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Race paces his apartment one more time, stomach twisting with nerves. He shouldn’t be nervous, especially when making this phone call is literally all he could think about all day. It was the least he could do, make a single phone call that would probably go to voicemail, the first time he’s reached out in what’s now been years . But this wasn’t just any phone call, it was Spot . The guy it took him nearly a year to get over even though their break up was mutual. The guy he still thinks about every time he goes on a date or hooks up with someone new. The guy who he knows that he’ll probably always be a little bit in love with, his high school sweetheart, his first real love, his first real heartbreak.
Race has made a point of avoiding the black hole that was his hometown of Woodvale, New York the best he can. His mom and brother have visited him here, in LA, and that was good enough. He called home every so often, his mom kept him as updated as he could handle, and he was extremely focused on his life and career here, far away from home. He misses it, even though he doesn’t want to. He misses the familiar cobblestone streets and quaint shops on main street, the coffee that no upscale bougie shop in LA could ever emulate, and he especially misses his family. He feels bad that he’s missing out on things like new foster siblings, birthdays, holidays, parties, celebrations. But everyone else has moved on, new kids taking the bedroom that used to be his, new traditions replacing old ones, and it was time he moved on too. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself, faced with the too-big LA apartment, decorated lavishly, all his personal belongings from home shoved in a box at the top of the closet for him to go through when he gets particularly low.
That box serves as more of a memory of why he’s here than anything else. All the contents of his old life can be packed into a single box, hidden in the top of his gorgeous LA apartment. Woodvale is home, sure, but it’s also a dead end. Race refuses to spend the rest of his days within the confines of the tiny box and the tiny town limits, growing old there, stuck in a job for forty years, never traveling, never seeing the world, never building the career of his dreams. Sure, Woodvale was home. Sure, it was comfortable and safe and easy, but Race doesn’t want easy . He wants to be a success.
Race’s fancy iPhone feels heavy in his hand, still open to Spot’s contact. It’s been years, and even though he’s thought about him all day, since his mom called him last night to tell him the news about Spot’s grandma’s passing, he feels insecurity slip in. Maybe bringing up old feelings isn’t what Spot needs right now. Maybe he needs space, it’s only been what? A day? That’s not enough time to process his only family member’s passing. He’s probably busy, with friends and maybe Race’s mom bringing him food and making sure he’s okay and whatever else people do when someone dies.
Race knows he can’t let this go by without saying anything. He may be distanced from Woodvale and everyone back home, but he’s not an asshole . Finding out Spot’s grandma had passed away hit him hard, harder than he expected, as Marjorie always treated him like a member of the family. She was always accepting of him and her grandson’s relationship, respectful of their privacy, always ensuring they both had plenty of snacks whenever they were over at her house. Race knew Spot better than he knew anyone, even after all these years, so he was sure that he was having a hard time with this. Who wouldn’t?
Race groans out loud and finally stops pacing, walking into his bedroom and sitting down on the edge of his bed. This is ridiculous. It shouldn’t be this hard to call up an old friend and offer his condolences. Before he loses his nerve, Race presses the contact, internally groaning as he presses the FaceTime button instead of the phone call one.
Great , he thinks. There goes my option of a voicemail .
Race lets the call ring, running a hand through his curls as he looks at his appearance in the camera. Maybe Spot won’t pick up, maybe it’s not meant to be, maybe-
“Race?”
Race’s eyes widen as Spot answers the call, confused brown eyes looking into Race’s wide blues through the phone screen.
“Spot! Hi...hello, hi,” Race takes a steadying breath. “Hi.”
Spot smirks, and Race feels his flustered energy dissipate with the familiarity of the expression.
“Hi, Racer.”
“Hey,” Race smiles at the nickname, his smile turning sad as he runs a hand through his hair again. “Listen, my mom called me yesterday and told me about your grandma and I just-”
“Right,” Spot sighs, nodding.
“I’m so sorry,” Race says sincerely, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, looking Spot over on the screen. “I can’t even imagine what you’re dealing with right now, and I’m sorry for bugging you, but I just...I wanted you to know I’m thinking about you.”
Spot’s expression softens to what Race would call near-emotion before he smiles easily.
“I really appreciate that,” Spot says softly. He hesitates before speaking again. “It’s nice to see you, it’s been…”
“A long time,” Race finishes for him, smiling as he looks Spot over, unable to look away. Spot looks good. Incredible actually. Older, somehow even more handsome than Race remembered, more rugged and masculine, no longer a teenager with acne and a retainer who lived on energy drinks and the adrenaline rush of football practice. Spot looks tired, but incredibly handsome with scruff on his chin that was making Race have a very hard time focusing on his sympathies and condolences.
“Yeah,” Spot agrees. “I…” He shakes his head and Race bites his lip as he watches Spot’s strong hand brush across the back of his neck, trailing off.
“I don’t want to hold you up,” Race says quickly, cutting through the building awkwardness. “I’m sure things are...rough right now. If there’s anything I can do-”
“Uh,” Spot looks unsure but finally his eyes flick back toward the camera. “Actually, do you have a minute to catch up? I could use the distraction.”
Race blinks with surprise but he nods immediately. “Of course, yeah. Catching up would be nice.”
Spot leans back on the couch that Race recognizes as the one in the living room of his grandma’s house, which Race assumes is probably Spot’s house now, and rests his hand behind his head.
“So,” Spot starts. “Tell me about LA.”
Race does. He tells Spot grand tales of movie sets and celebrity sightings and wild parties downtown. He complains about the traffic, Spot teases him for his poor driving skills, and Race assures him that his driving is an improvement compared to the rest of LA’s abilities. He’s proud to make Spot laugh, a genuine laugh as he tells him mishaps of auditions and the chaos of living in such a bizarre and massive city compared to what they were used to back home. He tells him about the coldest days all of 50 degrees, and the way the locals freak out over it, and about the unbearable summers where Race’s porcelain skin sunburns just walking from his apartment to his car.
“What about you?” Race asks once he finishes his story. “How’s everything back home?”
Spot’s lips quirk into a small smile hearing Race say home , but Race pretends not to see it.
“You know,” Spot shrugs. “Same old, same old. Finished my degree last year at the tech school in Westview. Been working. Helping your mom with repairs at her house. Nothing new, really.”
“Aww,” Race grins. “Well, it makes me feel better knowing someone’s keeping an eye on my mom, you know that she’ll never actually ask for help even if she needs it, so.”
“Right,” Spot smirks. “She’s great, she was over here this morning, actually.”
“I’m glad. She sounded really worried about you when I talked to her.”
“Worried? About me?” Spot snorts. “C’mon Racer. I’m a big boy.”
“No one doubts that,” Race teases. “Just...it’s hard. And no one expects you to be okay right now.”
Spot shrugs. “I am,” he insists. “Grandma was old, she was nearly ninety, I knew this was coming. Her health hasn’t been the best the last few years.”
Race glances down sadly. “Not that she’d let you know that, right?”
Spot can’t help but smile. “Of course. She was literally on death’s door and still managed to make a batch of muffins so I wouldn’t starve before work.”
“Classic Marjorie,” Race agrees. “Did she make those cinnamon ones you like?”
“You know it.”
Race giggles a little. “Do you remember that one summer where we tried to make those muffins?”
“And we used paprika and cloves instead of cinnamon, because we’re idiots?”
“Because we were distracted ,” Race continues, unable to hide his smile at the memory.
Spot snorts. “ You were distracted by the fact that I wasn’t wearing a shirt, maybe.”
“Hey! You were distracted too!”
“By your hands!” Spot protests. He shakes his head. “And Grandma tried to give us feedback but had to spit our disaster muffins into a napkin, remember?”
Race laughs, throwing his head back. “Oh, I remember. I was mortified , I wanted her to like me so bad. We should’ve tested those fucking muffins first. She probably thought I was an idiot.”
Spot’s laughter turns into a sad smile. “She loved you, Tony,” he says sincerely, and Race’s heart dips at the look in Spot’s eyes. “She really did. She thought you were charming and sweet and she would ask about you all the time after you moved away.”
Race’s expression softens. “Really?”
Spot nods seriously. “Absolutely. We watched all your movies and TV appearances together. She told all her friends at bingo all about her near-relation to an HBO star.”
“Oh God,” Race hides his face with his hand. “Spottyyyy, I’m blushing.”
“It’s true,” Spot tells him. His eyes wander around the house, making him look even more distant on the phone screen. “She really did love you.”
Race presses a hand to his heart. “I really loved her too. I’m going to miss her. And her superior baking skills.”
“Don’t tell your mom that, she’ll get jealous,” Spot teases, and Race rolls his eyes.
“She can deal. She knows her cooking is better than her baking, anyway.”
“Speaking of,” Spot grins. “Your mom delivered a beautiful pasta dish that I will be eating for the next week and a half, and I can assure you that her cooking is definitely as good as you remember it.”
“Stopppp,” Race whines, flopping back on his bed. “I haven’t had a home cooked meal since she visited last year. Literally. I live on shitty takeout and boxed wine, a massive Medda pasta dish sounds amazing right now.”
“Then you should come visit,” Spot says and Race can see the embarrassment in his expression as he blurts it out. “You should...I mean, it’s been years, Racer, everyone misses you.”
Race waits for the silent I miss you to leave Spot’s lips, fighting disappointment when it doesn’t.
“I...miss everyone too. I know it’s been a long time, things are just real busy here and it’s a long flight, and-”
“I get it,” Spot nods. “Well…” He glances at his watch and Race glances at the time on his phone, shocked that they’ve been talking for over two hours now and his phone battery is drained. “The funeral is next week. Thursday, if you can squeeze it in…”
Race’s heart aches as he winces. “Spotty, you know I’d come if I could-”
“No, no, it’s okay. Really. If you’re booked up that’s good, right?”
“I want to be there, I do-”
“You don’t need to be, I just...figured I’d throw it out there.” Spot clears his throat and rubs a hand over his face. Race sees a flash of the grief and exhaustion that he knows Spot must be burying play across his chiseled features and his heart sinks further.
“I’ll talk to my agent,” Race tries. “I will.”
Spot forces a smile. “It’s getting late,” he says sadly, and Race nods. “Sorry for talkin’ your ear off for a few hours,'' He flashes a grin that makes Race’s heart flip flop in his chest. “But not that sorry.”
Race rolls his eyes playfully. “It was good talking to you too, Spotty.”
“Stop being a stranger,” Spot insists, tone just slightly accusatory, but Race feels he deserves it. “But really,” Spot takes a slow breath, meeting Race’s eyes in the iPhone camera. “Thank you for callin’ me today. I really needed this.”
“Me too,” Race agrees. “I’m sorry again, about your grandma. I hope you enjoy mom’s pasta though.”
Spot smirks. “Oh I will. And you can be as jealous as you want when you heat up leftovers tonight.”
Race pouts, knowing that’s his exact dinner plan. “I will be jealous, thank you very much.”
“Good. Okay then, I guess I’ll...see ya around, Racer.”
“See ya, Spotty,” Race’s voice gets soft as he holds Spot’s gaze in the phone until Spot ends the call. Race lays back against his bed, suddenly way too big and way too plush for him to feel comforted, and plugs his phone into the charger.
“Fuck,” Race whispers, blinking back sudden tears that threaten in the back of his eyes. He didn’t even realize how much time passed while talking to Spot, and for a short while, he felt like nothing had changed, reminiscing and laughing and teasing each other like they weren’t thousands of miles apart, like Race wasn’t three hours behind, like they hadn’t been broken up for years.
Race knows he won’t stop thinking about Spot for days now. Every time his mom brings him up he’s in his head for at least 48 hours after. This will take well over a week to erase the feelings and regrets that always come up whenever he thinks about how long he’s avoided going home.
“Fuck it,” Race mutters to himself, sliding off his bed and walking over to his closet, pulling down his box simply marked HOME . He unfolds the worn cardboard and sits down on the carpeted floor of his bedroom to go through the box, sighing longingly as he pulls memory after memory from the box.
Family photos, high school photos, Spot’s football headshot, Race’s first theater headshot, polaroids from dumb parties and graduation and summer at the pool and that one time he and Spot went camping in his grandma’s backyard. Finally, Race finds the picture he was looking for, of him, Spot, and Marjorie, standing proudly between both boys that tower over her, arms wrapped around their waists on graduation day. The picture warms Race’s heart as he remembers the joy and the excitement of that day, but his heart pangs with sadness as he remembers the melancholy way it ended. He shakes the memory from his mind and laughs as he sets the picture with Marjorie aside, pulling Spot’s high school football jersey, the number 26 on the back faded and worn from years of games. It wasn’t the only thing of Spot’s Race kept in the box, including a faded hoodie, that yearbook photo he fucking hates , the stupid hula dancer Race got him as a joke for his car dashboard, and the friendship bracelets he made for them both one summer. They wore them until they fell off, and Race kept both, no matter how much he figured he should probably throw out the worn out, frayed bracelets, he can’t help but hold onto them.
Race pulls the jersey close and scrunches his nose at the vague scent of cologne that still lingers on the collar, shaking his head. He’s reminiscing for high school, which he’s certain no one does. High school didn’t suck as much as it probably could have, and certainly not as much as the character he played on Law and Order experienced, but it was silly to be nostalgic for it now. He was an adult, he was grown, he doesn’t need his box of silly memories to make him feel better about his ex-boyfriend’s grandma’s passing.
Race sets his jaw as he repacks the box and slides it into the closet again, turning and stepping onto a stray picture with his bare foot. He looks down and can’t help but smile at the picture from his and Spot’s graduation day, Spot’s grandma between them. He doesn’t have the heart to put it back in the box, so he props the photo on his bedside table, over a photo of the Hollywood sign that his mom gave him for his birthday one year.
Race smiles at the photo one more time before he turns on his heel and goes into the kitchen to make himself leftovers for dinner. He prepares his meal quietly, letting his thoughts get the best of him, and as he sits down at the tiny kitchenette table, he definitely does not look up flights to go home next weekend. That would be too much. Against his better judgement, he crafts an email to his agent anyway.
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