Chapter Text
LA 1982, age 4
The first fight Reggie could remember was when he was four years old. He could still see it: the little apartment, the scratchy old carpet, the blue toy truck. Little Reggie, playing happily on the living room floor, rolling the truck back and forth and making the noises real quietly so as not to disturb Mommy in the kitchen. (She was sad today.)
The front door slamming startled him, and the little truck put on its brakes.
"I'm home!" Daddy called, hanging his coat up on the hook.
Reggie went back to playing, imagining the truck on a pro racetrack, wheels screeching on the turns.
"About time," called Mommy from the kitchen, and she stormed out, hands on her hips. "How late d'you have to stay at work on a weekend, huh?"
"I told you, we're close to letting them give us a bigger budget—”
"And you couldn't even call to let us know. Reggie and I have been waiting to eat dinner until you got back. I had to put the casserole back in the oven to keep it warm!”
"The casserole," huffed Daddy. "I'm out working every day to put food on the table at all, and you complain that your casserole got cold? Come on, Susie—”
"Damn right, because it wouldn't be cold if—”
Reggie's truck noises got louder and he imagined the racetrack being real long, so if you drove far down it you wouldn't be able to hear anyone else way back at the start. His face buzzed when he made the loud motor sounds, and it felt funny.
"—And when you don't call, how do I know you're even at work anyway? You could just as easily be off in the next town—”
"Don't even start—”
The truck noises filled Reggie's ears and he still went louder. The race track was a road now, like the one outside, with the yellow lines in the middle. But longer, so long you could keep driving the truck straight down for ever and ever and--
"We have a child, Ed, and you're barely home enough to speak to him!”
"And maybe he isn't mine, huh? Look at him!”
“How dare you—”
Reggie's blue truck was the loudest truck he'd ever heard, and it kept driving.
--
LA 1988, age 9
Reggie was nine when he had his first crush. Lydie Ackles’ braids would swing back and forth when she ran across the playground, and he liked the way the ribbons matched her eyes. She was so smart; she always aced the spelling tests. And spelling was hard.
She had so many friends. He wasn't one of them. He knew that; he didn't really have any friends. But Lydie was popular. She always wore pretty clothes and knew fun games to play with lots of people. Reggie would sit at the side of the field and watch, like watching football, secretly cheering for the nicer kids and trying to pick up on the rules that he hadn't heard. Sometimes he would whisper commentary like a sports announcer. "Anna's taken off! No one can catch her now—oh! Brandon's caught her! It's back to the starting line for poor Anna...." He wasn't very good, but it made him feel like he had a reason to be left out: who else would narrate the game?
Other days, he'd get lucky, and make it to the swings before anyone else. He liked the swing on the edge of the playground, because the chain was a little longer and he could drag his feet through the wood chips on every swing.
It was warm out, and Reggie was swinging low on the swing, kicking up wood chips. He was going to get so many in his shoes; but a bit of a mess was the whole point.
But then Lydie walked over, and stood in front of him, hands on her hips.
Reggie stopped swinging. "Hi?" he said.
Lydie stepped purposefully forward and laid a loud kiss on his lips.
Reggie's eyes went wide and he stumbled back. Lydie Ackles had just kissed him. He could feel his cheeks burning. A kiss? Kisses were gross. But they meant you liked someone. Did she like him too?
She paused. She blinked.
He opened his mouth to say something.
And then she ran away, laughing loudly, braids swinging behind her. Back to the field where her big group of friends were all laughing, too. "I did it, see!" she cried. "Now it's your turn for a dare!"
A dare. Reggie flushed even deeper red, and kicked a hole into the woodchips below him. A dare. "Kiss Reggie I dare you." She had probably been out of free passes in their dare game. She had probably protested for a whole minute. He had watched them play it enough to know. "Reggie, but he's so gross. Pick someone else." That was what she must have said.
He could still hear them laughing. He tugged his jacket tight around his shoulders and ran from the playground.
--
LA 1992, age 14
Reggie hated his bedroom. It was small, and dark, and the carpet was ugly, but he didn't care much about any of those things. He hated his bedroom because it was in his house.
The walls were thin enough to hear the yelling from the living room. Or from the master bedroom, or from the bathroom, or the kitchen. Reggie heard it every day, and it only made him feel a little bit sick, now. He’d plug in his bass guitar and try to learn a new song as loudly as possible. At least then, his parents would be on the same side when they both yelled at him to keep the volume down.
But other days, everything was already too loud. He’d sit on his bed and fake like there wasn't a lump in his throat and wish he had a friend he could call.
He didn't have a friend. But he had George Strait, and Vince Gill, and Brooks and Dunn. He had songs that weren't the same rockstar stuff he always played, but that made him feel better. Sure, his parents were arguing, and sure, they screamed his name like a weapon: "You don't even care what happens to Reggie!" "Reggie deserves a parent who can provide for him!" "He deserves love!" "I've loved Reggie like my own, but you're too scared to prove he's mine—" "Oh, this again—" "'Cause you know the DNA would say he's just a ba—" "Shut your mouth!"
Yeah, sure, things sucked. But at least Reggie had country music. He had lines about loving your horse with your whole heart, and feeling at home in your pickup truck, and dedicating your life to the pretty country girl down the road. Songs about loving your mama and missing your hometown.
It was dumb, and he told himself that over and over, but in country songs, people cared.
So Reggie sat in that awful bedroom with the ugly carpet, and pretended he had cowboy boots on, and his biggest problem was asking the sweet neighbor girl with the beautiful roan horse to be his date to the rodeo.
"And will you pay for Reggie's therapy bills, when he decides he needs help fixing the damage you did?" came the scream. Reggie slowly covered his ears and pretended his cowboy boots were the best ones around for miles.
--
LA 1993, age 15
The high school building was big, and cold, and smelled weird. The teachers always left the air on, which made them all shiver, but it couldn't do anything to help with the overwhelming stench of BO that always hung in the hallways. That is, except for the days when it smelled like Lysol and chemicals, because some lucky janitor had been deep cleaning.
Those were the things Reggie remembered about high school. His mom would say things like, "isn’t it nice to see your friends?" and "you must be learning so much." But he wasn't learning anything except that the football boys were good at catcalling and even better at mocking. He was learning to avoid them. He spent lunches in the band room, sitting in the corner away from the excitable brass players and picking out melodies on a school guitar.
Until he started learning something else.
There was a new kid in his Spanish class. Reggie noticed right away—he hated Spanish, and spent most of the time staring around the room at the others.
The new kid was staring off into the distance, and moving his head like he was listening to music—but he clearly wasn’t.
Reggie frowned, looking him up and down.
The kid wore a sleeveless blue hoodie and had that same shaggy hairstyle as the popular boys. (Reggie couldn’t imagine styling his hair like that, not when he could wear it up and show off his pretty face. And speaking of pretty faces….) The new boy’s face was nice. Symmetrical. He had soft eyes, even when they were bored and unfocused. And he was mouthing the words to something. What was it with this guy and music?
“Luke,” called Mrs Rasmussen, and the new kid snapped back into focus. “Why don't you come and show us your process on the board?” she said, motioning to the front of the class.
Luke. So that was his name.
“Uh.” Luke scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I didn't finish the problem. I did the factoring part, and then….”
Mrs Rasmussen arched an eyebrow. “Then you just decided to sit still and not try the rest of it?”
“I didn't get it,” said Luke, grimacing with embarrassment. “Maybe ‘cause I missed the other lessons….”
“That’s why we ask questions, Lucas,” she said.
The football boys snickered. Reggie subtly glared at them.
“Sorry, miss.”
“It's Mrs Rasmussen,” she corrected sharply, and turned to call on a different student.
Reggie leaned over and tapped Luke on the shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered, “I didn't get it either. Glad she didn't call on me.”
Luke chuckled softly. He had a pretty smile. “Do you have the notes for this stuff? We could figure it out together.”
“Yeah,” said Reggie, feeling a smile creep up his face. “Wanna copy them after class?”
Luke nodded, and turned back to the front of the class just as Mrs Rasmussen looked back their way.
--
There were never any quiet places at the school. And Luke said they may as well take their time actually figuring the stuff out, “like a study group or some crap.” So they ended up at Reggie’s house. Neither of his parents were home, which made Reggie sigh in relief—no angry adults to walk through on the way up to his room.
His room was a mess, he remembered too late. Clothes on the floor, and printouts of guitar chords all over his bed, next to his poor guitar herself, who he never managed to treat as well as his bass.
Like glanced around, and grinned. “Looks like my room,” he said. He motioned to the instrument. “You play?”
“A little,” Reggie said, shrugging. (It was more than a little.) “Guitar and bass. And I sing sometimes. I’m surprisingly good at country.”
Like scoffed at that. “Only rock for me. I sing and play guitar, too.”
“We should start a band,” Reggie joked.
Like raised his eyebrows. “If only we had a drummer. Maybe another guitar.”
Reggie laughed. “My parents are mad enough about my grades.”
“Ah, right. Maybe we should get to math.” Luke dropped his backpack by the door, dragging out the huge textbook Mrs Rasmussen had given them. He looked at it, shaking his head. “That… stuff.”
Reggie threw his own book onto the bed, along with his notes. “Math is the devilll,” he sang in the roughest rock voice he could muster.
Luke laughed.
--
It wasn't until later, when the boy had gone home, and Reggie’s parents were back downstairs—arguing again, as always—that he thought it clearly.
Luke was attractive. A pretty boy with music talents and a hatred of math. A smile that made Reggie smile, too.
It felt like having a crush on a girl, how much he liked the guy. A bromance or whatever.
Maybe an actual crush.
Reggie pushed the thought away as soon as he had it. That wasn't possible. He liked girls.
He knew firsthand how hard it was to find a happily ever after. And absolutely none of the fairy tale stories ended with two princes in the castle. That was okay, because Reggie liked princesses. And he was looking for true love.
So he definitely didn’t have a crush on Luke. And he wouldn't. They would do study sessions, and bro out over music. Maybe actually form a band. And he would still find happily ever after.
--
LA 1994, age 16
Reggie’s band didn’t write love songs. The group was only two days old, and they’d already decided, that wasn’t their style.
Reggie was secretly disappointed. He knew songs about “forever” and “perfect” and “always” weren’t always true; but he liked to imagine that they were. Love songs were promises, and he knew you couldn’t always keep them, but if he sang one, he could imagine that you could. That they were in a world where that was easy—where you could bump into someone on the street and say everything right and suddenly have a partner who would never forget how to love you.
But he loved the band, and he loved the music. He was sticking around even if they never sang a single romantic word.
So he sat on the floor in the studio, head back against the couch and humming a melody that he thought would go so nice with a love song. He was only half listening to the other boys’ conversation.
“We’re not calling ourselves ‘Daddy Issues,’” said Luke exasperatedly. “That’s worse than ‘Rockstarry.’”
“Hey, don’t diss my mom’s idea,” Bobby said.
Reggie sighed, shifting forward. “The Cowboys,” he tried.
“No.”
“Al...Lu...Re-Bob,” Alex improvised, flipping a drumstick absentmindedly through his fingers.
“Are you even trying?” Luke sighed, falling back into the couch. “I just want this to be perfect. Music’s supposed to make you feel something. Our name should do that, too.”
What else made Reggie feel something? He thought about the beach outside his house, and how it was dark when he snuck out in the evenings, looking for a quiet place. How everything settled a little bit when the sun went down. “Sunset,” he said slowly.
“Sunset?”
“Sunset….” The way the horizon went all orange over the ocean, and if you looked out far, it wasn’t straight at all. “Curve,” Reggie finished.
Silence.
Then, “you know, Reginald,” said Luke. “That ain’t bad.”
“It’s like, the highway at night,” said Alex. Sure.
“Sounds kinda poetic,” Bobby added. “Or dramatic, even. ‘Sunset Curve.’”
“I like it!” said Alex, and drummed a quick rhythm on the concrete floor. “‘Sunset Curve,’” he sang.
Luke laughed, and shook Reggie by the shoulders. “Yo, this could actually work!”
Reggie laughed a little, too, a smile appearing on his face.
The boys were already repeating the name, trying to get used to the feeling and see if it sounded like them. Reggie jumped up next to them, and whooped, and said it too.
“Sunset Curve!”
“Curvy sunset, Sunset Curve.”
“Sunset Curve. Sun’s setting on the curve. A sunset!”
“A curve!”
The neighbors must have thought they were crazy, screaming the same nonsense words in a loop. But the band didn’t care. Reggie yelled them out again and again, until they stopped feeling like a phrase and started feeling like the name of his family.
That garage and that music belonged to Sunset Curve, and Sunset Curve belonged to him. He was home.
“Sunset!” he cried.
“Curve!”
--
LA 1995, age 17
"Live it like it's now or never
It's now or never
"Now or never!" Reggie sang, and felt the last chords of the song through his whole body. The Orpheum crew gave a few scattered cheers, and he bowed with the other boys. Smoke still hung in the air, and he was drenched in sweat; to say the stage lights were uncomfortably hot would be an understatement. But it was the Orpheum. They could be tiny suns and he would still sell his whole family to play under them for one night.
One particularly beautiful girl gave an extra whoop and kept clapping. “Yeah!”
“Thank you, we’re Sunset Curve,” Reggie said into his mic, catching her eye. And he winked. She went back to wiping down the bar, and he was already turning to grab a t-shirt and a demo to give her, just to show off his generosity.
“Too bad we wasted that on the soundcheck,” Bobby was saying, grabbing a towel, “that was the tightest we ever played.”
“Oh, wait until tonight, man, when this place gets packed with record execs!” Luke was still bouncing, his adrenaline on a high just like the rest of the band.
Reggie felt invincible. He stepped up behind Alex, holding the merch and grinning. “Alex, you were smokin’.”
“Oh, nah,” said Alex, ever humble. “I was just warming up, you guys were the ones on fire.”
Reggie gave him a look. “Could you just own your awesomeness for once?”
A pause, and raised eyebrows from the other boys, and finally Alex gave in. “Alright, I was killing it,” he said, breaking into a smile.
Reggie went for a half-hug, knowing that was right. This whole night was already the best one of his life; he felt like he was floating.
“Okay, I’m thinking we fuel up before the show,” said Luke. “I’m thinking street dogs.”
“Ooh,” said Reggie approvingly, as Alex gave a “yes!”
But Bobby was already jumping down from the stage, on his way to talk to their beautiful new fan. Nuh-uh, no chance. Reggie quickly followed.
“Hey, Bobby, where you goin’?” Luke asked, hurrying up. Not him, too.
“I’m good,” said Bobby. He turned to the girl, shrugging casually. “Vegetarian, I could never hurt an animal.”
Liar.
“You guys are really good,” said the girl, and even her accent was beautiful.
“Thank you,” Luke said before Reggie could, and gave that damn charming smile. Bobby’s expression grew more annoyed.
“I see a lot of bands,” she said. “Been in a couple myself. I was really feeling it.”
“That’s what we do this for,” Luke replied. “I’m Luke, by the way.”
Not so fast. “Hi, I’m Reggie,” Reggie said hurriedly, giving a smile.
“Alex.”
“Bobby,” Bobby finished, not to be skipped over.
“Nice meeting you guys,” she said, pretending not to notice as Luke gave Bobby a wet willy and he smacked his hand away.
Now was his chance. “Oh, uh—” Reggie pretended to remember what he was holding, handing it over. “Here’s our demo. And a t-shirt, size… beautiful.” That was smooth. Very smooth.
She held it up to her chest, smiling. “Thanks.” And threw it over her shoulder. “I’ll make sure not to wipe the tables down with this one.”
“Oh, good call,” said Alex, “whenever they get wet, they just kind of… fall apart in your hands.”
Damn Alex and his utter lack of wingman ability.
“Don’t you guys have to go get hot dogs?” Bobby asked pointedly.
Well, if they were out, so was he. “Yeah,” said Luke. And, leaning in, “he had a hamburger for lunch.”
And they bounced away, giving Bobby shoves and leaving him to cover his lie.
Reggie didn’t forget to slide two more t-shirts into his backpack as they headed for the stage door—just in case he had to charm another fan.
They were on their way to famous, and that meant more opportunities at every turn to find a little love.
--
LA 2020, age 17 (dead)
It was quiet in the garage when none of the other boys or Julie were there. Usually, Reggie sat slouched on the couch, strumming absentmindedly on his bass.
Alex had gone out with Willie. Luke was at his parents’.
Reggie remembered the bike shack where his house used to be and wondered where his family had gone.
The others were always talking about their parents. Luke would sit on his parents’ coffee table and watch them and cry and say his only regret was what he did to his mom. Sweet Emily, but she hadn't liked the idea of pursuing music. And Julie was always telling some story or another about her mom. A dahlia was her favorite flower, she once played in her own band, she’d taught Julie to play the piano when she was only a very little girl.
Alex wouldn't gush about his parents the same way, but you could see him looking sad when they talked about it. Reggie knew he’d always blamed himself for messing up their relationship, which was stupid, because he couldn't help being gay. His parents were so close-minded, and if Reggie was a parent, he wouldn't act like that. But wherever his parents were now, Alex had Willie to hang out with. And he was always out with him. Learning to skate, or breaking in places, or whatever those two did.
Reggie didn't have his own Willie. When the others were out… he didn't have anybody.
So it shouldn't have been a surprise that he went back to the house looking for company.
With Carlos and Julie at school, Ray was alone in the living room, on his computer. Reggie remembered when the man had walked through him in the garage—he had a good heart. That's who he wanted to hang out with. So Reggie fell onto the couch beside Ray, with a casual “hey” like they were friends, and looked over his shoulder. There, a video editing program was open.
Ray was laser-focused on it, playing through clips and carefully cutting them just right.
“That looks awesome, Ray,” said Reggie, even though he knew the man couldn't hear him. “Pretty shots of the skyline. Did you take them?”
Ray didn't answer. Reggie pretended he had.
“Wow, a whole family full of talent,” Reggie said, forcing a laugh.
Ray played through a newly edited clip again and smiled. “Yess,” he whispered to himself, doing a little happy dance right there on the couch.
Reggie grinned. “A man with a happy dance. That’s my kind of guy.” He followed suit with his own dance moves.
Ray laughed happily, and Reggie pretended he had made it happen.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said, bowing a little.
And when Ray, smiling, went on to the next part of the video, Reggie felt something warm in his chest. He settled down next to Ray, and pretended for a second that his dad, his best friend, was letting him hang out with him while he worked, just ‘cause he'd had a bad day.
“Yo, let me know if you need any help,” Reggie said.
He imagined that Ray answered: “Alright, kid,” and ruffled his hair he’d spent so long fixing.
Reggie gasped, pretending he was mad, and hurriedly smoothed it down again, and leaned back onto his dad’s shoulder.
--
Ray liked to experiment with sandwich ingredients when no one was around to judge him. He would try apple slices in his turkey sandwich, or bacon in his PB&J, or just put ranch all over something. Reggie approved of that. A little creativity, a little adventure never hurt anyone.
Reggie would move things to more convenient places or open jars for him when he wasn't looking. If he was there, he might as well help out. It was the only way he could interact with Ray anyway.
Once, he was a little too helpful. He jumped when Ray turned around, and the lid of the peanut butter jar rolled away on the counter on its own.
Ray blinked, staring. “Uh, Julie? Carlos?” he called, even though that didn't make any sense.
Reggie carefully stopped the lid, and let it fall flat. He felt like he'd been caught sneaking out, or something. "Sorry," he whispered, though Ray couldn't hear him.
Ray stepped over, and looked down at the open peanut butter jar. "That had to have been screwed on," he muttered. He turned it over in his hands. “Ah, whoever opened this, thanks? That was… helpful." He paused, then gave an awkward laugh and shook his head. “Yeah, I'm going crazy.”
A beat. As the man turned back to his sandwich, Reggie stood still, watching. "You're welcome," he said finally. “...Dad.”
It's not like anyone could hear him say it, whenever he did. It was just like playing a game, Reggie told himself. It didn't mean anything. So Ray was his favorite person to hang out with, so what. So it was better to be ignored by Ray than to hang out with his real dad, trying too hard to bond with him because he'd made some kind of dumb promise to Mom. So Reggie wished, just a little, that he'd grown up in one of the bedrooms upstairs. So what.
It was just a game.
--
LA 2020, age 17 (dead)
The Hollywood Ghost Club was creepy—that was Reggie’s first thought. Undead people wandering across the red carpet, all dressed better than Reggie ever had been. But Willie casually poofed around and slid down the banister in his flame-patterned socks, like he owned the place.
And Reggie couldn’t stop looking at it all. The place glittered with sequins and champagne glasses and chandelier crystals. The lifers wore tuxedos and evening dresses like a uniform, and walked through resident ghosts without so much as a shiver. They sat at the reserved table, where even the tablecloth was ridiculously soft. It was all kinda magical.
Then, “Ladies and gentlemen, back from the dead by popular demand… Caleb Covington!”
There, hanging in the air, was a man in purple velvet and a heavy cape. “Did you miss me?” he asked, holding out his hands. Wild cheers met him. “I did too!” He grinned. “Welcome to the party of your dreams. From the Egyptians to the Druids to the person sitting next to you, we’ve all wondered… where do we go when that final light is snuffed out?”
Reggie glanced at the boys sitting next to him. He had wondered, often. Is there a heaven? Is heaven like home? Did Caleb have the answers?
“Allow me to show you.”
And the music started.
They were captivated as Caleb sang, the purple underside of his cape sparkling as much as the stars on the ceiling. And then the chorus hit and all the color poofed in at once. A jazz band in red flapper dresses, and dancers with huge purple feather fans. Reggie jumped, lighting up as they sang and played.
Caleb danced across the floor among twirling servers clad in pink suits, and stepped right up to their table. A flamboyant fwoosh of the tablecloth, and underneath was a glittering dancer with a pink feather boa. She spun and danced right on the table, somehow never slipping with her pink heels on metal. And then she was looking at Reggie. She twirled and kicked a sparkling foot right in his face.
Reggie was stunned as she swung off the table and kept dancing. She’d been looking at him. She’d been flirting with him. That was rare enough, besides her being ridiculously beautiful.
He was beginning to like the Ghost Club.
As the night went on, Caleb threw gifts at them like confetti. Junk food that ghosts could eat. Friendly lifers that could see them (even if they did spoil Star Wars). Music just for them, in the front row. A job offer, even. And simply, attention from everyone—a wink, a wave, a smile, all of which, if Reggie was being honest, he had missed. He never wanted to leave.
“Welcome to the brotherhood, where you won’t be misunderstood,” he found himself singing more than once.
Caleb introduced them to the dancers in blue and purple, who led them through a dance as the jazz music played on.
Reggie learned that this dancer’s name was Ruby, and she was really talented, and she had a really happy laugh. When the music started again, he took the chance to call it a slow dance (even if no one else was), and he learned that she had very pretty eyes.
Too soon, Luke grabbed him by the shoulder, yelling, “dude! We lost track of time!”
“Not right now, man!” Reggie answered. This was his and Ruby’s moment. The magic ball where time slows down.
He felt arms around his waist, and Luke lifted him up—”Reggie!”
“Okay! What the—?”
“We were supposed to be at Julie’s school at nine!”
Reggie snapped back into reality, his eyes widening. “Oh, shoot, that’s right.” They had promised Julie. “Maybe we can still make it.” But they had to go now.
The boys hurried out of the club with their things in hand, having forgotten every sparkling thing and remembered their promise to their family. They rushed through goodbyes with Caleb, as he gave them a last gift of a purple stamp.
A souvenir. A membership, of a sorts. Reggie liked that, liked to know he was part of something.
As they left the club and poofed away, Reggie pushed away the feeling that he’d missed another chance to find someone who loved him.
He already had people who loved him. And he had promises to keep.