? What if the kids don’t show up? What if their parents don’t show up? What if I’ve been working toward this thing for months just to sit in a sad, lonely circle of failure?”

I considered this, then said, “Well, on the plus side, you’ll have plenty of outfit choices for your lonely circle of failure.”

Mike glared.

I bit my lip, trying hard not to laugh.

“You are not helping,” he grumbled.

I put a hand on his thigh. “Mike, listen to me. Kids will come. Parents will come. This matters . You know that. And yeah, maybe there won’t be fifty people there, but if one kid shows up, and they feel seen—you’ve already won.”

His shoulders sagged a little.

I softened my voice. “You’re doing something huge, babe—and it has nothing to do with what you wear.”

Mike exhaled, pressing his lips together. “Okay. Fine. You might have a point.”

“Of course I do. I’m the hot, wise, supportive boyfriend. It’s my job.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. It felt a little strange using the B word, but I was getting used to it. Being with Mike was easy. Accepting my place in the world, well, that was a work in progress.

I squeezed his knee. “Now, can we please pick an outfit before you actually combust? I would rather not have to pick up tiny pieces of Mike all night. You know how you get stuck on the ceiling when you explode.”

Mike rolled his eyes—his whole head, actually—then stood and started rifling through the clothes on the bed. “Fine. But you’re helping me decide.”

“Me? I might be the least qualified person on the planet to help you pick clothes.” I chuckled. “I am enjoying watching you run around half naked, though.”

He shot me a look. “I swear to God, Elliot.”

I grinned. “All right, all right. Let’s get you dressed.”

Mike was a mess.

Not an adorable, flustered kind of mess. Not the “Oh no, I left the oven on” kind of mess.

No, this was full-scale, category-five Mike Albert Meltdown, complete with rapid pacing, unnecessary shirt adjustments, and an alarming amount of crazy old man muttering.

“Babe,” I said as we pulled into the school parking lot, “if you touch your shirt one more time, I’m gonna rip it off of you in front of the PTA.”

Mike froze, one hand mid-adjustment, his eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”

I smirked. “Try me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then, without another word, he sat on his hands.

God, I loved him and his crazy ways.

We parked and made our way inside, the fluorescent hallways quiet at this hour. The event wasn’t supposed to start for another twenty minutes, but knowing Mateo, he’d probably already be there and have ordained Jamie as his second-in-command.

When we stepped into the classroom, I was immediately hit with the scent of cookies and coffee.

And banners.

So many banners.

Jamie had clearly poured his entire soul into this.

Bright, colorful posters lined the walls, some with inspirational quotes, others with simple messages like “You Belong Here” and “It’s Okay To Be You.”

In the center of the room, a folding table was stacked with refreshments, and Mateo stood behind it, calmly setting up napkins like he was arranging a Michelin-star meal.

Jamie, on the other hand, was vibrating like a chihuahua who’d found a bottle of Ritalin.

Mike took one look at him and immediately switched from nervous wreck to protective older brother.

“Jamie!” he said, striding over. “Holy shit, the room looks amazing.”

Jamie turned, wide-eyed and blinking so rapidly I worried his lids might take flight. “You think so?”

Mateo snorted. “No, we hate it. That’s why we’re both standing here admiring it.”

Jamie rolled his eyes but still looked like he might burst into happy tears.

I, meanwhile, took a different approach.

I strolled over to a chair in the back and dropped into it like one of Mike’s football players, arms crossed, legs stretched out.

Mike arched a brow at me. “Elliot, what are you doing?”

I smirked. “Supervising.”

Mateo grinned. “We finally found Elliot’s natural habitat.”

“Yeah,” Jamie added, smiling for the first time all night. “The back row with the jocks who don’t wanna be here.”

I smiled back, threading my fingers behind my head and propping my feet on the chair in front of me—just like Mike said the footballers did. “I’m just here for the show.”

Mike rolled his eyes but smiled. The tension in his shoulders appeared to ease just a little.

Fifteen minutes later, we were still setting up, still nervously waiting. No one had arrived yet. Jamie was buzzing with nervous energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, adjusting the same banner for the fourth time.

“People will come,” Mateo assured him, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth. “It’s still early.”

Mike nodded, but his hands had found his shirt again, tugging, adjusting, fidgeting.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy, maybe fifteen, appeared in the doorway, hovering like he was trying to decide whether to walk in or run for his life.

His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, his head down, curly brown hair falling into his eyes. His shoulders were curled inward, making himself smaller, like he was trying to disappear.

He was terrified, I realized.

Jamie, Mike, and Mateo were too caught up in their setup to notice him.

So I stood up, keeping my movements slow and deliberate, and walked toward the door.

The kid stiffened like he thought I was about to escort him off the premises.

“You wanna sit with me? I’m kinda nervous and could use the company.” I nodded toward the back.

The boy blinked, his hands tightening into fists in his hoodie pocket. “Um, okay, I guess.”

I jerked my chin toward the row of empty chairs in the back. “It’s where all the cool kids sit.”

His eyes flickered toward the group setting up. “I—”

“No pressure,” I said, hands in my pockets. “I can’t blame you for being unsure. This is kind of a new thing. Feels weird, right? It’s up to you, but you can sit with me. I’m bigger than all of them combined. I’m a safe zone.”

I tossed him a lopsided grin, hoping the smile that worked so well on Mike might disarm a young boy.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

I led him into the classroom, letting him take the chair beside mine. He didn’t speak at first, just kept his eyes on his sneakers, tapping his fingers anxiously against his knee.

I waited.

Didn’t push.

Just sat beside him, stretching my legs out again, making a show of getting comfortable.

After a long pause, I asked, “So, what’s your name?”

He swallowed. “Jake.”

I nodded. “I’m Elliot, but my really close friends call me El.”

Another pause.

Then, in a voice so small I almost missed it—

“My parents wouldn’t come.”

I turned my head toward him.

He was still staring at the floor, his hands gripping the hem of his hoodie, fingers pulling at threads that weren’t there.

“They’re not angry. I don’t think they are, anyway,” he said quickly, like he had to clarify. “They just . . . They think I’m going through a phase or something. That’s what my mom calls it.”

I exhaled through my nose. “That sucks.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence again.

Then, softer—

“I think I almost wish they were mad. At least then I’d know how they felt. But this? Ignoring everything? Ignoring me? It’s like they’re just . . . waiting for me to get over it.”

That hit me like a gut punch.

Because I knew that feeling.

That quiet, unspoken denial that somehow felt worse than rejection. The way it made you feel like you were standing on the outside of your own damn life.

Like you were just waiting for the day they decided to love you again.

“How am I supposed to get over being me?”

I rubbed my palms against my thighs, staring at the ceiling for a second before glancing back at him.

“They might not be here,” I said. “But you are. And so am I. We can listen to each other, okay?”

Jake swallowed.

I nodded toward the front, where Jamie was still anxiously rearranging snacks. “And so is Jamie. And Mike. And Mateo.”

Jake’s eyes flicked up, watching them for a second.

I lowered my voice. “And you know what else?”

He glanced at me. “What?”

“I promise you, Jamie was twice as nervous walking in here for the first time.” I smirked. “And don’t get me started on Mike—Mr. Albert, sorry. I’ve never seen him so . . . anxious. That’s not even the right word. He was a total disaster.”

That got a tiny smile.

“Do you know them?” I pointed to where the wonder triplets were doing whatever wonder triplets did.

Jake shook his head.

“Wanna say hi? I’ll go up there with you. I can beat the crap out of them if they aren’t nice.”

He snickered. “You can’t do that. We’re at school.”

I grinned. “I got your back, Jake, but it’s your call.”

He hesitated.

Then—finally—he nodded.

As I led him toward the front of the room, I knew—deep in my bones—that I’d been right earlier. If only one kid showed up, this would be worth it.

Jake walked with me to the front of the room. His shoulders were still hunched, his fingers clenched in the hem of his hoodie. I could feel the tension rolling off of him, but he followed, and that was enough.

Jamie was still nervously rearranging snacks when I cleared my throat.

“Jamie,” I said, nodding toward Jake. “Meet your first guest.”

Jamie turned so fast I thought he might get whiplash.

“Oh! Hey!” Jamie beamed, stepping forward with a kind of nervous energy that somehow matched Jake’s own. “Hi!”

Jake ducked his head. “Uh. Hi?”

Jamie hesitated for half a second before extending a fist. “Wanna do an awkward, totally-not-corny fist bump so we can pretend we’re chill?”

Jake blinked. Then—hesitantly—he bumped Jamie’s fist.

Jamie grinned. “Boom. Instant cool points.”

It was, perhaps, the least cool thing I’d ever witnessed; but somehow, my heart filled watching it.

Jake’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

Just as I was about to step away and let Jamie do his thing, the door creaked open again, and two more kids shuffled inside.

One was tall, thin as a rail, with a mop of bleached hair and an expression that radiated chaos. He was wearing a crop top that said, “BOY BYE,” in rhinestones, and immediately, I knew Mike was going to have his hands full.

The other was a boy about the same age, shorter, with perfectly shaped brows that might’ve been made of mascara and an earring that caught the light when he tilted his head. They stopped just inside the doorway, scanning the space like they were looking for an audience.

The blond one clicked his tongue. “Wow. This is sad.”

The other one sighed dramatically. “I know. I was hoping for more drag queens and dance music.”

Mike looked up from his pile of name tags and muttered, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

The blond twink gasped and clutched his chest. “Did Jesus show up? I thought this was an LGBT meeting, not a church lock-in.”

The second one snorted, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “I knew this would be a drag, but at least we’ll be the hottest ones here.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Mateo, sitting behind the snack table, just arched a brow. “You two done?”

Blondie gasped again, clutching his chest. “Oh my God, he’s hot.”

Mike covered his face with his hand. “I can’t do this.”

Mateo smirked, waving a name tag at them. “If you two divas plan on staying, at least take these.”

“That’s Queen Diva, thank you very much, you luscious hunk of man.”

“Name tag. Now,” Mateo said in his no-nonsense coach voice.

The blond walked over and snatched a name tag, flipping his hair. “Fine—but only because I look good in name tags.”

His friend grabbed one, too, then gave Mateo a sultry smile. “If you ever tire of playing it straight, call me.”

Mateo just blinked. “I’m literally gay.”

“Oh, this is fun.” Blondie clapped. “ I totally see why you’re at the table. You can be my snack anytime.”

Mike muttered to himself, “This is my karma.”

“Boys, this one night, you get to be whoever you like. Tomorrow, I’m Coach Ricci or Mr. Ricci, and I am no one’s snack. Got it?”

Both boys blinked, their smug grins falling before flaring back to life. Then the blond said, “So tonight? You’ll be my snack? I’m too young for anything longer, so this works.”

The other boy gave him a terribly misplaced high five, and they giggled their way to the other side of the room.

By the time the next few kids arrived, the room had developed a bizarre but weirdly functional energy.

A girl arrived, the only one of the night, so nervous she practically curled into herself when she stepped inside. She hovered near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot, gripping the strap of her bag like it was a lifeline.

Mike opened his mouth—probably to welcome her, ease her nerves—but before he could, one of the twinks, the one with the nose ring, pranced over and grabbed her hand.

“Oh, my God, a lesbian!” he declared, yanking her into the room like he’d just found a rare Pokémon.

Her eyes went wide.

I half expected her to bolt, but then Nose Ring grabbed her other hand, holding on to her hand like they were lifelong besties.

“So tell me,” he purred as they sat. He kicked his legs up onto the chair beside him. “What’s actually the deal with lesbians? Do y’all just bump pussies or—”

“OKAY!” Mike cut in, his voice hitting teacher mode so fast I actually flinched. “Maybe let’s not start with sex talk, Jason.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll interview her later.” Nose Ring—Jason—huffed. Then he leaned toward the terrified girl and whispered, “Do you have a Home Depot card? Every gay needs a competent lesbo fixer-upper.”

She gaped, her mouth wide. No words escaped.

Jason’s expression softened—just a little. “Hey, seriously, though. You’re good? You wanna sit with us? We’re actually harmless, but don’t let the teachers know, okay?”

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

And when she met his eyes for the first time, she smiled.

Mike sighed, rubbing his temples. “I hate that that actually worked.”

Mateo snickered. “I love that that actually worked.”

Surprisingly, two sets of parents showed up.

One was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a Pride pin on her cardigan. She immediately went over to hug her kid—another nervous-looking boy in a hoodie who I suspected was about five seconds from a panic attack.

The other pair were a complete wildcard—a tattooed biker and a lady in yoga pants who looked ready to fight someone—or visit a hippie farm. I wasn’t sure which.

“You’re Jason’s parents?” Mateo asked cautiously.

The biker nodded. “Yep.”

Yoga Mom crossed her arms. “You mess with my kid, I end your career.”

Mateo blinked. “Uh—”

Jason beamed. “They love me, as everyone should.”

Everyone grabbed a plate and a can of soda, taking their place in small clumps of desks they scooted together. Mike and Jamie took the lead, welcoming everyone and introducing the group and its purpose.

Heads nodded.

A few smiles bloomed.

The resident lesbian stopped staring at her hands.

Then the door creaked open . . .